By Starlight Page 8

  “There’s water boiling on the stove,” she said.

  “Good.” Dr. Quayle nodded as he began unbuttoning Ross’s shirt; there, just above his belt, was a strange, bloated mass.

  “What else do you need me to do?” Jack asked.

  “Have you ever assisted with a surgery?”

  “No, I haven’t…,” he answered.

  “Then there’s nothing more you can do to help,” the doctor said, wiping down Ross’s stomach with alcohol. “You’ll need to wait outside.”

  “I can help,” Jack determinedly insisted.

  Truthfully, Jack had no idea why he was being so adamant. As a lawman, he relished being involved, being undercover with the mission’s success resting in his hands. He wanted to be there, in the middle of things. He wasn’t used to sitting helplessly by while someone else did all the work.

  “You might not be the squeamish type,” Dr. Quayle said sternly, staring at Jack with a look that said he wasn’t in the mood for any argument, “but what’s about to happen in this room is unlike anything you’ve ever seen. Far stronger men than you have found themselves on the floor. The last thing I need is for you to become incapable of doing what I ask. It isn’t worth the risk.”

  “Come on, Jack,” Mrs. Benoit said, tugging lightly at his sleeve. “You can help me with the water.”

  For a moment Jack thought about arguing further, but any delay could cost Ross his life, and that was a price that wasn’t worth paying. Jack would do as he was asked. But just as he reached the door, he turned back.

  “Is he going to be all right?” Jack asked.

  The severe look on Dr. Quayle’s face softened a bit, though his eyes remained grim. “I’ll do the best I can,” he said, “but even in the best of circumstances, his condition is serious. It’s likely that he’s going to die.”

  Jack’s heart thudded hard in his chest, but he managed to nod. Taking a long look at Ross, maybe for the last time, he left the doctor to his task.

  Jack walked up one side of the hotel hallway, turned on his heel, and made his way back down the other. Over and over, he paced the same path, his head down, watching his feet. All the while, his hands roamed: clenched in a fist at his side, then stuffed into one of his pockets, rubbing at the back of his neck, finally heading somewhere else, always moving. Ever since Ross collapsed, Jack couldn’t stay still.

  Four hours had passed since Dr. Quayle had shut Jack and Virginia Benoit out of the room so that he could operate on Ross. The only time the door had opened since was so that Virginia could bring in fresh water and clean towels. She’d offered to let Jack bring a batch, to check on his companion, but he’d declined. It wasn’t that he couldn’t stand the sight of blood but rather because he knew himself too well; once inside the room, he’d insist on helping, on doing something other than walking the hallway, even though he knew the doctor was right, that he’d only be in the way. That sort of dickering could cost Ross his life.

  So instead, Jack paced.

  Outside the Belvedere, the day had slowly descended toward night. The summer sun steadily dropped toward the western horizon, deepening the shadows across Colton. But to Jack, time felt as if it were standing still, that only minutes had passed since he’d driven the Plymouth into town, before everything had changed.

  Jack hated to think what would happen if Ross were to die. There’d be a telephone call to Lieutenant Pluggett, a formal inquiry by the Bureau, to say nothing about the end of Jack’s investigation. Without learning who was responsible for the illegal liquor ring, he wouldn’t be any closer to a promotion, to getting a chance to chase Capone.

  Suddenly, Jack was struck by the realization that, if Dr. Quayle was unable to save Ross, not everything would end badly; if he had to leave Colton quickly, there wasn’t any chance of his running into Maddy. As soon as the thought occurred to him, he flushed with shame. His problems were nothing compared to what his fellow agent was going through. To think otherwise was horrible.

  How can I be so damn selfish?

  Even though Ross had driven Jack half-mad with all his complaining during their long drive, he knew next to nothing about the man. Did he have a wife who loved him, children who depended on him, any family that he would’ve wanted to be contacted? The man was a mystery. In a way, he and Ross had that in common; if they were to trade places, if Jack was the one lying unconscious on the hotel room bed, knocking on death’s door, everyone in town would claim to know him, but, just like Ross, no one truly would, not anymore.

  “Did you hear me, Jack?”

  Lost so deeply in his troubled thoughts, Jack was startled by the sudden sound of a voice. He looked up to see Virginia standing before the makeshift operating room with another pail of steaming water.

  “I’m s-s-orry…,” he stumbled. “I—”

  “Now don’t you worry none.” She smiled. “Doc Quayle’ll see him through, just you mark my words.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he answered weakly.

  “You need to have more faith than that,” she admonished him. “Besides, I have the feelin’ that Lady Luck is smilin’ down on that man.”

  Jack managed to stifle his wince; the last thing he wanted to hear about was luck.

  As soon as Virginia shut the door behind her, Jack resumed his pacing, absently tugging at one of his shirt cuffs.

  The moon had already started to rise, the last oranges and purples of the day desperately clinging to the western horizon, when Dr. Quayle finally came out of the hotel room. His face was drawn and haggard, his eyes filled with a deep fatigue. Taking off his round, wire-rimmed glasses, he wiped each lens with a handkerchief before placing them in his shirt pocket. When he finally looked up at Jack and Virginia, both of them staring at him expectantly, he gave the slightest wisp of a smile.

  “Is he going to make it?” Jack asked, allowing himself a bit of hope.

  “Honestly, it’s a miracle he hasn’t died yet,” the doctor answered. “Nineteen men out of twenty, maybe even worse odds than that, he’d already be at the undertaker’s getting fitted for a casket and a plot in the cemetery. But somehow, someway, he’s still among the living.”

  “I told you to have some faith!” Virginia elated.

  “If you’re saying Ross should be dead,” Jack said, unable to share in her enthusiasm, “then what happened?”

  “Most every time an appendix ruptures, it spews the poisonous bile swimming around in each of us into the rest of the body,” Dr. Quayle explained. With a soft sigh, he lowered himself into a chair beside the staircase. “When that happens, death is almost always sure and painful.

  “But every once in a great while, the body does something miraculous. Sometimes it walls off the rupture,” he said, demonstrating with his hands, “keeping an infection from spreading like a dike holding back floodwaters.”

  “And that’s what happened?” Jack asked.

  The doctor nodded. “I had to be especially careful to keep from accidentally damaging the wall, but once I’d cleaned away the bile, removed what I could, and then stitched him up, it held.”

  “Then he’s out of danger.” Mrs. Benoit smiled.

  “Far from it,” Dr. Quayle disagreed.

  “But you just said that everything went well!”

  “With the initial surgery,” the doctor explained, “but that doesn’t mean he’s out of the woods just yet.”

  “What else could go wrong?” Jack asked.

  “Because his body has walled off the infection from his appendix, I’ve had to place a couple of drains around the wound. This gives whatever bile and excess bleeding that remained inside a way out, but it also increases the chance of infection. The drains will have to be checked for blockages and his stitches will need to be cleaned regularly. He’s going to need constant care.”

  “Who’s gonna be givin’ it to him?” Virginia asked.

  “We’ll all have to do our part.”

  “I ain’t got time to be traipsin’ over to your office,
Doc.” She shook her head. “I’ve got me a hotel to run right here.”

  “Good,” he replied, “because he’s staying here.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Mrs. Benoit groaned.

  “Now, Virginia…”

  Even as the two of them began arguing about the hotel being turned into a makeshift hospital, Jack thought about how much Ross’s condition would change what he’d been sent to Colton to do. If he was forced to spend a lot of time caring for his stricken partner, how could he possibly accomplish what the Bureau sent him to do? But what other choice did he have?

  “If he recovers,” Jack said, cutting off one of Virginia’s complaints in mid-sentence, “how long will it take?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Dr. Quayle answered, “but I’d expect him to be in bed for at least a couple of weeks, if not longer.”

  “A couple of weeks!” Mrs. Benoit shouted. “How can I run a hotel if I’m nursin’ him for that long!”

  “Now, Virginia…,” the doctor repeated.

  Jack never would have said it out loud, but he was every bit as shocked as Mrs. Benoit. When Lieutenant Pluggett had first given them the assignment, the expectation was that they’d be in Montana for a couple of days, a week at most, just long enough for the famous “Rucker luck” to find out who was behind the illegal liquor. Now it appeared he was trapped in Colton.

  Even if he called the Bureau and explained what had happened, he couldn’t expect any help. As long as Ross’s condition didn’t deteriorate further, if it appeared he would recover, no one would come to assist Jack; if a doctor was sent, it would blow their carefully constructed cover, any chance of making an arrest, to say nothing of Jack’s hope of advancing his career.

  He was on his own.

  Chapter Eight

  WHY, HOLMES! However did you know that Count Macalister was responsible for poisoning Baroness Piper’s champagne? His alibi was unquestionable! Gallivanting around with the King’s second cousin as he was!”

  “It was elementary, my dear Watson—”

  “Indeed!”

  “And thus, our dear listeners, ends another spine-tingling adventure of the intrepid Sherlock Holmes! We here at the National Broadcasting Company, joined by our good friends at George Washington Coffee, hope that you’ll tune in next week, when our legendary sleuth matches wits with—”

  Silas Aldridge leaned over and turned down the volume of the radio, wincing from the effort. When he leaned back in his chair, he began to rub gingerly at the ache that had risen in his wrist. Regardless, a smile widened on his face as he looked at his older daughter.

  “That sure was one heck of a radio show,” he said enthusiastically. “Didn’t you think so?”

  Maddy nodded. “One of the best ones yet,” she answered.

  The truth was, sitting in the other chair in her father’s bedroom, she hadn’t been paying much attention. Her mind had been elsewhere, mostly on the mercantile’s ledgers that she’d balanced that afternoon. Her worst fears had been realized; if it weren’t for the extra money coming in from the speakeasy, the business would be in debt. Jeffers had been right, she’d needed the money he offered to continue taking care of her father and sister, but the shame she now felt at her own failings was nearly more than she could bear.

  “Is something bothering you, Maddy?” her father asked, more observant than she gave him credit for.

  “No, no, I’m fine,” she lied, offering a faint smile.

  Silas regarded her closely; try as she might, she couldn’t hold his eyes for long, choosing instead to look down at her hands, restless in her lap. For a moment, an awkward silence hung in the room between them.

  When her father finally spoke, his voice was soft and his words genuine. “I’m sorry I’ve brought you so much trouble.”

  “It’s not like that,” Maddy began to argue. “I’ve never—”

  “Don’t interrupt me,” Silas cut her off, his voice suddenly full of the authority she remembered from when she was a child. “I’m an old man now and have earned the right to have my say. Hell, my voice is one of the few parts of me that hasn’t completely broken down, so by God, I’m going to use it.”

  Maddy nodded.

  Silas took a deep breath. “I know I’ve been a burden to you and your sister,” he began. “The damn arthritis has taken a lot of things from me, but it hasn’t taken my eyes. You shouldn’t have to be running the mercantile and spending your nights caring for me, listening to radio shows. You should’ve been married by now, maybe had a couple of kids. I know this isn’t what you were hoping your life would be.”

  Maddy felt tears start to well in her eyes, but she did everything she could to stop them from falling. She wanted to tell him he was wrong, to contradict him, but doing so would have made her a liar.

  This wasn’t what I was hoping for at all.

  But that didn’t mean she wasn’t proud of what she’d done. If she’d abandoned her father to his illness, if she’d put the burden of his care on Helen, she couldn’t have looked at herself in the mirror. What she’d done she’d chosen willingly; it was how she’d been raised.

  Unfortunately, that decision had come with its share of consequences.

  “Still,” her father continued, “as bad as things might’ve turned out, I’m glad you’re not married to that worthless fool Jack Rucker!”

  Maddy winced as if she’d been pinched at the mention of Jack’s name. Undoubtedly, her reaction was made worse because she’d just been thinking about him only the night before, watching Mike and Anne show their affection in the speakeasy. Still, she really shouldn’t have been surprised.

  Her father had always hated Jack.

  While Maddy had been interested in Jack from the first time she’d seen him, her father’s reaction had been just as immediate; he despised the boy from the first time they met. For years, Maddy had struggled to understand why. She wondered if it was because Jack’s family came from old money while Silas had to struggle for every cent, if the boy’s self-confidence came off as cockiness, or if Silas simply hated the idea of someone replacing him in his daughter’s heart.

  Once, she’d managed to work up the courage to ask.

  “There’re just things a father knows that his daughter can’t,” Silas had explained. “And this is one of them!”

  Things had worsened after the death of Maddy’s mother. In the days after Jack had held Maddy on the bridge, after they’d finally declared their love for each other, Silas suddenly became enraged at every mention of Jack’s name. Silas had even gone so far as to tell Maddy she was no longer to spend time in Jack’s company. Once, Silas had threatened to get his gun. But instead of abiding by her father’s wishes, Maddy took to sneaking out in the middle of the night.

  But then Jack had left and she’d never heard from him again.

  Maddy had been surprised that her father hadn’t gloated when Jack abandoned her, at least not too much. She supposed it was because it had been clear, even to Silas, that she was devastated. Before he fell ill, there was an occasional snide comment here and there, but he seemed more concerned about her sadness than proving his point.

  “I can only imagine what that heartless son of a bitch is doing right now,” her father continued. “As horrible as he was to you, I imagine he’s being paid back in full even as we speak! He probably never amounted to a hill of beans and is living in a cesspool! I know you don’t want to hear it, Maddy, but you’re better off without him, I can tell you that!”

  Earlier Maddy had wanted to interrupt her father, but now she found herself speechless. There was much of her that agreed she was better off now, but there was still a part of her heart that belonged to Jack, that would always be his, and right then, as she listened to her father’s hard words, it ached.

  “Come on, Maddy! Let me go tonight! Please…”

  Maddy finished the last of her water, set her glass beside the sink, and took a deep breath before looking at her sister.

  Helen was dres
sed for a night out on the town. She wore a slightly outdated flapper dress, cream colored and sleeveless, with a deep, revealing neckline, stockings, and high heels. Her short black hair had been pulled back to one side, pinned up with a jeweled brooch that sparkled in the light of the kitchen. Maddy recognized the look; her sister had shown it to her again and again in the yellowing pages of her romance magazine. She stood next to the stove, her arms nervously crossing and uncrossing over her chest, her face hopeful, waiting for an answer. Helen looked just exactly like what she was: a young woman, scarcely more than a girl, trying desperately to be older.

  Ever since Maddy agreed to let Jeffers start a speakeasy in the mercantile’s basement, Helen had been pestering her to go. She imagined that it was glamorous, filled with drinking, smoking, and flirting with men, a night doing all the things she’d spent her whole life being told not to do. To Helen, every evening Maddy went to the illegal tavern was straight out of Hollywood or the ridiculous love stories she loved so much.

  But Maddy had always said no.

  “I’m good with customers in the store, so there’s no reason to think I couldn’t help out behind the bar,” Helen kept on, pleading her case. “Or if not that, I could always clear tables, wash glasses, take drinks to people, whatever you needed me to do. I’d even sweep the floor when we closed.”

  “You don’t look like you’re dressed to do much work,” Maddy said.

  Looking down at her clothes, Helen gave a dismissive laugh. “Well, you can’t expect me to work the whole time I’m there, can you?”

  Maddy knew it would be easy to give in. She was tired from all the troubles at the mercantile, her days followed by too many long evenings spent behind the speakeasy’s bar, and that was before she’d listened to her father’s despising words about Jack, which made her heart a topsy-turvy mess. Because of all of that, the last thing she wanted was to have to watch Mike and Anne, or any other couple, make eyes at each other all night. What she really wanted to do was put her head on her pillow and go to sleep.