A Candle in the Dark (35 page)

He tried to make his mind believe it. But the words were only words, and as he stared down at Ana’s fevered face he had a strong urge to hold her so closely death wouldn’t dare take her away.

Already Cain felt it, that sharp, aching concern that made him watch her every breath, stare at her flushed face for any signs of life. The worry was so intense he felt sick and nauseated.

He had a yearning for whiskey so strong it nearly left him faint. It was all he could do to push it aside long enough to reach for the quinine. His fingers trembled as he pulled out the glass stopper. It slipped from his grasp and bounced on the bamboo-matted floor, rolling out of his reach. Shaking, he set the bottle down.

“Here is the water.” Jiméne hurried into the room, stopping with a frown—so quickly water splashed from the jug he held. “What is the matter, D’Alessandro? You look lost.”

Cain took a deep breath, raking his hand through his hair. “I’m all right.”

“Good. That is good.” Jiméne didn’t look quite convinced. He stepped farther into the room, setting the jug at Cain’s feet before he glanced at the bed. “It is hard to believe, eh? That she was fine only moments ago.”

“Juan says the fever hits fast.”

“Yes. Juan says that.” Jiméne nodded soberly. “What do you say?”

Cain shot Jiméne an irritated glance, trying to hide the fear his words roused.

Jiméne ignored the look, crossing his arms over his chest. “Will you bleed her?”

“No, not at first,” Cain said softly. “Maybe later, if the fever doesn’t break.”

“You bled Mama.”

“Your mother had been ill for days,” Cain snapped. “Ana may not be so sick.”

“Of course,” Jiméne said quietly. “Of course you are right. She will probably be better tomorrow.”

“Probably.”

Jiméne hesitated. “Do you need my help,
amigo
?”

“No.” Cain spoke quickly. The last thing he wanted was for Jiméne to go, but he couldn’t bear the thought of Castañeras watching him shake, couldn’t stand the weakness. No, better if he was alone here. Better if no one saw how frightened he was. What was it Ana had said the other night? “
You don’t always hide your emotions very well
.” No, he didn’t. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps it was time he tried.

He looked at Jiméne. “No,” he said again, “I don’t need your help.”

“Fine then.” Jiméne nodded. “I will be near if you need me.”

“Good.” Cain turned his back, listening to Jiméne’s footsteps going to the door. “Oh, Castañeras—”

“Yes?”

Cain still didn’t look at him. “Maybe—could you ask Serafina to make up some tamarind water?”

There was silence. Cain glanced over his shoulder. Jiméne stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, his face suddenly white and strained, his brown eyes large.

“Of course,” he said quickly, ducking his head, turning away. “Of course.”

Ana drifted in and out of dreams. Burning hot, elusive dreams that wavered before her eyes and disappeared. First she was with her mother—or no, it wasn’t her mother, but Rosalie. Scolding, condemning. There was blood all over the floor. Ana was slipping in it, falling, trying to escape, desperate to escape. They were after her; she was so frightened she felt the splintery rope of the hangman’s noose around her throat, tightening, tightening…

Then there were smooth, cool hands on her forehead, stroking back her hair, taking away the heat and the feel of the noose. Comforting, soft. Like her mother’s hands but not like them. Bigger, gentler. Better. A man’s hands. Benjamin Whitehall’s hands. His face was suddenly in front of her, leering, his eyes sharp with anticipation. She heard the slash of the whip, felt it across her cheek. Sharp, intense pain whipped through her. Ana jerked away, but the hands wouldn’t let her escape. They were holding her prisoner, trapping her. Stroking her.

Soothing her.

She faded back into nothingness.

He hadn’t left her bedside in forty-eight hours. The others had come and gone, bringing him food he couldn’t eat, refilling the water jug so he could keep mixing the potion of quinine and sugar and mint. He’d changed her blankets four times, since she often violently refused to drink the mixture, and even after he forced it down her throat she vomited it up again. Across the back of his chair hung a chemise Serafina had brought for Ana to wear, but he hadn’t put it on her yet, preferring to wait until she was calm enough to keep the medicine down.

She was a little calmer now, he thought. Or maybe it was just his imagination, since he wanted so badly for it to be true. He’d started adding opium to the medicine, hoping it would settle her stomach, or at least bring her dreamless sleep. Not for the first time, Cain wondered what she dreamed about. What caused her convulsive tossing and turning and why she sometimes threw off his hands with a cry of fear.

Again he wished he knew something about her. Something more than the fact that she was a whore who killed a man. He wished he knew why she hated doctors and who she really was besides the illegitimate daughter of a Russian nobleman. Christ, he didn’t even know her last name.

Cain pried his gaze away, trying not to hear her labored breathing. He didn’t know anything about her. Not who she was or what she felt. Nothing. She might die tomorrow, and he would have nothing left of her except a gold Spanish comb that she thought was Russian. Nothing except that and the longing for her that he suspected would never go away.

And the guilt. Oh, yes, he would have that too. He wondered if he could survive it this time.

“D’Alessandro?”

Jiméne’s soft voice broke into Cain’s thoughts. He swiveled on his stool, blinking to focus. But his eyes were too bleary. He rubbed them with his fingers.

“Yes?”

“It is late. Time for you to sleep.”

“Sleep?” Cain snapped awake. “No, I’m fine. I can’t leave.”

“I will keep watch for a while,” Jiméne said. “Tell me what to do.”

“I can’t tell you what to do.” Cain shook his head. He motioned to the table. “There’s too much. I can’t leave.”

“It is not a matter
of can’t
, my friend.” Jiméne moved closer, kneeling beside him. “You
will
sleep—I will ask for Juan’s help to make sure if I must. You can do her no good this way.”

The cold bite of fear gnawed into Cain’s stomach. “You don’t understand. I can’t leave her. What if she wakes? What if the fever gets worse?”

“Then I will call you,” Jiméne said calmly. “You must sleep, or you will be no good to her.”

“Thanks, but—”

“You are not the only one who cares for her,
amigo
.” Jiméne’s voice was infinitely soft.

The words defeated Cain. He nodded slowly and rose from the stool. “Wake me in an hour,” he said, moving to the strung hammock in the corner of the room. “One hour.”

“One hour,” Jiméne repeated solemnly.

For four days, Caul watched her because he could do nothing else. He sat there, watching, and knowing the quinine wasn’t helping, and he was going to have to cut her—slice into that lovely, peachy skin and watch her blood boil up into a glass cup. Put slimy, stinking leeches on her stomach and watch them sink their nasty little teeth into her and grow fat.

He knew it, had known for the last several hours that he had no other choice. He’d already waited too long, hoping against hope that the medicine would save her, hoping God wouldn’t force him to go through with the farce of failing. But no, he wanted her to live too badly, he should have expected the punishment of watching her die.

Because he
was
watching it. Her breathing was shallow, her lips parched. There hadn’t even been delirium, nothing but this calm acceptance of the fever. Nothing but motionless, comalike sleep.

He swallowed, pulling the lancet off the table, thinking again of wine, wishing he had a glass to steady his hands. He wanted it. He wanted it so much he could barely think, and he picked up the glass cups and tried to focus on them in an attempt to alleviate the hunger. They were still stained with
Doña
Melia’s blood, and he tried to think of Jiméne’s mother strong enough now to talk with her children a few hours each day, tried to take comfort from it. She had survived.

And he didn’t know why.
He didn’t know why
. The lack of knowledge tormented him, kept him awake. If only he could remember what he’d done, if only he knew if it had been his efforts, and not the
curanderos’
, that had made her well, that had cured Jiméne…

He opened his eyes and unfolded the lancet, staring at it for a moment, watching the lamplight glint on the metal. It was already late; everyone else in the house was asleep. He had deliberately waited until now to do this—it was going to take all his concentration, every ounce of his strength. What he didn’t want were questions and concerns. What he didn’t want was kindness.

Swallowing, he lifted her arm from where it lay over her chest, stretching it out before him. He saw her pulse beneath the skin, eyed the perfect place to make the incision. His fingers tightened on her wrist and he licked his lips.

Then he cut. A small cut, but he felt dizzy when it turned into a line of red, and then a drop. Quickly, with trembling fingers, he turned the cup over it and squeezed the rubber ball. Quickly, efficiently. As he’d done it hundreds of times before.

The vacuum brought her blood swirling up into the small glass dome, washing away the stain of
Doña
Melia’s, making his stomach clench. Cain reached for the box of leeches.

He felt nauseated, frightened. His hands shook as he lifted off the lid, the bile rose in his throat when the wormlike creatures lifted their heads, on the scent. He knew exactly what to do with them, where to place them on her smooth, flat stomach. Six leeches if American, only three if they were Spanish or Swedish. He wasn’t sure which these were. How long had he kept them anyway? How many people had they helped him kill?

The thought brought with it a craving for drink so intense Cain had to clench his fists to keep from giving in to it. Deep red wine, or bourbon… Anything to bring that soothing, warm sense of confidence. Ah, Christ, he needed it now. Especially now. His mouth was dry, and his head spun. His fingers curled around the box. One of the leeches moved toward his hand, touching his skin. Cain squeezed his eyes shut and then looked again at her, at the soft shadow of lashes against her cheek, her partly opened mouth.
Please God
, he prayed.
Give me strength
.

He prayed, though he expected nothing. God had abandoned him long ago. If his mother were to be believed, it had happened at his birth. Abandoned by both God and mother during a painful delivery amid a lightning storm. Prophetic. His mother had even given him a special name to mark the occasion: Cain. The biblical bad seed. The murderer.

At least he and Ana had something in common. They were both murderers. Cain squeezed his eyes tight, trying to control the relentless fear welling up in him. God had no mercy for murderers, or at least that’s what he’d heard.
Please, let it not be true
, he prayed.
Be merciful to her. Take me if you want, but be merciful to her
.

Cain opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, watching the tiny gnats dart from the shadows. If the truth were told, he wasn’t sure he even believed in God anyway. At least not in a benevolent God. No, the God he knew would not only take Ana’s life, but make him responsible for it.

And you would, be responsible. It would be your fault this time too
. The voice was there again, insinuating itself into his brain, soft and feminine and beguiling, like an old friend—comforting and frightening at the same time.

His strength to resist it was gone. Without drink, without Ana, he was nothing. He had no will. The voice filled his mind, grew until it was all he heard, all he knew.
You can’t do it. You don’t have the skill. You’ll fail because you always fail
.

Cain clenched his fists, trying to fight the voice. But it was too strong. He’d listened to it for a lifetime, heard it in the soft whispers of his mother and his father’s thunder, and then again later—much later—in the quiet, reassuring voice of John Matson.
I trust you, Cain
.

The words were so simple. So easy.
I trust you, Cain
. The only words he’d ever heard that didn’t tell him he was nothing, would always be nothing. The only words that made him believe in himself.

But in the end, they had been the worst words of all.

He heard a whimper in the darkness and started before he realized it was his. “No,” he whispered. “No—”

But it was too late. The condemning voices were already in his head, whirling around, faint echoes of a past he didn’t want to remember. With them came the visions. John Matson’s confident smile even through the excruciating pain, the faith in his words. “
You can… do this, Cain, you know you… can. We… studied this. Remember? Just pretend… just pretend I’m that soldier… from a few weeks ago. Just… another patient
.”

Cain closed his eyes.

“
Do it quickly
—
one rapid… one rapid cut. Put your… hand below .
. .
Where the hell is that assistant? God
…”

He could smell it now, the scent of ether and blood and the stench of infection. Could feel the heaviness of the knife in his hand. The knowledge swam in his head. Secure the patient, work quickly, use the right knife—not too broad a blade. Cut from the in’ner side outward, ready the saw…

Christ, he wanted it out of his head forever.

“
John… John, listen to me. I can’t do it. Not without an assistant. I can’t do it. Christ, the ether isn’t even working
—”

“I… can’t feel a thing. Hurry now.”

“
I don’t remember
—”

“
You do remember. There’s no one else, and you’re a .
. .
doctor, Cain. I trust you. Believe me, I trust you
…”

Cain shoved his hands against his ears, trying to drown out the voices. But the memories came back anyway. The dim light shining in his eyes, blinding him, making the sweat break out on his forehead even though the room was frigidly cold. The burning taste of the bourbon he and John traded back and forth, because the ether wasn’t strong enough, could never be strong enough. John’s wrists straining against the cords that secured him to the bed. The stain of infection moving through veins that were bright red beneath his skin.