Race for the Dying (2 page)

“On the whole, yes. Quite an education.”

Writing in neat script, Thomas kept the message brief. “I'm surprised that I don't see more people in town,” he said as he signed his name. “I was led to believe that as many as several thousand make their home here.”

“Comes and goes,” Birch said. “Go down to the Clarissa around nine o'clock tonight, and there'll be crowd enough for you. That's the most popular watering hole, around the point to the south.”

Thomas handed the message to Birch, who took it without a glance.

“When do you suppose he might receive that?” Thomas asked, and Birch grinned a show of strong, yellowing teeth.

“A hell of a lot faster than what it took you to travel out here.”

“I would hope so.”

“You're headed up to one-oh-one now?” Birch asked, and Thomas blinked in surprise. “That's what folks around here call the good doctor's house. Finest one on the hill, beyond a doubt. One-oh-one belonged to one of the mill owners, you know. Had it built board by board, just the way he wanted it. And then one day out in the timber, the butt end of a spruce squashed him like an insect, and that was that. The good doctor purchased it from the widow.” Birch grinned again. “Haven't seen her since.”

Thomas Parks felt a surge of excitement. “Is Dr. Haines the only doctor in McKinney?”

“Was, until last year. Riggs is the other gentleman's name, I believe. Zachary Riggs. He works with Haines from time to time. I don't know him well, and to tell the truth, I don't know what he does other than squiring John's daughter about.”

“The fair Alvina,” Thomas said. “Father has told me about her.”

“Most fair, yes, indeed.” He held up his left hand, pointing with his right to a long, thin scar that ran around the base of his left thumb, ending low on the fleshy pad of his palm. “She stitched this up, so fine that it looked like an old lady's needlework.” He glanced over at the pendulum clock on the far wall. “I could keep you here all day with tall tales, but I suspect you're eager to be on. Stop by from time to time. The telegraph will be off within the hour.”

Thomas extended his hand again, and this time Birch's grip was more enthusiastic. “I'll do that, sir. Thanks again.”

“Walk up toward Lindeman's place…that's the Mercantile at the top of the hill. That's the corner of Lincoln and Gambel. Just across the way, you'll see one-oh-one. It's a three-story that looks like it'd be at home in Connecticut as much as here, all fancy and frilly. That's the place. Oh,” and he held up a cautioning finger, “right at the Mercantile, there's a dog that everyone wishes would someday drop dead of lead poisoning. Beware of him. Big brindly looking thing with a bad back leg. Even with it, he's fast enough to catch people. Most of the time, he's locked up in the back of the Merc, but he finds a way out now and then.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

He turned to go, but Birch held up a hand. “And the telegram is a dollar,” he said. “You want to start an account? I do that for folks.”

“No,” Thomas said, and dug out several coins. “Thanks again.”

By the time he stepped back out on the street, most of the fog had lifted, and the strait fairly sparkled as the afternoon sun chased away the last strands of gray.

Chapter Two

As he walked up Lincoln Street, Thomas Parks found himself turning sideways, even backward, stumbling as he tried to take in a hundred views at once. The clarity of the air was breathtaking as the fog evaporated, as if layers of gauze were being stripped away. Far to the north, a dozen islands daisy-chained through the last tendrils of mist, and the sound was dotted by a myriad of vessels. One of them would be the
Alice
wending its way north to Bellingham.

The street reached a bench of land, level for a hundred yards along the top of a rock escarpment. The village appeared to be carved out of the trees and the hillsides, an almost random scattering of squat cabins clad in slab wood, and a few stout, elegant houses of multiple stories, looking as if they'd been plucked out of their original eastern neighborhoods and planted here. The pure white spire of a church steeple reached upward, and in that same neighborhood Thomas could see a series of massive brick buildings that might be the true center of Port McKinney commerce. More wharves thrust out into the water, more tall ships waited.

Legs starting to tingle pleasantly from the climb, the young physician approached a major intersection where a carved sign announced Gambel Street. He paused in front of Lindeman's Mercantile, the place in harsh contrast with the neat, prim Sander's Hardware in Leister, where every nut and bolt had its place. This establishment rambled here and there, spreading across the lot from the original two-room building with sheds and additions and corrals and bins. The enclosed portion of the store that fronted both Lincoln and Gambel streets appeared to be constructed entirely of rejected slab wood still carrying the bark. A stovepipe thrust through a tin thimble on the wall, pouring out dense wood smoke.

And the dog. Thomas paused when he saw the animal—sure enough, untethered, unfenced, and intensely interested in this new human being who approached. Large, rawboned, grizzled at the muzzle, and proudly wearing a pedigree that might have included half a dozen parents, the dog sat calmly in the mud.

“How are you today?” Thomas said. The dog blinked and his large ears dropped a touch from the round dome of his skull. The animal's tail was deep in the muck, but there were no raised hackles, no snarling lip. Thomas hefted his medical bag and switched hands with the soft duffel. The sharp, brass-reinforced corners of the bag would make a formidable weapon. The dog yawned and stood up slowly, sucking himself out of the mud. He shook and limped out toward Thomas as if the two of them were old friends. His mucky tail flopped from side to side like a length of dirty rope.

Thomas knew he couldn't outrun the beast, but gambled that the dog's initial display of disinterest wasn't a guise. He stopped walking and ignored the dog, gazing once more out to the southeast. Pressure against his right leg prompted him to look down. The dog had nosed between the medical bag and Thomas' right thigh.

Without moving more than necessary, Thomas reached out with just the thumb of his right hand and scratched behind the dog's ear. The dog huffed a sigh and waited for more.

“I guess you belong here, stranger,” a voice said from behind him. Thomas looked over his shoulder. A tiny person stood on the first raised step of the Mercantile, a large mug in one hand, a broom in the other. “You've been adopted by the Prince,” the man added, and laughed. “He either adopts you or bites you. Never seems to be a middle ground.”

“That's good to know,” Thomas said.

“I chain him up, but he always gets loose. Wizard of some kind, I guess. Wants to be out here, not out back. S'pose I'm going to have to shoot him one day, if someone doesn't beat me to it.” He leaned the broom against the wall.

“Perhaps you could move the chain out here, so he can enjoy the view,” Thomas allowed.

The man, whom Thomas could see now was quite elderly, settled down on the step. He pushed his woolen cap back on his head, the stubble of gray hair about the same length as that studding his chin and cheeks. “Hadn't thought of that.”

“I'm Dr. Thomas Parks.” Thomas moved through the mud channel to the steps, placed the medical bag on the wooden planks, and extended his hand. The old man's grip was as bony as Carter Birch's, but fragile, as if too firm a grip would powder his arthritic knuckles.

“I guessed that's who you might be. Dr. John mentioned you were on the way. Pleased to have you with us.”

“You're the owner?”

“I am that. Lars Lindeman, in all my sorry old age.” He reached out a hand and tousled the dog's ears. “I don't know who Prince belongs to, but I wish he'd go home.”

“He's not yours, then?”

“I suppose now he is. Appeared one day last spring. Pain in the ass, mostly.” The dog looked up at Thomas, eyebrows arching a bit. “Want some coffee?” Lindeman held up his cup. “I probably make the worst coffee in Port McKinney. Discourages the deadbeats.”

Thomas laughed. “Thanks, no. I'm just off the ship, and eager to meet John. It's been a long trip.”

“Bet it was. When did you set out?”

“The twenty-sixth of August. From Leister, Connecticut.”

“Not sailing all the way, surely.”

“No. I came by train to St. Louis, where I have a cousin. Then on to San Francisco and the steam packet up the coast.”

“Can be a pleasant enough voyage, I suppose.”

“Pleasant only because we didn't sink.” Thomas laughed. “Cramped, dirty, awful food, and fog. Lots of fog.”

“Yep,” Lindeman said, and shrugged. “Well, that's our specialty. The dirt and fog, I mean. A day like this is rare enough. Enjoy it while it lasts.” The old man pulled himself to his feet, and Thomas saw the stiffness in the hips, the cramped way the old man's hands tried to grip the railing, the grimace of effort.

Lindeman shot him a glance of amusement at the scrutiny. “Me and the mutt are a pair, eh?” He pointed up the hill toward an impressive three-story home, a house ornate with gingerbread and an entire rainbow of trim colors. “That's one-oh-one. Dr. John ain't to home at the moment, though. I saw him head out when I was dumpin' ashes earlier. Gert will fix you up.”

“Gert?”

“His housekeeper. Best cook in the entire world. Makes my coffee taste like kerosene.” He looked into his cup as if to check for things moving. “She's been with Dr. John forever. Her brother, too, although you won't get any more words out of Horace than you do Prince here. Don't know if Alvina went with the doctor or not. You met her? No point in asking that. You're just off the boat, for God's sake. Listen to me.”

“I exchanged pleasantries with a fisherman, met Mr. Birch, and now you. That's the extent of it since I set foot in Port McKinney.”

“Well, now. About every soul is either minding his own business or out in the timber…or working at the mills. This time of day, it's a quiet place. Come tonight, there's plenty of hell raisin'.” He looked closely at Thomas. “I'd ask how you came to know the good doctor, if it was any of my business. But it ain't, so I won't.”

Thomas laughed. “He's an old, old friend of my father's. They knew each other during the war. I'm told that I was introduced to him when I was five or six, but I have no recollection. We've had some correspondence recently, and he expressed interest in my studies.” Thomas hefted the medical bag. “And then convinced me that there were opportunities here for me. It's really that simple.”

“Good enough to have you, then. We'll be talking.” Lindeman held out a hand. “Prince, get your worthless carcass in here.” The dog shot a glance at both of them, then turned and slowly plodded out into the middle of the street, where he stood with head down, looking into the distance as if engaged in deep thought. “See what I mean? Worthless, flea-infested…” The old man went inside, muttering to himself.

As soon as Thomas stepped away from the porch, the dog's head came up, and he followed the young man up the street, remaining a couple paces behind.

So spotlessly clean were the front steps of 101 Lincoln that Thomas hesitated. Seeing no boot scraper, he set his bag and valise on the steps, then looked about until he found a sharp chip of gravel on the walkway. Balancing on one leg with a hand on the step rail, he dug the worst of the mud off his boots—sticky chunks with the consistency of artist's clay. He was standing thus, one-legged like some odd kind of shore bird, when a horse and rider appeared, charging up Lincoln Street.

Thomas straightened, amazed that the animal could keep its footing. It was then that he saw it was actually a mule, hooves throwing great clots of mud. Prince, who had been sitting quietly in the middle of the street, pulled his rump out of the muck. He stood unmoving for a few seconds until it became obvious that the mule and rider were headed his way, then grudgingly stalked across the street.

The rider was a rough-looking young man perhaps a year or two older than Thomas, dressed in heavy, greasy clothing with a black knit cap jammed tight on his skull. The mule jarred to a halt in front of him, and Thomas saw that the young man's eyes were wild with excitement.

“Gotta have Doc,” he shouted. The mule danced clumsily to one side, fighting the bridle, not ready to stop. “Out to the mill.”

“I don't believe that Dr. Haines is here at the moment,” Thomas replied. “I just arrived myself, and I don't know—”

The young man jerked the reins impatiently, and the mule thrashed its head and managed a small crow hop to one side, nearly dislodging his rider. “Had a bad'n out at the saw, and got a man crushed,” he shouted. “He's gonna die for sure if we don't find the doc.”

“Listen, I'm a physician. Perhaps I can help.”

“Well, if you can, you gotta,” the young man said. “You got a horse or buggy, or are you afoot?”

Thomas held out both hands helplessly. “I'm…I'm as you see, sir.”

Grabbing a fistful of scruffy mane, the young man wrestled his stout boots out of the stirrups, then slid down, squelching into the mud. “Take the mule,” he said. “You can ride?”

“Well, yes, although I've never—”

“Take him. I'll fetch me a ride from the Swede.” He held out the reins, and as soon as Thomas had them in hand, the young man turned and started toward the Mercantile.

“Wait,” Thomas shouted after him. “Where?”

“Schmidt's mill, yonder,” the young man said. He pointed southwest, toward the spit of land. “You can see it from here.”

“There's a road?”

Stepping backward, the man gesticulated down the hill. “Just slide down to the wharf, then follow the coast trail. It's the only one. I'll be along right behind you. If I can find the doc, I'll bring him, too.” He turned and plunged off, arms flailing for balance.

Leaving his duffel bag on the front steps, Thomas gathered the reins and stepped closer to the mule. The animal had settled some, and Thomas searched until he found two loose leather thongs behind the saddle that had once been adequate for lashing a bedroll. He tied them through the grips of his medical bag, then swung up into the saddle.

“I hope you know the way,” he said aloud. The mule apparently did, since at the first touch of the reins, he wheeled about, nearly dumping his rider.

The mule's gait was jarring, and for the first few minutes Thomas fought for balance. As they turned off the bluff and started down the steepest portion of Lincoln Street, he clung to the saddle horn with both hands, leaning as far back as he could. The mule trotted with his head down, kicking great projectiles of muddy earth in all directions.

The street narrowed to a rough, rock-studded trail angling to parallel the shoreline. Birds rose in frantic, noisy clouds at his passing, and he could smell the rich vegetation. In a moment, he heard the thunder of hooves.

“Just ahead, there!” The young man urged his bay mare past the mule. “Just ahead, there” was still a mile or more away, and Thomas urged the mule on. The trail circled inland around a great buttress of jagged rocks that reared fifty feet out of the placid waters of the sound, then plunged down close to the water, in one spot crossing a broad tidal flat. The mule drove across the dark sand, and Thomas had a brief instant to enjoy himself in the rush of salt-tinged air.

Thomas discovered that if he trusted the mule and didn't try to second-guess the route the animal chose, they could almost keep up with the young man on the mare. A stream trickled out of the rocks, and the mule hopped the first pool of standing water, slid across the open ground for a step or two, misjudged a second puddle, and splashed not toward the trail as it turned right, but toward what appeared to be more sure footing near the shore.

The choice caught Thomas off balance, and he pulled the reins hard, trying to turn the animal. The reins pulled the mule off balance, and he missed his footing for the first time. One hoof drove down between two sharp rocks, exploding the animal's lower leg as his weight twisted. Thomas tried to twist free and couldn't, and mule and rider crashed down through the brush and rocks to the placid water ten feet below.

The impact against the rocks pounded the breath out of his lungs as the mule thrashed over him. His head cracked against a black, wet rock, and then he was in the icy water. In an odd moment of clarity, he could see the bottom, the tiny grains of black sand shifting this way and that. “And now I'm going to drown,” he thought, but could do nothing about it. He allowed the water to cushion him, numbing the pain that first crept in and then seeped away.