The Monstrumologist (29 page)

“I served in the army, Cory,” said Morgan, who had given up calling Kearns by any of the other names offered. “You don’t have to speak to me as if I were a bumpkin.”

“Then we are agreed? You will make clear to your men who is in charge?”

“Yes, yes.”

“And instruct them to do exactly as I tell them, no matter how bizarre or seemingly absurd the request?”

Morgan wet his lips nervously, and glanced Warthrop’s way. The doctor nodded. The constable did not seem comforted. “I feel a bit like Faust at the moment but, yes, I will tell them.”

“Ah, a literary man! I knew it. When this is done, Bobby, I would love to spend an evening, just you and me, a snifter of brandy and a cozy fire. We can discuss Goethe and Shakespeare. Tell me, have you ever read Nietzsche?”

“No, I have not.”

“Oh, you simply
must
. He’s a genius and, not entirely incidentally, a good friend of mine. Borrowed—I shan’t say ‘stole’
—
one or two of my pet ideas, but that’s a genius for you.”

“I’ve never heard of the man.”

“I shall lend you my copy of
Jenseits von Gut und Böse
. You can read German, yes?”

“What is the point of this?” Morgan had finally lost his temper. “Warthrop, what sort of man have you brought here?”

“He told you earlier,” Kearns countered, losing in an instant his cheerful facade. The sparkle in his gray eyes extinguished itself, and suddenly his eyes seemed very dark, black in fact, as black and expressionless as a shark’s. The face, at all times previous
so lively—winking, smirking, alight with jollity—now blank like the eyes, as immobile as a mask, though the impression was the opposite, of a mask falling away to reveal the true character beneath. That personage possessed no personality, neither cheerful nor dour; like the predator whose eyes his now resembled, no emotion moved him, no compunction restricted him. For a telling moment John Kearns allowed the mask to slip, and what lay underneath sent a shiver down my spine.

“I—I mean no offense,” stuttered Morgan, for he too must have glimpsed the not-human in the other’s eyes. “I simply don’t wish to entrust my life and the lives of my men to a mental defective.”

“I assure you, Constable Morgan, I am quite sane, as I understand the word, perhaps the sanest person in this room, for I suffer from no illusions. I have freed myself, you see, from the pretense that burdens most men. Much like our prey, I do not impose order where there is none; I do not pretend there is any more than what there is, or that you and I are anything more than what we are. That is the essence of their beauty, Morgan, the aboriginal purity of their being, and why I admire them.”

“Admire them! And you claim you aren’t defective!”

“There is much we can learn from the
Anthropophagi
. I am their student as much as I am their enemy.”

“Are we finished here?” Morgan demanded of Warthrop. “Is that all, or is there more of this drivel to endure before we’re done?”

“Robert is right; it’s very late,” said the monstrumologist. “Unless you have more of your drivel, John.”

“Of course, but it can wait.”

At the front door Morgan turned to Warthrop. “I almost forgot—Malachi …”

“Will Henry.” The doctor motioned toward the stairs.

Morgan reconsidered, and said, “No. He’s probably asleep. Don’t wake him. I’ll send someone over for him in the morning.” His eye wandered to the wound on the doctor’s forehead. “Unless you think—”

“That’s quite all right,” Warthrop interrupted. He seemed past all caring. “Let him stay the night.”

Morgan nodded, and breathed deep the cool night air. “What an odd man this Brit, Warthrop.”

“Yes. Exceedingly odd. But particularly suited for the task.”

“I pray you’re right. For all our sakes.”

We bade the constable good night, and I followed the doctor back into the library, where Kearns, having helped himself to Warthrop’s chair, sat sipping his cold tea. Kearns smiled broadly and lifted his cup. The mask was back on.

“Insufferable little marplot, isn’t he?” he asked, meaning the constable.

“He’s frightened,” answered Warthrop.

“He should be.”

“You’re wrong, you know. About my father.”

“Why, Pellinore? Because I cannot prove
you
wrong?”

“Setting aside the issue of his character for a moment, your theory is hardly more satisfying than mine. How did he manage to conceal them for such a long period of time? Or sustain them with their gruesome diet? Even granting you the outrageous assumption that Alistair was capable of such gross inhumanity, where did he find victims? How could he, for twenty years, without getting caught or even raising the least bit of suspicion, supply them with human fodder?”

“You overestimate the value of human life, Pellinore. You always have. Up and down the eastern seaboard the cities are seething with trash, the refuge washed up from Europe’s slums. It would be no Herculean task to lure scores of them here with promises of employment or other incentives, or, failing that, to simply snatch them from the ghetto with the help of certain men who do not suffer from your quaint romantic idealism. Believe me the world is full of such men! Of course, it is entirely possible—though not, I would say, probable—that he persuaded his pets to adapt their diet to a lower form of life, assuming that was, as you propose, his goal. It is possible they have acquired a partiality to chicken. Possible, though not very probable.”

Warthrop was shaking his head. “I am not convinced.”

“And I am not concerned. But I am curious. Why do you resist an explanation that makes far more sense than your own? Really, Pellinore, would you care to compute the odds of them migrating here, to your own backyard, by sheer chance? In the back of your mind you must know the
truth, but refuse to acknowledge it. Why? Because you cannot bring yourself to think the worst of him? Who was he to you? More important, who were
you
to
him
? You defend a man who barely tolerated your existence.” His boyish face lit up. “Ah! Is
that
it? Are you still trying to prove yourself worthy of his love—even now, when it’s impossible for him to give it? And you call yourself a scientist!

“You’re a hypocrite, Pellinore. A silly, sentimental hypocrite, much too sensitive for your own good. I’ve often wondered why you even became a monstrumologist. You are a worthy man with admirable attributes, but this business is dark and dirty, and you never struck me as the type. Did
that
have to do with him as well? To please him? So he would finally notice you?”

“Say no more, Kearns.” The doctor was so agitated by these barbs set with such exquisite surgical precision that I thought he might strike Kearns again, this time with something harder than his hand, perhaps the fireplace poker. “I did not invite you here for this.”

“You invited me here to slay dragons, did you not? Well. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

I slipped out of the room shortly after this fevered exchange. It was quite painful to watch, and, even now, decades later, to remember in such vivid detail. As I mounted the stairs to the second floor, I thought of soup and of the doctor’s words. D
on’t suffer under any illusions that you are more than that:
an assistant forced upon me by unfortunate circumstances.
I did not, at the time, know why I should remember those words at that moment. Now, of course, the reason is obvious.

I paused at Malachi’s door and peeked inside. He had not moved a muscle since I’d seen him last, and I watched him sleep for a moment before closing the door. Then up the ladder to my loft, to catch or at least chase slumber myself. But an hour later I was up again, for I heard my name being called by a voice shrill with distress. At first, in my groggy condition, I assumed it was the doctor’s; however, upon reaching the second floor, I realized the voice emanated from Malachi’s room. My route took me by the room now occupied by Jack Kearns, and I paused there, for the door was ajar, and light from within streamed into the darkened hall.

Inside I saw Kearns kneeling before the long wooden box. He had removed the silk covering and the lid, which he had laid on the floor beside him. I noted several quarter-size holes had been drilled into it. Kearns reached into the valise next to him and removed a thin pencil-shaped object that appeared to be made of glass. He flicked it twice with his finger, then bent over the box. His back was to the door, so I could not see more, nor did I wish to. I stepped quickly into Malachi’s room and closed the door.

He was sitting up, his back pressed against the head-board, his bright blue eyes shining with apprehension.

“I woke up and you were gone,” he said in an accusatory tone.

“I was called away,” I said.

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know. Very late.”

“I was having a dream and a loud noise woke me. I almost jumped out the window.”

“You’re on the second floor,” I pointed out. “You would have broken your leg, Malachi.”

“What was the noise I heard?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. I didn’t hear anything. It may have been Dr. Kearns.”

“Who is Dr. Kearns?”

“He is …” In truth I did not know who he was. “He’s come to help.”

“Another monster hunter?”

I nodded.

“When do they plan to do it?” he asked.

“Tomorrow.”

He did not speak for a moment.

“I am going with them,” he said.

“They may not let you.”

“I don’t care. I’m going anyway.”

I nodded again.
Me too, I fear,
I thought.

“It was Elizabeth,” he said. “My dream. We were in this dark place, and I was searching for her. She called my name, again and again, but I could not find her. I searched, but I could not find her.”

“She is in a better place now, Malachi,” I offered.

“I want to believe that, Will.”

“My parents are there too. And one day I’ll see them again.”

“But why do you believe that? Why do we believe such things? Because we want to?”

“I don’t know’ I answered honestly. “I believe because I must.”

I stepped into the hall and eased the door closed behind me. Turning to go back to my room, I almost collided with Kearns, who was standing just outside his door. Startled, I stumbled backward. Kearns was smiling.

“Will Henry,” he said softly. “Who is in that room?”

“What room, sir?”

“The room you just came out of.”

“His name is Malachi, Dr. Kearns. He’s … It was his family that …”

“Ah, the Stinnet boy. First he takes you in, and now another. Pellinore’s become quite the philanthropist.”

“Yes, sir. I suppose, sir.”

I looked away from his smoky eyes, recalling the doctor’s words:
Steer clear of Dr. John Kearns, Will Henry!

“‘Henry,’” he said. “I remember now why that name seemed familiar to me. I believe I knew your father, Will, and you’re quite correct: His name
was
James, not Benjamin.”

“You knew my father?”

“I met him once, in Amazonia. Pellinore was off on
another one of his quixotic quests, I believe for a specimen of that elusive—
mythical
, in my opinion—parasitic organism known as
Biminius arawakus.
Your father was quite ill, as I recall—malaria, I think, or some other bloody tropical disease. We do work ourselves into a tizzy about creatures like the
Anthropophagi,
but the world is chock-f of things that want to eat us. Have you ever heard of the candiru? It’s also a native of the Amazon and, unlike the
Biminius
arawakus
, not too difficult to find, particularly if you are unfortunate or stupid enough to relieve yourself anywhere near where one is hiding. It’s a tiny eel-like fish, with backward-pointing razor-sharp spines along its gills that it unfurls like an umbrella once inside its host. Usually it follows the scent of urine into the urethra, wherein it lodges itself to feed upon your innards, but there have been cases where it enters the anus instead and commences to eat its way through your large intestine. It grows larger and larger as it feeds, of course, and I hear the pain is beyond the power of words to describe. So excruciating, in fact, that the common native remedy is to simply chop off the penis. What do you think of that?” he concluded with a wide smile.

“What do I think, sir?” I quavered.

“Yes, what do you think? What do you make of it? Or of the
Spirometra mansoni,
commonly called a flatworm, which can grow up to fourteen inches long and take up residence in your brain, where it feeds upon your cerebral matter until you are reduced to a vegetative state? Or
Wuchereria bancrofti,
a
parasite that invades the lymph nodes, often causing their male hosts to develop testicles the size of cannonballs. What are we to make of them, Will Henry, and the multitudinous others? What lesson is to be gained?”

“I—I … I really don’t know, sir.”

“Humility, Will Henry! We are a mere part of a grand whole, in no way superior, not at all the angels in mortal attire we pretend to be. I do not think that the candiru gives a tinker’s damn that we produced a Shakespeare or built the pyramids. I think we just taste good… . What is it, Will? You’ve gone quite pale. Is something the matter?”

“No, sir. I’m just very tired, sir.”

“Then why aren’t you in bed? We’ve a long day tomorrow, and a longer night. Sleep tight, Will Henry, and don’t let the bedbugs bite!”