Rick Yancey - The Curse of the Wendigo (The Monstrumologist, Book 2)

The city was coming to life, albeit a life wholly foreign to a young boy from a small New England town. Tramps lingered in doorways or loitered around the smoking ash barrels, eyes glowering beneath ratty hats, and hands tucked inside the fraying sleeves of their secondhand coats. Ragpickers pushed wooden carts along the sidewalks, scavenging in the narrow recesses of dark alleys and in the piles of trash that seemed to gather like autumn leaves against stoop and storefront.

Here the slouching tenements, with acres of laundry fluttering on lines strung from rooftop to rooftop. Here the stale-beer saloons, drunks passed out in their basement doorways, while urchins knelt beside them, picking their pockets for change. Here the gambling house, eerily quiet at this hour; there the concert hall with posters plastered on its blackened windows, advertising the latest burlesque. And at Mulberry and Bleecker, the disorderly house, where young women, their faces heavily painted, leaned out the open windows calling down to anonymous passersby and uniformed policemen alike.

At the station house Connolly took me to a small, windowless room furnished with a table and two rickety chairs. He was not unkind; he offered to find me something to eat, but I declined—food was the farthest thing from my mind. He left me alone. I heard a bolt being thrown, and I noticed the door had no handle on my side. An hour passed. I wept until I was too weak to weep. I swooned at one point and smacked my forehead on the tabletop. It might not be true, I thought. It might not have been her . But I could think of no other explanation for that inhuman cry.

At last I heard the bolt being thrown back with a loud screech. Chief Inspector Byrnes came into the room, threatening to overwhelm the space with his prodigious bulk, followed by another large man wearing a bowler hat and an overcoat a size too small for him.

“Where’s the doctor?” I asked.

“No need to worry,” said Byrnes with a patronizing wave. “Your doctor’s resting very comfortably.” He nodded to the man beside him. “This is Detective O’Brien. He has a boy about your age, I believe; don’t you, O’Brien?”

“Yes, sir, I do,” answered his subordinate. “His name is William too, only we call him Billy.”

“You see?” Byrnes beamed at me as if a significant point had been made.

“I want to see the doctor,” I said.

“Oh, now, we don’t want to rush things, do we? All in good time, all in good time. Will you be wanting anything, Will? We’ll bring you anything you like. Anything at all.”

“What can we bring you, Will?” echoed O’Brien.

“The doctor,” I answered.

Byrnes glanced at his cohort, and then turned to me. “We can do that. We can bring you to the doctor. We just need you to be honest with us and answer some questions.”

“I want to see the doctor first.”

Byrnes’s smile faded. “Your doctor is in a bad way, Will. He needs your help now, and the way you can help him is by helping us.”

“He didn’t do anything wrong.”

O’Brien snorted. “Didn’t he now?”

Byrnes laid a hand on his forearm. He kept his small piggish eyes on me, though.

“You know who was up on that manure block, don’t you, boy? You know what your doctor found.”

I shook my head. I willed my quivering bottom lip to be still.

“And now we’ve got a problem, Will—and so does he. We’ve got a problem, and your doctor’s got a bigger problem. This is serious business, boy. This is murder.”

“Dr. Warthrop didn’t murder anyone!”

Byrnes dropped a paper sack upon the tabletop. “Go on. Look in there, Will.”

Trembling with dread, I peeked inside the sack, then pushed it away with a soft cry. He had forgotten about them, had dropped them into his pocket in the operating theater and forgotten completely.

“It’s interesting, don’t you think, Will? What a man keeps in his pockets. I carry my wallet and a comb, some matches . . . but it’s a rare man who carries eyeballs about!”

“They aren’t hers,” I gasped.

“Oh, we know. Wrong color, for one.” Byrnes jerked his head toward the door, and O’Brien opened it, admitting the man I knew as Fredrico. His face was deathly pale; clearly he was terrified.

“Is this him?” demanded Byrnes, pointing at me.

The big orderly nodded violently. “That’s him. He was there.”

Byrnes said, “You see, Will, we know the doctor’s been brushing up on his technique—”

“That isn’t what he was doing! That isn’t it at all!”

He held up his hand to silence me. “And one other thing you should know. There’s another crime besides murder. It’s called being an accessory. That’s just a fancy way of saying you have to talk to us, Will, if you don’t want to see yourself behind bars till you’re as old as me, and I’m pretty old.”

I sank into the chair. My thoughts refused to be still long enough to form a coherent sentence. You know who was up on that manure block, don’t you, boy?

“It was Mrs. Chanler, wasn’t it?” I asked when my tongue could fashion the words.

O’Brien was grinning ghoulishly down at me.

“Take all the time you need, O’Brien,” Byrnes said on his way out with his quaking witness. “Get it out of him in the usual way, only leave the face clean.”

The “usual way”—before it was abolished by a charismatic young reformer named Theodore Roosevelt—began with verbal abuse. Name-calling, cursing, threatening. This then progressed to the physical—spitting, punching, slapping, pinching, hair pulling. A typical suspect could be expected to break somewhere near the middle of the method’s continuum. Rarely did he last till the third and final degree, which might include the breaking of his thumbs or the rupturing of a kidney. There were rumors that some subjects had to be carried from the interrogation room in a body bag, their premature demise carefully covered up with a ludicrous explanation— Had a heart attack and dropped over dead, the poor bastard!— for a poor bastard whose face resembled hamburger meat.

O’Brien followed orders. He did not mar my face. But in every other way, he applied the tried-and-true formula for wresting confessions from recalcitrant witnesses.

He screamed into my face, “Your precious doctor’s going to hang. It’s over for him—and for you unless you talk!”

He bellowed, “Do you think we’re fools, boy? Is that what you think? You think we don’t know about the Mountie and that French Canuck? How he killed one to hide the fact that he’d killed the other? You think we’re ignorant, boy? And that fat Bohemian at Bellevue—you really believe some ninety-pound weakling stole his knife and gutted him like a pig? What fools do you take us for? Your doctor knows his way around the body, don’t he? He’s cut up his fair share of ‘specimens,’ ain’t he? Knows how to cut ’em up good, just like he cut off that black butler’s face and hung it on the old lady, right?”

Graduating next to hard slaps to my cheeks, delivered as a kind of exclamation point. “Don’t you think we know his game?” Slap! “‘Oh, it ain’t me ; it’s some monster that’s doin’ it!’” Slap! “Then he takes his knife to his ladylove, don’t he? Don’t he? ”

Then towering behind me, yanking my head back by a fistful of hair and shoving his flushed pockmarked face into mine. “You want to see him before he hangs? Huh?” Pulling so hard I could hear the roots ripping free from my scalp.

“You start talkin’, you miserable pup. You was with him; you saw it. Say you saw it. Say it!”

He slammed his fist into my solar plexus. I folded over in the chair and fell into a miserable ball on the concrete floor. O’Brien leisurely stepped over my writhing body and knocked once upon the door.