The older man was crumpled against the bottom of the staircase, breathing strong and steady, in a deep drug-induced sleep. Upstairs, a woman moaned, but nobody moved to investigate the noise.
When the door was closed and Jack had turned silently toward him, Cinderhouse heard a faint plopping sound, something splashing nearby. He looked down and realized his arm was bleeding. Blood ran swiftly down and around his knuckles and leapt free of him to the floor, where a dark puddle was forming. The edges of the gash were separated and rubbery, and Cinderhouse thought he could see bone down there at the bottom of that elastic red canyon. As he stared at his arm, it suddenly began to hurt. It hurt very much.
“I told you no more children,” Jack said.
“Ngo,” Cinderhouse said. No. Without a tongue, his n sounds came out as g sounds. But even those were strange and different, like a choking bird. “Ngo, I wag’t gong-ga. .” No, I wasn’t going to. .
“Don’t be afraid.” Jack stepped over Hammersmith’s legs and around the dozing body of the older man and took Cinderhouse by the arm, just above his elbow. Panicked, Cinderhouse batted at him with his other hand, but the muscle wasn’t responsive and his hand flopped about, flicking blood against the walls. Jack smiled, but angled backward so as to avoid the worst of the blood spatter.
“Be calm,” Jack said. “You’ve disobeyed me and you must be punished again. But you did me a great service in freeing me and I do not forget. I am fully aware of what I owe you.”
He smiled again and Cinderhouse looked at his eyes, saw affection and gentleness, and he relaxed, began to refocus his attention on his injured arm.
“Come,” Jack said. “Let’s take a look at that. You’re bleeding a great deal.”
There was now a hungry glint in Jack’s eye. He turned Cinderhouse around and guided him toward the parlor on the other side of the hall. Cinderhouse was amazed by the strength in Jack’s fingers. He hadn’t moved in more than a year. How strong must he have been before his imprisonment?
He walked ahead of Jack into the front room, with its well-used but comfortable-looking chesterfield, the fireplace, and the mismatched chairs. He felt a sharp pain at the back of his neck, like a bee sting, and tried to lift his hand to touch his neck, but his hand didn’t respond. Neither of his arms would move. His knees buckled under him and he fell straight down, collapsing in on himself. He would have hit his face on the floor if Jack hadn’t caught him.
“A scalpel between the vertebrae,” Jack said. “I’ve only done that once before, so I’m quite excited to see how well it works for you.” He rolled Cinderhouse over and arranged his arms and legs so that the bald man was lying flat on his back with his limbs spread slightly away from his body. “Can you move at all?”
Cinderhouse tried to shake his head, but could not.
“I think that means no,” Jack said. “Can you still feel anything?”
He poked Cinderhouse in the cheek with the tip of his scalpel. The bald man shouted and Jack clamped a hand over his mouth.
“Oh, good,” Jack said. “It’s a delicate thing, cutting off your body from your head and yet allowing the sensation to remain. I’m afraid I didn’t do it quite right the last time, but I’m delighted that today’s operation seems to be a complete success. Hold still.”
Jack chuckled at his own joke. He sat on Cinderhouse’s chest and used his free hand, the one holding the scalpel, to cut away the sleeve of the bald man’s jacket. Really it was Elizabeth’s jacket, but to the victor go the spoils. Cinderhouse rolled his eyes to the side and watched Jack work the sleeve down his arm and off. Jack took his hand away, but before Cinderhouse could make a sound, the jacket sleeve was in his mouth. Jack lifted the bald man’s head and tied the ends of the sleeve together at the back of his neck. Jack pulled at the makeshift gag, testing it.
“There,” he said. “Nice and tight. Can you talk?”
Cinderhouse shouted, but the sound was muffled and remote.
“I think that will do. Now, I don’t have a lot of time. There’s a woman upstairs who is screaming for me. But I will try to honor you as well as I’m able.”
Cinderhouse lay helpless while Jack undressed him. Saucy Jack was quick and efficient. Cinderhouse was completely nude in no time at all.
Jack knelt beside him and smoothed the worried furrows from Cinderhouse’s forehead. He bent and kissed Cinderhouse lightly on the mouth, pulled back, and smiled. His expression was loving and gentle, a father tucking his son in at bedtime. Cinderhouse did his best to smile back, but the gag was in the way.
Then Jack held up the scalpel, regarded it curiously in the half-light from the parlor window, and went to work.
Cinderhouse felt nothing until the scalpel began to cut into his face.
62
Walter heard the soft snack of the shackle’s lock and then his arm swung free and the heavy chain dropped to the ground. He held his breath, listened, and watched the darkness, waiting to see if Jack was still nearby, if he would hear and return.
After a long moment, he got to work on the shackle around his other wrist. It took only seconds. A little freedom of movement made all the difference. The chains fell away and he slumped back against the rocky wall behind him. He waited until he had caught his breath again, then bent to work on the restraints at his ankles. When he was completely free, he took a step forward.
And fell.
He rolled over and leaned forward, massaged the circulation back into his legs. His left trouser leg was damp and sticky and the feeling did not return to that leg. His right leg seemed much better, although it was painful to the touch.
He pulled himself to the opening at the front of his cell. He felt his way to the next cell and ran his hands along the wall until he found a wooden cube, a box that had been upended to make a table. He eased himself up and rested against it. The lantern Jack had used was still there, along with a box of tapers. When the lamp was lit, he held it up and looked around the tiny space. Adrian March hung from the wall above a gleaming black puddle in the dirt. The odor in the enclosed space was overwhelmingly foul. There was a long branding iron propped against the box, shiny and never used. Day used it as a cane, limped across to March and set the lantern down on the ground. He put his ear to March’s mouth and heard the faint rasp of breath.
His lockpick was bent and so it took him a little longer to get March out of his chains. He eased March down to the ground and left him there.
He picked up the lantern and leaned on his iron, went out of March’s cell and past his own into the cell on the other side. A man-or rather most of a man-hung there, tangled in his chains as if he had struggled with them. March had called him Griffin, but his name hardly mattered anymore.
Day looked around the cell. There was another box here, like the one in March’s cell. On top of the box, Day saw his own jacket, his flask, and his handcuffs. He picked them up and put them away in his jacket pocket, then put the jacket on. He looked for his revolver, but it wasn’t there. Which meant that Jack was armed.
Day took a deep breath and went to the back wall of the cell and freed Griffin’s corpse from the chains. He was tired, and it took a great deal of effort to unwrap the heavy links from Griffin’s tattered flesh. He mistook a loop of intestines for a chain and, when he realized what he was holding, he panicked and began to sob.
When the body was finally extricated from its fetters, Day laid it down against the wall. He closed Griffin’s wide staring eyes and limped away, left it there in the dark. He would send people for it. He could barely walk, and March would need help. The living came first.