The Last Dickens

“Halloa! Are you well, man?”

It was the scraggly, messy-bearded man Osgood had seen at the bottom of the building, the beard now apparent as a rusted red color.

“You looked to be under some distress at the door,” the man continued, his hands groping at Osgood's shoulders, arms, and around the satchel as though to check for wounds.

“I must send for the police,” Osgood said. “There's a man injured down there-”

“Already done!” the man with the overgrown beard cried. “Already sent for, my dear man. Though not much of that fellow down there is left, by the looks of it. Elevators! Why, I won't get in one myself, not with those demonstrations at the fairs killing one or two passengers at a time, and on a good day. They should be abolished, says I. Now, how can I help you? I have a wagon out front. Where can I take you?”

Was the rust-colored bearded man another janitor? Then the publisher realized: This stranger matched the description of Molasses, he of the rainbow-colored beard who operated among the notorious Bookaneers and claimed the fame of having secured Thackery's The Adventures of Philip before the world.

“Hand it here,” said Molasses, a change passing over his face as he caught the glint of Osgood's recognition. “Don't know what you have there exactly, but the Major would probably pay triple for whatever it is. And you're in no shape for a tussle, not tonight.”

Little does he know what Harper would pay! thought Osgood. He knew there were no police coming, at least not by this man's doing.

There was a moan from far below them. Another explosion came from the engine room, and the flames shot another floor higher. Osgood realized from the dampness of his flesh that the heat was closer. Soon the gas line that had lighted the elevator car would burst open and the whole place and everything inside it would be roasted.

As Osgood backed away toward the elevator shaft, he noticed Molasses's face suddenly turn fearful. The literary pirate's hands raised slowly. Osgood whirled around and saw Wakefield coming from the stairwell. He was pulling Rebecca by her arm and had a pistol to her neck. Her arms and face were bruised, her dress torn in multiple places.

“Rebecca!” Osgood exclaimed in shock.

“I am afraid your dead hero's hired hackman went a little wild from all the commotion, Osgood,” Wakefield said. “The carriage tipped over, but don't fear-I was there to come to your damsel's aid, just as I have yours so many times now.”

“Let her be, Wakefield!” Osgood cried, then quickly added, as calmly as possible: “You can still get down there. There is still time to save him.”

Wakefield peered down at the flames lapping the darkness from six floors below, where the broken body of Herman struggled. “Doubtful he'd survive that, I'd say, Osgood. There are plenty of other fire worshippers that would serve me for a profit.”

“He is your friend,” Osgood said.

“He is a cog in my enterprise, as your search has been. Now, I shall tell you what I'd like. You drop that satchel down into those flames, and I'll allow your silly girl to live.”

“Don't, James!” Rebecca cried. “Not after all that has happened!”

Osgood mouthed to her that it was all right and smiled reassuringly. He held the satchel out over the shaft.

“Very good move, my boy. You can take orders after all.” Wakefield smiled. “Don't worry, Mr. Osgood, the world will not be deprived of Dickens's ending.”

Osgood looked at him with confusion. “What do you mean?”

“After we have destroyed this, I plan to find Dickens's ending myself, of course! At least, how I would like it- with Edwin Drood's body discovered to be quite dead and gone in a crypt in Rochester. Would it surprise you to learn I am acquainted with the greatest forgers and counterfeiters, Mr. Osgood? From samples of Dickens's handwriting I will have my men create six installments of the finest literary forgery ever attempted, a class beyond the amateur production of Mr. Grunwald. I am certain John Forster will be only too happy to have this, as it agrees with his own professions about the book's finale. There is only one problem. We must be rid of Dickens's real ending before I can forge my own. That is how you are about to help me.”

“Lower your pistol from her first, Wakefield,” said Osgood. “Then I will do as you ask.”

“You are not in command here!” Wakefield roared, shaking Rebecca's arm violently.

But Osgood waited until the pistol strayed slightly away from her neck. Osgood nodded to his adversary for the gesture, then let the bag drop but kept hold of the top of the strap so that it dangled precariously over the flaming pit of the elevator shaft.

“For me, this would have been my finest publication, Wakefield,” Osgood said meditatively, in the voice of a eulogy. “Only conceive of what a treasure it would have made! Not only to have rescued my firm from our rivals but to have done proper justice to Mr. Dickens's very last work and restore it to the reading public. But for you, the ending of Drood is even more. It's your life. Isn't it? These last six installments could destroy you, since all eyes around would have been on their every word.”

“And that's why you'll drop it!” Wakefield yelled, losing the remnants of his composure. “Let it go!”

Two more big explosions burst the air from below… the final moans from a roasting Herman… the flames exhaling up and licking at the ironworks of the shaft, turning it into a gigantic open chimney and reminding Osgood that all his choices were gone.

“Drood?” Molasses, said, gasping at the realization. “That's Drood in there?”

“Quiet!” Wakefield yelled. “Come, Osgood.”

Osgood nodded obediently to Wakefield. “I will let go, Wakefield. I promised, and I do as I promise.”

“I know it, Osgood.”

“But you must hope,” Osgood continued, “that whole way between the Medical College and here I didn't stop for a moment to switch it for some worthless papers, or stuff this with leaves or blank stationery. Are you confident enough that I would destroy what I've searched for all this time, even for the sake of a woman? Are you absolutely certain?”

“I am, Osgood. You love her.”

“Yes,” Osgood said, unhesitating. Rebecca for a moment lost all her terror. “But tell me, Mr. Wakefield,” Osgood continued, “would you find it anywhere inside of you to ever do that, to destroy every-thing you've wanted to protect someone you love?”

Wakefield's eyes widened, his brow poured sweat. Slowly, he stepped toward Osgood. Now he trained his gun on the publisher as he inched toward the satchel.

“Don't think of moving a muscle, Osgood,” said Wakefield, steadying the gun at Osgood's forehead. The publisher nodded his head in surrender. Osgood's gaze shifted to Rebecca, and in that moment he looked in her eyes she knew what to do.

Here Wakefield slipped his hand into the satchel and out came the thick bundle of papers covered in iron gall ink, with yellow shards of the plaster statue clinging to it. He held the gun steady in one hand while with the other he brought the pages to his face. After a moment of quiet suspense, a dark shadow passed over his expression. Awkwardly using two fingers of his gun-holding hand, he flipped the page back to see the next one, then the next one, then finally skipped ahead to the last one.

His face concentrated, contorted with a baffled entrancement. As everything but the manuscript seemed to drift from Wakefield's sight, Rebecca raced forward. She pushed Wakefield from behind with all her strength. Man and manuscript entangled. His instincts empowering him, Wakefield's hand gripped the the ironworks and he raised his pistol at Osgood's head with his other hand-but the fire below had sent the heat through the iron, and now steam rose from under Wakefield's ungloved hand. His hand yielding, Wakefield went plunging down the elevator shaft, all the way down in a screaming drop into the inferno. As he fell, the pages fluttered through the air around him. They fed the flame like fresh wood in a winter hearth. Wakefield crashed and shrieked inhumanly.

In his last moments, his eye seemed to fall on one of Dickens's final pages just as it curled into ashes. And all was devoured as one.

Osgood, ashen pale, hugging his rib cage with his arms, dropped limply to his knees in exhaustion, terror, and