A Candle in the Dark (36 page)

“
Do it, Cain! Dammit, do it now
!” And he had. He’d cut into the leg, his hands shaking, the sweat dripping into his eyes so he could barely see. The blood had coursed over his hands, blinding him further, forcing him to cut by feel, making his fingers slip on the saw handle when he set it to the bone. Blood dripping on the rough pieces of cording used to tie off the arteries, making them so slippery he could barely feel to fasten the knots. Ah, God, there was so much blood. So much…

Too much.

It pooled on the floor, puddles of it soaking into the gore-polished wood, dripping from the table. And he couldn’t stop it, didn’t know why there was so much, couldn’t think as John Matson’s life ebbed away beneath his eyes. He could do nothing except watch the only man he’d ever loved, his only real family, bleed to death.

And it was his fault. It wasn’t until later, when John lay still and silent, that Cain found an extra piece of cording on the floor.

There were supposed to be no extra pieces.

The panic washed over him again, just as it had three years ago. Panic and horror and self-recrimination.

If only he’d checked the lengths of cord before he bound the wound…

If only he’d trusted his instincts and waited another hour for the assistant…

If only…

“I trust you.”

The voice tormented him, frightened him. It was in his dreams, keeping him from sleep. It was in the eyes of his patients, in their pleadings, reminding him, making his hands shaky and condemning his ineptitude.

It was then he realized he’d become just what his parents had told him he’d become: a failure. The only thing he’d done right was live up to their low expectations. Instead of healing, he destroyed. Instead of success, he had endless failure. And when he finally had enough, when he wanted to die so badly he could taste it, he couldn’t even kill himself. Christ, he’d even failed at that, simple as it was.

And now he was failing again. Cain looked down into Ana’s face, feeling desperation claw up his throat at the sound of her shallow breathing, her restless murmuring. He remembered the first time he saw her, walking into Cavey Davey’s with a bloodied gown and an air of pride. He remembered thinking that they needed each other, that he could somehow help her.

She’d helped him instead, of course. With her soft sincerity, she gave him strength he never expected to feel again. He had learned to rely on her, and he’d waited, knowing there would come a time when she would need him just as badly. Knowing he could wait patiently until that time.

That time was here. And he was failing.

He swallowed, suddenly horribly, terribly thirsty. He needed bourbon now. Especially now. She was going to die, and there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t face the thought of a world without her in it. Even if she left him once she was well, even if he never saw her again, he would know she was somewhere, and that would be good enough. He was willing for it to be good enough, if God would only let her live.

Because
he
couldn’t save her. He was too damned afraid, more afraid than he’d ever been. Because this time, he knew he couldn’t drown the memory of her in bourbon. No, God—he couldn’t live without her, didn’t want to. He wanted her to live, dammit, because he wanted to be with her. He wanted to take care of her, make love to her, love her—

Love her.

Cain started as the realization washed over him. He felt the blood leave his face.

He was in love with Ana. He was in love with her, and she was dying, and he was sitting there watching her die. Watching her…

You are killing her
. The voice pierced his skull, loud and undeniable.

Cain stared down at the leech box in his hand, unable to tear his eyes away. The voice echoed in his head, tormenting him, swirling round and round until it was all he heard.
You are killing her. You are killing her
…

“Damn you, no!” He lurched to his feet, hurling the leeches as hard as he could. The box slammed against the wall, sending water, pewter, and leeches flying, spattering, spewing across the floor, dripping down the cane walls. The liquid splashed onto him, spitting into his face, beading on his skin. The stench welled up in the room, overpowering the scent of quinine and tamarind.

Cain couldn’t move. He stood there, staring at the mess, feeling the temper and desperation well up inside of him, unavoidable, inescapable. He glanced at Ana, motionless and colorless on the bed.

He
was
killing her. He didn’t have the knowledge, or the skill, and even if he did it wouldn’t matter. Hell, he didn’t even know what kind of leeches he had—what kind of doctor was he?

The thirst rose in him, consuming him. He thought of the warmth of bourbon and the sweetness of rum, of rough wine and rougher
aguardiente
. But mostly he thought of how good it would be to be numb. He couldn’t just sit here and watch her die. It was too much to ask, goddammit. Too much.

He looked at her pale face, then looked at the red blood, almost black in the dim lamplight, whirling into the cup. With a muttered curse, Cain slapped the cup off her arm. It bounced to the floor, blood splashing up to spatter on her arm, on the blanket. But Cain didn’t stay to see it land. He was already on his way to the dining room.

To wine and oblivion.

The
quincha
was dark. Everyone else had gone to bed hours ago. The warm darkness seemed empty; it sharpened his need, accentuated his hunger. He was alone and heartsick, and the feeling was achingly, hauntingly familiar.

He swallowed when he looked at the shadowed table. Moonlight slatted through the loose cane door, over the table, falling on the clay jug sitting there, making it glow and beckon. Jiméne had stopped hiding the wine now, and the evidence of his trust made Cain hesitate as he strode across the floor. But only for a moment, and then it was soon forgotten. Everything was forgotten except for the glowing jug, the scent of wine that seemed to float on the air, dizzying him.

Don’t do this
, he thought.
You can be strong. You can be strong
. But then the other voice whispered, and it was soft, bewitching.
One drink
, it said.
Just one, and then you can go back, then you can bear it
.

It wasn’t much of a struggle. Cain knew he was going to take the drink, and the thought filled him with a sense of impending catastrophe even as it soothed him. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except easing the trapped, helpless feeling. Ana was dying, and he was sick of lying to himself, sick of trying to be something he wasn’t. He wasn’t strong, he wasn’t good, and probably—probably she didn’t give a damn about him anyway.

He sank onto the bench, gripping the handle of the jug and pulling it toward him.
One drink. Just one drink
.

The sharp, acidic scent wafted to his nostrils. His stomach clenched; the longing was fierce and undeniable. The wine called to him, it held him prisoner, and suddenly this was all that was important, just this sweet, fiery numbness and the warm curl of liquor in his belly, just doing whatever it took to stop the voices.

He brought the jug to his. lips, threw back his head, and gulped the liquor until it ran over his chin and spilled from his jaw to his shirt. The taste of it, the smell of it, the heat of it took over his senses, and his tongue and his throat and his stomach burned with the fire of salvation.

Cain pulled the jug away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, closing his eyes as the longing intensified. One drink—he would never be able to stop with one drink, and suddenly he knew it. It fed the fire but it didn’t soothe it, it only made him ache for more and more, for oblivion and sweet, gentle numbness.

The need was stronger than his self-disgust, more demanding than remorse.
You need this
, the voice inside him said, and Cain believed it, suddenly believed it with all his soul. He was sliding out of control and he didn’t care. He would never be like other men, who relaxed with a drink in a club after a long day. For him, it was the lifeblood of his existence. Without it, he was nothing.

Slow suicide
. He heard the words in his mind and ignored them and the fear they caused. Slow suicide—why not? He had nothing to live for anyway. If Ana died, the guilt alone would kill him. Why not start now?

Why not?

Cain lifted the jug to his lips and drank.

The moonlight reached across the floor in pale fingers, moving with every breeze rattling the door. Cain watched them, for a moment imagining they were the fingers of God, and he drew his feet back from them, afraid to be touched.

The thought brought a crooked smile to his lips. He closed his eyes, brought the cup to his mouth, and took a deep, long drink of wine. It eased the tension in his chest, brought him the familiar, numbing relief. It had always done that—he remembered dinners with his parents, listening to their vehement arguing, feeling the tightness grow around his heart, cramping his stomach so he couldn’t eat. The wine had tasted good then too, felt good,
was
good.

He drained the cup. He often wished he had found the sanctity of wine at a much younger age. Maybe then there would be no memories at all. God knew he did his best to forget them now. But by the time he found drink it was too late. Wine only deadened, it didn’t erase the memories. Sometimes, the more he drank, the more they bedeviled him. Those times had always been the worst. It was those times that sent him drinking to oblivion.

Cain brought the cup to his mouth so hard it slammed against his teeth, and he choked the liquor down. His stomach clenched, he felt unexpectedly nauseated. He laid his head in his arms, keeping his hold on the jug. Too much. He’d had too much and he’d drunk barely anything. Surely he’d drunk more wine than this before? He couldn’t remember—all he knew was that he should stop and go to sleep. But he couldn’t bring himself to put down the jug, or rise and stumble to bed. The only thing to do was drink more and more, to drink until he was dead—ah, Christ, that sounded good now. Perhaps he and Ana could meet in hell. After all, they were both murderers.

“D’Alessandro.”

Cain raised his head, blinking. The moonlight was brighter now. Pale and almost violet, filling the room.

“D’Alessandro.”

There was a touch on his shoulder. Someone shook him. Cain lifted his hand to rub his eyes, knocking over the cup so wine spilled over the edge of the table. He felt the wetness in his lap, but he couldn’t find the energy to do anything about it. Hell, it was bright. He’d never seen a moon so bright. He blinked again, squinting until he made out the form of the tall, shadowed figure beside him. His father. Fear and tension stiffened his spine, he felt instantly wary.

“Father?” His voice sounded hoarse, there was a sick lump in his throat.

The figure moved into the light. “No,
amigo
, it is me. It is only Jiméne.”

Relief washed over Cain. He dropped his head into his arms again. “Go away, Jiméne. Let me be. Iss too late for you’t’be up.”

Jiméne laughed shortly. “Late? No, not late. Too early perhaps.” He touched Cain’s shoulder again. “How long have you been here, my friend?”

Cain didn’t bother to lift his head. “Few minutes.”

“A few minutes? I do not think so.”

Cain felt the jug lifted from his hands. The bench shuddered as Jiméne sat beside him.

“I do not think so,” Jiméne repeated. “It is dawn,
amigo
.”

Dawn? Cain sat up, so quickly his head spun and his stomach lurched. He struggled to control it, and squinted at the door. Sunlight, not moonlight—how had he thought it was moonlight? “Christ.”

“How long have you been here?”

Cain swallowed. His head pounded. He looked at the jug in Jiméne’s hands and wanted more with an urgency that surprised him. “Give m’that.”

Jiméne lifted the jug away, setting it on the floor, out of sight. “No more,” he said soberly. “You are very drunk.”

Cain didn’t have the strength to fight, “Y’should be used to it by now.”

“You promised to stop—”

“Until y’r mother was well.” The room spun and Cain closed his eyes. “I did.”

“What about Ana?”

The sound of her name sent pain stabbing through him. He had forgotten. For a moment, he’d forgotten, and the reminder brought the bleakness back, a desolation so intense he felt sick. His voice, when he could speak, was a whisper. “She’s dying.”

“And you are letting her die?”

“Lettin’ her?” Cain looked up, wishing he could control the pain he heard in his own words. “Lettin’ her? I can’t stop it!”

“Ah.” Jiméne nodded. His mouth pursed, he looked thoughtful. “You kept
mi madre
alive, and me.”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

Cain shrugged. His chest felt tight, his eyes burned. “A miracle.”

“A miracle?” Jiméne looked surprised. “You are a god, then? I did not know. Perhaps I
should
build a shrine to you.”

“Let m’have the jug.”

“
Amigo
, I must tell you that I cannot go through another time as Gorgona. Not without Ana. She is the one who stayed with you. She helped you, not I.” Jiméne sighed dramatically. “And if she dies, I cannot allow you to drink again. It is too much trouble to get you sober.”

Cain frowned. There was something in Jiméne’s words, something important, but it dashed just beyond his grasp and he abandoned the struggle to figure it out. “Give m’the jug.”

Jiméne ignored him, leaning on the table, shaking his dark head. “When I was very young, there was a
señorita
. I was in love with her, and when she came to love me too, I was happy. But then New York called, and I loved it more and left her behind.”

Cain exhaled in exasperation and laid his head again in the crook of his arms. “Lovely.”

“There were other
señoritas
, of course.”

“Hmmmm.”

“And then, one day, on board a ship, I saw a beautiful woman. Her hair, it had the fire of the sunset, her eyes like gold. I was in love. Forever, I believed.”