Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter

the blade into Greathouse's upper back, between the shoulders.

Before Matthew could scramble up from the ground, Greathouse had already been stabbed three times, with a fourth strike already falling. Matthew let out a hoarse cry and did the only thing he could think to do, which was to throw the pistol end over end at Slaughter's head. It hit the man on his shoulder and staggered him, interrupting a fifth strike of the blade. Still he gripped his victim, and then Slaughter swung Greathouse around like a grainsack toward the well.

Greathouse went headfirst over the side. The bucket's rope was hanging down from the overhead windlass, but there was no chance for him to grab hold of it. There was a splash as he hit water below.

Then, all the attention was turned upon Matthew.

Before Matthew, revealed in all his vile glory, stood the killer with the Satanic face whom he'd seen on his first visit to Westerwicke. No pretense was needed now. No disguise. The grinning carnivore lifted his thin, bloody blade, and said pleadingly, 'Run, won't you? Go ahead! Run!'

Matthew heard the echoed sound of choking. Greathouse was about to drown either on well-water or his own blood.

Matthew dared to glance around at the safebox lying a few yards behind him. As soon as he did, he heard Slaughter start coming for him, moving with horrifying power. Matthew ran for the safebox, which had shown its strength by not bursting open on contact with the ground, and picked it up, finding the thing as heavy as guilt. In his current position it was mind over muscle, and he heaved it frantically at Slaughter as the hooked fingernails grasped for his face and the blade swung at his throat.

The box hit Slaughter in the upper body, and bounced off like a bird hitting a brick wall. But the impact drove the air out of him, and gave Matthew the chance to duck under flailing hand and swinging blade and run toward his true destination.

He leaped into the well.

Grasping the bucket-rope, he slid down into the wet dark so fast the skin nearly smoked off his hands. That pain he would deal with later. Suddenly he splashed into the cold water almost on top of Hudson Greathouse, and he clung hold of the bucket with one arm and with the other grasped Greathouse around the chest.

There came the grumble of a wooden mechanism in action. The bucket-rope tightened. Matthew looked up, and saw Slaughter peering down at him about twenty feet above. The bastard was using the windlass crank to pull the bucket up.

Matthew kept his grip on it, treading water and fighting the crank. Beside him, Greathouse coughed and sputtered, and then began to thrash as if coming to his senses to battle for his life.

'So!' Slaughter had released the crank, giving this little skirmish up as lost. His voice echoed down between the rough stones. 'Do you think you're smart, Matthew? Do you think I'm going to let you climb out of there? Well, just stay where you are for a few moments, and I'll show you something!' He disappeared from view.

'Oh ' Greathouse gasped. 'Shit.'

'Hang onto me, I won't let you go.'

'You're the damnedest fool.'

'Just hang on, do you hear?' There was no response. Greathouse's breathing was wet and ragged. 'Do you hear?'

'I hear,' Greathouse said, but the answer was so weak and weary that Matthew feared he would slip under at any second.

From above there came a banging, battering noise. Matthew caught a glimpse of the iron-tipped shovel, being used to knock the windlass out of its supports. Suddenly the bucket-rope went slack, and the rod of wood around which the rope was secured was falling into the well. Matthew angled his body to protect Greathouse, and took a hard blow on his left shoulder. The rope settled into the water, coiling around them.

'I'm afraid that's the end of your rope!' Slaughter began to give his slow funeral-bell laugh, very pleased with his wit. 'Here's something you can dig your graves with!' He reared his arm back, and flung the shovel down into the well as an added instrument of both murder and misery.

Matthew again used his body to shield Greathouse. But before the shovel could do grievous harm its iron edge hit rock, sparks flew, and it bounced back and forth between the walls, losing most of its force as it fell into the water beside Matthew. It sank tip-first, and was gone.

Gone, as well, was Tyranthus Slaughter.

'Damn,' said Greathouse, lifting his face from the water. He had lost his woolen cap, his hair plastered down. Beneath him, his legs were moving only feebly. 'I'm done for.'

'No, you're not.'

'Little you know. Bastard took us. Box blew up.'

'Stop talking and save your strength.'

'Thought I'd been shot.' He winced, and again his face went into the water. Matthew was about to grasp his chin when he sputtered and coughed and drew air again. 'Stabbed me. Old trick, that was.'

'Old trick? What're you talking about?'

'Had it up his ass. When he went down there to shit. Took it out. He told me right there, he told me.'

Greathouse wasn't making any sense. But then Matthew realized what he must mean. At the hospital, Slaughter had said it. They left the joy of looking up my arsehole for you. Matthew thought the silver cylinder, with a blade inside it, must have been a medical instrument. Maybe stolen from a doctor's bag at the Quaker institution, and the theft masked by an assault on another patient. With a man as cunning as Slaughter, anything was possible. There was no telling how long he'd had the blade, ready to use it when the time was right. And today, that time had come.

'I must say farewell now,' Slaughter called down. 'I have to also say, you've been interesting company.'

Greathouse made an unintelligible noise. Matthew said nothing, concentrating on treading water. He was cold and in pain from his shoulder and raw hands, and the effort of keeping both himself and Greathouse above the surface was getting harder.

'It won't be so bad,' Slaughter said. 'Drowning, I mean. Only a little suffering to be endured. But it's easy for me to say, isn't it?'

'We're not dead yet,' Matthew replied.

'Yes,' came the answer, 'you are. But you just don't accept it yet.'

Matthew's legs were beginning to ache. Beside him, Greathouse's breathing sounded like cart wheels over cobblestones.

'Thank you for allowing me some practice.' Slaughter was leaning over the edge, a dark shape without a face. 'Get the rust out of my joints. I appreciate knowing that my judgment of human nature has not been impaired during my time away from the pleasures this world has to offer. So good day, sirs, and may you rot in the deepest pit of Hell set aside for men who think themselves so very smart.' He offered a faceless bow, then drew away from the well and out of Matthew's sight.

'Slaughter! Slaughter!' Matthew shouted, but the man didn't return and Matthew ceased calling because there was no point in it and, anyway, it was another name for cold-blooded murder.

He kept treading water, and trying to think. To compose himself, and fight off the chill tentacles of panic. What had Slaughter said, about this place not being found again until he-Matthew-and Greathouse were moldering in their graves?

Or, moldering at the bottom of a well.

I can't give up! he thought. There has to be a way out of this!

You just don't accept it yet.

'No,' Matthew said, and heard his voice speak back to him, something ghostly about it even now. 'I don't.'

Greathouse shuddered. He drew a long, terrible breath. 'I'm used up,' he said. 'Not a damned thing. Left of me.'

And with that understanding of himself and his limitations in a world so brutal it could hardly be borne, Greathouse the great one, the roughneck, the man of swords, the teacher and friend and Baptist, slipped silently