Race for the Dying (8 page)

Chapter Fourteen

“Wondered how you were getting along,” Lars Lindeman called. He leaned on his cane and watched Thomas' progress along the porch toward the second column.

“At this rate, I'll be at the front steps by Christmas,” Thomas replied. “How are you doing, sir?” “He turned and let the sun beat on his face. The vista today was as remarkable as it had been nonexistent the days before. Straight to the west the rise of the Olympics marked the horizon, and south, white-toothed and improbable, Rainier looked far closer than he knew it to be.

Lindeman carefully stepped off his own boardwalk, taking his weight first with the cane. He chose his path thoughtfully, chuffing on his pipe at the same time. “Well, I'm all right,” he said. “I've been meaning to come by for a visit, but I didn't know if you were so disposed.”

“You should see the other fellow.”

Lindeman laughed. “Hell of a way for a town to greet a new arrival.”

“It was my own fault,” Thomas said. He placed the crutches a few inches forward and lurched a step, keeping close to the railing. Lindeman stopped directly below him, and Thomas could smell the strong aroma of the older man's pipe. Looking up at him, Lindeman shook his head slowly, clearly amused.

“You ain't the first that's gone off them rocks.” His laugh was a hacking cough. “So what'd you do to yourself?”

“Head, ribs, hip,” Thomas said succinctly. “Cracked, broken, and dislocated.”

“That's right, you're a damn doctor, ain't you? They say they make the worst patients.”

“I've been told that. I don't mean to be impolite, but I can't stand here long, by the way.” He nodded off to the left toward the wheelchair. “There are chairs around front. Join me for a few moments?”

It took more than a few minutes, but Thomas finally glided the wheelchair down the length of the porch, feeling each thump of the decking seams. Lindeman had taken his ease, both hands folded on the handle of his cane.

“Thought you'd forgot,” Lindeman said. “Makes me feel downright spry, watching you.”

“I'm pleased to be of some value,” Thomas said, and spun the chair so that he was out of the wind drift from Lindeman's pipe. He pointed at the dog who had been sitting in the street directly in front of the store. Prince heaved himself out of the mud and limped toward them. “Your dog has an abscessed hip, by the way. I thought I should mention that.”

“Is that what's wrong with it? I saw he had himself a limp.”

“I'm quite sure. I could feel the swelling.”

Lindeman looked at him quickly. “Surprised you still got all your fingers.”

“We came to an understanding, he and I.”

“That so?” They watched Prince shuffle to the bottom of the steps and stop, head down, reflecting on the barrier before him. “You don't need to come up here,” Lindeman said. The dog's wedge-shaped eyebrows twitched.

“I was thinking that we could take him down to the shore and clean him up.”

“Well, I don't think that's going to happen,” Lindeman said. “He might have blood from half a hundred breeds running in his veins, but I don't see no waterfowl retriever in the mix.”

“If we could clean him up, the abscess could be treated. That's why he sits with his rump in the muck. It brings him a measure of relief.”

“Huh. You think so, do you? I thought he just sat all the time 'cause he was old and lazy. Well, hell. Clean or not, he's not going to let you go rooting around in his bunghole with a cutter.”

“Under anesthetic, he wouldn't have the choice.”

Lindeman laughed loudly, choking on a cloud of smoke that he'd been about to exhale. His eyes teared and he leaned forward, whooping for air. “Now that, I want to see,” he managed finally.

“You'll agree, then?”

The merchant looked at him sideways. “You're serious?”

“Yes, I'm serious. He's obviously in discomfort.” They both looked down at the dog, who had turned enough painful circles to enable him to lie down by the steps.

“He's never mentioned it to me,” Lindeman said, and he sounded so earnest that for a moment Thomas thought him serious. “Maybe if I just feed him about a gallon of that syrup that the good doctor hawks, it'll take his mind off it.”

“It'll take more than syrup,” Thomas said. “You're familiar with that, then?”

“With what?”

“The doctor's line of medications. I was just reading an early edition of his latest textbook. They're mentioned frequently, especially his Universal Tonic.”

“Sell a lot of it, that's for sure. Got a whole shelf of self-helps, his included. I don't use the stuff, but there's some who swear by it.” He shrugged. “The way I see it, a good stiff drink now and then don't hurt anyone. Does some good.”

“I would agree with you. Be that as it may,” Thomas persisted, “I was thinking about the dog's discomfort. It would be relatively easy to give him an injection of morphine, and depending on what I find, perhaps some ether to put him out entirely. Then we can excise the abscess and give him some relief.”

“Don't know as he's worth it,” Lindeman said. “Then again, he isn't my dog, so I guess I don't care. You want him?”

Thomas grinned. “No, I don't want him. I mean, it appears that he has a home already. I'm just saying that he's suffering a bit, and we can relieve that. Perhaps he wouldn't be so quick to bite.”

“Well, have at it. Lemme know when you're going to clean him up—or try to. I want to be on hand to watch.” He relit his pipe, ignoring the gurgle of fluid in the stem.

“The shooting the other day,” Thomas said. “I thought I heard a ruckus of some sort at your store. Was that my imagination?”

“Nope.”

“What happened?”

“Well, simple enough. I got a boy who works for me—Charlie Grimes. You haven't met him yet?” He regarded the pipe critically. “A good boy, in most ways, Charlie is. Even Prince doesn't pay him any mind. Well, one of the whistle punks who works for Bert Schmidt's outfit don't like him, not one little bit. Charlie's got a stammer, and he's got a temper, and this sprout—his name's Harvey-something, I think—he likes to push and push and push.”

Lindeman sucked on the pipe, made a face, and whacked the burl against the porch railing, some of the dottle spewing down on Prince. “This time, he pushed a bit too far. Him and Charlie went at it right there in front of the store, and damned if this worthless mutt here didn't take offense at that. I don't know which one of them he was going to bite first. Charlie and Harvey are goin' at it right smart, both of them mired down in the mud. Well, first thing you know, he's got this little revolver in his hand, Harvey does. Didn't know he kept that. He lets fly at Prince, but that didn't work.”

“I thought I heard something hit the house,” Thomas said.

“Ain't surprised, bad as his aim is. Well, the dog's got Harvey by the leg, here, and Charlie's got him by the arm, and they're all wrapped up in a heap, with me about as useless as tits on a boar hog. Damn pistol got all twisted around, and there you go.” He jabbed the pipe stem into the soft triangle of flesh under his chin. “Right there. Dropped old Harvey like a sack of rocks. He had the damnedest look of surprise on his face.” He shrugged philosophically.

“My word. Dr. Haines said nothing of this.”

Lindeman shrugged. “There's plenty that gets killed all sorts of ways, young fella. Harvey had it comin', as far as I'm concerned. Lot of folks agree with me. That's what I told old Eastman, when he came around.”

“Eastman?”

“Butch Eastman. He's one of the constables. Good enough man. Not the sharpest tool in the box, but a good enough man. He's had a run-in or two with Harvey, come a Saturday night. The boy sure liked to drink. Guess he don't now, though. Not with half of his brain matter mixed in the mud.”

“Astounding,” Thomas marveled.

“Hate to say it, but it weren't much of a loss. Glad it wasn't Charlie. He's got his faults, but I like him well enough. Hard worker. And I should ask, 'cause I've always wondered…What do you figure makes a boy stammer like that…like Charlie does, I mean? Fancy medicine got a cure for that?”

“I'm afraid not. There's a new theory out of Switzerland that it has something to do with nutrition of the infant, but unless the affliction is cured in early childhood, there's nothing to be done. I think that's nonsense, myself.”

“You do, eh?”

“Well, yes. Think of the number of undernourished infants there are, and the relative rarity of people who stammer.”

“I don't know how rare they are. Seems to me I could come up with a couple myself. Charlie for one. Bert Schmidt's payroll master for another. Seems pretty common to me.”

“But not numerically common,” Thomas said. “Not out of an entire population.”

“Don't know what all that means, but it's a damn shame, no matter what. Ruins a man's life, in some ways.” He held two fingers pinched together in front of his lips. “Why can't a fella just say what he wants? Just spit the word out?”

“Something gets in the way that we don't understand.” Thomas tapped the side of his own skull opposite the bandage. “Something in here.”

“That's what I think,” Lindeman said. “Not a damn thing he can do about it, old Charlie. That gets him all riled up, too.”

“Which makes it worse,” Thomas observed.

“And he don't take to teasing, not one little bit. As Harvey found out.”

“I wanted to ask you. If I wanted to buy ice, who would I see?”

The abrupt change of subject seemed to take Lindeman by surprise, and he spent a moment carefully reloading his pipe as if it were a difficult question that required considerable pondering. “That would be me,” he said. “Don't have a whole lot left, not this time of year, but some.”

“I would like to employ a cold pack on my hip. Alcohol and water isn't sufficient. If I had some chipped ice…”

“Nothing's easier, young man. You just say when.” He dragged the match up the underside of his britches' leg and lit his pipe. “Doc,” and he puffed, interrupting himself, “Doc Haines about used what I had in July. Had an outbreak of the typhoid up at Clallam Creek. Maybe he told you about that.”

“No, he hasn't mentioned it.”

“He lost two.” Lindeman held up two fingers. “Just two. At one point, he had upward of forty in one village. Lost two. That just about made him a hero. We was hauling ice up there by the wagonload, and Doc, he paid cash money right up front. Don't suspect he got any of it back, either, them Indians bein' what they are.”

“It was in an Indian village? The outbreak. I mean.”

Lindeman nodded. “And spread into one of the loggin' camps.”

“He brought them here to the clinic for treatment?”

Lindeman looked puzzled. “Don't suspect he did. They're going to be sick, they're sick in their own way. Don't need to be bringin' them into town.”

“I've never seen an Indian,” Thomas said. “I mean other than catching a glimpse out of the train window as we passed through the stations. They seem to gather there.”

“I expect they die of the typhoid just like anybody else,” Lindeman said, “but this time, they only lost two. Doc Haines used the ice baths, I'm told. Force that temperature down.”

“That's the trick,” Thomas agreed. “You have a wagon, then.”

“Course I have wagons. Got four of 'em. Don't imagine you need that much ice, though.”

Thomas laughed. “No. I was thinking about how I might manage to make the trip to the clinic.”

Lindeman coughed. “Doc's got a carriage, you know.”

“He doesn't want me to leave the house yet.”

“Smart man, no doubt. You're movin' about as spry as a hundred-year-old cowpuncher.”

“That's why I was thinking about the wagon, Mr. Lindeman. I could just lie back on the tailgate, rather than trying to climb up into a carriage. For such a short ride, what could it hurt? I might find something to do at the clinic. Something to make myself useful.”

Lindeman tapped his pipe thoughtfully on the railing. “I don't think I want John Haines angry with me,” he said. “He says you should stay put, then that's what you should do.” He grinned at Thomas, showing half a dozen teeth. “Anyways, you're a long, long way from walking down these steps to a wagon. I sure as hell ain't about to carry you.” He pushed himself out of the chair. “I got to get before Charlie loses the store.” He offered his hand to Thomas. “Good talking with you, Doctor. We'll do it again. When was it that you wanted me to send that ice over?”

“How about each morning at nine o'clock for a few days?” Thomas said. He held his hands out, bowl fashion. “A pound or two, crushed up?”

“Easily done.” He took the steps carefully, and Prince hauled himself to his feet. Lindeman paused, looking down at the dog. “Don't know how I come up with that name. Must have been in my cups. ‘Useless' would be better,” he said. “And I ain't wasting ice on his useless ass, I can tell you that.”

“He might appreciate it.”

“He might,” Lindeman conceded. “Might be sunny two days in a row, too.”

Chapter Fifteen

Zachary Riggs held up the large ripe peach between his index finger and thumb. “Behold the wonders of the late summer fruit,” he announced. He let the words hang in the air for a dramatic moment. Thomas had the feeling that Riggs had carefully prepared for this moment.

“I'll want a good, substantial napkin, of course,” Riggs said as an amused aside. “Now,” he continued, “even the anticipation of this wonderful thing is pleasurable. You agree?”

“Certainly,” Thomas said.

Riggs brought the peach to his nose, brushing it in his whiskers. “Ah,” he sighed. “What a fragrance. What a bouquet. Am I thinking of anything else? No, of course I'm not. Just the anticipation cures me of some of my ills. The worries of the day are lessened.” His tongue flicked out to moisten his lips, and he turned to Alvi, lowering his voice. “I can't stand it. Pardon me while I indulge, will you?”

Alvina Haines smiled and selected an equally succulent fruit for herself. “If I might join you.”

“Now,” Riggs said, and bit into the peach. The juice flowed down his short beard, and he ducked his head forward, flailing with the napkin. “Oh, my God, Gerty,” he breathed. “Where-ever did you find these?”

“Mr. Lindeman had them. He said they were from Sequim.” Gert had reentered the dining room to finish clearing plates. When the talk turned medical, Horace had ducked his head and excused himself. “Don't you be slobbering on my clean tablecloth now,” Gert said sternly, and Riggs waved a hand as she left the room.

“My,” Riggs said. He took another bite, releasing yet more juice. “Even if we imagine that this peach has no pharmaceutical or medicinal value at all, it does me good, does it not? Beyond its simple pleasures that boost my morale, beyond driving away the dark storm clouds of depression, as a nutritious fruit it bolsters my entire system. Now how does it do that? Of course you know that the answer is marvelously simple.”

He held up first one finger and then more as he counted. “It helps the bowels. Its sugar powers me. Why, its juice soothes the throat, the stomach. We might even argue that its wonderful bouquet helps open the sinuses. And one can argue that a veritable wave of pleasure sweeps through the body as we consume it.” Juice running down his wrist, Riggs held the half-eaten peach toward Thomas. “What doctor on the planet is to gainsay the claim that these magic pills enjoyed twice a day will help maintain and support the constitution?”

Thomas grinned, delighted with Riggs' performance. “Of course. Helps. But only in a most general way.”

“Granted,” Riggs responded. “Granted.” He held up a stubby finger. “And if you have a patient dying of tuberculosis, is not maintaining and supporting that fragile constitution the very task of the physician? And don't we use any means at our disposal to accomplish that task? Of course we do. Something that helps in a general way is to be embraced.”

“You offer a most eloquent argument.”

“Our Universal Tonic, Thomas. You asked a moment ago how it could be efficacious in the treatment of so many ills.” He held up the peach again. “Like this wonderful fruit, the Universal Tonic is supportive. In every way. It is formulated for that very purpose.” He carefully placed the peach pit on the side of his plate. “Now, can it be abused?” He let that provocative question linger for a moment as he wiped his mouth. “Suppose I were to grind up this rather homely pit, Thomas. Suppose that.”

“The pit is known to be poisonous.”

“Oh, indeed it is.” He reached out and chose another peach, hefted it, then replaced it. “Even something this wonderful has its dark side. We all agree to that.”

For the first time during the conversation, John Haines stirred. He had listened with obvious pleasure as his associate laid out the case for the tonic, but had interjected nothing. Now he said, “As I told you earlier, Thomas, imagine the results if every patient could be persuaded to follow a healthful regimen of nutrition. Imagine something as simple as airing out the sickroom. If the environs could be kept clean and aseptic. If the morale of the patient could be kept positive and constructive.” He waggled his eyebrows. “You must agree that the ravages of disease would be lessened.”

“Of course.”

“A worthwhile tonic helps with much of that,” Riggs said. “What we have developed…what John has developed…has proven itself over and over again. We would be remiss if we did not bring the tonic's supportive properties to every patient's attention.”

Thomas nodded, but before he could make a comment, Riggs added eagerly, “And in your reading, you will have noticed—what do we exhort patients to do when it is known that they suffer one of the great maladies? Suppose we suspect”—he shrugged, pulling a disease from the air—“scarlet fever. What do we tell them? Seek a physician immediately. Seek a physician immediately,” he repeated. “Short of that, the patient must be encouraged to maintain strength and support a positive outlook.” He eyed the peaches and, unable to resist, selected another.

“I must admit, the clinic's pharmacy is most impressive,” Thomas said. Engravings in the book had shown rooms lined with enormous vats reminiscent of a winery, while chemists labored in a well-equipped laboratory.

“Think forward,” Riggs said. “Think always about what will be. That gives our work direction and purpose, my good man. No matter how busy one might become with the daily rigors of our profession, we must never lose sight of the greater picture. Simply put, where will we be in one year's time, five years' time, ten years'…even fifty years' when it will be up to the next generation to continue what we have started? That is the only way to build an empire.”

Thomas felt a chill of anticipation and eagerness. “I confess that your inspiration makes me feel all the more useless.”

“Nonsense, Thomas. You've had an unfortunate accident, but your recuperation is astounding.” He reached out and slid the bowl of fruit toward the young man and grinned widely. “Have a miracle pill. It can only help.”

“I had the opportunity to converse with Mr. Lindeman today at some length,” Thomas said. “He said that the tonic is well received.”

“Indeed it is,” Riggs said. “You would be astonished to hear the number of prescriptions sold, all over the world.”

“I was struck, however…” He hesitated, loath to insult his gracious hosts. “The new book seems somewhat…evasive? About the ingredients of the tonic—and other treatments as well.”

“There again,” John Haines said, selecting his words carefully around the haze of too much wine, “ask yourself what good it does to inflict a long litany of incomprehensible terminology on the sick patient. We must remember that the Universal Advisor is intended for the patient, not the physician.”

“Yes,” Riggs interjected. “The patient doesn't need to know. Now, if on the other hand, a physician writes to us in good faith, documenting a troublesome case, and then inquires about the nature of the tonic and its properties, and how it might be of benefit to the patient, then, in most instances, we will supply the information requested.”

He pushed himself back from the table. “I could use the peach again,” he said, and snatched up a fruit. “Give me a list of chemicals that make up this heavenly thing. Can you do that?”

“Of course not.”

“There you have it.”

“But, Dr. Riggs, I didn't compound that fruit. I didn't mix ingredients to create it. It is not the product of chemists in a laboratory.”

“True enough. But as John points out, what benefit to the patient by listing a paragraph of incomprehensible Latin or German?”

“I understand that as well,” Thomas persisted. “But suppose I were to ask you, as a physician? What would you say to me?”

“I would say,” Riggs replied without hesitation, “that the tonic has undergone nearly a decade of intense scrutiny by our staff. We have seen its amazing results with our own eyes. In addition, we have hundreds of personal testimonials from physicians and patients alike about how the tonic has changed lives for the better. We can warrant, as independent laboratories have, that nothing in the tonic is dangerous, or deleterious to health in any way, when it is used as directed.”

“Ah,” Thomas said. He shifted in his chair, the effects of too long in one position sending pangs through his joints. “But you wouldn't tell me the ingredients.”

Riggs regarded Thomas with amusement, and after a moment leaned closer. “Do you have any idea how many thousands of dollars we have invested in the development of the tonic?”

“I confess I don't.”

“Exactly. No one asks that. But it is thousands. Perhaps hundreds of thousands. If we were to publish the ingredients, then what's to stop the copyists from taking advantage? Some of the ingredients are so rare, so dependent on the perfection of weather and circumstance, that they are not easily obtained. To open our enterprise to every get-rich-quick entrepreneur is to defeat our commitment to purity and professional standards. Open our files to rascals and snake-oil salesmen, and you would see abuse, sir. And whose name would be blackened by that?” He lifted his eyebrows.

“Jealousy,” Haines mumbled. “That's all it is.”

“Indeed,” Riggs agreed, and drained his glass. “When one is successful, the vultures descend. It's human nature.”

“Suppose a patient has a sensitivity to a particular substance?” Thomas posed. “What then? For example, my father is sensitive to something that occurs in ocean fish. Eat a sardine, and his mouth feels as if he's consuming burning matches. Eat two, and he will become short of breath as well.”

Riggs held up a hand. “And if your father's physician should write to us and ask if the tonic…which will surely calm his digestive processes, by the way…contains fish oil, or seafood products, we would reply instantly. Indeed, the tonic does contain an extract of ocean kelp, but no animal matter. Not a trace.” He held up both hands. “So you see.”

“But to work at the clinic, to be able to answer just such questions, I would have to know the analysis of each compound,” Thomas persisted, and Riggs laughed.

“Of course, Thomas. Of course. By the time you have learned the processes of our pharmacy inside and out, you may well plead for mercy. But I hope you understand that I'm not simply being obstinately evasive. We want you to understand why we do as we do. The why of it all.”

Thomas thumped a hand on the arm of the wheelchair. “I feel as if I've been consigned to prison.”

“Patience is not one of your virtues,” Alvi remarked. “Scarcely a week, remember. Charlie Grimes tells me that you've ordered ice for the morning?”

“I have,” Thomas said eagerly. “I have made arrangements for its delivery each day. I have a hypothesis, but I must admit it is not original to myself. Harvard's Professor Palmer has talked much about the effect of alternating hot and cold on injuries, particularly those areas where joints are involved and blood supply is not marked.”

“First one, and then the other?” Riggs asked. He leaned forward, both beefy arms on the table.

“As cold as the patient can stand, then as hot as can be tolerated without injury,” Thomas said. He watched as Riggs clenched his hands together, and then relaxed them. The man understood perfectly. “Exactly,” Thomas said. “Repetition produces an action not unlike a pump, forcing blood through the injured tissues.”

“Fascinating,” Riggs said. “I wonder how that action might be multiplied by application of our Journeyman's Extract? The success we've had in subduing inflammation has been remarkable.” He nodded as if reaching a sudden decision. “I'll make sure some is delivered, if you don't have any on hand?” He looked at Alvi, then patted his napkin. “Anyway, it's been a long day. John, a few moments?”

“Indeed, indeed,” Haines said. Thomas watched the older man close his eyes as he pushed himself up from the table. “Alvina?”

“I think not,” Alvi said. “There is some reading I wish to do.”

“Thomas, some brandy to settle your dinner?” Haines asked, in no hurry to release his grip on the back of his chair. “Zachary and I have been discussing strategies for transporting you to the clinic.”

“I would be eager to hear those,” Thomas replied, “more eager than you can possibly imagine.”