Robert McCammon - Speaks the Nightbird

"Hiram Abercrombie is one, " Bidwell answered. "Malcolm Jennings is the other."

"Well, neither of those fools could hit a horse in the head with an axe! Green, I said give me the pistol!"

"Stay where you are, Mr. Green, " Matthew said.

"Matthew!" Winston spoke up. "Don't be foolish!"

"A pistol in this man's hand will mean someone's death." Matthew kept his eyes directed into Johnstone's. Bloodhound and fox were now locked together in a duel of wills. "One bullet, one death, I assure you."

"The pistol! I won't ask again before I start cutting!"

"Oh, is this the instrument?" Matthew asked. "The very one? Something you bought in Charles Town, I presume?"

"Damn you, you talk too fucking much!" Johnstone pushed the blade's tip into the side of Matthew's neck. The pain almost sent Matthew to his knees, and it did bring tears to his eyes and make him clench his teeth. In fact, his whole body clenched. But he was damned if he'd cry out or otherwise display agony. The blade had entered only a fraction of an inch, deep enough to cause warm blood to well out and trickle down his neck, but it had not nicked an artery. Matthew knew Johnstone was simply raising the stakes in their game.

"Would you like a little more of it?" Johnstone asked.

Bidwell had positioned himself to one side of the men, and therefore saw the blood. "For God's sake!" he brayed. "Green! Give him the pistol!"

Before Matthew could protest, he heard Green's clumping boots behind him and the pistol's grip was offered to Johnstone. The weapon was instantly snatched into Johnstone's hand, but the blade remained exactly where it was, blood-deep and drinking.

"The wagon, Bidwell!" Johnstone demanded, now aiming the pistol at Matthew's midsection. "Get it ready!"

"Yes, do get it ready." Matthew was speaking with an effort. It wasn't every day he talked with a knife blade in his neck. "And while you're at it, fix the wheels so they'll fall off two hours or so down the road. Why don't you take a single horse, Johnstone? That way it can step into a rut in the dark, throw you, and break your neck and be done with it. Oh… wait! Why don't you simply go through the swamp? I know some lovely suckpits that would be glad to take your boots."

"Shut up! I want a wagon! I want a wagon, because you're going with me!"

"Oh ho!" With an even greater effort, Matthew forced himself to grin. "Sir, you're an excellent comedian after all!"

"You think this is funny?" Johnstone's face was contorted with rage. He blew spittle. "Shall you laugh harder through the slit in your throat or the hole in your gut?"

"The real question is: shall you laugh, when your intended hostage is on the floor and your pistol is empty?"

Johnstone's mouth opened. No sound emerged, but a silver thread of saliva broke over his lower lip and fell like the undoing of a spider's web.

Carefully, Matthew took a backward step. The blade's tip slid from his neck. "Your problem, sir, " he said as he pressed his fingers to the small wound, "is that your friends and associates seem to have short spans of life. If I were to accompany you in a wagon, my own life span would be dramatically reduced. So: I dislike the idea of dying-greatly dislike it-but since I shall certainly die somewhere if I follow your wishes, it would be better to die here. That way, at least, the sterling gentlemen in this room may rush you and end this hopeless fantasy of escape you have seized upon. But actually, I don't think anyone would mind if you were to run for it.

Just go. Out the front door. I swear I'll be silent. Of course, Mr. Bidwell, Mr. Green-or even Mrs. Nettles, whom I see there in the doorway-might shout a warning to the axemen. Let me think." He frowned. "Two axes, versus a knife and one bullet. Yes, you might get past them. Then you could go to… well, where would you go, Mr. Johnstone? You see, that's the thorny part: where would you go?"

Johnstone said nothing. He still pointed both the pistol and knife, but his eyes had blurred like a frost on the fount in midwinter.

"Oh!" Matthew nodded for emphasis. "Through the forest, why don't you? The Indians will grant you safe passage, I'm sure. But you see my condition? I unfortunately met a bear and was nearly killed. Then again, you do have a knife and a single bullet. But… oh… what shall you do for food? Well, you have the knife and bullet. Best take matches, and a lamp. Best go to your house and pack for your trip, and we'll be waiting at the gate to give you a fine farewell. Run along, now!"

Johnstone did not move.

"Oh, my, " Matthew said quietly. He looked from the pistol to the blade and back again. "All dressed up, and nowhere to go."

"I'm… not… "Johnstone shook his head from side to side, in the manner of a gravely wounded animal. "I'm not… done. Not done."

"Hm, " Matthew said. "Picture the theatre, sir. The applause has been given, the bows taken. The audience has gone home. The stagelamps are ever so slowly extinguished. They gave a beautiful dream of light, didn't they? The sets are dismantled, the costumes folded and retired. Someone comes to sweep the stage, and even yesterday's dust is carried away." He listened to the harsh rising and falling of Johnstone's chest.

"The play, " Matthew said, "is over." An anxious silence reigned, and none dared challenge it.

At last Matthew decided a move had to be made. He had seen that the knife's cutting edge had small teeth, which would have severed arteries and vocal cords with one or two swift, unexpected slashes. Especially if one came up behind the victim, clasped a hand over the mouth, and pulled the head back to better offer the throat. Perhaps this wasn't the original cane Johnstone had first brought with him to Fount Royal, but one he'd had made in either Charles Town or England after he'd determined how the murders were to be done.

Matthew held out his hand, risking a blade stab. "Would you give me the pistol, please?" Johnstone's face looked soft and swollen by raging inner pressures. He seemed not to realize Matthew had spoken, but was simply staring into space.

"Sir?" Matthew prompted. "You won't be needing the pistol."

"Uh, " Johnstone said. "Uh." His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. The gasping of an air-drowning fish. Then, in a heartbeat, the consciousness and fury leapt into Johnstone's eyes once more and he backed away two steps, nearly meeting the wall. Behind him was the fanciful map of Fount Royal, with its elegant streets and rows of houses, quiltwork farms, immense orchards, precise naval yard and piers, and at the town's center the life-giving spring.

Johnstone said, "No. I shall not."

"Listen to me!" Bidwell urged. "There's no point to this! Matthew's right, there's nowhere for you to go!"

"I shall not, " Johnstone repeated. "Shall not. Return to prison. No. Never."

"Unfortunately, " Matthew said, "you have no choice in the matter."

"Finally!" Johnstone smiled, but it was a terrible, skull-like grimace. "Finally, you speak a misstatement! So you're not as smart as you think, are you?"

"Pardon me?"

"A misstatement, " he repeated, his voice thickened. "Tell me: though I… know my script was flawed… did I at least play an adequate role?"

"You did, sir. Especially the night the schoolhouse burned. I was taken with your grief."

Johnstone gave a deep, bitter chuckling that might have briefly wandered into the territory of tears. "That was the only time I wasn't acting, boy! It killed my soul to see the schoolhouse burn!"

"What? It really mattered so much to you?"

"You don't know. You see… I actually enjoyed being a teacher. It was like acting, in a way. But… there was greater worth in it, and the audience was always appreciative, I told myself… if I couldn't find any more of the treasure than what I'd discovered… I could stay here, and I could be Alan Johnstone the schoolmaster. For the rest of my days." He stared at the pistol in his hand. "Not long after that, I brought the ruby ring up. And it set me aflame again… about why I was really here." He lifted his face and looked at Matthew. He stared at Winston, Dr. Shields, and Bidwell all in turn.