Authors: John R. Maxim
Tags: #Horror, #General, #Psychological, #Suspense, #Memory, #Thrillers, #Fiction, #Time Travel
Murtree shuffled to a bay window and peered out at the
two men who waited at Jay Gould's front door. Just two.
Both of them dressed proper. All four of their hands showing. The little one carrying what looked like a coil of chain.
He glanced at the brougham they'd arrived in. Weren't no
station hack, that's for sure. A rich man's carriage. Had a
curly little gold R on the side but no livery on the driver.
They're probably all right. That little one looks awful
familiar. Roosevelt. That's who it is. It's that Roosevelt
feller. And the other one—damn ... damn if he ain't a
ringer for.... naw ... naw, it couldn't be.
He picked up his Winchester and checked that a round
was chambered before setting the hammer on half cock.
That done, he approached the front door and shifted the rifle into his left hand so that the door would conceal it
when opened.
“
He is in residence today, is he not?”
Feller sure did look like John L. Sullivan. Except... ”I
keep repeatin' myself If you ain't Jesus, you ain't on the list.”
”
I am not Jesus,” the champion snarled, “and I am not
the king of England, but I am no more accustomed to
having doors closed on me than they are. I am John L.
Sullivan and I am the heavyweight champion of the
world.”
It wasn't that Murtree saw the punch coming because he
never did. But someplace in there, between saying what he did and seeing that front door zooming away from him like
the view off the back of a train, and feeling the floor bounce under him, the little bit of daylight left in Charley Murtree's
brain told him he'd picked exactly the wrong thing to say.
He never would figure out why.
Teddy Roosevelt threw the leg manacles on Jay Gould's
library desk, scarring it badly. Gould barely looked up. He
lifted the chains onto a leather desk mat and touched his
fingers sadly to the wounds they had made.
“
It would seem, Mr. Roosevelt, that you and Mr. Beckwith both take pleasure in destroying beautiful things. He
wrecked my greenhouse, you know.”
Roosevelt glanced back at Sullivan, who waited just out
side the library door, and nodded. Sullivan quietly closed
it and, arms folded, took a sentry's position outside. From
where he stood he could see Billy O'Gorman through a
tall, leaded window. O'Gorman remained on the driver's
seat of the brougham, the deputy's shotgun hidden beneath
the duster he'd borrowed from Teddy's driver.
“
Whatever he's done, whatever you've done, Gould, it
ends today.”
Gould's eyebrows shot up. “Are you quite serious, sir?”
“
Dead serious, I promise you.”
Jay Gould fingered the chains. “Do you mind my asking
how you accomplished this? I dare say no judge in the
county would have written a release order without consult
ing me.”
“
We kicked in the door. Some friends and I.”
Gould nodded slowly. “The one who came by the jail
this morning. Asking questions. You do move with vigor,
don't you, Mr. Roosevelt. Can I assume that Mr. Murtree
has been incapacitated by that bruiser outside my library
door?”
“
What business is that, sir?”
”
I told you. This ends today.”
Jay Gould gazed at Roosevelt in a long look of amused
disbelief. He rubbed his eyes, then clasped his hands and
rested his chin upon them. “Let me test my grasp of this
situation, sir. A member of the New York State Legislature,
in the company of various hoodlums, has broken into a
proper jail and released two prisoners who were in the cus
tody of legally constituted authority. From the look of your
knuckles, I gather there was a physical assault as well.”
Roosevelt said nothing. But he had, true enough, asked to be left alone with the deputy once he saw Tilden's desperate condition. He resisted an urge to check his watch.
John Flood and the safecracker Donovan should have him
over the county line by now and within an hour of Bellevue Hospital.
“
Add theft, Mr. Gould. I stole the jail's log.”
“
The jail's log,” Gould repeated.
“
Mr. Beckwith was awaiting my decision on how I
would prosecute the matter.”
“
Your
decision.” Roosevelt brought both fists down
upon the desk. “This is a nation of laws, you arrogant ass.
You detained Tilden Beckwith illegally on at least three
particulars. That was not an arrest, sir. That was a kidnap
ping.”
“
That rather depends,” Gould said dryly, “on whose
judge hears the argument, does it not, Mr. Roosevelt.”
Teddy closed his eyes. ”I bring you three messages, sir. The first is from Tilden. You will be relieved to know that
he has no intention of prosecuting you on the charge of
kidnapping.”
“
That does lift a great weight from my heart.”
“
Tilden, in fact, invites you to do your worst as far as
he himself is concerned. But if you in any way harm Mrs.
Corbin or her son, Jonathan, or if they are even made sor
rowful by any act that is traceable to you, or if harm or
sorrow come to them through any unknown agency or sus
picious accident, Tilden will be left with nothing but the
satisfaction of putting a bullet between your eyes.”
Gould answered with only a weary smile. A bullet. How
many times had he heard such a threat. How many hundreds of times.
Teddy returned the smile, acknowledging Gould as if
saying, I know, the delirious ravings of a sick and beaten
man. A man with no heart for such an act no matter how
the cards were played.
“
In all candor, Mr. Gould, I find myself wanting to share
your skepticism. There is, however, the second message. It
comes from a rather disreputable fellow who, for reasons
unknown to me, has chosen to admire Tilden greatly. I can tell you that he has been arrested six times on suspicion of
murder and eleven times on a charge of atrocious assault,
the specific atrocity being the gouging of human eyes. He
intends to have yours as well, sir. I'm afraid he intends to
have them regardless of the outcome of this interview.”
“
The glass has been replaced,” he said distantly. “The
damaged plants will grow again. Tilden Beckwith will heal.”
Teddy waited.
“
Fair enough. I'm sure you'll do him the same kindness.”