Part 16 (1/2)

Why, was there ever seen such villainy, So neatly plotted and so well performed?

-Christopher Marlowe, The Jew of Malta (1592)

AREGULAR METALLIC SOUND AND A VOICE WELCOMED NICODEMUS Dunne back to the land of the living.

”Snick, snick,” went the sound.

”b.u.g.g.e.r!” and ”b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!” said the voice.

Through the pain that steadily pounded his head, the patterer recognized the action of a flint and steel-someone was trying to use a tinderbox to make fire. And, it seemed from the oaths, trying unsuccessfully. The tinder, or kindling, would not take a spark from the friction. ”Snick, snick” was the last thing he remembered as he again lost consciousness ...

The clicking and human voice had gone when Dunne woke again from the black pit and blinked his brain back to near full awareness. It seemed to be-still? again?-nighttime and he felt a frisson of cold. At first, that was almost all he could feel: He found he could not move his arms or legs. He flexed his fingers and toes, but movement ended at his wrists and ankles. He did find that he could move his head, though, forward and to each side.

With a sudden fearful thought, he wondered if he had suffered an apoplexy that had paralyzed parts of his body. Then came the realization that, in truth, he was in bondage on the ground, spread-eagled.

One thing: He could see. Out of the corner of one eye, he was able to make out the vague silhouette of the wheelbarrow he had stolen earlier. He could not speak, however; a wad of what tasted like clothing fabric gagged him.

He tried to remain calm. It seemed that he was in much the same area that he remembered before the sudden blow and the dive into unconsciousness. Raising his head as high as possible, he suddenly realized why he felt particularly cold. He was naked; which was also why he could feel the rough ground under his back and limbs.

He must have groaned through the gag. Or perhaps his movement was discernible, constricted though he was. A dim presence-he could not even call it a figure-appeared on one side. A male voice broke the silence: ”So, you're awake, patterer ... Mr. Nicodemus Dunne ... Ring-master!” The last was said as a jeer.

All Dunne could do was gurgle.

”You should know me,” said the voice.

Dunne shook his head. He heard again the conflict of the flint and steel. A spark must have taken in the tinder, for now he could hear the man puffing the glow into further life. Moments later, the captor transferred the flames to a small fire on the ground, too far away to reveal his ident.i.ty or warm the patterer.

”Yes, you certainly should,” repeated the figure. ”You smashed me with a rock when you sided with the Indians-you, a white man, taking their part against your countrymen. All we wanted was some fun, a bit of p.u.s.s.y. Their women are all pink inside, just like ours.

”I looked for you all over, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d. My two mates were too yellow-gutted; they wanted no part of it. But I wasn't going to forget. I finally saw you in the town and found out more about you. You're no more a Ringer than I am. Just an old lag with a fancy tongue, yapping out the news.

”Then, this morning, near the jail, I got lucky. You appeared and joined that train. So it was no secret where you were going and I only had to follow you and wait outside the House of Correction. I don't know who helped you that morning-yet. Maybe you'll tell me. Don't shake your head. I've got ways. But I'll get square with him, too. And those b.l.o.o.d.y blacks.”

The patterer's chest moved convulsively in a coughing spasm and his breathing through his nose seized up. He began to choke and suffocate.

”Can't have that, can we?” said his tormentor. ”You're not going to leave me-yet.” He ripped out the gag and Dunne's breathing gasped gradually back to normal.

”What are you going to do?” whispered the patterer. He could barely make himself heard.

”Do? I'm not going to do do anything to you. Not personally. But my friends here are.” Dunne felt the faintest touches on his chest. There seemed a barely perceptible movement, like someone dusting his skin with a feather. anything to you. Not personally. But my friends here are.” Dunne felt the faintest touches on his chest. There seemed a barely perceptible movement, like someone dusting his skin with a feather.

”You know what that is?”

The patterer shook his head. He was still too hoa.r.s.e to speak properly.

”I'm dropping a handful of bulldog ants on you. There's a nest nearby, almost alongside in fact, and, with a little bit of encouragement, these small fellows, not so small really, will do you in for me. You see? I thought, if I knife you or bash your brains in and if I did get caught, I'd swing. But here's a way that kills you and I won't have harmed a hair on your head.”

Dunne knew the red-and-black bulldog ants, which were called soldier ants because of their ferocity and tenacity. They grew to an inch long and had agonizing stings. But could they be killers?

”Now, how good are they?” said the man, reading Dunne's thoughts. ”Well, a couple will hurt but not necessarily harm. So here's the help I said I'd give them ...”

The patterer felt a rain of scattered sensations, even lighter than those made by the ants, fall on his chest and groin. There were two needles of pain, then a third.

”I'll lay a trail from the nest and dust you all over. They'll follow it-to an even tastier meal: you. The bait? Have a bit yourself.” Some of the rain fell on Dunne's face and lips.

He tasted sugar.

That fatal calling card-again. His inward groan was stifled by a chilling thought: Was it all just crazy coincidence? Or did it mean that, somehow, the mad ma.s.s murderer had turned the tables and caught the hunter?

Then a pitch-topped torch flared to illuminate a face and body standing over the p.r.o.ne prey. The patterer could not recognize the young man he had flattened at the Miller's Point. Something about him was familiar, though.

”You know what they'll do to you?” The voice was excited. ”These little b.u.g.g.e.rs will eat you alive. They'll bite you so hard that you'll pray you could tear your skin off. They'll creep into your eyes and into your ears, up your nose and into your mouth. They like sweat and body muck. You'll flinch and struggle and maybe squash a few. That'll only make them angrier. And they'll crawl up your a.r.s.e and even into the eye of your c.o.c.k.”

”s.h.i.+t!” said the patterer. It came out only as a strangled sob. His captor nodded and laughed.

Then deliverance came on a divine wind.

CHAPTER FORTY.

Where does a wise man hide a leaf?

In the forest.

-G. K. Chesterton, ”The Sign of the Broken Sword” (1911)

THERE WAS THE SMALLEST OF WHISPERS IN THE NIGHT AIR, A THUD. Still holding the torch with one hand, the man suddenly stiffened and gasped. His free hand clutched at an odd, foot-long shaft that jutted out, as if by magic, from his chest. Even in the flare, Dunne could see that the eyes staring down had widened in fearful wonder.

Before the torch dropped to the ground in a cascade of sparks, the patterer saw the man falter and a great gout of s.h.i.+ning liquid spout from a silent mouth. The falling figure with its deadly spike narrowly missed Dunne and lay still, apparently pinned to the ground; the other, greater part of the shaft reared up from his back, six or so feet in the air.

The patterer heard bodies thras.h.i.+ng through undergrowth, then a knife was slas.h.i.+ng at his bonds and a voice in his ear was saying, ”It's me, OBannion, with William the Pieman. And Bungaree's mob. They led us to you. You weren't at the rendezvous so they offered to search for you.”

He helped Dunne stand on his shaky legs. ”I don't know why, but you've a staunch friend there. I'm not sure who told his man to let fly.”

Bungaree helped brush off the ants and sugar. ”He wanted to kill you. He got killed.” This was all he would say.

The patterer nodded his thanks as he recovered his clothes, which were torn in parts but still serviceable, from a pile on the ground and dressed hurriedly by the light of the torch that William King had saved from sputtering out completely then waved back to life. The stolen clothing from the asylum went back into the wheelbarrow.