There were just three men inside, but in his state of mind it wouldn't have mattered had there been thirty. He stood and strode around the corner of the building. He had the navy Colt on full cock when he booted the door inward.
"Everyone stand still."
Ashton clapped hands over her mouth. Huntoon dropped the diagram and slid sideways along the edge of the crate. As for Bent — no mistake as to who it was, none — his face was full of bewilderment that swiftly melted into terrified recognition.
"Orry Main —?"
"I'll be a son of a bitch," said the calmly professional Quincy, shooting his right hand beneath his parson's coat. Orry twisted toward him and fired. The bullet flung Quincy backward against the beam. Orry heard his head smack as he dragged out his pepperbox, trigger finger jerking and jerking even as he slid down to land on his rump. The barrels discharged one after another; the last shot blew off the toe of Quincy's left boot as he toppled sideways.
Bent was juggling the coal bomb, shaking like a child caught with a stolen cookie. Orry saw Ashton warn her husband with her eyes. Attack him, or he'll get us all. Cringing, Huntoon shook his head. The image was reflected in one of the dirty windows overlooking the river.
"Captain Bellingham, is it?" Orry said in a raw voice. "I sure as hell don't know how you got here, but I know where you're bound, you and your friends. You're going to prison for plotting the murder of the President."
Bent was recovering; his eyes had a sly look. Like Orry, he didn't understand how the astonishing confrontation had come about. But he understood the potential consequences.
Huntoon pressed a fist into his groin and squealed. "Dear God — he knows. He knows everything!"
"So does Secretary Seddon," Orry said, "and the President himself. They've been anxious to catch the culprits with the evidence. You're done for, James. You, too, my dear, treacherous slut of a sist —"
Huntoon snatched the lantern by its bail and threw it.
Orry ducked. The lantern struck the siding behind him, shattering. Droplets of oil splattered the wall and dirt floor. Strewn pieces of straw began to smoke.
Orry had a swift impression of Huntoon passing him, Ashton dragging him by the hand like a child. He could give them no attention because Bent was rushing at him, raising the black iron casting with both hands. My God, he'll blow us up —
Bent struck for the top of Orry's head. Orry dodged; the casting raked his left temple. The only explosion was one of pain.
Bent smashed the casting against the outermost point of Orry's left shoulder, the stump of his amputated arm. Orry dropped to one knee. Silent tears of pain ran down his cheeks. There was no mistaking Bent's intention. The trapped animal would kill to escape.
"Bastard," Bent gasped, hitting at Orry's left ear with the casting and nearly knocking him over. Blood ran from a gash in Orry's hair. He had trouble focusing his eyes. The surroundings brightened; he felt heat behind him. The building was afire.
"Arrogant — South Carolina bastard —" Again Bent raised the casting, turning it until he had a sharp point aimed at the top of Orry's skull like some druid's knife. "Waited years for this —"
The casting blurred down. Orry aimed the Colt and fired. The ball hit Bent's left wrist, scattering little lumps of flesh and chips of bone. The wound made Bent cry out, jerk the casting to one side, and drop it. The casting grazed the stump of Orry's arm and landed near the fire spreading in the littered straw.
Hatred was powering both men. In all his life, Orry had never felt it so intensely. Scenes clicked in and out of his head like cards in a stereopticon. He saw himself walking an extra tour of guard duty, in a blizzard, thanks to Bent. He saw himself lying in the West Point surgery near death from exposure, courtesy of Bent. He saw the letter from Charles about the officer persecuting him; his sister's face as she spoke of the portrait shown her by a Captain Bellingham —
He came up from his knee, reversing the Colt and leaving it uncocked. He clubbed Bent's head with the base of the butt. Bent shrieked, staggered back.
Orry hit again. Bent's nose squirted blood. He flung his right forearm over his face to protect it, then his left. Bits of flesh were caught in bloody, torn threads of his powder-burned sleeve. Curses poured unconsciously from Orry as he hit again. Bent staggered to the right. Orry hit again. Bent wobbled —
That's enough; he's through.
Above the crackle of flames, he heard traces jingling, wheels creaking, rapid hoofbeats. Huntoon and Ashton in flight. It didn't matter. Only this doughy, cringing coward mattered — and Orry's boundless rage, the reaction to years of Bent's lunatic enmity and his discovery here among people who had driven Madeline away.
Bent continued to wobble. Take him prisoner; he can't fight anymore. The faint inner voice inspired no response. Crazed as his adversary, Orry hit again.
"Ah-ha." Bent's hurt cry bore a bizarre resemblance to laughter. "Jesus, Main — Jesus Christ, have mercy —"
"When did you?" Orry screamed, driving his right knee into Bent's genitals. Bent went backward, one staggering step, a second, a third —
Too late, Orry jumped to grab him. Bent's back struck one of the windows. For an instant, hundreds of tiny fires burned in the flying fragments. Bent fell through the sawtoothed opening, one side of his face ripped by glass still in the frame. He screamed as he plummeted. Then Orry heard the pulpy thump of a body hitting something.
Hair in his eyes, Orry stuck his head out the window. Bent had grazed an outcrop, spun away, and was still falling. He smashed into another and then bounced like a ball of India rubber, flying out and down and landing in the water with a mighty splash. A bubbling commotion disturbed the river for a moment. Then — nothing.
Orry strained for some sight of Bent's body, but it was gone, already swept underwater and downstream, toward the red lights pulsing on the wooded horizon.
A half-minute passed. Orry grew conscious of the heat and thickening smoke. A section of siding dissolved into fiery debris. Above him, flames ran along dry rafters. Burning straw was within inches of the coal bomb. Orry leaped and flung the bomb through the open doorway.
He wanted to pry open a crate and take two or three Whitworths for evidence. He barely had time to holster the Colt and snatch the diagram Huntoon had been holding — one corner was already smoking — and slip it into his pocket. Hunched over and struggling to breathe, he dragged Israel Quincy's body toward the door.
One of the beams eaten by the flame disappeared. The rafter above him sagged, broke, and rained sparks and flaming splinters on him. He smelled his hair burning as he gasped and strained, finally pulling Quincy's corpse into the open.
A box of cartridges exploded as he snatched the coal bomb and limped to a safe spot away from the building, whose glare washed out the red lights over Petersburg. All the ammunition blew, the reports rolling away through the night like the volleying of regiments in battle.
Bent. Elkanah Bent. By what twisted route had he come from the United States Army to this place? Transformed himself to Captain Bellingham? Embroiled himself in the plot?
He had two pieces of evidence of that plot. He put the bomb on the ground, unrolled the plan, and examined it in the light from the burning building. At first, because he was so shaken, the arrangements of smaller rectangles within larger ones made no sense. Then he realized he was looking at diagrams representing the different floors of the Treasury Building.