The Dark Farewell (15 page)
When Flynn didn’t continue, the doctor said with brisk kindness, “Poor fellow. I’m sorry to hear that.
What is it you think I can do for you —er, your friend?”
Flynn said carefully, “My question is…does the disease always follow the same course? What I mean
is, is there any chance of…of recovery?”
Flynn was so sure of the answer he was taken aback when the old man said calmly, “Occasionally. It
depends on a variety of factors. Some patients do achieve remission even after many years of seizures.
Occasionally the illness can be controlled through treatment. When did your friend first begin to exhibit signs of the malady?”
“I believe he was sixteen.”
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The Dark Farewell
“That is more favorable than someone who develops the illness earlier in life.”
“Is he likely to die from the seizures?”
“Probably not from the seizures themselves. Are the convulsions frequent?”
“I-I’m not sure. I don’t believe so. I don’t really know.”
Pearson considered this, and then light seemed to dawn. He eyed Flynn with mounting hostility.
“Does the patient or the patient’s guardian know that you’re asking for this medical advice?”
Flynn felt his face heat. “No.”
“I see.”
Flynn gathered his courage. “It’s not what you think, sir. I’m asking out of friendship only.”
Dr. Pearson continued to inspect him dubiously.
“May I ask you one more thing? Must the illness always end in…mental deterioration and madness?”
“Of course not.” Testily, Dr. Pearson rose from the table and went to the tall bookshelves lining the far end of the room. He put away the book he had been reading, scanned the shelf and pulled another. He flipped through it, muttered to himself, and then silently read for a few seconds. His mouth tightened. He replaced the book on the shelf.
“On second thought, never mind. There is a modern tendency to believe the best course of treatment is to lock these unfortunates away as soon as possible in one of the asylums popping up all across the country such as the Craig Colony in Sonyea, New York.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“I’m sure you have.” Pearson came back to the table. “If you want the opinion of an old country horse doctor, those well-meaning monsters are responsible for the destruction of far more lives than the wretched disease itself. In fifty years of medical practice it has been my observation that what the epileptic patient most requires is a reasonable routine of rest and activity, interesting occupation for their minds, affection of friends and family, and a diet rich in protein and low in carbohydrate. Mild bromide is useful if the attacks are frequent and severe.”
“Is that true?”
“I’ve no reason to lie to you, young man,” Pearson said irascibly.
Flynn thanked him and went upstairs.
Supper was deep-fried catfish, tangy coleslaw, chilled beets, fresh, crusty Italian bread with plenty of butter. Good simple food, and all of it, with the exception of the catfish, left over from the funeral reception.
There was no sign of Julian at the evening meal. The other guests were subdued although Casey Lee
did his best to cheer Joan up.
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Josh Lanyon
Joan’s aunt, Mrs. Packard, eyed Casey tolerantly and asked what she clearly imagined to be shrewd
questions about his marital status and income.
After the meal, the household, with the exception of Dr. Pearson who said he didn’t hold with such
out-and-out superstitious nonsense, retired to the formal dining room. The large, polished oval table sat with a brass candelabra burning brightly in its center. Julian stood behind the chair at the head of the table.
He was dressed in ordinary trousers and a white shirt rather than the rich costume he wore for his stage performances.
His gaze met Flynn’s. There seemed to be a message in his eyes, but Flynn was uncertain of the
meaning. He moved to take the seat to Julian’s left.
“I was expecting something quite different,” Mrs. Packard announced, settling herself on a spindly
chair which creaked ominously beneath her weight. Whether she was pleased or disappointed was unclear.
“Isn’t the Comte de Mirabeau going to join us?” Joan asked uncertainly.
Julian gave her an odd look. “No. Not tonight.”
The Comte’s night off apparently.
“I still don’t feel this is a wise idea,” the elder Devereux complained, taking the chair at the end of the table. “Julian is not strong.”
“Or perhaps you don’t feel he should be doing this for free?” Casey Lee said, making sure he was
seated next to Joan who was on the right side of Julian.
The old man said querulously, “I didn’t say that.”
Julian glanced at Flynn, who offered him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. Julian’s smile
flickered in return.
Flynn pulled his chair out and sat down with the others. They quickly settled, obeying Julian’s
instructions to rest their fingertips lightly on the glassy surface. Julian looked grimly around the assembly and requested Joan to say
The Lord’s Prayer
, which she did in her soft, grave voice.
Casey Lee squeezed her hand reassuringly, and she gave him a shy smile.
Julian eyed them unsmilingly before offering up a brief petition that the spiritual assembly might
enable those humble seekers gathered to receive a fuller measure of celestial knowledge to ease their grieving hearts and seeking minds.
There was silence. The candle flame on the tabletop seemed to brighten.
Julian said abruptly, “Make your presence known.”
Silence.
Joan gasped, looking around. Flynn heard it too. They all heard it: a sound like the rustling of large wings. Not the flapping of flight, but a gentle quivering, a trembling beat.
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The Dark Farewell
“It’s a trick,” Casey Lee said shortly, and he reached across the table. Joan murmured protest at the same time Flynn’s hand shot out to intercept him. The two men locked gazes. Flynn dug his fingers in hard, and Casey Lee opened his mouth in protest.
Julian said in a flat, cold voice, “You must neither speak nor touch me.”
Flynn released Casey, and the other man sat back in his seat, rubbing his wrist.
They rested their fingertips on the table edge once more.
All was still.
The table suddenly rocked beneath their hands. The shadow of candle flame danced crazily against the wall as the candelabra slid forward a few inches. The elder Devereux snatched it up and placed it safely on the sideboard.
There were gasps and murmurs. Julian said, “Please join your hands together so that all may know
that no one is moving the table.”
They clasped hands hastily. Flynn’s hand closed warmly about Julian’s long, cold fingers. He
tightened his hold reassuringly and Julian squeezed back.
Amy was seated on Flynn’s other side. Her work-roughened hand was comfortingly vigorous. Her
profile looked stern.
The table continued to rock and then it slowed and stopped.
Julian asked in a low, almost sleepy voice, “Who are you?”
Silence.
“What was your name on the mortal plane?”
Silence.
“Did you go by the name of Alicia Hoyt?”
Silence.
“Is the woman known as Alicia Hoyt among you?”
Silence.
Mrs. Hoyt’s sister sighed restively. Mr. Devereux threw her a warning look.
Joan cried out, “Mama!” She was looking past Julian’s shoulder.
Flynn glanced over his shoulder as the others looked up. There did seem to be a pale, glimmering
outline of a form, but it did not look precisely human, let alone female. Everyone stared, spellbound.
“Are you Alicia Hoyt?” Julian persisted. He did not look behind. His eyes were closed, his lashes
black crescents on his cheeks.
Silence.
“Do you have a message for your daughter, Joan?”
There was a gasp from around the table. A single word appeared in letters of light on the wall behind Julian.
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Josh Lanyon
“What does it say?” Joan asked, looking from one to the other of them.
Flynn had to narrow his eyes to make out the small word. “Beware,” he read slowly.
There were several intakes of breath. Amy’s hand clenched his tightly. Julian’s remained cool and lax in Flynn’s grasp.
A sound like the rustlings of tree branches—marked from the earlier fluttering of bird wings—filled
the room, followed by the sensation of wet leaves or wet…something falling upon their hair and skin.
Beads of water seemed to rain from the ceiling and splash on the table. They glittered in the candlelight like raindrops or drops of blood.
There was a distinct sound of someone inhaling and then a fiercely exhaled breath. The candles on the sideboard went dark.
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Chapter Nine
“Death shall shine in your starless night.” The voice came from Julian, but it was several octaves
higher than his normal tone and it had an eerie, dreamy quality.
“Who said that?” Mrs. Packard’s voice sounded frightened. “What does that mean?”
“Julian?” Flynn asked quietly.
“Don’t wake him,” Mr. Devereux whispered urgently from down the table. “He’s entered into a trance
state. It’s most dangerous to wake a medium.”
“What do we do?” Amy asked. She sounded calm but ready for action.
Mr. Devereux hissed, “We mustn’t break the circle of our hands or do anything to shatter the trance.”
“But what’s the point of it?” Casey asked impatiently.
“Can’t you all stop talking?” Joan cried.
A sharp surprised silence followed her words.
“Julian,” she said softly through the pitch darkness that blanketed the room.
“There is no Julian,” the queer flat voice coming from Julian said. “There is only Millicent.”
“
W-who
?” Joan quavered.
“Millie Hesse?” Flynn cut across quickly, softly.
“Millie Hesse,” agreed the voice.
“Who’s Millie Hesse?” Mrs. Packard demanded. “Where’s Alicia?”
“Millie Hesse was the first,” Casey said in a thick voice.
“No,” Amy said. “The third.”
The voice that came from Julian said dreamily, “Millie Hesse is the last. The others have gone now,
crossed the great river.”
“What river?”
“The Mississippi?”
“What the hell is he talking about?”
“
Iteru
,” Julian said in that same vague voice. “First Theresa went, then Anna, then Maria. There’s only me now…”
Flynn ignored the nervous babble of voices. He stroked Julian’s icy knuckles with his thumb. “What
do you want, Millie?”
“Justice for the dead.”
Josh Lanyon
“When did you die?”
“The nineteenth of July, 1923. It was a hot, sunny morning when he came to the house.”
“Who came to the house?”
Silence.
“Who came to the house?” Flynn repeated.
The voice said serenely, “The sun was shining on the water like silver dust and the leaves in the trees whispered like a hundred tongues. I can’t say his name.”
“Why can’t you say his name?”
“He cut our tongues out in the way of the ancient sorcerers so we couldn’t speak his name. I can’t go forward. I can’t go back. The others have gone. Only I remain. Only I wait for justice.”
“This is lunacy,” Casey cried. “Ancient
sorcerers
? Devereux is insane. He’s a charlatan—or he’s insane.”
“Shut up,” Flynn told him fiercely. “Shut up or I’ll shut you up.”
“Try it!”
“Don’t break the circle,” Mr. Devereux entreated from the far end of the table.
Flynn felt the tension go through the circle as though someone had tried to pull free but the others held fast. He urged, “Millie, can you write the word on the wall like you…like Julian did before?”
Silence.
“Millie, someone—you or another spirit—wrote a word with letters of light on the wall. Can you do
that? Can you write the name of your murderer—?”
“You’re
crazy
!” Casey roared. “You’re a goddamned bunch of lunatics!”
A flash of light was followed by great upheaval in the darkness.
“Casey!” Joan cried out in distress.
Mr. Devereux exclaimed, “He’s broken the chain of hands.”
Amy let go of Flynn’s hand. On the other side of Flynn, Julian’s hand tightened on his own with near crushing force. A strange drumming sound issued from beneath the table and the chair at the head crashed over, Julian nearly pulling Flynn and his chair over too.
“Turn the lights on!” Flynn yelled.
“What has happened to Julian?” shouted Mr. Devereux.
Pandemonium reigned. The floor was vibrating beneath that queer rapid pounding sound. What was
it? Flynn felt his way in the dark and found the rigid mound of Julian’s tumbled form. He could hear an alarming choked whistling as though air were being pressed from a bellows, feel the severe muscle
contractions of the body convulsing beneath his hands. A flailing arm grazed his jaw.
It was all the worse for being in the dark.
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The Dark Farewell
“Get Dr. Pearson,” Flynn ordered. He reached out, trying to protect Julian’s thrashing head from the forest of table and chair legs.
On the other side of the table Joan was screaming over and over in a complete hysterical fit. There
was much stumbling around and cursing in the dark.
“What in tarnation is going on in here?” Dr. Pearson’s voice demanded above the mayhem.
Julian’s fit seemed to be lessening as the lamp at the sideboard against the wall was lit at last.
Mrs. Packard made her way to Joan and slapped her. Joan collapsed in Casey Lee’s arms, sobbing.
The others stood bewilderedly gazing down at Flynn and Julian.