Free Case Closed by Jan Burke Page A

one in the Adirondack Mountains, which had the advantages of being close to Rhode Island and less costly than those in the western United States. He thanked me, took the information, and went on his way.
    A few days later, at my father’s request, I visited the farm. Coming down the drive, hearing the welcoming bark of our old dogs, I felt what had become a customary mixture of sadness and deep comfort in returning to my childhood home. Noah and my father came out to help me stable the horse, and my brother and I spoke of inconsequential things. I could not help but notice that Father seemed agitated, and Noah wary.
    My father did not broach the subject that concerned him until we had finished eating our simple meal—a meal he had barely touched. He put a log on the fire, then turned to me and said, “I’m told that you saw a patient with consumption today.”
    â€œYes,” I answered hesitantly. I had not previously told him of my devotion to the study of consumption, and I was concerned that he would be touched on the raw by any mention of it.
    He frowned. “I talked to young Wilcox after you saw him. What is this treatment you prescribed? Why do you send him to the mountains?”
    â€œIn hope of curing his consumption,” I said.
    â€œCuring! Is it possible?”
    â€œSometimes, yes.” I began to tell him of the benefits the TB patient might find in life in a sanitarium—exposure to a healthful climate, enforced rest, fresh air, proper care and good nutrition. “And of course, the sanitarium separates those who have this contagion from any who might be vulnerable to it, so the disease is less likely to be spread to others.”
    â€œYou have especially concerned yourself with the study of—you call it ‘TB?’ ”
    â€œYes.”
    His questions became more persistent, and soon I was talking to him of Brehmer, Villemin, Koch and all the others whose discoveries had brought us to our present understanding of the disease. My father listened with rapt attention, but I saw that he became more and more uneasy as I spoke. Soon, however, I recognized that he was dismayed not by what I had learned about TB, but by his own previous ignorance.
    â€œDr. Ashford did not know of this!” he said. “Your mother, the children—their consumption was a death sentence! I should have sought another physician, a younger man, such as yourself. If we had known of these sanitariums—”
    â€œIt still might not have helped—sanitariums only give consumptives a chance to recover. Some people survive, others arrive only to die a few weeks later.”
    â€œBut Nathan—your mother, Robert and Daniel—all of them, even Rebecca—they might have lived had we sent Rebecca away?”
    â€œI don’t know. There were so many others in Carrick Hollow who were ill that winter. Perhaps they would have caught TB from Mrs. Gardner, or Jane, or another. We cannot always cure this disease, Papa. I can’t say for certain who would live and who would die. For all that men in my profession have learned, life and death are still in God’s hands.”
    He was silent.
    â€œWe cannot change the past, Papa. I only hope to save others from the horror our family experienced. In truth, my most difficult battle is not against the disease, but rather the ignorance—the sort of ignorance which allows men like Winston to convince others that the afflicted are beset by vampires. As long as he spouts his nonsense, others will die, because he will have his neighbors believing that spiritual mumbo jumbo—and not infection—are at the root of the disease.”
    â€œYou are too kind, John,” he said slowly. “You fail to mention the truly damned. Men like your father, who will be persuaded that barbaric rituals must be performed on the bodies of their dead—”
    â€œPapa, you never believed him. You had other reasons. Do not