Race for the Dying (30 page)

Chapter Fifty-two

You have that damn creature under control?” Zachary Riggs' tone outside the office door was that of a stern headmaster.

“A moment,” Thomas answered. The dog trembled and his lips wrinkled back from chipped, yellow teeth. “We'll take care of this,” he whispered as he coaxed the animal down on the blanket and stroked the undamaged side of his head.

“Shall I come in?” Bertha called, and the dog's one operative ear perked.

“Yes,” Thomas replied, and she opened the door just far enough to slip through. Despite the young man's best efforts, Prince struggled to his feet, body tense. A deep huff issued from him, but Thomas could feel him relax with a shiver as Bertha closed the door.

“My, what a mess,” she said, and the dog ducked his head.

He pushed away from the animal. “If you'd stay with him?”

“Oh, he'll be fine.” She lowered her voice to less than a whisper, mouthing the words with exaggerated diction. “Mr. Carlisle is with Mr. Riggs.”

“Really,” Thomas said. “Now how curious.” He paused with both hands poised above the wheels of his chair, a dozen thoughts whirling through his head at once. “Well…You have the dog?”

“I do.”

Thomas wheeled to the door and opened it cautiously, keeping his chair so that it blocked the way. Zachary Riggs stood in the center of the waiting room, the fingers of each hand thrust in his vest pockets. Efrim Carlisle relaxed on the short bench by the window, legs crossed, arm casually on the sill, chin resting on his fist, as if he'd been there half an hour.

“Dr. Haines died shortly after five this morning,” Thomas announced. He kept his tone neutral. He moved forward a little, since Bertha Auerbach appeared determined to leave the office with him, despite what he'd asked her to do. She pulled the office door closed behind them. Carlisle collected himself and rose from the bench, nodding perfunctorily at the young woman.

Riggs extended a hand to Thomas. “You did all you could, but that doesn't make it any easier, does it?” He regarded the younger man thoughtfully, his expression sympathetic. “It's hard to lose family and old friends, just the same.” He tucked his hands back in his vest.

“Doctor,” Bertha interrupted, “I'm going to take a moment and fetch the pins from Mr. Lindeman now. Otherwise I fear we won't have them when we need them.”

“Horace was going to do that, Bertha.”

“I know he was,” Bertha said, frowning severely. “But I've had my experience with that man.” The criticism of Horace James surprised Thomas, but Bertha didn't give him a chance to respond. Instead she nodded curtly at the two visitors and then bustled out of the clinic. Facing the door, Thomas saw that she immediately set out down Gambel, not uphill toward Lindeman's Mercantile.

“This is perhaps not a good time,” Riggs said after the door closed behind Bertha. “But then, sometimes it's better not to wait.”

“For what, sir?”

“You're intending complicated surgery on Mr. Deaton this morning?”

“Yes. At ten o'clock.”

“My,” Riggs said, his eyebrows raising in wonder. “Such an ambitious schedule.” His face grew sober. “I want you to give that a second thought, young man. Especially in view of the circumstances.” From John Haines, Thomas might have accepted such an ultimatum—or at least the tone of voice expected from an employer. But from Zachary Riggs, it rankled.

“I have given it nothing but thought,” Thomas said. “The choices are simple. Either I amputate the leg, or I repair it. The injury could very likely kill Mr. Deaton unless something is done immediately.”

“Indeed? You think so? It didn't look that critical to me.”

Thomas' first inclination was to let the remark pass, but he understood clearly that, with John Haines now gone, his buffer had been removed. With John Haines alive and a vital force in the clinic's organization, Zachary Riggs had treated Thomas with deference, good humor, even patience. Now there was no reason for any of that. And sure enough, Riggs' tone carried ice that had never been there before. “I look at it as a physician,” Thomas said evenly. “You don't.”

A quick smile touched Riggs' face. “I discussed another possibility with Miss Auerbach last night, Thomas.”

“She tells me that you did. I will have no part of it.”

Riggs held up a hand, smiling benignly. “Hold on, hold on.” With the hand safely back in the vest pocket, he continued, “I think we should employ the good Mr. Winchell's ambulance, and take Mr. Deaton to St. Mary's. Before his condition deteriorates any further.”

“Nonsense,” Thomas said.

Riggs' eyebrows twitched at the unpleasantry, but he otherwise ignored it. “Let me ask you. Should the surgery be a success—and we have no guarantees one way or another, do we?”

“It will be a success.”

“Your optimism is commendable, Dr. Parks. Should the operation succeed, how long do you expect Mr. Deaton's convalescence to be?”

“Here at the clinic? Several weeks at best. Perhaps a month.”

“That long here? In the ward?”

“Most or all of it, yes. When he can move safely on crutches or in a chair, then he might go home.”

“With nursing care the whole time while he's here, I presume.”

“Yes. Of course.”

“That's impossible,” Riggs said. “Simply impossible. We are not a convalescent's hospital, Thomas. I understand another nurse is coming into our employ shortly, but this is ridiculous. We are not equipped for such procedures.”

Thomas felt his pulse racing. “We are…” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “We are what we need to be, Zachary. In this case, Mr. Deaton needs surgical intervention. That's my decision. I will decide what is best for my patient. He can't tolerate a rude trip to another facility. To subject him in his condition to a thirty-mile trek lying in the back of a wagon would kill him. You might as well just shoot him, too.”

“Too?”

“I saw the dog.”

“Ah. The beast.” Riggs looked down, extending his left leg. “Somehow he managed to escape the office,” he said. A tear marred one woolen trouser cuff. “But that's another issue.”

“It is no issue,” Thomas said.

Carlisle let out a long, impatient sigh. “So much for the smooth transition you promised,” he said to Riggs.

“What's your business in all this?” Thomas asked as Carlisle stretched with exaggerated relaxation. “Other than as a supplier of certain pharmaceuticals for Mr. Riggs' enterprise upstairs.”

“You're told that, eh?” Carlisle said mildly. He reached out and removed one of the new Advisors from the bookcase beside him, making a show of thumbing the pages. “Well, you're told what you're told, I suppose.” He slid the book back with a thump, his interest in it merely as a means to keep his hands occupied.

“That's it, then,” Thomas said, the full realization dawning on him. He wheeled across to the bookcase and removed the same volume. Flipping it open to the frontispiece, he once again looked at the engraving of the grand clinic on the page facing Dr. Haines' portrait. Fronting the water, imposing in every respect, the clinic could house an entire community—a grand illusion.

“This is Bert Schmidt's property,” Thomas said, holding the book toward Riggs. “I see that now.”

“Do you imagine so?”

“More than imagine. It's obvious. Although the art is fanciful, the building is prominent on the spit of land where the mill now stands. Do you deny it?” He held the book toward Riggs.

“And if it is?” Riggs made no move to take the volume.

“Pitt and Burgess would like to gain Schmidt's property, I'm sure—including his timber leases.”

“What do you know of leases?” Carlisle scoffed.

“Not a thing,” Thomas replied. “Not a thing. Others do, of course.” He turned the book and regarded the engraving. “With the leases, I imagine that this becomes more than just an advertising gimmick,” Thomas said. “That's the promise, isn't it?” Riggs regarded him with an infuriating amusement. Now is not the time, a voice in Thomas' head warned, but his hands trembled with his rising temper, and for a brief moment, he wished that Bertha Auerbach, his staunch ally, hadn't left the clinic.

“You help Pitt and Burgess with their interests, they help you with yours. That's reasonably simple.” He closed the book. “I saw the spikes,” he said, lowering his voice as if sharing a confidence. “I know what Kittrick was up to.”

“Spikes?” Riggs' eyebrow shot up.

“Until recently, I didn't understand what Kittrick's business was with you,” Thomas said. “The constable found a set of spikes in Kittrick's cabin. Just like the one recovered from the log that destroyed Schmidt's saw and killed two good men.”

“I know nothing of that,” Riggs said, but his eyes flicked toward Carlisle, his manner taking an edge.

“If you weren't so caught up in the business of peddling opiates, you'd know it,” Thomas snapped, and immediately regretted his insult.

“How eloquent,” Carlisle said quietly, and Thomas heard the danger in his voice.

“Say what you like,” Thomas snapped. “I can't argue with your considerable financial success, if that's your purpose. Useful medicine certainly is not.”

“And you scoff at that?” Riggs asked. “How much will Howard Deaton pay you, my good man? And Mrs. Unger? A fine bit of surgery on her daughter, I'm sure. For thirty dollars, perhaps?”

“That's a fair charge,” Thomas said. “For a fair service. An honest service.” He felt the smallest change of air in the room, and he turned quickly to look behind him at his office door, thinking that the dog had somehow nosed it open. The door remained closed.

“I think,” Carlisle said judiciously, but his face was pale with anger, “that the time has come for you to consider my earlier offer, Dr. Parks. I would hate to see you throw such an opportunity away in a moment of pique—of minor disagreement over medical treatment.”

“I have no interest in your offer.” Behind Riggs, at the far end of the waiting room by the hallway to the stairs, Thomas saw the slightest displacement of shadow.

One of Carlisle's eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Is that right? No interest at all? That's foolish.”

“No interest. Less than none.”

“I would have thought that some three thousand dollars a month would have been most attractive for a young man such as yourself, just now setting out in the world.” He smiled indulgently and touched his own right eye. “A young man who has had his share of bad luck. Even your steamer trunk with all your worldly possessions, gone by the wayside. Zachary told me about that. It surprises me that you'd reject out of hand an offer that is so generous. Most generous, in fact.”

“Think what you like. I don't need your money, sir.” To his surprise, he saw George Aldrich appear, moving close to the wall, his steps stealthy.

Carlisle's eyebrows gathered, and Thomas saw the flush run up the man's cheeks.

“Let's not be hasty here.” Riggs said heavily, in the tone used by a man used to having the final word. “When John touted your background, your studies, Thomas, we both thought that you would be a valuable asset to our enterprise—and I still do.”

“I will be no party to Mr. Carlisle's schemes,” Thomas retorted. “Or yours.”

“Now, I must protest,” Riggs said, trying to sound reasonable. “Suppose—”

“Suppose nothing,” Thomas said. “Mr. Aldrich will be most interested, I'm sure. I don't imagine it will take long to prove to his satisfaction who Ward Kittrick was working for. It doesn't take much imagination to figure out who profits from spiking a stand of timber. Or why Kittrick felt the need to talk with you after his visit with me. Someone has to be the local paymaster, I would suppose.”

“Aldrich is a fool,” Carlisle snarled, “and so are you, I'm beginning to see. You have no idea what you're talking about, or who you're dealing with. My firm—”

“Your firm,” Thomas said. “Did your firm hire the Kittricks to spike trees, Mr. Carlisle? Someone who would take railroad spikes, and grind off the flange…” A sudden thought drew him up short. “Or perhaps hired Charlie Grimes to grind them? The Kittricks may not have a grinding wheel at their shack, but Lindeman's Mercantile certainly does. And what's to gain is obvious, isn't it?”

He turned to glare at Riggs. “I suppose from your point of view, Zachary, a thriving medical practice is really a nuisance—nothing but an interference for your day.”

“My God, you're a bit the smart one, aren't you?” Carlisle said. He faced Thomas, feet spread wide, both hands on his hips.

“Then deny it all,” Thomas said. “I'm told that your complex at Cous Island is fictitious. I must say, I wouldn't be surprised if the same enterprising printer who produced the fine artwork for this volume”—he held up the
Advisor
—“also drew up your fancy stationery. Alvina was right to tear up your check, worthless as it was.”

He turned back to Riggs. “This is hardly the time, with John barely cold. But let's be clear. I don't intend to send my patients to a hospital a day's drive away.”

“Now listen—”

“No, Zachary. I do not intend to spend one iota of time with your ridiculous questionnaires, or your nostrums, or with your mail order narcotics business. In that sense, your friend Carlisle here is correct, there is no room for us both under one roof.” He stopped and found he was panting for breath, since now he had set the landslide in motion.

“Well,” Carlisle said.

“I will also testify, sir,” Thomas interrupted. “Kittrick threatened me about Charlie Grimes, and now I can only think that there may have been something more than a simple drunken brawl between a drunken brother and a boy who stuttered. It occurs to me that Kittrick could have simply let Constable Eastman pass by in the night, unharmed. He could have left the country, and never been apprehended. He didn't need to kill the lawman in such a cowardly fashion. That makes me think that the constable knew more than he ever shared with me.”