The Roswell Legacy Read online

  Late that night, the lights were still on in a three-story redbrick row house on First Street. In the bedroom, Maddie smiled at Tug and said, “Well, how did I do?”

  His hands curved around her waist as he drew her to him. “You did real well. I don’t think a single one of those uppity women had an inkling.” He laughed as he tightened his hold on her. “I promised you, didn’t I, that I’d show you Washington society? And you saw it tonight.”

  “You sure do keep your bets, Tug.”

  “And now it’s time for you to show a little gratefulness. Sashay out of that new dress, gal. I like you better without a corset on.”

  She turned her back to him. “Then unbutton me, Tug. Or you want me to wake that Irish maid you hired?”

  “We’ll probably wake the maid, anyway,” he said. “I never knew an old man could get so excited over a woman.”

  “You might have a few years on you,” she admitted, shimmying out of the dress the senator had bought for her. “But you’ve got the staying power of a rutting buck I once watched at mating season in the canyon.”

  She stood poised against the gossamer curtains of the bed and waited for Tug to remove the last vestige of her clothing—the silk chemise that barely covered her well-formed body. As he cupped one breast in his large, rough hand, she whispered, “What’ll it be this time, Tug?”

  He reached under the bed pillow and took out the long, thin rope that he had hidden early that evening. “Spread-eagle me to the bed, Maddie, the Indian way. I want to be love-tortured tonight.”

  Maddie giggled as she complied. From the drawer in the nightstand, she pulled out the feathered Indian headband. After setting it on her red curls, she crept up to the side of the bed, slid over the sheet, inch by inch, until she reached him, and began the slow, sensual torture with her mouth.

  A half hour later, the maid in the attic bumped her head as a bloodcurdling sound caused her to sit up straight. The two in the bedroom below her were evidently at it again.

  Young Meara McClellan pulled the pillow over her head and began to recite a psalm. Tomorrow, she would give notice and start looking for another job. She couldn’t take this another night.

  At the same time of the evening, in the Meadors’s white clapboard house, the air stirred by the ceiling fan brought little relief to Rad. In the darkness, he could see Allison’s outline and hear her steady breathing. If it had not been for her headache, he would have found comfort long ago in her sweet body. Instead, he got up, drenched his face with cool water, and then went back to bed, unassuaged.

  CHAPTER

  6

  The rains had ceased. The slight motion of Benedict’s pristine white yacht, Oneida, anchored in the East River, lulled its passengers with a gentle, soothing roll, unlike the bombarding fury of the earlier storm.

  All of the doctors were now assembled: the plastic surgeons, the anesthesiologist, the dentist, and the nurses. Only the patient was missing.

  That afternoon, for the first time, Charles had met with the other members of the operating-room team. The sterilizers, the auxiliary generator, and the medical equipment, dressings, and drugs had all been checked over. The entire ship had been disinfected from top to bottom, and one of the staterooms converted into an operating theater.

  As Charles sat in his cabin and listened to the night sounds across the water, he rehearsed every step of the operation. The trial run that afternoon had gone quite smoothly. But he knew that the real test would come the next morning when the president was actually under the scalpel. Cleveland was a huge man—he weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. That in itself was a surgical danger.

  Charles recalled his internship under the eminent Harley Street surgeon, Gaylord Runyard. He remembered the man’s words, spoken so long ago. “Mr. Forsyte, your operation was a success.” His pride was struck down in an instant by the indicting words that followed. “Unfortunately, your patient died.”

  That had been a severe blow to his ego, for nothing could be more heartrending to a young surgeon than to lose his first patient. Unless it was his present one—the president of the United States.

  Charles glanced at his watch and then got up to wash his face and hands. The president should be coming aboard at any moment with his personal physician, Dr. Bryant, who was traveling with him. Keeping a man who loved food, especially Polish sausages, as much as Cleveland did on a strict diet was not an easy job. But the president had been made to realize the harm of overeating prior to an operation.

  Wiping his hands on a towel, Charles heard the creak of the yacht and footsteps on the deck. And a few minutes later, someone knocked at his door.

  When he opened it, Bennett Jamison said, “Our patient has just come aboard with Lamont, the secretary of war. He’s asking for you. Are you ready?”

  “Yes, as soon as I get my coat and stethoscope.”

  The two walked to the stateroom, where the president sat in an oversized chair that was suitable for his oversized figure. He was surrounded by the other doctors in their white coats, and Charles, seeing the scene, was reminded of the ancient medical painting of patient and consulting physicians that hung in his private office.

  “Good evening, Dr. Forsyte.”

  “Good evening, Mr. President.”

  Charles had already done his homework, going far beyond the president’s case history. He knew he was a beer-drinking, cigar-smoking man, fond of outdoor sports. But Charles was more interested in the man’s spirit, in his determination. He knew that it was the strong desire to overcome adversity that sometimes decided whether a man would live or die.

  Grover Cleveland had more than his share of determination. Charles hadn’t been in Washington more than a week before he’d heard people calling him “His Obstinacy” behind his back.

  Charles listened to the man’s heart through his stethoscope. The steady, strong, pulsing beat was a good sign. Then, using the blood pressure cusp, he took Cleveland’s blood pressure. It was slightly elevated, but of course that was to be expected because of his excess weight.

  “What did you eat for dinner, Mr. President?”

  “Mighty little, Forsyte. A small fowl, potatoes, beans, and bread.”

  “Any alcoholic beverages?”

  “No. A glass of buttermilk instead.”

  Charles nodded. “You may have water to drink until midnight. After that, nothing by mouth.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m sure Dr. Bryant has explained the general procedure to you. Tomorrow morning at seven, the nurse will come in to shave off your mustache. Then you’ll be given a slight sedative and taken to the operating area by eight o’clock.”

  “How long will the operation last?”

  Charles hesitated. “Several hours. Longer, if needed. But you’re in relatively good health, so I don’t foresee any complications. Do you have any other questions?”

  “How soon can I get back to work?”

  Charles smiled. “If there’re no complications, as soon as your mustache grows back to its former glory.”

  The president’s hearty laugh filled the stateroom. But then he became more serious. “There’s so much to do, with the upcoming special session. I’ve already been castigated by some of my detractors about taking a pleasure cruise at this time.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you, Mr. President. Your main concern now is to get a good night’s sleep. Affairs of state can wait.”

  After bidding the president good night, Charles left the stateroom with Jamison. “Are you up to a stroll on deck before turning in?” Charles inquired.

  “Yes. I’d like some fresh air.”

  The two stood at the railing and gazed into the distance toward the flickering lights. Their voices were deliberately muted to avoid the amplification of sound over the water.

  “I hate to think what would happen to this country if Grover Cleveland didn’t make it, Forsyte,” Jamison commented. “You might not be aware of it, coming from England, but h
e’s one of the few totally honest men in government today. We can’t afford to lose him, especially now when we’re on the very edge of bankruptcy.”

  Charles nodded. “I was aware of some of the problems before I sailed. A political cartoon in one of the London magazines portrayed Cleveland as an angry man driving the money changers out of the temple of government.”

  “Well, his action lost him the election to Harrison, but the people finally came to their senses once the treasury door was left ajar.”

  “Whatever the eventual outcome of the cancer, he’ll probably be in the White House for most of his second term. That should give him time to set a lot of things straight.”

  “Unfortunately, the Senate is still a closed club of special interests. But I hear he’s got a good man in Meadors from Kentucky.”

  At the mention of the name, Charles became abrupt. “I’d better turn in, Jamison. Today’s been a strenuous day. Are you coming?”

  “I think I’ll stay out a little longer. See you in the morning.”

  “Good night.”

  Charles turned from the railing and rushed belowdecks, as if some hound were nipping at his heels. The scheduled operation had managed to push Allison out of his mind for a brief time. But with the mention of her husband’s name, Bennett had spilled ancient blood and revived his nightmare.

  That night, as the Benedict yacht rode at anchor, with the accompanying sounds of boards and halyards, Charles dreamed that he was adrift with no sight of land. From the time he’d first seen Allison with the other man, he had roamed a mythical sea, constantly searching for a faithful woman yet never finding her, and never reaching land.

  During the past years, he had put the nightmare to rest with only an occasional recurrence. But with Jamison’s unwitting words, he once again became the restless wanderer, doomed to a troubled night.

  The odor of cigar smoke drifted through the air as the president and his friend, Commodore Benedict, stayed on deck well past midnight. Then they, too, went to bed.

  Early the next morning, the steward’s knock on Charles’s door came far too early. But through the porthole, Charles could see the glittering sun. It was time to get up.

  He went to the door, opened it, and, after seeing his breakfast tray, stepped aside while the steward entered. The man put the tray on the table and then was gone.

  Charles had never considered himself a prima donna. Yet from the moment he’d set foot on this particular yacht, he had been treated as one, with his every physical wish fulfilled. And this morning was no different.

  His appreciative eyes took note of the eggs, done to a turn, the bread warm and sweet, two kippers in cream, orange marmalade, and a pot of steaming hot tea. With Araminta as mistress of his house, he had never really enjoyed his breakfasts, for they had been prepared by an indifferent cook and served to him by an indifferent servant—until Ginna had taken over.

  As he stared at the breakfast tray, he felt a sense of puritanical guilt. Here he was, getting ready to enjoy a bountiful breakfast while the president went hungry. But then he dismissed the guilt. The morning would be a wearing one and he needed all the sustenance he could get, whereas it was imperative for his patient to have no food at all in his stomach lest he aspirate during the operation.

  One hour later, Charles was ready. As he walked toward the operating room, the Oneida crew hoisted anchor and set sail for Buzzards Bay. And along the shoreline, the citizens, eating their own breakfasts, going to work, or enjoying a lazy summer holiday, were unaware of the drama unfolding on the sleek luxury vessel passing by.

  Dressed with sterile mask and gown, Charles joined the team of doctors and nurses. They waited while the first procedure was undertaken by the dentist: the extraction of molars from the affected upper jaw. And when that was over, the removal of the cancerous growth could begin. As the dentist worked, Charles could see that the nitrous oxide was not adequate as a sedative for a man as large as Cleveland. So before the more serious procedure began, he gave the anesthesiologist the signal to administer ether.

  “Count to ten, Mr. President,” the voice urged.

  The president complied. “One. Two. Three … Four … Five … Si …”

  His breathing became heavy; his pulse rate lowered. All signs indicated that it was time for the operation to begin.

  The blue steel of the scalpel glinted as it caught the light from the bright electric beam overhead. For a brief moment, the scalpel remained poised in the air, an instrument of life or death fitted into the palm of the surgeon’s hand.

  With razor-sharp action, the first incision was made. As the work began everything but the operation was swept from the doctors’ minds. With each incision, blood vessels were tied to keep the president’s life blood from escaping. The sponge was ready at any time to absorb the seepage, as all members of the team worked rapidly. Each one was secure in his place. The procedure advanced, with the malignant growth attacked by the scalpel. The sound of deep sleep combined with the subtle, almost imperceptible noise of cutting and scraping against bone, sinew, and flesh. Curettage was done, the surgical instruments digging into the hidden recesses of cancerous cells, a fact attested to by the biopsy sent earlier to the Army Medical Museum for examination.

  Carefully, dexterously, each centimeter of diseased tissue was removed with an ever-widening circle of surrounding tissue.

  The president’s vital signs were carefully monitored, and the needs of both patient and surgeon were attended to. Beaded sweat formed on Charles’s forehead. But it was quickly removed with sterile gauze, which was disposed of by one of the nurses before it could contaminate the patient’s open wound.

  One hour passed, then two. As one surgeon rested, another took his place, following the careful, expert path that had been set forth.

  During all this time, Dr. Jamison watched, waiting and mentally measuring. His job would come later, for, as suspected, the cancer had spread into the entire upper jaw. It would be a tedious task to return the president’s face to some degree of normalcy. But he was used to matching a vulcanized rubber prosthesis to the hearty, robust look of a man’s face.

  Charles quickly glanced at Jamison. Their eyes met in mutual understanding. He was glad that Jamison was part of the surgical team, for he was one of the best. Too many men, injured in the war, had lived out their miserable lives in back rooms, hiding from the public because of their hideous injuries. Only their families had known that they were still alive. Yet they, too, could have been helped, if there had been more men trained in Jamison’s technique.

  Once the operation was finally over, the president’s collapsed cheek was packed with gauze to await the fitting of the prosthesis.

  As the second team remained in the operating room to monitor the president’s recovery, Charles and Bennett Jamison retired. They removed their surgical masks and gowns in the anteroom, scrubbed up, and then sought fresh air.

  “Looks like Lamont is going to have his job cut out for him explaining the president’s condition,” Bennett said. “I hear the reporters are already waiting at Gray Gables for him.”

  “I see no reason why President Cleveland won’t be able to walk under his own power by then. With the dentist at his side, there’s a good chance that Lamont will get away with it, saying he merely had his teeth attended to.”

  Then Charles changed the subject. “Are you ready for a belated lunch, Bennett, or are you still seasick?”

  He smiled. “This yacht is a lot smoother than the carriage ride, Charles. In fact, I think I could grow rather fond of sailing. I might even buy a small boat some time in the future. But for now I guess I’ll just settle for a small bowl of soup. What about you?”

  “I need something a little more substantial,” Charles admitted.

  The sun was now high overhead, priming the water with a glittering coat of gold while the darker hues of green and gray gradually crept and spilled over the rocky coastline.

  For a moment, Charles watched the gulls flyin
g, their impatient cries to each other filling the air. He was impatient, too, now that he knew the president would be all right. The operation had taken precedence over his personal life. But it was time for him to get back to Washington—and to his confrontation with Allison.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Allison was early.

  She stood before the tall, enclosed fence and watched a pink flamingo stretch its neck and preen itself while balancing on one long, spindly leg. To the left, just beyond the water sanctuary, a tall giraffe gazed curiously at her and then returned to stripping the succulent green leaves from the upper branches of the acacia tree.

  The park zoo was almost devoid of people. A young mother paused near Allison for a moment, gazing at the flock of pink birds. Then, as the child in the large-wheeled buggy grew impatient, she moved on, talking to him in crooning, soft tones that finally faded into the cacophony of animal sounds.

  It had been five days since Allison’s meeting with Araminta—five of the most nerve-racking days in her life. She had merely gone through the motions of living while she waited for Coin to get in touch with her.

  Luckily, Jonathan had left Washington for Kentucky the morning after the party at Peggy Drake’s house. Their early-morning conversation had been brief. Otherwise, Allison would have found it difficult not to break down and tell him the truth. But the slight reprieve had given her little respite from the churning in her stomach, the feeling of impending disaster that had even marred her few hours spent alone with Rad since then.

  From the moment in the carriage when he’d leaned over to kiss her, she had felt as if she were a scarlet woman, living in sin. And because of it, she had been as skittish with him as one of the mares at brooding time. Yet, in the days that had passed, he’d been too busy to notice—or too polite to comment on her withdrawal from him.