Matthew Corbett 03 - Mister Slaughter

shirt and a beige coat. The strap of a brown canvas haversack slung diagonally across his chest. He knew whose boots were on the killer's feet.

'That red bastard got me,' Slaughter said. 'Just a nick, though. Be right as rain in a few days.' He grinned, showing a mouthful of teeth which appeared larger now that he was clean-shaven. 'Matthew, Matthew, Matthew!' He made a clucking noise with his tongue and rested the pistol's barrel on Lark's shoulder. 'Keep that gun down by your side, now. Don't touch the striker. Tell me: what am I going to do with you?'

Matthew made a quick examination of Lark and Faith, who stood tethered by the killer's cord. Faith had left this world; she stood with her face downcast, her hair in her eyes. Her mouth was moving, perhaps repeating in her mind over and over some moment of childhood that sustained her even on this black morning. Like a child, also, she looked to have tripped and fallen on their journey here, for her nose and chin were both skinned and bloodied and dead leaves clung to the front of her dress.

Lark's eyes, though swollen red and surrounded by dark hollows, still held the shine of intelligence. She had been recently slapped, for a handprint showed on her left cheek. Matthew saw the vivid scratches where Slaughter's fingernails had caught her. She stared silently across the divide at him, and lifted her chin as a way to tell him she was yet all there in the mind.

'Well,' Matthew said, as easily as he could with Slaughter's pistol aimed in his general direction, 'you can drop your gun, untie the ladies, crawl across this oak like the slug you are and give yourself up, for I am arresting you in the name of New York, both town and colony, the Queen's Constable, the Queen herself, and the country of England. How does that sound?'

His intention had been for Slaughter to lose his temper, blow himself up like a bullfrog, and take a shot; the distance between them-near forty feet, from where Matthew was standing at the oak's roots-would severely test the flintlock's accuracy, and Matthew thought that if push came to shove he could get off his own prayerful shot and scramble across that damned tree before Slaughter could reload. He hoped.

But alas, it was not to be. Slaughter just laughed; the slow tolling of funeral bells freighted the air. 'You are worthy,' he said, when his laughter was done. He didn't say worthy of what, but Matthew suspected he meant worthy of a slow, excruciating execution.

'Lark?' Matthew spoke to the girl, but kept his eyes on Slaughter's trigger finger. 'Are you all right?'

'Never been better,' Slaughter said. 'A little piece of custard pie, this one is.' His arm moved, and now the pistol's barrel played with her locks of blonde hair. 'Want the leftovers?'

Matthew felt the slow boil of rage in his guts. Taunting me to lose my temper and take the first shot, he thought. As Walker had said, You know him well. I think he must know you well, too.

'Matthew?' Lark's voice was steady; she had not given up, she had not broken. She was, he thought, an incredibly strong girl. If they got out of this, he would take both of them to New York, find care for her mother and what? Somehow erase all this horror from Lark's mind? 'I want you to know,' she went on, 'that I my mother and I we're-'

'Blah de blah blah,' Slaughter interrupted. 'Is he dead?'

Matthew looked down at Walker. The Indian lay motionless, gray-faced, his eyes open but seeing nothing. A trickle of blood had leaked from his mouth. 'Yes,' Matthew answered.

'Throw the body over,' Slaughter said.

Matthew stared across at the other man. 'You come do it.'

'I gave you an order, young sir.'

'I'm not in your army.' He offered a purposefully-mocking smile. 'I'm surprised at you! A stalwart soldier, afraid of a dead Indian? He was my friend, Slaughter; I'm not throwing him over like a grainsack.'

Slaughter paused; he worked his tongue in and out of his cheeks, and then he said brightly, 'Leave him for the buzzards then, I don't give a shit. The business at hand, Matthew, concerns your coming across that tree. When you set foot on this side, and I blow your brains out, the two little squats go free. My word of honor. And as I told you, I never lie to men who are not fools. You, sir, have proven yourself to be no fool. Stupid, yes, but a fool no. Therefore, I do not lie.'

'I appreciate the compliment. But being no fool, I should have to ask after my departure from this earthly realm, how long will they remain free?'

'Ahhhhh,' said Slaughter, and grinned again. 'Ouch! You're making my head hurt.'

'Your truths are lies, Slaughter,' Matthew told him. 'You know I'm going to follow you, wherever you go. You know I'm not going to stop.' His heart was beating hard at this presumption that he would still be alive in the next few minutes. 'If you give yourself up, here and now, I promise-'

'That the fucking noose doesn't cause me to shit in my pants?' Slaughter had nearly roared it, making Faith jump and give a muffled little child's cry. 'That I get a garland of red roses upon my fucking grave?' His face had also bloomed rose-red, so much so that small creepers of blood began to appear at his nostrils. In his rage he had swollen up again, all huge shoulders and massive monster's chest, spittle upon his lips and the red lamp of murder in the pond-ice eyes. 'You idiot! You charlatan of a constable! What can you promise me?'

Matthew was silent until the tirade had passed. Then he said, 'I promise that I will endeavor to buy you a title before you are hanged, and that it will be so marked on your stone.' Katherine Herrald would have special connections; maybe she could be talked into arranging it.

Slaughter's face froze, his mouth half-open. Slowly, very slowly, his expression began to thaw. 'Well said,' he allowed. 'The one thing I so devoutly wish, given to me what? an hour before I swing? And possibly marked on a black brick at the ass-end of Hammer's Alley? Oh but it's impossible, Matthew, bless your heart; you see, even if I was fool enough to give myself up, as you put it, I wouldn't live to cross the Atlantic.'

'And why might that be?'

'I have,' he said, 'a very strict employer.'

Matthew frowned, puzzled by that statement. Employer? He was about to ask who that was when Slaughter thumbed his pistol to full-cock and held it against the side of Lark's head.

'You will throw your gun over,' Slaughter directed, staring cold-eyed and remorseless at his enemy. 'Now, young sir, or I shall have to scorch some blonde hair.'

Matthew had no doubt it would be done. Though Slaughter couldn't reload again before Matthew got across the log, that would be no help for Lark. His bullpup was useless at this range. He could refuse and then what? No, he had to get closer to Slaughter. Try to make the man take a shot. He threw the gun into the ravine.

'The shooter's bag, too. Let's not be hiding anything I don't know about.' When it was gone, Slaughter lowered the gun but kept it aimed between Matthew and the girl. 'Sensible. Now we shall see what sort of a true- blue knight you really are. Come across the tree, like a good lad.'

'Matthew!' Lark called, but he didn't look at her.

'Hush,' Slaughter said. 'Let him do what he must.'

Matthew slowly climbed up on the oak and, sitting on it, began to slide himself forward. It was a very long way down, upon the treacherous rocks. His throat was dry; his mouth had no spit in it. He heard himself breathing like a bellows while his mind raced to figure how to save their lives. If he could make Slaughter fire a shot before he got too much closer but the distance was narrowing, and he might just have to leap at Slaughter and take his chances that the ball would not kill him outright. For this Englishman, time did not stop nor stand still. 'A little faster, if you please,' Slaughter said. 'Don't mind your breeches, where you're going they'll give you a fresh pair with your name sewn across the bum, I'm sure.'

Onward Matthew pushed himself, and now he was nearly halfway across. His legs were dangling over. He thought how much he'd hate it if he lost one of his moccasins. The sweat had beaded on his face; it ran in rivulets under his shirt.

'I will make it quick. That I would do for any worthy opponent. Right in the back of the head. Candle snuffed, the end. I'll do the same for them as well.'

'Matthew!' Lark called, and when he looked at her he saw she had grasped her mother's hand. A strange kind of light gleamed in her eyes. Madness? Determination? 'Just try, is all I ask.'

'Oh, he's trying all right,' Slaughter replied. 'He's trying to think how to get out of this. Can't you see his