The Crescent

Chapter 8

Rarely did Dr. Baker leave things out of place. His files were cataloged in their proper drawers. His desk was bare and tidy, the radio set so a melody from Bee Wain made its way into his ears, an airborne waltz. His dogs, Bastille and Burdock, curled peacefully at the foot of the hearth. His Tommy guns were tucked away into their accessible location beneath his desk. He even considered the scuffs of dirt on the pantlegs of his suit to be in place, which he'd acquired rolling the beater Model-T (that had been parked not-so-discreetly down the road) into the ravine below. Its driver, however, was yet to be in its place.

He glanced at the clock on the wall. Three hours had passed since he'd visited Will Drachman. It was an efficient cage the journalist had constructed for himself. Dr. Baker hadn't even had to shoot him and make a mess.

There came a knock at his door.

"Come in, Theodora," he said. Theodora had a distinct knock, always three sharp, staccato beats. She stepped in, lightly touching the edge of her glasses.

"Dr. Baker, Nurse Ruth requested to know the wellbeing of the journalist. I believe she's concerned."

"Tell her she needn't worry. He's being taken care of."

She nodded dutifully, but Dr. Baker saw a question arise in her expression. Theodora was plenty pliable, but she was also observant – if only to please him. Still, she was a tremendous improvement from his last receptionist. Shame about her. "Dr. Baker," she said tentatively. "He's not like the others. He's a journalist and, well...surely someone will come looking for him?"

Dr. Baker waited a beat. "Theodora, my dear, the journalist never arrived." Theodora revealed a snaggle toothed smile behind perfectly lined lips. "Console the nurse and meet me in The Operating Room."

She stared hungrily after him as she slipped from the room.

Dr. Baker eased himself up from his chair and strolled to the window. At the margin of the woods the deep trench in the earth filled with unrelenting snow. Perfectly in order, he thought, reaching for his coat. Bastille and Burdock stretched leisurely and followed suit.

In The Operating Room Theodora was hunched over with a broom, the top button of her blouse undone. Dr. Baker pushed the cadaver on the surgical table to the corner of the room. He would attend to that later, when he could perform another surgical search on the subject's left side, where she'd reported pain. In truth, Dr. Baker relished the sight of jarred tumors lining the shelves, overflowing them. Small victories to the larger picture. He was displeased the journalist had made a mess of his...trophies, if you will. People need results, he thought resolutely. He stepped over broken glass and splattered tumors and pulled open the morgue door.

Will Drachman's lifeless form was coiled as if he'd attempted to disappear into himself, his arms at his center, his knees to his chest, and his chin tucked inward. Burdock emitted a low growl. Dr. Baker came forward and sat the journalist upright, leaning him against a stack of bodies. His brows and lashes were frosted, and there was a tiny furrow between his eyebrows as if he were having an unsettling dream. His body was already so stiff with rigor mortis that Dr. Baker imagined he could have used him as an imperfect bowling ball.

"Is he dead?"

"Of course, he's dead," Dr. Baker snapped.

He pilfered through the journalist's pockets, producing a blank notepad, a pencil, and a handful of lint. His gaze traveled to Will Drachman's lap, where his hands were fiercely clutched around a blocky object. A camera. Dr. Baker pried away one finger at a time, until Will Drachman's fingers were left steepled and empty. He examined the camera. It was a newer model of the Argus, and in good condition. He slipped the cold thing around his neck.

Ever hawkish, Theodora watched him. "Dr. Baker, I don't mean to pry, but shouldn't any evidence of the journalist's visitation be disposed of?"

"Theodora, prying is tasteless in a woman. Now, leave me and explain the situation to the nurses. Reiterate the cost of breathing so much as a word." Theodora flushed and hurried off. His attention returned to the journalist. "Now to take care of you, Mr. Drachman."

He scooped up Will Drachman like he was a child who'd fallen fast asleep and left The Operating Room through the small black door. A crescent moon offered a shred of illumination through the clouds. Dobermans at his side, he trudged through the snow towards the divot in the earth. It was only discernable by the slight rise and fall the snow had permitted. He reached the edge and dropped Will Drachman to the ground, not quite prepared to bury him – it wasn't deep enough. Hidden beneath the snow the trench was lined with glass jars of tumors and miscellaneous specimens he'd long since cataloged and no longer had use for. Dr. Baker was ambitious, constantly acquiring new trophies. Only ambitious men had the trouble of finding adequate storage for their ever-growing successes. He put them here because he couldn't simply throw them away; and neither could he throw the journalist away.

He left Will Drachman with his dogs and retrieved the shovel he'd hidden in a dying, hollowed oak. He returned to find Burdock gnawing on the journalist's ankle.

"Not this time, boy," he said, waving him away. Burdock whined and reluctantly dropped the ankle. The Dobermans often played with their reward too long and came back stinking of death. This time Dr. Baker needed the evidence quickly concealed.

He shoveled away the snow and rocky soil from the trench, making a cavity deep enough to dump Will Drachman. Bastille whined and Burdock paced. When the hole was sufficiently deep, Dr. Baker clamored out of the trench to the journalist. He kicked the journalist into the trench, and into the deeper hole inside.

He paused, took in the serene beauty of it all. The frosted smear of death on Will Drachman against the glisten of snow was a scene so satisfying that he simply could not resist using the journalist's camera to capture it, some ironic lesson there, but Dr. Baker felt no urgency to decipher it. Savored the moment, instead. The camera fell to his chest, Will Drachman's death a treasure inside.

He began shoveling the dirt back in, enclosing the trench. For now, the site had done its job. Perhaps when he cured cancer, he could reveal the site's location, and when the public understood the sacrifices he'd made to reach the cure, the trench would become something of a scientific burial ground.

Dirt speckled over Will Drachman's blue lips. Dr. Baker's shovel swung in wide arcs, every clunk of dirt recalling the ingredients to his nearing success. Alcohol. Clunk. Brown corn silk. Clunk. Watermelon seeds. Clunk. Carbolic acid. Clunk. The smell of freshly turned earth filled the air.

These were the right ingredients; he just needed the right proportions. To save the Aryan race from the ever-growing cancer, Dr. Baker needed a cure, and fast. He couldn't experiment on the distraught, porcelain faces rotting from the inside out. It pained him to see his brotherhood, his women, his children suffering like that.

But he needed experimental subjects nonetheless. Fortunately, inferior races were more than willing volunteer for experimentation, for the chance of a sliver of salvation.

He glanced down at Will Drachman, who was nearly completely covered in dirt, save for his head. His ears poked through his curly hair like large mug handles. Jews were a tricky matter, because sometimes they were hard to spot. Often, they rivaled the white race's intelligence, but they were doubly deceitful. Dangerous, Dr. Baker thought. Fortunately, Jews had very distinct last names.

"Drachman," he spat under his breath.

Now the trench was filled to the brim with dirt, Will Drachman and the jars invisible. Dr. Baker packed in the dirt with his shovel, then stomped over it for good measure. The snow continued, and by morning it would cover the anomaly of fresh dirt. And by the time any authorities came searching for Will Drachman, the purple tips of dead nettle would bloom, their roots curled through his bones.