Robert McCammon - Mister Slaughter

"Six. The first had an unforeseen flaw and suffered a premature combustion. The second fell off a coach and was broken. The third and fourth actually were in use for several months, but never um served their purpose before the highwaymen were caught."

"And what about the fifth and sixth?"

"I recall I sold those, for quite a nice price. To one of my clients for whom I have also created a clock."

"Then you're saying the fifth and sixth boxes were never used by anyone but this client?"

"As far as I know. She said she had need of a thief trap herself, because she didn't have complete trust in some of her workers. Actually, she decided to buy the pair."

"She?" Matthew prodded. "What's the name?"

"Mrs. Gemini Lovejoy," said Quisenhunt. "She owns Paradise."

"Paradise," Matthew repeated.

"Mrs. Lovejoy owns the Paradise farm," Quisenhunt explained. "It's on the south side of town, a few miles out between Red Oak and Chester."

"A farm." Matthew thought he must be sounding like an idiot.

"It's titled a farm," said the inventor, "but Mrs. Lovejoy-a very generous, charming woman, by the way-takes care of elderly people there."

"Elderly people." Stop that! Matthew told himself.

"That's right. It's a place where how shall I put this elderly people in need of care are brought by their families, who can no longer keep them."

"You mean they're ill?"

"Possibly that. Possibly they are hard to handle. To control. Like children can be. Hard to feed, or to um well, many things. She's told me all about it."

"Is this a Quaker institution?"

"I think she receives some money from the town, if that's what you mean. But she originated the concept. She believes it will become more popular an idea as time goes on."

"Quite a concept," Matthew said quietly. He regarded the pistols again. His mild expression masked the jolting memory he'd had of Greathouse reading off Slaughter's aliases from the article of possession that first day at the Westerwicke hospital: Count Edward Bowdewine, Lord John Finch and Earl Anthony Lovejoy .

Lovejoy.

Quite a coincidence, as well.

"Listen," Quisenhunt said, scratching the back of his neck. "You're telling me that one of the thief traps I sold to Mrs. Lovejoy wound up in the possession of this Slaughter criminal?"

"I am. It was number six."

"That's very odd. I sold them to her well, it's written in my ledger upstairs but I'm sure it was long before the highwaymen were caught. And I've seen her many times since then, but she's never mentioned being robbed, or the box being stolen."

"Yes," Matthew agreed. "Odd."

"How can that be explained, then?"

Matthew thought the question over. Turned it this way and that. And at last he posed his own question: "Do you know where I might buy a suit?"

"My dear Mr. Shayne!" said the woman who rose from her chair at his entrance into the room. "So very good to meet you." She came forward slowly and gracefully, offering her hand, and as Matthew took it and gave it the obligatory kiss he wondered if she was thinking of how she ought to kill him.

But she was smiling warmly enough. "Sit down, won't you?" She motioned toward the chair on the other side of the black-lacquered desk. "Opal?" This was directed to the young girl who'd shown him in. "Take Mr. Shayne's hat and cloak, please. And bring him what would you like, sir? Tea? Coffee? A glass of brandy?"

"Tea would be fine. Very strong, if you please." He turned to glance at the serving-girl, who he imagined shot a look at his crotch. Matthew removed his newly-bought charcoal-gray cloak and dark green tricorn and gave them to the girl, who-and this was no imagining-rubbed her hip along his own as she turned to leave. Matthew thought she'd had much practice at this sort of thing, because she'd covered the maneuver with his cloak and it was over and done so quickly nothing was left but the tingle.

"Sit down, sit down!" said Mrs. Lovejoy, motioning toward his chair. She was still smiling, still warm, and perhaps she didn't want to kill him after all. Perhaps she knew nothing of any monster named Tyranthus Slaughter; perhaps there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for Slaughter's possession of the sixth thief trap that Oliver Quisenhunt had made and sold to her.

Perhaps, perhaps; but Matthew still intended to pass today as a young lawyer named Micah Shayne, and he intended to make it stick. Shayne after the name Faith Lindsay had given him, Micah after the first name of a very kind and energetic tailor on Spruce Street. The tailor had taken a look at the gold coin Matthew had offered and set to work altering a dark green suit left over in the shop when the young merchant it was going to had lost a substantial sum betting on dog-versus-rat fights out in the woods north of town. A little bringing in here and letting out there, and this dog was ready to fight.

Two more days had passed since Matthew's visit to the inventor's house. A shave and a hot bath had done wonders. Also, his bruises had faded to mere murmurs of themselves, though they would still enter themselves into any conversation, and of course the plaster would remain below his left eye for awhile longer. Last night, in his room at Mrs. Angwire's boarding house on Fifth Street, he had unwound the leather from his palms and feet and found everything sufficently healed. His thoughts went to Greathouse's condition; he hoped the great one had been so fortunate. But now he had to think only about tomorrow, and his meeting with Gemini Lovejoy.

Thus this cool, sunny morning he had secured a horse from the Fourth Street stable, ridden along a pleasant pastoral route with its gentle wooded hills, its rich farmfields, its wide pastures and meticulous stone walls, and just past the Speed The Plow tavern turned his mount onto a well-kept road toward the northwest. Soon enough he saw straddling the road a huge wrought-iron arch, painted white, with the word Paradise in blue letters above his head as he passed beneath. He had obviously arrived at someone's idea of Heaven.

"I presume we shall be feeling the first touch of winter soon," said Mrs. Lovejoy, having seated herself across from him.

"I'm sure," said Matthew.

"I do enjoy the autumn. The crispness of the air makes one feel so fresh, so alive, after the doldrums of summer."

"Absolutely alive." He had seen her gaze drift over the bruises and the plaster. "You have a letter for me, then?"

"Yes, madam, I do." Matthew retrieved the envelope from an inner pocket of his coat. On the envelope, Quisenhunt had written To My Dear Gemini Lovejoy, Concerning Mr. Micah Shayne . It never hurt to have a proper introduction. Matthew gave her the envelope. Mrs. Lovejoy opened it with one quick snap from a brass blade on her tabletop and, as the lady read the letter, Matthew attempted to also read the lady.

She was probably in her mid-forties, and very handsome in the way of a lioness. Matthew of course had never seen a lioness but he had read descriptions of them. Mrs. Lovejoy fit the bill. The proud crown of tawny hair that was pulled back from her face and arranged in a display of curls about her shoulders was probably more appropriate for the male lion, but there it was nonetheless. The gray was not so outspoken yet, though it had begun to announce itself at the temples. She was not a small woman, nor was she oversized; she had big bones, and she made no attempt to hide them by wearing a gown with voluminous folds and frills. She was dressed simply, in a very beautiful indigo-dyed gown with a puff of tasteful cream-colored ruffle at the throat and cuffs, and on her feet were sensible black shoes decorated with black ribbons.

Matthew watched her read. She was devouring every word, and had one hand up to rest her chin upon. He could envision her, like a lioness, reclining on her throne of rocks on some African hillside, and peering into the ruddy distance for the dust trail of a weaker beast. He'd already noted that her eyes were clear green, wide-set and slightly almond-shaped, and that her jaw was square and firm and her forehead high as would befit a regal cat. Her nose was long and sharp-tipped, her mouth large enough to gnaw a bone or two. Dear God, he thought, he was thinking with Hudson Greathouse's brain. As yet Matthew hadn't gotten a close look at her teeth, and wasn't sure he wanted to. She blinked slowly, taking her time. He saw she wore no rings, but on both wrists were filigreed gold bracelets.