Read Online The Arcanum by Thomas Wheeler - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Thomas Wheeler
Tags: Fiction
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He toppled sideways into a pile of garbage. She whirled on Matthew, punched him hard in the stomach.
“What the hell, Abby?” Matthew complained.
“Get his billfold, you louse,” Abby ordered as she rebuttoned her overcoat and straightened her top hat, giving the Knob another clean kick in the groin.
He groaned.
Suddenly, a figure in a long coat, carrying a rifle, appeared at the end of the alley. “Show yourselves!” he barked.
“Bloody hell, it’s Dexter,” Matthew hissed.
Abby ran in the opposite direction, down the alleyway.
“Abby? Matthew? That you? I’ll hide yer asses if it is.”
Dexter marched after them, a close-cropped black beard framing his sharp chin and lean features. He stopped and leaned over the Knob, who peered up at him, pleading. “Good Christ,” he muttered. Then he turned to the shadows, where Abigail’s and Matthew’s escaping laughter echoed. “Have you lost your minds, you two?”
ABIGAIL AND MATTHEW exploded out the other side of a tenement building and paused for a kiss beneath an archway, exhilarated by the danger.
Abigail bit playfully at Matthew’s bottom lip, and he cursed. “Damn you, girl!”
She laughed and jogged backwards, daring him to follow.
“I think you’re cracked,” he said.
“I think you’re right,” she answered, crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue. “What were you gonna do back there? Let ’im stuff me like a turkey?”
“You could use it,” Matthew teased.
Abigail grabbed his shirt collar and pulled Matthew into another long, lingering kiss. They stood there, in the middle of the street, lost to the moment. So much so, neither caught the glint of moonlight off blue glass and the flow of a cape as a stranger stepped into the shadows, eyes upon them—watching.
12
THE BELLEVUE HOSPITAL claimed thirty acres on the East River, and stretched some ten blocks north and south. Comprised of two redbrick structures on the southernmost tip of the twenty-building chain, the Institute for the Criminally Insane was walled off with high fences held together with a chain lock and rimmed with razor wire. Though empty of people, the grounds of the ward were attractive, with high trees, benches, and green grass. But those inside did not walk the grounds, a reassurance to the public, since monsters lived inside the walls—violent monsters that had to be chained, drugged, and often beaten to be kept under control. So a calm exterior masked the grotesqueries within.
It was a blustery day with a light charcoal sky, suggesting rain or snow; Doyle could not decide which. It was also bitingly cold, and he pulled his wool collar tightly around his neck as he approached the guard at the gate. After a few words, the gate opened and Doyle walked across the grounds.
The lobby was large, with high columns and a commanding reception desk stationed at the foot of a wide staircase. Doctors and nurses walked their rounds at a medical pace: a step or two faster than the rest of humanity.
It took some arm-twisting to gain access to Lovecraft. He was a suspect in a murder case, and likely a harm to himself or others. He was on a twenty-four-hour suicide watch, which meant he was being restrained and medicated in the most barbaric ways. His paperwork was also being readied for transfer to a more secure hospital upstate, pending trial.
Nobody had visited Lovecraft. And the years and distance had left room in Doyle’s heart to feel some empathy for a man who lived his life with only demons for company.
Like most hospitals in Manhattan, Bellevue was overworked and understaffed. In some cases, there was only one physician for the whole wing, and it was always the insane who suffered the most. Since modern medicine was only beginning to come to terms with such afflictions, the patients often did nothing more than waste away behind bars.
Doyle used a false name on the sign-in sheet and lingered in the nearby corridors to avoid attracting the gaze of the two
“What the hell, Abby?” Matthew complained.
“Get his billfold, you louse,” Abby ordered as she rebuttoned her overcoat and straightened her top hat, giving the Knob another clean kick in the groin.
He groaned.
Suddenly, a figure in a long coat, carrying a rifle, appeared at the end of the alley. “Show yourselves!” he barked.
“Bloody hell, it’s Dexter,” Matthew hissed.
Abby ran in the opposite direction, down the alleyway.
“Abby? Matthew? That you? I’ll hide yer asses if it is.”
Dexter marched after them, a close-cropped black beard framing his sharp chin and lean features. He stopped and leaned over the Knob, who peered up at him, pleading. “Good Christ,” he muttered. Then he turned to the shadows, where Abigail’s and Matthew’s escaping laughter echoed. “Have you lost your minds, you two?”
ABIGAIL AND MATTHEW exploded out the other side of a tenement building and paused for a kiss beneath an archway, exhilarated by the danger.
Abigail bit playfully at Matthew’s bottom lip, and he cursed. “Damn you, girl!”
She laughed and jogged backwards, daring him to follow.
“I think you’re cracked,” he said.
“I think you’re right,” she answered, crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue. “What were you gonna do back there? Let ’im stuff me like a turkey?”
“You could use it,” Matthew teased.
Abigail grabbed his shirt collar and pulled Matthew into another long, lingering kiss. They stood there, in the middle of the street, lost to the moment. So much so, neither caught the glint of moonlight off blue glass and the flow of a cape as a stranger stepped into the shadows, eyes upon them—watching.
12
THE BELLEVUE HOSPITAL claimed thirty acres on the East River, and stretched some ten blocks north and south. Comprised of two redbrick structures on the southernmost tip of the twenty-building chain, the Institute for the Criminally Insane was walled off with high fences held together with a chain lock and rimmed with razor wire. Though empty of people, the grounds of the ward were attractive, with high trees, benches, and green grass. But those inside did not walk the grounds, a reassurance to the public, since monsters lived inside the walls—violent monsters that had to be chained, drugged, and often beaten to be kept under control. So a calm exterior masked the grotesqueries within.
It was a blustery day with a light charcoal sky, suggesting rain or snow; Doyle could not decide which. It was also bitingly cold, and he pulled his wool collar tightly around his neck as he approached the guard at the gate. After a few words, the gate opened and Doyle walked across the grounds.
The lobby was large, with high columns and a commanding reception desk stationed at the foot of a wide staircase. Doctors and nurses walked their rounds at a medical pace: a step or two faster than the rest of humanity.
It took some arm-twisting to gain access to Lovecraft. He was a suspect in a murder case, and likely a harm to himself or others. He was on a twenty-four-hour suicide watch, which meant he was being restrained and medicated in the most barbaric ways. His paperwork was also being readied for transfer to a more secure hospital upstate, pending trial.
Nobody had visited Lovecraft. And the years and distance had left room in Doyle’s heart to feel some empathy for a man who lived his life with only demons for company.
Like most hospitals in Manhattan, Bellevue was overworked and understaffed. In some cases, there was only one physician for the whole wing, and it was always the insane who suffered the most. Since modern medicine was only beginning to come to terms with such afflictions, the patients often did nothing more than waste away behind bars.
Doyle used a false name on the sign-in sheet and lingered in the nearby corridors to avoid attracting the gaze of the two
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