Beautifully Dead - Chapter 17 (PART I)
An Immortal Affections serialized novel
The Call (part I)
Saturday May the 3rd, 2025 – Fredericksburg, Virginia
8:30 AM
The knock at her hotel room door came at precisely eight-thirty on Saturday morning, interrupting Amelia's methodical packing routine. She'd spent the last couple of days since the discovery of Eleanor's laboratory cataloging every specimen as best as she could, cross-referencing them with Eleanor's journals, and making detailed digital records before sealing everything for transport.
She'd been awake since five, moving with the systematic efficiency of someone who had made a decision after careful deliberation and refused to second-guess it. The archival containers were lined up on the desk like soldiers awaiting deployment—each specimen carefully documented, sealed, and labeled according to protocols that would ensure their preservation during transport back to Boston.
"Dr. Everett?" Eli's voice carried through the door, tinged with what sounded like barely controlled urgency. "I brought coffee. And those additional documents you mentioned wanting to see."
Amelia paused in folding her clothes, a silk blouse halfway into her suitcase. She hadn't mentioned wanting additional documents. The lie—small as it was—confirmed every instinct that had been building over the past few days, crystallizing into a growing certainty that something about Elijah Merriweather wasn't quite right.
She opened the door to find him holding two coffee cups and a leather portfolio, his usual composed demeanor fractured by obvious surprise as he took in the packed containers and half-filled suitcase behind her.
"You're leaving." Not a question—a statement delivered with the flat shock of someone whose carefully laid plans had just crumbled.
"I am." Amelia stepped back to let him enter, noting how his eyes immediately went to the specimens, cataloging what she'd packed with an intensity that made her stomach tighten. "I've got everything properly preserved for transport. The house is secure, the lawyers have been notified, and I should be back in Boston by evening."
Eli set the coffee cups down with deliberate care, his movements precise in the way of someone working very hard to maintain control. "May I ask why? When we discovered Eleanor's laboratory, you seemed fascinated by her work, by the historical significance—"
"I was. I am." Amelia resumed her packing, keeping her hands busy to mask the tremor she could feel building in them. The fatigue was worse this morning, and the hotel room's fluorescent lights made her temples throb. "But I'm also not stupid, Mr. Merriweather.
You've been pushing for immediate analysis with expensive equipment you just happen to have access to, you know far more about this property than you initially let on, and frankly, your investment in my family's private affairs is beginning to feel intrusive."
"Intrusive?" The word came out sharper than he'd intended. Eli caught himself, forcing his voice back to its usual measured tone. "I'm sorry if I've given that impression. I'm simply excited about the historical significance—"
"Are you?" Amelia turned to face him fully, crossing her arms. "Because I can't but notice that there's something extremely … calculated about your interest, Eli.
When we found Eleanor's specimens, you didn't react like a local historian discovering interesting artifacts. You reacted like someone who'd been looking for exactly what we found."
The silence stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the hotel's ventilation system and the distant sound of traffic on the street below. Amelia watched Eli's face, noting the micro-expressions that flickered across his features—calculation, frustration, and something that looked almost like desperation.
When he spoke again, his voice carried a weight that hadn't been there before. "You're not wrong. I have been looking for exactly what we found. But this isn't about taking advantage of your discovery or pushing you out of your own research."
"Then tell me the real reasons." Amelia remained by her suitcase, maintaining the physical distance between them. "Because right now, my gut is telling me that you're hiding something important, and I've learned to trust that feeling."
Eli moved to the window, staring out at the Fredericksburg streetscape as though gathering courage from the familiar view. When he turned back, his shoulders had dropped, and he rubbed his temples with the gesture of someone fighting a persistent headache.
"There's a colleague of mine in Geneva," he began, his words careful and measured. "Dr. Elise Caulfield. She's an infectious disease specialist who's been tracking the outbreak that's been hitting academic institutions."
"The one that's shut down half the universities on the East Coast? What's your colleague in Geneva's connection to an American outbreak?"
"It didn't start here," Eli said with a slight edge to his voice. "It began in Europe—Oxford, Cambridge, several institutions in Germany and France. Dr. Caulfield has been tracking it since the initial cases appeared in January. What you're seeing on the East Coast is actually the spread from infected researchers who attended international conferences."
"The victims aren't random. It's specifically targeting people in academic medicine, historical research, and archaeological work. The symptoms present like influenza initially, but the progression is unlike anything in contemporary medical literature." Eli paused, seeming to choose his next words with extreme care. "Dr. Caulfield believes the pathogenesis may have historical precedents. Specifically, from the American Civil War period."
The implications hit Amelia like a physical blow. She sank onto the edge of the bed, her legs suddenly unsteady. "You think Eleanor's specimens might contain evidence of whatever's killing people now?"
"I think they might contain the key to understanding it." Elija's voice dropped to just above a whisper. "The symptoms Dr. Caulfield has documented—photophobia, altered sensory perception, dietary changes, periods of confusion followed by enhanced awareness—they match descriptions in medical records from 1861 to 1863. Records that mention Dr. James Merriweather treating similar cases."
Amelia's mind raced, connecting dots with the methodical precision of her academic training. "Your ancestor's research. That's what this all was about?"
Eli ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that made him look younger and more vulnerable. "Partly, yes. I've always made a point of researching my family history, knowing where I come from. James Merriweather was... a complicated figure. There are stories about him, rumors that have persisted for generations. As someone in historical preservation myself, I've always wanted to separate fact from fiction, maybe rehabilitate his reputation if the evidence supports it."
He paused, meeting her eyes directly. "But it's more than family pride now, Amelia. People are dying. Faculty members, researchers, graduate students—bright minds who might have contributed decades of knowledge to the world. The mortality rate is climbing, and conventional treatments aren't working."
She thought of Professor Winters at her own university, dead at forty-two with no pre-existing conditions. Of the colleagues who'd taken sabbaticals for "exhaustion" or "stress-related illness." Of her own symptoms, which she'd been attributing to travel and overwork.
"Why didn't you tell me this yesterday?"
Eli ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that made him look younger and more vulnerable. "I handled this badly. I got excited about the possibilities and pushed too hard without considering how my behavior must seem to you. You're right to be suspicious—I've been secretive and presumptuous, and I apologize for that."
The admission caught Amelia off guard. She'd expected deflection or further justification, not a direct acknowledgment of his mistakes.
"I should have been upfront from the beginning," he continued. "But I've been researching his work for years, and when we finally found those documents, and knowing how Eleanor Caldwell was working with him… I let my eagerness override basic courtesy, and that's on me. I did not intend to undermine your work, only have access to it."
"But I am taking it all away." Amelia gestured toward her packed belongings. "So your strategy didn't work."
"Please." The word carried more desperation than she'd heard from him before. "At least talk to Dr. Caulfield before you make any final decision. She can explain the medical implications better than I can.
She's been living with this outbreak for months, watching brilliant people die from something that might—might—be preventable if we can understand its historical context." He paused, then added quietly, "And if we're right about the connection, you'd be at the forefront of a discovery that could reshape our understanding of both historical and contemporary medicine. And I’ll finally get the answers I need about my family's legacy."
Amelia studied his face, searching for deception and finding only exhausted sincerity. Her rational mind cataloged the red flags—his convenient connection to a European expert, his family's historical ties to the very phenomenon they were investigating, his obvious desperation to access her specimens. But her scientific training also recognized the plausibility of his claims. Emerging infectious diseases often had historical precedents. Archaeological work had been known to expose researchers to dormant pathogens. And the pattern he described—academic institutions being disproportionately affected—wasn't impossible.
"What exactly are you proposing?" she asked finally.
"A limited collaboration. A formal agreement specifying exactly what analyses we'll perform and what we're looking for. Complete documentation of chain of custody and intellectual property rights. And before any of that—a conversation with Dr. Caulfield so you can hear directly from someone who's been tracking this outbreak firsthand."
Amelia looked at the specimens lined up on her desk, then at Eli's carefully composed expression, then at her own reflection in the hotel room mirror. She looked pale, tired, with shadows under her eyes that hadn't been there a fortnight ago. Whether from stress, travel, or something more concerning, she couldn't say.
"I want a written contract," she said finally. "Before any analysis begins. Specifying exactly what you're looking for in these specimens, what tests will be performed, and what happens to the materials afterward. If your specific targets aren't found, I take everything and leave. No arguments, no attempts to negotiate additional testing."
She paused, considering. "And that includes the historical documents. Eleanor's journals, Thomas's letters, Dr. Merriweather's medical records—everything we found belongs to the estate. Your access to those materials and any use you’ll want to make of the information within needs to be clearly defined as well."
"Agreed."
"I want to speak with Dr. Caulfield myself. Not just hear your summary of her work—an actual conversation where I can ask questions and assess her credentials."
"She will be expecting your call. I can set it up for tomorrow."
"And I maintain the right to terminate this arrangement at any point, for any reason, without explanation." Amelia's voice hardened, remembering the betrayal of Dr. Whitmore appropriating her research. "I've been burned before by colleagues who seemed trustworthy. If something feels wrong, if I think you're hiding important information, if I simply change my mind—I walk away with all materials, and you don't follow up or try to change my mind. That's non-negotiable."
Eli nodded, though something flickered in his expression—relief warring with what might have been disappointment. "Those terms are acceptable."
Amelia moved to her research bag and pulled out the mourning brooch, its gold surface catching the hotel room's harsh fluorescent light. She'd kept it close since finding it, though she couldn't articulate why. Something about the delicate engraving, the perfectly preserved hair sample, the modification that had transformed a piece of memorial jewelry into a scientific specimen—it felt central to Eleanor's story in ways she was only beginning to understand.
"This doesn't leave my possession," she said, closing her fingers around the brooch. "I'll allow non-invasive analysis, but it stays with me."
"Of course." Eli's gaze lingered on her closed fist with an intensity that made her want to step backward. "The biological specimens we found—the hair samples, the preserved tissue cultures, the botanical materials—they're all potentially valuable for comparative analysis."
"But you seem particularly interested in this piece specifically," Amelia observed, noting how his eyes kept returning to the brooch in her hand.
For a moment, Eli looked as though he might answer honestly. Then his expression shuttered, returning to the careful neutrality she was beginning to recognize as his default when approaching sensitive topics.
"The preservation method in that brooch appears to be the most sophisticated we discovered," he said finally. "If any of the biological samples contain viable genetic material, the controlled environment in that piece offers the best chance of preservation."
The explanation was plausible, even logical. It was also incomplete—Amelia could sense the gaps in his reasoning, the carefully selected information that told part of the truth while concealing something larger. But for now, it was enough to proceed.
"I'll need the rest of the day to research Dr. Caulfield's background before speaking with her," Amelia said, leaning over her suitcase to grab her laptop, and motioning him to the door in the same movement. "Academic credentials, publication history, institutional affiliations... If she's as qualified as you claim, that information should be easily verifiable."
"She'll pass any background check you care to run." Eli moved toward the door, then paused with his hand on the handle. "Amelia? Thank you. For considering this. I know it's asking a lot."
She nodded, already setting up on the room’s rickety table. “Leave the coffee, if it’s black.”
After he left, Amelia sat in the sudden quiet of the hotel room, the mourning brooch warm in her palm. Through the window, she could see the Rappahannock River in the distance, its waters flowing past the same landscape where Eleanor Caldwell had once lived and worked and documented her mysterious research. Where Confederate soldiers had suffered from symptoms that now seemed to echo in a contemporary pandemic affecting the very people most likely to investigate such historical connections.
She opened her laptop and began researching Dr. Elise Caulfield, infectious disease specialist, Geneva. If Elijah was lying about his colleague's credentials, she'd know within an hour. If he was telling the truth...
Amelia touched the brooch again, feeling the slight ridges of its engraved surface against her fingertips. If he was telling the truth, then she might be holding not just a piece of jewelry, but a key to saving lives. The question was whether she could trust Elijah Merriweather enough to help him use it.
Her research began with a simple search for "Dr. Elise Caulfield, Geneva." What she found made her lean forward in her chair, suddenly much more interested in having that phone conversation.
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TBC next week in part II
© 2025 E.M. di V. - writing as Morgan A. Drake & Joe Gillis. All rights reserved.