All three men stopped moving and stared at the handles of the scissors, miraculously stuck to the front of Hammersmith’s shirt, a black enameled double loop magnetized to his body. Then a red stain crept outward from a buttonhole and a thin tributary made its way down the shirt, toward Hammersmith’s belly. The sergeant looked up at Kingsley with a reverential expression. He opened his mouth and a bubble of blood burst against his lips.
Hammersmith fell to his knees and toppled backward against the doorjamb.
Upstairs, Claire screamed and broke the silence.
Dr Kingsley realized that someone was standing behind him and began to turn just as a pair of rough hands grabbed him and stuck a cloth over his mouth and nose. There was a sharp odor and then the room was washed away and he felt himself falling as if he were watching someone else at a great distance.
He thought perhaps he heard Claire scream again, but she was also far away and he couldn’t move and he floated off into a dark and dreamless ocean.
61
Cinderhouse was frozen to the spot. Jack had come for him. The spider had found his fly. Had he followed Cinderhouse? Had he seen everything? Did he know what his fly was thinking, had been thinking? Or was he genuinely a god, anywhere and everywhere according to His whims?
The front door was still partially open, and Jack nudged Hammersmith’s body aside with the toe of his shoe so that he could get the door closed. He was still holding the handkerchief and Cinderhouse could smell ether on it, even from several feet away. In Jack’s other hand, he held his black medical bag by its handle.
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.