Race for the Dying (27 page)

Chapter Forty-six

“You'll have to shed the trousers,” Thomas ordered, and predictably, the nineteen-year-old blanched and looked around toward Bertha, whose back was turned to him. “I can't treat you through layers of filthy cloth,” Thomas said. “We'll need the trousers off, the undergarments off, and you facedown on the table. We'll clean out the wound and see what we have.” Bertha had the needle in Melvin Smith's arm before he knew it was coming. The lad yelped and tried to jerk away, but Bertha was ready for him, and moved in concert.

“What's that you're doin'?” he bleated. “Burns like hell.”

“Some morphine,” Thomas said. “You need to relax.”

“I told you, it don't hurt.”

“Well, of course it doesn't,” Thomas agreed easily, “but it's going to when I start stitching.”

“You can't do that,” Melvin wailed, but the edge in his voice was beginning to dull. “Oh…,” he moaned, and shook his head.

“Off with the shirt first, darling,” Bertha said, and Melvin's face lit up.

“She called me ‘darling,'” he said to Thomas, with a silly grin.

“You have her attention,” the young physician replied. Bertha peeled the woolen shirt off, managing the buttons that the morphine hid from the young man. In due course, the sawyer was shed of every stitch of clothing and lying facedown on the table, white skin changing at the wrists and neck to weathered brown. Bertha covered him with a clean linen except for the damaged leg, and Melvin's left hand snagged a corner and drew it to his face, like a small child hugging his crib blanket.

Thomas stood for a moment, assessing the gash in the back of the man's right thigh. With the capriciousness of fate, the exploding blade had spared young Melvin Smith. A fragment of steel had flicked out and slashed meat down to the bone, laying open a gash a full eight inches long. The bone lay untouched. Thomas leaned his own right hip firmly against the table, and began the tedious process of cleaning the wound. He had never seen the slash of a sharp cavalry sword, but imagined this to be nearly identical—clean and deep.

Even though Thomas and Bertha spread the wound wide, flushing the canyon in Smith's thigh liberally, the sawyer felt no pain. Time stopped as Thomas became engrossed in the challenge of reassembly. Repairing first the deeper and then the surface musculature took patience and considerable force. Once again, Thomas was soaked with sweat by the time the wound was closed, leaving a neat, lazy-S railroad track of sutures across the back of the man's leg.

“He can rest in the ward until he's fully conscious,” Thomas said. “I'll want to talk with him before he leaves.”

“Of course.” Bertha said. “Always. Jake Tate said that he would stop by later this afternoon. I'll tell him to fetch Mr. Smith some clothing and a proper set of crutches.”

Thomas pulled out his watch. “Do you know what time it is?”

Bertha laughed. “As a matter of fact, I do, Doctor.” The laugh didn't erase the melancholy in her eyes. Despite the whirlwind of the day, Thomas knew that Bertha Auerbach was running on sheer nerves after the loss of Constable Eastman, forcing herself to carry on like the good soldier that she was.

“Three fifteen. How did that happen? We missed lunch.” He wheeled to the doorway and pushed it open. The waiting room was empty. He started toward the ward, then changed his mind and turned to the office, opening that door just in time to see Prince bent in a horseshoe, his left leg lifted and nose embedding in his crotch.

The dog stopped his excavations and turned to watch Thomas, but otherwise remained frozen, left leg still high in the air.

“Stop it,” Thomas said. The long, ropelike tail thumped twice on the floor, but the left leg remained elevated until Thomas wheeled closer. With an enormous, heartfelt groan, the dog's head sank to the floor. The leg lowered. He didn't move as Thomas reached down and grasped his left foot, but the instant Thomas lifted the dog's leg, Prince's head snapped off the floor and, as if he'd been given permission, once more began investigating his surgery with tongue and nose.

“Stop it,” Thomas repeated sternly. Bertha appeared in the doorway. “He's had food?” he asked, nodding at the enameled pan near the dog's head.

“Miss Haines brought pot roast down from the house.” She smiled. “I would imagine that Gert meant it for you.”

“I would have enjoyed some,” he said. The pan was clean. “I think another quarter grain to keep him quiet for the afternoon. I'll tend to that.” He pushed the dog's head away gently and examined the surgery. The area around the stitches was reddish, but Thomas saw no undue swelling or drainage.

“It's too soon to tell, but he's tough enough,” he said, and dropped the dog's foot. The tail thumped again.

At the same time, the chime by the front door rang, and Thomas looked past Bertha. The man who had entered appeared vaguely familiar. Short of stature, tending to paunch, his florid face appeared as if he'd jogged up the hill through the mud. Dressed entirely in a neatly cut brown woolen suit, he carried a small valise. Inside the door, he stopped, set his valise on the floor, and industriously polished the rain off his spectacles.

“May we help you, sir?” Bertha Auerbach greeted him, but it didn't sound to Thomas as if she was greeting a complete stranger. The man beamed.

“I'm looking for Dr. Thomas Parks, Miss Auerbach,” the man announced. “I'm told that I might find him here.”

Thomas wheeled to the office door. “I'm Parks,” he said, still thinking hard to place the man.

“Well,” the fellow said heartily. “So you are. So you are. Some small misfortune, I'm told, but it appears you're healing nicely.”

“Thank you. I fear you have me at a disadvantage, Mr.…”

“Carlisle,” the man said, thrusting out his hand. “Efrim Carlisle. Your cabin mate aboard the
Alice
some weeks ago. Seems a lifetime, no doubt.”

As the man's surprisingly rough, calloused hand clamped his in a viselike grip, the memory came back in a flood, memories in particular of Carlisle's snoring that had marked every night of the small schooner's passage.

“I hope your travels have treated you with better fortune. Come in.” Thomas beckoned toward the office. “You look fit.”

“Thank you, thank you.” Carlisle entered the office with alacrity, valise in hand. Whether it was the bag swinging this way and that, or the new smell, or simply being taken by surprise, Prince's head jerked up as a bellow erupted from deep within his scrawny frame. His hindquarters remained as if spiked to the floor, but he lurched up on his forelegs.

Thomas quickly wheeled his chair between Carlisle, who backpedaled to the far side of the office, and the dog. The physician reached out a hand and rested it on the dog's wide head, but the animal's dark eyes tracked Carlisle.

“Come now, beast,” Thomas said gently. “You're in no condition to take on anyone or anything.” The dog gulped as if he'd tried to swallow something distasteful and glanced at Thomas. In a moment he collapsed back on the floor, eyes on the visitor.

“He's had a bit of surgery this morning.”

“My word,” Carlisle said. He sat gently in a chair on the other end of the massive desk, well away from the dog. “Run out of human patients, have we?”

Thomas laughed and wheeled behind the desk. “I think not. What can I do for you?” He glanced at the clock again.

“But a moment or two of your time, sir,” Carlisle said. He opened the valise, withdrew a single sheet, and handed it to Thomas.

Let it be known to all and sundry, that the bearer, Efrim L. Carlisle, Esquire, is charged with conducting business on behalf of Pitt and Burgess Lumber and Mining Co, Ltd., headquartered in Denver, Colorado, with holdings represented in Bellingham, Washington State, Houston, Texas, and the Alaskan territories.

With this letter of introduction, we are pleased to present Mr. Carlisle to you, and assure you that any negotiations he may undertake with you and your firm are backed with the full confidence of Pitt and Burgess Lumber and Mining, Ltd. Our firm appreciates any courtesy extended.

The letter was signed by Richard Culhane, President.

Thomas laid the paper on the desk. “Most impressive,” he said. The elaborate engraving on the letterhead showed a collage of various industrial endeavors representing, presumably, the business of Pitt and Burgess.

“You may have heard of us,” Carlisle said.

Thomas shook his head. “I mean no disrespect,” he said, “but you must remember I'm an Easterner until just a few days ago.” He smiled. “In fact, I know little beyond the bounds of these four walls.”

“Yet, word of your accomplishments has spread up and down the coast,” Carlisle said.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“You're too modest,” Carlisle allowed. He glanced at the dog. “It's not every physician who willingly includes the veterinary sciences in his practice.”

“Medicine is medicine.” Thomas said. “But so…What may I do for you? Or”—he peered at the letter again—“do for Pitt and Burgess?”

“Shall I come right to the point?” He licked his lips as if hinting that an ounce or two of something might not go unappreciated.

“Please do,” Thomas replied.

“My firm would like to offer you employment, Doctor.”

Chapter Forty-seven

Carlisle folded his hands over the top of his valise in satisfaction and smiled indulgently at the surprise on Thomas' face.

“My firm,” Carlisle said, leaning forward now and lowering his voice in confidence, “is in desperate need of a director of medical services.” He frowned. “Now, this is a complicated matter. We're looking for a physician who can coordinate not only his own successful practice, but provide medical services to our company development on Coues Island.”

“I am not familiar with the country.”

“Oh, there's no reason you should be, Doctor. But suffice it to say that our company operations in and around Coues Island, and Coues Inlet, produce more than most other lumbering operations in the area combined.”

“I see.”

“Our company clinic on Coues Island includes eighteen beds, with many more to come. A similar facility near Bartlesville has just expanded to thirty-two beds. We currently employ a nursing staff of twelve.” He raised an eyebrow. “I dare say you could use some assistance here in that regard.”

“Matters are in hand,” Thomas said.

“In addition,” Carlisle continued, a bit too smugly for Thomas' liking, as if what he really meant to say was,
Oh, I know that matters really aren't in hand, sir
. “we have perhaps the most comprehensive sanatorium in northern Washington, with particular emphasis on tuberculosis patients.”

“Also on Coues Island?” Thomas had never heard of Coues, but then again, the northwest was full of odd corners he had never heard of, and certainly never visited. If it wasn't three blocks of Port McKinney or a narrow lane out to Schmidt's sawmill, he hadn't been there.

“Yes, indeed.”

“It's surprising that with all the clinic work and expansion your firm has time remaining to cut wood,” Thomas said. “You've spoken with Dr. Haines, I assume?”

“Oh, I know John well, believe me. But no, I haven't, at least not today. Strangely enough,” and he suddenly hesitated, biting his lower lip, “we find ourselves in a similar situation as yourselves. Dr. Willette—perhaps you've heard of him?” Thomas shook his head. “Well, Dr. Willette—Maurice Willette—has headed our efforts for years. Unfortunately, the good doctor recently suffered an attack of some sort and is partially incapacitated. Now, for some time, he has been our medical director, in charge of all our facilities. But regrettably, we find that he is no longer able to carry on.” Carlisle leaned forward again. “We are in desperate need, sir. The country is challenging, the task is in many ways daunting. The responsibilities are great. But,” and he lowered his voice another notch, “the opportunities are tremendous for the right man—a young man such as yourself with imagination, ambition, the finest training from a leading institution, someone who will take the reins and provide quality service.”

Thomas held up both hands, and suddenly the plaster around his left thumb appeared huge and ungainly. “As you can see, I'm not really in a position to go anywhere.”

“Nonsense, man. You've had an accident, and a bad one. Nearly killed, I'm to understand. And yet look at you. You refuse to surrender. You wield the scalpel as if born to it. In a few weeks, all this will be behind you. Now, all I'm asking is that, when you're first ready to travel a bit, that you come to Coues Island and review my proposal in person. Tour the clinic. Meet the staff. Learn of our other facilities, and, I dare say, our other opportunities.”

“It sounds interesting,” Thomas said noncommittally. “Perhaps you should present your offer to Dr. Riggs.”

“Well, I know that you don't practice medicine as a road to being a wealthy man,” Carlisle said as if he hadn't heard the comment, “but at the risk of being indelicate, let me present the bones of our offer, so to speak.” He sat back and opened his valise, leafing through several papers. Finally he found the one he wanted, consulted it, and then slid it back in the case without showing it to Thomas.

“Pitt and Burgess hope that their offer reflects the urgency of our situation, Doctor. I had no difficulty whatsoever in persuading them that your remuneration from our company must reflect the fact that you are a young, ambitious physician who would otherwise be expected to build an impressive private practice over the years. They understand that. However, at Pitt and Burgess, your first responsibility will be to the diverse and growing number of company employees and their families.” He took a deep breath. “To that end, Pitt and Burgess Lumber and Mining is in a position to offer you the sum of three thousand dollars a month, with the express understanding that as the fortunes of our company continue to grow, so, too, will your remuneration.”

“Three—”

“Yes. Three thousand a month. That would total thirty-six thousand your first year. That's entirely separate from expenses that you would be expected to encumber on behalf of operations, and in that respect, I've found our firm is most generous.”

“My God…”

Carlisle pulled what appeared to be a bank draft from his briefcase and laid it on the desk. “Some funds in advance, of course. And rest assured that Pitt and Burgess will make your move from Port McKinney to Coues Island as effortless as possible.”

“I have little to move,” Thomas said, then frowned. “I have been in Port McKinney something less than two weeks…” He stopped as the door of the office opened abruptly. Alvi Haines' face was flushed, her eyes narrowed with obvious anger.

Prince shifted expectantly, but she ignored the dog.

“Mr. Carlisle,” she said in greeting, and Thomas could see that she forced a smile, her lips tight, her jaw set.

“Ah, Miss Haines. How delightful.” He started to rise, but she interrupted him.

“Oh, no need for the courtesies,” she said. Her eyes shifted to the bank draft on the desk. “Dr. Parks is needed immediately in the ward. I do hope that your business is concluded?”

“Well, I certainly don't want to—”

“It's just that this is an extraordinarily busy afternoon for us, and several surgical patients are waiting,” Alvi said. She smiled sweetly this time. “I assume that you've already concluded your business with Dr. Riggs upstairs.”

Carlisle rose to his feet, tucking the leather straps of the valise through their buckles. He frowned at them, taking his time, as if they presented a problem about which he had to think long and hard. Prince watched him intently, shifting his gaze back and forth between him and Alvi. “Zachary and I spoke earlier, Miss Haines.”

With a sigh of resignation, he pushed back the chair and held out his hand to Thomas. “Doctor, I expect to be speaking with you again, very soon. As I said, time is something of an urgency for us. I hope you understand and give our offer prompt consideration. Good day to you.” He touched his forehead. “Miss Haines. As always.” As he left the office, he gave the dog a wide berth. Alvi moved just enough that he could pass. As he stepped by, he lowered his voice, and Thomas, although the exchange was obviously not meant for his ears, clearly heard Carlisle say, “Be careful, my dear.” He offered a cold smile and was gone.

“How very, very odd,” Thomas said. Alvi turned and nudged the office door shut. “Mr. Carlisle sailed on the
Alice
with me. I hadn't seen him since then.”

“And hopefully won't again,” Alvi said.

“What did he mean by his remark to you just now? You two appear to be acquainted. Be careful of what?”

“Ah, well, that,” Alvi said dismissively. She crossed to the desk and picked up the bank draft that Carlisle had made no effort to recover. Glancing at it dismissively, she handed it to Thomas. “Other than misspelling your name, Doctor Thomas Park, it's an impressive offer.”

The draft was for six thousand dollars, and he stared at the figure. “Impressive indeed,” he murmured. He looked up at Alvi. “How is it that this Carlisle chap has come to know Zachary Riggs?”

“He is a supplier of certain pharmaceuticals,” Alvi said, and it was clear she didn't want to discuss it further.

Thomas sucked in a breath at the memory. “Carlisle's anodyne.”

Alvi didn't respond to that. “Bertha asked me to remind you that Mr. Deaton is anxious. And Mr. Unger is here to fetch the child.”

Thomas dropped the bank draft on the desk, and was surprised when Alvi picked it up. With exaggerated precision, she tore it into small bits and held the remnants out to him.

“Something to think about,” she said, and then smiled in sympathy at Thomas' expression. “We need you here, Dr. Thomas. If Carlisle's check were an honest offer, I'd have done my best to talk you out of accepting.” She smiled coquettishly. “Bribery, logical discourse, charming feminine wiles…anything it took.”

“It's not an honest offer? Am I to understand that?”

“Not to worry,” Alvi said, and then bent down to ruffle Prince's shaggy ears. “I want to talk with Father about this.”

“Alvi,” Thomas began, then stopped, choosing his words carefully. “I don't wish to sound ungrateful for all you've done for me—for all your father has done—but Carlisle made the offer to me, and it's my choice whether or not I accept.” He saw her eyebrows knit. “Don't misunderstand me. It's not that I don't appreciate your concern. I'm most grateful for everything you've done for me. Truly I am.”

“You would consider his offer?”

“Well, no. As a matter of fact, I wouldn't. I don't even know where Coues Island is, or Bartlestown, or—”

“Bartlesville,” Alvi corrected. “It's a small village about a hundred miles northeast of here, near the border, but well inland from the coast. If it has a medical facility of any kind, I'd be much surprised. And the next time you speak with Mr. Schmidt, whose operation you have now seen in person, ask him about the company that Carlisle claims to represent.”

“Pitt and Burgess?”

“Yes. I wasn't sure what company name he was using this time.”

“Just what are you saying, Alvi? What am I supposed to believe? You're implying that Carlisle is an imposter of some sort? Why would he make a spurious offer to me? Am I supposed to jump at it, running off and leaving the clinic just when your father is less able—”

“A spurious offer. I like that, Dr. Thomas.” She shook her head. “Let me tell you what my fear is, my friend. If you accept that offer and hie off to Coues Island, we'll never see you again. There will be no six thousand dollars waiting for you, no medical director's job. We'll never know what happened to you. Zachary Riggs will convince my father that he be allowed to hire another physician, and rest assured, it will be someone who is more compliant with Zachary's grand design.”

“And what is that, Alvi? Just what is his plan, other than to make obscene amounts of money from snake oil? I haven't been able to ascertain what that might be. I never see Riggs down here with real patients. He offers no assistance of any kind, even when we're in sore need of another willing pair of hands. You have been helpful, I must say. Perhaps it is none of my business, but it is clear to me that Mr. Riggs is no more a physician than Prince here.” At the sound of his name, the dog lifted his head a few inches off the rug, but his eyes remained fixed on the door. “And why a complicated conspiracy to get rid of me, if that's what he's about? Carlisle, I mean. Your father—or you, for that matter—have but to say, ‘Thomas, you're not the man I had in mind. I'm hiring another.'”

Alvi smiled, but Thomas saw a touch of sorrow in her expression this time.

“I'll talk with you tonight, Dr. Thomas. Give me until then.”

Thomas held out a hand, catching Alvi by the elbow, but she took his hand in hers. “Give me until tonight. And Mr. Deaton is most eager to see you, Doctor.”

Alvi opened the door fully, sliding the stop under it. “Prince may have the need,” she said. “A mess anywhere but my father's office.” She smiled at Thomas once again, and he felt the warmth to the very core of his being.