The Curse of the Wendigo (The Monstrumologist #2)(82)

“Shame on you! Shame on all of you! The most vicious of the predators I study cannot hold a candle to you! To treat a man like this is one thing, but to torture a child! And a child who has already endured more than any of you could possibly imagine. Diese Scheiβpolizisten. So eine Schweinerei! Pah!”

He spat contemptuously, then carried me straight to the curb and heaved me into the back of the calash. He jumped into the seat beside me and shouted for Timmy to take us home.

“The doctor?” I gasped.

“Safe, Will,” answered my rescuer. “Safe. Not well, but safe—and I beg you to forgive me for not extricating you sooner from the clutches of those oafish brutes.”

“I want to see the doctor,” I said.

“And you shall, Will. I am taking you to him now.”

Von Helrung’s personal physician, a young man by the name of Seward, had given the doctor a thorough examination and had found no serious injuries except a painful—and painfully obvious—fracturing of the lower jaw. Seward was concerned about the condition of Warthrop’s kidneys; already ugly bruises had formed along his lower back where the truncheons had been vigorously applied, but there was nothing he could do but wait. The symptoms of renal failure were hard to miss.

I found my master propped up in the bed, dressed in one of von Helrung’s nightshirts, which was much too small for him and, to my allegiant eye, added insult to injury. A bag containing ice had been wrapped in a cloth and the cloth then tied around his head to keep the compress tight against his jaw. He opened his eyes when I stepped inside the room.

“Will Henry,” he said, wincing from the effort. “Is that you?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Will Henry.” He sighed. “Where have you been, Will Henry?”

“At the police station, sir.”

“That cannot be,” he said. “My memory is not altogether clear, but I distinctly remember you were not at the police station with me.”

“I was in another room, sir.”

“Ah. Well, you could have been a little more precise.”

I took a hesitant step forward, reached for his hand, and stopped myself.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

I could hold it in no longer. It was too much, to see him like that. And if it was too much for me, what was it like for him? He motioned for me to come closer, and reached for my hand.

“You should not be sorry,” he said. “You should be glad. You were spared. You did not see what I saw upon that hill.” He spoke fiercely through gritted teeth. “What I still see—what I am doomed to see—until I can see no more!” He closed his eyes. “He wanted me to see . . . what he had done to her. . . . More than mutilation—an act of desecration. I think I disappointed him. I think he waited for me last night. I think she was alive when he took her to the summit, and he waited awhile for me before he exacted his deranged vengeance.”

“No,” I cried. “Don’t say that, sir! Please don’t—”

“He left enough clues for me, but I was blind to them. I think that’s why he took her face but left her eyes, as if to say, ‘Even she sees more than you!’ The serving girl butchered on the stairs, the phrase scrawled over the door, the trick of the chamber pot, and the words ‘Good Job!’ on the headboard. Not ‘job’ as in a task or accomplishment, but Job from the Bible, Job crying for justice upon the dung heap. He did everything but draw me a map.”

I struggled for something to say, but what might be said in such dolorous circumstances? What balm existed to soothe his torment? I had nothing to offer but my own tears, which he tenderly wiped away—a measure of his distress, perhaps his concern for my anguish.

“She had not been dead long, Will Henry. No more than an hour, I would guess. He gave up on me and then he—he consummated the transaction.”

Von Helrung had arranged a hearty repast for my supper, and though I managed to force down but a few sips of soup and a crust of pumpernickel, I felt renewed. I could not recall the last time I had eaten. I was still dreadfully tired, desiring nothing more than another taste of the dreamless sleep I’d feasted on in the holding room on Mulberry Street. My desire was destined to be thwarted. The kitchen door flew open and Lilly Bates skipped into the room, her cheeks aglow with delight.

“There you are! I’ve been looking all over for you, William James Henry. How is your neck? Can I see it? Your Dr. Warthrop wouldn’t let me see it, even though I assured him I had seen worse things than the bite of a Mongolian Death Worm, much, much worse. Did it liquefy your flesh? That’s what happens, you know. Their spit melts your flesh like butter.”

I confessed I hadn’t examined the wound myself, an admission she found shocking. Why wouldn’t I want to look at it?

“Perhaps you’re ashamed to look at it, because you are a liar and that’s what happens to liars—liquefied flesh. Don’t you think that’s funny, Will? It’s so perfectly metaphorical.”

She was sitting quite close to me, resting her elbows on the table and cupping her chin in her hands, studying me with her disconcertingly wide sapphire-blue eyes.

“Muriel Chanler is dead,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“I know.”

“Did you see her? Uncle said you were there.”