by David Liss
It took me a moment to find words. “I must say, I’m touched that you troubled yourself to rescue me.”
He managed a sort of shrug. “I don’t think I can get down the stairs by myself.” His voice was easy, as though he discussed something of import, but I felt his gaze on me, urgent and desperate, and something else, something greater and hotter and more intense. This, I understood, was Lavien’s place and Lavien’s time. He was a cannonball, fired toward Philadelphia, and no wall, no flesh, no fire would stop him.
I pushed myself to my feet and stepped out into the hall, and the mirth and wonder drained away. There, upon the floor, lying at the sick angles of the lifeless, was a man, pale and bloodied, his eyes wide as the face of oblivion. I’d not seen him before, but he was a rugged-looking fellow, probably handsome while he’d been alive. Now his throat had been opened, and for the first time I noticed the knife tucked into Lavien’s belt.
“Christ. Who’s that?” I asked, keeping my voice low.
Lavien did not spare a glance, but then why should he? I could only be speaking of one man. “A marksman. They called him Jericho. He’s probably the one who shot our horses. Now he’s dead. Let’s go.”
“How are we going to get out of here? How are we going to get past the whiskey men?”
His eyes grew harder, darker. His lips turned ruddy with anticipation. “We will kill anyone who opposes us.”
“Hold,” I hissed, suddenly feeling as though I held conversation not with a man but with a raging storm. “I am not going to kill Joan Maycott. And Leonidas is with them.”
He nodded. “I’ve seen him. I am fond of Leonidas, but I’ll kill him if he opposes me.”
“My God, Lavien, is it worth it? All this killing? To save Hamilton’s bank?”
“How many times must I tell you it is not about the bank?” he breathed. “It’s about averting chaos, riot, and bloodshed and another war of brother against brother. This country is a house of cards, and it will not take much to bring it down. Now let’s go.”
He moved down the hall, hopping on one foot and using the butt of the rifle to balance himself, and yet he moved more quietly than I did. We came to the first set of stairs. I scouted down and saw no one on the second-floor landing and reported back to Lavien.
“I think they’re all downstairs,” I said. “I heard some faint voices.”
He nodded.
“Whose house is this, anyhow? Where are we? Who is helping them?”
“I heard them say we are just outside Bristol,” he said.
A chill spread through me. Not here, I thought. Why must it be here? “The Bristol house. Pearson put it about that it was sold, but it wasn’t; they were here all the time. Cynthia and the children are likely here. For God’s sake, be careful with your fire.”
Lavien nodded, and I knew at once that he already knew, or suspected, that this was Pearson’s house. He’d simply neglected to tell me.
We took the steps slowly, one at a time. Lavien steadied himself, silently pressed his rifle butt to the stair below us, and swung down. He repeated this over and over, never making a noise, not even letting the stairs creak. At last we made it to the second-floor landing. Before us stood the stairs to the first floor; to the left, a wall on which hung a large portrait of a puritanical sort of man; and to the right, a corridor with two doors on either side and one at the end. As we stood there, the door at the end opened, and we faced a man in his fifties, graying and bearded, strangely elegant. I recognized him at once. He was the Scot I’d met at the City Tavern.
He saw us and his eyes went wide with surprise and terror. From behind me, Lavien pushed forward, taking a massive leap off his good leg, landing upon it again, using the rifle to balance himself but somehow keeping it from banging against the floor. In two such impossible strides, he was upon the old fellow, gripping his throat, pressing him against the wall, and taking out his knife.
I hurried over. “Stay your bloody hand,” I cried in as loud a whisper as I dared.
I could not see his face, so I did not know how he responded, but he did stop. “You said not to kill the woman or Leonidas. You said nothing of this man.”
“We don’t have to slaughter them. We only have to get away from them. They’re not fiends, Lavien, they’re patriots. They may be misguided patriots, but they do what they do for love of country, and I won’t hurt them if I can help it.”
“I haven’t the time,” he said in an exasperated breath. “We haven’t the time for stealth or cleverness. We’ve only time for violence.” So he said, but he still did not kill the poor man. He continued to squeeze his throat, and his face began to purple behind the gray of the short beard, but Lavien did not strike with the knife.
My heart beat so hard I felt the reverberation in my clavicle. Fists clenched in rage, I struggled to think of something to spare this man, this schemer who had been set against me for weeks. My mind was soft and spongy and would not answer when I called. There had to be something, I told myself, and without knowing what I would say, I began to talk. It was always the best way.
“Do you remember, Lavien, when we had our first talk that night at your house? Do you remember how you told me Hamilton described me to you?”
He nodded. “He said you could talk the devil himself into selling you his soul.”
“Then let me do it.”
“He didn’t say you could do it with all speed,” Lavien hissed.
“Let me try, damn it.” I felt the faintest hint of optimism, but terror too, for if he gave me this chance, I did not know how to use it.
He lowered the knife and eased his grip on the Scot.
“Did you hear all that, or were you too busy being killed?” I asked the man.
He nodded vigorously, which for the sake of convenience I chose to understand meant he had heard.
“Good, then. Now, I’ve just saved your life, fellow. That’s usually worth something. Is it worth something to you?”
“It is,” he managed in a Scottish brogue, “but I’ll not betray my friends.”
“Oh, there’s no betrayal in the works. I promise you that. We only want a way out of here. That’s all we want.”
“It’s a betrayal, for you’ll run to Hamilton and tell him all.”
I shook my head, desperate for something. “It’s too late for that. It’s already too late, but this man, this man with a beard just like your own, only darker with youth, his wife is due to deliver unto him his first child, and we must hurry. You would not want, I think, to be the cause of him not being at her side when she gives birth. You are not so base as that, are you?”
“You’ll have to do better than that,” said the Scot, “if you want to talk the devil into giving up his soul.” I could not blame him. It had been a weak effort, but given he knew I attempted to trick him, none but a weak effort would do.
“Right, then,” I said to Lavien. “Best to kill him.”
“Hold,” he gasped, throwing forth his arms, much as I had predicted. “I’ll help you. The front door is locked, but take my key.” He dug into his pocket and came forth with a heavy brass key, which he handed to me. “They are all in the back sitting room, by the kitchens. They’ll not hear you.”
“Good Scot,” I said, and shoved him into the room. There was a key to that room on the inside lock in the door. I removed it and locked him in. I suppose he could have still done harm, banging upon the floor or some such thing, but I believed we’d scared him sufficiently.
I turned to Lavien. “Far better than murder, don’t you think?”
“It took too long,” he muttered, and then gestured forward with his head. I was to scout the stairway. I crept down and faced the front door. There was a sitting room forward and to my right, and behind that a private room of some sort, and behind that the kitchens. I heard voices emerging from the back of the house.
I returned to Lavien with this intelligence. He nodded. “Once we make it out of the house, we head around the left to the stable
s. I’ve seen no sign of servants—perhaps Pearson can no longer afford any—so we should be able to get horses. Then we need only ride hard to Philadelphia.”
“How are you going to make it to Philadelphia on a broken leg?”
“I can only do my best. If the pain should make me lose consciousness, however, you will have to finish the task yourself.”
I studied him. His face was utterly placid, but for an instant I recognized it was a mask he wore to disguise the agony he felt. “You are a frightening man,” I said.
The trek to the bottom of the stairs was terrifying, for we were most vulnerable, but we made it with good speed and little noise. Lavien rested against the banister while I went to the door. The adjacent sitting room’s windows faced west, and there were no windows at all in this room, so the foyer, with its dark wallpaper and uncovered floors, was gloomy. Even so, once I took out the key the Scot had given me, I did not even have to try it to realize it was far too big for the lock. Its thick brass glinted like a winking eye in the dark room. He’d tricked us.
“It looks like the devil wins this one,” said Lavien.
“Better to kill everyone in case they turn out to be not nice. It’s not as fast as a key, but I can try to pick the lock.”
I stooped down, preparing to remove my boot and retrieve my picking tool when I saw a presence from the corner of my eye.
“Oh, why trouble yourself,” said a voice, vaguely familiar, and even before I could identify it, a thrill of terror ran through me. Somewhere, at the base of my consciousness, I knew that things had taken another turn, become more dangerous and more unpredictable. For a fleeting instant I kept myself from looking, as though I could prevent this encounter simply by not seeing it, but the instant passed and my head turned. There upon the top of the stairs was Jacob Pearson. He stood with his wife directly before him, however. Lavien, were he so inclined, could not toss his knife to eliminate him. He had one arm around her waist, held in that tight grip I had experienced myself, the other against her back, and her eyes were wide and moist and, even from a great distance I could see they were red from crying. He did not have to tell me for me to know there was a gun pressed to her.
Cynthia met my gaze, and I could see in her all the hope, all the expectation she placed in me. I would get her out of this. I would protect her. I had no idea how, but I would make it happen.
“No doubt you thought yourself too clever, but I’ve bested you before and will do so now,” he said.
“You would bring your wife and children into the middle of this violence?” I said. “You are more of a wretch than I thought.”
“The children are safe,” he said. “They’re with my sister. My wife—well, she deserves no special consideration. You’ll be pleased to know she’s tried to run away several times. No doubt to go to you, so the two of you can live in adulterous poverty and turn my children into an object of scandal. I think it’s safe to say that Cynthia does not know what is best for her.”
She smiled a sad smile at me. I knew what it meant. She was trying to be brave, to be ready should some chance present itself. I intended that it would.
“After you escaped from the prison under the pier,” said Pearson, “I was prepared to kill you when I had the opportunity, but now I won’t have to. I believe the big Irishman will take care of it for me when he sees what you’ve done to his man. I wish you’d killed the other, but one will have to do. That bitch of a widow made us all swear this way and that not to harm you unless our lives were in the balance, but I don’t believe Dalton will honor her word now. Ho! Dalton! Irishman, come here quick!”
I heard footsteps running toward us, and I glared at Lavien. If he were to take his chances with Pearson, it would be now, but I met his eye. “Stay your hand,” I said. “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you myself.”
He did not react, but I had not expected him to.
Now Leonidas came into the foyer, squinting as his eyes adjusted from the well-lit rooms of the back of the house to the gloom of the front. “What is this?” he demanded.
“I called for the Irishman, not the nigger, though there is little enough difference,” said Pearson. “Get the Irishman. They’ve killed Richmond. I believe Dalton will want his revenge.”
Leonidas looked as though he’d just learned of the death of a parent. His eyes grew wide with horror. “Oh, Ethan, why have you done it? Dalton’s a good man, but he won’t let this go.”
I would not defend myself, not even to say that this time it was not Ethan Saunders who took a bad situation and made it worse. Things would sort themselves out or I would die, but I would not allow my final words to be a speech of equivocation.
Mrs. Maycott walked into the foyer, followed closely behind by Dalton. The space was now crowded. Five of us stood where two or three might comfortably remain. Pearson led Cynthia halfway down the stairs but then stopped, remaining distant.
Dalton looked us over and shook his head, not bothering to hide his amusement. “They’re determined, I’ll say that for them. Now, back to their rooms. Where’s Skye and Jericho? We’ll need their help.”
“Skye’s been locked in a bedroom.” Pearson spat. “They’ve killed Richmond. Murdered him in cold blood.”
Dalton’s face turned pale and his lips, instantly bloodless, quivered as though he were a little child. Then, in an instant, his face turned cold and hard and frightening in its cruelty. He underwent a second metamorphosis, to something ugly and fierce, something that wanted vengeance. He stepped forward, then stopped. He swallowed. “Is it true?” he asked quietly. Then, when he received no response, he screamed the same words. “Is it true?” It was loud, ringing, like the roar of a deranged lion, and from his coat he pulled two pistols, primed. He held them aloft, not quite sure what to do next, and then he turned on us.
Joan said, “No, Dalton,” and stepped before him, but he pressed a hand hard to her breasts and shoved, and she staggered down the hall, losing her balance, falling upon her knees.
Leonidas took out his own pistol and pointed it at Dalton. “Fire your weapon, and you’re a dead man,” he said.
“For God’s sake, Leonidas, if you’re going to kill him, do it before he shoots me, not after. But I beg that no one shoot anyone. Look you, if you have eyes. That man there on the staircase, holding a gun to the back of his wife. He is the one who tells you we hurt your friend. We did not. It’s true we locked away your man Skye, but we did not hurt him, and he will tell you so himself.” I tossed Joan the key to Skye’s room. “Go unlock him and ask. Why should we kill one man and let another live? We would not. If this man, this known liar and thief, says your friend is dead, I doubt not it is because he did the killing himself.”
I did not know if they believed it, but it would buy us time, which was the best we could hope for at the moment.
Put away the knife, I mouthed to Lavien. To my astonishment, he obeyed, though I had no doubt he could have it out again in a matter of seconds, should he so desire. For now, however, he would give me my chance to take the devil’s soul after all.
I reached down and helped Lavien to his feet—to his foot. Whatever pain he had suffered, he appeared no more disabled than he had been before. I handed him his weapon, and I believe he made a good show of himself by using it as a crutch and doing nothing more.
“I don’t deny we wish to escape,” I said to Joan, “but that is how the game is played. You make your move, and we make ours. That is all. But that man,” I said, pointing to Pearson, “would hold a woman hostage—his own wife—which is as base a thing as a man can do. He killed your friend for no other reason than to lay the blame upon us.”
Lavien turned to Dalton and pulled his knife from his belt. It meant that he would be the target of the first fire, for a man cannot aim at two enemies at once. I had not a moment to spare, so I thrust out my leg into Lavien’s one good one, and he slipped out from under himself, landing upon his broken limb. I cannot imagine the pain, but he made not a noise, though
his face twisted in agony, or perhaps shock. Or perhaps relief, for as he landed, Dalton’s pistol fired, unleashing its thunder crack and black smoke and sharp scent into the little space. The ball passed through the air where Lavien would have stood, blasting instead into the front door. There was a second blast—just an instant after the first—and wood splintered and sunlight shot into the gloomy foyer as the door swung open on its hinges. That, at least, was a bit of good luck, if we lived to take advantage of it.
I thought back to that night in Helltown, that night that now seemed so long ago, when I had been prepared to let Dorland kill me. I had stood in the cold and the filth of the Helltown alley and considered that I might yet talk my way into living, but I held my tongue.
I would not stay quiet this time. The air smelled of powder and my eyes stung with smoke. Just behind me, a door lay open, and sunlight seeped into our little gathering storm of violence. This would likely end in more deaths. There were far too many people in the room for whom I cared—maybe the only people on earth for whom I cared—and I would not let it go that way. I had been built from my foundation with a capacity to deceive, and here, if ever there was one, was a time for deception.
“Hold!” I cried. “Hold! Let there be no more violence.”
Dalton pointed his other pistol to Lavien, who lay prostrate upon the ground, and I stood directly in his path.
All this time Cynthia had stood a mute statue; I had hardly dared to look upon her. A weapon had already been fired, and there was like to be more. I would not have my own resolve softened by her fear. But now Cynthia spoke up, and her voice, though wavering, had a kind of clarity that surprised me. “It’s true. My God, it is true. I knew he was cruel, but I never thought he could kill a man in cold blood. He walked up to him, and your man—he suspected nothing.”
Was ever anyone so in love as I at that moment? Did ever man, since the fall of Eve, so rejoice in the lies of woman?
“Shut up,” Pearson hissed at her. “It’s not true,” he said to the others, but if Cynthia had just spoken the most convincing of lies, her husband had the misfortune of sounding entirely false while speaking truth.
