Thomas worked faster over his uncle when something hard hit the floor, the noise turning everyone to it. At first it was assumed that Ransom had bullishly knocked over a lab dish or instrument, but then they saw the white bone near his feet. “Something out of the pile of clothes tossed on that shelf,” Ransom said, shrugging.
“It’s the other sabre-tooth… must’ve been in one of the pockets,” said Declan, going to it and lifting it. “I’m quite willing to bet it’s empty of pulp.”
“We’ve no time for teeth or games of chance now, Declan.” Thomas had kept working as if to stop at any point would end it for him. He’d determined to give no thought whatever that the final dissection was over his beloved uncle. He obviously had made up his mind to treat Fiore’s body as he might any shell rolled into the dissection theater here at the university complex at Mater Infirmorum.
Ransom thought how much a man Thomas had become this night. Meanwhile, Declan pocketed the tooth, saying, “Well it may come in handy later on when we have to explain ourselves, eh?”
After making the initial Y incision on his own uncle, then cracking the chest open, then watching the dank, dirty-brown liquid bubble up, Thomas had felt his entire body relax. He was thinking, ‘I love the work, despite everything’ when suddenly he stumbled back with a startled gasp. This caused Declan to drop a metal dish, creating a gunshot-like sound.
Ransom, certain he’d been fired on, had dropped to the floor as the noise reverberated about the operating theater. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“Membranous tissue… ah-ah where it doesn’t belong.” Thomas pointed his leather-gloved hand with scalpel at the open chest.
“Are those sacs?” asked Ransom, shaken. “Some sort of… eggs?”
“But miscarriages—all of them, deflated, ill-formed, and unfinished.” Thomas’s leather-gloved right hand and scalpel still pointed at his uncle’s splayed open body.
Declan cautiously made his way to the open cavity into which he now stared long and hard. “They’re not doing well these little fellows, but you’re correct, detective.”
“This is some strange sort of life form alien to us, and it’s trying to incubate here.” Thomas perspired and looked as if he might faint out. The damnable things’ve filled the chest and abdominal cavities.”
“Now we know where all the fluids in the host body have gone… into this effort at survival and growth.” The consummate scientist, Declan appeared positively glowing with the excitement of discovering a new life form.
“Each attempt within each human host appears to be coming closer to completing itself.” Declan looked at Ransom, adding, “Tuttle’s body is likely riddled with these… these things. We’ve got to find him, like I said, dead or alive, and maybe even quarantine that so-called unsinkable ship.”
“Sun’s up,” said Thomas who’d looked out the door leading to the small supply room they had entered through. “We’re running out of time. We need to get our story organized and records in order if we’re to convince the Dean and Dr. B.”
“We need more time,” complained Declan.
Ransom put his hat on, lifted his cane, and checked his pocket watch to see that it was indeed nearing 7AM. “Well lads, it has been an adventure. Best be gone before your professor shows up. What time does the professor normally arrive?”
“Eight sharp, ready to cut!” said Declan with an abrupt laugh, and the two young men shook their heads, Thomas slapping Declan on the arm. Ransom realized it was an inside joke they shared about their teacher, and this suspicion was solidified when Declan, fatigue-laden to begin with, began walking in an exaggerated manner, leather-gloved hands snapping at suspenders in mimicking Dr. Bellingham.
While Thomas bent over with laughter—a much needed balm now, Ransom smiled wide, envying the boys their bond of friendship when a sudden, loud pounding all around them silenced the trio, and with guns pointed, police slammed through doors on either side of the operating theater. Constable Ian Reahall entered shouting, “Take them all in—all three, Sergeant! Use your irons!”
Dr. Enoch Bellingham rushed in just behind Reahall, and he stared hard at his two students and asked, “What have you done here? How could you go against my wishes? The wishes of the Dean? To break your vows to me, to ignore our Queensland University code of conduct?”
“But sir!” began Declan.
“You may be interns but you are here at the hospital representing the kind of young men we bring up through Queensland!”
“But Dr. B-Bellingham,” pleaded Declan, “you must examine our findings!”
“We’ve made startling discoveries, sir,” added Thomas.
Dean Goodfriar rushed in now, looking as disheveled as Bellingham, as if both men had thrown on their clothes only moments before. “This is an outrage!” he shouted, looking from one dissected body to the next. “You are looking at expulsion, you… you scamps! You young idiots! I will see to it!”
“The entire place will have to be disinfected,” said Bellingham.
“You’re all under arrest for breaking and entering.” Reahall turned to the dean and the professor, adding, “Your students are now my prisoners. Put the irons on ’em, Sergeant.”
Dr. Bellingham and Dean Goodfriar tried to intervene on behalf of the boys, trying to reason with Reahall. Bellingham insisted, “This is a matter for the hospital and the university to deal with. This so-called detective is one thing,” he shoved a wagging index finger in Alastair’s direction. “But these are my students, and I will see to their punishment, you can be assured.”
“Then you can put up bail for them well enough. Sergeant Quinlan! Do your duty, man. I’ve been up all night, and I’m in no mood for pleasantries among you… you gentry.”
If he weren’t in serious trouble himself, Ransom would have laughed to see the poor sergeant going back and forth at the interns with irons in hand, going forth one step, back two depending on who was speaking. Whenever the dean or Bellingham took exception, he backed off; when Reahall spoke, he stepped to it. In the meantime, the young interns were struggling to get their hands free of the long leather gloves. At the same time, a second uniformed officer clamped irons on Alastair—hands and feet.
“It’s not Mr. Wyland’s doing, Dr. B., Dean Goodfriar, please, I mean… Thomas and I pushed him into this business, but please, whatever you do with us, you must examine our findings. I’ve kept exact notes on our findings, please, sir… please it is a serious disease we’re faced with, one without a name! And we need your help… we all need to work together—as a team, sir—like you always say ‘we men of science must work together’— remember?”
Thomas lifted his hands to Dr. Bellingham, hands in chains now, and said, “Sirs, this disease could be of great importance to you both; in fact, it may even be named after you. Goodfriar’s disease… or Bellinghamitis. Look as interns at the university, Declan and I have no claim to it, and besides, we need your backing, sirs… please.”
Goodfriar considered this argument, tugged at his whiskers as if considering the import of what the boys were saying, but then he took command, saying, “Yes, you’re right, Constable Reahall—shackle them and take them away! After all, we’ve heard the confession. Don’t you agree, Bellingham? We’ve heard enough.”
Ransom saw the old dean’s devious eyes had lit up with this last suggestion coming from Thomas. He could almost see the phrase alight in the man’s mind reading: Goodfriar’s disease. One for the ages. Immortality of a sick kind, literally speaking.
“You can place bail tomorrow at court if you want them back,” Reahall said to Bellingham, “but to get the lesson across, you shouldn’t be rushing to their defense or to place bail without exacting time behind bars—in my humble opinion—sirs.”
Ransom knew that Reahall wanted only him, and that he also wanted to question the lads, especially his paid informant, Thomas, to determine if Ransom had given anything away. The constable now stepped to within inches of Ransom and stared into his steely gray eyes and said, “I don’t suppose anyone will be bailing you out, Detective ahh… Wyland.”
“Constable,” Ransom calmly replied, “tell me you’ve located Tuttle, the Pinkerton agent.”
“That’s naught to do with you now, Mr. Wwwyland.” The exaggeration of Ransom’s alias told him once again that Reahall believed him to be the escapee from the hangman in Chicago. What Reahall hoped to do with that knowledge, Ransom hadn’t a clue, but he knew human nature only too well, and he suspected the constable, up in years himself, was most likely thinking of how he might turn it into ready cash. After all, the Chicago style of politics was born in Ireland.
“Take ’em away, Sergeant, and see that you and your men keep a sharp eye out for this sly fox; I believe he’s
