Case Closed (7 page)

“You will go back to school soon, and perhaps you will never return to Carrick Hollow. No, don't protest—whether you do or not, Noah and I will continue to live here. We who live in the countryside depend upon our friends and neighbors. My neighbors are depending on me now, to do something which they have come to believe will keep them safe and well. No matter how repulsive I find it, John, I must do this to keep their trust.”

That night, my sleep was fitful. Nathan's cough was horrible, and nothing I did could bring him any relief. My brief dreams were filled with images of decaying flesh and bones, of coffins unearthed, of Winston's thick hands reaching into my mother's grave.

The morning broke bright and warm, unusual for an early spring day in New England. We had agreed that Noah would stay with Nathan; a suggestion that he met with both relief and some guilt. But my father knew that Noah's anger toward Winston had already nearly led to blows, and asked him to stay home.

A group of ten men, including poor Isaac Gardner, gathered in the village. Winston tried to lead the way to the cemetery, but Isaac shouldered him aside, and let my father go ahead of them. I saw my father hesitate. I took his hand, and together we walked to the familiar section of the churchyard, the one I knew so well from that winter of funerals. As we stood at the foot of the four newest Arden graves, Winston's voice interrupted my silent prayers.

“Dig up all four coffins,” he directed.

“All four!” my father protested.

“We must be certain!” Winston said. “We'll place them under that tree. Once they are all exhumed, we'll open them one at a time. Start with the children.”

Father, Isaac, and I stood away from the group. At a nod from Winston, their picks and shovels struck the earth. They began to dig, never looking up at us. My father swayed a little on his feet, and Isaac moved nearer, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. Together we stood listening to the rhythm of the digging, the downward scrape and lift, the thudding fall of the soil as they attacked my sister's grave. Soon, the top of Rebecca's coffin was struck. How small that coffin looked! The earth was moved from around its sides, and ropes were placed under the ends. The coffin was lifted from the grave and placed under a nearby tree. In two more hours, two other coffins were taken from the earth—the larger coffins of my brothers, Robert, who had been but eighteen, and Daniel, a year younger—the age I was now. As each coffin was brought up, my prayers became more urgent and the fact of the exhumations more real.

The group moved to Mother's grave. Again, shovels broke into the soil. The digging slowed now—the first frenzy long past, the men grew tired. At last, they pulled her coffin from the earth and set it with the others, beneath the tree. I moved toward it, and placed my hand on the lid of her box. I felt the cool, damp wood, and the small indentations made by each nail. I broke out in a cold sweat, and my hand shook. I turned when I heard the creak of the nails being pried from the other coffins.

Father's hand gently touched my arm. I moved away.

When they had finished loosening all the nails on the top of each of the coffins, Winston directed the men to remove the lid of Rebecca's. With horror, I gazed at the unrecognizable form that—had it not been for her dress and the color of her hair—I would not have known as my sister. This child's face, impish and smiling not so very long ago, was now nothing more than a skull, covered with sunken, leathery skin; her small, white hands now nothing more than thin bones covered with dark, dried sinew. My throat constricted—I could not swallow, could not breathe. Rebecca! Little Rebecca! My memories of her could not be reconciled with what I saw. I had taught her how to write her name, I thought wildly—I had heard her laughter. This could not be my sister  . . .

Winston was studying her. I wanted to claw his filthy eyes out.

“No,” he said, and the lid was quickly replaced.

He said the same thing when he gazed upon the remains of my brothers, who also appeared mummified, their dry skin stretched tight over their bony frames.

I tried hard to control my emotions, but this was increasingly difficult. By the time we reached my mother's coffin, only my desire to deny Winston any glimpse of weakness kept me on my feet.

They slid the coffin lid off the edge of the box. Father and I looked down at Mother's face. She looked peaceful, remarkably like the day we buried her, despite the three cold months that had passed. Her nails and hair appeared longer, and in places, her skin had turned reddish.

“Ahh,” Winston said, moving closer. “As I suspected. But we must examine the heart to be certain.”

“You'll not touch her!” my father cried.

Winston smiled, and turned to the others. “Light the fire.”

“By God, Winston—”

“Oh, indeed, I'll not touch your vampire wife. You must be the one.” He handed my father a long knife.

My father stared at it.

“Get on with it, man!” Winston ordered.

“John,” my father said, anguished, “leave us. Go home. It was wrong of me to bring you here—”

“I'll not leave you, Father.”

He shook his head, but turned back to the open coffin. He set the knife aside, and with trembling fingers, tenderly moved her burial gown down from her neck. I heard him sob, then saw him lift the knife. He cut a gash in her chest.

“The heart, the heart!” Winston said eagerly.

Father's face seemed to turn to stone—cold and gray. He pried the wound open, then took the knife and cut away her heart. Bloody fluid ran from the wound onto her dress.

“You see! She's the one, she's the vampire!”

As from a distance, I heard the other men gasp, and saw their quick gestures—signs against evil.

“Put it in the fire, Arden!” Winston directed.

“No!” I said weakly, but Father walked toward the blaze. He let the heart drop from his fingers; the fire hissed and sparked as it fell into the center of the flames.

Father walked back to Mother's coffin, placed the lid on it, and began to hammer it shut. I picked up one of the other hammers—tears blinding me, I worked at his side. Without speaking, several men did the same for the other coffins. Each coffin was slowly lowered back into its grave, and in silence we began to cover them again—but Father buried Mother's coffin alone, refusing the others' help with a steely look in his eyes.

I saw Winston warming his hands over the fire. He caught me looking at him and smiled. “You should thank me. I've saved your life this day, John.”

Before the others could stop me, I slammed my fist into his jaw.

My father led me away from them, and with Isaac we made our way back home. All the way down the lane, I could not help but be troubled over what I had seen, and wondered at it. That my mother could be a vampire, I did not for a moment believe. I knew there must be a rational, scientific explanation for the blood that had been in my mother's heart. I swore to myself that I would study anatomy and medicine—yes, and vampires, too—and learn all I could about consumption and its causes.

When we returned to the house, Noah held Nathan's body in his arms.

• • •

My medical schooling was the best in New England. The Boston area had many fine schools, and Springhaven University was among them. Springhaven was the choice of my godfather, as it was his alma mater, and he was a respected alumnus and benefactor.

Medical school was not easy for me. The work itself was not difficult, though much harder than my earlier schooling, to be sure. I took to the reading, lectures, and discussions with great interest, but it was the hustle and bustle of Boston that caused me discomfort. The size of the city, its noises and smells, always left me ill at ease. Although I loved the work, I was homesick.

Early on, I learned that there had been nothing unusual about the appearance of my mother's body, given the conditions of her burial—the coldness of the ground, the brief length of time she had been buried. The heart is a pump, my anatomy instructor said, and at death, blood and other fluids often settle there and in the chest cavity after the heart ceases beating.

My professors called consumption by another name—tuberculosis, or TB. Tuberculosis was not an enigma to these men of science. Over forty years before my brother's death, sanitariums were being established in Europe, and TB patients were living longer lives. But of all the discoveries that had been made about the disease, perhaps the most exciting had come in 1882, when Robert Koch identified its true cause—
Mycobacterium tuberculosis
. Koch's discovery proved that TB was transmitted from a consumptive to a healthy person through bacteria contained in the consumptive's cough—not by vampires.

Although saddened that my knowledge had come too late to save my family, I had no difficulty accepting these new discoveries. But educating the public, whether the poor of Boston or the farmers of Carrick Hollow, was a challenge. I determined to practice medicine in Carrick Hollow upon graduation, to do my best to counter the superstitious remedies that offered no real hope to its inhabitants.

I visited one of my chief correspondents and supporters soon after my return—old Dr. Ashford received me gladly, and we talked at length about the medical histories of families in the area and exchanged information on the latest medical supplies and pharmaceuticals. We also discussed my schooling and how much medical education had changed since he had taken the title “doctor.”

“The War of the Rebellion was where I learned medicine,” he said. “We learned on our feet, not from the books. I haven't had much of a head for the science of it—just tried to do what worked.” He paused, then added, “Remember, John, that folks here are quite independent, even when it comes to medicine. They take care of their own problems, using the same remedies their grandparents used. It's hard to fight their traditions.”

“I suspect that will be the hardest part of my job,” I replied. “I have confidence that I can do some good here, if my neighbors will only accept me.”

“You've always had both the mind and the manner for medicine,” he said. “You'll do well in Carrick Hollow. It's time they had a doctor as fine as yourself.”

As it happened, the residents of the village took me in with open arms, proud of my accomplishments, and glad to have a physician so nearby. Several of them helped me to convert a building formerly used by a lawyer into a small clinic, which had the advantage of living quarters on the upper story.

I had the good fortune to be of some help to my first patients, and soon others were ready to follow my medical advice and help me to establish my practice. I fell easily into life in Carrick Hollow, surrounded by the sense of community I so missed in Boston.

Only one problem continued to trouble me—my father's state of mind.

Father had never fully recovered from the deaths in our family, especially not from the loss of my mother. Noah had been greatly relieved when I told him that I meant to set up my practice in the village. “Perhaps you will be able to cheer him,” he said. “He has not been the same since—since the day Nathan died.”

But although he was always kind to me in those months, my father never smiled, and seldom spoke. His sleep was often disturbed by nightmares, and if not for our constant coaxing, he would not have eaten enough to keep his strength up. He worked hard, but the joy he had once taken in his labors was gone. There was a lost look in his eyes, and the smallest happiness seemed beyond his reach. It was as if, on that long ago day at the cemetery, his own heart had fallen on those flames, and turned to ashes with my mother's.

His lifelessness was a condition found in others in Carrick Hollow—in Isaac Gardner, in Mr. Robinson, and in others who had performed Winston's brutal ritual. Bitterly I reflected that nothing in my medical training would cure these men. I vowed that no one in Carrick Hollow would ever be forced to endure that ritual again.

Soon after I had opened my office, I was given an opportunity to make good on that vow. I was visited by Jacob Wilcox, a middle-aged man just returned to Carrick Hollow from factory work in Fall River. His rumbling cough was a tell-tale sign of tuberculosis, but my examination revealed that the disease was in its early stages.

I recommended the best hope for his recovery—the strict regimens of a sanitarium. I suggested one in the Adirondack Mountains, which had the advantages of being close to Rhode Island and less costly than those in the western United States. He thanked me, took the information, and went on his way.

A few days later, at my father's request, I visited the farm. Coming down the drive, hearing the welcoming bark of our old dogs, I felt what had become a customary mixture of sadness and deep comfort in returning to my childhood home. Noah and my father came out to help me stable the horse, and my brother and I spoke of inconsequential things. I could not help but notice that Father seemed agitated, and Noah wary.

My father did not broach the subject that concerned him until we had finished eating our simple meal—a meal he had barely touched. He put a log on the fire, then turned to me and said, “I'm told that you saw a patient with consumption today.”

“Yes,” I answered hesitantly. I had not previously told him of my devotion to the study of consumption, and I was concerned that he would be touched on the raw by any mention of it.

He frowned. “I talked to young Wilcox after you saw him. What is this treatment you prescribed? Why do you send him to the mountains?”

“In hope of curing his consumption,” I said.

“Curing! Is it possible?”

“Sometimes, yes.” I began to tell him of the benefits the TB patient might find in life in a sanitarium—exposure to a healthful climate, enforced rest, fresh air, proper care and good nutrition. “And of course, the sanitarium separates those who have this contagion from any who might be vulnerable to it, so the disease is less likely to be spread to others.”