Virgilia's friend Thad Stevens wanted him gone. Some said nothing else kept the old Radical alive. Stevens and his crowd wanted Johnson on trial for "monstrous usurpations of power," and one defeat in the House wouldn't spell the end of it. God, how vicious some men became when dogma drove them.
"Finally," Jupe Smith groaned. He pressed his upper dentures with his thumb and collected his carpetbag and umbrella. The men said good night to the Welsh porter and the black chef who traveled with the car. It was only a few feet from the covered platform to the waiting Lehigh Station hackney.
"Sorry we're late, Bud," George said, shaking water off his hat as he climbed in. "A fallen tree blocked the track for an hour. Thanks for waiting."
"Glad to," Bud said through the roof slot. "By the way, Mr. Hazard. Been a man askin' for you in town the last day or so."
George moved to give the grumbling lawyer more room. "Who?"
"Didn't say his name. Queer lookin' bird, though. Looks like he was crippled in the war. Leon at the Station House Hotel told him you was away for a while. I s'pose it's just some fella wantin' to sell you something."
"I get my share of those, God knows."
"If this fascinating conversation is over," Jupe said, "I'd like to get to bed. I'm an old man."
"You don't have a corner on that, Jupe." George's bones ached; was he coming down with influenza? He signaled Bud and the hackney lurched off through the almost deserted streets.
One moment the mirror was empty, then his image filled it. She pushed away from the dressing table. She was so stunned and terrified that she didn't notice the earring as it dropped from her left hand. The other pearl-and-gold teardrop bobbed on her right earlobe.
He leaped at her, clapped his left hand over her mouth, and pushed his right knee into her back. "You be quiet. One sound and I'll kill you." He pulled her back harder against his knee to demonstrate his intent. Her back bowed painfully.
Terror crippled her mind. Her eyes flew over the image in the glass, trying to make some sense of it. Who was this stubbled, paunchy hobgoblin in rain-soaked clothes? His eyes were dark and disturbed. The nails of the hand on her mouth were black underneath; he smelled of dirt.
"Don't know who I am, do you? I'm an old friend." He chuckled. A little rope of spit descended from his lip, broke, struck, and made a dark spot on the shoulder of her gown. "An old, old friend of your husband's. Down in Mexico, he and his lickspittle crony Main, they called me Butcher. Butcher Bent."
Under his hand, Constance screamed — or tried to. She knew the name. George thought Elkanah Bent had died, or at least disappeared. But there he was, in the glass, chortling as his right hand dipped into his soiled coat, which was missing all its buttons. He drew something into the light.
"Butchers kill cows. You'd better be careful."
He shook the straight razor's blade open. It glittered in the gaslight. Constance thought she'd faint. Her mind cried out: George! Children!
No. They weren't here. They couldn't help.
Slowly, tantalizingly, Bent lowered the razor past her eyes to her throat. Suddenly he jerked it inward.
Another muffled scream. Only then did Constance realize he'd turned the razor at the last moment. It was the dull top edge pressing her neck.
"Now I'm going to let you go, you dirty cow. I want to ask you some questions. If you yell, you're finished. Do you understand about keeping quiet? Blink your eyes if you do."
Her eyes reflected in the mirror, huge. She blinked four times instead of once. Gaslight flashed on the razor's blade as he lifted it away and then, slowly, his foul-smelling hand.
Constance nearly collapsed. "Please, oh, God, please don't hurt me."
"Tell me what I want to know and I won't." He stepped back, almost affable. "I promise you I won't."
Ashamed of her fear, yet unable to overcome it, she turned on the padded seat to face him. "Can I — can I trust you?"
He giggled. "What choice do you have? But, yes, you can. I only want information. About the people who ruined me. About their families. Start with your husband's bosom friend, Orry Main. Did he really die at Petersburg?"
"Yes." Constance held her hands between her knees, digging nails into her palms. She neither felt the pain nor saw the small seep of blood onto her gown. "Yes, he did."
"He had a wife —"
How could she endanger Madeline, or any of them? Struck silent by conscience, she stared at him, her mouth open. Bent yanked her hair. "We made a bargain. No answers" — he waggled the flashing razor inches from her eyes — "it's all over."
"All right, all right."
He withdrew the razor. "Better. I really don't want to harm an innocent woman. Tell me about Main's widow. Where is she?"
"Mont Royal Plantation. Near Charleston."
He grunted. "And your own husband?"
On the way up to Belvedere this moment, Constance remembered. She must hold Bent in conversation, detain him until George arrived. The train was in; it couldn't take long. Oh, but what if he'd missed the train? Dear God, what if —?
"Mrs. Hazard, I don't have infinite patience." The man's left shoulder hung below his right one, giving him a look of vulnerability. Strange, then, that she'd never seen a more commanding, terrifying figure.
"George —" She licked dry lips. "George is in Pittsburgh on business."
"You have children."
New, cold terror. She hadn't imagined he would —
"Children," he snarled.
"Away at school, both of them."
"I think your husband had a brother."
Which one did he mean? Better to name the most distant. "In California. With his wife and son."
It Worked. The man acted disappointed. He didn't ask for specifics. "And there was a relative of Orry Main's. A soldier I met in Texas. His names was Charles. Where is he?"
"So far as I know, he's in the Army again, out in Kansas." she was so frightened, so desperate to please him and save her life, she quite abandoned caution. "He went out there after the war, with his little boy."
The man smiled suddenly. "Oh, he has a child, too. What branch of the Army is Charles serving with?"
"The U.S. Cavalry. I don't know exactly where."
"Kansas will do. So many children. I hadn't thought of children. That's interesting."
Constance was again on the verge of uncontrollable trembling. Just then, to her amazement, the filthy, rain-soaked man stepped back. "Thank you. I believe you've told me all I need to know. You've been very helpful."
She sagged, close to hysteria. "Thank you. Oh, God, thank you."
"You may stand up if you like."
"Thank you, thank you so very much." She pushed both palms against the padded seat and swayed to her feet, the tears bursting forth, tears of relief that he was going to spare her life. He smiled and stepped forward.
"Here, careful. You're unsteady." His free hand grasped her elbow. Rotten breath gusted from his mouth. The smile on his face grew huge, and his eyes luminous, all in an instant.
"Cow bitch." One cool, silver, feather-light stroke cut her throat.
He stood over her, watching the blood gout and clutching the immense hardness between his legs. He flung down the razor, spied the teardrop earring she's dropped, plucked it up, dipped it in her blood, held it in front of his eyes, and smiled at the red on the gold. He finished his work in less than a minute and climbed out the way he'd come in.
George unlocked his front door. The hackney clattered away down the hill.
He climbed the great staircase two steps at a time, humming. His anticipation and a blissful euphoria made him hum louder as he strode along the upstairs hall, pooled by low-trimmed gaslights. Hard rain pelted the mansion. He turned the bedroom doorknob, saying as he stepped through, "Constance, I'm —"