Forever Waiting (43 page)

“Are you ready to tell me now?” John sneered, his fingers entwined in the man’s hair. “It wasn’t just for the money. So tell me—why did you do it?”

“I loved my sister. Your father ruined her life,” Robert wheezed, gasping to catch his breath, the water dripping off his face and hair.

“Not good enough, Blackford!”

Robert’s head dipped toward the water a third time, the room deathly silent, save his desperate struggle to wrench free of the strong hands guiding him forward. “All right, John, all right!” he begged. Then came the murmured admission. “I was
in love
with my sister … I would have done anything for her.”

John felt the blood drain from his limbs and, with a tormented curse, relaxed his grip. Robert instantly threw himself backward, and John staggered, slipping on the wet floor. Robert rolled over to face his attacker. But John was up and on him again, straddling and pinning him down, hands around his neck. Robert’s head was cocked at an awkward angle, shoved against the side of the tub. He sputtered for air, and his fingers furiously clawed at John’s hands. But the vise continued to constrict. John was going to strangle him.

He had one last hope. Straining to the right, he groped inside his boot for the knife he carried for protection against the street thugs who loitered around his clinic. The tips of his fingers brushed against the smooth handle. Stretching farther, he loosed the dagger from its sheath, pulling it free. He drew it back and plunged it viciously into John’s flank.

John cried out and, clutching his side, collapsed next to him.

Choking, Robert’s hands shot to his throat, the knife clattering to the floor. He threw his head back and closed his eyes, inhaling rapidly, his pulse thundering in his ears. When he could breathe again, he fumbled for the knife at his side. He knew he had to finish John off—slit his throat quickly and flee.

As he opened his eyes, a tall shadow loomed above him, and he found himself looking up the barrel of Frederic Duvoisin’s revolver.

Frederic looked away and pulled the trigger. There was a flash and a loud report. He glanced down at the grisly sight, threw his cane aside, and dropped to his knees beside John.

“John! Get up!” he urged, nudging John fiercely. “We have to get out of here—now!”

“Father … ” John groaned, pushing himself onto his knees.

Already the room reeked of fresh blood. Frederic hurriedly looped his arm around John’s waist and shouldered a portion of his weight. Then he struggled to his feet, dragging John with him.

Somebody screamed, and Frederic looked up, the pistol concealed in the folds of his coat. A young woman stood in the doorway, gaping at them. “Murderers!” she shrieked, raising the alarm. “Murderers! Police!”

He advanced, his arm tight around his son. The girl blocked their path. “Move aside,” he demanded. When she didn’t, he pointed the firearm at her. She stepped back quickly, but screamed again after they passed. More voices sounded from the dark hallway below.

Frederic forced himself calm. “John, you have to walk down the stairs. You must help me.” Trembling, Frederic released him, his hand covered in thick, syrupy blood.

John grabbed hold of the railing and started down, enduring the searing pain that radiated into his chest and down his leg.

Frederic followed, gun drawn.

John managed the first two flights, fighting to breathe, each aspiration shallow and excruciating. Three steps farther, and his knees buckled beneath him. He tumbled down the last flight, landing in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairwell.

Frederic raced after him. The landlady’s door cracked open as he reached the bottom, and she peered out. Frederic dropped to one knee, but swiftly straightened as two men confronted him. He flashed the pistol again, and the two backed off. “Get up, John!” he shouted, holding the firearm level against them. “You must get up!”

His father’s command echoed as if at the end of a tunnel. Though everything was fading, John grabbed the railing and pulled himself to his feet.

Frederic put an arm around him again, and John leaned heavily into his body, forcing Frederic to carry most of his weight. Staggering across the foyer, they pushed through the doors and out into the rainy night.

Thankfully, the hired carriage was still there. Frederic had promised the driver a double fare for the return trip if he waited. He shoved John in and climbed onto the seat across from him, directing the cabby to make haste uptown. The old man set the horses into a brisk trot, and at last, they were rolling away. As they turned the corner a few blocks up, they passed two mounted policemen heading toward the row house.

John moaned and his head fell back against the seat cushions. Frederic crossed to his side and pulled him into his arms. John jerked forward, then slumped across his lap, shivering uncontrollably, his clothing soaked through.

“Hold on, John,” Frederic pleaded in a whisper, enfolding him in his cloak, his anxiety rising in proportion to his hammering heart.

“How could he, Papa?” John beseeched, his voice a strained sob, his face contorted in pain. “How could he murder my little boy?”

“I don’t know, John,” Frederic murmured, pulling John closer, gathering the dry cloak tighter around him. “I don’t know.”

“Is he dead?”

“Yes, he’s dead.”

John looked up at his father. He hadn’t heard the answer, for the world was slipping away. “Is he dead?”

“Yes, John, he’s dead.”

John closed his eyes. “Charmaine … ”

“Hold on, John. Just hold on. You’re going to be all right. We’ll get you a doctor.” Frederic looked at the blood on his hands again, his own coat stained red, and was petrified his son was going to die in his arms.

The carriage rolled up to John’s row house, the driver glancing furtively back into the enclosure of his cab.

Michael heard them and ran outside. He’d been back all of ten minutes, having found the clinic closed. Frederic had already alighted, his expression imploring Michael to keep silent.

Frederic addressed the coachman, pulling the double fare from his wallet. “You’ll get twice this tomorrow night if you keep your mouth shut,” he enjoined, pressing the coins into the man’s hand. The cabman nodded, and waited as Frederic and Michael pulled an unconscious John from the vehicle. They struggled a moment, throwing his arms over their shoulders, then dragged him inside and up the stairs to his bedchamber.

“What happened?” Michael asked, alarmed by John’s blood-splattered coat, horrified when Frederic removed it to reveal his blood-soaked shirt beneath.

“They were in a scuffle,” Frederic replied brusquely, ripping open the shirt and pressing a handkerchief to the wound. “Blackford knifed him.”

“Is he alive?” Michael asked fearfully, placing a hand on John’s chest in search of a heartbeat.

“Yes, but there is no time to lose. He needs a doctor before he bleeds to death. I’ll find one as fast as I can. Lock the door behind me and douse the lights.”

“Why?”

“Blackford’s dead. There were witnesses. The police will be looking for us.”

Michael regarded Frederic in dismay. “Did John—?”

“No. I did.”

A knock on the front door silenced them.

“Damn!” Frederic cursed, moving to the window. To his relief, a woman was on the stoop. “Probably a meddling neighbor. Can you get rid of her, Michael?”

Michael hurried to the first floor.
Sweet Jesus, how did I wind up here, aiding and abetting a murderer? What lies will I have to conjure now?
Closing his eyes, he drew a deep breath and intoned a Hail Mary. He opened the door, stunned to see a woman he recognized. They had met in Richmond nearly three years ago when John was bringing her to New York.
“Lily?”

“Father Andrews? What are you doing here?” Lily queried.

“Come in, come in,” he insisted, gesturing emphatically for her to step inside quickly and out of the rain.

“Where is John?” she asked, looking across to the parlor, disconcerted by the priest’s white face and disquietude.

“He’s been hurt.”

“Hurt?”
Her eyes shot back to Michael. “How? Where is he?”

“Upstairs.”

Lily flew up the stairs and charged into John’s bedroom, running headlong into Frederic. He grabbed her arms, keeping her from the bed. “Who are you?” he demanded as she struggled to pull free, her eyes riveted on John.

Michael stepped through the door.

“My God!” she cried.

“Who are you?” Frederic demanded again.

“I’m his friend!” she replied, trying to wrench free, looking for the first time at Frederic. “John brought me here from Virginia. Who are you?”

“John’s father.”

Frederic read her astonishment. He released her, and she ran to John, clutching his cold hand. “John! John! Can you hear me?” She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it. “Sweet Lord!” she cried, caressing his face and stroking back his hair. “There’s so much blood! Wake up, John! Please wake up!”

She looked over her shoulder at Frederic and Michael. “He’s soaking wet. We have to get him out of these clothes and warm him up! And the blood—this cloth isn’t working. We have to stem the blood!” She started to pull the shirt from John’s arms. “Get some clean towels!”

“I will do this, Miss,” Frederic declared, uneasy with her familiarity. John and she were obviously more than friends. “Do you know a doctor who can help us? We need one right away. Neither of us know the city well enough—”

“Yes, I do.”

“Can you get him to come here tonight?”

“I think so.”

“Then please take Michael, go find him, and bring him back here,” Frederic implored. He handed Michael his wallet. “Spend whatever it takes, Michael, but bring him back as quickly as possible.”

Frederic followed them downstairs. Without another word, Lily and Michael slipped out into the dark city.

After they left, Frederic locked the door and doused the lamps in the parlor. He returned to John’s bedchamber, pulling the curtains shut, leaving only a single candle burning on the floor as he tended to his son.

Within the hour, the clopping of horses’ hooves resounded from the street and men’s voices carried up to the quiet bedroom. There was a rap on the door. Frederic snuffed the candle. The rap came again, louder this time, and he peered through a crack in the curtains down to the street. Two men in uniform, carrying nightsticks, stood at the door. The cabdriver must have ratted on them. Frederic prayed they would not try to enter. The police rapped again and waited, and he worried Lily and Michael would return while they were there. A carriage rattled up the street, slowing as it passed the row house, but then it lurched forward, turning a corner a few blocks up. The officers paced around the yard a few times, glancing up the façade of the building. Shrugging, they mounted their horses, and trotted away. Not long afterward, the same cab of only minutes before pulled up to the house, and Lily, Michael, and another man alighted.

Lily returned to John’s side as Dr. Hastings came away from the bed and washed his hands for the last time in a bowl of water on the dresser. Grabbing a towel and his medical bag, he motioned for Frederic to step out of the room.

They descended to the first floor, where Michael stood sentry in the darkened foyer, waiting for the police to return.

“It’s just as well he’s unconscious,” the doctor stated, their only light the small candle Frederic carried. “Stitching a deep wound can be very painful.”

“Will he be all right?” Frederic asked.

“He has lost a lot of blood, but the bleeding has stopped, and I don’t think any important organs were damaged, else he’d be dead already.”

Frederic sighed in thanksgiving.

The doctor noted his relief and was compelled to speak again. “I am concerned about his left lung. It may have been punctured. And there’s the greater danger of infection. I saw this in the wounded in 1812. The infection will eat beyond the wound. It can kill him. He’s likely to become very ill in the next few days.”

Frederic’s alarm was rekindled. “Then what are we to do?”

“Keep the fever down. Keep a tub of water and some ice on hand. If he gets very hot, submerge him in an ice bath. It’s my own remedy. I’ve found it works. Other than that, there’s nothing to do but wait. It all depends on how strong he is. It doesn’t help that he’s lost so much blood.”

Frederic closed his eyes in dread. He’d hoped to leave on the
Heir
first thing in the morning, but now that was too dangerous. “What will it take to keep this between us, Doctor?” he pursued in another vein.

“Nothing,” Dr. Hastings replied. “Your son is a good man, Mr. Duvoisin. He helped my nephew set up a practice—on your island. I hope he recovers.” He removed his cloak from the coat rack and pulled it on. “Send for me if you need anything else.”

Frederic returned to the bedroom once the physician had left. “We have to move him,” he declared. “The police will be back.”

“You can stay at my house,” Lily offered. “It’s small, but we’ll make room.”

Frederic nodded, and once again, Lily and Michael went out into the gloomy night, this time in search of Lily’s friend, who owned a livery service. She would borrow a carriage to transport John downtown.

By dawn, they had settled John into her humble, two-bedroom home. Lily’s children and Rose were moved to the tiny parlor, leaving the second bedroom to Frederic and Michael.

Michael caught a few hours’ sleep before setting out in search of ice. He got lucky when he went to a neighborhood tavern. The proprietor gave him the name of an ice supplier, and by the afternoon, a buckboard had pulled up in front of the house. Curious neighbors paused to watch as the massive block was unloaded. It had been cut out of a lake well north of the city in Rockland County and floated down the Hudson River. Now it sat on a wooden pallet in the backyard of the small house, covered in burlap. The December weather had turned mercifully cold, snow blowing in, and the ice would stay frozen.

Friday, December 7, 1838

Frederic came away from John’s bedside early, nodding to Michael who now took up the vigil. As he stepped into the front parlor, he found Lily hastily tying her daughter’s shoelaces, her twin brothers impatiently waiting.