by Mark J Rose
Matt used the moment to sip at his scotch, but he barely took any into his mouth, not wanting to cloud his brain.
“I was once obsessed with weapons,” Ferguson explained. “A nuclear weapon is destructive, but its real power is as a deterrent. Right now, you could use nuclear weapons all over the world, and not one British enemy would give a whit. Until you can photograph the devastation, such a weapon is inconsequential. Even the most warlike societies want more from conflict than destruction.”
“A stick of dynamite could be pretty useful.”
“We’ve done the experiments,” Ferguson explained. “The tribulations of the dynamite people are well documented. You’d be expected to blow yourself up a few times before perfecting nitrocellulose-based explosives.”
“You’ve made smokeless powder.”
“You were able to discern that by my cannon?”
“Residue with no corrosion.”
“I’m an engineer,” Ferguson explained. “The cracked metal would have been my first clue. That’s the finest cannon they make, and we were only able to fire it three times before it shattered. Smokeless powder is fine, but until the metal technology catches up, well . . .”
Matt looked hard at Ferguson across the table. “I’m enjoying our lively conversation; I am. Why am I here?”
“The evidence against you is overwhelming,” Ferguson replied.
Chapter 63
Walk This Way
Matt Miller and Patrick Ferguson had not moved from their table in the shuttered, electric-lit room in the middle of Ferguson’s warehouse. Matt remained unsure of the motivations of the opponent who sat across from him. Ferguson had gone uncomfortably quiet and seemed more interested in studying his glass. Matt grew impatient for them to reach an end to their impasse. “Do you know Brian Palmer?” Matt asked.
“Who?”
“The man who set off the explosion in the opera house.”
Ferguson’s eyes flashed from calm to fire, but then Matt saw him consciously push the anger from his face.
“Did you break me out of prison?” Matt asked.
Ferguson didn’t acknowledge Matt’s question but instead studied Matt as if he was observing an animal in a lab experiment.
“You still think I killed your wife,” Matt said.
“I believe I was your target,” Ferguson replied.
Matt tried to read the man, but there was nothing else. The contempt that carried in Ferguson’s voice was raw and unburdened by any sort of intrigue. This was true rancor, and it told Matt all he needed to know. “Have you had contact with anyone from the future?”
“The Morris women. You.”
“His name’s Dr. Brian Palmer,” Matt said. “Someone broke me out of jail tonight. They left me on a dock with instructions to come here. I’ll ask again, how did you know I was coming?”
“I learned that Franklin was agitating riots along the Pool and hired people to break you out of Bow Street. I knew someone was coming here tonight, though I’m surprised you came alone.”
“Why would he agitate riots at the docks?”
“He’s the consummate patriot, is he not? Author of the Declaration of Independence? He’ll do anything for his revolution.”
“He’ll do whatever he can to remain British.”
Ferguson drank the last of the scotch in his glass and walked over to pour himself another. Still working on his first, Matt took another sip. He’d already drunk more than he wanted. It came to him as he was watching Ferguson pour that he should go on the offensive. “William Maynard is dead, and I’m sure that you had something to do with it.”
Ferguson shrugged. “Ah…that,” he replied. There was a tired and disappointed tone in his voice. “An unfortunate misunderstanding that was not to be repeated.”
“He’s on your list.”
“It’s not an assassin’s list.” Ferguson was quiet as he replaced the stopper in the decanter. When he turned, his expression was enough to destroy any sense of rapport. “Come,” he said, “I’ll show you the rest of the building. You’ll be impressed with the artifacts I’ve collected.”
“Artifacts?”
“Of historical significance. We have a unique perspective, you and I. Many masterpieces are available at a reasonable price. There are paintings you may enjoy and a few sculptures. I hear you’re a religious man.” There was humor in his voice at the last comment.
“Depends what you mean by religious,” Matt replied. “Why would you collect religious art?”
“Nothing has inspired or enslaved men like religion. I find the phenomenon fascinating. Plus, the best artists are working for the church.”
“Opiate of the masses?”
“I am not fascinated at all by Marx. We all know how badly that ended.”
“Marx was an atheist,” Matt retorted.
Ferguson gave Matt a bored look. “Let’s see the galleries while the batteries are still charged.”
Chapter 64
The Pity
Ferguson waved for Matt to follow him through the open doors from which Ferguson had first entered. Matt complied hesitantly.
“I assure you, Mr. Miller, if I were interested in killing you, I’d kill you myself, and I’d not do it in stealth. Relax and enjoy the collection.”
Not knowing what else to do, and curious, Matt followed Ferguson around a partition into the next room. A staircase to either side must have been the source of the descending footsteps Matt heard when he first arrived. Ferguson disappeared around the right side of the dividing wall, and Matt walked forward to follow him.
They emerged into a room designed exactly like a modern museum. There were no skylights, and the only light was from the bulbs mounted above each painting. There were a few empty spaces on the four walls that formed an inner room containing sculptures. When Matt slowed to look at the paintings, Ferguson waved him forward.
“You must see my prize,” he declared. The excitement in his voice had a schizophrenic quality when considering his icy cold cadence only moments before.
Ferguson pointed to a spot on the floor in front of a large sculpture. “Stand there,” he said. Matt obliged, and then chuckled at a vision of a giant anvil dropping onto his head, like in a Roadrunner cartoon. He looked up but saw only the same interlocking beams that he had used to climb down to the floor.
Matt returned his gaze to the sculpture before him. It was pyramid-shaped and hidden in shadows, on a two-foot-high pedestal made of dark-brown marble. He could see a woman’s face at the top of the sculpture above his head. He turned toward Ferguson’s footsteps and watched him pull a lever on the wall. Three lights illuminated a sculpture chiseled out of a single piece of white marble: Mary with her dead son draped across her lap.
Michelangelo’s Pietà
Matt stepped closer and reached out to touch the smooth surface. The folds of the draped cloth were so real that he felt like he could pull them up to cover the naked body of the Savior. He ran his hand along the folds of Mary’s robe and then stepped back. Mary was big enough that her son could fit in her lap. Jesus was supposed to be thirty-three years old at the time, but somehow, the proportions made perfect sense.
Ferguson wandered slowly into the perimeter of light around the statue. He was now in front of Matt and to his right. Matt thought he was probably still far enough away not to be an immediate physical threat, but Matt still took the opportunity to step back to get a better view of the sculpture.
“Recognize it?” Ferguson asked.
“It’s profound,” Matt said softly. “Never saw it before.”
Ferguson grinned his disbelief. “Never been to the Vatican?”
“No.”
“Americans don’t travel.”
“Intercontinental flights still aren’t cheap.”
“It’s Michelangelo’s Pietà.”
Matt barked an astonished laugh. It made sense, though; Ferguson was laughably rich, maybe more wealthy than anyone Matt knew on both sides of the At
lantic.
“The Catholic Church has more art than it knows what to do with,” Ferguson replied. “They’re always open to negotiating a price.”
“Why’s this your prize?”
“It intrigues me more than any other piece.”
Matt looked hard, again, at the statue. He had often questioned the allure of art. Why did people spend forever gazing at paintings and sculptures? Even now, an engineer and a chemist were standing in front of a carved piece of marble in that unexplainable way that people do as they try to sort out what it means and how it applies to their lives. Matt imagined Michelangelo standing next to them and rolling his eyes. Artists, Matt thought, must have access to some part of human consciousness that defied scientific explanation.
“What do you see in this sculpture?” Ferguson asked.
“Two things,” Matt replied thoughtfully, remembering his conversation with Scarlett. “The first is the eternal question that all women ask. Maybe men, too, but I think of women mainly.”
Ferguson looked at Matt in reply, waiting for more.
“They have the power of creation, and it’s a huge responsibility,” Matt explained. “Is it right to bring a child into such a cruel and terrible world?”
“Is our Virgin thinking that she made a mistake?”
Matt gazed up at Mary’s face. “I don’t see the anguish that you’d expect in a mother who has lost her son. Satisfied is not the right word, but there’s a little of that. She knew what would happen and it did. Both of us understand the feeling—when what we’ve predicted comes true, even when it’s something bad.”
“I dreamed that my wife would be murdered,” Ferguson said quietly. “The details were missing, but I knew she’d die. I felt no satisfaction.”
“My wife will die in the American Revolution,” Matt said.
“I think we’re done in here,” Ferguson replied.
Chapter 65
Cain
Matt walked with Ferguson into the next room. Two spotlights lit the center, but unlike the gallery they had recently left, the walls were dark. Shapes were lining the black perimeter like shelves or cabinets, but Matt couldn’t make out details. Ferguson was far enough away from Matt that he wasn’t an immediate threat, so Matt continued into the center of the room to the light. He was walking on hard polished wood, very similar to the practice floor they had installed in the hay barn on the Taylor-Miller estate. The floor should have been Matt’s first clue, but the whole room was making him uneasy. He’d been here in his dreams.
Matt turned to watch Ferguson open the door of a closet. It creaked slightly. Ferguson reached inside and now grasped a scabbard. Matt watched him yank the blade from its sheath and admire it as the ringing of metal echoed off the walls. Ferguson fixated on the resonating metal until the sound was only a whisper. “There’s a Spanish sword maker here in London,” he said. “He trained at the Toledo Factory. His blades are magnificent.” Ferguson then used his left hand to ceremoniously pull the pistol from his belt, hold it in two fingers for Matt to see, and then place it in the closet.
Ferguson tilted the blade of his sword so that Matt could see the full profile of the glistening metal; then he sliced it through the air to make a whistling buzz that reminded Matt of hornets. “I fancied once that we could be brothers…dreamed it maybe,” Ferguson said. “You and I would guide the world into a new enlightenment.” Ferguson turned and reached to the wall. He flipped a switch, and electric lights lit up all along the perimeter. Practice targets illuminated along with other martial arts equipment.
Matt saw a red-painted rack, centered along the wall that contained approximately fifteen swords hanging horizontally in two columns. They were stacked about eight inches apart. Ferguson motioned to the rack. “Pick your weapon, Mr. Miller,” he said. “I’ll no longer let you stand in my way.” Ferguson rotated the sword for effect. He walked closer to Matt while motioning to the rack with his blade and looked down the edge. “None, I think, are as fine as this, but you can be assured that they are as sharp.”
“I had nothing to do with that bomb,” Matt said. “I decided to help you.”
“Before or after you broke into my office and shot my man?” Ferguson asked. “I’d have no problem killing an unarmed murderer,” He stepped forward and slashed the sword at Matt’s chest, making him jump back. He had cut through Matt’s jacket lapels and shirt and drawn blood. It was all the convincing that Matt needed. He kept Ferguson in the corner of his eye as he pulled off his jacket and jumped to arm himself.
The rack had longswords, sabers, backswords, and one rapier. Matt skipped the longsword. He had seen people take advantage of the length, and there was the leverage that came with being able to use two hands, but he didn’t have experience. Matt’s sword instructor, Henry Duncan, owned only one longsword and used it mainly for comparison. Matt was most comfortable with sabers, and there were two of them. They looked similar to the one that he had brought with him to England. His sword was now sitting uselessly at Franklin’s home. Neither of these sabers on the wall had much of a handguard, though. A smart swordsman would take advantage in a duel and slash away until your fingers were ground meat.
Matt glanced over his shoulder. Ferguson was attentive, but he was making no signs of moving closer. He seemed almost content to watch Matt scan through his sword collection. “Choose wisely, Mr. Miller,” Ferguson said coldly. “Your very life depends on it.”
“James Bond villain, no lie,” Matt said. “Listen to yourself.”
Ferguson charged at Matt while swinging his sword. Matt closed his palm around a rapier, pulled it from the rack, and turned to meet Ferguson’s slash at his head with the rapier still in its hard leather scabbard. Matt hop-skipped laterally along the red-colored rack while protecting himself from two slashes. He backed into the center of the room, dropped his jacket on the floor, and used his free hand to push the sheath from the sword.
Matt’s bare blade seemed sleek and nimble once the heavy scabbard was on the floor. Ferguson followed Matt into the middle of the room. There was a smile on his face as if he was looking forward to their battle. Matt pointed his blade out straight, high enough to look down the edge and into Ferguson’s eyes, aiming it at him. The rapier Matt held was longer and thinner than he’d have preferred, but it was the perfect weapon for a duel. He tilted it back to balance it in his hand, and then slashed it through the air, first above his head, and then at chest level, and then he thrust it out at towards Ferguson’s feet. Ferguson hopped back and met the thrust to knock it away.
Even in these few parries, Matt could feel how tired his arms were from everything he’d already done. He scanned the room before Ferguson came forward for another attack. The double doors at the entrance were still wide open, but Ferguson blocked his exit. They were his only way out. “If the chance arises,” Matt thought. “I’ll make my escape.” He wanted neither to kill or be killed.
Ferguson thrust at him again, and Matt swatted his blade away. The Englishman was testing him, but it was helping Matt become comfortable with his sword. There was a heavy pommel on the very end of the hilt. While it added to the overall weight, the counter put the rapier’s balance point surprising close to his grip. Matt jumped forward and thrust hard at Ferguson’s chest trying his best to stab. Ferguson knocked the blade away, but the counter that followed was too hard, and Matt took the misstep to cut Ferguson's face. Blood spurted from the laceration he made on Ferguson’s chin. Ferguson backed away to feel his jaw, and then pulled his hand away to measure the blood. “Nicely done,” he proclaimed, “but I believe it’s time we finished this.”
Matt pointed his sword again at Ferguson’s face, put his left hand out with the palm facing the ceiling and cupped his fingers in a backward waving motion. Matt, too, had had enough. “You’re a deranged SOB,” Matt said. He saw anger fill Ferguson’s face. Matt would use every advantage he had. If he could enrage Ferguson into making a mistake, then he would. “You’ve lost your mind,” Matt said
. “You’re not the man to lead the world anywhere.”
Ferguson charged and slashed at him repeatedly, and Matt backed away. Matt stood firm on the last slash, and Ferguson’s momentum pushed him close so that his blade skidded down Matt’s sword and smacked into the guard. Matt’s hand went numb from the shock, but he used the tied-up blade to push into Ferguson, pivot and bring his elbow into Ferguson’s face. Ferguson dislodged the blade and backed away. The blow to his face had hurt, but Matt still saw resolve there.
Ferguson charged him in an all-out parry. This time, the rapid blows and momentum were enough to bring him past the protective radius of Matt’s rapier. He slashed twice at Matt’s stomach while Matt was turning away and opened a long cut in Matt’s side. Matt yelled in pain. Ferguson backed away and smiled at the injury. A bloodstain was now growing on Matt’s shirt. Matt looked down at the wound while keeping Ferguson in his vision, and felt around. The cut was deep, but not fatal. There was only a small spot of bright-red blood on his hand when he pulled it away.
They parried again, followed by another and then again. Matt lost count of the attacks. His arms were weakening, and his reflexes were leaving. Matt missed a block and Ferguson slashed at his shoulder and opened another wound, making Matt retreat in some desperation. He hadn’t touched Ferguson since he had drawn blood from his chin. I hate fucking sword fighting!
Matt looked down at the elaborate wire handguard, hoping that Ferguson would fall for it again. It was worth a gamble, so he parried twice and made his last push forward leaving his head unprotected. Ferguson took the bait, raised his sword and slashed downward toward Matt’s exposed skull. Matt had his sword up in time. Metal rang as Ferguson’s blade slid along his and hit the guard. Matt thrust forward as he twisted the rapier to tangle Ferguson’s sword. Matt thrust his sword upward, and both blades went flying.
Matt used Ferguson’s disorientation to punch him hard in the face. Ferguson blocked his second punch and was on Matt before he could react. Ferguson leaped forward to force Matt off his feet. Matt twisted his knee, and he fell backward, yelling in pain. He tried to stand, but Ferguson was on top of him and punching him hard in the head. Matt swung back and drove his fist into Ferguson’s stomach. Ferguson gasped at the blow but remained on top of Matt as he tried to wrap his arm around Matt’s neck.