by C. J. Box
“Dear Lord . . .” he muttered.
With the rising of the sun the humidity thickened like gumbo, conjuring a mist from the surrounding river. Tendrils of it drifted across the shifting sandbar like ghosts of the recently slain.
As Myron looked on, the seconds presented Darius and Noddy with their weapons. Darius removed his from its case and held it awkwardly, as if it were too heavy for his grip. Noddy retrieved his own pistol without a glance and grasped it with a confidence born of long familiarity.
“Are your weapons met with your satisfaction?” the retired but much in demand senator called out.
“Yes,” Captain Noddy answered promptly, but with hoarseness.
Darius continued to allow the pistol to dangle in his grasp without answering. After a moment he brought it up to his ear and gave it a little shake, as if he were straining to hear something within.
“Mr. LeClair?” the senator prompted.
“I wasn’t aware the pistol would be brought to me loaded,” Darius commented with a slight smile. “Is that the custom in these parts?”
This remark managed to confound the retired people’s representative into silence, while causing a good deal of discussion amongst the gathered witnesses.
“What are you implying?” Noddy growled. “Do you think I would allow any tampering?”
Still smiling, Darius replied, “Of course not . . . surely you are above such flummery . . . and perhaps even incapable of plotting something so insidious as to squib the load of the pistol you were kind enough to supply me.”
The crowd understood that a squib load was a skimping of sufficient gunpowder in order to create a misfire, and the murmur from them rose accordingly.
Noddy, hungover from the previous evening’s ball, seemed to be turning Darius’s words round in his clotted thoughts, attempting to define the insult hidden within.
“What are you saying?” was all he could manage.
“Just that, considering your current unfortunate disposition, perhaps someone concerned for your welfare might have acted on your behalf.”
“How dare you, sir!” both seconds cried in unison, apprehending the charge could be leveled at either of them, they being Noddy partisans. “I will have—”
“Shut up!” their master commanded, and both men went silent. Still wrestling with Darius’s line of reasoning, Noddy glared at the little man. “What do you mean by my ‘unfortunate disposition’?” he enunciated.
“Why, my dear fellow,” Darius began, throwing open his arms, the questionable gun wobbling about in his loose grasp. Several onlookers backed further away from the erratic muzzle of the firearm. “You’re in a state! You’ve behaved heroically in spite of it, for which I commend you, but many of us witnessed you disgorging your previous evening’s meal and refreshments upon arrival this morning. It has happened to the best of us—a night of dance and drink . . . perhaps a few too many, but understandable. Nerves, Captain, nerves! There’s absolutely nothing worse than imbibing too much in order to soothe them. It never works!”
The sun, having risen higher over the sandbar, poured down its hellish heat like a molten god. Myron, and the rest, could see the truth of Darius’s observations in the slight swaying that Noddy displayed, a tremor from time to time in the hand holding the pistol. The referee, the doctor, and the seconds, being closer still, could also discern his bloodshot eyes, the nervous licking of his chapped lips.
“I suggest,” Darius continued, “that given your current condition, you be allowed to withdraw from the field if you so wish . . . honor intact.”
The murmur from the crowd rose as the enormity of the insinuation sank into their collective consciousness—not only was their champion being labeled a drunk, but also a coward! None had ever experienced a duel in which the insults continued right up to the moment of truth. It was incredible and without precedent! A man could, in theory, die for any of the several slurs made by Darius, but in fact could only die once, which seemed unjust to many on the sandbar.
“Dear Lord,” Myron repeated, stunned as well by the audacity of his boon companion.
“Until . . .” Darius held his free hand up to quieten the chatter, “until, that is, you have returned to yourself, Captain, and are once more a worthy opponent!”
“Your answer, sir,” the senator intoned, as if he were overseeing a congressional debate.
“Goddamn you!” Noddy cried, switching his grip on his pistol and raising it above his head to club Darius. “I cannot bear another moment of this!”
“Stop, sir!” the senator demanded, having produced his own pistol in the proper manner, muzzle pointing at the potential recipient of its ball. “There will be no brawling under my watch!”
Lowering his weapon, Noddy complained, “It’s insufferable . . . insufferable, I tell you!” He appeared to be near tears.
“Your answer, sir,” the senator repeated.
“No . . .” Noddy replied, his whole demeanor one of distraction and anxiety, then again, “No.”
Appearing unfazed by his opponent’s disreputable behavior, Darius stated, “Very well, then . . . if you insist.”
The mob, having hushed during this brief exchange, became instantly reanimated at its conclusion. The duel was on once more.
“However,” Darius intoned, quieting the crowd yet again, “I wonder—since you have been good enough to supply me with both a gun and a second—whether we might exchange pistols? I only ask in order to satisfy any doubts that might exist following the outcome of this affair.”
“You venomous little troll,” Noddy spat, looking pale and sweat-soaked beneath the climbing sun. “You satanic imp . . .”
“Captain . . .” Darius’s second began, then went silent.
Darius’s eyes cut from the captain to the second, then back again.
Noddy’s hand hovered over the proffered weapon and began to tremble.
“Is there a problem?” Darius asked.
Goaded, Noddy seized the pistol while thrusting his own at Darius. “Take it . . . take the damned thing!”
“Are we finally able to proceed?” the perspiring senator asked, both puzzled and alarmed at the transaction. Had Noddy refused the exchange, then under the circumstances, he would have ordered a close examination of the pistol. But since he did not, he could not do so without impugning the captain’s honor.
“Seconds, step away!” he commanded. “Combatants, cock your pistols and stand back to back, weapons raised. When I begin the count, you will take a step with each number called out. When I cease the count at ten, you will stop and remain stationary until I command you to turn. Afterward I will instruct you both to take aim. Finally I will give the ultimate order to fire! Should either of you do so before that order is given, I will shoot you where you stand. Is all this firmly understood?”
Having assumed their back-to-back positions, both men nodded their comprehension.
“One!” the count began.
As the two men commenced their fateful march, it was evident to all that something was decidedly wrong with the avenger of Natchez. His gait, usually so decisive and measured, had become a hesitant, and increasingly mincing, shuffle. A pall of dread had fallen over him, draining the captain’s handsome features of blood and setting the hand holding the pistol to spasm like a divining rod.
His diminutive opponent, however, appeared to have grown in stature during the runup to the duel—the plump and infuriating Darius now infused with a deadly dignity, a certitude that bode ill for the stricken Noddy.
“Ten,” the senator completed the count.
Both men halted.
“Turn!”
Darius did so with smooth alacrity.
Noddy, with slumping shoulders, his booted feet dragging through the sand, followed suit.
“Aim . . .”
The dejected-looking captain’s arm shot out and locked at the elbow. Darius did likewise.
Before the following and final command could be
uttered, the explosion from the captain’s gun sent his ball flying as a corresponding cry of outrage went up from the crowd.
Cognizant of his duty, the senator’s own pistol rose to point at Noddy, and he cocked his piece preparatory to its execution.
“Hold!” a strong voice rang out. “The shot is mine!”
Almost forgotten in the shock of Noddy’s violation, Darius still stood, his pistol still leveled at the now cowering Noddy. Behind Darius a large chunk of bark had been sheared away from a pine tree, leaving a raw white wound.
Wreathed in an acrid cloud of gun smoke, Noddy sank to his knees in the soft sand, letting go the damning pistol and holding up his left hand in front of his face, whether in fear or shame was anyone’s guess.
“Don’t,” he moaned. “Please . . . don’t.”
“The right is yours, sir,” the senator informed Darius, uncocking his own piece.
“Dear God . . . have mercy,” Noddy pleaded, tears now streaming down his pale cheeks and soaking his drooping mustache.
Darius lowered his aim in acknowledgment of his opponent’s new and abject posture, continuing to keep him within the crosshairs, a finger movement away from death.
“You have killed twelve young men,” Darius began, a heat present in his voice that had been wholly absent before. “All of them lamb to slaughter, all without experience, aptitude, or friends; each and every one dying for the sole purpose of stoking your vanity. Honor never entered into it—you murdered them all.”
Darius took a deep, shuddering breath, then went on. “One of those young men . . . you damned butcher . . . was my brother!”
“I didn’t know,” Noddy sobbed. “Mercy . . . mercy,” he pleaded.
“Shall I show mercy?” Darius called out to the spectators.
“No . . . Hell, no . . . Pull the trigger . . . Shoot!” they shouted back, enraged at their hero.
“It seems your former friends and countrymen wish me to kill you,” Darius advised Noddy.
“Please . . . please . . . don’t . . .”
“And I shall oblige them, you low dog.”
The shot rang out, echoing across the river.
But when the smoke cleared it was plain to all that Darius had thrown wide his shot—Noddy still lived.
“Now you know how they felt—the terror . . . the loneliness,” Darius informed the defeated Noddy. “You, I sentence to life. Rise and join your fellow citizens . . . if they’ll have you.”
Tossing his weapon into the sand in front of his opponent, Darius marched off to the boats, ignoring the congratulations of the thoroughly entertained bystanders. Myron hurried after him, and as they were rowed across the river once more, Darius studied the sluggish current in silence while squeezing his hands together to stop the tremors that had seized them.
* * *
Emptying the pockets of both his coat and waistcoat, Myron tossed wads of cash onto the narrow bed of Room 4.
“We’ve made a packet, Darius! By God, we’ve made a packet!” he cried.
“Everyone paid their debts, did they?” Darius asked, pouring them both a whiskey, his hands once more his own.
“They did so with enthusiasm—they feared the ire of the Continental duelist!”
“Is that so?” Darius responded with a slight smile, handing a brimming glass to his gambling partner, noting how flushed Myron’s normally pallid cheeks had become. “What a passel of fools.”
Myron raised his glass to Darius and they both took a sip of the liquor. Smacking his lips with relish, Myron asked, “Fools, Darius? What do you mean?”
“I’ve never in my life set foot in Europe,” Darius replied. “Your local newspaperman has a vivid imagination and, thankfully, few scruples—I paid him well to conjure up that story.”
Myron’s wide mouth fell open a bit. “You paid him? Why?”
“Nor am I a duelist,” Darius went on, ignoring the question. “Until today I’d never fired a weapon in anger, and I’m certainly no marksman. If I were, Horatio Noddy would be dead this moment instead of sneaking out of town with his tail between his legs.” He refilled their glasses and sat down. “Did you see how wide of the mark my shot went? I couldn’t have hit an elephant at that distance.”
Still standing, the newly charged glass forgotten in his hand, Myron struggled to assimilate his partner’s words. “What . . . you . . .” he sputtered, “. . . but . . . but . . . the pistols! What of your fine set of dueling pistols? I saw them!”
“Oh yes . . .” Darius squirmed a bit in the room’s only chair. “Those. I came into their possession as a result of a poker game in Savannah. Handsome pieces, aren’t they?” Grasping Myron’s wrist, he said, “I do hope you can forgive my deceiving you, my friend. Your good faith . . . and wagers . . . went a long way toward enhancing my little fiction.”
Remembering his glass, Myron took a moment to down its contents. “My God,” he said, settling himself onto the edge of Darius’s bed by degrees, “you might have been killed! You risked your life knowing full well that you stood no chance. I just don’t understand.”
“Oh, but I did, Myron . . . however slim, I stood a chance. That’s our profession, isn’t it? It was only a matter of sizing up my opponent, assessing his weaknesses. From all that I observed and you had told me of Noddy, I could see that his deadly career was based not on courage but careful selection. He trolled for victims, not challenges, selecting only the very young, who, by virtue of their age, were both inexperienced and volatile.
“Further, they had traveled alone and therefore had no seconds on hand. As no one in this virtuous town wished to act against the fearsome Captain Noddy, the only second that could be found for the stranger was one of Noddy’s own entourage, who no doubt regaled him with tales of the captain’s deadly prowess.”
Catching his drift, Myron broke in, “And they squibbed the load of the youngsters’ pistols, just as you insinuated today, insuring the captain’s safety against a lucky shot!”
With a slight shrug, Darius answered, “Well . . . that’s a possibility, perhaps. However, they did not do so to my pistol this morning. The one I exchanged with Captain Noddy—it was fully charged—I heard the ball whistle past my ear at a terrifying velocity. Still,” he continued, “it did give the mighty captain pause when I suggested one of his people might have been secretly aiding his triumphs all along by doing so.”
“Yes!” Myron exclaimed. “I saw it in his face! Clearly he dreaded exchanging weapons with you. You devil! You planted yet another terrible seed of doubt there!”
“And, not to put too fine a point upon it,” Darius concluded, “it was Noddy’s thirteenth duel—the unlucky number was his, not mine.”
Myron’s expression grew somber. “When all is said and done, Darius, you exhibited terrific courage today, or incomprehensible foolhardiness, I’m not sure which. But at the end of it all, you have achieved some measure of justice for your slain brother—Noddy is ruined! His new reputation will follow him like the stench of the grave.”
Darius’s expression softened. “As to that,” he began in a quiet, tired voice, his eyes moistening, “I was not altogether truthful either. You see, the young man I sought to avenge was not, in fact . . . my brother. Rather, he was someone . . . a dear friend . . . that I loved as if he were . . . well . . . it’s difficult to explain. Perhaps it will suffice to say that he was dear enough for me to die for. Do you understand?”
Though he found himself nodding in the affirmative, Myron was not entirely sure that he did. “A dear friend . . .” he murmured in reply.
“Yes,” Darius agreed. “Dear enough for me to risk anything . . . anything at all.”
JEFFERY DEAVER
Security
FROM Odd Partners
I
March 13
“The meeting’s finished?”
“It is,” Bil Sheering said into his mobile. He was sitting in his rental car, your basic Ford, though with a variation: he
’d fried out the GPS so he couldn’t be tracked.
“And you’re happy with the pro?”
“I am,” Bil said. The man on the other end of the line was Victor Brown, but there was no way in hell either of these two would utter their names aloud, despite the encryption. “We talked for close to a half hour. We’re good.”
“The payment terms acceptable?”
“Hundred thousand now, one-fifty when it’s done. Hold on.”
A customer walked out of Earl’s and headed to a dinged and dusty pickup, not glancing Bil’s way. The Silverado fired up and scattered gravel as it bounded onto the highway.
Another scan of the parking lot, crowded with trucks and cars but empty of people. The club, billed as an “exotic dance emporium,” had been a good choice for the meeting. The clientele tended to focus on the stage, not on serious, furtive discussions going on in a booth in the back.
Another customer left, though he too turned away from Bil and vanished into the shadows.
Bil, of medium build, was in his forties, with trim brown hair and a tanned complexion from hunting and fishing, mostly in a down-and-dirty part of West Virginia. “Bil” had nothing to do with “William.” It was a nickname that originated from where he was stationed in the service, near Biloxi, Mississippi. The moniker was only a problem when he wrote it down, B-I-L, and people wondered where the other L went.
“Just checking the lot,” Bil said. “Clear now.”
Victor: “So the pro’s on board. That was the most important thing. What’re the next steps?”
“The occurrence will be on May six. That’s two months for training, picking the equipment. A vehicle that’ll be helpful. Lotta homework.”
They were deep into euphemism. What equipment meant was rifle and ammunition. What vehicle meant was a car that would be impossible to trace. And occurrence was a laughably tame name for what would happen on that date.
