Poe must die

“Yer about to tear off a hunk of that nice seat cover. Yer knuckles is white.”

Quickly Poe released his grip on the seat. Violence. It drew him as a bird was drawn to a hypnotizing snake. But his love of it was disgusting. Why did he love it so? And there was the exhilaration of it, surpassing that of drugs and Poe had tried mind expanding substances on more than one occasion, suffering depressions at the conclusion of such an indulgence.

He’d wanted to embrace death, to end this life, but that was in the past. Now there was Rachel. His reason to live.

Figg was on his feet staring at him. Poe looked as though he were about to cough up all his insides. Got to get him talking, get him moving about.

“Jonathan ain’t the kind to give up, it seems.”

Poe shoved his trembling fists into the pockets of his overcoat. “Speak to the man lying there. That one in the aisle, he is-”

“No sense talkin’ to ’em. ‘E ain’t got much to say.”

Figg looked down at the groaning minstrel now trying to sit up from the seat. Blood mingled with-the burnt cork on the man’s face and the sight was not a pleasant one even to Figg, who had seen more than his share of gore. “Who sent you, mate?”

Behind Figg, Poe said, “The attack lacks Jonathan’s sorcery. These were paid hooligans, hired takers of life.”

Figg kicked the minstrel in the leg. The man flinched with pain and tried to back away in the seat. “I says to you mate, who’s yer keeper? Who called the tune for this little dance?”

Figg slipped into the seat opposite the frightened man. “Yer two friends is no longer with us. I can arrange for you to join them, if you wish.”

“M-Miles Standish. Hugh-Hugh Larney and Volney Gunning.”

Figg looked up at Poe, who nodded.

Poe said, “Rachel could have told them where we were. We must find the conductor, the bearded gentleman with the nervous twitch. He is somehow involved, for he is the one who prevented others from entering this car.”

“After that,” said Figg, “it’s me for Miles Standish and his fop friend, Mr. Larney. If they have any connection with Jonathan, I am all for beatin’ Jonathan’s whereabouts out of ’em.”

Poe nodded, chewing a corner of his mouth. “I fear for the safety of Mrs. Coltman. Events are moving swiftly and it is possible she is caught in this most treacherous current. When we reach New York, you seek out Miles Standish at his office and I shall go to the home of Mrs. Coltman. If she is well, I shall join you at the home of Miles Standish as quickly as possible.”

Figg grunted, getting up from his seat and walking back down the aisle to the body of the man whose throat he’d cut. After looking down at it for several seconds, Figg stepped between the seats and opened a window. Returning to the body, he folded his frock coat into a crude pillow, placed it beneath the dead man’s head, then suddenly drew it away, letting the man’s head fall sharply to the floor.

Gently touching the dead man’s forehead, Figg stared at him for a few more seconds, then stood up. When he saw that Poe had been watching him, he blushed as though embarrassed. Wiping the tiny knife on the dead man’s chest, Figg then stuck it back into his belt. “Let us be gettin’ on to look for that conductor, Mr. Poe.”

He pushed past Poe, found his flat wooden box, then reached up into an overhead luggage rack for his carpetbag. Without a further word, the boxer limped up the aisle, his broad back to Poe who silently watched Figg walk away from him.

Figg is an extension of the ancient tribes, thought Poe. The rituals still live within him and customs lie deep within the recesses of his mind and he knows nothing of how they came to be there.

Pierce James Figg. He opens the window in order that the soul of the dead man can easily depart. He makes simple the soul’s departure by Drawing the Pillow, using his own coat and he Touches the Dead in a most respectful manner, to show that there is naught but harmony between the two of them.

His face reddens with shame at having me see him do these things, for he does not like to be reminded of what he and Jonathan share, what all mankind shares, for we here on earth are unified in more things that we choose to believe.

Poe followed Figg down the aisle and into the next car.

TWENTY-NINE

Jonathan’sfingers trembled with excitement, making it difficult for him to strap the scalpel to his left wrist. The Throne of Solomon. Within days, it could be his. Days.

“Sproul has Mrs. Coltman in the Old Brewery. Yes it is a fortress against the outside world, but Sproul is not secure from me. I shall enter the Old Brewery and kill him.”

He held out his right wrist so that Laertes could strap a second scalpel there. Laertes said, “And you believe the body of Justin Coltman is there?”

Jonathan’s eyes were bright. “Yes. Sproul is where he feels totally safe. He is grief-stricken and his thinking has become more accessible to me, more predictable, though I did not foresee him revenging himself upon Poe, particularly in this manner. And note Poe’s penchant for survival. In tandem he and Figg removed the crosseyed Johnnie Bill Baker from this vale of tears. Our Sproul is making a final stand of sorts, therefore all that he considers dear or valuable must be near him. The body of Justin Coltman is not far from Hamlet Sproul. I shall have Sproul and he shall tell me the location of Mr. Coltman’s current resting place.”

Laertes said, “It is a shame about Mrs. Coltman. Even the police cannot help her.”

Jonathan sat down, extending a leg so that Laertes could pull a boot on it. The hunt was almost over and all that he had ever dreamed of was almost within his grasp. First Sproul, then the corpse of Justin Coltman. And the Throne of Solomon. He closed his eyes, dizzy with the thought of it all.

“Servants have described the Irish looters to the police and it is a dolt who does not know where Irish thugs run to ground. The constabulary has detected her whereabouts as being in Five Points, but it has not pinpointed her as being in the Old Brewery. The police, as usual, will refuse to enter that building under any circumstances, preferring to live as cowards rather than die as underpaid heroes.”

Boots on, Jonathan stood up. He felt strong, invincible. Asmodeus would be pacified. One way or another, Jonathan would hold the demon at bay until he could complete the ritual. Just get the body from Sproul. That’s all. And he now knew where Sproul was.

“Be grateful for the vices of men, Laertes. In Five Points, the looters of Rachel Coltman’s richly furnished Fifth Avenue mansion are selling their ill-gotten gains to buy the swill that passes for alcohol.”

Jonathan reached for his cloak. “And drunken men talk, Laertes. They talk of a beautiful woman with long red hair, who is held prisoner in the Old Brewery. And those I pay talk to me. Yes, Laertes, one must drink a toast to vice.”

He paused. “Sarah is overdue. Should she return while I am gone, tell her to remain here. She is to forget about Lorenzo Ballou until I come back, for if I have the body of Justin Coltman, then the ritual must begin at once. I will need help.”

Laertes nodded.

Jonathan sneered. “I look forward to hearing of Sarah’s visit to Poe cottage, where our indigent poet shares quarters with his aged mother-in-law. Did you know, Laertes, that scandalmongers are busy with the tale of a romantic liaison between our Poe and his dear Muddy?”

Laertes snorted.

Jonathan said, “Mr. Poe avoids pleasures of the flesh, showing a discipline in this area that is missing in other parts of his life. I suspect, Laertes, that our poet is, forgive me, untouched. I suspect he is as virginal as new fallen snow, for his history indicates a lack of interest in carnal matters.” Jonathan chuckled. “He is ill, after all and where would he find the strength.”