The Prodigal Hero

by Nancy Butler

  Finch raised his mug and looked at MacHeath tauntingly over the rim as he took a long, deep swallow. Then leaned across the table and picked up MacHeath’s knife.

  “I got my own steel,” he said, “but there’s somethin’ so satisfyin’ about cuttin’ a man with his own knife. Like a dog bitin’ his own master.”

  He knelt down before the chair where MacHeath was trussed, and ran the razor edge of the knife along the bound man’s jaw.

  “Not a pretty face, Mackie, but I do hear the ladies admire it. Must be those strange eyes you got. Well, let’s see if we can’t get them to look somewhere else.”

  He was just raising the blade to his cheek, when MacHeath kicked out, putting all his back into the blow. The toe of his boot landed squarely on the Finch family jewels.

  Finch collapsed instantly onto the floor, in a writhing ball of agony. MacHeath calmly sliced the cord on his right hand with Mr. Featherbridge’s carving knife. He’d positioned it under the leather harness on his forearm, so that an inch of steel jutted out from his shirt cuff. While Finch rolled and bellowed before the hearth, he cut his left hand free and stood up. The big man put up little resistance as MacHeath trussed his wrists and ankles together, thinking to himself that he’d performed this task far too often tonight.

  He then tucked his pistol into his waistcoat and sat down to await Quincy.

  * * *

  Alf Connor let himself in through the front gate of Prescott’s house—which had been left unlocked as promised—and went immediately to stand below Quincy’s bedroom window. He flicked a few pebbles against the glass, and eventually the window shifted open. Alf gave the high sign and watched him recede into the room. Five minutes later, Quincy came tiptoeing out the side door, his cloak over his arm.

  “You best hurry,” Connor whispered. “I don’t know how long Finch can sit there without giving in to the urge to carve Mackie up into little pieces.”

  Quincy went quickly through the gate and headed for the brambly path that led down to the village. He was approaching the towering oak that marked its beginning, when he heard something rustling below him. He put his hand out to warn Connor, and together they waited in the darkness. Someone was coming up the hill—they could hear the ragged breathing over the sighing of the night wind.

  Quincy caught the man from behind as he emerged into the road.

  “Let me go,” Henry cried. “Lord love us, Mr. Quincy, you know me. I work for Mr. Prescott.”

  “What are you doing out so late?”

  “It’s Christmas, sir,” he exclaimed. “Been down to the Mermaid, I have.”

  Quincy released him slowly.

  “What’re you doing out so late, Mr. Quincy? If I can make so bold to ask.”

  “We’re keeping watch on the house ... in case that MacHeath comes back to bother Miss Alexa.”

  Henry pointed to Connor. “He helping you, an’ all?”

  “Yes, he’s one of the men from Reading I told you about. Now, off you go.”

  “Aye.” Henry gave him a wide grin as he turned toward the house, but Alf Connor stepped in front of him. “Wait a minute ... I know you ... I know your voice and I seen those gappy teeth before. You were in Rumpley—you were the lad who told us where to find the livery. Have you been following me, you damned—”

  But Henry didn’t wait to hear anymore. He darted around Alf and sprinted toward the house. The front gate was only yards away ... all he had to do was get inside. Surely they wouldn’t shoot him, not here, not right in front of the—

  Connor’s knife lodged high in his back. He fell forward, one hand still reaching for the gate, scrabbling in the gravel of the road. And then it stopped moving.

  “Drag him into the bushes,” Quincy ordered. “He might not have known anything, but I’m not taking any chances. Not now.”

  * * *

  Quincy and Connor had no notion that anything was amiss at the boardinghouse until they reached the second landing. A white-haired man was passed out against a doorway—a Christmas reveler, no doubt, overcome by an excess consumption of spirits. They were about to brush past him, when Quincy happened to look down. Even though the man’s face was tucked into his muffler and his head was canted against his shoulder, there was something familiar about him. Something too blasted familiar.

  “Get up, William,” he uttered as he prodded him with the toe of his boot. “We’ve already dispatched Henry, so don’t look for him to aid you.”

  William climbed slowly to his feet, his eyes glaring bright in the dim light of the hall. “You festering worm,” he hissed. “They’ll stretch your neck for that.”

  “Phfff.” Quincy shrugged. “And who’s to lay charges against me? You won’t be around to do it, I promise you that. Now, get up the stairs.”

  Connor was unlocking the door to the top-floor room, when he heard a muffled noise from beyond it. “Finch?” he called out. There was no reply.

  Quincy instantly tugged William back against him, and set his pistol against the side of his head. “Go on.” He motioned to Connor. “Open it.”

  The first thing he saw was Bully Finch, bound and gagged on the floor by the fireplace. When he beheld the tall man with a pistol in his hand, his guts clenched.

  “Throw it down,” he growled to MacHeath. “Or William will be the worse for it.”

  “Don’t do it, lad!” the coachman cried. “I’m sorry they caught me ... I should have stayed out in the street. There’s no one to help you now ... they already got to Henry, and I’m a dead man sure.”

  But MacHeath knew he had no choice. He hadn’t counted on them getting their hands on his allies. He’d made no contingency for such a thing.

  With a grim expression tightening his mouth, he tossed his pistol onto the table.

  * * *

  As weary as she was, Alexa could not sleep. She lay on her bed, the hours passing, and still sleep would not come. Her thoughts kept returning to MacHeath, and each time they did, something twisted painfully inside her. It was no use trying to curb her wayward brain—the need she felt was only partly the fault of that usually reliable organ. Most of the yearning came driving up from the pit of her stomach, where it meshed with the aching need in her heart.

  Sweet Lord, she missed him ... his voice, his touch. She missed his wry laugh and the way his dark eyes danced when he teased her. She longed for the comforting scent of him, which was the essence of everything she now craved— driftwood burning in a night fire, heather sprigs trapped in a folded blanket, sea spray sparkling on a cap of dark hair, the pungent smell of horses racing across a field, the heady aroma of claret poured for a newly wedded couple who would never have a wedding night

  She’d grown so accustomed to having him beside her, that his absence left her feeling incomplete and detached from everything. Her conduit to the world was gone ... she was adrift and alone. She tried to convince herself that she would see him again, that he wouldn’t leave without any word of farewell. It never once occurred to her that he might be gone already.

  After five days with the man, she had come to know him as well as anyone she’d ever met. She understood the workings of his mind and the needs that drove him. Which was why she was sure he hadn’t left Cudbright.

  And as reassuring as it was to know he was still close by, it also made her fear for him. It was totally irrational, that fear. Quincy’s men were trussed up in a barn, where they would remain until her father sent his men to release them. Quincy himself was under this very roof. It was possible he could have gone out during the time she was closeted with her father, but he was here now. She’d peeped into his bedroom on the way to her own chamber and had been reassured, by the sibilant sound of his light snores, that he was fast asleep. Dreaming of her vast fortune, no doubt.

  For all she knew, MacHeath was still with Mr. Featherbridge, drinking his fine brandy and watching him write out his sermon for Christmas morning. There was absolutely no reason for her to feel so troubled, and yet she couldn’t sh
ake off the premonition that he was in danger.

  Finally succumbing to her unease, she pulled on a day gown and buttoned Mr. Gable’s wool coat over it. If there was something wicked afoot tonight in Cudbright, she was not going to be blithely lying in her bed while it occurred. She brushed aside her own fears, she’d seen plenty of action this past week, and had become as seasoned as any recruit.

  Furthermore, it was not in her nature to sit back and wait while someone she loved was in danger, real or imagined. MacHeath had come to her rescue often enough, and maybe now she could return the favor.

  She checked Quincy’s room before she went downstairs. This time the bed was empty. A peek into his wardrobe revealed that his cloak was missing. Damn it! How long had he been gone? She felt his pillow with her palm ... and thought it might still be warm. Not too long, she prayed.

  She crept along the hall toward the front door and nearly screamed in alarm when her father stepped out of his study.

  “Something’s wrong, Papa,” she whispered intently. “Quincy’s not in his room.”

  “I was drowsing in my study ... I thought I heard something out in the road.”

  They went out the front door and along to the gate, listening for any strange noises. It was Alexa who heard the groans coming from the bushes across the road.

  Her father pushed aside the bare branches, and then knelt down. “It’s Henry Wilkins, I think. Good Lord, the fellow’s covered with blood.”

  Henry grabbed Prescott’s arm. “Was comin’ to warn you ...” he groaned. “They have MacHeath. Boardinghouse on Fuller Lane, next to the farrier ... top floor, I think ... William’s there waiting ... please ... go.” He lapsed into unconsciousness.

  Alexa ran back to the house to rouse the servants, and watched anxiously as Henry was carried inside. Her father meanwhile, had ordered two horses saddled.

  “I’ve learned it’s better not to leave you out of my sight,” he said as he boosted her into the sidesaddle.

  “I can look after myself,” she declared, patting her coat pocket. “I found a primed pistol in Quincy’s wardrobe.”

  Though the road to the village was more roundabout than the path, they made it into Cudbright in mere minutes, riding at a hard gallop. Alexa knew the boardinghouse Henry had spoken of. It was a rickety old firetrap that the city fathers had been threatening to condemn for years. But she was surprised when her father slowed his horse before the shipyard, reining in beneath the high iron gate.

  “Wait here. I want to alert the night watchmen,” he said. “I suspect we could use a few able-bodied men.”

  She watched him ride onto the grounds, and then turned her own mount toward the boardinghouse. The panicky feeling in her gut was inexorably drawing her there. She dismounted a block from the place, and tied her horse to a railing, before proceeding along the dark cobbled street. She kept on the lookout for William, but if he was anywhere nearby, he did not make himself known to her.

  The only light showing on the facade of the boardinghouse was at the top window. It had to be where they’d taken MacHeath. Quincy was up there with him, she knew it in her bones, and her teeth showed white in a tiny snarl of fury.

  She drifted back into the deep shadows on the opposite side of the lane and muttered a swift prayer that her father would hurry.

  Then her head snapped up, and a tremor ran through her as a fearful, prolonged scream rent the still night air. It rose up and up, a sound of such indescribable agony that she had to cover her ears. No sane person could have made such a bestial noise. It was inconceivable.

  But that scream had a human origin. Her whole body began to shake with sick fear, because she knew instinctively from whose throat it had emerged.

  She had stumbled to the middle of the street, eyes intently focused on the top-floor window, before the last echo of that rending scream had died away.

  She raised her pistol and aimed at the light.

  Connor was already untying Finch when MacHeath relinquished his weapon. The big man came up off the floor and threw himself at MacHeath, forcing him back against the wall, grappling to get ahold of his lethal right hand.

  “You’re mine now, Mackie. I don’t care what Quincy says ...” He caught him by the throat with one huge hand and shook him like a lion savaging a gazelle.

  “Steady, Finch,” Quincy cautioned him. “I believe a little finesse is called for. And, no, I won’t deprive you of your fun. I think you’ve earned it.”

  Finch grabbed a handful of MacHeath’s shirt and flung him toward the chair. “Tie him up again, Alf,” he ordered. “And the old man, too.”

  “No, wait on Hastings,” Quincy said, stepping forward. He handed his pistol to Finch. “Here, keep this trained on him. There’s something I’ve been longing to do.”

  MacHeath steeled himself for the blow, and was perplexed when Quincy merely reached out and took his right hand. “Very nice,” he said as he pried off the tan glove and shaped his fingers around the wooden hand. “Ah, but what’s this. He’s got a knife up his sleeve. How very clever.”

  He removed the weapon, and then tapped it against MacHeath’s chin. “I always win in the end, Hastings. You ought to have learned that by now.”

  “That’s not what I hear back in London,” he drawled. “Your bad luck at cards is legendary.”

  “That’s of no matter now,” he said with a delicate shrug. “I’m to marry my cousin ... and will soon be rolling in the ready.”

  MacHeath’s face darkened. “Prescott wouldn’t give her to you ... he can’t be that bloody blind.”

  But Quincy made no reply. Instead he tightened his hold on the false hand and twisted it. MacHeath bit back his cry of pain as the leather harness dug into his arm.

  “Look at you,” Quincy snarled. “With your fine gloves and your fine sense of honor, pretending to be a gentleman.” He twisted even harder. “But even with this, you’re still a pitiful cripple. You’re not fooling anyone, Hastings.”

  “Leave him alone!” William cried. “For the love of God—”

  Connor smashed his pistol over the old coachman’s head, knocking him back against the fireplace, and then smiled up at the other men.

  Finch was now fairly dancing with frustration. “When’s it to be my turn?”

  “Patience, my friend. I am only stoking the flames a bit for you.” His gaze then drifted to the hearth, where a small fire crackled, and his eyes lit up.

  He turned back to MacHeath. “You should never have crossed me. It was a mistake.” And then he gripped the false hand tightly with both his own hands, and wrenched it right off MacHeath’s arm. The leather straps bit wickedly into his flesh before they snapped, and he staggered almost to his knees.

  “No!” he cried, reaching forward as Quincy flung the wooden hand into the fire. The next instant he was throttling Quincy, the fingers of his left hand digging deep into the skin of his throat.

  “Kill me,” he breathed against his ear. “I don’t care anymore.”

  Finch pulled him off the blond man, and wrestled him down into the chair. “You’ll be dead soon enough,” he said. “Here, Alf. Give me that rope.”

  This time he not only tied MacHeath’s arms to the chair, but his legs as well. And as a precautionary measure, he looped the remaining length of rope around his chest, affixing him to the chair back.

  “You know,” Quincy said, stepping back to observe him, “something occurs to me.”

  Finch spat. “What occurs to me is to carve him up till his own mother wouldn’t recognize him.”

  “That’s too predictable.” His eyes drifted over MacHeath, the hatred in them like a living thing, coiled and vicious and eager to strike. He shifted his head and whispered to Finch. “What would a one-handed man fear losing the most?”

  Finch’s face broke into a wide grin of understanding. He reached down into his boot and drew out his knife. It was a heavier weapon than MacHeath’s blade, made more for dirty work than splicing ships’ lines.

&nb
sp; MacHeath felt the sweat start to bead on his forehead. He knew they were going to kill him ... he’d accepted that the moment he threw down his pistol. But how they were going to do it, and what they were going to do to him beforehand, was making his whole body quake. He wasn’t sure how long his nerve would hold out, and the last thing he wanted was to give Quincy the satisfaction of seeing him squirm.

  Finch knelt down beside the chair. He gripped MacHeath’s left hand and laid the blade against the top of his wrist, pressing down hard enough to draw a thin line of blood. MacHeath’s heart surged up into his throat and his insides went liquid, when he realized what Finch intended.

  “Beg me,” Finch crooned. “Beg me not to do it, Mackie.”

  He increased the pressure, and MacHeath felt the blade slice into his flesh. He shut his eyes and willed himself not to cry out. They’d be doing him a favor, he realized, if they killed him after this. He’d have no desire to live with both hands gone. It was too hellish to contemplate.

  “You’ll never touch her again,” Quincy whispered silkily from beside him. “Never feel her skin beneath your fingers, never caress her face. Christ, do you think she’d even look at you after this, except to feel revulsion?”

  The scream rose up from inside him and would not be denied. All the pain and all the loss he’d experienced in the past ten years came roaring out of him. Agony and loneliness and desolation all mingled together in that piercing sound. The two men beside him actually reeled back, and Connor fell against the hearth.

  Quincy recovered first. “Do it!” he cried, his face twisted into a maniacal rictus.

  Finch raised the knife in a hatcheting motion, his elbow cocked.

  The next instant a pistol shot shattered the front window. Glass flew into the room as though it had exploded from a cannon. The three men who were not bound immediately ducked for cover, Connor beneath the table, and Quincy and Finch scrambling to get under the bed. They all cowered, unmoving, awaiting the next salvo.

  MacHeath slewed the chair closer to the window. “Come quickly!” he shouted in his carrying, quarterdeck voice.

  There was the sound of hurried footsteps on the stairs, and then the door cracked open. “On the table,” MacHeath called out. Alexa flung the door wide, ran in, and snatched up the pistol he’d thrown down earlier. She kicked Connor square in the chest when he tried to grab at her skirts.