Secret of the Wolf (26 page)

Once he'd returned to his own room, she gave up all pretense of examining her notes

and let the disordered tide of her thoughts wash through her
.

She should be glad. Today Quentin had made definite progress—exceptional, in fact.

She was now convinced that the delusions he suffered must arise out of his childhood
.

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But the complications of his condition only grew more formidable with every new

discovery. She'd underestimated the extent of his illness. He'd illustrated his claims of

lycanthropy by becoming someone—something—who possessed the ruthless ferocity

of a wild beast, a barbarous taste for tyranny
.

Yet there'd been the child: innocent, abused, begging for help. And the man she'd come

to know, who so willingly gave of himself
.

Where was the real Quentin? Which one was the man she had sworn to cure?

An unfamiliar thread of panic lurked inside her—the very real fear that she wouldn't be

able to handle his case
.

She had been too careless. What if he should turn truly violent and threaten the others?

What if she were forced to remand his care to someone else, at a facility where he

could be restrained

Sickness filled her throat. Yes, she might betray him—to people who knew nothing of

the work she and her father had done, who'd put his sanity in even greater jeopardy with

their ignorance and primitive treatments
.

She would not trust any traditional asylum with Quentin Forster. He mattered too much.

As all her patients mattered. Until she had no other option, she would continue to treat

him as best she knew how
.

That best must be better than she'd ever done before. The time would come when she'd

have to be honest with Quentin about the dangers of his condition. As soon as she had

enough information to devise a theory, and explain

"I must speak with you, Miss Schell.”

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Lewis walked into the room, moving very much like a man with an important secret he

was half-afraid to reveal, but determined nevertheless to do his duty. His chin jerked up

and down several times as he came to a halt before her desk
.

"I must speak with you, Miss Schell," he said again
.

"What is it, Lewis?" she asked. "You seem concerned.”

He shuffled from foot to foot. Johanna noted the sweat beading his brow, and the fact

that the long hair he kept so meticulously combed over his balding head hung loose and

unkempt
.

"I am concerned—most concerned," he said quickly. "I tell you this only to protect us all

from evil." He would not meet her eyes. "You must believe me.”

"Please, sit down—" she began, but he shook his head
.

"That man—Quentin Forster—I saw him in the woods this morning.”

She came fully alert. "Did you?”

"Yes. I saw him—" He swallowed. "He was

unclothed.”

Johanna bit back a wild laugh. Lewis's sense of righteousness would find such a thing

appalling, though that begged the question of why Quentin would be

Unclothed. She shivered. "Mr. Forster was in the woods, not wearing his clothing?”

"It's worse. Much worse." He closed his eyes. "He

undressed, and then I saw him

I

saw him

”

"You may confide in me, Lewis.”

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He gulped. "I saw him change

into a wolf.”

Mein Gott. At last Johanna remembered to breathe. "You saw Quentin turn into a wolf?”

"Yes. I'm not insane. I saw it with my own eyes." He clutched at the lapels of his coat.

"Evil. He must be evil. The devil's work—”

Johanna stood, pressing her hands flat against the desk to quell her unsteadiness. How

was it possible that Lewis had been pulled into Quentin's unconscious delusion of

lycanthropy, when he could have no knowledge of it? When Quentin himself spoke of it

only under hypnosis?

"Quentin is not evil, Lewis," she said. "I do not disbelieve you, but perhaps there is

some other explanation for what you saw.”

"No. I know what it was.”

"A dog—”

"No!" He lifted his chin and met her gaze. "I know I have not always been well. But this

was no hallucination. We are all in terrible danger.”

Johanna found herself bereft of answers. Lewis was not one to fabricate tales, like

Irene. Had Quentin indeed been running naked in the woods? Had he gone down on all

fours and howled and behaved in such a way to persuade Lewis that he had turned into

a wolf? If so, she had seriously failed in her work on behalf of both men
.

A werewolf would be an unmistakable symbol of the demonic to one such as Lewis.

Sin—his own and the world's—was one of his great obsessions. One she'd hoped was

diminishing
.

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As she'd hoped the worst of Quentin's illness had been revealed
.

"If there is evil, we will deal with it," she said, summoning all her calm. "You must trust

me, Lewis. Wickedness has no power over us if we keep our minds clear.”

His bony, austere face was filled with the desire to believe her. "I had to tell you. To

warn you. We can still cast him out.”

"Give me a little time to observe and determine the safest course. I am not without

resources. Do you think you can go to your room and rest, now that you've shared this

with me?”

He wrung his gloved hands. "You will call me if you need my help? I know of the

greatest iniquities—" She saw the start of tears in his eyes. "Do not trust him, Miss

Schell.”

"I promise to take no chances." She walked ahead of him and opened the door. He

went meekly enough to his room, though his gaze darted about the hall until he was

safely behind the door
.

Alone, Johanna loosened the tight rein on her emotions. She paced the length of her

office and back again several times, consulting her father's pocket watch at the final

turn. Bridget should have been here hours ago; it was already after lunch. The patients

must be fed
.

And she'd have to call for Quentin again, no matter how much he'd so recently suffered
.

The kitchen door swung open, its creaking audible across the house. Mrs. Daugherty, at

last. Johanna went to meet her
.

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"Sorry I'm late," Mrs. Daugherty said. "M' grandson had the colic and my daughter

needed a bit of help." She squinted at Johanna. "You seem a might peaked. That Irene

been givin' you trouble?”

"No, not at all." Irene, in fact, had been exceptionally furtive over the past few days.

"Thank you for your concern. Can you prepare luncheon? I am behind today.”

"'Course. Just send 'em all out and I'll take care of 'em." She began to roll up her

sleeves and paused, pursing her lips. "Before I forget, I have a message for you." She

rummaged in her skirt pocket. "Here you are.”

Johanna took the slightly damp envelope from Mrs. Daugherty's blunt fingers. "A

message? From whom?”

"Young feller in town—a doctor, like you." She winked. "A right handsome one, at that.”

A doctor? Johanna turned the envelope over. Her name was written out in an elegant

hand, but the sender remained anonymous. "Did he give his name?”

"I can't rightly recall. It was some foreign name, at that. Something with a 'B.' But he

was quite the gentleman. Said he'd heard of you and wanted to

'consult with you.'

Yes, that was the word." She grinned. "I'd best get to work while you go read your

letter.”

A doctor. A foreign doctor, who wished to consult with her. She hadn't realized that

anyone outside the valley knew of her work; she hadn't had time to write papers or

attend more than a handful of lectures, let alone speak at length with her peers—if any

of them would regard her as such. Few would likely remember her father after three

years and a move across the country, in spite of his controversial papers and reputation

as an eccentric
.

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Her mind crowded with speculation, Johanna hurried back to her office and opened the

envelope. The stationery was lightly scented, but the writing was indubitably masculine,

it was addressed to Doctor Johanna Schell
.

"Dear Dr. Schell," it began. "I hope that you will grant me the honor and privilege of

introducing myself to you: Feodor Bolkonsky, doctor of Neurology from the University of

Berlin. I have recently had the great pleasure of becoming acquainted with the theories

of your father, Dr. Wilhelm Schell, and your own work in the field of treatment of the

insane. I am currently residing in the Silverado Springs Hotel, and would be most

grateful if—”

Johanna finished the letter at breakneck speed and then read it through more slowly
.

Dr. Feodor Bolkonsky. She'd never heard of him, but that was no surprise. Her life here

had been meaningful but insular, set far apart from those theorists and physicians and

asylum superintendents whose work was garnering recognition in the rest of the country

and abroad
.

This Dr. Bolkonsky knew of her. He knew she was a woman, and obviously didn't care.

He was not only familiar with the Schells' practice, but had made the effort to find and

read her father's scarce papers and was aware that she was carrying on in the wake of

Wilhelm Schell's disability
.

He wanted her to come into Silverado Springs to dine with him and review the hypnotic

treatment that he himself had begun to explore, comparing his experiences with her

own. And he asked as humbly as any student
.

Only minutes ago she'd been mourning the lack of physicians who shared her ideas and

passion for real cures of insanity. And here, as if sent by fate, was a man who might not

only understand, but could conceivably provide her with advice in treating Quentin.

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Perhaps he, himself, was capable of taking on Quentin's care should she find her

situation too

Overwhelming, Johanna? When before have you turned coward, simply because a case

became difficult?

And when, she answered herself, was it ever so personal?

She carefully refolded the letter and tucked it back in its envelope. She took a number of

deep, rhythmic breaths to calm the too-rapid pace of her heartbeat. The prospect of

losing Quentin to another doctor was a matter of professional necessity, not of personal

needs. It might very well be in his best interest
.

If it were possible at all
.

"Sufficient to the day," Johanna thought. And today she must continue to present a

tranquil and competent face to the rest of the patients. She went to the dining room to

join the others for luncheon
.

Half the Haven's residents were sitting down to lunch in their usual places. Neither

Quentin nor Lewis was present. Harper had taken Lewis's chair, his hair neatly combed

and his beard trimmed
.

Irene's eyes gleamed with satisfaction, as if she harbored glorious secrets she delighted

in concealing. Her attitude was markedly changed from her brooding conduct earlier in

the week. May stood in the kitchen doorway, looking for Quentin. When she didn't see

him, she grabbed a sandwich from a plate on the table and ran outside
.

Johanna drew Mrs. Daugherty aside. "Do you think it might be possible for you to come

back tomorrow and bring another girl from town? I have an appointment in the Springs

and may be gone half the day and into the evening.”

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Mrs. Daugherty cocked her head. "Well, I do know of a girl or two who could use the

work, if I can convince 'em not to be scairt. How much could you pay?”

Bless the woman for her bluntness. "If the girl is satisfactory and is willing to help you

see to the patients, I'll abide with whatever you think is fair.”

"Just the way you did when I first came here," Mrs. Daugherty said. "It's a good thing I'm

an honest woman!”

"We couldn't get along without you. Do you think that you could go back into town this

afternoon and let me know by dinnertime if you've found someone?”

"Don't see why not. If I have help, I can do all the washing tomorrow.”

"Excellent.”

"It's that doctor, ain't it?" Mrs. Daugherty asked. "The one who sent you the letter.