Hannibal Rising tt-340

by Jon Sharpe

  “If I had I wouldn’t be sitting here,” Tom said. “I’d be claiming what is rightfully mine.”

  “To you it is everything, yes?”

  “Of course. We’re talking millions of dollars.” Tom swore. “And you called me a fool.”

  “You are a family of fools,” the assassin said. “There is enough money for all of you. You could have agreed to work together to find the chest and divide the money between you. But no. In your greed each of you thought to be the only one to inherit.” The young man shook his head. “Such a waste.”

  “Who the hell are you to judge us? You kill for a living, for God’s sake.”

  “Oui. An honorable profession, despite what you might think.”

  Sam said, “Where is the honor in killing?”

  “The honor is in how it is done. My sister and I are well respected in our small fraternity for always fulfilling the terms of a contract.”

  “When I get my hands on Roland,” Tom said.

  The assassin glanced into the trees. He took a gold pocket watch from a pocket and opened it and checked the time. Closing the watch, he put it back. Then he pointed the Remington at the ground and fired twice.

  “What on Earth?” Samantha blurted.

  “It’s a signal,” Fargo said.

  The assassin nodded. “Oui. You are as smart as you are fast. I wonder. You have it figured out by now, do you not?”

  “I reckon I’m not as smart as you think,” Fargo said dryly.

  The young man smiled. “It is diabolical. I would not have thought of such a thing but then I have too much honor.”

  “There you go again,” Tom scoffed. “You and your honor. You don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  “Were that true, you despicable wretch, you would already be dead.”

  Tom started to respond but the young killer motioned with the Remington and said, “I have listened to enough. You will keep your mouth shut until they get here.”

  “May I ask you a question?” Sam politely inquired.

  “Oui.”

  “Was it you or your sister who shot my brother Emmett?”

  “The youngest one? Neither of us. It was the man called Anders.”

  “And my other brother, Charles? Was it your sister who cut him to ribbons?”

  “My sister. She likes to work with knives. She likes to cut and see the blood.”

  “My cousin Amanda? And my sister Charlotte? Who murdered them?”

  “They were my kills.”

  “You feel no remorse?”

  “For me it is a job. I have no feelings one way or the other. I kill and I am paid and that is all there is.”

  “God,” Samantha said.

  “How can you believe after all that has happened?” the young man asked her. “Be mature. There is no Dieu, no God. It is a fiction told children so they will not be scared of the dark.”

  “You’re a monster.”

  “I have been called that before. I take it as a compliment. I would rather see life for what it is than live as another of the sheep.”

  “You have a low opinion of your fellow man.”

  “It could not be lower,” the young assassin said.

  “What happened to make you this way? Surely there must be a shred of decency somewhere deep inside of you?”

  “You are a silly woman.”

  Tom said, “How much are you and your sister being paid?”

  “I told you not to talk.”

  “Hear me out on this. It will be worth your while.” Tom leaned toward him. “Whatever you’re being paid to kill us, I’ll pay you double not to. Hell, I’ll pay you triple.”

  “Where would you get the money? It is my understanding you have very little of your own.”

  “When I win the inheritance—”

  The young man cut him off with a short bark of annoyance. “What of your sister and your other brother? What if they win?”

  “That’s simple,” Tom said. “You and your sister will watch over them for me while I hunt for the chest. What do you say?”

  “I say you are a pig.”

  Tom colored and balled his fists but he had the presence of mind not to do anything.

  “How could you, Tom?” Sam asked.

  “Go to hell.”

  The undergrowth cracked and snapped and Theodore Pickleman appeared. He was holding his valise and muttering to himself.

  Fargo went to shout a warning but Samantha beat him to it.

  “Theodore! Run! This is one of the killers!”

  The lawyer stopped and looked up as if in alarm. He stared at them and then at the young assassin and then he did the last thing Fargo expected: he smiled. “I see you have matters well in hand, Jacques.”

  “Oui,” the young man said.

  “You are proving to be worth every dollar.”

  “What the hell?” Tom Clyborn blurted.

  “You always were the slow one,” Pickleman said. He walked around them and stood next to Jacques. “It is turning out better than I dared hope.”

  “Ou est ma soeur?”

  “Eh? Your sister? Julienne is taking care of the other one.” Pickleman placed the valise on the ground and beamed at Samantha and Tom. “My French is rusty but I get by.”

  Samantha’s eyes were as wide as walnuts. “Not you.”

  “Yes, me,” the lawyer said. “From the very beginning. I must admit it has been exhilarating.”

  “What do you hope to gain?”

  Pickleman sighed. “Weren’t any of you paying attention when I read the terms of the will? If none of you find the chest, then none of you inherit. All of your father’s money and vast holdings are to be administered to benefit the poor and the needy.”

  “I remember that, yes. What about it?”

  Pickleman rocked on his heels and chuckled in glee. “Who do you think does the administering?”

  “Oh God,” Sam said.

  Tom was looking from her to the attorney and back again. “Oh God what? What is this all about?”

  Pickleman answered him. “What it has always been about. Money. Millions and millions of dollars. Millions I will get to do with as I see fit.”

  Tom couldn’t hide his bewilderment. “What are you talking about? If we don’t get the money it’s supposed to go to the poor.”

  “Try and follow me on this,” the lawyer said with the air of an elder to a ten-year-old. “In the event that none of his children found the chest, your father appointed me executor of his estate in perpetuity. Yes, he stipulates in the will that the money is to go to the poor but I get to decide who exactly they are. You see, your father didn’t care about that aspect. He never really expected it to come to that, I imagine.”

  “Wait,” Tom said. “You’re saying that you take over everything ?”

  “Congratulations. You’re finally getting it.”

  “That can’t be. There must be laws against it.”

  “Honestly, Thomas. How you manage to get dressed without help is beyond me? Certainly, there are laws. But I’m a lawyer. I wrote up the will for your father. Every clause, every word, in such a way that after I’ve disposed of all of you, your father’s estate and bank accounts become mine to do with as I please.”

  “It won’t work. Someone will catch on.”

  “Who? The sheriff? The marshal? What cause would they have to suspect me? I assure you that the will is entirely and thoroughly legal. Not that your father read every word. He trusted me, and he could never be bothered to read a document all the way through. So I managed to slip in a few clauses he wasn’t aware of.” Pickleman laughed.

  “But it has to go to charity,” Tom persisted.

  “Oh, and some of it will. To charities I set up under the table, as it were. Your mansion will become a charitable asset, and as such, mine to live in while I administer the estate.” Pickleman rubbed his hands together. “Yes, sir. If I draw it out, I figure it will take a good forty to fifty years to do the administering.”


  “You son of a bitch.”

  “Now, now. Keep a civil tongue or I’ll have Jacques, here, cut it out. He would, you know. He’ll do anything I ask of him. Isn’t that right, Jacques?”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  Fargo had listened to enough. “There are a few things I’m cloudy on yet,” he admitted.

  “Such as?” Pickleman said.

  “Why did Jacques and his sister jump me that night on the Yancy?”

  “Why else? I knew Sam had sent for you and I didn’t want to run the risk of you finding the chest before I disposed of the heirs. I could have had them killed before this, I suppose, but the hunt was a perfect pretext. I’ll say that Tom was to blame, that in his greed and his rage he murdered the others.”

  “Damn you,” Tom snarled, and coiled to throw himself at the attorney.

  “Don’t,” Sam said, restraining him. “You’ll be dead before you take a step.”

  Fargo wasn’t done. “Then if you hired these two, who hired Cletus Brun and Anders?”

  “I hired Brun,” Tom said. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Actually,” Pickleman said, “if you’ll recall, I was the one who recommended Brun to you. All the time he was working for me. I hired him and Anders, both.”

  “What?” Samantha and Tom said at the same time.

  They weren’t the only ones taken aback by the news. Jacques stiffened and said, “Did I just hear right? You hired my sister and me andyou hired those two clods?”

  “As insurance, you might say,” Pickleman said. “In case you and your sister failed.”

  “We never fail.”

  “So I was told but I couldn’t take the risk. I hired you and I hired them but I never told either of you about the other.” Pickleman thought that was humorous. “It never occurred to me that you and your sister might catch on to them and kill them, thinking they worked for one of the Clyborns.”

  Sam said, “I was wrong about your assassin being a monster. You’re the monster here, Theodore. You betrayed our father. You’re out to destroy the rest of us. You are a vile, mean, petty little man who hid his true nature from us all these years with false smiles and false friendship.”

  “Oh, please. I was a whipping boy, good for running errands and attending to legal matters and nothing more.”

  “We’ve treated you like one of the family ever since I can remember.”

  “The family dog, perhaps.” Pickleman gestured at Jacques. “Enough of this. None of them found the chest so I have no further need of them. Do as I’m paying you to do and finish them off.”

  “Do you have a preference as to the order?”

  “Eh? No. Just kill them and be done with it.”

  “As you wish, monsieur.”

  20

  The whole time they were talking, Fargo had slowly placed his hands flat on the ground. He dug the fingers of his right hand into the soil, uprooting a clod of dirt. It wasn’t much but it was all he had and he would be damned if he was going to go down without a fight.

  Jacques was taking aim at Samantha but glanced up at a sudden racket in the undergrowth.

  Roland Clyborn stumbled into the open. He had been pushed from behind and was pushed again.

  “Keep moving, monsieur,” Julienne commanded. She saw her brother and smiled and nodded and Jacques smiled in return.

  Roland fell to his knees. He had taken a fierce beating. His right eye was swollen nearly shut, his nose was broken and bleeding, his mouth dripped blood and his face was marked black-and-blue. From the way he was holding his arm, it was either sprained or broken. Pain etched his face as he looked at Theodore Pickleman and said simply, “Traitor.”

  The lawyer was momentarily dumbfounded. Sputtering, he croaked, “What is the meaning of this, Julienne? You were to have killed him by now while your brother attended to these others.”

  “Oui,” the sister said. She had a low, melodious voice that under other circumstances would have stirred Fargo where he most liked to be stirred. “I intended to kill him, monsieur.”

  “What stopped you?”

  Roland Clyborn managed to smile through his pulped lips. “Me. I said the magic words.”

  Theodore angrily shook a finger at him. “What are you prattling about? There’s nothing you could say that would keep you alive.”

  “I found the chest.”

  The lawyer stiffened. “What’s that?”

  “You heard me, you bastard. I found the chest with the last page of Father’s will.”

  “Where is it? I don’t see it on you.” Pickleman glanced at Julienne. “Do you have it?”

  “Non, monsieur.”

  “Then where the hell is it?”

  Julienne shrugged. “He didn’t have it with him.”

  “Then he’s lying,” Pickleman practically shouted. “He tricked you into sparing him so you would bring him to me, you stupid sow.”

  Jacques turned and placed the muzzle of his Remington against the lawyer’s head. “Have a care, monsieur. You will talk to my sister with respect or, employer or no, I will splatter your brains.”

  “Jacques, no,” Julienne said. “He has a right to be mad if I have been made a fool of.”

  Jacques slowly lowered the Remington. “Very well. But he must watch his words. No man insults you while I still breathe.”

  Fargo had glanced at Roland and Roland at him. They understood each other without having to say anything. Fargo nodded, and Roland nodded, and Fargo tensed for what he had to do.

  Pickleman was saying, “It doesn’t matter if he did find the chest. So long as no one else knows we can carry on with my original plan. You’ll kill them, I’ll blame their deaths on Tom, and become executor of their father’s estate. It’s simple as can be.”

  “Except for one thing,” Roland said.

  “What would that be?”

  “I took the chest to the hunting lodge and turned it over to Jarvis and the other servants for safekeeping.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “You would like to think so, wouldn’t you? But if you have us murdered now, you face the gallows.”

  “To the contrary,” Pickleman said. “You’ve just made my alibi foolproof. I’ll say that Tom went berserk when you told him you dug up the chest. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing the inheritance and snapped. It’s perfect.”

  Tom had been quiet but now he pushed to his feet and furiously declared, “You rotten scum.”

  “Shoot him,” Pickleman said to Jacques.

  The brother started to raise his revolver.

  Fargo couldn’t hold off any longer. He exploded up off the ground and flung the dirt in Jacques’s face. Jacques instinctively ducked and sidestepped and swung the Remington toward him. Fargo sidestepped, too, as the six-gun went off. He dived, hitting Jacques low in the legs and bringing him down. He grabbed Jacques’s wrist and Jacques grabbed his, and they grappled.

  Pickleman was screeching for Jacques to kill him and for Julienne to help. Only Julienne couldn’t.

  Out of the corner of his eye Fargo glimpsed her on the ground, struggling with Roland. Despite his wounds, Roland had tackled her. He was trying to pin her and received a jolting blow to the jaw.

  “Hang on!” Tom cried, and leaped to help his brother.

  Fargo winced as a knee caught him high on his leg. It had missed his groin by inches. He returned the favor and Jacques grunted but his grip didn’t weaken.

  Hissing, the young assassin bared his teeth. “I have wanted a rematch with you.”

  Jacques drove his forehead against Fargo’s chin.

  The world burst into fragments of swirling colors. Fargo lost his hold. A blow to his chest knocked him onto his side. His vision cleared, and he saw Jacques already rising and the revolver being pointed at him. He was about to die and there was nothing he could do.

  That was when Theodore Pickleman darted in and grabbed Jacques by the arm. “Kill them!” he shrieked. “You must kill them, do you hea
r?”

  “Let go, you fool!” Jacques threw him off .

  By then Fargo was up. He seized Jacques by the wrist just as the revolver went off and the lead dug a furrow in the earth. Pivoting, Fargo heaved and threw his foot out. Jacques’s legs and head switched places and Jacques’s arm gave a terrific wrench and a snap.

  Jacques screamed.

  “Brother!” Julienne cried.

  Fargo glimpsed her battling Roland and Tom. She had lost her pistol and had a knife in each hand. It was two against one but Fargo knew they were no match for her. He had to help, only he wasn’t give the chance.

  Jacques came up off the ground with a knife of his own. He stabbed at Fargo’s chest and Fargo twisted aside. Jacques came after him, cutting, slashing, trying to bring Fargo down.

  Samantha called out Tom’s name in horror.

  Fargo glanced over. Tom was down, crimson misting from a wound in his side. Now only Roland prevented the sister from coming to the aid of her brother, and Roland wouldn’t last long alone.

  A grim grin curled Jacques’s mouth. His next several swings were intended to keep Fargo at bay until Julienne could spring to his side.

  Jacques had dropped the Remington when Fargo broke his arm, and apparently forgotten about it. Fargo hadn’t. There it was, almost at his feet. He kicked at Jacques, forcing Jacques back, and dropped to his knee.

  “Non!”

  Jacques had seen the revolver.

  Fargo scooped it up. The grips molded to his palm and he thumbed back the hammer.

  Jacques raised the knife to slash.

  Fargo fired as Jacques leaped at him, fired as Jacques twisted to the impact, fired as Jacques sought to sink the knife in his neck, fired as Jacques swayed and fired as Jacques tottered and fired the last cartridge in the cylinder into Jacques’s forehead.

  “Noooooo!”

  The wail was torn from Julienne. Roland was down, and she started toward Fargo, blood dripping from both her knives.

  Fargo whirled, the Remington held low. He figured she hadn’t counted the shots because she spun and bolted into the trees. He didn’t hesitate. He went after her.

  Samantha shouted his name but Fargo didn’t slow. Julienne wasn’t the kind to forgive and forget. If he didn’t catch her here and now, if he didn’t end it, she would come after him later and exact her vengeance at a time and place of her choosing.