Mister Slaughter

Six

"A pity about Matthew Corbett. Dead at such a young age," said Hudson Greathouse. He shrugged. "I really didn't know him very well. Had only worked with him since July. So what more can I say, other than that he poked his curiosity into one dark hole too many."

The wagon, pulled by two sway-backed horses that seemed to move only with the slow but dignified agony of age, had just left the stable in Westerwicke. The town stood along the Philadelphia Pike, some thirty miles from New York; it was a small but well-groomed place, with two churches, houses of wood and brick and beyond them farmfields and orchards carved from the New Jersey forests. A farmer selling pumpkins from a cart waved, and Greathouse waved back.

"Yes," Greathouse said, looking up at the clouds that sailed like huge white ships across the morning sky, "too bad about Matthew, that his life was cut so short due to the fact he had neither sense nor bodyguard to protect him." He cut his gaze sideways, at the driver. "Would that have been a good enough speech at your funeral?"

"I have already admitted," Matthew spoke up, as he flicked the reins to urge a little more speed to horses that only hung their heads lower as if to beg for mercy, "that I should not have gone in that tunnel alone." He felt heat in his cheeks. "How long are you going to play this tune?"

"Until you realize you're not ready to go off risking your life foolishly. And for what? To prove a point? That you're so much smarter than everyone else?"

"It's awfully early for this." In fact, it was not much after six o'clock. Matthew was tired and cranky and wished he were anywhere on earth but sitting in this wagon beside Greathouse. By God, he'd even take the tunnel again. At least it had been quiet in there. He now knew the real meaning of torture; it was having to share a room with Greathouse at The Constant Friend tavern, as had been done last night in Westerwicke because the other two rooms were taken, and not being able to get to sleep before a snoring began that started like a cannon's boom and ended like a cat's squall. Long past midnight, when at last Matthew did slumber, Greathouse gave out a holler that almost made Matthew jump out of bed fearing for his life, but not even the subsequent angry knocking on the wall of the next room's occupant brought Greathouse up from his netherworld. More galling, the great one would not let this incident of the tunnel go. Danger this, and danger that, and what might have happened if it had not been a tunnel that led under the estate to the river, but instead to a cave where he could have gotten lost in the dark and been wanderi ng until he had a beard down to his boots. What then, Mr. Corbett? Do speak a little louder, I can't hear you.

"You're right," said Greathouse after a brief reflection, which served only to make Matthew expect another volley was being loaded. "It is early. Have a drink." He passed over a leather flask of brandy, at which he'd already been nipping since the first threads of sunrise. Matthew took it and swallowed enough to make his eyes swim and his throat burn, and then he returned it to its owner. Greathouse corked it and slid it under the plank seat, next to the pistol. "Maybe I can't say I wouldn't have done the same. But I'm me, and I have experience at such things. Didn't you think to tie a rope to something to find your way back by?"

"It would have been a very long rope." Very long indeed. The tunnel, a natural feature of the Chapel estate, had been in Matthew's estimation almost a quarter-mile long. At one point it had descended at an alarming angle but by then Matthew could see light ahead. It had emerged from the riverside cliffs among boulders, and a path could be negotiated to the nearest woods. He surmised that not all the members of Chapel's little party had been privy to knowing about the escape route, but that was how those particular four had gotten out.

"I don't think I'm so much smarter than everyone else," Matthew answered, to one of Greathouse's more stinging barbs.

"Sure you do. It's part of your charm. Oh, my back aches! That bed should've been arrested for attempted murder."

"You seemed to be sleeping well enough, for the most part." "An illusion. I had a particularly bad dream."

"Really? Did you happen to be dreaming about a war between cannons and cats?" "What?" Greathouse scowled. "No. It's this damned job. I don't like it." "You were dreaming about the job?"

"No. I had a dream about now, this sounds ridiculous, I know." Greathouse hesitated, reached for the flask again and held it at the ready. "I had a dream about that damned tooth."

"The tooth," Matthew repeated.

"You know. McCaggers' tooth. What he showed us. All that jabber about God and Job and monsters and " The cork was pulled out and another swig of brandy went down Greathouse's throat. "All that," he said, when he'd finished.

Matthew waited, certain there would be more. He flicked the reins again, but it didn't speed the old horses a single hoof. Still, their destination was not very far ahead. The doctors, Ramsendell and Hulzen, would be expecting them at the Publick Hospital.

"I dreamed," Greathouse said, after taking a long breath as if to get his brain started again, "that I saw the monster the tooth came from. It was as big as a house, Matthew. No, bigger. As big as Trinity Church, or City Hall. Bigger yet. Its skin looked to be like black iron, still smoking from the bellows furnace. Its head was as big as a coach, and it looked at me, Matthew. Right at me. It was hungry, and it was coming for me, and I started to run." A crazed grin erupted across his face. "Ridiculous, isn't it?"

Matthew made a noise, but kept his eyes on the road as long as Greathouse looked at him.

"It came for me," Greathouse went on. "Like a terrible wind. Or a force of nature. I was running across a field where there were dead men lying. Or pieces of men. There was nowhere to hide, and I knew the monster was going to get me. I knew it, and there was nothing I could do. It was going to get me, with those teeth. A mouthful of them, Matthew. By the hundreds. It was so huge, and so fast. It was coming up behind me, and I felt its breath on my neck and then "

Greathouse said nothing else. At last, Matthew asked, "You died?"

"I must have woken up. I don't remember. Maybe I did die, in the dream. I don't know. But I'll tell you what I do know." He started to take another drink and then thought better of it, for there was the job to be done today. "I had almost forgotten what fear is. Not being frightened, that's one thing. I mean, fear. What you know you don't have a chance against. That's what I felt, in the dream. And all because of that damned tooth."

"Your eel pie last night might have something to do with it. I told you it didn't smell very fresh."

"Wasn't that. All right, maybe a little. My stomach did pitch and tumble a bit. But it's this job, too. If the money wasn't so good, I would've told Lillehorne to find someone else. Surely a couple of constables would have done just as well."

"The doctors asked for us specifically," Matthew reminded him. "And who else would've come? Dippen Nack? Giles Wintergarten? I don't think so."

"The doctors." Greathouse gave a fierce tug at his brown woolen cap. "You know what I think of them, and their asylum. I suppose you're still visiting the lady?"

"I am. And she is getting better. At least she knows her own name now, and she's beginning to understand her circumstances."

"Good for her, but that doesn't change what I think of housing a bunch of lunatics out here in the woods." The wagon, as slow as it was, had left Westerwicke behind and was now moving along the forest road, which was still the Philadelphia Pike and would be called so all the forty-odd miles to that city. Up ahead, little more than a quarter mile on the right, would be the turnoff to the hospital. The sun was strengthening, casting yellow and red tendrils through the trees. Birds were singing and the air was crisp; it was a very lovely morning, save for some dark clouds to the west. "What a man must do for gold," Greathouse said, almost to himself.

Matthew didn't reply. What a man must do, indeed. He had already worked out a plan for his riches. Over the course of time he would take a few coins to Philadelphia by packet boat, and there buy some items so as to break the five-pound pieces into smaller change. He was even thinking of coming up with a new identity for himself, for his Philadelphia visits. It wouldn't do for anyone in New York to know of his sudden wealth; besides, it was no one's business but his own. He'd almost perished on that estate. Did he not deserve some reward for all he'd gone through? For now, the money was hidden in his house-not that anyone was going to get through the lock on his door, but he felt easier knowing all those gold pieces were tucked into the straw of his mattress.

Today was Wednesday. Yesterday morning, a young messenger had arrived at Number Seven Stone Street with a summons for Matthew and Greathouse to make haste to Gardner Lillehorne's office at City Hall, for the high constable had urgent business. Greathouse's reply was that neither one of them could be called like cattle from a pasture, and that if Lillehorne wished to conduct business it would be at Number Seven.

"I think you're pushing your luck with Lillehorne," Matthew had said after the messenger was gone. He picked up a broom and began to sweep the floor, as it was his usual task and-newfound riches or not-he at least wished to keep clean the area around his own desk.

"Do you? And what is he going to do to me for standing up to him?"

"He has his methods. And his connections." Matthew swept the dust into a wooden tray, which he would later dump out the pair of windows that afforded a view of New York to the northwest, and beyond the wide river, brown cliffs and golden hills of New Jersey. "You were very cavalier to him that night at the Cock'a'tail. I'm still amazed we didn't end up in the gaol, because after all was said and done we were breaking the law."

"Course we were. But don't fret about it. Lillehorne's not going to do anything to either one of us. Certainly not put me where I can't be useful ."

"Can't be useful?" Matthew stopped his sweeping and looked at Greathouse, who was leaning back in his chair with his big boots-dusty boots, too-propped up on his desk. "Meaning what?" He had a flash of insight when Greathouse just tapped his forefinger against his chin. I have an errand to run, Greathouse had said on Friday morning, there on Nassau Street. "You're working on something for him."

"I am."

"Something for him as high constable? Or something as an ordinary citizen?"

"A citizen, the same as any man off the street might have come up to me at Sally Almond's a week ago Monday, offered to buy me breakfast, and then asked me to consider doing him a favor. I told him favors cost money, and the larger the favor the larger the sum. We made an agreement for a favor of moderate size, and there you have it."

"And what exactly was the favor?"

"Is the favor," Greathouse corrected. "A work in progress, with no answer just yet." He frowned. "Why exactly should I be telling you, anyway? You didn't tell me you were riding up to the Chapel estate, did you? No, you didn't care to share with me what might have been your last trip on earth. Well, I'll tell you what! When Lillehorne gets here, you can tell him all about the tunnel. Or are you saving the story for Marmaduke and the next Earwig?"

"I didn't go for that reason."

Greathouse wore a steely glare. "Are you absolutely sure of that?"

Matthew was about to reply in the positive, but the bottom fell out of his resolve. Was he absolutely sure? Had he indeed been thinking of telling Marmaduke, so as to be the centerpiece of another story? No, of course not! But maybe just a little bit? He stood with motes of dust shimmering in the air around him. Was it true that maybe just a little bit he was no longer content to be only Matthew Corbett, magistrate's clerk become problem-solver, but wished the company of both wealth and attention? It seemed to him that attention could become as potent a drink as Skelly's apple brandy, and make one just as insensible. It seemed to him that one could be overcome by it, and without it would become as weak-willed and desperate as any half-penny drunkard. Was that part of why he'd ridden to the estate? No. Absolutely not.

But a few days ago he might have thought that if he'd ever found a bagful of gold coins, he would have first and foremost told who? Berry? She had also shared the ordeal; should she not share the reward? No, no; it was complicated. Very complicated, and he would have to consider this subject again when he had a clearer head, and anyway this dust in the air was about to make him sneeze.

"I regret telling you," he said to Greathouse, in a voice as steely as the other man's glare continued to be.

"Why did you, then?'

Matthew almost told him. That maybe he'd gone into the tunnel to prove his courage, once and for all; or that he'd simply thought Greathouse would approve of his decision to go forward, and trust in his instincts. But the moment came and went and Matthew did not say any of this; instead, he said, "Because I wanted you to know I don't need a bodyguard."

"Your opinion. All I know is, Zed could help us both, if he could be taught correctly. It's a damned waste for that man to be hauling ship timbers for the rest of his life." He waved a dismissive hand at Matthew. "Now don't get me started on that, I'll have to go out and get a drink."

Matthew returned to his sweeping, thinking that it was best to let some secrets lie undisturbed.

Less than a half-hour later, Gardner Lillehorne had arrived like a burst of sunlight in his yellow suit and stockings, his yellow tricorn adorned with a small blue feather. His disposition was rather more stormy, however, and as he marched up to Greathouse's desk his face bore the scowl of a particularly dark cloud. He placed a brown envelope sealed with gray wax before Greathouse. "You're required for an official task," he said, and cast a quick glance at Matthew. "The both of you."

"What official task?" Greathouse picked up the envelope, inspected the seal, and started to open it.

Lillehorne put his black-lacquered cane against Greathouse's hand. "The envelope is to remain sealed," he said, "until you pick up the prisoner. When you take possession of him, you are to read the contents to both him and the witnesses, as a formality of official " He cast about for a word. "Possession."

"You'd best rein in your runaways," Greathouse cautioned, and moved the cane aside. "What prisoner? And where is he?"

"The messenger from those two doctors said you would know. He came to my office yesterday afternoon. I have a wagon ready for you at Winekoop's stable. It's the best I can offer. The irons are ready, in the wagon. Here's the key." He reached into a pocket of that blazing and slightly-nauseating suit jacket and brought out the item, which he also placed on the desk in front of Greathouse.

"The two doctors?" Greathouse looked at Matthew. "Do you have any idea what he's going on about?"

Matthew did, but before he could say so Lillehorne went on, as if eager to be done with the responsibility. "Ramsendell and Hulzen, at the New Jersey Colony's Publick Hospital for the Mentally Infirm. Near Westerwicke. You know it, of course. The order for removal has come. A constable representing the Crown will be arriving on the Endurance at the end of this month to take him into custody. I want the prisoner's boots on the next ship leaving for England, and good riddance to him."

"Wait, wait, wait!" Greathouse stood up, the envelope in hand. "Are you talking about that lunatic we saw in the window down there? That what was his name, Matthew?"

"His name is Tyranthus Slaughter," Lillehorne answered. "Wanted for murder, robbery and other crimes, all laid out in the article of possession. The messenger said the doctors had already mentioned to the both of you the fact that Slaughter would be transferred from the hospital to the New York gaol, to await the Crown's constable. Well, the time's come."

Matthew recalled the first occasion he and Greathouse had gone to the Westerwicke hospital, during the investigation of the Queen of Bedlam. The two doctors who ran the place had introduced them to an inmate behind one of the barred windows. Sent to us almost a year ago from the Quaker institution in Philadelphia. The Quakers have found out he was a barber in London and he may have been involved with a dozen murders. We're expecting a letter in the autumn instructing us to take him to the NewYork gaol to wait for ship transfer to England. You know, if this business goes well with the Queen, you gentlemen might consider our hiring you to escort Mr. Slaughter to New York.

Greathouse brought forth a fierce grin that Matthew thought was one of his more disturbing expressions, because it meant the man was considering violence. "Are you out of your mind? You can't come in here and give orders!"

"You will see," said Lillehorne quietly, as he gazed about the office and his thin nostrils wrinkled with distaste, "that I'm not the person giving the orders. Don't you recognize Governor Lord Cornbury's seal?"

Greathouse took another look at it and dropped the envelope onto his desk. "That doesn't mean anything to me."

"Your doctor friends received two letters, both from the Crown's constable. One told them to prepare the prisoner for removal. The other was to be presented to Lord Cornbury, directing him to have the man brought here and held in irons. Lord Cornbury has been told to use the best possible men at his disposal. That's at least what he informed me when he dumped the mess in my lap. You two were specifically requested by Ramsendell and Hulzen. So here you are."

"We're a private concern," Greathouse said, with a thrust of his chin. "We don't work for the city, or the New Jersey colony. Certainly not for Lord Cornbury!"

"Ah, yes. The matter of who you do work for." Lillehorne reached into a pocket and brought out a small brown bag tied with a leather cord. He shook it, so that the coins might jingle. "Mister Three-Pounds. Have you made his acquaintance lately?"

Matthew kept his mouth closed.

"There are official transfer papers in that envelope," Lillehorne went on. "They require the signatures of both yourselves and the two doctors. Upon your acceptance of the prisoner, the doctors have agreed to pay you an additional two pounds. Can you do the mathematics, sir?"

Greathouse snorted. "They must want to get rid of him very badly." He paused, regarding the bag of coins with a hungry eye. "He must be dangerous. No, I'm not sure five pounds is enough." He shook his head. "Send some of your constables to get him. A half-dozen of them ought to do the job."

"My constables, as Mr. Corbett has pointed out before, are not fully suited to more demanding tasks. After all, are you not so proud to be the professionals?" He let that comment float in the air before he continued. "And you're laboring under the mistaken presumption that this is a request from Lord Cornbury. You might realize by now that he wishes to shall we say show himself able before his cousin, the Queen. I wish to show myself able before Lord Cornbury. And so it goes. You see?"

"Five pounds is not enough," Greathouse repeated, with some force behind it.

"For two days' work? My God, what are they paying you people these days?" Lillehorne took note of the broom that stood in the corner. "A poor little office like this could be swept away with the rubbish. Lord Cornbury can put a lock on any door he chooses, Greathouse. If I were you-which I know I am not-I would gladly take this very generous amount and consider that Lord Cornbury can be useful to you, if you get on his good side."

"He has a good side?"

"He can be managed. And if you do a favor for him, I'm sure he might someday do a favor for you." "A favor," Greathouse said, and Matthew saw his eyes narrow in thought.

"Two days' work. If you could leave within the hour, you might make Westerwicke by nightfall." Lillehorne inspected the silver lion's-head that topped his cane. "You won't be gone long enough to um miss any opportunities for further business." A reference, Matthew assumed, to the mysterious work that Greathouse was doing for his latest client.

It was another moment before Greathouse returned from his mental wanderings. He said, "I don't like the idea of going back there. To that hospital, with all those lunatics. What do you say, Matthew?" What could he say? Therefore he kept silent and shrugged. "You could use the money, I know. Maybe I could use a little goodwill from Cornbury. Tell me, Lillehorne: have you ever seen him wearing a man's clothes?"

"I have. Unfortunately, in them he is equally as unfortunate."

Greathouse nodded, and then he said, "The irons."

"Pardon?"

"The irons had better not have any rusted links."

They didn't. The sturdy cuffs and chains were now in a burlap bag in the back of the wagon. Matthew turned the horses onto the branch road leading off the Philadelphia Pike and through a grove of trees. The three buildings of the Publick Hospital stood just ahead.

It was a quiet place, with birds singing in the trees and a soft wind whispering. Still, Greathouse shifted uneasily on the seat and kept his eyes averted from the buildings, as if not wishing to think about what went on behind the walls. The second and largest building, made of rough stones and resembling a grainhouse or meeting-hall, held all the inmates except for a few who resided in the third structure, which was a white-painted house that faced a garden. Some of the second building's windows were shuttered and some were open but barred, and a few faces peered out at the wagon's approach. The pastoral quiet was broken when someone in there started hollering and a second, more shrill voice, joined the commotion.

"We must be here," Greathouse said dryly, working his hands together. Matthew knew from past experience

that this place-even though it was run efficiently and in a humane manner by the two doctors-made Greathouse as jumpy as a cat on a carpet of razors.

Matthew pulled the team up in front of the first building, which was painted white and appeared to be simply a normal house. As Matthew climbed down to let the horses drink from a nearby trough, the first building's door opened and a stocky man in a dark brown suit and waistcoat emerged. He lifted his hand in greeting, at the same time removing the clay pipe that was clenched between his teeth.

"Greetings, gentlemen," said Dr. Curtis Hulzen. He had gray hair and spectacles perched on a hooked nose. "It seems the day has arrived."

Greathouse muttered something, but Matthew couldn't hear what he said and wasn't sure he wanted to.

"Jacob!" Hulzen called into the house, and a man in gray clothes and a brown leather waistcoat came out. "Will you go fetch Dr. Ramsendell, please? And tell him the escorts are here?"

"Sir," answered Jacob, with a quick nod, and he strode along a well-worn pathway toward Matthew, who had met this particular patient on his first visit here. Jacob suddenly stopped right in front of the horse trough and said to Matthew in a mangled voice, "Have you come to take me home?" The left side of Jacob's temple was crushed inward, and an old jagged scar began at his right cheek and continued up across a concave patch on his scalp where the hair no longer grew. His eyes were bright and glassy, and fixed upon Matthew with pitiful hope. A sawmill accident had done this, Ramsendell had told Matthew, and Jacob could never again live "out there", as the doctor had put it, with his wife and two children.

When he realized Hulzen wasn't going to intercede for him, Matthew said as kindly as he could, "No, I'm afraid not."

Jacob shrugged, as if this news was expected, but perhaps there was a glint of pain in the eyes. "It's all right," he said, with a crooked grin. "I hear music in my head." Then he continued along the path toward the second building, brought a ring of keys from within his waistcoat, unlocked the big wooden slab of a door and disappeared inside.

"You're liberal with your keys around here," Greathouse remarked, as he stepped down from the wagon. "I wouldn't be surprised if all your lunatics got out into the woods someday, and then what would you do?"

"Bring them back." Hulzen had returned the pipe to his mouth and blew smoke in Greathouse's direction, as those two had had their verbal clashes before. "The ones that ran away, which would be few. You don't seem to realize that most of our patients are like children."

Greathouse produced the sealed envelope from within his tan-colored coat and held it aloft. "This tells me at least one of them isn't too child-like. We're supposed to have you sign some papers."

"Come in, then."

Matthew tied the horses to a hitching-post, put down the brake and followed Hulzen and Greathouse into the first building, which was the doctors' office and consultation area. Inside, there were two desks, a larger conference table with six chairs, a file cabinet, shelves full of books and on the floor a dark green woven rug. Hulzen closed the front door and motioned them to the table, where there was a quill pen and an inkpot. Another door at the back led to what Matthew had noted on his initial visit was an examination room and a place where drugs or medical instruments were stored.

"The papers," Hulzen said, and Greathouse broke Lord Cornbury's seal. Within the envelope was a trio of official parchment documents like the ones Matthew had seen every day during his duties as clerk for Magistrate Nathaniel Powers. Greathouse found the document and its copy that each needed four signatures, Hulzen briefly looked them over and then signed and Matthew added his signatures. Greathouse dipped the quill and was delivering his name on the copy as the front door suddenly opened, and when Greathouse's hand involuntarily jumped his signature became a scrawl.

The patient-soon to be prisoner, with the adding of one more name-sauntered into the room, followed by Dr. David Ramsendell and, at a distance, Jacob.

Matthew thought the room had suddenly turned cold.

"Hm!" said the new arrival, with chilly disdain. He was staring at the transfer papers, and specifically at the three names written thereon. "Signing me over like a common criminal, are you? The shame of it!"

Greathouse looked up into the man's face, his own expression as solid as a gravestone. "You are a common criminal, Slaughter."

"Oh, no, sir," came the reply, with the hint of a smile and a slight, mocking bow. His hands were clasped before him, his wrists bound together with leather cuffs secured by a padlock. "There is nothing common about me, sir. And I would appreciate that you show me due respect, and from now on refer to me as a refined gentleman ought to: Mister Slaughter."

No one laughed. No one except Slaughter himself, who looked from Greathouse to Matthew with his pale blue eyes and began a slow, deep laughter in his throat that beat like a funeral bell.

Seven

"I'm glad you can amuse yourself so easily," said Greathouse, when Slaughter's hollow laughter had ceased.

"I've had a great deal of experience in amusing myself, and in both the Quaker institution and this virtuous haven a great deal of time to think amusing thoughts. I thank you for your regard, Mr." Slaughter took a step closer to the table, with the obvious intention of reading Greathouse's signatures, but Greathouse quickly picked up both sheets of the transfer papers.

"Sir will do," Greathouse told him. Slaughter smiled and again gave a brief little bow.

But then, before the tall, slim and bearded Dr. Ramsendell could come forward to take the quill that Greathouse offered, Slaughter swiveled toward Matthew and said in a light and amiable voice, "Now, you I remember very distinctly. Dr. Ramsendell spoke your name outside my window. Was that just July? It's " He only had to think a few seconds to bring it up. " Corbett. Yes?"

Matthew nodded, in spite of himself; there was a compelling note in Slaughter's voice that demanded a response.

"A young dandy then, I recall. Even more of a young dandy now."

It was true. As was his habit of presenting himself as a New York gentleman, even on a road trip, Matthew wore one of his new suits from Benjamin Owles; it was dark burgundy-red, the same color as its waistcoat. Black velvet trimmed the cuffs and lapels. His white shirt and cravat were crisp and spotless, and he wore his new black boots and a black tricorn.

"Come into some money, I see," said Slaughter, whose face hung before Matthew's. He winked, and said in what was nearly a whisper, "Good for you."

How to describe the indescribable? Matthew wondered. The physical features were easy enough: Slaughter's wide face was a mixture of gentleman and brute. His forehead slightly protruded above the straw-colored mass of eyebrows. His unruly mat of hair was the same color, maybe a hint more of red, with the sides going gray. His thick mustache was more gray than straw, and since Matthew had seen him in July the man had grown a beard that looked like the beards of many other men stitched together: here a portion of dark brown, there a red patch, here a dash of chestnut brown, beneath the fleshy lower lip a touch of silver, and upon the chin a streak of charcoal black.

He was not as large a man as Matthew remembered. He had a big barrel chest and shoulders that swelled his ashen-hued asylum clothing, yes, but his arms and legs appeared to be almost spindly. He was about the same height as Matthew, yet he stood in a crook-backed stance that testified to some malformation of the spine. His hands, however, were instruments worthy of special attention; they were abnormally large, the fingers long and knuckles knotty, the nails black with encrusted grime and grown out jagged and sharp as little blades. It was obvious that Slaughter either refused to bathe or hadn't been offered the grace of soap and water for a long period of time, as his scaly flesh was as gray as his clothes. The smell that wafted from him made Matthew think of something dead moldering in the mud of a filthy swamp.

But for all that, Slaughter had a long, aristocratic nose with a narrow bridge and nostrils that flared ever so elegantly, as if he could not stand the stink of his own skin. His large eyes-pale blue, cold, yet not altogether humorless, with a merry sort of glint that came and went like a red signal lamp seen at a distance-were undeniably intelligent in the quick way they darted about to gather impressions just as Matthew was doing the same.

The part of Slaughter that could not be so easily described, Matthew thought, was a feeling from him of calmness, of utter disregard for whatever might be happening in this room. He didn't seem to care a fig, yet there was something else, too; it was a confidence, perhaps ill-advised under the circumstances, but as strong as his reek. It was a statement of both strength and contempt, and this alone put Matthew's nerves on edge. The first time Matthew had seen this man, he'd thought he was looking into the face of Satan. Now, though Slaughter was obviously more-as Ramsendell had put it on that day in July-cunning than insane, he was after all only a human being of flesh, bone, blood, hair and dirt. Possibly mostly hair and dirt, by the looks of him. The irons had no rusty links. It was going to be a long day, but not unbearable. Depending, of course, upon the direction of the breeze.

"Step aside, please," said Ramsendell, who waited for Slaughter to obey and then came forward to sign the documents. Hulzen was puffing on his pipe, as if to fill up the room with the pungent fumes of Carolina tobacco, and Jacob stood at the door's threshold watching as intently as anyone could who had a portion of their skull missing.

Ramsendell signed the papers. "Gentlemen?" He was addressing Greathouse and Matthew. "I appreciate your assistance in this matter. I'm sure you know that both Curtis and I have given to the Quakers our honorable decree as Christians that our patient " He paused to correct himself, and set aside the quill. "Your prisoner," he went on, "will be delivered to New York alive and in good health."

"He doesn't look too healthy as is," Greathouse answered.

"Just so you gentlemen understand-and I am sure you do, being upright citizens-that we are not in favor of violent solutions, and so if Mr. Slaughter perturbs you on the trip I trust that-"

"Don't worry, we won't kill him."

"Very reassuring to hear it," said Slaughter.

Greathouse ignored him, and picked up the third sheet of parchment. "I'm supposed to read this article of possession. I gather it's a formality."

"Oh, do read it!" Slaughter's teeth flashed.

"This day July third, the year of our Lord 1702," Greathouse read, "Her Majesty's subject Tyranthus Slaughter is charged to be removed from his present arrangement and brought to stand before the Queen's Commission of the Peace, held for the city of London and county of Middlesex at Justice Hall in the Old Bailey, before her Majesty's Justices, in connection with murders possibly committed by one Tod Carter, barber at Hammer's Alley, on or about April 1686 through December 1688, the bones of eleven men and one child being found under the cellar floor by a recent tenant." Greathouse aimed a cool gaze at Slaughter. "A child?"

"I had to have a lather-boy, didn't I?"

"Said suspect," Greathouse continued reading, "also charged to stand in connection with the disappearances of Anne Yancey, Mary Clark, and Sarah Goldsmith and the concurrent robberies of their family estates, on or about August 1689 through March 1692, under the aliases of Count Edward Bowdewine, Lord John Finch and " He hesitated. "Earl Anthony Lovejoy?"

"I was so much younger then," said Slaughter, with a slight shrug. "I had the imagination of youth."

"So you don't deny any of this?"

"I deny," came the smooth answer, "that I am a common criminal."

"Signed by the Right Honorable Sir William Gore, Knight Lord Mayor of the City of London, witnessed by Sir Salathiel Lovel, Knight Recorder of Said City, and the Honorable John Drake, Crown's Constable." Greathouse handed the parchment to Ramsendell, who took it as one might accept a dead snake, and then said to Slaughter, "I think your past has caught up with you."

"Alas, I'm in your hands. I do presume you'll feed me a good breakfast before we get started?"

"One thing," Matthew said, and both doctors immediately gave him their attention. "You said the Quakers found out Mr. Slaughter was wanted in London. How did that happen?"

"He was brought to us in August of last year, looking much as you see him now," Ramsendell explained. "A week or so later, one of their doctors left for a business trip to London and arrived in November, where he discovered people still talking about the bones that had been found at Hammer's Alley the month before." Ramsendell handed the article of possession back to Greathouse and wiped his palms on his breeches. "Some witnesses had come forth and given a description of Tod Carter that was published in a broadsheet and circulated through the streets. Someone else connected him to the alias of Lord John Finch, who wore-as it was called-a patchwork beard. This was evidently a continuing story in the Gazette at that time."

"I think I do recall reading about it," Matthew said. He would have gotten those copies of the Gazette from ship's passengers, which meant he'd been reading them at least three months after the fact.

"The doctor recognized Carter's description and approached the Crown's constable. But as I say, Slaughter was with us by then. He was um a little disruptive for the Quakers to handle."

"And you're any better?" Greathouse scoffed. "I would've taken a whip to him every damned day."

"Look how they talk about you here," said Slaughter, to no one in particular. "As if you're part of the wallpaper."

"Exactly why was he at the Quaker institution to begin with?" Matthew asked.

"He," Slaughter spoke up, "was there because he was arrested on the Philadelphia Pike for highway robbery. He determined that he was not suited for confinement in the Quakers' gloomy gaol, thus he-poor, misguided soul-should contrive to wear the costume of a lunatic and bark like a dog, which he began to do before that court of fools. Therefore, he was content to join the academy of the mad for how long was it? Two years, four months and twelve days, if his mathematic skills have not turned to pudding."

"That's not quite all of it," Hulzen said, through his pipesmoke. "He tried to escape the Quaker institution four times, assaulted two other patients and nearly bit off a doctor's thumb."

"He put his hand over my mouth. It was very rude."

"Slaughter didn't attempt anything like that here?" Greathouse asked.

"No," said Ramsendell. "In fact, before anyone had learned about Tod Carter, he was on such good behavior that we gave him work privileges, which he unfortunately repaid by trying to strangle poor Mariah, back at the red barn." There was a road leading to some outbuildings behind the hospital, as Matthew knew from his previous visits. "But he was caught in time, and properly punished."

Greathouse's mouth curved into a sneer. "What did you do to him? Take away his scented soap?"

"No, we put him into solitary confinement until it was determined he could rejoin the others. He'd only been out a few days before you two saw his face at the wi ndow. By then we'd had a visit from the Quakers, who'd received a letter from their doctor in London addressed to me and explaining the situation. After that, he was kept apart."

"He should've been torn apart," was Greathouse's summary.

Matthew regarded Slaughter with a furrowed brow, as more questions were nettling him. "Do you have a wife? Any family?"

"No to both."

"Where were you living before you were arrested?"

"Here and there. Mostly there."

"And you worked where?"

"The road, Mr. Corbett. My partner and I did quite well, living on our wits and the treasure of travelers. God rest William Rattison's soul."

"His accomplice," Hulzen said, "was shot down during their last attempt at robbery. Evidently even the Quakers have their limit of patience, and they planted armed constables on one of the coaches between Philadelphia and New York."

"Tell me," Matthew said, again to Slaughter. "Did you and Rattison kill anyone while you were living on your wits?"

"We did not. Oh, Ratsy and I bumped a head occasionally, when someone grew mouthy. Murder was not the intent; it was the money."

Matthew rubbed his chin. Something still bothered him about all this. "So you elected to enter a madhouse for the rest of your life as opposed to standing before a judge and receiving a sentence of oh a brand on the hand and three years, say? I assume that was because you decided a madhouse would be easier to escape from? And why are you now so eager to leave this place that you don't even bother to deny the charges? I mean, the Quaker doctor could be mistaken."

Slaughter's smile emerged once more, and then slowly faded. The distant expression of his eyes never changed. "The truth," he said, "is that I never lie to men who are not fools."

"You mean you don't lie to men who can't be fooled," said Greathouse.

"I mean what I said. I am going to be taken from this place, no matter what. Put on a ship and sent to England. Walked before the court, identified by witnesses, badgered to point to the graves of three very lovely but very stupid young ladies, prodded into Newgate, and laughed by a slobbering mob up the gallows steps. No matter what. Why should I be less than truthful, and sully my honor before such professionals as yourselves?"

"Or is it," Matthew suggested, "that you fully believe yourself capable of escaping from us on the road? Even from such professionals as ourselves?"

"It is a thought. But, dear sir, never blame the wind for wishing to blow."

Greathouse returned the article of possession and their copy of the transfer document to the envelope. "We'll take him now," he said, rather grimly. "There's a matter of money."

"Oh, isn't there always," was Slaughter's quick comment.

Ramsendell went to one of the desks, opened a drawer and brought out a little cloth bag. "Two pounds, I believe. Count it, if you like."

Matthew could tell Greathouse was sorely tempted to do so when the bag was put into his palm, but the great one's desire to make haste from the asylum clearly won out. "Not necessary. Out," he commanded the prisoner, and motioned toward the door.

When they were outside and walking to the wagon, Slaughter first, followed by Greathouse, then Matthew and the doctors, a cacophony of hooting and hollering came from the windows of the central building, where pallid faces pressed against the bars. Greathouse kept his eyes fixed on Slaughter's back. Suddenly, Jacob was walking right up beside Greathouse and the poor man said hopefully, "Have you come to take me home?"

With a sudden intake of breath, Slaughter turned. His hands still clasped together and bound by the leather cuffs, he took a single step forward that brought him face-to-face with Jacob. Greathouse froze, and behind him Matthew's knees also locked.

"Dear Jacob," said Slaughter in a soft, gentle voice, as the red glint flared in his eyes. "No one is coming to take you home. Not today, not tomorrow, not the next day. You will stay here for the rest of your life, and here you will die. Because, dear Jacob, you have been forgotten, and no one is ever coming to take you home."

Jacob wore a half-smile. He said, "I hear " And then something must have gotten through into his head that was not music, for the smile cracked as surely as his skull must have broken on the fateful day of his accident. His eyes were wide and shocked, as if they remembered the whipsaw coming at him, yet he knew that to see it coming was already a lifetime too late. His mouth opened, the face went slack and as pallid as those that screamed behind the bars. Instantly Dr. Hulzen had come forward to put his hand first on the man's arm, and then his arm around the man's shoulder. Hulzen said close to his ear, "Come, Jacob. Come along, we'll have some tea. All right?" Jacob allowed himself to be pulled away, his expression blank.

Slaughter watched them go, and Matthew saw his chin lift with pride at a job well done.

"Take your shoes off," said Greathouse, his voice husky.

"Pardon, sir?"

"Your shoes. Off. Wow."

With some difficulty because of the leather cuffs, Slaughter removed them. His dirty feet with their gnarled yellow nails did not make a pleasant sight, nor did the air remain unsullied.

"Drop them in the trough," Greathouse told him.

Slaughter shot a glance at Ramsendell, who made no effort to interfere. The papers had been signed and the money changed hands; he was quits with the fiend.

Slaughter walked to the horse trough. He dropped his shoes into the water one after the other.

"It's not I mind it so much," he said, "but I do pity the poor horses." And he gave Greathouse the smile of a wounded saint.

Greathouse pushed Slaughter to the wagon. Then he took the pistol from underneath the seat, cocked it and, standing behind the prisoner, put the barrel against Slaughter's left shoulder. "Dr. Ramsendell, I presume he's been thoroughly checked for hidden weapons?"

"You'll note he's been given clothes with no pockets, and his body has been gone over, yes."

"And that was quite the thrill," said Slaughter. "Of course, they left the joy of looking up my arsehole for you."

"Remove the cuffs," Greathouse said. The doctor slid a key into the padlock that held the leather cuffs closed. When they were off Greathouse said, "Back here," and pulled Slaughter to the rear of the wagon. "Get up there," was the next command. "Slowly." The prisoner obeyed without a word, his face downcast. Greathouse told Matthew, "Hold the gun on him."

"Please," Slaughter replied with an air of exasperation. "You don't think I want to be shot, do you? And I don't think the Quakers would like that, by the by."

"Aim at his knee," Greathouse advised as he gave Matthew the pistol and climbed up into the back of the wagon. "We said we wouldn't kill you. Sit down."

Slaughter sat, staring at Matthew with a bemused expression.

From the burlap bag Greathouse withdrew the irons. They consisted of wrist manacles connected by chains to a pair of leg shackles. The chains were short enough so that Slaughter, if he could stand at all, would stand only in a very uncomfortable back-bowed crouch. Another chain connected to the right leg shackle ended in a twenty-pound iron ball, sometimes called a "thunderball" due to the rumble it made across a gaol's stone floor. When Greathouse finished locking the second leg iron, he put the key into the pocket of his shirt.

"Oh dear," said Slaughter. "I believe I have to shit."

"That's what breeches are for," Greathouse answered. He took the pistol from Matthew and eased the striker forward. "You drive, I'll guard."

Matthew untied the horses, got up in his seat, released the brake and took the reins. Greathouse climbed up beside him, turning around so as to face the prisoner. He placed the gun on his lap.

"Take care, gentlemen," Ramsendell said. In his voice there was a lighter note that could only be relief. "A speedy trip to you, and God's protection."

Matthew got the horses turned and started them toward the Philadelphia Pike again. He wished he could flick the reins against their backsides and get them trotting, but an earlier attempt at a "speedy trip" had met with nothing but the slow plod of old hooves. Now the horses were hauling about two hundred more pounds, as well.

Behind him, as they pulled away, Matthew heard the shrieks and jabbering of the mad beyond the barred windows.

"Farewell, friends!" Slaughter called to them. "Farewell, good souls! We shall meet again, on the road to Paradise! Ah, listen to my public," he said in a quieter voice. "They do so love me."

Eight

"I smell rain."

It was the first thing Slaughter had said since they'd left the Publick Hospital for the Mentally Infirm behind them about four miles. Matthew had already noted the large wall of dark-bellied clouds beginning to roll in from the west, and he too had detected the faint but telling metallic odor in the air that forecast a storm. He wondered, though, how Slaughter could-

"You might ask yourself," the prisoner went on, "how I am able to smell anything, due to my present physical aroma. Alas, I was not always so. In fact, I much enjoyed the bath and shave day. Not that I was allowed to hold the razor, of course. But those pleasures were taken away from me, when the doctors became so frightened of my mere shadow." He paused, waiting for a response from either Greathouse or Matthew, but none was forthcoming.

"A good shave," he went on, as if conversing with his companions in the House of Lords, "is a thing to treasure. The smooth leather of the chair, that leans you back just so. The steaming hot towel, to prepare your face. The warm lather, smelling of sandalwood, applied with a supple badger-hair brush. Not too much now, we mustn't waste such an expensive commodity! And then the razor. Ah, gentlemen, did the mind of man ever create a finer instrument? The handle made of walnut, or bone, or ivory, or that beautiful mother-of-pearl. The blade itself, slim and sleek and oh so very feminine. A beauty, a symphony, a shining piece of art." He rustled his chains a bit, but Matthew kept watching the road and Greathouse kept watching Slaughter.

"Red beards, brown beards, black beards," said Slaughter. "I've polished them all off. Oh, how I'd like to polish you off. You're in need of a shave, sir."

Matthew had brought along a small bag, which was under his seat next to his water flask, that included his own razor and shaving soap. He'd scraped his face clean of whiskers upon rising this morning, whereas Greathouse might typically go several days without, as Slaughter put it, a polish.

Slaughter said nothing more for a few moments. They passed a rider in buckskins, who nodded a greeting and then continued on his way south. Matthew glanced again at the slow advance of dark clouds. Though both he and Greathouse had brought light cloaks and were sitting on them as cushions against the splintery plank seat, he wished he'd packed his sturdy fearnaught coat, for he knew due to experience that a chilly rain could make a road trip a trial of misery. But the thing about October was, it was so unpredictable.

Slaughter cleared his throat. "I trust that you two gentlemen do not grudge me for telling poor Jacob the truth," he said. "You know, I like the young man. I feel pity for him, that those doctors won't tell him the truth. My fondest hope is that, due to the truth I told him, his mind will clear enough for him to walk back to the barn, take a rope and hang himself."

Matthew knew Greathouse wouldn't be able to restrain a comment on that one, and sure enough came the husky voice: "Oh, that's your fondest hope, is it?"

"Absolutely. Well, think of it! Once a strapping young man with-as I understand-a wife and two children. Then came a terrible accident at a sawmill on the river, which evidently was none of his doing. Now, he's all well and happy for the present time, perhaps, if you believe lying to a person makes them happy, but what of his future? He's never going to get any better. Not one iota improved. So what will become of him? What if Ramsendell and Hulzen leave, and a more shall we say stern master comes into possession of the hospital? What cruelties might be done to him, then? And all he is currently is a drain on their time and money, for I dare say there are patients who could be improved. So you might say that Jacob is an impediment to their work, his being far beyond improvement. And, sir, would you have his wife and children come to see him, and the children look upon such a horror as their father has become? Would you have him return to the family home, where he might be an impediment to the success and lives of those he once loved?" Slaughter made a clucking noise with his tongue.

"Oh, sir, sooner or later, if Jacob does not kill himself, one or the other of those doctors may well realize it would be so much to the benefit of the hospital if a small accident might occur, say with a pickaxe or a shovel, so as to release that poor soul from his suffering. And surely, sir, you believe that Heaven is a much better place than this, don't you?"

"Keep talking and you might find out. Though I doubt Heaven would be your final harbor."

"I trust my last voyage will indeed sail into Heaven, sir, for I've seen so much of Hell on my earthly journey. Tell me: what is your name? You seem somewhat familiar to me."

"We've never met."

"Oh? And how can you be so sure?"

"Because," Greathouse said, "you're still alive."

Slaughter laughed again, that slow funeral bell sound, but also mixed with a frog's croak.

"I have a question to ask you," Matthew spoke up, if for no reason but to break the ghastly laughter. "Why didn't you try to escape the hospital instead of wasting your chance?"

"My chance? What chance?"

"Dr. Ramsendell said you tried to strangle a woman, back at the barn, when you were given work privileges. I suppose there was some kind of oversight, but you were out of the hospital. Why didn't you just run for it?"

Slaughter pondered the question for a few seconds, as the wagon creaked along, and then he answered, "My kind nature interfered with my desire for freedom. Just as I regret Jacob's suffering, so I was wounded by poor Mariah's. The young woman and her daughter were ravaged by two brutes, as I understood it. Her mind rendered dull, her spirit broken. The daughter murdered before her eyes. Some days all she could do was crawl into a corner and weep. Well, on that particular day I was going to-as you put it so gracefully-run for it, but I was compelled by my Christian charity to release Mariah from her world of pain, before I fled. But she was not yet freed from her suffering when one of the other fools in that barn hit me across the back of the head with an axe-handle."

"See, that's the problem with lunatics," Greathouse said as he examined more closely the striker of his pistol. "They don't know which end of a damned axe to use."

"I won't deny I have ended the lives of many persons," came Slaughter's next statement, delivered as one might say he had eaten many helpings of corncake. "But I have always been selective, sir. Some I released from their misery of being stupid, others I freed from their cages of arrogance." He shrugged, which made his chains rattle. "I might have cut the throat of a man who suffered from a touch too much greed, or bashed in the head of a woman who in her madness fancied the world revolved around her own ugly star. What of it? Is the ratcatcher hanged for killing rats? Is the horse leech hanged for blowing out the brains of a diseased nag?"

"And the child?" Greathouse cocked the pistol, eased the striker forward, and then cocked it again while he made pains to examine his finger on the trigger. "What reason for that one?"

"That poor boy, Christ bless him, was feeble-minded and wet his bed at night. Also he had a deformity in his neck that pained him badly. No parents or relatives, an urchin of the streets. I couldn't take him with me, could I? And to throw him out upon the mercy of London? No, I'm far too much the gentleman for that."

Greathouse didn't respond. Matthew glanced at him and saw him just staring fixedly at the pistol, his finger upon the trigger and the striker on full-cock. He sat exactly so for several seconds, and then he took a long deep breath, eased the striker home and said, "When you get back to London, maybe they'll give you a civic medal to wear with your rope."

"I shall wear it with pride, sir."

Greathouse looked at Matthew with dark-hollowed eyes. "I think we'd better switch places. Right now."

They handed off the reins and the gun between them and Matthew turned around on the seat. Slaughter sat with his back against the wagon's frame, his gray face with its patchwork beard offered to the beams of sunlight that here and there pierced the thickening clouds. His eyes were closed, as if in meditation.

Matthew watched him, saw a fly light on his left cheek and begin to walk across the flesh. There was no reaction from the prisoner. The fly crawled up upon the aristocratic nose, and still Slaughter's eyes remained shut. Then, as the fly made its way between the flared nostrils toward the forest of mustache, Slaughter said without opening his eyes, "Mr. Corbett, I am interested in you." The fly had taken flight with the first utterance, whirled buzzing around Matthew's tricorn and then flew away.

Matthew said nothing. The pistol was in his lap. The irons had no rusted links, and Slaughter wasn't going anywhere. From this vantage point, the man resembled little more than a chained-up bag of evil-smelling rags. With a beard and filthy feet, of course.

"Afraid to speak to me?" Slaughter asked, his eyes yet closed.

"Why don't you just shut up?" Greathouse fired back.

"Because," and here the pale blue eyes opened and fixed upon Matthew with a hint of mocking humor, "time is running out."

"Really? Meaning what?"

"Meaning time is running out," Slaughter repeated. "Is that supposed to be a threat?"

"Not at all. Sir, my suggestion is to relax." He smiled thinly. "Enjoy the morning. Listen to the birds and count your blessings. Let me converse with this young man, as I rather think he's the more intelligent of your company. As a matter of fact, I'm sure he is the brain to your muscle. Is that correct, Mr. Corbett?"

Greathouse made a noise like a fart squeezed between a hundred-pounds of buttocks.

"Oh, absolutely," Matthew decided to say, if just to goad the great one. He felt a fist-sized knot of tension in his stomach, speaking to the prisoner like this, but he dared not show any discomfort. Besides, that would not be professional.

"I'm trying to determine what your career might be." Slaughter's eyes examined Matthew from boot toe to tricorn top. "Something to do with the law, of course. I know you came to the hospital several times to see that old woman. And he came with you, the first time. I think you must be a lawyer. And him, the roughneck who collects the money and does whatever a young lawyer deigns not to do. However, he does order you about a bit, so I'm confused on that point." He reversed the examination, descending this time from tricorn to boot. "Expensive, well-tailored clothes. Very nice boots. Ah, I have it!" He grinned. "You're a successful young lawyer, a little full of yourself but very ambitious, and he is a member of the militia. Possibly an ex-military man? Used to giving orders? Is that following the right track?"

"Possibly," said Matthew.

"I'll refine it, then. You are a young lawyer and he is a militia officer. A captain, perhaps. I know the look of captains, because I myself have been a soldier. So you were sent to make sure everything was done correctly, and he came because he's had experience with manacles, shackles and pistols. Have you been in prison or the madhouse yourself, sir?" Greathouse, to the credit of his self-control, did not reply.

"Are you a dealer in firearms? Oh, here it must be! You have a hand in running the gaol, is that it? So the both of you were ordered to come fetch me, and for the price of two pounds bind me up like a broken bird and haul me to New York. Does that cover the item, Mr. Corbett?"

"We're being paid five pounds," Matthew said, just to stop his prattle.

"Ahhhhh, I see." Slaughter nodded, his eyes bright. "That much. So the officials in New York are paying the extra three? Five pounds, split between you, yes?" He made a display of wriggling his fingers as if counting on them. "Two and a half pounds in your pockets! What a bounty, for an old sack of guts like me!"

"Slaughter," Greathouse said tersely, without looking back, "if you don't keep your mouth shut I'm going to stop this wagon long enough to knock out at least three of your teeth. Do you understand?"

"Pardon me, sir. I don't wish to antagonize. Neither do I wish to lose any more teeth than nature and a madhouse diet have already taken." He cast a rather sweet smile at Matthew. "But before I lapse into a not-unfamiliar state of solitary confinement, Mr. Corbett, may I ask if your opinion coincides with mine about how long it will be until we reach the river? Say a little less than two hours?"

Matthew knew Slaughter was talking about the Raritan river. A ferry would take their wagon to the other side.

"That's right."

"Slow horses," said Slaughter, and he closed his eyes again.

Matthew didn't let down his guard, expecting that the man's silence would be short-lived. He wondered what he would do if Slaughter suddenly lunged at him; but with those irons confining his arms and legs, and the thunderball weighing him down, Slaughter wasn't going to be lunging at anyone today. In another moment the prisoner's face went slack, the eyes fluttered behind the lids, and Matthew dared assume he was held fast in the arms of Somnus.

As Matthew watched, he saw another fly, or perhaps the same one as before, land at a corner of Slaughter's mouth. The man did not move, nor did his eyes open. The fly began an unhurried crawl across Slaughter's lower lip, its wings vibrating for any sign of danger. Further along went the fly, as upon a precipice above a forested valley.

When the fly reached the center of Slaughter's lip, the man's mouth suddenly moved in a blur. There was a quick sucking sound, and the fly was gone.

Matthew heard just the faintest crunch.

Slaughter's eyes opened, and fixed upon Matthew; they glinted red deep in the pupils, and when he grinned there was a bit of crushed fly on one of his front teeth. Then his eyes drifted shut again, he turned his face away from the sun, and he lay still.

"Everything all right?" Greathouse asked, perhaps noting that Matthew had given a start that had nearly lifted him off the seat.

"Yes." Matthew realized his voice was about a half-octave higher than it ought to be. He tried again, with better results. "Yes. Fine."

"Your tricorn's crooked," Greathouse said, after a quick glance to ascertain Matthew's condition. "Do you want to drive?"

"No." He corrected the wayward angle of his hat. "Thank you."

The Philadelphia Pike continued on through the Jersey woods, the horses walked and the wagon's wheels turned, but never had it seemed to Matthew that movement seemed to be in such slow-motion. The road curved to the right, straightened out again and then curved to the left, to repeat the process all over again. Did the woods on either side alter a whit, or were they a painted backdrop? No, they were moving all right, for there in the distance was a solitary farmhouse on a hilltop, with cultivated fields below. A deer ran gracefully across the road. Overhead, two hawks circled on the currents of air. The world was still turning, and time had not stopped.

They passed a stone wall on the left, and beyond it a small gray house that had not weathered a storm as well as the wall, for its roof had collapsed. Whoever its occupants had once been, they were long gone, for what had been a farmfield was overgrown with weeds and brush. A large oak tree with huge gnarled branches to the right of the house seemed to Matthew to make the statement that man might labor his sweat and tears on the land, might overcome for the moment a thousand hardships, might even win the momentary favor of fate enough to feed a family, but the harsh judgment of nature was in this land always the final decree of success or failure, or even of life and death. No matter that man thought himself the master here, he was only a passing tenant.

He heard Slaughter's chains rattle, and involuntarily his stomach clenched.

"May I have some water?" the prisoner asked.

Matthew got the flask from under his seat, uncorked it and held it over Slaughter's cupped hands. Slaughter drank silently, like an animal. Then Matthew put the flask away and sat as before, with the pistol in his lap and his hand on the grip.

Slaughter looked around at the landscape, which was nothing but thick woods on either side. "How long did I sleep?"

Matthew shrugged, unwilling to be drawn into any further conversation. "Soon be at the river, I'd guess. How much further, would you say?"

"What does it matter?" Greathouse asked, glancing back. "We'll be there when we're there."

"Oh, it does matter, sir. It matters quite a great deal, for all of us. You see, as I said before, time is running out."

"Don't start that shit again."

"Let me get my bearings." Slaughter struggled to sit up on his knees, as the chains clattered like the devil's claws on a slate roof.

"Stop that!" Matthew and Greathouse said, almost as one.

"No need for alarm, gentlemen. I'm bound quite securely, I promise you. All right, then. I believe we've passed a stone wall and a landmark on this road known as Gideon's Oak. How far back was that?" He received no answer. "Not very distant, I'd say. You'll be seeing a road up here about another half-mile on the left that curves i nto the woods. Not much of a road, really. More of a track. I would suggest you consider taking that road, before time runs out."

"What the damned hell are you spewing?" Greathouse sounded near the end of his tether.

"Time will run out for you and Mr. Corbett, sir, when you put this wagon upon the ferryboat. Because when we cross the river," said Slaughter in a quiet, easy voice, "you will lose your chance at finding the fortune that I-and only I-can lead you to."

Nine

After a period of profound quiet, during which could be heard the squeaking of the wheels, the jingling of the team's traces, the battering of a woodpecker against a pine tree and the distant crowing of a delusional rooster, there followed a bray of laughter. Not of the funeral bell variety, but rather of a drunken loon.

Matthew had never before heard Greathouse laugh with such rib-splitting abandon. He feared the man would lose his grip not only of the reins but also of his senses, as his face was getting so blood-red, and topple off his seat into the weeds.

"Oh, that's a good one!" Greathouse gasped, when at last he'd found his power of speech. His eyes had actually sprung tears. "A grand try, Slaughter! Now I know why you were in that asylum! You really are insane!" He was overcome by chortling again, until Matthew thought he might choke on his mirth.

Slaughter's expression remained constant; that is to say, he wore a blank but for slightly-raised eyebrows. "Sir, I would appreciate your remembering to address me as a gentleman."

"All right then, Mister Slaughter!" Greathouse was barely containing his humor, but a little anger had started to gnaw at the edge of it. "Do you think we're a pair of damned fools? Turn off the pike onto a road to nowhere? Christ, save me!"

"Get your laughter done," came the silken response. "When you can listen with any sense in your ears, let me know. But I'm telling you, the road has a destination, and at its end is a pretty pot of gold."

"That's enough." Greathouse's voice was firm, all foolishness over. He flicked the reins once, then again, harder this time, but the horses steadfastly refused to hurry. "You can tell us all about it when you're in the gaol."

"Now who is the insane one here, sir? Why in the name of sixteen fucking devils would I want to tell you about it when I'm in the gaol? The purpose is to tell you about it so that I will not be in the gaol."

"Oh, you'll be in the gaol, all right. Just shut up."

"Mr. Corbett?" Slaughter's imploring gaze went to Matthew. "As I said, I believe you to be the more intelligent of your company. Might I at least explain to you what I'm talking about?"

"No!" said Greathouse.

"Mr. Corbett?" Slaughter urged. "The road is coming up soon. Once we pass it and cross the river, neither one of you is going to want to come back, and you're going to be missing an opportunity that I have never offered anyone on earth and that I would not offer anyone on earth if I wasn't um just a little anxious about my future." He paused to let Matthew consider it. "May I?"

"This ought to be entertaining!" Greathouse said, with a disdainful puff of air. "Lies from a madman! Have at it, then!"

Matthew nodded warily, his hand still on the pistol. "Go ahead."

"I thank you. Do you wish to know why constables-armed mercenaries, is a better term for them-were hired by the Quakers to ride along with coaches and to guard travelers on this road? Because Ratsy and I were so damned successful. We worked the pike between the river and Philadelphia for almost two years, gentlemen. In every kind of weather you can imagine. We were giving the pike a bad name, I suppose. The Quakers were getting nervous about their sterling reputations as upholders of law and order. So they brought out the musketeers, and unfortunately Ratsy went down with a lead ball in his brain, dead before he hit the ground."

"Too bad a second shot didn't " Greathouse fished for the word. "Polish you off."

"Oh, I was shot at, all right. My horse was hit, and he bucked me. I was thrown headlong, knocked senseless, and woke up in chains in the back of a wagon much like this one. I took advantage of a bloody head to cry my case of lunacy, which I knew the Quakers must take into consideration, their being so damned brotherly."

"And so the reign of the daring highwaymen had ended," said Greathouse with a quick backward glance. "Pardon me if I don't shed any tears."

"You miss the point, sir. The point being, our great success. The very reason we were considered such a threat to be captured and contained." Slaughter looked from the back of Greathouse's head into Matthew's eyes. "We stole a lot of money."

"Listen to him drool on!"

"A lot of money," Slaughter repeated. "At the end of the road you're going to be passing in about ten minutes is a safebox holding more than fifty pounds."

Matthew expected Greathouse to laugh again, or to make some rude comment, but he did not.

The wheels kept turning.

"And more than the money," Slaughter went on, staring fiercely at Matthew. "Gold rings, jewels in elegant brooches, silver stickpins, and what have you. Two years' worth of treasure, taken from travelling merchants, dandies and damsels. I'd say in all, a fortune worth well over a hundred pounds. I'm no authority on fancy stones, so it might be much higher. What is a string of pearls selling for these days?"

"Drool on," Greathouse answered. "Do you think we're complete idiots?" He flicked the reins once more, hard, as if to gain distance between himself and the prisoner, alas to no avail.

"Mr. Corbett?" Again Slaughter's brows lifted. "Are you a complete idiot?"

Matthew returned the man's stare. He was trying to read Slaughter's eyes, his expression, or some giveaway in how he held his head or clenched his hands. He could not; the man was well-sealed.

"I think you're lying," Matthew said.

"Do you? Really? Or are you thinking, as your companion probably is, that when I am taken across the river and carried the rest of our journey, am put into the gaol at New York and then aboard a ship to be hanged in London, that the safebox at the end of that road may not be found for dare I say long after you gentlemen are moldering in your graves? If ever?" Slaughter showed his teeth. "I can see them now! Those men of the future, turning a shovel on a buried box! And when they open it, and see all that gleaming goodness, just what will they think, Mr. Corbett? What will they think? That someone in the long ago told a lie, to save their skin? Someone trussed in chains, with a pistol held on them? No, they'll think what complete idiot left this treasure box buried here, and never came back for it? And then their next thought will be: well, now it belongs to us, for the men of the past are dead and gone, and dead men have no need of money." He leaned forward slightly, as if to offer a secret. "But living men need money, don't they? Yes, living men need a lot of money, to live well. And that's no lie."

Matthew was silent, studying Slaughter's face. There was not a clue to determine the truth or fiction of his story. "Tell me this, then," he said in a flat, even tone. "Why were you burying your loot all this distance out here, so far from Philadelphia?"

"This was not our only refuge. I determined it would be safer to have two places to hide in, and to split the money between. In case one was found, we always had the second. The first is a house in the woods a few miles northwest of the city. There, also, a safebox is buried holding about thirty pounds and some items of jewelry. But I'm not offering that one to you; it's not part of our accord."

"Our accord?" Greathouse shouted, and for all their age and slowness the horses seemed to jump a foot off the ground.

"This is my offer." Slaughter's voice was quiet and controlled, almost otherworldly in its calm cadence. "I will lead you to the second house, which is at the end of the road coming up very soon. I will grant you a gift of the safebox, and all its contents. For that, you will unlock my chains and set me free at that location. I'll take care of myself from there."

"Am I drunk?" Greathouse asked, speaking to the air. "Have I caught lunatic's disease?"

"From that point," Slaughter continued in the same manner as before, "I vow before you as a subject of the Queen and a citizen of England that I will take the money from the first safebox and use it to purchase a voyage to " He paused. "Where would you like me to go? Amsterdam? The South Seas? I don't necessarily like the sun, but-"

"I am going absolutely mad," said Greathouse. "Hearing disembodied voices."

"I'm done with this country." Slaughter was speaking to them both, but staring directly at Matthew. "Done with England, as well. All I want to do is be gone."

"We're not going to let you go," Matthew said. "That's the end of it."

"Yes, but what end? Why not say I was shot while trying to escape, and that my body fell into the river? Who would ever know differently?"

"We would know."

"Oh, dear God!" Slaughter cast his eyes skyward. "Have I met a pair of noble imbeciles? Two men out of all creation who have no need for money, and who can live just as well on the sweet but worthless jelly of good deeds? Here! The road's coming up! See it?"

They did. Curving into the forest on the left was a narrow, rutted track hardly the width of their wagon. The underbrush was wild and the trees thick around as winekegs, their branches and leaves making an interlocked canopy of flaming colors far above.

"That's it!" Slaughter said. "Right there, gentlemen. The path to your Sir! You're not turning!"

Greathouse kept the team going, his shoulders hunched slightly forward.

"More than fifty pounds in money, sir! Add together the jewelry and other items and you'll both be rich men! Can't you understand what I'm offering you?" Still the wagon trundled onward. "I vow I'll leave the country! What more do you want? Me to rot behind bars before I swing on the gallows for killing vile creatures? Do you think the people who sent you here would turn my offer down? Do you think they care about anything but themselves?" He gave a harsh, hollow laugh. "Go on, then! Keep going, right on past, and damn your soul for it, too! Just know you could have been rich, but you were too stupid to claim your prize!"

Matthew looked away from Slaughter's strained face, which had begun to blotch red during this tirade.

The wagon's wheels made three more revolutions.

And then Matthew heard Greathouse say, "Whoa," to the team as if he had a stone in his throat. Greathouse eased back on the reins. The horses stopped. "What are you doing?" Matthew asked sharply.

Greathouse set the brake. "I have to piss." He put the reins aside, climbed down to the road and walked off into the woods.

Slaughter had closed his eyes and leaned his head back again. He said nothing, nor did he move a muscle. Gathering his strength for another try, Matthew suspected.

Time passed. A minute or more. Matthew looked toward the woods where Greathouse had gone but couldn't see him for the thicket. One of the horses rumbled and shifted its weight, as if uneasy at just standing there waiting, and then it joined its brethren in chomping weeds.

Another minute may have passed before Greathouse reappeared, walking slowly through the brush. He was staring down at the ground, and kicking at stones and acorns. "Matthew," he said without looking up, "will you come here?"

"What about-"

"He's not going anywhere."

Matthew returned his attention to Slaughter, who yet remained motionless.

"Matthew," said the prisoner, his eyes closed against the sunlight that lit up his beard like a coalfire. "A very respectable name, that. Go right ahead, I'll just rest."

Matthew got down off the wagon, the pistol in hand. He checked Slaughter's position once more before he walked the twelve paces or so to join Greathouse, but the prisoner had not moved.

"What is it?" Matthew asked, seeing the deep furrows of worry that cut across Greathouse's face. "Is something wrong?"

Greathouse rummaged in the leaves with the toe of his boot, bent down and picked up a white rock, which he examined closely. "I want your opinion," he said at last, in a restrained voice calculated not to travel the distance of twelve paces. "Is he lying about the money, or not?"

"I don't know." The meaning of what Greathouse had just asked him hit Matthew like a timber board across the back of the head. "Oh, my God! You're not listening to him, are you?"

"Keep your voice down." Greathouse turned the rock in his hand, examining its cracks and crevices. "What if he's not lying, Matthew? I mean why should he, at this stage of the game? It's all over for him, and he knows it. Why should he lie?"

"Because he wants to get us down that road and escape, that's why."

"Escape," Greathouse repeated. The word had been spoken gravely. "How? Chained up like he is, with the ball on his leg? And us with the pistol? How the hell is he going to escape? He may be half-crazy, but he's surely not full-crazy." Greathouse continued to turn the white rock in his palm as if studying every possible angle. "He knows that I won't kill him, but he also knows he wouldn't get far with one knee shot off. Hell, I might kill him anyway. I'm not a Quaker, and I didn't make any damned decree with 'em."

"He's lying," said Matthew. "That's my opinion, so there it is."

Greathouse gripped the rock in his fist. "You don't think I can handle him, do you?"

"I think we're both asking for-"

"Keep your voice down," Greathouse commanded. He stepped forward, until his face was only inches away from Matthew's. "I can handle him. I've handled plenty like him before-and worse, believe me-so he's not going to be any problem."

Matthew shook his head. The intensity of Greathouse's stare compelled him to fix his own gaze on the dead leaves around their feet.

"Fifty pounds," came the quiet voice. "And more. The gold rings and the jewelry. It would buy Zed's freedom, Matthew. Don't you see?"

Matthew did suddenly see, and as he looked into Greathouse's eyes he felt his face tighten into an incredulous mask. "That's what you want the money for?"

"Yes. What else?"

Matthew had to take off his tricorn and put the back of his hand against his forehead, for fear his brain had fired up a fever.

"Whatever van Kowenhoven named as a price, we could meet," Greathouse went on. "And pay off Cornbury for the writ of manumission as well. With that much money, we'd probably even have some to spare. You know, to split between us."

Matthew looked for someplace to sit down, for his legs felt weak. He needed a sturdy boulder to at least lean against, but there was nothing. In his mind was the image of a lockbox disguised as a book, and within it a black leather bag, and within that bag a handful of gleaming gold coins that made him a rich young man.

"Now don't think I have the slightest intention of letting him go," Greathouse said. "That would be a crime against humanity. But listen, Matthew: we can make him believe we're in accord, and then when we have the money, it's right back on this road again, across the river and on to put him behind bars. What do you say?"

Matthew had no words. He was thinking of the gold coins, and his debts, and new suits in the latest fashion, and how he needed a fireplace for his house, with the winter coming on.

"I know that lying to him might not be to your liking. I understand and appreciate your show of moral character, but back there he said Two men out of all creation who have no need for money. Well, I do have a need for it, and I know you do too." Greathouse frowned, taking Matthew's continued silence as stern disapproval. "Matthew, we can trick it out of him. We can lie to a liar. Or you don't have to speak a word, I'll do all the lying. I have much more experience at it than you."

"It's not that," Matthew heard himself say, though he had no memory of speaking the words. He had hornets in his head, they were buzzing so loudly he couldn't hear. This was the moment to tell Greathouse about the gold coins; he knew it was, for if Matthew didn't tell, Greathouse was going to take them down the forest track in pursuit of Slaughter's safebox. There was plenty of gold in that leather bag to share. Of course there was. Fifty or more pounds spent for Zed's freedom, for a bodyguard he didn't need, and then the rest for all the things Matthew planned on buying. Forget the fireplace until next winter. He had enough clothes, why should he ever need any more? Yes, plenty to share.

"What is it, then?" Greathouse prodded.

Matthew started to speak. To say what? He wasn't sure. Possibly I am a rich man or It's not fair, I found the money, me alone, and it's not fair

The world spun about him, and in the air he smelled the faint burned scent of autumn's decay.

Matthew said, with what seemed a genuine labor, "I am " And then the rest of it spilled out: " afraid of him."

Greathouse grunted, his face screwed up in a scowl. But slowly the scowl eased, Greathouse dropped his white rock and put his hand on Matthew's shoulder. "Listen, so am I. A little, maybe. But I'll take care of everything. Just follow along with me, all right?"

Tell him, he thought. And demanded of himself: Tell him!

But he did not, and he stood looking down at all the leaves at his feet as if the earth might open and swallow him up in an instant.

"Come on." Greathouse clapped his shoulder. "Let's get to it."

Matthew followed Greathouse to the wagon, where Slaughter still lay with his eyes closed like a beast dozing in the shifting sunbeams. Two more flies had found him and were whirling about his face. Matthew wondered how many he'd dined on since he'd been lying there.

Greathouse slammed his palm against the side of the wagon, which caused Slaughter only to lift his eyelids to half-mast and yawn. "Saying we might believe you," Greathouse told him roughly, "and that we might be interested. How far down that road do we go?"

Slaughter worked his head from side to side, stretching his neck. "To the end of it, as I've already said."

"How far?

"Oh six miles west, along the river. Then the road takes a turn to the southwest. Another four miles, I'd say. Ten miles in all."

"Ten miles? That's a long way, with these horses."

"You make a journey," said Slaughter, "with the horses you have."

Greathouse suddenly reached over and grabbed hold of the prisoner's beard, which served to secure Slaughter's full attention. "If we drive ten miles to the end of that road and no safebox is buried there, I won't be pleased. Those doctors may have promised the Quakers you'd get to New York alive, but I'm a Baptist. If I decide not to kill you, I'll at least give you some marks to remember. I may even tear off that damned beard." He gave it a steady pull, but Slaughter gave no reaction. "Do you understand me? Just nod."

Slaughter did.

Greathouse released him. He wiped his hand down the leg of his breeches, leaving a dirty smear. He said to Matthew, "Get up there and work the horses back."

Matthew climbed up onto the seat and put the pistol beside him where he could reach it in a hurry if he heard the chains rattle. He lifted the brake, took the reins and started urging the team to backstep as Greathouse took hold of one of the wheels and pushed against it. Soon they had retreated the wagon to just beyond the turnoff. Then Greathouse climbed up again, took the pistol and turned around on the seat to watch Slaughter.

"All right, Matthew," said Greathouse. "Let's go."

Matthew hesitated on the verge of flicking the reins. Tell him, he thought. But it was a quieter, less urgent voice. There was still time. Maybe in the next mile or two. He would have to think about it a little more. And it might not be necessary to tell. Not necessary at all. If the safebox was really there, and it held the treasure as Slaughter said then why would it ever be necessary?

Still, he had a taste of ashes in his mouth, and his fine suit did not seem to hang so well on his frame as it had before.

He flicked the reins. The team started walking, one of the horses snorting at this indignity of the driver not knowing whether he was going backward or forward.

They entered the woods on the narrow road. The canopy of trees closed above their heads. It was only after another minute or so that Matthew pulled himself out of his thoughts to realize they were heading directly into the oncoming storm.

Ten

Beneath a sky the color of lead and just as heavy, they heard the wind approaching through the forest. On a hillside in the distance, through a break in the trees, they saw huge branches whipping back and forth and hundreds of scarlet leaves spinning into the air. Then the white veil of rain descended over the view, and though it was yet a half-mile away they braced for the blast.

Matthew had given the reins to Greathouse about an hour ago and taken over the task of watching the prisoner. Both Matthew and Greathouse wore their cloaks tight about them, and now as the sound of the wind came nearer Greathouse shouted, "Keep the gun dry!"

Matthew put it inside his cloak and kept his hand on the grip. The horses nickered and lifted their heads nervously to protest their course, but Greathouse's firm control of the reins kept them from going off the road and into the thicket. Matthew saw the prisoner watching him almost incuriously, as one might watch to see what a dog would do when doused with a bucketful of water.

"Here it comes!"

The first swirl of the wind, deceptively meek, came just a few seconds after Greathouse's voice. And then there was a keen high shrill of air that built to almost a feminine scream and the next blast of wind hit Matthew in the back and almost lifted him off the seat. He had the quick sensation of thinking that the wind was going to get into the flapping folds of his cloak and send him flying. Leaves of a hundred hues of red, purple and yellow struck him, as if the very forest had turned assaulter. He felt the tricorn flip off his head, and that was when Slaughter made his move.

Through the tumult of whirling leaves Matthew saw Slaughter come up from his position of repose like a snake striking from beneath a rock. The noise of the wind masked the rattle of chains, and when Matthew opened his mouth to cry out he knew his voice would be tattered to pieces before it reached Greathouse, who was trying to keep the horses from turning against the onslaught. Slaughter reached out toward Matthew with a claw-like hand, the knives of his nails flashing at Matthew's eyes.

And even as Matthew struggled to get the pistol out of his cloak and failed to dislodge it, he brought up his other arm, fist clenched, to ward off the coming blow and he saw Slaughter grasp his tricorn, which had blown off his head and which the prisoner had caught before it could go flying off the wagon.

"There you are, Matthew," said Slaughter, bent with the weight of his irons and speaking close to the younger man's ear. "You wouldn't want to lose such a fine hat." He pushed it into Matthew's fist until the fist opened to accept it.

"What is it?" Greathouse had looked over his shoulder, his eyes widening as he took in the scene. The horses were still unnerved and tossing their heads against the bit. "Sit down, Slaughter! Wow!"

The order could not be obeyed before the rain struck. It came rushing in on the heels of the wind, hit with a cold impact that made breath hitch in the lungs, and within seconds had drenched the three travelers to their skins. Slaughter sank down amid the leaves that littered the wagon, and curled himself up as best he could. Greathouse hollered out a great curse as rain streamed through his brown woolen cap and down his face. Matthew dumped the water out of his tricorn and put it back on, and when he sat there shivering he wasn't sure if it was due to the chill rain or the fact that Slaughter's fingernails could have torn out his eyes.

The wind ceased, but the rain kept pouring down. Waterfalls sprang from the treetops. The air itself turned grayish-green, visibility was cut to the edges of what might have been roiling seafoam, and it seemed they were no longer travelling through forest but across an undersea kingdom.

The horses, back to their old stolid selves, pulled the wagon onward with no further dissent. Presently their hooves began to sink in mud. Thoroughly wet and miserable, Matthew thought that now must surely be the time to admit his discovery of the money, and end this travail. They'd already come, by the reckoning of his tailbone, at least six miles due west from the pike and the road was yet to turn to the southwest as Slaughter had said. Before the storm had hit, Matthew had expected Greathouse to point this fact out to the prisoner, but then again they might not have quite made six miles yet; it was hard to tell, with just these unbroken woods all around. They'd had several glimpses of the river, off to the right, but not a single view of any dwelling built by the hand of man.

Matthew wondered what his fate was going to be when he told. More than a scolding, for sure. A knock on the head, if he was lucky. More than one, depending on Greathouse's mood, and in this damned rain his mood was certainly going to be deepest black.

"What the hell is this?" Greathouse suddenly said, and Matthew dared to look over his shoulder at what the other man had already seen.

On their left the woods had been cleared away, and emerging from the rain-thrashed gloom were the simple wooden markers of a small cemetery. Matthew counted thirty-eight graves. The surprising thing about it was that the cemetery was so orderly and well-kept, free of weeds, vines and underbrush that normally would have quickly overgrown such a sylvan setting.

"A cabin ahead," Greathouse said, and in another sticky quarter-revolution of the wheels Matthew also saw it, a dark shape sitting on the right. Then, a second dark structure came out of the rain on the left, this one with a collapsed roof. A third cabin stood just beyond that one, also seemingly abandoned, and as more of them emerged on both sides of the mudtrack Matthew realized it was a village. Or, at least, what had once been a village.

"Slaughter!" Greathouse called, and the prisoner stirred. "Is this the place?"

"No," came the reply, as he sat up and gazed around with rain running from his beard. "This is New Unity. Rather it used to be, before I went into the loon house. I wonder what happened to the people."

"You sure you didn't kill them?"

"It was an active village when I last passed this way."

In another moment Matthew caught a whiff of woodsmoke, and he spied a light glinting behind the shutters of a cabin just ahead on the right. "There!" he said, but Greathouse only nodded because he'd already spotted the sign of life. That and the smoke fighting its way up into the sodden air from a fieldstone chimney.

"I think it's best we get out of this for awhile, if they'll accept any visitors." Greathouse started to turn the team toward what appeared to be New Unity's single occupied dwelling.

"What're you doing?" Slaughter was up on his knees. "You can't stop here!"

"I say one miserable wreckage of a village is as good as another in a downpour, especially if there's a roof and a fire."

"You can't" Slaughter insisted, a note of desperation in his voice. "We're so close to the fort!"

"The fort? What're you talking about?"

"Where the safebox is buried. The Dutch settlement at Fort Laurens. We have to keep going, we can get there by-"

"Nightfall?" Greathouse interrupted. "In this rain? Only if we're kept out of that cabin at gunpoint." He urged the horses through the muck and off the road. Both he and Matthew had already seen what appeared to be a small barn just beside the cabin, and none of Slaughter's pleadings about keeping on to Fort Laurens made a whit of difference to either of them; they were drenched, cold and uneasy about this journey, both for their own reasons, and the lamplight behind a shutter was for the remainder of this day at least as good a shine as gold.

If they would be accepted by the occupant here, and that was the question. "Matthew!" Greathouse said. "Go knock at the door."

"Me? Why me?"

"You're dressed as a gentleman. A soaking wet one, but a gent all the same. Go."

Matthew got down off the wagon and went up three stone steps to the cabin's door, which was set on a porch supported by large flat rocks. The place was made of timbers chinked together with mud, the same as the rest of New Unity's constructions. Everything was weather-beaten, dark-stained and dismal. The windows were shuttered tight, but through their cracks Matthew saw what appeared to be the light of several candles. He glanced back at the figure of Greathouse, sitting with as much dignity as could be maintained in a cold drenching downpour, and then he balled up his fist and knocked against the door.

He waited, not without trepidation, and heard footsteps approaching across the planks within.

"Who's there, please?" came a voice from the other side. A feeble, quiet voice, but carrying perhaps also an expectant note. The voice of an elderly man, Matthew thought.

"Travelers," Matthew replied. "The storm caught us. May we rest here for awhile? Or at least, in your barn?"

There was a pause. Then: "How many are you?"

"Three."

"Going to where?"

"Fort Laurens," Matthew said.

Again, a pause. Matthew thought the speaker must've gone away. Then, quite abruptly, the door was opened. The old man who peered out held a candle in a wooden holder. The flickering light painted him with orange and yellow. He was lean, rawboned, and of medium height, yet had been much taller in his youth for now his back was stooped with the ravages of age. His face was a mass of lines and wrinkles, like a map that itself had been left out in the rain and crumpled by a careless fist. His remaining tufts of hair were wintry white and as fine as the first frost, but his white eyebrows had grown as thick as summer's cornfields. He angled his head to the left and then to the right, and Matthew realized the man's sunken eyes might only be seeing him as a man-shaped shadow.

"All of you, please come in," said the old man. He opened the door wider, and Matthew motioned to Greathouse that their request had been granted. "Come in, come in. Warm yourself," the old man urged. Matthew waited to make sure Greathouse could handle the prisoner on his own, getting him out of the back of the wagon, and then he entered the cabin and went directly to the cheerful crackling fireplace, where he set the pistol atop the mantel, took off his tricorn and basked in the gratifying heat.

"I am John Burton." The old man had left the door open for his other two guests and had come up beside Matthew. With an age-spotted but steady hand, he lifted the candle nearer Matthew's face. "Your name, sir?"

"Matthew Corbett." He heard the rattle of chains coming. "Mr. Burton, I need to tell you that-"

He was interrupted by the noise of the thunderball, which Slaughter had been carrying in his manacled hands, slamming to the boards just outside the door. Matthew winced, thinking that visitors to a stranger's cabin ought not to destroy the porch floor within the first minute.

"Oh, forgive me," Slaughter said in the doorway, his back bent with the irons. "I carry a heavy burden, sir."

"Sit down," Greathouse told him. He shrugged off his wet cloak and threw it upon the prisoner. "Wipe the mud off your feet before you enter a man's home."

"If I had shoes, my feet wouldn't be so muddy, now would they?"

To the credit of his nerves, John Burton had jumped only a bit when the ball had fallen, and had not lost hold of the candle. Matthew saw in the stronger light that Burton's eyes were nearly opaque, and by the flame glowed with a murky yellow that Matthew thought must be the color of London's fog. Possibly the man wasn't completely blind, but most of his sight was surely gone.

"You have a man in chains," Burton said, again tilting his head this way and that. "A prisoner. Taking him to Fort Laurens, then?"

"Yes, sir," Greathouse answered. "My name is Hudson Greathouse. Matthew and I are from New York. We appreciate your letting us warm ourselves."

"Your prisoner. He has a name?"

"Tyranthus Slaughter, at your service," he said from his seat on the porch, where he was fouling Greathouse's cloak with his filthy feet. "And you are?"

"John Burton. I should say, Reverend John Burton. I was the minister here." He hesitated, silent for a few seconds, and then seemed to make a decision. "I am the minister here," he said firmly. "Pick up your chains, and come in."

"You drop that ball again," Greathouse warned as Slaughter struggled to his feet, "and I'll take two balls for one with my boot. Understand?"

Slaughter looked up at him from his crooked posture and grinned wryly. "Put your threats back in your pocket, sir. I promise as a gentleman to be on my best behavior. All right?"

Greathouse motioned the prisoner in. Then he picked up his cloak, surveyed the damage and with a noise of disgust threw it off the porch onto a mound of wet leaves. He closed the door, walked past Slaughter and stood next to Matthew warming himself at the fire. "Ahhh!" he said, holding his palms out. "Much better!"

"Pardon our condition," Matthew told the minister, realizing they were dripping puddles on the floor. He'd taken stock of the room and seen that, however nearly-blind Burton might be, the place was nevertheless clean and neat. It was by no means up to the standards of the houses in New York, but it was also far from being the hovel that it had appeared from without. On the floor was a mat of woven river reeds. Two chairs, one with a footstool, were arranged before the fieldstone fireplace. A small round table was set between them. Wood had been brought in, and stacked next to the hearth in a leather carry-all. A larger table stood on the other side of the room, also with two chairs, and near it was an old trunk with its lid up displaying iron pots, pans and other cookware within. A ladder led up to what appeared to be a sleeping-loft. Matthew noted a bookcase with ten volumes in it, though how Reverend Burton could read was a mystery. A plain pinewood cupboard stood at the rear of the room. Next to one wall was a minister's lectern, simple but sturdy, and open atop it was a thick black-bound book that could only have been the Holy Bible. In the corner beside the lectern was something that made Matthew's brows go up: a little pile of straw that seemed to be the nesting place for an unknown entity.

"Your condition?" Burton put the candle down upon the small round table. Two other candles, both nearly stubs, were burning in holders, one atop the mantel amid a collection of smooth stones probably taken from the river, and the second on the larger table. "Oh, you mean that you're wet?" He managed a smile that took a few years off his face, and Matthew had the impression of a once-handsome man with a strong square chin and sparkling eyes. "I should thank God for the storm, then. We don't have much company."

"We?" Greathouse asked.

"My friend Tom has gone to check the snares."

"Oh," was Greathouse's response, but Matthew looked uneasily at the nest of straw and wondered if Tom slept there. Surely the reverend wasn't insane, for he seemed clean enough and was dressed well, in dark brown breeches, gray stockings, a white shirt and a pair of old but serviceable brown boots. No, there most certainly had to be a human Tom, for who had put an axe to the wood and lugged it in from the forest?

"Do you mind if I sit down, here on the floor?" Slaughter inquired. "Where I won't be in anyone's way." He was already sitting, and putting the ball gently down, by the time he'd asked the question.

"New York, you said?" Burton eased himself into the chair with the footstool, and winced a bit as his bones settled. "I haven't been to New York in oh eight years, I think it must be. Probably nearer ten, really. All that noise and the goings-on, it was never my cup of choice. But tell me, who do you gentlemen work for, that you're taking a prisoner to-" He stopped, and his head tilted. "Ah! Here's Tom now!"

There came the sound of boots on the porch. The door opened. A small wet dog, its short bristly hair black as midnight and its snout the brown hue of damp sand, scampered in. "Tom! We have company!" The wet dog was not Tom, for following right after the dog was a tall, slimly-built boy who Matthew guessed was thirteen or fourteen years old. Tom wore a black wool cap and a long black coat turned up at the collar. He was carrying two large gray rabbits hanging from a pole. And that was all the luxury of impression that Matthew could afford at the moment, for the dog stopped just short of Slaughter and, its legs splayed wide, began to rend the air with barks like pistol shots.

"James!" scolded Burton. "Don't be inconsiderate!"

The dog kept barking, but it ceased when the boy commanded sharply, "James! Hush!" After which, the dog made a couple of circles while keeping its eyes on Slaughter, and then it backed up against the boy's leg and made grumbling noises of disapproval.

"Strange," Slaughter said, with a shrug that rattled his chains. "Animals usually adore me."

Tom looked from Slaughter to Greathouse and then to Matthew, his expression impassive. By the candleglow, his keen eyes were a light gray, and as they stared at him for a few seconds Matthew had the distinct feeling of being taken apart from head to toe as a curious youth might cut to pieces a grasshopper for closer inspection. Then the boy's gaze left him, and Tom said, "Shhhh!" to quiet James' opinion of the new arrivals.

"These two gentlemen are from New York," Burton explained. "The individual on the floor who smells in dire need of soap scrubbing is their prisoner. They're on their way to Fort Laurens."

Tom frowned and started to speak, but the reverend continued. "I think we should take them at their word, and as Christians offer them shelter and food. Do we have enough?"

The boy was a moment in answering. Finally he said, "The rabbits are bonny enough. I'll make a stew," in what was definitely the cadence and rolling "r" of a thick Scottish accent. "First off, you'll be needin' to get that team in the barn 'less you want drowned horses."

Greathouse nodded. He told the boy, "I could use some help."

Tom glanced quickly at Matthew and then at the prisoner, as if marking whether the former was up to dealing with the latter. When he took notice of the pistol on the mantel, he put aside the freshly-killed rabbits and went out the door again without a word, the dog shadowing him right at his heels. Greathouse said, "Watch him," to Matthew, who needed no urging on that particular subject. Then the door was closed just as a distant sound of thunder boomed to indicate the storm was in no hurry to reach the sea.

"Well, here we are." Slaughter leaned back against the wall. "At least it's better than where I was, but not by much."

"Your friend," Matthew said to the reverend. "Just a boy. Is he not related to you?"

"No. Tom came to me " Burton hesitated, his eyes closed. "For-give me, time plays tricks on me now. He came to me in November, I think it was. Late November, just after my eyes began to go."

"He came to you? How?"

"Just as I say. One day he and James just walked into the village. From the direction of Belvedere, I think he said. The trading post there. It's a good thing he came. A God-sent gift, he is."

"Really?" Something about the reverend's tone of voice had pricked Matthew's curiosity, which always lay near his surface. "And how might that be?"

Burton's eyes opened and he stared into the fire as it popped and hissed. What he might be seeing was up to debate. "God sent him to me, to help keep my promise." He breathed softly, as again in the distance thunder rumbled. "I'm going to die soon," he continued. "I feel it coming. I was asleep in my chair when you knocked and others here, before they died, told me they had dreams of death knocking at their doors, and it was all right, it was not to be feared. So I thought I wasn't sure I was dreaming, or awake when I answered your knock. But God sent Tom to me to help do what I promised for the others, the ones who died. To take care of their graves, until I also pass from this life. And Tom has promised me also. He would stay with me until I die, and I will be the last grave in the cemetery. And that will be what happened to the village of New Unity, gentlemen. In the space of hardly more than six months, from April to October, one year ago."

"What happened?" Slaughter asked. "Eh? What're you talking about?"

"Fever," came the hushed reply. "It killed men, women and children. Whole families. My wife as well. And I am left, with the help of God and Tom, to watch over their place of final rest. They worked so hard at building a town. All of them. So very hard. They deserve now to be remembered. Don't you agree?"

"Your opinion," said Slaughter, in a hollow sort of voice that Matthew had not heard from him before. "God doesn't give a shit about us. Why should anyone else?"

Matthew saw the reverend flinch at this brutal statement. For a moment Burton did not respond, and then he said, not without pity, "Sir, you have a very cold and callous attitude."

"I've earned it," Slaughter answered.

The remark hung in the air, as the fire's red center spat sparks and another torrent of rain beat against the roof.

"But you were asking about Tom." The reverend put his feet up on the footstool before him with the slow regality of his age. "He's told me that the dog took up with him somewhere on the road, and he named it after his father. For companionship, you know. I believe he was very close to his father."

"What became of his family?"

"His mother died when he was a small boy. A younger brother and sister, also dead. I would think fever in that case, as well. His father was a farmer. Kicked in the chest by a horse and passed away soon after."

"Hm," Matthew said thoughtfully. Indeed, he was thinking of his own origins. His mother dead of poisoned blood when he was but three, his father a hardworking Massachusetts colony plowman who was struck down by a horse's kick to the head when Matthew was six, and then Matthew was thrown into the embrace of the world, which was not often kindly. But, looking upon Reverend Burton in this flickering firelight, Matthew was reminded of his mentor at the orphanage in New York. Headmaster Staunton, who had treated Matthew well, who had lifted him up into the higher realm of books and education with a strict but respectful hand, and who in essence was responsible for his evolution from a dirty street urchin to a young man whose mind never rested in the pursuit of a problem. Headmaster Staunton had left the orphanage in his sixty-sixth year to travel west into the frontier land, with intent to teach the Indian tribes the salvation of God, and then the detested Eben Ausley had arrived to take charge. But that was past history. What intrigued Matthew at the moment was the fact that he and Tom had both lost their fathers to the whim of capricious fate in the form of a horse's kick.

"From what I gather, Tom has no more family in the colonies," Burton went on. "I think he sold the horse and set off on his own, and that was a year or so before he came here, if I have it right."

"Parson, speaking of right," said Slaughter. "It looks to me as if we'd wear near the same size of boots. You wouldn't have another pair, would you?"

"No, I'm sorry, I don't."

"Oh." Matthew saw Slaughter give a faint half-smile, and the flameglow lay red in his eyes. "That's a pity, then."

Matthew didn't care for the way that was spoken. He measured how long it would take him to fetch the pistol up and train it on Slaughter, if he had to. But how fast could Slaughter move with all that iron on him? He wished Greathouse would hurry up. He felt Greathouse could handle him, even without a gun, and he wondered as well if Slaughter could smell fear on a man, like a horse an instant before it kicked.

The fire popped, shooting sparks, and when Matthew jumped just the smallest bit he heard Slaughter give a soft laugh as if at the most secret joke.

Eleven

Outside Reverend Burton's cabin the darkness closed in, rain fell in sheets upon the wilderness, the thunder boomed and lightning streaked across the heavens. Just another night in New Jersey, some might have said.

Inside the cabin, though, the crackling fire issued forth a convivial warmth, the light of candles spread what in a tavern would have been a friendly glow, and the delicious smell of the rabbit stew bubbling in an iron kettle in the hearth would have made Sally Almond crave the recipe. Tom had shown himself to be a true gift from God, at least in terms of cooking; a few mushrooms, wild onions, potatoes and carrots into the kettle with the pieces of rabbit meat, a little added brandy from the flask that Greathouse had offered around to those who did not wear chains or have four legs, and for the moment a small cameo of comfort had returned to New Unity.

Wooden bowls were set at the table, and portions of the stew scooped into them with a wooden ladle. Tom set aside a smaller portion in a bowl for James, who Matthew noted was never far from the boy's touch. The two chairs by the fireplace were pulled over to join the two at the table, which left Slaughter to say, "I presume, then, that I'll be eating with the dog?"

"You'll eat on the floor and be happy about it." Greathouse put a bowl down for the prisoner. The great one's cap and coat hung on a wallpeg behind him, his shirtsleeves rolled up.

The reverend said with great dignity, "May I remind you, Mr. Greathouse, that this is my home? In all the time I've lived here no guest has ever been forced to eat his meal from the floor. I'd take it very kindly if that hospitality goes unblemished, in the good name of Christ."

"I think he ought to-"

"He can sit on the footstool," Burton interrupted crisply. "Would you help him up? Or shall you have an old man

do it?"

Greathouse looked to Matthew for support, but all Matthew could do was shrug, for it was clear Reverend Burton was firm in his humanity, even to those who might be less human than others. Still, Matthew could tell Greathouse was restraining an oath behind his clenched teeth as he put the prisoner's bowl up on the table and then reached down to help Slaughter struggle up.

As Matthew brought the footstool over, Slaughter said to Burton, "Thank you for your kindness, sir, but I might ask for one more Christian favor. These irons will make sitting at your fine table an exercise in torment for my back, and if you might see fit that I be-"

"Wo." Greathouse had him by the scruff of the neck. "You'll make do."

"One moment. Mister Slaughter? Might I ask that, if your irons are removed, you vow to comport yourself as a gentleman and cause no trouble?"

"Sir!" Greathouse was starting to get red in the face. "He's our prisoner, do you understand that? He's a killer. There's no sense in taking the irons off him!"

"I vow whatever you please," Slaughter said. "And it's true, pastor, that I've sinned much, but also true that I've been much sinned against."

Burton nodded. Tom helped him ease into a chair at the head of the table. "Remove his irons," said the reverend. "No man shall sit at my table in chains."

"Oh, for the love of-" Greathouse stopped himself only by biting his tongue.

"Precisely," said Burton. He tilted his head. "Listen to that rain come down!"

Greathouse took the key from his shirt. "Matthew, get the pistol and bring it over here, will you?" Matthew obeyed, and he held it ready as Greathouse unlocked first the leg irons and then the manacles. When the chains fell away Slaughter stood up to his full height and the bones of his spine cracked.

"Ahhhh!" Slaughter stretched, holding his arms toward the ceiling. It seemed to Matthew, disconcertingly, that the prisoner was an inch or two taller than he'd appeared at the asylum. "Nothing makes a man hungrier than being out of his irons. I'm in your debt, parson." He sat down on the footstool, which was between the chairs meant for Matthew and Greathouse and across from Tom's seat.

Greathouse took the pistol, sat down and kept his eyes on Slaughter as Tom went about pouring apple cider from a jug into small brown cups for them. Then, when everyone was arranged, Burton led them in a short prayer-during which neither Greathouse nor Matthew dared close their eyes-and Slaughter was the first to smack his lips and dig into his stew with a wooden spoon and his fingers.

They ate as hungry men do, without speaking. James finished his meal and came around to ask for more. Matthew noted that Tom resisted for awhile, but soon slipped a piece of rabbit from his own bowl down to his friend.

Matthew had been studying Tom while the stew was being cooked. The boy seemed silent by nature, closed up in a world of his own. Something about him resisted questions even before the questions had been asked. He had examined the visitors on first meeting, true, but after that he seemed not to care very much about them. He was a handsome boy, with a high forehead and a craggy nose that looked to have once been broken. His hair was more of a dark stain, being shaved to the scalp. Matthew had once worn his hair the same way, to combat the spread of lice. Tom had a strong square jaw and thick black brows above piercing light gray eyes. He was slimly-built, but nothing about him suggested weakness; in fact, he moved with a quickness and economy that said he was both physically strong and equally swift. Matthew thought the boy would've been a good candidate for Greathouse's sword-fighting lessons. Now, as Matthew continued to examine the boy, Tom looked up from his bowl and stared across the table at him, with a brief panther-like glare that asked the question What are you looking at? Immediately Matthew dropped his gaze and said, "Good stew."

There was no response from Tom, who went back to his eating as if nothing had been said.

"I saw evidence of a horse in the barn," Greathouse said in between sips of the cider. The pistol lay beside his bowl, aimed in Slaughter's direction. "My team will appreciate the oats, for sure. But what happened to your horse?"

"We had to sell her," Burton offered. "Tom rode her to Belvedere just last week, to trade for some things we needed. Candles, salt, sugar. Those things."

"And how far is Belvedere, then?"

"Oh twelve miles, I suppose."

"Fourteen," said the boy, without looking up.

Greathouse paused with the cup at his lips. "You're not going to tell me you rode a horse to this Belvedere place and walked back here fourteen miles carrying a sackful of supplies, are you?"

Tom shrugged. The silent answer was All right, I won't.

"A stout-hearted lad!" Slaughter raised his cup. "This world needs more of them!"

"Reverend Burton told me how you lost your parents," Matthew ventured. The boy seemingly paid him no attention. "I lost mine in much the same way. Don't you have any other family?"

Tom said nothing. He was finishing his stew, but kept a bit of rabbit to hand down to James. Then he spoke, as if the question were of no consequence: "A grandpa in Aberdeen. That's all." "Hail to the Scots!" Slaughter said.

"I can take care of m'self." Tom lifted his gaze to spear Matthew with it, and then he drank down some more of his cider to put an end to this line of conversation.

Thunder spoke above the cabin. Rain slashed at the shutters. James, unperturbed by the roar of nature, sat down next to Tom's foot and scratched at a flea.

"Greathouse." Slaughter had reached the bottom of his bowl. He licked juice from his fingers. "I don't know that name, but I swear you're familiar. Were you ever a circus performer?"

"No. Were you?"

"Oh, absolutely. In my youth I was an acrobat. Quite accomplished if I might say so. I had a female partner, and together we jumped through hoops of fire. Have you ever seen a circus?" The last question was presented to Tom, whose only answer was to reach down and rub his dog's back.

"I regret your situation here," said Greathouse to the reverend. "Can we do anything to help?"

"No. I just thank God the suffering is over." Burton rubbed his right temple, as if at the pain of memory. "They were such good people. So hopeful. And we were doing so well, for awhile. New Unity started as an apple orchard. There are fertile fields between here and the river, you see. More and more people came in, and then the fever struck. It was a terrible thing, sir. Terrible, to see all those people suffering, and begging over dying loved ones for the mercy of God, and yet all I could do was pray. A doctor was brought from Belvedere, and he did all he could but what could be done, against such an enemy? The doctor himself fell ill, and perished. Then my wife." He put his frail hand against his forehead. The thunder boomed again, off to the east. "My wife of fifty-two years, my lovely bride. Coughed herself to death, and squeezed my hand at the last, and I whispered, Wait for me, Abigail, please wait for me. But there were so many others in torment. I couldn't think only of myself, and my loss. I had to be strong, for the others. The young children who died, the mothers who watched their infants go pale and more and more unto deathly white. The strapping young men, with such great dreams, and the women who had come here with them to build a life. And there they lie, in the graves. Peaceful now, I hope. But oh, sirs, they endured so much."

A silence fell, but for the sounds of the fire and the rain.

Quite suddenly, Tyranthus Slaughter began to laugh.

"Shut your mouth!" Greathouse, his cheeks aflame, grabbed hold of the prisoner's beard and twisted it. Slaughter kept laughing, as tears of either mirth or pain glittered in his eyes.

"Shut it, I said!" Greathouse shouted. James was up on four feet, starting a low gut-growl, but Tom put his hand down on the back of the dog's neck to hold him steady.

"Pardon me! Pardon me!" Slaughter tried to swallow his laughter and began to cough, so violently that Greathouse released him. Matthew didn't know what to think. The madman's wagon had lost its wheels. "Pardon me!" Slaughter repeated, as he wiped his eyes and his nose and drew in a long ragged breath of air. "It just it just strikes me as so funny so ridiculous that none of you have a goddamned idea of-" And on the final four words his eyes cleared, his voice tightened and he reached up to rub his raw chin beneath the patchwork beard. "What real suffering is."

"Apologize to the reverend!" Greathouse demanded, with such force the spittle foamed on his lips. "By God I'll smash your face in if you don't!" Already his fist was clenched and the blow about to be struck.

Slaughter stared at the upraised fist. He reached into his mouth with a forefinger and probed at an offending shred of rabbit stuck between upper teeth. "I shall apologize, sir," he said lightly, "if the company will hear my tale of suffering."

The fist was near being thrown. Matthew knew a bloody mess was about to erupt. "Don't do it," he cautioned, and Greathouse's enraged eyes ticked toward him. The cocked fist was slowly lowered.

"Let him speak," said Reverend Burton, his opaque gaze fixed on the space between Greathouse and the prisoner. "Go ahead, sir, but I ask you to refrain from taking our Lord's name in vain."

"Thank you. Might I have another cup of cider? Just to wet the old whistle?"

Burton nodded, and Tom did the pouring.

Slaughter took a long drink and swirled the liquid around in his mouth before he swallowed. Then he put the cup down before him and turned it between his fingers, with their jagged clawlike nails.

Thunder echoed in the distance. A second voice of the storm spoke, nearer still.

"There was a boy," said Slaughter. "A hardworking young English boy. Whose drunken mother had been murdered in a tavern brawl when he was not quite ten, and her blood spattered his legs, but that is neither here nor there. This upright young boy and his father went out upon the world, and as fate would have it both of them found positions in the mining fields of Swansea. Diggers, they were. Shovel-and-pick men. Handgrubbers, down in the earth. A father and son, blackened together inside and out, black grit in their teeth and in their eyes, and all the day the ringing music of the pit, hour upon hour, for that pretty little pence in their palms. Or rather, in the father's palm, for the boy did so wish that his father might become rich someday, and stride the world as an earl, or a duke. Someone who mattered, in the course of time. Someone he might be proud of. You see?"

No one answered. Slaughter lifted a finger. "Ah, that boy! Quite the worker, he was. He and his father, breaking rocks in that mine from sunup 'til sundown. Or was it from sundown 'til sunup? What is time, where there is only the light of the lanterns, and all seasons are damp and musty as the tomb? But then, gentlemen, came the hour of disaster!" He nodded, looking from one face to the other. "Disaster," he repeated, letting the word hiss. "A cracking noise, small as the sound of a rat biting a bone. Followed by a rumble that built to a roar, but by then the roof was falling. Thunder is no equal to such a noise, sirs. And afterward, the cries and moans of those trapped by the rock swell up in the dark, and echo in the chambers like a cathedral of the damned. Eleven diggers had gone down, to scoop out the last of a worn-out hole. Five were killed outright. Six left alive, in various states of life. One had a tinderbox and got it lit. Two unbroken lamps were found, and some candles in a dead man's sack. There the boy was, waiting for rescue, while his father lay a few feet away with both his legs crushed. And oh, how that man could caterwaul! It shamed the boy, really, to have to witness such indignity."

"When they stuffed a dead man's shirt into the father's mouth, they were at last able to hear help coming," Slaughter went on, as lightning streaked white beyond the shutters and thunder growled overhead. "They shouted to let the diggers know they were still alive. They had air, that was all right. And water, a flask or two. They could hold on, until the diggers got them up. And then-who can say when-there came another little crack of a rat bite and boom fell more rock and dust. A storm of it. A whirlwind. But they relit their lanterns, and held on. As the candles burned down. As the last of the beef sausage was eaten. Once more they heard the diggers coming. Coming closer, hour after hour. Or was it day after day? And then again, boom fell the rocks, and this time the man who'd lit his tinderbox fell dead, his brains burst out upon the black wall. Which left five living, if one includes the boy's father, who by now had suffered the agony that renders a human being somewhat less than human."

Slaughter paused to drink again from his cup, and licked his lips when he'd finished. "They waited. The diggers were coming. They had one lantern left, and a few candles. Hope remained. Even when the father drew his last breath, and his eyes grew cold and white and the life left him like a bitter mist hope remained. And then someone-the old soldier with the gray beard, the one from Sheffield-said Listen. He said, Listen, I don't hear them anymore. Of course they all hollered and shouted until their lungs were raw, but the noise made more rubble fall and they were afraid to lose their lantern, and so they just sat and waited, in a little foul chamber that was filling up with the smell of the dead. They sat and waited, there in the earth, as the candles burned down one after the other and the waterflasks emptied and oh yes the hunger started gnawing their bellies. They became weaker, and weaker still. And finally someone said, I think they've left us. Left us, he said, to rot. And someone else went mad, and gibbered until he was hit over the head with a stone, and another wept in a corner and prayed to Jesus on his knees, but the boy vowed I will not die, here in this hole. I will not be left to rot, thrown away like garbage for the worms."

"So," Slaughter said quietly, as the low red firelight played across his face, "the boy listened when one of the others said he was once aboard a ship that was becalmed for weeks, and after the food ran out and people began to die you had to determine how much you wanted to live. You had to determine if you could take a blade and carve yourself a meal. And then that man looked at the corpse of the boy's father, and he held up a knife, and he said, There's enough meat on the thighs to keep us going. We can drink from him, too. Don't let it be, that he suffered so much for nothing."

"And when the knife went to work," Slaughter said, "the boy just sat and watched. He was hungry, you see, and perhaps by then half-mad himself, and the strangest, strangest thing was that, when he ate the first strip of meat when he put it between his teeth, and chewed out all the juice he thought it was better than any dish he'd ever tasted in his life."

"My God," the reverend breathed.

"It is like pork," Slaughter continued, staring at nothing. "But sweeter. I've been told. I have heard it said-just heard, mind you-that a blindfolded man given a choice of a beef tenderloin, flank of horse and buttock of human being will invariably choose the buttock, it being so richly marbled with fat. And that in the human meat can be tasted the essence of food and drink consumed by that body in happier times. There are some, I hear, who if left to their own devices would become enslaved to the taste of human, and want nothing else. And that's not mentioning the internal organs, which supposedly have miraculous powers to regenerate the near-dead. Particularly the heart and the brain."

"Oh!" he said brightly. "To finish my story, sirs. When he finally crawled up out of the dark through a space only a desperate boy could have negotiated, and unfortunately but out of necessity left two of his fellow companions behind, he made his way in the course of time to the house of Samuel Dodson, who owned that particular mining company. Thereupon he put a knife to the throats of Master Dodson, his lovely wife and the three little Dodsons and polished them all off, after which the house was burned down around their heads. The end yet just a beginning." He finished his cup of cider, held it aloft as a tribute to the hero of his tale, and when Greathouse knocked it from his hand to the floor and James started the pistol-shot barking again Slaughter looked at his oppressor with an expression of dismay.

"What, then?" Slaughter asked. "You don't like happy endings?"

Matthew had not eaten all of his stew; there remained a small fatty piece of brown meat at the bottom of the bowl. His stomach being rather queasy, he pushed the bowl away with a finger and sat very still, trying to decide if he was going to keep his food down or not.

"Not gonna eat that?" Tom asked, and when Matthew shook his head the boy reached across the table, took Matthew's bowl and placed it on the floor as an added treat for James.

"Thank you for your confession," said Reverend Burton in a raspy voice, his hands folded before him on the table. The knuckles had paled. "I regret your troubles."

"Oh, who said it happened to me? I'm just relating a story I heard, from someone I knew a long time ago." Slaughter frowned. "Pastor, what kind of monster would I be if I ate my own father? Hm?"

"You're as mad as a three-legged billygoat," Greathouse told him, as the red slowly drained from his face. He rubbed his forehead, as if to dispel as best as he could the gory scene that Slaughter had painted, and then he turned his attention to Burton. "We appreciate your hospitality. If we can sleep in the barn tonight, we'll be on our way first thing in the morning."

"To Fort Laurens."

"Yes, sir."

"There's something you ought to know, then," Burton said, and Matthew leaned slightly forward because he'd heard something in the old man's voice that did not bode well. "Fort Laurens has been deserted for oh many years before New Unity began. A dispute with the Indians, more than thirty years ago, is what they say in Belvedere. A series of raids killed most of the inhabitants and destroyed the fort. Therefore I don't quite understand why you two are taking a prisoner to Fort Laurens, when nothing's there but ruins."

Neither Matthew nor Greathouse knew what to say. But Slaughter spoke up: "They are taking me to Fort Laurens-I should say, to what remains of Fort Laurens-in order to seize money and trinkets that I've buried there. The agreement was that, if I take them to this bounty and give it to them, they will let me go. But here's the thing, sir. I think they're lying. I think that when they get their hands on the money, they're either going to keep me in irons or, more likely, they're going to kill me." He paused to let that sink in, as both his escorts were too astonished to speak. "I see your Bible in the corner, sir. Would you do the godly thing and have these men vow on the Holy Book that they will do what they've promised?"

Twelve

Matthew writhed inwardly, knowing he could never put his hand on a Bible and tell a lie. To emphasize his danger, another bolt of lightning shot white beyond the shutters and thunder blasted overhead. He kept his face down, staring at a scuffed spot on the table.

Greathouse scratched the stubble on his chin, but made no other demonstration.

"Do it, pastor," Slaughter urged, his eyes ashine and his brows twitching. "Make them swear on the book."

Burton tapped his fingers. He cast his gaze in the direction of Slaughter's voice but said nothing for a space of time, during which Matthew thought he'd rather be in the long dark tunnel than this candlelit room. At last the reverend said, "Obviously you feel yourself to be at the mercy of these two men, yet I assume you initiated this um bargain? I do not approve of any of this. Gentlemen, before God I implore you to put aside your greed and do what is right for the common good. That is, deliver the prisoner to the proper authorities in New York. The reward for that is the knowledge that you have done a righteous thing for your fellow man."

"Make them swear!" Slaughter hissed. "Their hands on the book!"

"I will not," came the solemn answer. "In so much as, being of limited mind, I do not understand their motivations. Yet God, being of infinite mind, does understand. The only thing I can say is, do not let greed lead you into the valley of destruction. Take this man, with all proper respect, to New York as you are charged and be done with him. Remember also, that Christ showed mercy to the poorest wreckage of life. Should you not try to do the same?"

"That's right." Slaughter nodded vigorously. "Mercy. Listen to the reverend, gentlemen. He talks a peach, doesn't he?"

"I think," Greathouse said, "that it's time for your irons to go back on."

Burdened by the manacles, the leg irons and the heavy ball, Slaughter sank down to the floor with his back against the wall. He closed his eyes as James sniffed the air and growled in his direction. Outside, the rain continued to fall steadily. Matthew noted that water was dripping from several places in the roof, and Tom put pots around to catch what he could. More wood was added to the fire. Reverend Burton asked Greathouse to bring the Bible over to the table and read to him from the Book of First Timothy, which Greathouse did without noticeable complaint. Tom went to work scrubbing the bowls and utensils with ashes, and Matthew silently helped him in his task.

When the work was done, Tom brought a small box from the bookcase and opened it in front of Matthew. "You play?" he asked, showing two sets of crudely-carved but useful chess pieces, one in dark wood and the other a few shades lighter. Matthew nodded, both surprised and grateful to find one of his greatest pleasures out in these forsaken woods. Tom fetched a battered chessboard from the cupboard at the back of the room, and he and Matthew sat down in the chairs before the fire, set the board and pieces up on the small table between them, and began their war.

The first game Matthew won with ease. The second was not so easy, and it appeared to Matthew that Tom was a quick student, for before this contest was over Matthew had lost his queen, his defense of his king was in jeopardy and Tom's knights were threatening mayhem. But experience won out, and Tom nodded and turned his king over when it was certain there was no escape.

During the third game, Matthew noticed how Tom would lean down and rub or scratch the dog that lay nestled against his foot. Clearly, they had a strong connection between them, and at one point Tom picked James up and held him in his lap, and spent a moment rubbing the dog's back while Matthew puzzled over a potential move.

"Gonna let him go?" Tom asked, quietly enough not to be heard by Greathouse, who was still involved in reading First Timothy, or Slaughter, who snored on the floor.

Matthew knew Tom wasn't talking about the bishop that was being stalked by two rooks. "No," he answered, just as quietly.

"Gonna kill him, then?"

"No."

Tom waited for Matthew to make his move. Then he said, "Maybe you ought to."

The third game ended in another win for Matthew, but not before the soldiers all across the rank and file had been decimated for their generals.

Greathouse finished his reading, Reverend Burton nodded his approval, James got down off his master's lap and curled himself up on the little bed of straw, and Matthew reached into his waistcoat pocket and brought out a small leather drawstring pouch he'd purchased to keep his silver watch, a gift from Katherine Herrald, safe from the elements. Tom regarded him with interest as he opened the pouch and checked the time, finding it was nearly eight o'clock.

"Wake up." Greathouse took his cap and coat from the wallpeg and gave Slaughter a none-too-gentle kick in that favorite fare of cannibals, the buttock. "It's time to get to sleep."

Burton lit another candle and put it into a punched-tin lantern for them. Matthew kept the pistol under his cloak and took charge of the lantern, and with Slaughter between them he and Greathouse said goodnight to their host and went out into the rainy dark, bound for a miserable night in the barn during which neither captor slept worth a Dutch penny but their prisoner slumbered as if on royal linens.

At first light, the rain had turned to a nasty drizzle and gray clouds seemed to be snagged in the treetops. Tom emerged from the cabin, with James at his feet, to help get the horses harnessed. Slaughter allowed himself to be pushed up into the wagon, where he lay down in the posture of a silent observer. Greathouse had retrieved his cloak and wrung it out, and now he put it around his shoulders, wet cloak against wet coat against wet shirt. He climbed up onto his seat and took the reins, while Matthew sat facing backwards again so as to keep guard over the prisoner. But, in truth, Slaughter appeared to be no menace today; his eyes were swollen from sleep and he yawned as if he might unhinge his jaws.

"Good luck to you!" Tom called. The last sight Matthew had of him was Tom walking up the steps to rejoin Reverend Burton in the cabin, and James following right behind. They set off into a murky fog that lay close upon the ground. Just past two more abandoned cabins, the muddy track took the curve to the southwest that Slaughter had foretold. The forest thickened again on either side. Rain dripped from the trees, and the birds were quiet. The wind was still, which was a blessing since all three travelers were soaked and already chilled. Further on, another track split off to the left at a more southerly course, which Matthew presumed must be the route to Belvedere. Greathouse kept to the path they were on, which might be termed a "road" as much as belladonna might be termed a "spice". Soon the horses' hooves and the wagon's wheels were freighted with black mud, slowing their progress even more, and the road began to take a perceptible degree of ascent.

"This is a damnable track," Greathouse said sourly, as if Matthew were to blame.

"Sirs?" Slaughter spoke up. "Might I ask what you'll spend your money on?"

Neither Matthew nor Greathouse were in any mood for conversation. Slaughter adjusted his chains, sat up as best he could manage, and lifted his face to the stinging drizzle. "I'm going to buy myself a shave and a proper bath, first off. Then a new suit. Something very respectable," he said. "A new hat, too. Somewhat like yours, Matthew. I like that style. Then on to buy my ship's passage. Get myself out of here as soon as I'm able. Oh, you can have these colonies, gentlemen, and piss on them! Who in their right mind would want all this, this emptiness? Tell me, Mr. Greathouse, don't you miss London?" No reply was offered.

"I do. Not saying I'm going to stay in London. I don't wish to trade one gaol for another. No, I shall make only a brief stop in London, to get my bearings. Then, I think I shall go to Europe. Any country where there's not a war, as my soldiering days are behind me." He shook his head back and forth, flinging water. "I shall endeavor to find a country," he went on, "where I might buy a title. Lord Slaughter, or Baron Slaughter, or Marquis de Slaughter. It can be done, I have no doubt. In this day and age, with money as it is, it doesn't pay to be a commoner."

The horses pulled onward and upward, as the road continued to ascend. There was no abatement of the steady rain, which dripped from Matthew's tricorn and ran down Greathouse's face from his soggy cap. Matthew felt sure at least two miles had passed since they'd started their uphill climb; the horses were laboring, and the wagon's wheels alternately seemed to stick and then slide.

"You're going to kill me, aren't you."

Matthew looked into Slaughter's face. The prisoner stared impassively at him, his head cocked slightly to one side.

"/ would," Slaughter said, before Matthew could form an answer. "I mean, if I were in your position. I'd get the money in my hands, and then I'd kill you. You being me, of course." He gave a thin smile. "Really. What's five pounds, when you're looking at fifty or more? And me, I'm just a what did you call me, Mr. Greathouse? Oh yes. A common criminal."

"We're not going to kill you," Matthew replied.

"But you're not going to let me go, are you? You're not going to do as you promised. I can tell. Yes, I see it in your eyes, Matthew. So, if you don't let me go and you don't kill me, how are you going to explain to your keepers about the money? I mean, when we reach New York I must tell them that you've gotten hold of my treasure, for what reason should I not? And then they're going to want a piece of it, aren't they? A sizeable piece, I would think. Yes, I know about greed, all right."

"Shut up," Greathouse said over his shoulder. They were coming to what appeared to be, thankfully, the top of this rather steep incline.

"I think it's a problem for both of you," Slaughter continued, undaunted. "And for me as well. Are you willing to split the money with men who dared not even dirty their breeches to come fetch me? You two doing all the work, for a measly five pounds? It's a crying shame, gentlemen."

"Matthew," Greathouse said grimly, "if he speaks again I want you to put the barrel of that pistol in his mouth."

"Now you know the young man is not going to do that. I do know pistols, sir, as well as I know razors. What if it went off and blew the brains out the back of my head? Good-bye, money. One dead Slaughter, but not a penny for Greathouse and Corbett. No, the reasonable thing to do, sir, is to assure me that you will let me go after I show you to the safebox, and then if you're not a liar, young man I would much appreciate it if indeed you did allow me to go on my way. I shall think of you kindly, when I'm sitting on silk pillows in Europe."

"Just do all us a favor, and keep your damned mouth-" And then Greathouse's own mouth stopped making noise, for they'd crested the hill and there before them was a curving decline with thick woods on the right. On the left was a dropoff that fell into a forested gorge with wisps of fog at its bottom fifty feet below.

"Oh dear," said Slaughter, peering over the wagon's side. "I did forget about this dangerous descent."

Greathouse held steady on the reins, which was unnecessary because the horses locked their legs up and one of the beasts gave a tremulous whinny that sounded like it meant Don't make me go down there. They sat in the rain, saying nothing. Greathouse's shoulders were hunched forward, water dripping from his chin. Matthew wiped his eyes, his other hand on the gun he held protectively beneath his sopping-wet cloak. Slaughter gave a long, low sigh and at last said, "Fort Laurens is a little more than a mile from here. What's your pleasure, sirs?"

When Greathouse's voice came, it was as tight as an Iroquois' bowstring. "Giddup," he said, and flicked the reins. The horses didn't move. Greathouse flicked the reins again, with some temper behind it this time, and one of the horses started off, pulling along with it the animal that had put up a protest. The wagon rolled forward, as rivulets of mud coursed down before them.

"Keep an eye to that dropoff," Greathouse told Matthew, which was breath wasted because Matthew was already measuring the distance between wheel and disaster. The horses' hooves were plowing into the mud, for true, but there was always the danger of the wagon slipsliding to the side sinister. If Greathouse couldn't get them straightened out in time they could plunge over the embankment and down where the forest and fog might hide bones for a hundred years.

They'd descended about another sixty yards when it was apparent the road, tortured by time and weather, was getting narrower. "It's close over here," Matthew said. "Two feet at the most." With a start, he realized he'd not directed his attention to Slaughter for several minutes, and he had the mental image of Slaughter rising up with a burst of speed and strength and heaving him over to his death; when he looked at the prisoner, however, Slaughter had not moved an inch, and the man's eyes were closed against the drizzle.

They kept going down, through the slippery muck. Matthew uneasily watched the left edge of the road continue to constrict, where previous rainstorms had sheared large sections of the earth away. The horses nickered and jerked their heads, and Greathouse glanced to the left to see for himself how much space separated the wheels from going off the edge. It was less than ten inches, too tight for his comfort, and in another moment he pulled back on the reins and said, "Whoa!"

Slaughter's eyes opened.

Greathouse set the brake. He turned around, wiped the water from his eyes with his cloak, and stared gloomily at their prisoner.

"What are we going to do?" Matthew asked.

"I don't like this damned road. I don't want to take the team too far down it, in case it's washed out further along." He looked back the way they'd come. "No room to turn around. Going to be one devil of a job backing this wagon up."

"I repeat my question."

"I heard you the first time." Greathouse shot a glance at him that could curdle the blood. "The only thing we can do, if we're intending to get to that fort, is to walk."

"Good suggestion," said Slaughter.

He hardly had time to draw a breath after the last word, for suddenly Hudson Greathouse was off his seat and upon him, and when Greathouse meant to be upon somebody they were well and truly a fixed target. Greathouse grasped shirtfront with one hand and patchwork beard with the other and brought his face down into Slaughter's with eyes like hellfire lamps.

"Don't speak," Greathouse hissed. "Don't do any damned thing I don't like." His voice trembled, not from fear but from loss of control, which Matthew had realized was paramount to his nature.

Slaughter obeyed; his face was expressionless, betraying nothing. It took a minute for Greathouse to compose himself, but still he kept hold of the prisoner's shirt and beard. "Yes, we're going to walk. Yes, I'm going to have to unlock your irons. But you want that, don't you? Is that what you'd hoped would happen, all along?"

Slaughter said not a word, honoring Greathouse's first command.

"I'd warrant it's still over a mile," Matthew said, looking down the long descent.

"You be quiet, too. Just let me think."

A bad sign, Matthew thought. The man of action, reduced to thinking.

"How heavy's the safebox?" was the next question directed at Slaughter. When the prisoner didn't reply, Greathouse twisted his beard. "Now you can speak."

No discomfort registered in Slaughter's eyes. Matthew thought he must have a supreme mental control over pain. "One man can carry it."

"All right, then. But you'd better know that I'll have the pistol on you all the way there, and by God if you do something-anything-I don't like I'll blow your kneecap off. Do you understand that?"

"I hear what you're saying, sir. But why should I do anything you don't like, as I wish to be quits with you two even more than you wish to see my backside."

Greathouse held him for a few seconds more, to emphasize who had power over whom, and then let him go. He reached for the key in his pocket and unlocked the manacles and leg irons, even as Matthew watched with the growing anxiety of a job ill-done.

Slaughter rubbed his wrists. "If you please, sir," he said in a silken voice, "would you throw that key over the drop?"

Greathouse shook his head, the key clenched in his fist.

"Ah, here's the problem, then, and I knew we must come to it." A faint, maddening half-smile surfaced on Slaughter's mouth. "It's a matter of trust, isn't it? I'm trusting you-the both of you-to do as you've promised, even though you were let off so lightly by that simpleton of a pastor. Why should I take you to the safebox, unless there's at least-at least-a display from you that I shall not end up in irons again once you have the treasure?" He gave a passing scowl of irritation when Greathouse didn't respond, and diverted his attention to Matthew. "Tell him, young sir, that I'm not going anywhere if he doesn't throw the key over."

"We'll be sitting here for a long time then, won't we?" Greathouse said.

"Yes," replied Slaughter. "We will be."

The two men stared at each other, neither one moving. Suddenly, in a blur of motion, Greathouse reached out to grasp Slaughter's beard again; yet, before the hand could get there, Slaughter intercepted it with his own, the dirty fingers with their sharp ragged nails seizing Greathouse's wrist with remarkable and-for Matthew-unsettling strength.

Slaughter said, quite calmly, "You forget yourself, sir. We are no longer captors and prisoner. We are now partners."

"The hell you say!"

"The hell," came the answer, "I do say." He freed Greathouse's wrist, with an air of annoyance. "If I'm to walk you down to the fort, I want an assurance that I will not be walked back up and returned to those irons. You vowed you'd release me, and not kill me. I take you at your word. Now show me I can trust you by throwing the key over."

Greathouse looked to Matthew for guidance, and for the first time Matthew saw in the other man's eyes an expression of helplessness. It was a terrible thing to witness, this chink in a knight's armor. Yet Matthew knew his own tarnished tin had gotten them into this predicament.

"Damn it," Greathouse said, to the world. He took a long breath, let it out between gritted teeth, and then he reared his arm back to throw.

"On second thought!" Slaughter held his hand out, palm up, before Greathouse. "I should like to cast it myself." His eyes were heavy-lidded. "And, by the by, I do believe you moved the key to your other hand just before your last attempt at beard-twisting. I think it's in your coat pocket by now, there on the left side."

Greathouse lowered his head. When he looked up again, he was wearing a bemused-if petulant-smile. "As you said back at the hospital, never blame the wind for wishing to blow."

"True enough. However, I've polished off several men who tried to blow their wind in my direction. The key, please?" He wriggled his repugnant fingers.

"I suppose you'll want the gun next?" Greathouse took the key from his coat pocket on the left side and dropped it into Slaughter's palm.

"Not necessary. I trust you not to shoot me, at least until you have the safebox. Besides, wet weather is no friend to gunpowder." Slaughter threw the key over; there was a faint metallic tink as it hit a treetrunk far below. Then, rid of this obstacle to the life of a titled scoundrel, he grinned like a king. "Now! Shall we be off, gentlemen?" Disregarding Matthew, who had brought the pistol's barrel out from beneath his cloak as a presentment of threat, Slaughter got down off the wagon. His feet pressed into the mud, and he began to walk jauntily along the treacherous road into the valley of Fort Laurens.

Greathouse started to get down as well.

Matthew felt a pressure in his throat, as if he were being throttled. It was his confession, he realized. His confession, all balled up word tangled with word. He reached out and grasped the other man's sleeve. "Hudson," he said, sounding near choked.

Greathouse looked at him, the thick gray eyebrows ascending.

"Listen," Matthew went on. "We don't have to go down there. There's something I need to-" "Coming, sirs?" Slaughter called, waiting twenty yards further along.

"Easy, easy." Greathouse's voice was muted. "I can handle him, Matthew. Don't worry. The key to the irons is still in my pocket. He threw the key to my room at the boarding house." Greathouse angled his face toward Slaughter. "We're coming!" he replied, and he clambered off the wagon to the mucky earth.

Matthew watched him follow Slaughter along the descending track. Wet weather is no friend to gunpowder. True enough. The pistol he was holding might be useless, if the time came to pull that trigger. He wished Greathouse had brought a sword; those worked well enough, shine or rain. He had to get out of the wagon and face what was ahead, had to push his guilt into his guts where his courage used to be. Had he actually begun believing those air-woven tales of his own stellar celebrity in the Earwig? Had he fallen so far, since summer?

Greathouse stopped to wait for him, and just beyond Greathouse also stopped Slaughter, who was if anything a well-mannered killer.

When Matthew's boots pushed into the mud, he half-expected the earth to open up for him, and for him to slide down and down into the thick dark where a new winter's fireplace had been lit for his comfort in Hell. He walked on, carrying his invisible irons that made prisoners of even the richest men.

Thirteen

Walking only a few yards behind Greathouse, Matthew twice almost spoke out about Professor Fell's money, but both times an inner voice interrupted to say You heard him, didn't you? He said, Don't worry. The great one has spoken, and the great one will bash your head in if you tell him now, at this sorry moment, that there already exists enough money to buy Zed's freedom. So do yourself a favor, and keep your mouth shut.

The mean little drizzle was still coming down. They were walking through tendrils of fog, which didn't help Matthew's state of mind. The tendrils slowly shifted around them, as if drawing them deeper, and Matthew was made to think of the red wax octopus on the paper seal, and its eight tentacles stretched out to seize the world.

Through the fog at the bottom of the road there appeared a dark green wall about fifteen feet in height, splotched here and there with colors of wine red and pale yellow. At first Matthew thought it was just a particularly dense section of the forest, but a dozen yards closer and he could see individual black treetrunks, sharpened by axes at the top, and the spider's web of vines and creepers that had reached out from the wilderness to lay claim to the remains of Fort Laurens. It was a dead place, and utterly silent. The road curved slightly to the left, and entered the fort through the jagged, black-burnt opening where the main gate must have stood. Something suddenly crashed through the woods on their right, a heavy dark shape that caused even Slaughter to stop in his muddy tracks, but whatever it was-stag or wild boar, perhaps-it kept going into the thick underbrush and disappeared.

"Give me the gun," Greathouse said, and Matthew was relieved to hand it over. Just ahead of them, Slaughter had started on again, but Greathouse called to him, "Wait!" and the barefoot beast of barbershop butchery obeyed as meekly as a lamb.

It was apparent, as they neared the fort, that fire had done a nasty turn on the Dutchmen. Large sections of the treetrunk wall had burned away, the ravages of flame still to be seen beneath the mesh of nature even after three decades. What must have been a guardhouse, up on the right front corner, was a mass of tangled timbers held together by black vines, its witch's hat of a roof fallen down and overhanging the wall at an angle that defied gravity. Matthew noted gunports here and there, wide enough for the snouts of blunderbuss shotguns to deliver loads of gravel, nails, or glass as well as lead balls. It was clear, however, that the Indian hatchet and the bowstring had decided this particular battle, and he wondered how many hundreds of arrowheads would still be found in the logs. Or, indeed, how many skeletons might lie beyond the broken walls.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Slaughter had stopped before the hole where the gate had been. He put his hands on his hips and admired the place as if he were already an earl, and this his madman's castle. "We found it from an old map. Just the sort of refuge where a couple of hardworking highwaymen might rest for a few days and count their gold among the safety of the forgotten dead." He grinned broadly at his new partners. "Shall we enter?"

"After you." Greathouse motioned with the pistol.

"Must you still wave that thing around? I thought we were past that." Slaughter suddenly frowned and clutched at his gut. "Oh, dear," he said. "I've been holding my shit in respect for you gentlemen, but I really must let it go now. Pardon me." He started walking off to the left, down into a small gulley full of brush and leaves.

"Where do you think you're going?" Greathouse took a step toward him.

"I told you." Slaughter flashed a baleful look at them. "Do you want to hold my hand?" He descended into the gulley, mindless of the gun, and then he pulled his breeches down to expose a large white rump the sight of which instantly made Greathouse and Matthew avert their eyes.

"Stay where we can see you!" Greathouse commanded, even as he walked away a few paces. The sound of cursing, grunting and straining that issued up from Slaughter's place of excretion was truly horrific. Matthew could see the very top of Slaughter's head, but no further down did he wish to witness. At last the hobble-gobble ceased, there came the noise of a handful of leaves being gathered and, presumably, used, and then Slaughter walked back up with his gray breeches in place and the long tail of his gray shirt flagging. "Thank you," Slaughter said. "I'm ready now." "You first," Greathouse directed. "And slowly."

Slaughter entered the dead fort, with Greathouse a few feet behind and Matthew following.

Within the walls were the ruins of a small town. What had been horsepaths between log buildings were weeded up and littered with debris like broken barrels and shards of pottery. Fires had gnawed most of the interior structures down to the tindersticks. An overturned wagon attested to the violence that had visited this place, as well as the shutters that had been hacked away from the windowframes of the few remaining cabins. Doors had been torn from their hinges and thrown aside. Once inside the walls, the Indians had taken their task of destruction from house to house, and Matthew doubted that very many of the settlers had lived to see the next hour.

Matthew saw no skeletons in the wreckage of Fort Laurens, for which he was grateful. Either the Indians had carried off the corpses, or more Dutchmen had come later to claim their brethren. Still, this was a gloomy place, and the imagination could quickly stir up the embers of ghosts from the piles of cold ashes.

There was one good element in this picture: the drizzle had changed to a light spit, though the sky remained low and leaden. A whisper of chill wind blew from the west, with the promise that autumn's days were numbered.

Greathouse and Matthew followed Slaughter deeper into the center of the ruins. Matthew recoiled when he almost stepped on the head of a small ceramic doll, its blue-painted eyes staring up from the weeds and its body already crushed to powder. In another moment they came upon a few intact log cabins and two other structures-a barn and small warehouse, they appeared to be-arranged in a circle around a common area that held a stone well with a peaked roof above it. Both the barn and warehouse had suffered fire damage but were still standing, more or less; the cabins were in various stages of collapse. Slaughter took course for the one cabin that at least had a whole roof, and Matthew realized they had reached the highwayman's hideaway.

"Hold it!" Greathouse said before Slaughter could pass through the opening where a door used to stand. Slaughter stopped on the threshold and waited for them, his mouth twisted to one side with what might have been irritation. "Your pleasure, sir. Do you wish to go in first, to make sure I'm not leading you onto a floor that will collapse beneath you?" Greathouse peered in, as did Matthew. The place was dark, even with the shutters ripped from the windows. Not much could be seen inside. "Go ahead, then," Greathouse said, with a directional thrust of the pistol, and Slaughter's bare feet left muddy prints across the floorboards.

Inside, the one large room was grim and austere, and certainly had been so even on the day of its construction. But Slaughter and Rattison had evidently made it a home, of sorts. On the floor were two piles of straw, similar to James' bedding, but these big enough for men. A fireplace of rough stones held a mound of ash and some pieces of charred wood, and lying next to the hearth were pots and pans, indicating that at least one of the ruffians could play at cooking. There were two battered chairs, and a leather trunk between them that must have served as a table. A pair of woolen blankets were folded and stacked in a corner on the floor, showing that someone had a penchant for neatness even in the midst of decay. Both Greathouse and Matthew quickly noted that leaning over by the fireplace was a long wooden shovel with an edge of iron on its business point.

It was toward this implement that Slaughter intended to go, until Greathouse said sharply, "Wait" When Slaughter paid no heed, Greathouse's thumb pulled the pistol's striker to full-cock.

Slaughter stopped, his hand outstretched to touch the shovel. "I do presume you want the safebox. Yes? If so, this will be needed."

Greathouse kept the pistol aimed. A little muscle had begun twitching in his jaw. "All right, then. Get to it." Slaughter walked to one of the piles of bedding straw, which he shoved aside with his foot. Matthew surmised

that Slaughter might not have trusted Rattison to the full extent of comradeship, and had been sleeping atop the treasure. Slaughter thrust the shovel downward and used it to pry up a short board, which he then put to one side. Three more boards were lifted and also removed. Then Slaughter stepped back and said with an exaggerated bow, "Sirs, your fortune awaits."

Cautiously, watchful of the shovel in Slaughter's grip, Greathouse and Matthew came forward to look down into the hole. They saw, simply, a square of straw.

"It's underneath," Slaughter explained. "Do you wish to dig, or shall I?"

"You," Greathouse answered. "But if any of that goes in our faces "

"A man with a pistol, afraid of a little hay." Slaughter smiled sadly. "What is this world coming to?" Then he began to dig into the straw and very carefully placed it on the floor next to the hole.

"You surely went to great pains to keep this secured," Matthew said, as he watched Slaughter work. His heart was beating harder. When the safebox came up, there would remain the challenge of getting a very unwilling prisoner back up the hill to the wagon. "I suspect you didn't trust Rattison as much as you might have liked?"

"I don't trust anyone. Whether I like them or not." Bits of straw whirled up into the gray gloom. "But I was most concerned about the Indians. They're still around; I've seen them, poking about. It wouldn't do for them to find a safebox full of golden trinkets just standing-" The shovel's iron tip thunked into something solid. "Ah! Not buried too deeply, you see, but deeply enough. Take this." He held the shovel out toward Matthew, who paused long enough to glance quickly at Greathouse. A nod of assent was given, and Matthew took charge of the shovel.

Slaughter knelt down. With two hands he cleared away the last layer of straw, and then he brought up an object wrapped in what appeared to be a dirty burlap bag. Moving slowly, for it seemed the object had some weight to it, he removed the bag and let it drop to the floor. "Here," he said, with obvious pride. "The result of our accord."

It was an ordinary box about six inches deep, fashioned of lustrous dark wood. He turned it so that they might see its two brass latches, one set vertically on either side of a keyhole. "I'll open it for you," Slaughter said quickly, and put a finger against one of the latches.

"Not so fast." Greathouse's voice was strained. He still held the pistol, aimed now just to the right of Slaughter's body. "It has a keyhole. Where's the key?"

"Not necessary. It's unlocked, I assure you."

"Seems a natural thing, to have locked it before you buried it. I would have."

"Sir." Slaughter smiled again, as if at a poor fool. "It's a safebox, not a snake. It's not going to bite you."

"I've learned through experience, Mister Slaughter, that a box can bite. Especially if concealed within it is a throwing knife, or a pistol. And wet weather may be no friend to gunpowder, but I'd say that box has stayed dry enough nested in the bag and all that straw. Was that the intent? Is a gun in there?"

"No, and I never had the key. Does that suit you? May I open it now, and let's be about our business?" Again his finger went to the latch.

"I said, no. Just take it very easy." This time Greathouse directed the gun's barrel at Slaughter's head. "Let's get out into the light. Move."

Giving a sigh, Slaughter started out with the box in his arms and Greathouse went after him. Matthew put aside the shovel and started to follow when the burlap bag on the floor caught his attention. Rather, it was what was written on the bag, in bright red paint, that snagged his eye. He picked the bag up, held it to the dim illumination that spilled through the nearest window, and read upon it the words Mrs. Sutch's Sausages. Below that was the legend "Sutch A Pleasure".

"Matthew!" Greathouse called. "Come on!"

Odd, Matthew thought. Something was very odd about this. But he supposed highwaymen had the right to eat hot sausages, as much as did the patrons at Sally Almond's. Or maybe they'd waylaid a shipment bound for New York. Still it was odd.

He let the bag fall back into the hole, and then he went out.

Slaughter kept going, almost to the well, before he stopped and turned around. He waited for the others to reach him. His eyes darted from Greathouse to Matthew and back again. "If you don't trust me to open the box, you do it. Oh, better yet! Let Matthew open it, as he seems to be the one with the sense and the courage."

"I'll open it," Greathouse replied testily, but it was obvious he'd sensed something that he didn't like. "You just stand there and hold it, and keep your fingers away from those latches. Matthew?" He offered Matthew the pistol. "Steady this on him, and I want you to shoot if you have to. Can you do that?"

Matthew nodded as he took the gun, but even so he wasn't sure. There was a tension in Greathouse's voice that said it really might be necessary to put a lead ball in Slaughter, that some trickery might be in this plan, and that he was again feeling the loss of control. Matthew had done fine shooting targets in his pistol lessons, and threatening Slaughter by brandishing the gun around; now, though, the game had changed.

"Careful with that, Matthew," Slaughter urged lightly. "You wouldn't wish to waste your only shot, and heaven forbid if you were to hit Mr. Greathouse by mistake."

The statement made Matthew move the gun's aim a few inches to one side.

"Keep your mouth shut," Greathouse said. He was standing about ten feet from Slaughter, and Slaughter was holding the box out for him to open. Yet Greathouse still declined to approach. Matthew thought Greathouse's animal instinct was sniffing the wind for treachery.

"Come on, then! It's heavier than it looks, I assure you. All that money inside," said Slaughter. When Greathouse still didn't move, Slaughter added, "Very well, I'll put it on the ground and step away. You can lean down and-" He made the motion of lowering the box to the ground next to the well.

"Stay where you are!" came Greathouse's command. "Just right there. Where I can see your hands. That wouldn't be the first box I've seen with a hidden lever that shoots out a blade."

Slaughter laughed, but after the first few notes of it a rasp of anger crept in. "It's a fucking box! Do you see?" He turned it to show various angles. "And heavy! Dear Christ, am I to stand here until I grow roots?"

"Matthew?" Greathouse said, his gaze fixed on Slaughter. "Move to your right about five feet and forward three. I want you to have a clear shot." He waited until Matthew had situated himself, but a clearer line of fire did nothing to calm Matthew's nerves. Then Greathouse seemed to thrust his chest out, as if daring the fates, and walked the few paces between himself and his adversary.

"The box opens by pushing the latches to either side," Slaughter said. "A thumb to the left, and a thumb to the right. Simple, isn't it?"

Greathouse put his thumbs against the brass and pushed. Nothing happened. "It's locked." "No, it's not. The mechanism may be a little stiff. Shall I do it for you?"

Greathouse tried again. The lefthand latch moved, with a faint metallic sliding sound, but the one on the right was still stubborn.

"I'd assumed you were a man," Slaughter said.

Greathouse put some force to the righthand latch. And then it moved, again with the sound of metal scraping metal.

What happened next would be forever seared upon Matthew's brain, though it had the speed and violence of a whirlwind.

As the second latch came to rest, there followed within a split-second the soul-shaking, ear-cracking bang! of a pistol firing at close-range.

From the keyhole a white gout of powdersmoke and sparks exploded into Greathouse's face, blinding him. Matthew jumped at the noise and took aim to fire, but with his finger on the trigger he had to dodge down as Slaughter, the man's bearded face a grinning rictus, hurled the still-smoking box at his head. His tricorn was hit, and spun off. Matthew slipped and fell, the striker dropped, the flint sparked, and the gun fired, its ball whining off one side of the well just behind Slaughter. Greathouse was staggering backward, his hands up to shield his face, but suddenly Slaughter was upon him, and Matthew was witness to a terrifying and awesome transformation.

With each step Slaughter took toward his prey, he seemed to grow. To expand, to thicken in his clothes as if he were letting go of muscles and tendons he'd contracted to make himself appear smaller. His spine lengthened, his chest pushed forward, his shoulders bulged. Matthew had the mad thought: He's crawling out of his hole. A hideous grin was fixed to Slaughter's mouth, the blue eyes wide and wild and nearly luminous with the joy of murder. Slaughter reached back, under his shirt. His hand held something in it when it reappeared. He uncapped a smooth silver cylinder, an object that looked like it might have been a doctor's instrument. Matthew saw the glint of a hooked blade. Slaughter caught Greathouse around the neck with the crook of his arm, squeezed so hard the blood jumped red in Greathouse's cheeks, and then with furious determination Slaughter began to drive the blade into Greathouse's upper back, between the shoulders.

Before Matthew could scramble up from the ground, Greathouse had already been stabbed three times, with a fourth strike already falling. Matthew let out a hoarse cry and did the only thing he could think to do, which was to throw the pistol end over end at Slaughter's head. It hit the man on his shoulder and staggered him, interrupting a fifth strike of the blade. Still he gripped his victim, and then Slaughter swung Greathouse around like a grainsack toward the well.

Greathouse went headfirst over the side. The bucket's rope was hanging down from the overhead windlass, but there was no chance for him to grab hold of it. There was a splash as he hit water below.

Then, all the attention was turned upon Matthew.

Before Matthew, revealed in all his vile glory, stood the killer with the Satanic face whom he'd seen on his first visit to Westerwicke. No pretense was needed now. No disguise. The grinning carnivore lifted his thin, bloody blade, and said pleadingly, "Run, won't you? Go ahead! Run!"

Matthew heard the echoed sound of choking. Greathouse was about to drown either on well-water or his own blood.

Matthew dared to glance around at the safebox lying a few yards behind him. As soon as he did, he heard Slaughter start coming for him, moving with horrifying power. Matthew ran for the safebox, which had shown its strength by not bursting open on contact with the ground, and picked it up, finding the thing as heavy as guilt. In his current position it was mind over muscle, and he heaved it frantically at Slaughter as the hooked fingernails grasped for his face and the blade swung at his throat.

The box hit Slaughter in the upper body, and bounced off like a bird hitting a brick wall. But the impact drove the air out of him, and gave Matthew the chance to duck under flailing hand and swinging blade and run toward his true destination.

He leaped into the well.

Grasping the bucket-rope, he slid down into the wet dark so fast the skin nearly smoked off his hands. That pain he would deal with later. Suddenly he splashed into the cold water almost on top of Hudson Greathouse, and he clung hold of the bucket with one arm and with the other grasped Greathouse around the chest.

There came the grumble of a wooden mechanism in action. The bucket-rope tightened. Matthew looked up, and saw Slaughter peering down at him about twenty feet above. The bastard was using the windlass crank to pull the bucket up.

Matthew kept his grip on it, treading water and fighting the crank. Beside him, Greathouse coughed and sputtered, and then began to thrash as if coming to his senses to battle for his life.

"So!" Slaughter had released the crank, giving this little skirmish up as lost. His voice echoed down between the rough stones. "Do you think you're smart, Matthew? Do you think I'm going to let you climb out of there? Well, just stay where you are for a few moments, and I'll show you something!" He disappeared from view.

"Oh " Greathouse gasped. "Shit."

"Hang onto me, I won't let you go." "You're the damnedest fool."

"Just hang on, do you hear?" There was no response. Greathouse's breathing was wet and ragged. "Do you hear?"

"I hear," Greathouse said, but the answer was so weak and weary that Matthew feared he would slip under at any second.

From above there came a banging, battering noise. Matthew caught a glimpse of the iron-tipped shovel, being used to knock the windlass out of its supports. Suddenly the bucket-rope went slack, and the rod of wood around which the rope was secured was falling into the well. Matthew angled his body to protect Greathouse, and took a hard blow on his left shoulder. The rope settled into the water, coiling around them.

"I'm afraid that's the end of your rope!" Slaughter began to give his slow funeral-bell laugh, very pleased with his wit. "Here's something you can dig your graves with!" He reared his arm back, and flung the shovel down into the well as an added instrument of both murder and misery.

Matthew again used his body to shield Greathouse. But before the shovel could do grievous harm its iron edge hit rock, sparks flew, and it bounced back and forth between the walls, losing most of its force as it fell into the water beside Matthew. It sank tip-first, and was gone.

Gone, as well, was Tyranthus Slaughter.

"Damn," said Greathouse, lifting his face from the water. He had lost his woolen cap, his hair plastered down. Beneath him, his legs were moving only feebly. "I'm done for."

"No, you're not."

"Little you know. Bastard took us. Box blew up." "Stop talking and save your strength."

"Thought I'd been shot." He winced, and again his face went into the water. Matthew was about to grasp his chin when he sputtered and coughed and drew air again. "Stabbed me. Old trick, that was."

"Old trick? What're you talking about?"

"Had it up his ass. When he went down there to shit. Took it out. He told me right there, he told me."

Greathouse wasn't making any sense. But then Matthew realized what he must mean. At the hospital, Slaughter had said it. They left thejoy oflooking up my arsehole foryou. Matthew thought the silver cylinder, with a blade inside it, must have been a medical instrument. Maybe stolen from a doctor's bag at the Quaker institution, and the theft masked by an assault on another patient. With a man as cunning as Slaughter, anything was possible. There was no telling how long he'd had the blade, ready to use it when the time was right. And today, that time had come.

"I must say farewell now," Slaughter called down. "I have to also say, you've been interesting company."

Greathouse made an unintelligible noise. Matthew said nothing, concentrating on treading water. He was cold and in pain from his shoulder and raw hands, and the effort of keeping both himself and Greathouse above the surface was getting harder.

"It won't be so bad," Slaughter said. "Drowning, I mean. Only a little suffering to be endured. But it's easy for me to say, isn't it?"

"We're not dead yet," Matthew replied.

"Yes," came the answer, "you are. But you just don't accept it yet."

Matthew's legs were beginning to ache. Beside him, Greathouse's breathing sounded like cart wheels over cobblestones.

"Thank you for allowing me some practice." Slaughter was leaning over the edge, a dark shape without a face. "Get the rust out of my joints. I appreciate knowing that my judgment of human nature has not been impaired during my time away from the pleasures this world has to offer. So good day, sirs, and may you rot in the deepest pit of Hell set aside for men who think themselves so very smart." He offered a faceless bow, then drew away from the well and out of Matthew's sight.

"Slaughter! Slaughter!" Matthew shouted, but the man didn't return and Matthew ceased calling because there was no point in it and, anyway, it was another name for cold-blooded murder.

He kept treading water, and trying to think. To compose himself, and fight off the chill tentacles of panic. What had Slaughter said, about this place not being found again until he-Matthew-and Greathouse were moldering in their graves?

Or, moldering at the bottom of a well.

I can't give up! he thought. There has to be a way out of this!

You just don t accept it yet.

"No," Matthew said, and heard his voice speak back to him, something ghostly about it even now. "I don't." Greathouse shuddered. He drew a long, terrible breath. "I'm used up," he said. "Not a damned thing. Left of me."

And with that understanding of himself and his limitations in a world so brutal it could hardly be borne, Greathouse the great one, the roughneck, the man of swords, the teacher and friend and Baptist, slipped silently down beneath the water.