The Curse of the Wendigo (The Monstrumologist #2)(77)

“You know what von Helrung would say,” teased Gravois.

Warthrop snorted. His lip curled up into a derisive snarl. I spoke up to snuff out the fuse of his temper.

“It couldn’t have been Dr. Chanler, sir. Larose left him—that’s what Dr. Chanler said—left him with Jack Fiddler. He couldn’t have been the one who killed Larose.”

“John did say he was abandoned,” admitted my master. “But we do not know if Fiddler had him when Larose was murdered. He may have wandered into the Sucker encampment after the crime.”

He sighed and ran his gore-flecked fingers through his hair. “Well. We can speculate till dawn and still be no closer to the truth. Some answers only John can provide. Let us keep to our purpose, gentlemen!” He stepped over to the other body procured from the Bellevue morgue. “I’ll take that knife now, Gravois.” He pressed the button. The blade whipped from its compartment and glittered wickedly under the bright lights. “How long did von Helrung say that John had? Seven minutes? Damien, keep the time, please. Upon my mark.”

Warthrop plunged the blade into the middle of the dead man’s chest.

“The blow strikes true,” the monstrumologist said. “Puncturing the right ventricle. Thirty to sixty seconds for the victim to lose consciousness, and Skala collapses to the floor.” He pulled the blade free and thrust it in my direction. “Here! You must do the rest, Will Henry. We should approximate John’s weakened condition.”

“Me, sir?” I was appalled.

“Quickly; the clock is ticking!” He pressed the switchblade into my hand and forced me to the table.

“Six minutes,” Gravois announced.

“The eyes first,” Warthrop instructed. “Based on the amount of blood in the ocular cavities, Skala’s heart was most likely still beating when John removed them.”

“You want me to cut out his eyes?” I was having some difficulty grasping it. Surely the doctor didn’t expect me, of all people, to do such a thing.

The doctor misread my horror at the prospect as a question over procedure.

“Well, he didn’t gouge or pry them out with his bare hands. You saw the scoring as well as I did, Will Henry. He must have used the knife. Snap to now!”

“May I point out that a two-year-old could remove someone’s eyes?” asked Gravois. “Strength has very little to do with it, Warthrop.”

“Very well,” the doctor snapped. He grabbed the knife from my hand, pulled back the upper lid, and inserted the knife into the spot above the corpse’s right eye. He rotated the blade around, severing the optical nerve, and unceremoniously pulled the eye free with his bare fingers. He turned to me and I instinctively raised my cupped hands to catch the prize, which he dropped into them. I looked around desperately for somewhere to put it. The doctor stood between me and the table, and dropping it onto the floor seemed disrespectful, even sacrilegious. Warthrop leaned over the table and removed the left eye in the same manner. That one too he dropped into my hands. I willed myself not to look, lest I find those lifeless eyes looking back at me.

“Time!” called Warthrop.

“Five minutes, forty-five seconds,” answered Gravois.

The monstrumologist grimly proceeded to hack open the alabaster chest, widening the initial wound with quick, savage strokes, mimicking the viciousness of the attack. He flung the knife upon the table and turned back to me.

“Now, this part you must do, Will Henry.”

“Which part?” I squeaked.

“His hands are full,” Gravois pointed out.

Warthrop scooped up the eyes and absently dropped them into his coat pocket. He pushed me toward the table. “Reach inside and grab the heart.”

My stomach rolled. I burned and shivered as if with fever. I blinked back hot tears, and stared beseechingly at him.

“Quickly, Will Henry! These two ribs, here and here, were broken from the sternum. Can you do it?”

I nodded. I shook my head.

“Four minutes!”

“This is monstrumology, Will Henry,” the doctor whispered fiercely. “This is what we do.”

I nodded a second time, took a deep breath, and, willing my eyes to remain open, plunged my hands into the chest. The cavity was surprisingly cold—colder than the surrounding air of the auditorium. The ribs were slippery with their covering of periosteum, but once I had a good grip, they broke off easily; it required no more effort than snapping a stick in two.

“Do you see the heart?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, with both hands. It’s slippery. Pull it straight toward you. That’s it! Stop. Here, take the knife now. No, no. Keep your left hand beneath the heart to support it; John is right-handed. Now chop—carefully for God’s sake! Don’t bring the blade so high or you will slice open your wrist! Vary the angle . . . more. Deeper! What, are you afraid of hurting him?”

“Three minutes!”

“Enough!” cried Warthrop. He pushed me back and snapped his fingers at me. “The knife! Stand back. If you’re going to be sick, kindly use the drain, Will Henry.”

The monstrumologist then proceeded to remove the face—an incision just below the hairline, then sliding the thin blade between the dermis and the underlying musculature. It was not easy work. There are many delicate muscles in our faces, the authors of a myriad different expressions—joy, sorrow, anger, love. Removing the facial mask while leaving what lay beneath unmolested required the fine touch of an accomplished student of anatomy—a monstrumologist, in other words.