Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter mc-3

by Robert R. McCammon

  "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 ho
ld 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 the joy of looking up my arsehole for you. 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.

  PART THREE: Time Stops for the

  Englishman

  Fourteen

  Matthew had hold of Greathouse's cloak. He refused to let go. His feet searched for a place on the wall behind and below him where a half-inch of protruding rock might give him some support, but he found what felt only like slippery moss. In spite of that, he pulled Greathouse's face up out of the water.

  "That may be so," Matthew said, answering the man's last comment, "but there's something left of me."

  "Do tell," followed the response, and when Greathouse let out an explosive cough the blood flew into Matthew's face.

  "Get your cloak off. It's dragging you down."

  Greathouse's face again started to submerge. When the water reached the man's nostrils, Matthew grasped his hair and yanked his head back.

  "Keep your chin up." Matthew realized it sounded absolutely stupid, but so be it. "Feel around behind you, try to find a place to put your feet."

  "One thing at a time. Damn it. Bastard " He shook his head, unable to finish the thought. Matthew could feel the man's legs moving underwater, though, so even in Greathouse's anguish and shock he was making the effort to live. So much so that an elbow came up from the water and hit Matthew in the jaw, almost closing the book on his own efforts. When the stars had dissolved, he heard Greathouse say, "Something here. Got my. Right heel wedged in."

  It was all Matthew could hope for. He went about getting the cloak off Greathouse, and then pushed it aside. They were in close quarters. The rope floated about them, like a serpent's coils. Matthew took off his own cloak, sinking into the cold embrace of the well before he was free of it. His burgundy-red coat came off next, for that too was a drag on him, but he retained the waistcoat if only for its warmth. And now he was aware of his boots weighing him down. His new damned boots, only so recently delivered. Tears of anger blinded him. It wasn't fair, to buy new boots and then have to let them drop into the murk of a backwoods well!

  Steady, he told himself. What he'd thought was anger had taken a turn toward panic. He looked up, at the peaked roof above. Twenty feet to the top of the well. At least twenty. He was getting truly cold now, and starting to shiver.

  Greathouse coughed again. He put a hand to his mouth and then blinked heavily as he took account of the red smear. "Got me good," he croaked. "Matthew listen "

  "No time. Save your breath." He was treading water with arms and legs, having to put forth a rea
l effort, and he feared that if Greathouse fell off the slim ledge of rock that held his right heel, the man would go down for the last time.

  "Said I " Greathouse stopped, swallowed blood, and tried again. In the dim light that fell from above, his face was ghastly gray. His eyes were tortured slits. "Said I could handle him. I was wrong. Sorry."

  Matthew had no idea how to respond, for he was himself close to begging Greathouse's forgiveness. All that could wait, he decided in the next few seconds. He had to get his boots off before they drowned him. He curled himself underwater, struggled with one of the blasted impediments, freed his foot, and then had to come up for a breath. Then he repeated the ordeal, and thought that by the time he'd finished it would have been wiser to leave them on.

  Greathouse's face was still above water, his arms splayed out to either side, fingers grasping rock wherever they could find a purchase. His eyes were closed, his breathing precarious.

  Matthew peered upward again. God, it was a long way! If he was going to do something, it had to be soon, for his strength, his very lifeforce and will to live, was staggering away from him like a sick horse.

  With no warning, Greathouse suddenly fell from his precipice and the water closed over his head. At once Matthew had grasped his coat and was trying to pull him back up again, and this time was helped by the man himself, who kicked and splashed and reached and scratched for a fingerhold on the wall. At last Greathouse was still, having secured a hold on the edges of two rocks that barely jutted forward enough for the balance of a worm.

  Matthew once more took stock of the well, and the distance up. The shovel, he thought. Sunk to the bottom. Depending on how deep the well, might he find it?

  "I'm going under," Matthew said, and added, "On purpose. Don't let go."

  Greathouse didn't answer, but he was shivering from either the effort, the cold, or both. Matthew took a breath and then exhaled it, the better to sink the faster. He pushed himself underwater, feet first, cupping his hands and stroking toward the bottom. There was no need to keep his eyes open, for everything was black. He felt about, searching left and right, also striking out with his legs. Deeper still he went. Suddenly his stockinged feet touched stones. His search became frantic, as his lungs were starting to convulse for air. He feared he couldn't surface and have enough energy left to repeat this descent.