Lancer 15: Runs in the Family
Mrs. Hodges answered the door, apologizing because he husband was upstairs giving Mr. Garrett his medicine. She must have thought the men had gone mad. Like a hunting pack in full cry, they roared up the stairs in bounds and leaps.
Johnny had the edge in reflexes and youth. He was first into Harlan's room, hitting Hodges at full tilt and forcing the surprised butler back against the wall, away from the patient. The bottle of pills was open in Hodges' hand. It was a tribute to his training, that he didn't spill a one.
Harlan's astounded bellow was cut off by the other four men slamming into the rebounding door and bursting into the room. Realizing the constables wouldn't be part of any frivolity, Harlan shut his mouth.
The doctor demanded, "Did you take any of those pills?"
"Not yet," Harlan replied curtly. "Why?"
"There's something we have to check," Powers said evasively. It was, after all, only a theory. And there were laws against slander.
MacGregor extended his hand for the pills. With a glance at his employer, the butler meekly handed them over.
The doctor studied a pill, then sniffed it. A puzzled look crossed his face. Cautiously he touched the tip of his tongue to the pill, and the puzzlement was replaced by perplexity.
He set the pill on the dressing table and smashed it angrily with the bottom of the bottle. He tasted the powder and confirmed his perplexity.
"Placebo!" he said in a strangled voice.
"Huh?" Johnny asked politely.
"Sugar, just sugar pills!:
"Not poison?" Wes asked in some disappointment. It may have been just a theory, but it had been an attractive one.
"Poison!" Hodges gasped.
At the door, Mrs. Hodges squeaked in alarm. (She had dared to follow the madmen up the stairs.)
"No, not poison, constable," MacGregor said. "But why would a doctor give a sick man sugar pills?"
"Wait a minute, weren't there two kinds of pills?" Wes demanded. He had heard Fraser instructions to Hodges.
"Yes sir, we alternate …." Hodges reached for a second bottle, but Dr. MacGregor pounced first.
He looked at the label and was surprised again.
"Digitalis," he read. He examined the pills carefully. "Digitalis," he agreed.
"Damn!" Powers cursed.
"Why?" asked the doctor in mild surprise.
"Digitalis is a medicine for the heart, isn't it?" Powers said. "It's just what it's supposed to be."
"Oh, no. No, it's not," the doctor said. "But I supposed that's what he counted on." MacGregor turned to Harlan. "Symptoms: rapid, irregular heartbeat, nausea, headache, trembling."
Harlan was trembling — with fury! He nodded at MacGregor's list, too angry to speak. MacGregor returned the nod.
"All the symptoms of digitalis poisoning," he said to the group. "Digitalis is used to treat weak, sluggish hearts, because it strengthens and speeds up the heartbeat. Give enough of it to a healthy person, and the heart will go into spasms — and stop." He looked at Harlan with his doctor's eye. "I'd say he's been giving you just enough to keep you bedridden."
"No wonder you've been feeling stronger since Scott was shot," Johnny said, as he wandered toward the window.
"Couldn't have you dying first. It would have spoiled everything," Murdoch agreed. "But if Scott had been killed outright, who would have been surprised that his already ill grandfather had a heart attack in his grief and shock."
Johnny laughed suddenly, without mirth. The others stared at him.
"When we first got here, Fraser told Scott Harlan only had a few months to live," Johnny explained. "Scott said he'd never say that unless he was sure."
"Like predicting the Christmas goose won't see the new year," Wes said sardonically.
"You mean I've been poisoning myself!" Harlan exploded in outrage, then, he paused. "And what's this got to do with Scott getting shot?" he asked with quick intelligence.
As the others explained, Johnny's eye was caught by something outside the window. In the gathering dusk, a cab stopped across the street. A man carrying a small, leather bag got out and walked straight toward Harlan's house. The cab horses stomped and shook their harness into a more comfortable position. The driver folded his arms and settled to wait.
The passenger crossed the street. As he stepped under a gas lamp, he looked up at Harlan's window. Johnny stepped back, out of sight.
"I'd like to give that Hippocratic hypocrite a piece of my mind," Harlan snarled, sounding more like his old self every second.
"Looks like you're going to get the chance," Johnny said with pleasure. "A cab just pulled up outside and guess who got out?"
"The doctor said he'd come by tonight, sir," Hodges told Powers.
"He says a lot of things," Powers replied. "Let's see if he'll talk as freely to us."
Hodges received his instructions and dashed downstairs in time to chase Estelle away from the door. The doorbell rang again as Hodges straightened his clothes, brushed back his hair, and opened the door, the perfect, straight-faced, deadpan butler.
"Good evening, doctor," he said, taking the poisoner's hat. "Mr. Garrett has been asking for you," he added with absolute truth.
Fraser bustled self-importantly into Harlan's bedroom. He stopped dead, two paces inside, when he saw the reception committee assembled to greet him.
Harlan sat upright in the bed, glaring at the young doctor. Toying with the telltale bottle of pills, MacGregor eyed his colleague dispassionately, as if he was a loathsome, but common, disease. Powers' cold grin cried "Eureka!" and Murdoch's hand rested ominously on his holstered gun.
Fraser took an involuntary step backward, and heard the door shut behind him. He shied around and found himself facing the two young men.
Wes looked grim and ready for battle, but Johnny's grin looked almost cheerful, until Fraser saw his icy eyes.
The doctor shuddered, dropped his bag and held out empty hands.
"Too bad," Johnny said with real regret.
Fraser's sense of self-preservation recovered from its shock.
"Wha…" He swallowed a stutter. "What's going on? What's wrong?"
"Your questions are too slow and too late," Powers said, moving forward to take the doctor's elbow to usher him downstairs. "You're under arrest for attempted murder and conspiracy to commit murder."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Fraser tried to bluster. He was sweating.
"Now, doctor," MacGregor admonished. "There are any number of people who can testify to Mr. Garrett's symptoms and any number of doctors who can testify that you don't give digitalis to a man in that condition." MacGregor stepped nose to nose with Fraser. "Even if you somehow evade the weight of the law," he growled. "I will personally see that you lose your license and are never allowed to practice medicine again!"
Fraser went white. Powers saw it with satisfaction. He decided to let the doctor stew.
"Come on, doctor," he said. "We'll talk about this at headquarters."
The constables flanked Fraser in the constables' carriage. Murdoch and MacGregor studied him from across the coach. Johnny chose to avoid the press, climbing up beside the driver.
As he settled himself, he saw Fraser's cab driver flick his horse into motion. Johnny idly watched the cab head down the deserted street and turn toward Worcester Square.
There was something odd about that, said a small voice at the back of Johnny's mind.
The thought jarred loose as the constabulary driver brought his team to life. Johnny made a grab for balance as they headed in the opposite direction, back toward town and the jail.
As they jogged toward town, Johnny wondered why he didn't feel happier. They had Fraser, and he wasn't tough enough to stand up to intense questioning. Pretty soon he'd give the constables his confederate and then it would be over.
But satisfaction eluded Johnny. Part of the problem, he realized, was that the confederate was still at large, because the confederate was obviously the more dangerous of the two. Fraser had not been present to shoot Scott, and he couldn't have given Harlan the first dose of digitalis, either. That had to be someone in the family. All Fraser had done was keep the old man sick while posing as a healer. Someone else had made the active attempts to commit murder.
There it was again. Johnny shook his head to stop the faint bell from ringing.
He knew, he knew, that he ought to know who the ambusher was. Somewhere in all the stories Scott had told him he had the answer. But he'd met too many people, learned too many facts, too fast. The trauma of the past week had left it all jumbled in his mind.
He cudgeled his mind for the information, but nothing popped out.
Not for the first time, Johnny Lancer regretted a childhood spent learning to act without thinking.
'If the killer gets away because I'm too stupid to remember what I've been told; then I'm going to learn how to think, if I have to go back to grade school to do it,' Johnny vowed to himself.
He sighed audibly.
The driver misjudged the direction of his thoughts.
"It's a beautiful night for a drive," he agreed.
Drawn out of his introspection, Johnny looked around and found himself in accord. Moonlight turned the peaceful streets to pebbled silver. The stars sparkled in a cloudless sky. The scent of flowers and greenery filled the brisk spring night.
Johnny pulled his jacket closer against the wind.
"Beautiful," he affirmed. "But you must have been cold all that time you waited for us."
Johnny stopped, jaw open, never hearing the driver's denial.
"Waiting," Johnny murmured. "Waiting. The cab was waiting. But it didn't … wait! Stop the coach!" he shouted to the startled driver. "Stop it!"
Johnny leaped off the still moving coach, forcing the driver to rein in abruptly, out of fear of running over his passenger. Johnny bounded to the steps, snatched open the door and reached in as the passengers recovered from the sudden stop.
Johnny caught Fraser by the front of his coat and threw himself backwards, dragging the larger man from the carriage. The weight of the doctor carried them both to the ground, but Johnny was on top when they rolled to a stop in the gutter.
"Who was in the cab?" he demanded, shaking Fraser by the throat. "Who!"
Powers tried to drag Johnny away, but the young man fought him off. Murdoch, who knew his son better, held the constables back.
"Johnny! What's wrong?" Murdoch shouted.
"The cab that brought him to Harlan's was waiting for him." With scarcely leashed fury, Johnny shoved Fraser's head against the ground to emphasize each point. "But when we left, it left! The driver hadn't been dismissed! He hadn't been paid! And he headed toward Worcester Square — toward the hospital!" Johnny pulled Fraser up by the lapels and snarled into his face. "They're going after Scott again, aren't they? Who is it, Fraser? Who's in that cab?"
"No. No, she wouldn't," Fraser stuttered.
Johnny dropped him.
"She?" Wes said in surprise.
"Caroline!" Johnny said with certainty.
Fear was cold in the pit of his stomach as he put together the facts he'd been trying to remember.
"She was there, always there, any time anything happened. She sent for Fraser to be Harlan's doctor. She could get Fraser to do anything she wanted, because he loves her. He's always loved her, Scott said. Now she's on her way to kill Scott."
"She wouldn't," Fraser protested. "Not now. It would be insane!"
Johnny thought about the way Caroline fawned over Scott, then shot him; the way she acted friendly toward Johnny, then framed him and shrieked hysterically that he was a murderer.
Damn it, she is crazy," he whispered. "She's as crazy as her grandfather. Come on, what are we waiting for?"
Johnny sprang to the driver's seat and snatched the reins. He slapped the team into motion, leaving the others to throw Fraser inside and scramble aboard as he turned the heavy coach. The horses caught the urgency of Johnny's demand and thundered toward the hospital.
Caroline felt a small regret at Fraser's capture. She knew her own capture would follow, but that didn't matter, as long as she completed her mission.
She had no doubt that Fraser would tell on her. He was so easily manipulated.
She had laughed behind his back to think that he seriously believed she would kill her dear, sweet Gerald in order to marry him. Garretts don't kill Garretts, as her grandfather always said.
Too bad Scott gave up being a Garrett. It would have saved a lot of trouble if he'd stayed dead in the war. But there was still time to remedy that. Grandfather would be so proud of her.
The cab stopped at Boston City Hospital. Caroline paid the driver and thanked him politely, before proceeding inside. She made a fetching picture in her floor-length, forest green skirt and matching fur trimmed jacket. She wore a dainty hat and tucked her hands into a fur muff.
Life for Scott had become a cycle of discomfort. Exhaustion had dragged him under. Pain prodded him awake again after less than two hours of sleep. His debated calling for assistance, but the pain was bearable as long as he didn't move. He lay as still as possible, thinking about Caroline.
He'd awakened with a clear memory of his semiconscious realization, that Caroline was the only Garrett that Fraser would risk his life to help. The discovery added mental pain to the physical.
Scott had always cared for Caroline. It hurt to think that she'd been willing to marry him and kill him, just for Harlan's money. Scott couldn't say it surprised him, however. Inbred cattle were weak, so were inbred people. Insanity ran in that branch of the family, anyway.
Caroline was what she was, because she was a Garrett three times over — which was two times too many.
Pained but not anxious, Scott waited for the Lancers or the constables to return. Though he knew he was a target, he wasn't worried, because he was certain he'd told the investigators about his discovery. Even if that was wrong — those last moments were awfully fuzzy — there was still a guard at his door.
But the guard was really only meant as a deterrent. He hadn't been introduced to the entire Garrett family. He didn't know them by sight.
When a lady walking past accidentally dropped her hat, it was only natural for him to pick it up …
Scott heard the thump as the guard's limp form banged the door on his way down.
Drowsily, the patient opened his eyes and watched the door swing open. Caroline stood there, regarding him impassively.
The sudden rush of adrenalin banished Scott's pain and cleared his head. Nothing showed on his expression, however.
"Caroline," he said.
"Good-bye, Scott," she replied.
Casually, she raised a dueling pistol and fired. If she expected Scott to be frozen in shock, she was wrong. Trained reflexes, honed by his years in the wild West, threw him off the bed as the bullet blew the pillow into feathered oblivion.
But the escape was costly.
Scott hit the floor with a force that drove breath and strength from a body flooded by shocking pain. His mind screamed, "Get up! Get out!" But his body wouldn't respond.
A warm wetness began to soak through his bandages, but he ignored it. With agonized effort he levered himself up and rolled onto his back, half under the bed.
Totally spent, he could only lie there, wheezing painfully, and watch as Caroline carefully reloaded her single-shot pistol. He didn't even have the breath to ask her why.
"I think my problem the first time was that used an unfamiliar pistol," Caroline said in a conversational tone. "So this time I chose daddy's target pistol. I won't miss with this."
The hospital had been awakened by the shot. Questioning voices called out and running feet pounded toward the room. Caroline didn't seem to hear a thing.
She straightened up and realized she couldn't get a clear shot at Scott with him half hidden under the bed.
With great deliberation, she walked around the bed, knelt at Scott's side, put his head gently in her lap and pressed the pistol to his temple.
Her thumb pulled the hammer back … and Johnny slid into the room, gun in hand. Murdoch and Wes filled the doorway behind him, guns ready.
They froze when they saw the tableau in front of them.
Caroline's thumb trembled on a hammer that wasn't cocked.
"Gentlemen," Caroline said clearly. "Have you ever heard of a dead man's switch?"
A dead man's switch — in locomotives, the engineer had to hold the switch down to keep the throttle open. If the switch was released, as would happen if the engineer dropped dead, the engine would immediately stop.
At the moment, the trigger of the dueling pistol was useless. It would not engage until the hammer was cocked. But the hammer itself would fire the pistol adequately. And the hammer was held back only by the pressure of Caroline's thumb.
If Caroline released the hammer, as would happen if she was shot dead, Scott's life would immediately stop.
"We understand," Murdoch told Caroline.
Johnny looked at the scene — at the blood on Scott's chest and the pain on his face — and the gunfighter in him took command. He let the cold wash through him, freezing all emotions solid. Emotions would only get in the way now.
Caroline instructed the men to put their weapons on the floor. As Powers and MacGregor lurked unseen in the hallway, angrily gesturing bystanders away, Wes and Murdoch complied with Caroline's order.
Hand as steady as a glacier, Johnny followed suit. He positioned the weapon carefully, then stepped back, positioning himself with equal care.
Murdoch saw the decision in his actions and knew there was no arguing with Johnny Madrid. Pulling Wes with him, Murdoch stepped away to give Johnny room for whatever he had in mind.
Scott also could see the frost in Johnny's eyes.
"Don't … kill …" he gasped.
Caroline laughed and caressed his temple with the gun barrel.
"Beg some more," she cooed. "I love to hear men beg."
Johnny knew the plea was meant for him. It didn't affect his plans, though. He calculated he only had one possible shot if he wanted to save his brother's life, and he could make that shot only if he got an opening. The chances were so slim they would have frightened him, if he had let his emotions out of their winter hibernation.
"Why don't you put your gun down, Mrs. Garrett," Wes coaxed. "You can't get away with it, now."
"Beg some more," Caroline said, as delighted as a child on Christmas morning.
"Give it up, Wes." Johnny grabbed the spotlight. "She's made up her mind to kill Scott no matter what. Don't you see? She's crazy. She had to be crazy to come here in the first place!"
"I am not crazy!" she said petulantly. "I have to kill him."
"Why?" Murdoch asked. "You won't gain anything by it."
"It's not for me. It never was. It was my duty as a Garrett, to keep the Garrett fortune from falling into the hands of outsiders."
"But Scott's a Garrett," Wes protested.
"Not any more," she said with finality. "He renounced us." She increased the pressure on the hammer. "And we renounce him!"
To be continued in the final chapter