Crooked in His Ways

by S. M. Goodwin

  “Because Gerry, here,” he jerked his chin to the man with the gun, “will start shooting pieces off your body if you don’t.”

  “It hardly seems sp-sp-sporting to fight an unarmed m-man with such a knife.”

  Vogel snorted. “Well, it’s a damned good thing I ain’t a sp-sp-sportsman. Toss the cane under the wagon, where it won’t be a temptation.”

  Lightner nodded and swung his arm.

  Hy was staring like an eagle and saw the deft flick of Lightner’s gloved fingers on the button that detached the cane handle from the wooden stem. Lightner’s concealed, custom-made pistol—a lot like the derringer the two thugs had taken off him—held only one bullet.

  Hy didn’t even wait for the wooden portion of the cane to hit the wagon before he turned and headbutted the unsuspecting Victor in the face.

  Any satisfaction he felt at the loud crunch of Victor’s nose shattering quickly disappeared when he failed to yank his wrists free from the loosened bonds: his damned hands had swollen.

  The sound of a pistol report cracked like a cannon just as Victor slid to the ground, howling as one hand went to the blood gushing from his crushed nose like a water pump with the handle stuck in the open position.

  Hy drew back a booted foot and kicked Victor in the head so hard he was surprised it didn’t fly off his neck.

  Unfortunately, he’d not calculated for the lack of resistance and went ass over teakettle.

  An arm struck his shoulder as he fell backward, reminding him that Featherstone was behind him.

  The blow didn’t damage his shoulder but it must have hurt Featherstone, whose wrist, rather than baton, smashed into bone.

  Featherstone yelped and the nightstick went bouncing end over end, smacking the unmoving Victor in the head before it bounced off down the pier.

  Time seemed to slow as Hy fell backward. Without his hands to catch himself, he could only turn his body slightly, hoping to land on his shoulder rather than his head.

  As luck would have it, his head landed with relative comfort smack in the middle of Featherstone’s gut.

  His hands, however, got crushed between his arse and the unyielding wood of the pier; Hy screamed as at least two of his fingers bent in directions they weren’t meant to go.

  A distant part of his mind pointed out—as he sank into the darkness—that he should be grateful the gag had smothered the unmanly sobs he couldn’t hold back.

  It felt like he was out for a year, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. When he came to, Featherstone was still trapped beneath him, making the airless choking noises of somebody who’d had the wind knocked out of them.

  Hy knew he had only seconds before Featherstone caught his breath.

  He was vaguely aware of the sound of scuffling boots and grunting from the direction where he’d last seen Lightner—who had discharged his gun and would now be fighting unarmed against a man with a sword.

  Hy said a quick prayer for the Englishman and then squeezed his eyes shut and wrenched his right arm, screaming himself hoarse as his broken fingers caught on the rope.

  But at least he managed to pull his hand free.

  Blinking away tears, he scrambled crablike off Featherstone’s body just as the other man recovered enough to deliver a solid punch to Hy’s temple.

  Hy’s vision tripled, and black built at the edges. He crawled, using the heels of his hands to avoid hurting his fingers. Even so, every move was agony.

  The black dots in his vision began to clear just as his hand came down on something warm: Victor’s supine body.

  He scrambled over Victor, his knee coming down on something hard beneath the man’s sack coat.

  Gun! Gun! His battered brain shrieked, even as he fumbled for the weapon with his less-damaged nondominant hand.

  Hy heard the scuff of Featherstone’s boots behind him right before the other man landed on top of him, one of his hands landing on top of Hy’s.

  Featherstone pulled the gun free of the leather holder, but Hy couldn’t help noticing that the other copper’s fingers fumbled almost as badly as Hy’s as he scrabbled for the handle.

  Although Hy’s hand wasn’t working so hot, his arm was just fine; he threw back his elbow with all his might, connecting with Featherstone’s temple and knocking him off, unfortunately sending the gun skittering in the same direction as the baton.

  Featherstone cried out as he fell back, and Hy heard a second dull thud.

  Rather than crawl, Hy rolled away, not stopping until he’d put some distance from himself and Featherstone.

  He shoved to his feet using the backs of his damaged hands, his eyes darting as he staggered dizzily before widening his stance to maintain his balance.

  The second thump he’d heard must have been Featherstone’s head hitting the metal fender that covered the wagon wheel.

  Featherstone was groaning softly, but his body was as unmoving as Victor’s.

  Hy staggered in the direction of the gun; he had to use both hands to pick it up. It was a heavy Colt, and there was no way he could hold it with just his right. After carefully fitting the stock into his left palm, he turned just in time to see Lightner’s booted leg hit Vogel square in the gut.

  The butcher had left himself wide open, both hands over his head holding onto the boarding knife, preparing to bring it down in a killing blow.

  Vogel grunted and dropped the blade behind him, where it landed with a metallic clang. He bent over, clutching at his belly, his bootheels slipping on the slick wood.

  Hy tensed as the man stumbled back toward the edge of the high pier.

  Instead of going over, his back slammed into a piling.

  Lightner charged Vogel, who was still bent protectively over his stomach. Hy thought the Englishman was going to kick him again, but, instead, he leapt on top of him, slamming him to the ground and straddling his body.

  Lightner’s first punch smashed Vogel’s head against the piling that had just saved him.

  And then Lightner proceeded to work the big man’s skull like one of the speed bags at a boxing parlor, his fists relentlessly buffeting Vogel’s head from side to side. Hy had never seen a man in a battle frenzy, but he reckoned it looked a lot like this.

  Vogel, amazingly, was still struggling, pounding one ham-sized fist weakly against Lightner’s side, trying to dislodge him.

  Hy gave a hard tug on the brutally tight gag with his damaged hand, not wanting to transfer the gun. He screamed hoarsely when he yanked it down his chin, taking a good deal of lip skin with it.

  “Inspector?” he called, his voice as dry and shredded as sawdust from all the yelling. “Sir!”

  But Lightner didn’t seem to hear him. If Hy didn’t stop him soon, he’d kill the other man.

  He cleared his throat and tried again. “Lord Jasper!” He crouched down and reached out to tap on Lightner’s shoulder.

  The Englishman spun with astonishing speed, his left fist making contact with Hy’s jaw and sending him sprawling, the gun flying from his hand.

  Hy was on his back, blinking through white spangles of light when Lightner’s face appeared above him.

  His lip had been split, and blood was trickling from a deep gash on his cheekbone.

  The Englishman was breathing heavily. “Sorry, old man,” he said in between gasps, offering a hand to help Hy up.

  Hy saw three hands grab his left wrist and pull.

  Lightner was a strong man but he weighed a good fifty pounds less than Hy and it was a struggle. Hy’s head spun as he stood.

  “All right, then?” Lightner asked, stumbling back a few steps after he released Hy’s wrist.

  Hy sucked in a deep breath through his nose, blinked his eyes, and looked up just in time to see Vogel rise up behind Lightner, the big knife raised high over his head.

  He yelled. “No!”

  The Englishman spun and Vogel’s arm came down just as Lightner’s shoulder slammed into his chest. Vogel lost his grip on the knife but it mainta
ined its momentum and stabbed into the top of Hy’s right foot.

  Hy gawked down at his boot, which was pinned to the pier, his brain unable to figure out what it was seeing.

  “You bastard!”

  Hy’s head jerked up at the sound of Vogel’s voice. He watched in horror as the two men careened toward the edge of the pier.

  Vogel’s shoulder clipped the piling, his arms windmilling and his heels skittering on the edge for one long moment.

  Lightner’s arm shot out—to catch the man or shove him, Hy would never know.

  Vogel snatched at the outflung arm, and the two men went over into the darkness without a sound.

  A second later a splash came as their bodies hit the water fifteen feet below.

  CHAPTER 37

  As the frigid water closed around his body, Jasper couldn’t help thinking it actually felt good on such a miserably hot night.

  That pleasant thought was jerked away when a hand grabbed the back of his coat.

  Jasper tried to turn, but Vogel wrapped a meaty fist around his neck, pulling him deeper.

  Jasper flailed with his hands and feet as Vogel clung to his body like a monkey on a tree.

  The man’s grip was like a bloody iron claw, squeezing into the cords of his neck. Jasper thrashed and kicked while trying to worm his fingers between Vogel’s hand and his throat. He was making alarmingly little progress when Vogel grabbed Jasper’s face with his other hand.

  Jasper opened his mouth as wide as he could and sank his teeth into two fingers; a sickening crunch filled his aching skull as he bit down with all his might.

  Vogel immediately released his neck and pushed at Jasper’s back—as if to shove him away.

  But Jasper just bit down harder.

  Vogel yanked his hand frantically, but that must have hurt even more so he tried to hit Jasper with his free fist, but the water slowed his punches to ineffectual taps.

  Jasper’s blood pounded in his ears and his lungs felt as though he’d swallowed a lighted cigar.

  They thrashed and spun in the darkness and Jasper’s foggy brain got turned around—which way was up?

  You’re dying.

  The voice rang out like a gong, and Jasper knew it was the truth.

  He released the bloody hand in his mouth and kicked for all he was worth, hoping like hell he was heading toward the surface.

  He burst through the water alongside a piling, barnacles scraping like broken glass down his forehead and over his left temple, narrowly missing his eye.

  He’d barely filled his lungs with air when Vogel’s fingers closed around his upper arm and yanked him down.

  Jasper flung his arm against the piling, grinding the back of Vogel’s hand against the barnacles. Unfortunately, he lost his tenuous hold on the slimy wood in the process and was once again forced to tread water.

  A watery gasp of pain came from beside him and Vogel released his arm. The gasp turned to a gurgle as Vogel inhaled filthy freezing water.

  Jasper grabbed blindly for the pier, but all he met was air.

  As they floated, part of Jasper’s brain registered their movement: the incoming tide was swift, and the pilings were already out of reach. This was not good.

  Vogel’s arms thrashed, a fist catching Jasper in his temple.

  “Can’t swim!” Vogel gasped.

  Jasper turned his body in the water before the man could pull him under again, until he was facing Vogel’s bobbing, flailing form.

  He wrapped his legs around Vogel’s thick torso, squeezed him in a pincer grip, and grabbed his thick neck.

  The whites of the other man’s eyes flashed briefly in the near darkness. “Wha—”

  And then Vogel sank like a stone, taking Jasper with him.

  He managed to suck in a hasty lungful of air before sinking below the cold, greasy water, squeezing Vogel’s big body with all the strength he had.

  The other man’s thrashing took on a frantic, panic-stricken quality, and Jasper tightened his hold as they sank deeper into darkness.

  The part of his mind that wasn’t busy staying alive was stunned that the big man still had so much fight in him after the pounding he’d endured up on the pier. Vogel’s head was as hard as a bloody anvil, and Jasper’s fingers barely met around his fat neck.

  Vogel’s thick torso spasmed violently—as if he’d inhaled water—and he yet he still struggled, somewhere finding enough energy for one last burst of thrashing. But it wasn’t enough to break free and his elbows glanced harmlessly off Jasper’s chest.

  Jasper hung on until his own lungs were on fire. And then he simultaneously relaxed his hold on Vogel’s neck and kicked off him, using the other man’s body as a springboard.

  They’d not gone as deep as he’d feared and he quickly broke the surface, gasping and treading water.

  His eyes burned as if they’d been sprayed with kerosene. He rubbed the foul, almost sticky water away and gazed around him with stinging eyes. He couldn’t see a damned thing on either side of the river.

  “Hello!” he called. His voice came out a pitiful whisper, courtesy of Vogel’s earlier viselike grip on his throat.

  “Inspector!”

  Law’s deep voice sounded as if it were only a few feet away—but Jasper couldn’t tell in which direction.

  He cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m here.” The wheeze was barely audible. He opened his mouth to try yet again when a shrill clanging sound came from somewhere behind him.

  Jasper spun in the water in time to see something huge and dark looming toward him.

  He gasped and dove like a duck. He could hear better underwater and recognized the sound of something mechanical—perhaps a steamship—passing overhead.

  Once again, he held his breath until his lungs threatened to explode; this time, he moved slowly toward the surface, expecting to encounter the hull of a ship at any moment.

  But he surfaced unmolested, bobbing in the water as he caught his breath.

  Judging from the direction of the tidal flow, New Jersey was on his left. There was nothing but darkness on that side, which meant he was already some distance north of Hoboken, which he knew became rustic rather quickly on its outskirts.

  He heard a noise and held his breath for a moment to identify it: it was his teeth. His bloody teeth were chattering.

  There were pockets of warmer river water interspersed with the incoming tide, but Jasper wasn’t in one.

  Fighting had kept him warm, but now his body’s core temperature was rapidly cooling. He could not ponder his options for long.

  He kicked in a circle, getting his bearings, and then began swimming toward what he hoped was Manhattan, moving at a moderate speed.

  As he swam, he noticed a light off to his right. It was small and distant but heading his direction: a ship or boat. He swam faster.

  Each stroke was jerkier and less efficient than the last.

  “Hey, Roy! D’ju hear that?’

  The yell came from his other side and sounded shockingly close.

  Jasper whipped his head around “Hello!” he called, his voice not loud but certainly audible a few feet away. “Hello!” He treaded water in a circle but saw nothing—the blackness complete.

  Something slapped the water behind him and he spun.

  He opened his mouth to yell again but got a mouthful of filthy water when a swell—probably from a boat—slapped against his face.

  He intensified his treading, but his foot got caught in something.

  He jerked against what felt like a clinging, cloying nest of reeds—no, not reeds, netting.

  The net swirled around him, like the sticky strands of an enormous spiderweb. “I’m here,” he croaked again.

  The fishing net—for that is what it was—twisted around him, wrapping him as effectively as a spider wrapping a fly.

  “D’ju hear that, Roy?”

  Jasper used the last of his breath to shout, “In the wa—”

  The net jerked him down, like a th
ousand tiny hands clutching at his clothing.

  One of his arms was trapped beside his body, the other was over his head, caught in mid-wave, as if anyone could have seen him.

  He used that hand to grab a fistful of net and yanked.

  Something big and hard struck his forehead, the blow as dully agonizing as a whack from the flat of an ax.

  Pain reverberated between his skull and neck while stars exploded behind his eyelids, smothering the darkness with blinding light.

  Jasper’s last conscious thought as the net gave a violent jerk was that he’d survived the most infamously lethal cavalry engagement in British history only to be killed by a bloody fishing net.

  CHAPTER 38

  July 7

  Paisley needed to pace. But walking was difficult enough with crutches, so pacing was out of the question.

  It was almost four o’clock in the morning and Paisley had been sitting up in his chair, unable to sleep as he waited for the sound of his lordship’s step in the corridor. Usually, the only reason his employer would be out so late was that he’d visited a woman or one of the dimly lighted businesses that could be found tucked away even in the better parts of town, where the smoking of opium seemed to become more fashionable and popular by the day.

  But his employer did not have a woman in New York—at least not that he knew of—and he’d only just returned from one of his “repairing leases” a few days earlier. Generally, Lord Jasper went months in between visits to opium parlors.

  It was a sign of Paisley’s current state of mind that he hoped Lord Jasper had fallen back into his unhealthy habit, rather than into some other, more lethal, trouble.

  Somebody hammered so hard on the front door that Paisley actually felt the vibrations through the legs of his chair. He lunged for his crutches and banged his damaged foot on the doorframe in his haste to get out of his room and down to the foyer.

  Even before he was halfway down the hallway, Thomas appeared at the top of the stairs, with Detective Law beside him.

  “Where is Lord Jasper?” he demanded, his gaze taking in the big American’s bruised and battered appearance. “You are bleeding.”

  Law looked down and frowned. “Oh, dern. I thought I did a better job than that.” He lifted both hands, which had several fingers bent in odd directions. “I had a tough time wrapping the damn thing.”