Mister Slaughter (54 page)

Lillehorne hurried to catch up with him, while Nack brought up the rear. "Corbett!
Corbett
!" Lillehorne said, as he got up beside Matthew. "I'll hear the details from you! This
minute
!"

Where to begin? Matthew wondered as he walked. If Greathouse had already related the incidents leading up to the exploding safebox, that was to the good. He could pick up the story with Walker, he thought. Of course, sooner or later he was going to run into the part about Mrs. Sutch, and he wasn't sure Lillehorne was ready for that. Certainly it was not something Nack needed to hear, and then go flapping his red rag about town.

He wondered what they would think of Tom's story. That, to him, was the most amazing part.

Tom had spent about eight hours at the house of the Reverend Edward Jennings and his wife in Belvedere. When he had slept enough to get some strength back, he had simply gotten up in the dark just past midnight and gone out the door. He had reasoned that Slaughter was following the road south to Caulder's Crossing, which he himself had passed along on his journey north. Nothing in the world mattered so much as finding that man and killing him, and in the cold resolve of Tom's voice Matthew felt as if Slaughter had come to stand for many tragedies in the boy's life, or maybe Evil itself. In any case, Tom was bound to follow Slaughter no matter how far the killer travelled or how long it took, and so he'd left Belvedere on the same route that Matthew and Walker had followed.

Not knowing about Slaughter's attempt to steal a horse and his subsequent jaunt through the woods, Tom had kept to the road. Just before dawn he'd slept about two more hours, but he'd never needed much sleep anyway. Then, further on and as the day progressed, he'd sighted tracks coming out of the forest. One traveller wearing boots, two wearing moccasins.

They led him to a house he'd stopped at before, on his journey north. Where the family had been kind to him, and fed both him and James. Where the girl named Lark was so very pretty, and so kind as well, and where the boy, Aaron, had shown him a bright variety of colored marbles in a small white clay jar. He and Aaron had spent more than an hour shooting marbles, and it had amazed Tom that there was still a boy to be found somewhere inside him, because by this time he'd already killed a man in self defense down in the Virginia colony.

He had gone into the house, he'd told Matthew. He had not shed a tear, he'd said, since his father had died; he was done crying, he'd said. But these murders, of these innocent and kind people, had shaken him to his soul. Of course he knew who'd done it. And he'd found himself looking at Aaron's marbles scattered across the table, and picking up four or five in his hand, and thinking that if he ever needed anything to keep him going, to push him on when he was tired or hurting or hungry, all he had to do was touch these in his pocket and think of that day a good family had let him be young again.

But he was not young anymore.

He had taken some food from the kitchen table and a knife from a drawer. He didn't think they would mind. He had found the broken boards in the back of the barn. Had found the tracks going up the hill. Had followed four travellers who were following one, deeper into the forest. But he was still weak, he'd told Matthew. Still in pain from his injuries. He was going to kill Slaughter, yes, and he didn't want Matthew or Walker to stop him, or stand in his way. That would be a problem. He figured he was going to have one chance to kill Slaughter. Just one. He would know it when it came.

Gunshots and shouts in the night had given him direction. The next morning he'd sighted Matthew and Walker on the trail, had seen that the Indian was badly hurt, and had ducked down when he knew Walker had gotten a glimpse of him.

There was nothing he could have done at the ravine, where Matthew went over the fallen tree. Tom had watched Lark and her mother jump, but he had also seen the arrow go into Slaughter. Then, at the watermill, Tom had seen Slaughter getting the better of Matthew, had seen Matthew's face about to go into the gears, and the only thing he could do to help was to throw a handful of marbles. He'd hidden when Slaughter had gone rampaging through the woods, and had thought Matthew was swept over the waterfall.

Tom had followed Slaughter into Hoornbeck, had watched him come out of the doctor's house freshly-stitched and go to the Peartree Inn. Tom had hidden all night where he could see the place, and waited for Slaughter to emerge. Early in the morning, Slaughter had come out with another man carrying some boxes, set them in the back of a wagon and headed off. Tom had had to find a horse to steal, in a hurry.

Not far from Philadelphia, Tom had pulled his horse off the road as he'd watched the wagon pull off ahead. Slaughter and the other man sat talking, and then they had gotten down and Slaughter had clapped him on the back as they'd walked into the woods on the side of the road. In a few minutes, Slaughter had returned, climbed up on the wagon and continued on his way alone. Tom had found the corpse in the brush, the throat cut, and had also discovered a few coins in the dead man's pocket, enough to buy him food and drink for the next few days if he couldn't beg or steal anything.

In time, Tom had shadowed Slaughter to a hog farm north of a town called Nicholsburg. He was amazed there to see Matthew appear, and creep into the cellar. The hulking man who had brought a coffin in the back of his wagon and hauled a dead body out of it was clearly up to no good. Matthew hadn't come back out, but it appeared no one had found him yet because the coffin-robber emerged lugging a damp and nasty-looking bag just as easy as you please. So Tom figured the pickaxe in the back of the wagon could be put to some use, and Matthew would have a chance to do whatever he was doing and get out with his skin on.

Slaughter had ridden away. Tom had followed, still waiting for his one chance to strike.

A black suit. A black horse. A black night. Tom had lost Slaughter at a crossroads. Had gone a distance in all directions, but the man was gone. Not
lost
, but gone.

"You came back and decided to follow
me
? All that way?" Matthew had asked. "
Why
?"

"'Cause," Tom had answered, with a shrug. "I knew that if you were alive, you'd keep tryin'."

Now, as Lillehorne and Nack followed Matthew to the wagon, Matthew said, "I'll tell you the whole story later. I want to talk to Hudson first."

"Well then, who's
this
?" They had reached the wagon, and Lillehorne was motioning at Tom. "I send you after a killer and you bring back a
boy
?"

"Tom helped me. I couldn't have done it without him."

"Oh, I'm sure," Lillehorne sneered. "Tom
who
?"

"Bond," said the boy.

"Where are your parents?"

"Got a grandpa in Aberdeen."

"No one else?" He waited, but Tom just gave him a blank stare. "What are we supposed to do with him?" Lillehorne asked Matthew. "Add him to the orphanage roll?"

"No, sir," Tom said. "Not an orphanage." He climbed down and took his duffel bag from the back. "Say you found the next ship leavin' for England?"

"Put your bag down," Matthew told him. "We've come a long way. There's no hurry for that."

"Got a long way yet to go," Tom answered. "You know I'm one to keep movin'."

"I should say so." Matthew thought he ought to try again, since he wanted to at least buy Tom a good meal at the Trot and introduce him to the regulars there, but he knew it would be a waste of breath. When this boy made up his mind to do something, it was done. "Wharf nine. The
Golden Eye
, leaving on the next tide. I hope you don't mind that Slaughter's boots are lying on the deck." He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat for some of the money Powers had given him. "Here. I want you to—"

"No charity," Tom interrupted. "I'll work my way over, if they're hirin'." He aimed his intense gray eyes along the row of masted vessels, and he gave the faintest hint of a smile as if he sensed the opportunity for a grand adventure. "Figure I ought to learn somethin' about ships, anyway." He held out his hand. "So long."

Matthew shook it. The boy's grip was as hard as his grit. "Good luck."

Tom swung the duffel bag over his shoulder and moved on. True to his nature, he never looked back.

The truth," said Greathouse, as he ruminated over his third cup of wine, "is that we failed." He frowned, rethinking his statement. "No," he amended. "
I
failed. As the one with the most experience—I won't say the most
sense
—I should have known he was going to try something. I just didn't know . . . it was going to be so effective." He took another drink, and then he grinned across the table at Matthew. "Did I tell you they named me Gray Wolf?"

"Several times." At this point in the evening, Matthew could not bring himself to tell his supper companion that he'd already known it.

"Well then, there you are," Greathouse said, though Matthew wasn't exactly sure where they were in this conversation. One minute they were talking about Slaughter, the next about the great one's experiences in the Seneca village. It seemed to Matthew as if Greathouse had actually enjoyed his time there, once it was sure he'd returned from the wilderness beyond.

They were sitting in the Trot Then Gallop, on Crown Street. This being Matthew's first night back, his meal and drinks were on the house courtesy of the tavernmaster, Felix Sudbury. Many people had come forward to wish him welcome home, including Effrem Owles and his father Benjamin, Solomon Tully, Robert Deverick and Israel Brandier. Matthew had been polite, but firm in his refusal to say anything more than that the criminal he and Greathouse had been sent after was dead. Case closed.
Savin' it for the
Earwig
, huh
? Israel had asked, but Matthew said there would be no more of those outlandish tales in Marmaduke's broadsheet and he offered to vow on a Bible if they didn't believe him.

As the night progressed, the interest in knowing Matthew's business waned, since he remained steadfastly not talking, and the other patrons drifted away from him to their own concerns. Matthew had noted, however, that he'd gotten some sidelong glances from people who thought they had known him very well up to this evening, and perhaps were wondering what had changed about him in his month's journey.

One thing different, among many, was that he now believed in ghosts more than ever, since he'd seen both Walker In Two Worlds and Lark Lindsay on the street this afternoon. Several times, in fact.

Even now, as he sat with Greathouse and drank his own third cup of wine, he was sure someone was sitting at the table behind him and to his right. If he turned his head just a fraction he could make out from the corner of his eye an Indian with black facepaint and an arrangement of feathers dyed dark green and indigo tied to his scalplock with leather cords. Of course when he looked fully in that direction Walker was not there, but now in the corner of his other eye a lovely, serene blonde girl was standing over by the table where Effrem Owles and Robert Deverick were playing chess.

He had brought them back with him, he thought. How long they wished to stay—how long they
would
stay—he didn't know. But they were friends of his, just as much as any of the others, and they were welcome.

"What do you keep looking at?" Greathouse asked.

"Shadows," Matthew said, and let it go at that.

When he had gone to the Grigsby house today, after Tom had boarded the
Golden Eye
, Matthew had knocked at the door and Berry had answered it. They had just stared at each other for a few seconds, he taking her in like sunlight after thinking he would likely die in the dark, and she seemingly frozen with his name on her lips. And then just as she'd cried out, "Matthew!" and reached for him her grandfather had let forth a bellow from behind her and shouldered her aside to throw his arms around Matthew in a crushing embrace.

"My boy! My boy!" Marmaduke had shouted, his large blue eyes ashine in the frames of his spectacles and his heavy white eyebrows twitching on the moon-round face. "We feared you were
dead
! Good God, boy! Come in here and tell us the whole
story
!"

The whole story was what Matthew was determined not to tell, even as Marmaduke pushed a platter of honey-drizzled biscuits and a mug of mimbo upon him at the kitchen table. Berry sat beside him, very close, and Matthew could not help but notice and be gratified by the fact that she kept placing her hand upon his arm or shoulder and rubbing there as if to make certain he was real and would not fade away like a dream upon awakening.

"Tell! Tell!" Marmy insisted, as his right hand seemed to grip an invisible quill and prepared to scribe upon the table.

"No," Matthew had said, after he'd eaten two of the biscuits and put down half the sugared rum. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

"But you
must
! Your readers are clamoring!"

"My business depends on privacy. There'll be no more of those stories."

"Nonsense! I've
made
you into a celebrity!"

"The price for that is too high," Matthew had answered. "From now on, I'm just an ordinary fellow who works for a living."

Marmaduke had snatched away the platter of biscuits, but then he'd seemed to take note of Berry's hand upon Matthew's arm. He'd pushed the biscuits forward again, and sighed. "Ah, well. I'm running low on ink, anyway.
But
"—and
here he'd lifted a finger of triumph—"there's yet the tale of Gray Wolf to be told, isn't there?"

Matthew had shrugged. If Greathouse wanted to go down that particularly twisty road, it was his own horse-and-wagon. More like ass-and-cart, to be truthful.

Berry had put on a yellow cloak and walked with Matthew for a while, north along the waterfront. He didn't speak and she didn't speak for the longest time, as the breeze blew about them and the sunlight shimmered off the river. He stopped for a few minutes to watch a ship, its sails unfurled, gliding toward the blue expanse of the sea past Oyster Island, and then he turned away.