Chapter Thirty-Four Frankie
THIRTY-FOUR FRANKIE
We arrived back at home a little after noon; this time, it was Luther St. James waiting for us.
“What do you know about what happened to Mrs. Stoddard?” Thomas demanded.
Luther shook his head. “Mrs. Stoddard? Nothing.”
“She’s dead.”
“Terrible thing,” Luther said, looking away. “But maybe it’s better that the sickness took her. Rather than having her suffer. Running around mad, possessed, in those woods.”
“The sickness didn’t kill her,” Uncle Thomas said, his words tinged with an uncharacteristic fury. “She’s been shot. Murdered. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you, Luther?”
Luther took a step toward Uncle Thomas, the scar on his forehead looking paler as his face colored with anger. “Just what are you accusing me of, Doctor?”
“You’ve been leading groups of men into the woods with guns, filling their heads with nonsense about demons.”
“I’ve been doing what I need to do to protect this town. Someone’s got to!”
“And does protecting the town mean killing an innocent woman?” Thomas asked.
“No,” Luther said grimly. “And you know damn well I wouldn’t hurt any woman, much less poor Clarice. I’ve been tending to her husband, in fact. That’s why I’ve come to get you.”
“What’s happened to Benjamin?” Uncle Thomas asked sharply.
“You better come see for yourself,” Luther said.
We accompanied Luther through the slushy streets to the Stoddard home, where we peeled off our overcoats and hurried up the stairs.
My heart raced; I feared what we might find there.
Luther’s son, Henry, was sitting with Benjamin, in a straight-backed chair several feet from the bed. A look of relief washed over Henry’s face when he saw us.
Benjamin was awake and speaking calmly. He still looked quite ill, but the thrashing madman we had left thirty-six hours ago was gone. His wrists and legs were still bound to the bed with leather straps and rope.
“Tell them to untie me, would you?” Benjamin said, lifting his head to look at us as we entered.
I followed Uncle Thomas to the bedside, my heart beating loudly in my ears.
Could this be real? Was he well? Was it possible the sickness could pass?
“How are you feeling?” Uncle Thomas asked.
“Hungry,” Benjamin said.
I gave a happy laugh.
“Well, that’s a good sign,” Uncle Thomas said with a smile. “No trouble breathing?”
“No,” Benjamin said. “I feel just fine.”
“Do you remember anything from the last days?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Only the dreams,” he said.
“Dreams?” I asked.
“Bad ones,” he said, frowning. “I can’t wait to get out of this damn bed. And have some food!”
Uncle Thomas began unbuckling the leather straps, untying the ropes. I helped.
When he was free, Benjamin sat up in bed and rubbed his wrists, which were raw from thrashing and pulling at the restraints.
I noted that his eyes still had a yellow, jaundiced appearance, though his skin looked darker in places, his lips, fingers, and toes almost bluish, suggesting a lack of oxygen. But there was no rasp, no labored breathing.
The sweet rotten fruit smell was stronger than ever, more rotten than sweet now, with a fermented tang like his pores were breathing apple brandy. I stepped back.
Uncle Thomas took out his stethoscope. “Let’s have a listen to your chest,” he said. He put the diaphragm against Benjamin’s chest and held it there. Then he moved it from place to place, listening to lung sounds.
I recognized the frown on my uncle’s face. He didn’t like whatever he was hearing. Uncle Thomas removed the stethoscope, gave it a hard tap, then replaced it on Benjamin’s chest.
Benjamin pushed his arm away. “I feel fine, I said,” he said gruffly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Just hungry.” He sat on the edge of the bed, looked at Henry. “Bring me a hunk of cheese and bread.”
“I think broth would be better,” Uncle Thomas advised. “At least at first.”
“Bread and cheese,” Benjamin repeated. “Sausage too. And bring brandy.” He rubbed at his stomach. “I’ve never been so hungry.”
Henry nodded, disappeared from the room.
Uncle Thomas was putting away his stethoscope, his hand trembling slightly.
Benjamin’s face was covered with a thick growth of stubble. It was caked in streams of dried bloody mucus. His yellow eyes looked sunken in their dark sockets.
“He was confused when he woke up,” Luther said. “Didn’t know where he was. But the fever had broken. He’s cool to the touch now, ain’t he?”
I put my hand on Benjamin’s arm. He was indeed cool. Too cool.
“Do you know where you are now?” Uncle Thomas asked Benjamin.
Benjamin scowled, looked around the room, eyes darting as if trying to make sense of the place. He said nothing.
I pulled out my notebook. Wrote: Pt awoke after deep 24 hr sleep. Eyes jaundiced, extremities tinged with blue suggesting lack of oxygen. No fever. Still has unusual fermented fruit smell. Skin cool to the touch. Pt disoriented. States he is hungry. Vitals?
“Can you tell me what month this is?” asked Uncle Thomas.
“Foolish questions,” Benjamin said, rubbing his wrists hard.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” Uncle Thomas asked.
Benjamin gritted his teeth. His lips and gums were purple. “I’d like a cigarette,” he said.
Luther handed him one and lit it for him. Benjamin sucked hard on it, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs. Again and again, he took hard draws from the cigarette. “Doesn’t taste right,” he said.
“Tobacco’s a bit stale,” Luther apologized.
“Can you tell me,” Uncle Thomas asked, “your full name?”
Benjamin looked at him, yellow eyes glimmering. He breathed out a cloud of smoke, lips working to form a word, but nothing came.
Uncle Thomas met my eyes, and I registered deep concern on his face.
Henry returned with a plate of bread, cheese, and sausage, a glass of brandy.
Benjamin snatched the glass, drained it in one great slurp.
“Go easy,” Uncle Thomas said.
“Man’s thirsty,” said Luther, grinning like it was a good sign, like this proved Benjamin was going to make a full recovery.
I understood it, the need to cling to hope.
I felt it myself, tugging at me. But everything inside me, all of my uncle’s teachings, my own instincts, warned me that something was wrong.
“Henry, can you please go get Mr. Stoddard a glass of water?” Uncle Thomas said.
“Milk,” Benjamin barked. “I want milk. And wine. Bring wine.”
Henry nodded and left to go back downstairs.
Benjamin, still sitting on the edge of the bed, grabbed the bread off the plate, shoved a huge chunk into his mouth, and chewed messily, noisily, crumbs falling down his unshaven chin onto the bed. He ate quickly, like an animal, in huge gulps.
My heart pounded, and despite myself, I took a step back away from the bed.
He started to choke, his already blue-tinged face turning purple, eyes bulging as Uncle Thomas moved toward him.
The choking turned into retching. Benjamin leaned forward and vomited up the brandy and bread in a great fetid pile on the floor.
Mixed into it was dark, viscous fluid. It smelled of rotten fruit and blood.
He moaned, grabbed his stomach, fell onto his knees on the floor and continued to vomit, more of the black liquid coming up.
“Jesus!” yelped Luther.
Uncle Thomas was crouched beside Benjamin now, watching, eyes wide, his normally calm face registering panic.
At last Benjamin stopped retching. I had never seen so much vomit come from one person. And never anything so dark and viscous, like tar.
Was it blood? I wondered. Was he bleeding internally? Hemorrhaging?
“Let’s get you back to bed,” Uncle Thomas said, voice shaky, as he put an arm around Benjamin’s back, draped Benjamin’s right arm over his own shoulder.
“You want to know my name?” Benjamin said, his voice thick and phlegmy, his eyes glowing yellow.
“I’m. The. Knackerman.” He turned to face Uncle Thomas, lifted his left hand, poked a finger hard into my uncle’s chest as Thomas struggled to lift him.
“You’re the knackerman.” His blue lips came up into a rictus.
Benjamin gripped Thomas’s shoulder with his other hand, as he lurched forward and sank his teeth into Uncle Thomas’s neck.
Uncle Thomas let out a howl of pain and the men struggled, Thomas twisting, trying to get away, blood flowing as they wrestled, both of them down on the floor in the black vomit now.
I rushed across the room, meaning to pull Benjamin off my uncle, now pinned beneath him.
Benjamin arched his neck horribly, face thrust toward the ceiling, Thomas’s blood smeared on his mouth and chin.
“We’re all the knackerman!” he cried.
A gunshot rang out, so loud and close to me that I felt sure my eardrum had burst.
Benjamin went down, a bullet hole in his forehead.
Luther came forward, rifle in hand, rolled the dead man off my uncle and onto his back.
“Shall I shoot him again?” he asked. “Just to be sure?”
“I don’t think—” Uncle Thomas started to say, but Luther put the gun against Benjamin’s chest, right over his heart, and pulled the trigger once more.