Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter mc-3

by Robert R. McCammon

  "Listen to him drool on!"

  "A lot of money," Slaughter repeated. "At the end of the road you're going to be passing in about ten minutes is a safebox holding more than fifty pounds."

  Matthew expected Greathouse to laugh again, or to make some rude comment, but he did not.

  The wheels kept turning.

  "And more than the money," Slaughter went on, staring fiercely at Matthew. "Gold rings, jewels in elegant brooches, silver stickpins, and what have you. Two years' worth of treasure, taken from travelling merchants, dandies and damsels. I'd say in all, a fortune worth well over a hundred pounds. I'm no authority on fancy stones, so it might be much higher. What is a string of pearls selling for these days?"

  "Drool on," Greathouse answered. "Do you think we're complete idiots?" He flicked the reins once more, hard, as if to gain distance between himself and the prisoner, alas to no avail.

  "Mr. Corbett?" Again Slaughter's brows lifted. "Are you a complete idiot?"

  Matthew returned the man's stare. He was trying to read Slaughter's eyes, his expression, or some giveaway in how he held his head or clenched his hands. He could not; the man was well-sealed.

  "I think you're lying," Matthew said.

  "Do you? Really? Or are you thinking, as your companion probably is, that when I am taken across the river and carried the rest of our journey, am put into the gaol at New York and then aboard a ship to be hanged in London, that the safebox at the end of that road may not be found for dare I say long after you gentlemen are moldering in your graves? If ever?" Slaughter showed his teeth. "I can see them now! Those men of the future, turning a shovel on a buried box! And when they open it, and see all that gleaming goodness, just what will they think, Mr. Corbett? What will they think? That someone in the long ago told a lie, to save their skin? Someone trussed in chains, with a pistol held on them? No, they'll think what complete idiot left this treasure box buried here, and never came back for it? And then their next thought will be: well, now it belongs to us, for the men of the past are dead and gone, and dead men have no need of money." He leaned forward slightly, as if to offer a secret. "But living men need money, don't they? Yes, living men need a lot of money, to live well. And that's no lie."

  Matthew was silent, studying Slaughter's face. There was not a clue to determine the truth or fiction of his story. "Tell me this, then," he said in a flat, even tone. "Why were you burying your loot all this distance out here, so far from Philadelphia?"

  "This was not our only refuge. I determined it would be safer to have two places to hide in, and to split the money between. In case one was found, we always had the second. The first is a house in the woods a few miles northwest of the city. There, also, a safebox is buried holding about thirty pounds and some items of jewelry. But I'm not offering that one to you; it's not part of our accord."

  "Our accord?" Greathouse shouted, and for all their age and slowness the horses seemed to jump a foot off the ground.

  "This is my offer." Slaughter's voice was quiet and controlled, almost otherworldly in its calm cadence. "I will lead you to the second house, which is at the end of the road coming up very soon. I will grant you a gift of the safebox, and all its contents. For that, you will unlock my chains and set me free at that location. I'll take care of myself from there."

  "Am I drunk?" Greathouse asked, speaking to the air. "Have I caught lunatic's disease?"

  "From that point," Slaughter continued in the same manner as before, "I vow before you as a subject of the Queen and a citizen of England that I will take the money from the first safebox and use it to purchase a voyage to " He paused. "Where would you like me to go? Amsterdam? The South Seas? I don't necessarily like the sun, but-"

  "I am going absolutely mad," said Greathouse. "Hearing disembodied voices."

  "I'm done with this country." Slaughter was speaking to them both, but staring directly at Matthew. "Done with England, as well. All I want to do is be gone."

  "We're not going to let you go," Matthew said. "That's the end of it."

  "Yes, but what end? Why not say I was shot while trying to escape, and that my body fell into the river? Who would ever know differently?"

  "We would know."

  "Oh, dear God!" Slaughter cast his eyes skyward. "Have I met a pair of noble imbeciles? Two men out of all creation who have no need for money, and who can live just as well on the sweet but worthless jelly of good deeds? Here! The road's coming up! See it?"

  They did. Curving into the forest on the left was a narrow, rutted track hardly the width of their wagon. The underbrush was wild and the trees thick around as winekegs, their branches and leaves making an interlocked canopy of flaming colors far above.

  "That's it!" Slaughter said. "Right there, gentlemen. The path to your Sir! You're not turning!"

  Greathouse kept the team going, his shoulders hunched slightly forward.

  "More than fifty pounds in money, sir! Add together the jewelry and other items and you'll both be rich men! Can't you understand what I'm offering you?" Still the wagon trundled onward. "I vow I'll leave the country! What more do you want? Me to rot behind bars before I swing on the gallows for killing vile creatures? Do you think the people who sent you here would turn my offer down? Do you think they care about anything but themselves?" He gave a harsh, hollow laugh. "Go on, then! Keep going, right on past, and damn your soul for it, too! Just know you could have been rich, but you were too stupid to claim your prize!"

  Matthew looked away from Slaughter's strained face, which had begun to blotch red during this tirade.

  The wagon's wheels made three more revolutions.

  And then Matthew heard Greathouse say, "Whoa," to the team as if he had a stone in his throat.

  Greathouse eased back on the reins. The horses stopped.

  "What are you doing?" Matthew asked sharply.

  Greathouse set the brake. "I have to piss." He put the reins aside, climbed down to the road and walked off into the woods.

  Slaughter had closed his eyes and leaned his head back again. He said nothing, nor did he move a muscle. Gathering his strength for another try, Matthew suspected.

  Time passed. A minute or more. Matthew looked toward the woods where Greathouse had gone but couldn't see him for the thicket. One of the horses rumbled and shifted its weight, as if uneasy at just standing there waiting, and then it joined its brethren in chomping weeds.

  Another minute may have passed before Greathouse reappeared, walking slowly through the brush. He was staring down at the ground, and kicking at stones and acorns. "Matthew," he said without looking up, "will you come here?"

  "What about-"

  "He's not going anywhere."

  Matthew returned his attention to Slaughter, who yet remained motionless.

  "Matthew," said the prisoner, his eyes closed against the sunlight that lit up his beard like a coalfire. "A very respectable name, that. Go right ahead, I'll just rest."

  Matthew got down off the wagon, the pistol in hand. He checked Slaughter's position once more before he walked the twelve paces or so to join Greathouse, but the prisoner had not moved.

  "What is it?" Matthew asked, seeing the deep furrows of worry that cut across Greathouse's face. "Is something wrong?"

  Greathouse rummaged in the leaves with the toe of his boot, bent down and picked up a white rock, which he examined closely. "I want your opinion," he said at last, in a restrained voice calculated not to travel the distance of twelve paces. "Is he lying about the money, or not?"

  "I don't know." The meaning of what Greathouse had just asked him hit Matthew like a timber board across the back of the head. "Oh, my God! You're not listening to him, are you?"

  "Keep your voice down." Greathouse turned the rock in his hand, examining its cracks and crevices. "What if he's not lying, Matthew? I mean why should he, at this stage of the game? It's all over for him, and he knows it. Why should he lie?"

  "Because he wants to get us down that road and escape, that's why."<
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  "Escape," Greathouse repeated. The word had been spoken gravely. "How? Chained up like he is, with the ball on his leg? And us with the pistol? How the hell is he going to escape? He may be half-crazy, but he's surely not full-crazy." Greathouse continued to turn the white rock in his palm as if studying every possible angle. "He knows that I won't kill him, but he also knows he wouldn't get far with one knee shot off. Hell, I might kill him anyway. I'm not a Quaker, and I didn't make any damned decree with 'em."

  "He's lying," said Matthew. "That's my opinion, so there it is."

  Greathouse gripped the rock in his fist. "You don't think I can handle him, do you?"

  "I think we're both asking for-"

  "Keep your voice down," Greathouse commanded. He stepped forward, until his face was only inches away from Matthew's. "I can handle him. I've handled plenty like him before-and worse, believe me-so he's not going to be any problem."

  Matthew shook his head. The intensity of Greathouse's stare compelled him to fix his own gaze on the dead leaves around their feet.

  "Fifty pounds," came the quiet voice. "And more. The gold rings and the jewelry. It would buy Zed's freedom, Matthew. Don't you see?"

  Matthew did suddenly see, and as he looked into Greathouse's eyes he felt his face tighten into an incredulous mask. "That's what you want the money for?"

  "Yes. What else?"

  Matthew had to take off his tricorn and put the back of his hand against his forehead, for fear his brain had fired up a fever.

  "Whatever van Kowenhoven named as a price, we could meet," Greathouse went on. "And pay off Cornbury for the writ of manumission as well. With that much money, we'd probably even have some to spare. You know, to split between us."

  Matthew looked for someplace to sit down, for his legs felt weak. He needed a sturdy boulder to at least lean against, but there was nothing. In his mind was the image of a lockbox disguised as a book, and within it a black leather bag, and within that bag a handful of gleaming gold coins that made him a rich young man.

  "Now don't think I have the slightest intention of letting him go," Greathouse said. "That would be a crime against humanity. But listen, Matthew: we can make him believe we're in accord, and then when we have the money, it's right back on this road again, across the river and on to put him behind bars. What do you say?"

  Matthew had no words. He was thinking of the gold coins, and his debts, and new suits in the latest fashion, and how he needed a fireplace for his house, with the winter coming on.

  "I know that lying to him might not be to your liking. I understand and appreciate your show of moral character, but back there he said Two men out of all creation who have no need for money. Well, I do have a need for it, and I know you do too." Greathouse frowned, taking Matthew's continued silence as stern disapproval. "Matthew, we can trick it out of him. We can lie to a liar. Or you don't have to speak a word, I'll do all the lying. I have much more experience at it than you."

  "It's not that," Matthew heard himself say, though he had no memory of speaking the words. He had hornets in his head, they were buzzing so loudly he couldn't hear. This was the moment to tell Greathouse about the gold coins; he knew it was, for if Matthew didn't tell, Greathouse was going to take them down the forest track in pursuit of Slaughter's safebox. There was plenty of gold in that leather bag to share. Of course there was. Fifty or more pounds spent for Zed's freedom, for a bodyguard he didn't need, and then the rest for all the things Matthew planned on buying. Forget the fireplace until next winter. He had enough clothes, why should he ever need any more? Yes, plenty to share.

  "What is it, then?" Greathouse prodded.

  Matthew started to speak. To say what? He wasn't sure. Possibly I am a rich man or It's not fair, I found the money, me alone, and it's not fair

  The world spun about him, and in the air he smelled the faint burned scent of autumn's decay.

  Matthew said, with what seemed a genuine labor, "I am " And then the rest of it spilled out: " afraid of him."

  Greathouse grunted, his face screwed up in a scowl. But slowly the scowl eased, Greathouse dropped his white rock and put his hand on Matthew's shoulder. "Listen, so am I. A little, maybe. But I'll take care of everything. Just follow along with me, all right?"

  Tell him, he thought. And demanded of himself: Tell him!

  But he did not, and he stood looking down at all the leaves at his feet as if the earth might open and swallow him up in an instant.

  "Come on." Greathouse clapped his shoulder. "Let's get to it."

  Matthew followed Greathouse to the wagon, where Slaughter still lay with his eyes closed like a beast dozing in the shifting sunbeams. Two more flies had found him and were whirling about his face. Matthew wondered how many he'd dined on since he'd been lying there.

  Greathouse slammed his palm against the side of the wagon, which caused Slaughter only to lift his eyelids to half-mast and yawn. "Saying we might believe you," Greathouse told him roughly, "and that we might be interested. How far down that road do we go?"

  Slaughter worked his head from side to side, stretching his neck. "To the end of it, as I've already said."

  "How far?"

  "Oh six miles west, along the river. Then the road takes a turn to the southwest. Another four miles, I'd say. Ten miles in all."

  "Ten miles? That's a long way, with these horses."

  "You make a journey," said Slaughter, "with the horses you have."

  Greathouse suddenly reached over and grabbed hold of the prisoner's beard, which served to secure Slaughter's full attention. "If we drive ten miles to the end of that road and no safebox is buried there, I won't be pleased. Those doctors may have promised the Quakers you'd get to New York alive, but I'm a Baptist. If I decide not to kill you, I'll at least give you some marks to remember. I may even tear off that damned beard." He gave it a steady pull, but Slaughter gave no reaction. "Do you understand me? Just nod."

  Slaughter did.

  Greathouse released him. He wiped his hand down the leg of his breeches, leaving a dirty smear. He said to Matthew, "Get up there and work the horses back."

  Matthew climbed up onto the seat and put the pistol beside him where he could reach it in a hurry if he heard the chains rattle. He lifted the brake, took the reins and started urging the team to backstep as Greathouse took hold of one of the wheels and pushed against it. Soon they had retreated the wagon to just beyond the turnoff. Then Greathouse climbed up again, took the pistol and turned around on the seat to watch Slaughter.

  "All right, Matthew," said Greathouse. "Let's go."

  Matthew hesitated on the verge of flicking the reins. Tell him, he thought. But it was a quieter, less urgent voice. There was still time. Maybe in the next mile or two. He would have to think about it a little more. And it might not be necessary to tell. Not necessary at all. If the safebox was really there, and it held the treasure as Slaughter said then why would it ever be necessary?

  Still, he had a taste of ashes in his mouth, and his fine suit did not seem to hang so well on his frame as it had before.

  He flicked the reins. The team started walking, one of the horses snorting at this indignity of the driver not knowing whether he was going backward or forward.

  They entered the woods on the narrow road. The canopy of trees closed above their heads. It was only after another minute or so that Matthew pulled himself out of his thoughts to realize they were heading directly into the oncoming storm.

  Ten

  Beneath a sky the color of lead and just as heavy, they heard the wind approaching through the forest. On a hillside in the distance, through a break in the trees, they saw huge branches whipping back and forth and hundreds of scarlet leaves spinning into the air. Then the white veil of rain descended over the view, and though it was yet a half-mile away they braced for the blast.

  Matthew had given the reins to Greathouse about an hour ago and taken over the task of watching the prisoner. Both Matthew and Greathouse wore their cloaks ti
ght about them, and now as the sound of the wind came nearer Greathouse shouted, "Keep the gun dry!"

  Matthew put it inside his cloak and kept his hand on the grip. The horses nickered and lifted their heads nervously to protest their course, but Greathouse's firm control of the reins kept them from going off the road and into the thicket. Matthew saw the prisoner watching him almost incuriously, as one might watch to see what a dog would do when doused with a bucketful of water.

  "Here it comes!"

  The first swirl of the wind, deceptively meek, came just a few seconds after Greathouse's voice. And then there was a keen high shrill of air that built to almost a feminine scream and the next blast of wind hit Matthew in the back and almost lifted him off the seat. He had the quick sensation of thinking that the wind was going to get into the flapping folds of his cloak and send him flying. Leaves of a hundred hues of red, purple and yellow struck him, as if the very forest had turned assaulter. He felt the tricorn flip off his head, and that was when Slaughter made his move.

  Through the tumult of whirling leaves Matthew saw Slaughter come up from his position of repose like a snake striking from beneath a rock. The noise of the wind masked the rattle of chains, and when Matthew opened his mouth to cry out he knew his voice would be tattered to pieces before it reached Greathouse, who was trying to keep the horses from turning against the onslaught. Slaughter reached out toward Matthew with a claw-like hand, the knives of his nails flashing at Matthew's eyes.

  And even as Matthew struggled to get the pistol out of his cloak and failed to dislodge it, he brought up his other arm, fist clenched, to ward off the coming blow and he saw Slaughter grasp his tricorn, which had blown off his head and which the prisoner had caught before it could go flying off the wagon.

  "There you are, Matthew," said Slaughter, bent with the weight of his irons and speaking close to the younger man's ear. "You wouldn't want to lose such a fine hat." He pushed it into Matthew's fist until the fist opened to accept it.

  "What is it?" Greathouse had looked over his shoulder, his eyes widening as he took in the scene. The horses were still unnerved and tossing their heads against the bit. "Sit down, Slaughter! Now!"