Robert McCammon - Speaks the Nightbird

"You're right!" Bidwell agreed, his eyes narrowing. "What son of a bitch tried to burn down my town?"

"Early this morning I had a thought about this burning business, and I went to Lancaster's house. The place is still a wreck, as you're aware. Has anyone else been through it?"

"No one would go within a hundred yards of that damn murder house!"

"I thought not, though I did appreciate the fact that the corpse has been disposed of. Anyway, I decided to search a little more thoroughly… and I discovered a very strange bucket in the debris. Evidently it was something Johnstone didn't bother himself with, since it simply appears to be a regular bucket. Perhaps he thought it was full of rat bait or some such."

"Well, then? What was in it?"

"I'm not sure. It appears to be tar. It has a brimstone smell. I decided to leave it where I found it… as I didn't know if it might be flammable, or explode, or what might occur if it were jostled too severely."

"Tar? A brimstone smell?" Alarmed, Bidwell looked at Winston. "By God. I don't like the sound of that!"

"I'm sure it's worth going there to get, " Matthew continued. "Or Mr. Winston might want to go and look at it, and then… I don't know, bury it or something. Would you be able to tell what it was if you saw it, Mr. Winston?"

"Possibly, " Winston answered, his voice tight. "But I'll tell you right now… as you describe it, the stuff sounds like… possibly… infernal fire, Mr. Bidwell?"

"Infernal fire? My God!" Now Bidwell did hammer his desk. "So that's who was burning the houses! But where was he getting the stuff from?"

"He was a very capable man, " Matthew said. "Perhaps he had sulphur for his rat baits or candles or something. Perhaps he cooked some tar and mixed it himself. I have a feeling Lancaster was trying to hurry the process of emptying the town without telling his accomplice. Who knows why?" Matthew shrugged. "There is no honor among thieves, and even less among murderers."

"I'll be damned!" Bidwell looked as if he'd taken a punch to his ponderous gut. "Was there no end to their treacheries, even against each other?"

"It does appear a dangerous bucket, Mr. Winston, " Matthew said. "Very dangerous indeed. If it were up to me, I wouldn't dare bring it back to the mansion for fear of explosion. You might just want to bring a small sample to show Mr. Bidwell. Then by all means bury it and forget where you turned the shovel."

"Excellent advice." Winston gave a slight bow of his head. "I shall attend to it this afternoon. And I am very gratified, sir, that you did not leave this particular rope unknotted."

"Mr. Winston is a useful man, " Matthew said to Bidwell. "You should be pleased to have him in your employ."

Bidwell puffed his cheeks and blew out. "Whew! Don't I know it!"

As Matthew turned away and started out with the treasure box, the master of Fount Royal had to ask one last question: "Matthew?" he said. "Uh… is there any way… any possible way at all… that… the fortune might be recovered?"

Matthew made a display of thought. "As it has flowed along a river to the center of the earth, " he said, "I would think it extremely unlikely. But how long can you hold your breath?"

"Ha!" Bidwell smiled grimly, but there was some good humor in it. "Just because I build ships and I'm going to station a grand navy here… does not mean I can swim. Now go along with you, and if Edward thinks he's going to convince me to give you a free horse and saddle, he is a sadly mistaken duke!"

Matthew left the mansion and walked past the still waters of the spring on his way to the conjunction of streets. Before he reached the turn to Truth, however, he saw ahead of him the approach of a black-clad, black-tricorned, spidery, and wholly loathsome figure.

"Ho, there!" Exodus Jerusalem called, lifting a hand. On this deserted street, the sound fairly echoed. Matthew was sorely tempted to run, but the preacher picked up his pace and met him. Blocked his way, actually.

"What do you want?" Matthew asked.

"A truce, please." Jerusalem showed both palms, and Matthew unconsciously held more securely to the treasure box. "We are packed and ready to leave, and I am on my way to give my regards to Mr. Bidwell."

"Art thou?" Matthew lifted his eyebrows. "Thy speech has suddenly become more common, Preacher. Why is that?"

"My speech? Oh… that!" Jerusalem grinned broadly, his face seamed with wrinkles in the sunlight. "It's an effort to keep that up. Too many thees and thous in one day and my lips near fall off."

"It's part of your performance, you mean?"

"No, it's real enough. My father spoke such, and his father before him. And my son-if I ever have a son-shall as well. Also, however, the widow Lassiter detests it. Gently, of course. She is a very gentle, very warm, very giving woman."

"The widow Lassiter? Your latest conquest?"

"My latest convert, " he corrected. "There is quite a difference. Ah yes, she's a wonderfully warm woman. She ought to be warm, since she weighs almost two hundred pounds. But she has a lovely face and she can surely mend a shirt!" He leaned in a little closer, his grin lecherous. "And she has quite the toll in her skirt, if you catch my meaning!"

"I would prefer not to, thank you."

"Well, as my father always said, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. The one-eyed, stiff beholder, I mean."

"You are a piece of work, aren't you?" Matthew said, amazed at such audacity. "Do you do all your thinking with your private parts?"

"Let us be friends. Brothers under the warming sun. I have heard all about your triumph. I don't fully understand how such a thing was done-the Satan play, I mean-but I am gratified to know that a righteous and innocent woman has been cleared, and that you are also found guiltless. Besides, it would be a damn sin for a looker like that to bum, eh?"

"Excuse me, " Matthew said. "And farewell to you."

"Ah, you may say farewell, but not goodbye, young man! Perchance we'll meet again, further along life's twisting road."

"We might meet again, at that. Except I might be a judge and you might be at the end of a twisting rope."

"Ha, ha! An excellent joke!" Now, however, a serious cast came over the wizened face. "Your magistrate. I-honestly-am very sorry. He fought death to the end, I understand."

"No, " Matthew said. "In the end he accepted it. As I did."

"Yes, of course. That, too. But he did seem a decent man. Too bad he died in a hole like this."

Matthew stared at the ground, a muscle working in his jaw.

"If you like, before I leave I might go to his grave and speak a few words for his eternal soul."

"Preacher, " Matthew said in a strained voice, "all is well with his eternal soul. I suggest you go give your regards to Mr. Bidwell, get in your wagon with your witless brood, and go to-wherever you choose to go. Just leave my sight." He lifted his fierce gaze to the man, and saw the preacher flinch. "And let me tell you that if I but see you walking in the direction of Magistrate Woodward's grave, I will forget the laws of God and man and do my damnedest to put my boot so far up your ass I will kick your teeth out from the inner side. Do you understand me?"

Jerusalem backed away a few steps. "It was only a thought!"

"Good day, goodbye, and good riddance." Matthew sidestepped him and continued on his way.

"Ohhhhh, not goodbye!" Jerusalem called. "Farewell, perhaps! But not goodbye! I have a feeling thou shalt lay eyes on me at some future unknown date, as I travel this ungodly, debased, and corrupted land in the continual-continual, I say-battle against the foul seed of Satan! So I say to thee, brother Matthew, farewell… but never goodbye!"

The voice-which Matthew thought could strip paint off wood if Jerusalem really let it bray-was fading behind him as he turned onto Truth Street. He dared not look back, for he didn't care to become a pillar of salt today.