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One moment's courage, and it is done.
God, how he wanted to laugh, but he kept it inside.
His big bowie knife was in his hand. He didn't know quite how it had gotten there. He went to work on the lid of the box, first removing brass screws, then removing the hinges.
One moment's courage…
The lid crashed heavily to the floor, but he never heard it. His horror was too great for that. After all this time, the stink of garlic burned his nostrils, scorched his lungs. But that wasn't the hell of it.
The hell of it was that she had moved.
Oh,
she hadn't moved. He knew that. He could see the stake spearing her poor breast, the breast that he had teased between his own lips. She couldn't move. Not with the stake there.
But the churning Atlantic had rocked a sailing ship, and that had moved her. And a bucking wagon had jostled over the rutted roads of Texas, and that had moved her. And now her poor head, her poor severed head with all that dark and beautiful hair, was trapped between her own sweet legs, nestled between her own tender thighs, just as his head had been.
Once. A long time ago.
Maybe, once again…
No. He wouldn't start thinking like that. He stared at her head, knowing he'd have to touch it. There was no sign of decay, no stink of corruption. But he could see the buds of garlic jammed into the open hole of her throat, the ragged gashes and severed muscles, the dangling ropes of flesh.
In his mind's eye, he saw Seward standing stiff and straight with a scalpel in his bloodstained grip.
And that bastard called himself a doctor.
There were shadows, of course, in their secret place in the Westenra garden. And he held her, as he had before. But now she never stopped shaking.
"You shouldn't have done it," she said. "Arthur is behaving like one of Seward's lunatics. You must be careful."
"You're the one has to be careful, Lucy," he said.
"No." She laughed. "Mother has disregarded the entire episode. Well, nearly so. She's convinced that I behaved quite recklessly-and this judging from one kiss on the terrace. I had to assure her that we did nothing more than tour the garden in search of a better view of the moon. I said that was the custom in Texas. I'm not certain that she accepted my story, but…" She kissed him, very quickly. "I've feigned illness for her benefit, and she believes that I am in the grip of a rare and exotic fever. Seward has convinced her of this, I think. Once I'm pronounced fit, I'm certain that she will forgive your imagined indiscretion."
"Now, Miss Lucy, I don't think that was my
imagination," he joked.
She laughed, trembling laughter there in his arms. "Seward has consulted a specialist. A European fellow. He's said to be an expert in fevers of the blood. I'm to see him tomorrow. Hopefully that will put an end to the charade."
He wanted to say it. More than anything, he wanted to say,
Forget tomorrow. Let's leave here, tonight. But he didn't say it, because she was trembling so.
"You English," he said. "You do love your charades."
Moonlight washed the shadows. He caught the wild look in her eye. A twin to the fearful look a colt gets just before it's broken.
He kept his silence. He
was imagining things. He held her. It was the last time he would hold her, alive.
THREE
Quincey pushed through the double-doors of the saloon and was surprised to find it deserted except for a sleepy-eyed man who was polishing the piano.
"You the piano player?" Quincey asked.
"Sure," the fellow said.
Quincey brought out the Peacemaker. "Can you play ' Red River Valley '?"
"S-sure." The man sat down, rolled up his sleeves.
"Not here," Quincey said.
"H-huh?"
"I got a big house on the edge of town."
The man swallowed hard. "You mean Mr. Owens' place?"
"No. I mean my place."
"H-huh?"
"Anyway, you go on up there, and you wait for me." The man rose from the piano stool, both eyes on the Peacemaker, and started toward the double-doors.
"Wait a minute," Quincey said. "You're forgetting something."
"W-what?"
"Well, I don't have a piano up at the house."
"Y-you don't?"
"Nope."
"Well… Hell, mister, what do you want me to do?"
Quincey cocked the Peacemaker. "I guess you'd better start pushing."
"You mean…you want me to take the piano with me?"
Quincey nodded. "Now, I'll be home in a couple hours or so. You put the piano in the parlor, then you help yourself to a glass of whiskey. But don't linger in the parlor, hear?"
The man nodded. He seemed to catch on pretty quick. Had to be that he was a stranger in these parts.
Quincey moved on. He stopped off at Murphy's laundry, asked a few questions about garlic, received a few expansive answers detailing the amazing restorative power of Mrs. Murphy's soap, after which he set a gu
Next Quincey stopped off at the church with a bottle of whiskey for the preacher. They chatted a bit, and Quincey had a snort before moving on, just to be sociable.
He had just stepped into the home of Mrs. Danvers, the best seamstress in town, when he glanced through the window and spotted Hal Owens coming his way, two men in tow, one of them being the sheriff.
Things were never quite so plain in England. Oh, they were just as dangerous, that was for sure. But, with the exception of lunatics like Arthur Holmwood, the upper-crust of Whitby cloaked their confrontational behavior in a veil of politeness.
Three nights ru
So did Mrs. Westenra's. She blamed Quincey for her daughter's poor health. He wanted to tell her that the whole thing was melodrama, and for her benefit, too, but he held off.
And that was when the old woman slipped up. Or maybe she didn't, because her voice was as sharp as his bowie, and it was plain that she intended to do damage with it. "Lucy's condition is quite serious," she said. "Her behavior of late, which Dr. Seward has described in no small detail… Well, I mean to tell you that Lucy has shown little consideration for her family or her station, and there is no doubt that she is quite ill. We have placed her in hospital, under the care of Dr. Seward and his associates."
Mrs. Westenra had torn away the veil. He would not keep silent now. He made it as plain as plain could be. "You want to break her. You want to pocket her, heart and soul."
She seemed to consider her answer very carefully. Finally, she said, "We only do what we must."
"Nobody wants you here," Owens said.
Quincey gri
Of course, that had happened an ocean away, and Dr. Seward hadn't had a gun. But he'd had a needle, and that had done the job for him right proper.
Quincey stared down at Mrs. Danvers' sewing table. There were needles here, too. Sharp ones, little slivers of metal. But these needles weren't attached to syringes. They weren't like Dr. Seward's needles at all.
Something pressed against Quincey's stomach. He blinked several times, but he couldn't decide who was standing in front of him. Owens, or Seward, or…