The Detroit Electric Scheme (14 page)

“Elizabeth, you have to see someone.”

She wiped her face with her hands, leaving dirty tracks, and tried to straighten her muddy dress. “I said leave me alone, Will. I'm taking care of it.” Her voice quavered from the shivers racking her body.

I made up my mind. “No. You're going to a doctor.” I bent down and picked her up by the legs, flipping her over my back. My nose started to bleed again. While I trudged along, she screamed and beat me with her fists. On Gratiot I flagged down a cab.

The driver, an old man with a long, wispy beard, said, “Extra buck on account of you're gonna mess up my cab.” I nodded, and he jerked
on the reins. His horse, which looked every bit as ancient as his owner, clopped to a halt and began to nuzzle at the weeds beside the road.

I climbed up on the step and dropped Elizabeth onto the seat. She curled up against the opposite side and cried. The cabbie turned around. After a long look at Elizabeth, he shot a conspiratorial grin in my direction that made me want to hit him. “Where to?” he said.

“Thirty-five hundred Mount Elliott. Dr. Miller's place.”

 

I swallowed the aspirin and looked up at Dr. Miller. “Are you sure? She's a dope fiend? You didn't leave her in there by herself, did you?” Every time I spoke I was surprised by the nasal sound of my voice. I'd have thought the constant pain would have kept me clued in.

“Stay still.” He held my head in both hands, turning it a little from side to side while he looked over his glasses at my nose. “If you're worried she'll disappear, she's locked in the other examination room. As far as the addiction is concerned, I can't say with absolute certainty, but she seems to be in the throes of withdrawal from an opiate. If I had to guess, I'd say heroin.”

“How could that happen?”

“It's not as unusual as you might think. Most addicts are women, though they tend to be older than Elizabeth. Most often they become addicted to a patent medicine containing opium, and they try to cure that addiction with heroin.”

I just looked at him, dumbfounded.

He shrugged. “That's what it's for. Though progressive doctors don't use it anymore.”

His examination rooms were small but well appointed, with paintings of bucolic landscapes on the papered walls. Through the window I could see his garden, stark and lifeless under the gray November sky.

He opened a cabinet and grabbed a small white towel off the top shelf. Handing it to me, he said, “Hold this to your chin.”

I took the towel. “I just can't see Elizabeth as an addict. Could it be something else?”

“I suppose so.” He stroked his white beard. “She's certainly not volunteering any information.”

“How long has it been since she's come in to see you?” I asked.

“Not since her . . . hospital stay last year. I believe she's changed doctors.” He thought for a moment. “When was the last time you saw her?”

“Four, no, five days ago.” I was losing track of time.

“Was she like this then?”

“No. She was thin, of course. She's lost a lot of weight since I last saw her before that. But she wasn't perspiring and shaking and acting like a lunatic. She was strange, but the opposite of today. When I told her her fiancé had been murdered, her reaction was muted, to say the least.”

“Her fiancé was murdered?” Dr. Miller plopped down onto the chair facing me. “When?”

I'd never told him about Elizabeth and John. It was too late to withdraw the words. “Her fiancé was John Cooper, the man who was killed at the Anderson Carriage Company last Monday.”

“Good Lord!” His eyes widened behind the little wire-rimmed glasses. “But you . . . Elizabeth . . .”

“I had nothing to do with it, Doctor. You've known me for fifteen years. You know I'm not a killer.”

“No . . . no, I suppose not.” He shook his head, clearing it. “No, of course you aren't.” He was quiet for a moment. “But you say she had little reaction to receiving the news?”

I nodded.

“Then I'd hazard the opinion she is indeed a heroin addict and was under the influence when you saw her last. She should have twenty-four-hour-a-day medical supervision, starting immediately.”

“Can she be cured?”

“Temporarily, at least. She needs a week at a hospital to have the drug purged from her system, along with a regulated belladonna delirium to ease the pain. Whether it's a permanent cure is entirely up to her.”

I put my hands on my knees and levered myself to my feet. “Then let's get her to the hospital.”

He pushed me back into the chair. “First, there's the matter of that nose. Towel to the chin.”

I held the towel up, and he stepped around behind me. “Say, Will, I've had a strange noise coming from the undercarriage of my automobile. Perhaps you could—”

He jerked my nose to the right. Cartilage crunched. I shrieked. Blood poured down my face until he grabbed the towel, held it to my nose, and tipped my head back.

Dr. Miller went on with the conversation as though he had not practically ripped my nose from my face. “We can take my automobile to save time. I really would like your opinion on that noise.”

I whimpered an okay. A few moments later, he gave me an ice bag for my nose and left the room. I sat with my head tipped back, ice bag held carefully, until he returned five minutes later with a clean pair of trousers and a white shirt for me to wear. He cleaned my nose, getting only a couple of yelps out of me, and plugged it with cotton. I put on the clothing and carefully held the ice bag to my nose. “Could we go now?”

“If you're ready.” He put a finger to my chin and tilted my head back before opening the door and walking into the waiting room.

I followed him out. “Would you mind if I tell Elizabeth what we're doing? She's not going to be pleased.”

He pulled a key from his pocket and handed it to me. “Here. I'll get the car ready.” He took his duster from the coatrack and walked outside while I knocked softly on the door.

“Elizabeth? Lizzie?” There was no response, so I knocked a little louder and raised my voice. “Elizabeth? Can I come in?” Still nothing.

I unlocked the door and opened it slowly, peering into the room over the ice bag. “I'm coming in. Elizabeth?”

The curtains fluttered in front of an open window. The room was empty.

 

I hopped into Dr. Miller's coupé, and we scoured the streets around his office. When that produced no sight of Elizabeth, I asked him to drive
me to her home. It was the only place I could think of. She wouldn't be going back to the Bucket.

Dr. Miller pulled to the curb and turned toward me, resting his left arm on the steering lever. “You know she can't be cured if she doesn't want to be.”

I looked over the ice bag at him. “I can't give up on her.” My voice was driving me crazy.
I cad gib up on her.

“Will, you're not going to be able to help her.”

I thought about Elizabeth. “Doctor, I owe her more than I could ever repay.”

His lip twitched, a hint of a frown, but he started up again and drove to the Humes', parking just down the block in the only open space, wedged between a red Model T and a horse-drawn milk wagon. “I'll wait here for you. If she's home, and if she's willing to go, I'll drive you to the hospital. More likely, when she tells you where
you
can go, I'll drive you home.”

I left the ice bag in the car and walked, head tipped back, down the sidewalk and through the gate to Elizabeth's house. I knocked, somewhat tentatively, trying to frame an argument that would get Elizabeth to cooperate, if indeed she was here.

Alberts peered through the window in the door and gave a little start, I suspect at my condition. He eyed me for a moment before turning away.

“Alberts!” I shouted. “Is Elizabeth here?” Blood dripped into my mouth.

He turned a corner and was gone. I pounded harder. “Alberts! Alberts!”

Mrs. Hume's voice barked out from above me. “William! Be quiet this instant!” I leaned over the rail and looked up at the window. She was leaning out over the sill. Her eyes widened when she saw my face. “My God! What happened to you?”

“Has Elizabeth come home?”

Mrs. Hume huffed out a breath in exasperation. “Go away. Now.”

I raised my arms, imploring her to listen. “I know what's wrong with her. She's a drug addict. She needs help.”

Mrs. Hume slowly shook her head. “It's very sad, what's become of you, Will. Get some help.”

“I followed her to the Bucket today! Would she go there if she didn't have a big problem?”

“My Elizabeth is a drug addict who frequents the Bucket.” Sarcasm dripped off her words.

“But it's true! Dr. Miller just examined her and—”

“Don't lie to me. Now leave before I call the police.” She slammed the window shut.

I stood on the porch for a few seconds and then shuffled down the walk. The driver of the red Model T bent down in front of his car and cranked the engine, which started with a
putt-putt-putt
that carried over the sound of the traffic. He jumped into the car, and without a look back, pulled out directly in front of a farmer in a hay wagon. The farmer jerked his reins to the left, into the path of a carriage coming from the other direction. That driver pulled his horses hard to the right, only just avoiding a collision with the wagon. I watched the Model T disappear into the heavy traffic down Jefferson, leaving the shouted oaths from the other drivers in its dust.

Something about the car nagged at me. Something I should remember. No matter how hard I thought, I couldn't find it, the memory like a fractured image from a forgotten dream.

Dr. Miller climbed out of the car and walked toward me. “Let me talk to her.”

Alberts answered the door and stood aside for Dr. Miller. As soon as he'd gone in, Alberts closed the door. I stood on the sidewalk, waiting, hoping I would be invited in to explain.

Dr. Miller had been inside for only a few minutes when the door opened again and he hurried out. The door slammed behind him. He skipped down the steps and marched me to the car. “Mrs. Hume is not in a receptive mood. We'd better leave.”

“She didn't listen to you?”

He pursed his lips and shook his head solemnly, then glanced back at me. “Home?”

I nodded. He drove down Jefferson. The road was packed with
bicycles and cars and trucks and wagons and carriages, each one on the tail of the vehicle in front if it, every driver in a hurry. Each cross street was a game of Chicken, the victor not the biggest vehicle, but the most courageous driver. The only consistent winners were the streetcars. They continued on regardless of traffic, the motormen confident their cowcatchers were sufficient to push other vehicles out of the way.

The rapid starts and stops only occasionally brought my awareness out of my head. Elizabeth was a drug addict, desperate enough to go to the Bucket. I had driven her to it with my selfishness and stupidity. I'd known her life would never be the same, never be what she wanted, but as I wallowed in my guilt I'd had no idea of the depth of her sadness. In a year, she'd changed from a vivacious, intelligent woman to an emaciated specter, barely alive.

I had to save her, yet I couldn't find her. And if by some miracle I found her again, I had no idea how I would save her. I was out of ideas. “Dr. Miller?”

He glanced at me for a second before returning his gaze to the road. “Yes?”

“What do I do?”

He was quiet for a moment. “Do you still love her?”

“Yes.”

“Then you have to try. But you might get someone to help you.” He reached over and gripped my shoulder. “These burdens are easier when shared.”

He dropped me off in front of my building. I thanked him for his help and hurried inside. After I poured myself a drink, I chipped some ice off the block, wrapped it in a towel, and lay on the sofa, taking sips of bourbon while trying to keep the ice balanced on my nose.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Elizabeth had disappeared. It was inconceivable she would have gone back to the Bucket after what had transpired there, and in her condition it was unlikely she would go see any of her friends. She didn't want my help; that much was clear. But I wouldn't abandon her. I'd go back to her house, camp out if necessary. When she came home I'd drag her to the hospital. I took a long swallow from my drink.

A door slammed below me and then footsteps pounded up the stairway and ran down the hall. A second later, my apartment door crashed open.

 

I jumped up and spun toward the door. Two policemen, one of them the rookie with the bottlebrush mustache, ran in from the foyer. Bottlebrush tackled me and flipped me over onto my stomach.

“What are you doing?” I yelled.

“Shuddup, asshole,” was his reply. Blood dripped from my nose onto the carpet. He cuffed me, jerked me to my feet, and searched me, before pulling me down the stairs and out of the building to a horse-drawn paddy wagon on the street. The other cop, a powerful-looking man with a two-day beard, large, wide-set brown eyes, and a slack jaw, opened the barred door on the back, and Bottlebrush pushed me in.

The padded walls at one time had been white, but were now an amalgam of sweat and blood and shit and piss. Even through my injured nose, it stunk like a slaughterhouse, the smell of fear permeating everything inside the cage. I was dazed, but kept my head down, so I couldn't be seen through the barred windows on the back and sides, all the while imagining every one of my neighbors looking at the wagon.

My nose continued to drip blood as we made slow progress up Woodward. We were heading toward the Bethune Street police station—Detective Riordan's station.

Fear shot through me. Given the way the police had burst into my apartment, I didn't think I'd been arrested for harassing Mrs. Hume. It seemed more likely the killer, now that he'd gotten his money, had come forward with the clothing. Only slightly less chilling was the possibility the police had gone back to see Ben Carr.