Finding Monsters (Ch14)
Chapter 14 of Theda's Time Machine.
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—Alison
Rrrrrriiiiiinnnnggg………rrrrrriiiinnnggggg..
Theda sprang from the bed, her bare feet burning on the cold floor, and almost crashed into her wild image in the oval mirror over the fireplace, feverish eyes like those of a feral child. Her chest heaved as the piercing noise penetrated the floorboards. A telephone ring.
Sleep was a stranger deep into the first hours of the Third of March,1918. The chilled air smelled of the fireplace’s burning embers as the last of the kindling converted to pungent ashes, collapsing with a soft thump. She shivered and that was real, unlike the thin sleep peppered with dark dreams that felt as if they retreated to the room’s corners at awakening. For the entirety of the night, fear kept her paralyzed like a small child hiding from the monsters behind a cracked closet door. In order to gain control over her mind, she concentrated on the song of the winter fields whose chorus of feathered-boned corn stalks and mighty wind competed for dominance. Finally, the shabby dresser and caned-but-fraying chair began to take shape right about the time a rooster replaced the night birds. She fell into an unsatisfying rest that never deepened, skimming the surface of wakefulness.
Now, heavy footfalls on the below floor sent vibrations through the wide boards. Then, her father’s voice interrupted the ringing with a faint hello?
Air froze in her chest and she forced herself to breathe when it became painful. Who is on the other end of that telephone? Slowly she planted one bare foot in front of the other and padded to the closed door, turning knob against creaking hinges.
“…I see. Yes. Interesting, isn’t it? Yes, I see. Thank you for the information. I’m sure it’s almost over now.” Rattle. Clink.
Now her mother’s voice joined her father’s as she slowly replaced the door. Who just rang? She breathed deep and steadied herself. Why should it be odd that her father received a call? That’s what the telephone was there for, wasn’t it? They had had one installed in their own home in Philadelphia for years now, and it was one of the busiest lines in the neighborhood as call after emergency call came through for her father. Why should it be any different here?
She sat on the caned chair, feeling the dried out fibers strain. He had found her. She last saw the yellow Martin Wasp on the day she left Philadelphia. And halfway across the country on a Kansas military base where she thought she was perfectly safe, the white-haired man appeared again.
Then mere moments later was murdered. She leaned over and held her stomach, rocking slightly. The murder played in her mind in sickening slowness. She had been afraid of him, knowing that he was either police or anarchist, but now the question of who killed the white-haired man was equally, if not more, terrifying.
And she could tell no one She was alone. She could never tell her family. Ever. She brought this on herself and she’d deal with it on her own. She stood and placed her hands on the fireplace mantle and bowed her throbbing head. Tomorrow, she and her mother and sister would board the eastbound train, heading straight back into the fire of Philadelphia. The other man…the soldier with the dress shoes…he was still out there. How long before she saw him in Philadelphia? How long until Maxim and the rest of the anarchists figured out who she really was?
“Theda!” her mother’s voice called, and she raised her head, once again looking into her own haunted eyes. She released her grip and opened the door, calling down, “Yes?”
“Get dressed. We need to speak to you. Now, please.”
Please. In polite society, the word was always tacked onto the end of every request, even the ones that destroyed you.
In the parlor, her father was on his knees in front of the fireplace, poking at crumpled newspaper and the dank wood that emitted a swampy odor. Margaret Evora, wearing her chartreuse dressing gown with orchids embroidered on the sleeves, watched from where she was perched at the end of the overstuffed sofa. The dressing gown, such an odd color, was striking on Margaret. Her raven hair was pulled back, shot through with silver, and her high, dark eyebrows were as if an artist inked them with the finest tipped brush. She half smiled, and a little of the tightness in Theda’s chest loosened. They knew nothing. Thank God, they knew nothing.
“Violet is ill,” Dr. Evora rattled closed the chain screen.
“Ill? What's the matter with her? She was fine last night.”
“Her stomach is upset and she feels as if she might need medicine,” Margaret shivered. “Throw another log on that, Harold.”
“If I throw a forest on it, this house is still going to be like a meat cellar. I warned you, Margaret.” He rose. There was a dark streak of soot across one of his white shirt sleeves. “I want you to drive Violet to the Infirmary, Theda.”
Her heart sunk. Leaving the house today wasn’t at all what she wanted, but there was no way to weasel out of it without invoking questions. “I'll be happy to drive her. What automobile am I using?”
“That one right out there.”
She looked out the window and froze. A black Cadillac Phaeton was parked at the end of the brick walkway that touched the road.
Last night, the car ride home from the disastrous Army City dance had been even more tense than the ride over. Billy and Jackson didn’t even try to hide their contempt for each other, and the only bright conversation was Violet and Billy’s flirtatious banter. Theda had tried to ask Jackson if he were alright, considering one swollen black eye threatened to overtake the slightly bleeding scratch on his cheek, but he turned her attempts at conversation aside with cold, one-syllable answers. Billy had walked Violet to the door, but Jackson stayed inside. Theda, embarrassed at having to let herself out of the car especially after Jackson had shown such impeccable manners at the start of the evening, rushed into the house. The Cadillac hadn’t been there last night, she was certain. It looked exactly like the car that spilled three men out of it, one of whom killed the man with the white hair. There are hundreds of these cars all over. How could it be the exact same car?
“Perhaps I should go with you,” Margaret said quietly. “The silence here may drive me out of my mind. And I would like to see more of the base.”
“No, Margaret, you stay here,” Harold said, swinging on his jacket. “The girls won’t be long, and I want you to make sure everything is ready for when you leave tomorrow.”
“Do you think packing luggage is a difficult task, Harold? One I’ve never done before?” She asked playfully. She winked at Theda.
Outside the sound of a car approaching. “That would be Jackson, coming to take me to another day of toil,” Harold said. “Theda, you take care of Violet. I’ve written the directions down on a piece of paper in the kitchen. Tell Dr. Harrison who you are, and he’ll make sure you’re seen right away.”
“Yes, Father.”
“And don’t linger. The infirmary is a great place to pick up sickness. You of all people know what I mean.” He smiled.
“And don’t talk to any strangers,” Margaret said, and when Harold had left the room, she added quietly. “Soldiers only want one thing, you know.”
The similarity of the same words those girls said last night made Theda shiver. She casually floated to the window and parted the curtains. The cherry red Stanley idled in front of the house. The door opened, and Asa Jackson stepped out and around to open the back door for her father. He glanced up, and their eyes met. The black eye was now purple. He narrowed his one good eye and turned away.
“Make sure this Billy Rankin keeps a safe distance from your sister. I worry about her. Ever since her illness she’s become fragile.”
Theda listened to this with nodding head, although she smelled a rat. Fragile. We’ll see.
When Harold Evora was in the car, Jackson got back into the chauffeur’s seat without another glance at her. Why does he hate me?
“I’ve heard that theory before, Mother, regarding soldiers. What would be that one thing?”
Margaret laughed. “If you keep away from them, you won’t have to worry about it.”
Asa Jackson slammed the car door behind Dr. Evora, feeling the weight of Theda Evora’s eyes on his back. Every cell in his body was tuned to the highest frequency since Dr. Andersen had crumpled into a dead heap in the street last night. He had suspected the girl to be a willful brat, probably spoiled by a life of ease in Philadelphia. What he had never expected was a killer. Who the hell is she? How is she his daughter?
It was all he could do to reign in his temper. The instinct to pound down the door and demand an answer for Doc’s death…no, say it…murder…was kept in check by a frayed thread that he knew once snapped would set into motion a man controlled by his base instincts, and he had fought hard through rigorous training not to become that man. He was well aware of how close it was to the surface, and that one small wrong move would set him free to wreak havoc. As he circled back around the car, the cold air felt good on his face that smarted from where Cyril had gotten lucky and landed a haymaker to his cheekbone, and a disembodied hand with uncut nails had scratched his cheek leaving three thin red lines that stung.
“Good heavens, what happened to you?” Harold said from the backseat, pushing his hat up from his eyes. “The girls didn’t mention anything last night. Of course, I was in bed by the time they arrived home. How did the night go?”
He gulped and changed his voice. It was getting harder and harder to put on the good ol’ boy routine. “Fine, sir. There was a little bit of a misunderstanding at the dance, but you know how boys are. Had to make sure that your daughter wasn’t harmed an’ stepped in between her and a few fists.”
“Thank you, Private. That’s why I wanted you to take them instead of anyone else. I trust you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“My eldest wasn’t feeling up to snuff this morning. Theodora is going to take her to the infirmary in a bit to get looked at.”
“I hope she feels better soon.” So. Those girls were going to be taking a trip to the infirmary building. Best to stay away from that place all day today.
“Private, there are white feathers all over. Did someone pluck a chicken back here?” Dr. Evora chuckled.
Jackson gripped the wheel and eased off the gas, slowing down around a part of the road he knew was more potholed than the rest. That morning he arose before dawn and went to grab his boots for an early morning smoke. What he came back with was a handful of feathers. White chicken feathers were glued all over his boots, from top to bottom. The glue wasn’t totally dry and the feathers were either in fluffy clumps or sticky, matted bumps.
Jackson looked at the feathers and glue in his hands and felt that temper rising. He raised his eyes and listened, wanting to hear one laugh…just one…and the previous evening’s fight would feel like a sparring match. He had held back last night. He could have sent Cyril, and even Peterson, although he sized him up as being a little tougher than the rest, to the hospital had he fully unleashed. But he deliberately took more of a beating so that they would think he was weaker. His experience said that would make them lay off. They would revel in their victory and move on.
But this? No. In England if a young man received a white feather it was the dirtiest of insults, a way to anonymously call him a coward. That white feather was a death sentence. It forced them into the war.
And here at Fort Riley, gluing white feathers on the boots of the dissenting Mennonites and making them march, molting feathers in their wakes, was a favorite harassment.
“Oh, them boys were having some fun and glued some feathers to my boots,” he answered the doctor and forced a little chuckle. “Real pranksters, they are.”
“They are.” The doctor was quiet, and Jackson was glad. He turned the Stanley into the driveway of the General Building. He had been here enough times, but still the sight of it made him wary in a way no place ever had. He heard his father’s voice. Something wrong in that building. I don’t know exactly what and was never able to put my finger on it. But it was something evil. I knew it from the very beginning.
But then the doctor’s next sentence made Jackson’s blood run cold. “Sometimes, though, these pranks go too far. One of those boys from Leavenworth got hurt last night. Dr. Harrison rang this morning. They’re bringing him to the Infirmary.”
Jackson stopped the car. “Oh? That’s unfortunate. But those Leavenworth men need to straighten up and answer the call of duty, doctor.” Was it the same man from the riverbank? The one the others had strung up upside down and pushed through the freezing mud? He felt for that boy, who was only following his Mennonite faith, living with principles and paying the price for it. Had things been different, he would have made those scum cut him down. But things weren’t different.
He put the car into park and killed the engine, jumping out and practically ripping the back door off the hinge. Dr. Evora climbed out of the car with unusual slowness. In the few weeks he had known him, the doctor seemed to be aging fast. If he witnessed what his darling daughter had done last night, he would enter the realm of Methuselah.
“Yes,” Dr. Evora said softly. He rose to his full height, then stopped, gazing at the building. “’When you look long into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you’ Have you ever heard that before?”
Nietzsche. The stone smile on Jackson’s face threatened to crack. “No, sir. But that sounds like a scary ordeal.”
“A scary ordeal,” Dr. Evora echoed, and started slowly toward the back entrance. “That it is.”
You forgot the other part of the quote. Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft, mag zusehn, dass er nicht dabei zum Ungeheuer wird. ‘Whoever battles monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster himself.’ Ask your daughter about that one, Doc. Then a memory of the men chosen to travel through time sprang into his mind. He saw the room, deep underground in New York City, the lights dim, the mechanisms glowing with colors he had never before seen. He saw their faces one by one and heard the disembodied, emotionless voice state the instructions.
Jackson got back into the car, and swung it in the direction of the Infirmary, knowing he should steer clear of the place but compelled to see if it were the same man. A white feather landed on the dashboard and he wondered how long it would take for the abyss to swallow him, or if already had.
Thank you, Nick!