White Wind Blew Read Online Free
some here already call me—”
McVain reached up, gripped the lapels of Wolfgang’s lab coat, and pushed him back so forcefully that Wolfgang lost his balance and fell into the mud.
Maverly must have been watching from her rooftop window, because Wolfgang heard her screams begin again. “Maverly at Waverly,” she shouted from above. “Maverly at Waverly. Maverly says welcome to Waverly.”
Dr. Wolfgang Pike sat in the mud, rain pounding his head and shoulders, watching as the newest patient at Waverly Hills rolled himself into the sanatorium.
Chapter 2
Nestled among the trees, forty yards down the hillside from the main sanatorium, Wolfgang’s cottage crackled with the cold, for the January air stubbornly refused to stay outside. It was two in the morning, and despite the fire he’d started across the room hours ago, he still felt chilled. Of course he also blamed the rain from two days ago—working that entire day in wet, muddy clothes after the new patient McVain had pushed him down. A cold front had followed behind the rainstorm. Wolfgang hadn’t felt true warmth since, even in dry clothes.
A cold draft hovered around his ankles as his feet pressed the piano’s pedals. He wanted to play faster to keep warm, but faster always turned sloppy. By the number of crumpled pages on the floor beside his bed, it could be concluded that he’d been playing too fast for some time now.
He blew into his hands, rubbed them together, then touched his fingertips to the keys again. He continued warming up with Mozart’s piano sonata in C minor. After a few minutes he stopped. The candle flame atop his piano flickered and settled. A fresh red rose stood inside a white vase next to the candle. He looked to it for inspiration, closed his eyes, and imagined the low humming of a trio of violins. The harmony brought a smile to his face. And then, ever so softly, the clarinet eased in, rising above…
He opened his eyes at the sound of muffled laughter. Footsteps on dead leaves. Someone coughed. His fingers eased from the piano keys as a male voice called out.
“Nigger lover. The devil pisses on your pope!”
A brick crashed through the window, sending shards of glass to the wood floor. The attack sent him reeling back from the bench as cold air whistled through the broken window.
Someone coughed again, and then another shout: “Catholic heathen!”
Wolfgang curled up and covered his head with his hands, expecting another brick to come flying through the broken window, or something worse. When he finally stood up, he saw two dark silhouettes disappear into the woods, their footsteps fading with their laughter.
“Fools.”
He leaned with both hands on the windowsill for a moment, staring out, daring them to come back. Glass covered the sill. He looked down—his right hand was bleeding.
A slip of paper protruded from one of the three holes in the brick lying on the floor. His fingers shook as he unfolded it. GO TO HELL, PRIEST, it read in dark block letters. Fools. He crumpled it and tossed it toward the wastebasket, which was already overflowing with pages. Not yet even a priest.
Of course it was easy to mistake him for one, especially with as many confessions as he’d been hearing. In years past, Waverly had had preachers from other denominations. There were options. But not now. Father Butler had left five years ago during the construction of the new building. And the last Baptist minister had become ill with tuberculosis after only five months at Waverly and died of the disease ten months later. So there was no other choice: if the patients couldn’t spill their guts to Dr. Pike, they would take them to the grave.
Which is where the Klan apparently wanted him. Wolfgang knew that the first wave of the Ku Klux Klan flourished in the South in the late 1860s, focusing on the suppression of blacks, but the group pretty much died out in the 1870s. Then, in 1915, William J. Simmons founded the second Klan in Stone
McVain reached up, gripped the lapels of Wolfgang’s lab coat, and pushed him back so forcefully that Wolfgang lost his balance and fell into the mud.
Maverly must have been watching from her rooftop window, because Wolfgang heard her screams begin again. “Maverly at Waverly,” she shouted from above. “Maverly at Waverly. Maverly says welcome to Waverly.”
Dr. Wolfgang Pike sat in the mud, rain pounding his head and shoulders, watching as the newest patient at Waverly Hills rolled himself into the sanatorium.
Chapter 2
Nestled among the trees, forty yards down the hillside from the main sanatorium, Wolfgang’s cottage crackled with the cold, for the January air stubbornly refused to stay outside. It was two in the morning, and despite the fire he’d started across the room hours ago, he still felt chilled. Of course he also blamed the rain from two days ago—working that entire day in wet, muddy clothes after the new patient McVain had pushed him down. A cold front had followed behind the rainstorm. Wolfgang hadn’t felt true warmth since, even in dry clothes.
A cold draft hovered around his ankles as his feet pressed the piano’s pedals. He wanted to play faster to keep warm, but faster always turned sloppy. By the number of crumpled pages on the floor beside his bed, it could be concluded that he’d been playing too fast for some time now.
He blew into his hands, rubbed them together, then touched his fingertips to the keys again. He continued warming up with Mozart’s piano sonata in C minor. After a few minutes he stopped. The candle flame atop his piano flickered and settled. A fresh red rose stood inside a white vase next to the candle. He looked to it for inspiration, closed his eyes, and imagined the low humming of a trio of violins. The harmony brought a smile to his face. And then, ever so softly, the clarinet eased in, rising above…
He opened his eyes at the sound of muffled laughter. Footsteps on dead leaves. Someone coughed. His fingers eased from the piano keys as a male voice called out.
“Nigger lover. The devil pisses on your pope!”
A brick crashed through the window, sending shards of glass to the wood floor. The attack sent him reeling back from the bench as cold air whistled through the broken window.
Someone coughed again, and then another shout: “Catholic heathen!”
Wolfgang curled up and covered his head with his hands, expecting another brick to come flying through the broken window, or something worse. When he finally stood up, he saw two dark silhouettes disappear into the woods, their footsteps fading with their laughter.
“Fools.”
He leaned with both hands on the windowsill for a moment, staring out, daring them to come back. Glass covered the sill. He looked down—his right hand was bleeding.
A slip of paper protruded from one of the three holes in the brick lying on the floor. His fingers shook as he unfolded it. GO TO HELL, PRIEST, it read in dark block letters. Fools. He crumpled it and tossed it toward the wastebasket, which was already overflowing with pages. Not yet even a priest.
Of course it was easy to mistake him for one, especially with as many confessions as he’d been hearing. In years past, Waverly had had preachers from other denominations. There were options. But not now. Father Butler had left five years ago during the construction of the new building. And the last Baptist minister had become ill with tuberculosis after only five months at Waverly and died of the disease ten months later. So there was no other choice: if the patients couldn’t spill their guts to Dr. Pike, they would take them to the grave.
Which is where the Klan apparently wanted him. Wolfgang knew that the first wave of the Ku Klux Klan flourished in the South in the late 1860s, focusing on the suppression of blacks, but the group pretty much died out in the 1870s. Then, in 1915, William J. Simmons founded the second Klan in Stone
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