One minute went by, then an hour, then a day. Allene should have died. Most people their age did, especially when they bled the way Allene did, from her eyes, her nose, her throat. Actually, bled was too calm a word for what was occurring. Gushed was more the truth.
But at some point—was it three days after she’d fainted in Harlem? Five?—the deluge slowed to a trickle. Allene’s eyes opened. Jasper was asleep when it happened. He’d been so sleep deprived he thought he was hallucinating when he felt her bony hand rest on his forearm. For a moment, in his half-asleep state, he thought death was tapping him politely, asking him for a slow waltz.
Allene moaned and blinked, her eyes sunken into purplish sockets. “Jasper” was all she was able to say. Jasper ducked beneath the oxygen tent, ignoring the hissing from the nearby tank.
“I figured you’d do something pigheaded like get influenza,” Jasper chided her, his voice muffled beneath the gauze masks. Allene rested for another five minutes before she could attempt to speak again.
“Only you . . . would . . . yell at a sick woman,” she rasped.
“Teasing is a service I’m always happy to provide,” he said, smiling. His eyes, however, prickled. He’d cry if he wasn’t careful.
She was so dehydrated that her eyes stayed glassily dry. “Thank you,” she whispered. “So much.”
Jasper patted her hand and blinked before withdrawing his hand and reaching for a stethoscope. Relief filled him. The sun had risen somewhere behind his leaden heart. He carefully uncovered her arms, examined her legs, listened to her heart (though all he understood was that it was beating slower than a hummingbird’s, and that was good). Allene was as pale as the fresh sheets he laid over her body. But her color had gone from blue to white, and he nearly wept from relief.
By the next morning, she was able to sit up in bed for a few minutes and sip some broth. Exhaustion had wrung out Jasper. His hands trembled, and he stuttered when he spoke. Dr. Gettler had heard about his bedside vigil and marched over to the main building from his lab to tell Jasper to go home.
“Don’t return for twelve hours,” he ordered. “Your girl will be fine.”
Jasper bristled at his words. “She’s not my girl. But the lab—I should be getting back to work.”
Gettler pulled him toward the main door to the ward. Coughs and wheezes filled the background with a pulmonary symphony of saturated alveoli. “Dr. Norris and I have been reviewing your work. You’re very good at what you do.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s not a compliment.” Gettler squinted at him. “We have eyes, you know. Our job is to observe things that others miss. Anytime a case comes in that’s related to you, your work gets messy. And we’re too busy to be messy.”
“But I helped get information on Hazel Dreyer’s death!”
“At what cost?” Gettler said. “You didn’t notice, but your focus was off. Messages were lost, items got ordered wrong that week. Small mistakes in any other office don’t matter. Here, they could mean a sample going bad before we can analyze it. It can mean someone getting away with murder.” He shifted uncomfortably. “You’re fired, Jasper.”
“What? Sir, I can . . . I promise that in future cases, I’ll—”
“Future cases? Son, how many friends of yours are you expecting to die soon?”
At this, Jasper was silenced. How could he explain the letters? The creeping darkness closing upon Allene and Birdie and him? But the lure of solving the puzzle in order to polish a shining career had dimmed. Jasper used to care about Jasper’s best, and now he didn’t care much at all, which was both liberating and terrifying.
“You should be proud. I hear you saved that girl’s life.” Gettler began to walk away, then turned. He shook his finger at Jasper. “Forget pathology. Go live with the living. It suits you better.”
Jasper slept for nearly fourteen hours. He awoke in the same position he’d fallen asleep in, as if weighed down by concrete. When he sought out Allene at Bellevue, she’d improved enough to go back home. A few days later, Mr. Cutter greeted him at the door, looking paler (he’d given a pint of blood recently, after all), thinner, and about a hundred years old.
“Jasper.” He had never called him by his Christian name before. “Thank you for taking such care of Allene. I’m in your debt.”
“It was nothing,” Jasper said. He itched to loosen his hand from Mr. Cutter’s grasp, particularly when he heard feminine voices arising from the sitting room.
Allene. Birdie.
It always came back to the three of them. Together, the girls gave him direction, like the triangular point of an arrow telling him where to be.
Mr. Cutter finally let go but seemed to struggle for a moment before speaking again. “I never explained to Allene or to you about your uncle’s insurance policy. I’m sorry he never told you, but let me be clear. It was brought to my attention that he needed help. So I paid his rather substantial debts, and in return the policy was put in place to guarantee his debt release if he were ever unable to repay me.”
Jasper was wordless.
“I am sorry about his passing. It was all just an investment of sorts, to be quite honest. And in fact, the insurance money will be coming my way shortly—and there was no appropriate time to mention it, but—it’s yours. Minus the debt, of course. It doesn’t feel right to hold on to it.”
Jasper stood there, stock still, trying to understand. In his last conversation with his uncle, he had accused him of neglecting the mounting bills, when in fact they’d been taken care of. He felt wretched.
“I can’t touch that money.” He straightened up and stared at Mr. Cutter evenly. “But I thank you for helping my uncle. For helping me. If you keep that money, I won’t feel like I owe you anything.”
Mr. Cutter nodded, and a small gleam of appreciation lit his eye—and pity. Jasper would truly make his own fate now. With no Bellevue in his future.
Ernie walked into the foyer. His face lit up. “Jasper! What a saint you are!” He shook his hand a little too hard. It actually hurt. “You should go rest, Mr. Cutter. We’ll watch over the girls.”
Like an obedient child, Mr. Cutter nodded and took his maid’s firm arm as they mounted the staircase.
Jealousy crept across Jasper’s skin. Ernie was looking well, dressed as usual in pressed trousers and tailored shirt. He wasn’t fidgeting anymore. It was as if he had grown from a simpering boy into a man overnight. Perhaps rescuing damsels was all it took for a transformation. But what was more, a shrewd look lit his eyes as he glanced over Jasper’s threadbare elbows and shifting glance.
There was a knock on the door. Josephine came scurrying down the stairs to welcome Andrew into the foyer.