The Curse of the Wendigo (The Monstrumologist #2)(44)

“He’s an aspiring novelist, too. Fixated on the occult, native superstitions, that sort of thing.”

“None of which has anything to do with monstrumology.”

“That’s what I told the old man! But he’s slowing down; you know he’s been slipping over the past couple of years. And this Stroker won’t leave him in peace. Back in England now and writing letter after letter, forwarding von Helrung what he called ‘eyewitness accounts,’ excerpts from personal diaries and such, some of which von Helrung showed me. I told him, ‘You can’t trust this man. He’s in the theater. He’s a writer. He’s making it up.’ Well, the old man won’t listen. Goes off and writes this damn paper to present to the congress and asks me to head up here—because proof of one lends credence to the existence of the other.”

“The other,” echoed the doctor.

“Nosferatu. The vampire. That damned Irishman’s pet project.”

“So Meister Abram sends you to bag its North American equivalent,” Warthrop said. “Utter folly, John. Why did you agree to it?”

Chanler looked away. He did not answer for a moment. When he did, it was with a voice so soft I could hardly hear him.

“That is none of your business.”

“You could have turned him down without hurting him.”

The bulbous head whipped toward him; veins popped in the spindly neck; and John Chanler’s eyes burned with anger.

“Don’t preach to me about hurt, Pellinore Warthrop. You have no concept of the word. What did you ever care about his feelings—or anyone’s? When did you ever shed a tear for another human being? I challenge you to name one time in your miserable little life when you gave a damn about anyone but yourself.”

“I shouldn’t have to,” returned my master calmly. He did not appear fazed by this vehement outburst. “Least of all with you, John.”

“Oh, that. What a hypocrite you are, Warthrop. You must be a hypocrite; you’re too intelligent for any other explanation. Throwing yourself into that river was the ultimate act of vanity and self-centeredness. ‘Woe is me, poor tragic Pellinore!’ Pitiful! I wish you had drowned.”

The doctor refused to rise to the bait. “You have been through a terrible ordeal,” he said gently. “I understand you are not yourself, but I pray in time you’ll see your anger is misdirected, John. I am not the one who sent you here; I am the one who brought you out.”

I thought of him crashing to the frozen ground, Chanler cradled in his arms, and the wild look in his eyes when Hawk tried to help him with his burden—the revolver inches from Hawk’s face—and his broken cry so pitiably small in the unforgiving desolation: No one touches him but me!

“One and the same,” whispered his friend cryptically. “One and the same.”

Before Warthrop could ask the meaning of this remark, a knock came upon the door. The doctor stiffened at the sound and briefly closed his eyes, breathing to himself, “We have stayed too long.”

Muriel Chanler stepped into the room, seeing Warthrop first and saying to him, “Where is John?”

Then she saw him, huddled in the little chair, a man who appeared twice as old as when she’d seen him last, pale and shriveled, ground down by the wilderness and the exorbitant cost of desire. She gave an involuntary gasp; her eyes welled with tears.

Chanler tried to rise, failed, tried again. He rocked unsteadily upon his feet. He seemed taller than I remembered.

“Here I am,” he croaked.

She hurried toward him, slowed, stopped. She touched his cheek tenderly. The moment was heartrending and intensely private. I looked away—toward the author of the play, who had endured the unendurable so he might stage this scene—the woman he loved in the arms of another man.

“John?” she asked, as if she could not quite believe it.

“Yes,” he lied. “It’s me.”

FIFTEEN

“We Should Be Honest with Each Other”

We saw them to the depot. As the porter was helping her husband board their private car, Muriel laid her hand upon the doctor’s arm.

“Thank you,” she said.

He eased his arm away. “It was for John,” he said.

“You thought he was dead.”

“Yes. You were right and I was wrong, Muriel. See to it he’s looked after; he is far from recovered.”

“Of course I will.” Her eyes flashed. “I have every hope in his recovery.”

She bade me good-bye. “I kept my promise, Will.”

“Promise, ma’am?”

“I prayed for you.” She glanced at the doctor. “Half of it was answered, at least—you’re not dead.”

“Not yet,” said Warthrop. “Give it time.”

I wasn’t sure, but it appeared she was fighting back a smile.

“Will I see you in New York?” she asked him.

“I will be in New York,” he said.

Now she did laugh, and it was like rain after a long, dry season.

The locomotive’s whistle shrieked. Black smoke belched from the stack.

“Your train is leaving,” the monstrumologist pointed out.

We remained on the empty platform until the train was well out of sight. The first stars were coming out. A loon cried mournfully against the dying of the light. The onset of darkness made me shiver more than the cold. Though miles from it, I was still very close to that spot where a man lay broken in half beneath the frozen ground.