The Curse of the Wendigo (29 page)

Warthrop stumbled backward, gagging and spitting (his mouth had been slightly open), his cloak and hair saturated in stinking excrement. He recovered himself quickly, however, and rushed into the room. Von Helrung and I followed close behind.

Reposed upon the bed was a third body, wearing the same green dress she had worn when I’d danced with her, legs obscenely spread, arms folded over her head. On the headboard had been scrawled the words “Good Job!”

Warthrop rushed toward the bed with a strangled cry of despair, and abruptly stopped, a look of nearly comical bewilderment upon his haggard features.

“Oh, no,” he murmured.

I peered over his shoulder—and into the face of Bartholomew Gray.

The beast had stripped it off and laid it over
her
face.

Beside me von Helrung gave a small, horrified sob. The doctor took a deep breath, set his jaw, and pulled the makeshift mask away.

The beast had left the face beneath intact.

“Regina,” whispered von Helrung. “It is Regina, the cook.”

Warthrop turned, and his eyes were flint-hard. He pushed past us and strode to the opposite side of the room to the remains of a window; the frame still held a few wickedly gleaming broken shards. He gazed past them, down to the small courtyard below.

“We’ll search the rest of the house,” he said, “but I do not think we will find him.”

He turned around to face us. I looked away. The expression in his eyes was unendurable.

“His business here, I think, is done.”

“The Story of a Lifetime”

The doctor’s prediction proved to be correct. We did not find John Chanler—or the thing that once had been John Chanler. Neither did we find Muriel. Either she had escaped or he had taken her. We searched every room from the damp cellar to the dusty attic. While von Helrung remained inside to call the police, Warthrop and I explored the grounds, focusing our attention on the small courtyard beneath the broken window. We found nothing out of the ordinary. It was as if John Chanler had taken to the high wind.

The arrival of the black-and-white police wagons drew the attention of the neighborhood almost immediately. The small crowd outside quickly swelled until two detectives had to be pulled from their grisly work to keep the human tide from flooding the front lawn.

The chief inspector appeared shortly thereafter. He commandeered the library to question the two monstrumologists. Von Helrung was deferential, even apologetic; knowing to what lengths Byrnes would go to make an arrest for the crime—his brutal methods were legendary—the older monstrumologist understood his interrogator better than Warthrop, who was surly and combative, asking more questions than he answered.

“Have you found John Chanler?” Warthrop demanded.

“You and I wouldn’t be having this conversation if we had,” answered Byrnes.

“Did you use dogs?”

“Of course, Doctor.”

“Witnesses? His appearance is certainly something that would draw attention—even in New York.”

Byrnes shook his head. “None we’ve turned up.”

“Flyers!” barked the doctor. “Plaster every corner. And the newspapers. Who is that muckraker with the huge following? Riis. Jacob Riis. Within the hour he can have something in the evening edition.”

Byrnes was slowly shaking his massive head, smiling a small enigmatic smile.

“And put John Chanler at the top of that list of yours,” Warthrop feverishly continued. “What do you call it—the rogues’ gallery? Within twenty-four hours we can make him the most famous man in Manhattan. Even the little old ladies’
dogs
will know what he looks like.”

“Those are all wonderful ideas, Dr. Warthrop, but I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Before the doctor could ask why, the door behind him flew open and the answer to that question barged into the room.

“Where is Warthrop? Where is that—”

Archibald Chanler’s hand flew to cover his nose.

“Good God, man, what is that
smell
?” He eyed with disgust the doctor’s filthy cloak.

“Life,” answered the doctor.

Scowling, John Chanler’s father turned to Byrnes. “Inspector, isn’t it the usual procedure to handcuff persons under arrest?”

“Dr. Warthrop is not under arrest.”

“I think the mayor may have something to say about that.”

“He may indeed, Mr. Chanler, but until he does . . .” Byrnes shrugged.

“Oh, he will. I assure you he will!” He whirled on Warthrop. “This is entirely your fault. I shall do everything in my power to see you prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

“What is my crime?” asked the monstrumologist.

“That question is better put to my daughter-in-law.”

“Then I shall put it to her—the moment she is found.”

Chanler stared at him, and then looked quizzically at Byrnes.

“Mrs. Chanler is missing,” the chief inspector informed him.

“John has taken her,” Warthrop opined, “but I have hope
that he will not harm her. If that was his intention, he would have done it here.” He addressed Byrnes urgently. “Time is of the essence, Inspector. We must get the word out immediately.”

“The word, as you say, will most certainly
not
‘get out,’” snapped Chanler. “And if I see a single mention of the Chanler name in the obscurest fish wrapper, I shall sue you for everything you have, do you understand? I will
not
have the name of Chanler besmirched or sullied in any way!”

“It isn’t a name,” answered my master. “It is a human being. Would you have her suffer the same fate as those we found in this house?”

Chanler brought his face close to Warthrop’s and snarled, “I don’t care what she suffers.”

The monstrumologist exploded. He seized the larger man by the lapels and slammed him into a bookcase. A vase toppled off and shattered on the floor.

The object of my master’s wrath did not fight back. His cheeks glowed, his eyes danced wickedly. “What are you going to do? Kill me? That’s what you so-called monster hunters do, isn’t it? Kill what frightens you?”

“You mistake disgust for fear,” said Warthrop to Chanler.

“Pellinore,” von Helrung pleaded. “Please. It solves nothing.”

“She deserves it, Warthrop,” growled Chanler. “Whatever she receives she has earned. If not for her, my son never would have gone on that hunt.”

“What are you talking about?” the doctor demanded.
He gave Chanler a violent shake.
“What is her fault?”

“Ask
him
,” said Chanler, with a jerk of his head toward von Helrung.

“All right now, boys. Let’s play nice,” rumbled Byrnes. “I don’t want to shoot either of you—much. Dr. Warthrop, if you please . . .”

Warthrop released his captive with a frustrated groan. He whipped away, took a few steps, then turned back. He punched his finger in the direction of Chanler’s nose.

“I am not frightened, but
you
have every reason to be! If there is any credence to our notions of heaven and hell, it will not be
me
who spends all eternity wallowing in shit! May God damn you for loving the precious name of Chanler more than the life of your own son! Explain
that
upon the Day of Judgment—which may come sooner than you expect.”

“Are you threatening me, sir?”

“I am no threat to you. What visited this house is the threat, and it
remembers
, Chanler. If I understand what drives him at all,
you are next.
”

We returned to the von Helrung brownstone, where the doctor washed the filth from his face and hair and disposed of his ruined riding cloak. Von Helrung was clearly shaken to his marrow, burdened with guilt—if only we had made our expedition earlier when Muriel had failed to call—and with grief—Bartholomew had been with him for years.

Warthrop was nearing the end of his considerable endurance. Several times he literally stormed the door, vowing to search every avenue and street, backyard and alleyway, until he found her. Each time he made as if to flee, von Helrung pulled him back.

“The police are her best hope now, Pellinore. They will spare no man to find her; you know this,
mein Freund.
”

The doctor nodded. Despite—even because of—Archibald Chanler’s influence, no man would remain idle while John was loose. And Chief Inspector Byrnes had a reputation for ruthlessness. It was Byrnes, after all, who had invented that special form of interrogation called “the third degree,” which some critics rightfully characterized as torture.

“What was Chanler talking about?” the doctor asked von Helrung. “That nonsense about this being her fault?”

Von Helrung smiled weakly. “He was never very fond of Muriel, you know,” he offered. “He wishes to blame anyone else but John.”

“It brought to mind something Muriel said,” the doctor continued, his bloodshot eyes narrowing at his old mentor. “She told me it was
my
fault. That
I
sent him into the wilderness. It is exceedingly odd to me,
Meister
Abram, how everyone involved in this matter blames someone
other
than the person who actually
did
send him there.”

“I did not tell John to go.”

“It was entirely his idea? He volunteered to risk his life
in search of something that he had no faith existed?”

“I showed him my paper, but I never suggested . . .”

“Good God, von Helrung, can we quit these silly semantic games and speak frankly to each other? Is our friendship unworthy of the truth? Why would Muriel blame me and why would Archibald blame Muriel? What do either of us have to do with John’s madness?”

Von Helrung folded his arms over his thick chest and bowed his head. He swayed on his feet. For a moment I feared he might keel over.

“All seeds must take root in something,” he murmured.

“What the devil does
that
mean?”

“Pellinore, my old friend . . . you know I love you as my own son. I should not speak of these things.”

“Why?”

“It serves no purpose but to cause pain.”

“That’s better than no purpose at all.”

Von Helrung nodded. Tears glistened in his eyes. “He knew, Pellinore. John knew.”

Warthrop waited for him to go on, every muscle tense, every sinew taut, steeling himself for the blow.

“I do not know all the particulars,” his old master went on. “On the day he left for Rat Portage, I asked him the same question you now ask me: ‘Why? Why, John, if you do not believe?’”

Tears now coursed down the old monstrumologist’s cheeks—tears for John, for the doctor, for the woman between
them. He held out his hands beseechingly. Warthrop did not accept them; his own hands remained clenched at his sides.

“It is a terrible thing,
mein Freund,
to love one who loves another. Unbearable, to know you are not the beloved, to know the heart of your beloved can never be free from the prison of her love. This is what John knew.”

In a rare moment of disingenuousness, Pellinore Warthrop feigned ignorance. “I am surrounded by madmen,” he said in a tone of wonder. “The whole world has gone mad, and I am the last sane man alive.”

“Muriel came to me before he left. She said, ‘Do not allow him to go. It is spite that drives him. He would humiliate Pellinore, make him the fool.’ And then she confessed that she had burdened him with the truth.”

“The truth,” echoed Warthrop. “What truth?”

“That she loves you still. That she loves you always. That she married him to punish you for what happened in Vienna.”

“Vienna was not my fault!” Warthrop cried, his voice shaking with fury. Von Helrung flinched and drew back, as if he feared the doctor would strike him. “You were there; you know this to be the truth. She demanded that I choose—marriage or my work—when she knew, she
knew
, my work was
everything
to me! And then, in the ultimate act of treachery, she ran to the arms of my best friend, demanding that he sacrifice
nothing
.”

“It was not treachery, Pellinore. Do not say that of her.
She chose the one who loved her more than he loved himself. How can you judge her for this? She had been scorned by the one she loved, for a rival against whom she could never prevail. You are not a stupid man. You know
Outiko
is not the only thing that consumes us, Pellinore. It is not the only spirit that devours all mankind. Her broken heart drove her to John, and John’s drove him into the wilderness. I think now he went never meaning to come back. I think he sought out the Yellow Eye. I think he called to it before it called to him!”

He fell into his chair, giving way to his sorrow. Warthrop made no move to console him.

Though von Helrung begged him not to leave, the doctor insisted on returning to our hotel. His logic was brutally efficient. “If he is in fact exacting some kind of twisted reparation for the past, he will look for me next. Better to be in the place he expects to find me.”

“I will come with you,” von Helrung said.

“No, but if you’re concerned about your own safety—”

“
Nein!
I am an old man; I have lived to the fullness of my days. I am not afraid to die. But you cannot be both bait and hunter, Pellinore. And Will Henry! He should stay here.”

“I can think of no worse idea,” shot back my master.

He would brook no more arguments or entreaties. Timmy brought the calash around, and in short order we were disembarking at the Plaza.

Warthrop stopped abruptly outside the lobby doors, his head down and cocked slightly to one side, as if he were listening to something. Then, without a word, he took off, leaping over a hedge and tearing down the lawn toward the Fifty-ninth Street entrance to the park, running as fast as his long legs could carry him, which was very fast indeed. I raced after him, convinced he had spotted his quarry lurking along the low stone wall. I fell farther and farther behind. He was simply too fast for me. By the time I entered the park, he was a hundred yards ahead. I could see his lanky silhouette darting between the arc lights.

Warthrop’s prey veered off the path and into the woods. The doctor followed, and I lost sight of both for a moment. The racket of their scuffle led me to where they rolled on the ground locked in each other’s arms, first the doctor on top, then his opponent. I stopped a few feet from the tussle and drew the silver knife von Helrung had given me. I did not know if I would be able to actually use it, but it gave me comfort to hold it.