Reanimators (10 page)

Chapter 10.

THE DISASTER AND
THE DETECTIVE

The end of March and then April came, and Muñoz and I found ourselves immersed in efforts to do just what Peaslee had suggested so many years ago: develop a vaccine against death. Indeed, preliminary trials with rats proved quite successful, with our test subjects showing significant resistance, if not immunity, to a variety of traumas, poisons, and other fatal conditions. It seemed apparent that we would have no choice but to begin clinical trials, trials that would use the citizens of Arkham themselves as test subjects. We laughed maniacally at our devious plot, for it sounded so much like something that West and Cain would conceive of, and the macabre humor of it all was not lost on us.

If only we could have maintained that sense of humor in the days that were to come.

A letter from Peaslee arrived toward the end of the first week of April, postmarked Southampton. He detailed some of his exploits in the Congo with Lord Jermyn, spoke wildly about some incredible archeological find, and hinted at amazing still-extant paleontological bridges. The whole matter was lost on me and I became much more interested in his return to the British Isles in March. There was a visit to Belfast and discussion of a young man named John Coffey. As usual there were a number of photographs, including one of Peaslee and Coffey standing on what appeared to be the deck of an ocean-going passenger liner of some sort, identified only as Harland and Wolff, Belfast. As usual, I forwarded the details of his adventures off to the paper, but kept the more personal pages, those directed toward Dr. Muñoz and me, providing us with instructions and direction, private. Of these there were several, including that he would be sending several crates of valuables to us via ocean liner, and the requirement that we draw up orders of payment for Mr. Coffey’s father. The young man had apparently made some impression on Peaslee, rendering to him services he would not disclose.

It was on Monday, April 15, 1912, that the horror that had occurred the night previous was made public. The ocean liner RMS Titanic had struck an iceberg, causing the great ship to take on water and sink. Of the more than 2000 passengers and crew, only a sparse 675 were reported to be saved, though later this number was revised upwards of 700. From that day on the papers were filled with news of the disaster. Much was made of the survival of J. P. Morgan, who had been scheduled to be on board the ship, but had cancelled his travel because of other business. The paper ran a photograph of Morgan talking about the disaster with his advisors. Much also was made of the young seaman who had abandoned his post on the Titanic and jumped ship in Queenstown. The young man claimed that he had a sudden premonition of disaster, and that he had no choice but to forego his duties.

While such interviews and revelations sold newspapers, I and Muñoz were so involved with our own work that we had little time to trouble ourselves with such things, even if they were disasters of international proportions. The only thing that took time from our project were our patients, and a second communication from Peaslee. Unlike his previous missives, this was a Western Union telegram, and was relatively simple in content. Apparently, the crates of valuables that Peaslee had shipped to us had been aboard the Titanic, and had been swallowed by the hungry sea. Fortunately, Peaslee had taken out a significant insurance policy on the shipment and now sought to recoup his investment. I was astounded to find that Peaslee had significantly overinsured the cargo, using an American company rather than a British one. The contents of the shipment were lost on me, mostly antiquities and the like gathered from his travels, but all confirmed and documented by the company’s European agents. When the insurance check came, it would place in Peaslee’s account more than a million dollars.

It was towards the end of April that the first significant steps in the trial of our new vaccine were made, and while such movement was made purely through circumstance, it was a complete success. Though, as I shall reveal, the success was tempered by a revelation of a greater horror, one that seemed to keep intruding into our lives in the most unobtrusive but repugnant of manners.

Early in the day I received an urgent telephone call from Wendell Atlee, one of my patients, and the proprietor of the Hotel Miskatonic, a rooming house on the far side of the University. One of his female guests had fallen and although the injuries did not seem to warrant a trip to the hospital, Atlee hoped that I would see the young lady just to make sure. I readily agreed, and assured Atlee that I would extend her all courtesies. Atlee thanked me profusely, adding that the couple spoke English well despite the fact that they were Chinese.

It wasn’t long before a taxi cab pulled up in front of the house and released a dapper man who dashed around the car to extract his wife from the other side. He stood about five and a half feet tall, and was dressed in a cream on cream suit, with a cream bowler. As he helped his wife down the walkway, I could see that the two had a significant disparity in age. I placed the husband in his late thirties, but his wife could not be more than twenty-five.

Leaving the office, I met them halfway with an offer to aid in her transport. “I am Dr. Hartwell; would you be offended if I offered to help you carry your wife into the office?”

The husband, who was heavier than a man of his age should be, bobbed his head in quick agreement and said in perfect, if slightly accented, English, “Propriety is like the speed limit, in emergency it may be ignored.”

I chuckled as I slipped my shoulder under the young lady’s arm and the two of us maneuvered her through the empty front and into one of the examination rooms. As we deposited her on the table, her husband said to me, “Thank you so much,” bowing as he did so. It was then that I noticed the holster and gun hidden under his coat. The man caught my look and quickly buttoned his jacket. “You will forgive me, I am Officer Chan of the Honolulu Police Department, and this is my wife Jinghua. She stumbled on the stairs in Mr. Atlee’s rooming house this morning; I think she may have injured her ankle.”

The young woman smiled and stared at her husband lovingly. When she spoke, her voice was melodious and soothing. “You will forgive my new husband, for he is being disingenuous. He is more concerned over the fact that I felt somewhat ill this morning, and that this led me to lose my balance and my footing. He is foolish, but I love him.”

I leaned Jinghua back onto the table and began a standard examination, which included her ankle, but also her neck and pelvic region. “Arkham seems an odd place for a honeymoon. It is very far from the Territory of Hawaii, and I am sure quite different.”

Officer Chan bobbed his agreement. “We had intended to spend it on a cruise to Europe. Sadly, recent tragic events have forced happy couple to trade Old England for New England.”

Apparently a puzzled look crossed my face, betraying the fact that I hadn’t grasped his meaning. Fortunately his wife provided an explanation. “We had tickets to travel from New York on the Titanic’s return voyage. They were a gift from my father. I assure you, Doctor, we are citizens of the United States. Do you wish to examine our resident permits?”

I shook my head. “Madame, while I appreciate your compliance with the Geary Act, your national status makes no difference. Though I have to say that undertaking such a voyage seems a bold act given the sentiment that some in this country have been filled with,” I remarked.

“Father is not without certain influences, and he and Mother place a high value on travel. Many years ago my father had quite an exploit, traversing through China. It is how he and my mother met and fell in love, but it also opened Father’s eyes to what he calls ‘globalization’. My family has trade interests on both sides of the Pacific, and on many of the islands in between. We are headquartered in San Francisco, where my parents live. My sister and I look after our assets in Hawaii, where I met my husband.” She smiled at her doting husband, who seemed embarrassed by his wife’s discourse. “The laws of your country may be oppressive, Dr. Hartwell, and based on irrational fears, but I assure you that compared to the political and economic climate in our homeland, they are quite tolerable. In China, you and I would not even be able to have this conversation.”

I fumbled on the table for a stethoscope. “You’ve been married for about six weeks now. Is this the first time you’ve felt sick or dizzy?”

Suddenly the erstwhile policeman showed his colors. Rising, he gestured with his hat in hand as he talked. “Excuse please. How you know we have been married for six weeks?”

I stood up, removing the stethoscope from Jinghua’s abdomen. “Simple deduction really, based on the medical information available to me. Since your wife is experiencing symptoms of what we commonly refer to as morning sickness, and those usually appear about six weeks after conception, I concluded that you had been married approximately six weeks ago.”

I didn’t think it was possible, but the man suddenly turned pale. “Conception, you mean Jinghua is pregnant?”

The young woman on the table began to giggle. “That is exactly what he means. For a man who wants to be a detective, you have certainly been oblivious these last few days.” And with that, Officer Chan neatly passed out, falling like a tree onto the floor with a tremendous reverberating thud.

I was to his side in seconds, and soon had him on his back. His skin was clammy, and his breathing shallow and labored. As I placed the stethoscope to his chest I saw Muñoz coming through the door. “Help me get him into the other room.” I caught a glimpse of his wife’s panicked face. “Not to worry, Mrs. Chan, a simple fainting spell. We’ll have him up and about in a few minutes. You just lie back and try to relax.”

As Muñoz and I moved out into the hallway I whispered to my colleague, “Take him into the house. This may become unpleasant and I don’t want her to hear it.”

With all possible swiftness we deposited our charge onto the parlor settee, and while I took his jacket, holster, shirt and tie, Muñoz ran for my medical bag. I checked his neck and wrist for a pulse, and found none. With little choice, I began using the Holger Nielson modification of the Silvester Method of artificial respiration, lifting the arms behind the back, and then pushing them back down to drive air into the lungs.

Soon after I began, Muñoz dashed back in and began to unpack my kit. Within seconds Muñoz had injected our patient with a proper dosage of epinephrine. As he finished, he touched me, indicating that I should cease artificial respiration to see if the injection had the desired effect. We paused and waited, but seeing no response, I once more began treatment, frustrated that the normal treatment had had no favorable result. Muñoz prepared another syringe and administered another, more potent dose. Once more we paused and once more I reinitiated the resuscitation attempts. Without a word Muñoz leapt from my side and disappeared from the parlor.

He was not gone long, and what he carried with him made me rise up in opposition, for in a large glass syringe my colleague carried a dose of the chemo-luminescent reagent that we had recently developed to begin testing on human subjects, and from the way he held it, there was no mistaking his intention.

“Rafael, you can’t do this. He’s a stranger, his wife is right down the hall, he’s a policeman. What if it doesn’t work? What if something goes wrong?”

Muñoz never took his eyes off the man lying on the settee. “As of right now, Stuart, he is dead; with the reagent, he may have a chance. Or, would you rather tell his young pregnant wife that her husband has died?”

I lowered my head, in shame as much as in frustration. I was caught in a trap of my own creation. Were I to do nothing, I would always regret never trying, but the risks of actually using the formula, and it failing, weighed on my mind as well. The only glimmer of hope was that the years of research that I had carried out alone had been sufficiently refined by Muñoz and me over the past months. Did I have faith enough in my own work to test it? I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and then reached out for the syringe. “I’ll do it, please.”

Rafael Muñoz lifted our patient’s head and shoulders, providing me access to the soft spot where the skull met the spinal column. Carefully, but swiftly, I pierced the skin and slid the needle into the brain. Once I had reached a sufficient depth, I placed my thumb on the plunger and slowly injected our reagent into Officer Chan’s body. I removed the needle swiftly, and as I finished Muñoz lowered his head back onto a pillow.

I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do, but then remembered the gun that I had removed from Chan’s possession. The gun was heavy and cold, but I took some comfort in holding it. I remembered what had happened before, to Dr. Halsey, and to James Robinson, and I had no desire to be a victim, nor to let anyone else suffer, at the hands of my own monstrous creation. Should Chan become uncontrollably violent I would not hesitate to shoot him.

As I expected, Chan awoke in agony, screaming like an animal, thrashing about on the settee. I stepped back and brought the gun between the two of us, but to my surprise Muñoz stepped in between, “Easy, Stuart. We have seen such seizures before, in the rats, no? They always come back like this. Give him a moment.”

I lowered the gun, and Muñoz went to his side. My partner had been right; already I could tell that our subject wasn’t entering a frenzied state at all, but rather one of panicked confusion. He was hyperventilating and scared, but I saw a glimmer of recognition and reason in his eyes. I placed the gun on the table and knelt by his side. “Relax, Mr. Chan. You had a minor heart attack, but you are through the worst of it.” His eyes darted back and forth. “Your wife is fine,” I told him, “just a little worried about you. This is my colleague, Dr. Muñoz. He helped save you. Don’t worry, you are safe and in good hands.”

It took a few moments for Chan to relax, after which I went and got his wife. I told her that her husband had suffered a mild heart attack, but that was all. There was little else that could be done for him save initial rest, followed by a course of regularly increasing exercises to aid in the strengthening of the heart muscle. I advised him to avoid smoking and drinking, although an occasional pipe or drink would not be injurious. It wasn’t until my medical advice ran out that I realized what we had done, and what we still had to do. After a brief conversation with Dr. Muñoz, we broached the subject of both Chans spending the night at the house, under the pretense that we would like to keep Mr. Chan under observation. Of course technically this was true, but the reason had little to do with his heart attack, and more to do with his ongoing reaction to our reanimating treatment. Thankfully, the Chans readily agreed, and it took little effort to have one of Atlee’s bell boys bring their luggage over from the hotel.