The Angel of Darkness - Caleb Carr [6]
Speaking of that miserable place, I might as well get one thing straight right now, being as it may make a few other things clearer as we go along. Some of you might’ve read in the papers that I near killed a guard what tried to bugger me while I was confined on the island; and don’t think me coldhearted when I say that in some respects I still wish I had killed him, for he’d done the same to other boys and, I’m certain, went on doing it after my case was swept under the rug and he was reinstated. Maybe that makes me sound bitter, I don’t know; I wouldn’t like to think of myself as a bitter man. But I do find that the things what angered me as a boy still rankle all these years later. So if it seems that some of what I’ll have to say in the pages to come doesn’t reflect the mellowing of age, that’s only because I’ve never found that life and memories respond to time the way that tobacco does.
There was only one other room on the top floor of Dr. Kreizler’s residence, though for all the practical purposes of the household the chamber had long since ceased to exist. Removed from Cyrus’s and my rooms by its own short hallway, it was usually occupied by the maid of the house; but for a full year it had been uninhabited by any living soul. I say “by any living soul” because it was, in fact, still occupied by the few sad possessions and the even sadder memory of Mary Palmer, whose death during the Beecham case had broken the Doctor’s heart. Since that time we in the house had been served by a number of cooks and maids who came before breakfast and left after dinner, some of them capable, some of them downright disastrous; but neither Cyrus nor I ever complained about the turnover, for we had no more interest than the Doctor did in taking on somebody permanent. You see, the both of us—though in very different ways from the Doctor, of course—had loved Mary, too….
Anyway, at about eleven P.M. on that June 20th I was in my room attempting to read some of the lessons Dr. Kreizler had assigned to me for that week—exercises in numbers and readings in history—when I heard the front door downstairs close. I felt my body tense the way it always did and still does when I hear the sound of a door at night; and then, listening, I made out one heavy, strong set of footsteps on the blue-and-green Persian carpet of the stairway. I relaxed: Cyrus’s gait was as recognizable as the deep breathing and gentle humming that always accompanied it. I fell back onto my bed and held my book at arm’s length above me, knowing that my friend would soon poke his broad black head in to check on me and waiting for him to do so.
“Everything quiet, Stevie?” he asked when he reached my room, in that low rumble that was at once powerful and gentle.
I nodded, then looked over at him. “He’s staying at the Institute, I guess.”
Cyrus returned my nod. “His last night for a while. Wants to make use of what time he’s got…” There was a quiet, worried pause, and then Cyrus yawned. “Don’t be up too late, now—he wants you to fetch him in the morning. I brought the barouche back—you’ll want to take the calash and give one of the horses a rest.”
“Right.”
Then I heard those heavy feet and legs lumber off toward the back of the house and the sound of Cyrus’s door closing. I set my book down and took to staring blankly, first at the simple blue-and-white-striped wallpaper around me, then at the small dormered window at the foot of my bed, out of which I could see the rustling, leafy tops of the trees in Stuyvesant Park across the street.
It didn’t make any more sense to me then than it does now, how life can pile troubles up on a man what don’t deserve them, while letting some of the biggest jackasses and scoundrels alive waltz their way through long, untroubled existences. I could see the Doctor at that moment clear as if I was standing next to him down at the Institute (that being the Kreizler Institute for Children on East Broadway): he’d long since have made sure the kids were all bedded down safe, as well as given late-night