POE MUST DIE (19 page)

Those who survived the journey fell into the hands of such men as Volney Gunning. He built slum tenements in Manhattan, charging the immigrants disgraceful rents to live there. Gunning, fifty, reed thin with watery blue eyes which could not stop blinking, spent much of his time at Scotch Ann’s, a Manhattan brothel where the beautiful women were actually young men in expensive gowns, wigs, and the loveliest of women’s names.

Miles Standish stepped carefully through the snow. “Has Volney given up the idea of making Thor his concubine?”

Hugh Larney stopped, threw his head back and roared. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. You are a delight, dear Miles. Of course you are cross with Volney for having ignored your hasty warning about the dangers posed by poe. I dare say you are probably cross with me as well.”

Miles blew into cupped hands. “I have travelled a long way to settle this business, only to find the both of you preoccupied with other matters.”

“Matters that suit
me
at the moment, dear Miles.”

“Are you forgetting that Poe has swung his tomahawk in your direction on previous occasions?”

Larney stopped walking again and when Miles Standish looked at his face, the lawyer grew frightened. Larney was angry, which could well mean Thor. There was no false British accent now, just hard words from a man who was cruel because he was too weak not to be. “I remember all too well, dear counselor.
‘Mr. Larney, for profit and no small amount of gain, has pulled down the curtain on this city by stealing oil.’
Stinging words from our ‘Tomahawk.’ He accused me of taking the oil that the city was to use for street lights along Third Avenue.”

You did indeed steal it, thought Standish, who kept quiet.

“Yes, dear Miles, I have never forgotten. Thank you for reminding me.” He quickly smiled. “Now on to other prospects. I have seen to the authenticity of today’s business. In Paris, it is traditional for a duelist to have his last breakfast at Tortini’s restaurant. Today from my carriage, I offer the same food: iced champagne, broiled kidneys, a cornucopia of pates for your palate and there is fish and game. Paris awaits in my carriage.”

“Hugh, if Poe is not killed he can and will expose us all. I fear that man, for he is loose and unsound. All of us—you, me, Gunning—are men of substance and if our connection with Jonathan were known—”

Hugh Larney frowned, nodding his head. “Why did you not say this to me earlier, instead of telling me of the danger to the widow Coltman and by extension yourself?”

“You did not allow me the opportunity.”

Larney looked down at the empty goblet which he twirled between his fingers. “A crazed one, our Poe. Well, dear Miles, you have presented the problem less frantically and with less self interest. So we are forced to give it more thought. First, we confer with Volney, who I see is again attempting to ingratiate himself with Thor. Volney! Dear Volney! To me! Please to me, dear fellow!”

Miles Standish noticed fleeting smirks on the faces of men standing in the snow, smirks directed at Hugh Larney’s way of talking. But the smirks faded quickly.

When Miles had finished speaking of Poe’s danger to the three of them, Volney Gunning closed his eyes and nodded in agreement. Gunning’s voice was surprisingly deep. “The danger does exist. We can only benefit from the absence of E. Poe and it is doubtful if the world will miss him.”

Gunning wore a fawn colored top hat and an ankle length coat of red lynx fur. Standish wondered if Gunning’s pinched cheeks and thin lips were red with the cold or as rumored, red with rouge.

Standish chose his next words carefully. “Jonathan is a most careful man, as you both know. He is grateful for your financial support. He has no wish to see it stop.”

Gunning coughed and bowed his head. “We are pleased that he appreciates our aid.”

And pleased with the peculiar drugs he procures for you from all over the world, thought Standish. And pleased you should be with his taste in beautiful boys, which so coincides with yours.

Standish said, “Jonathan is involved in a most important quest, which we need not go into.”

“Yes, the throne,” hissed Larney, eyes as bright as the beautiful empty goblet in his fingers. “Oh the magic of it, the wonder—”

“Shhh.” Miles cautioned the food-merchant. Standish knew how skillfully Jonathan played upon their weaknesses, giving each the pleasure most wanted, encouraging each to believe that once the Throne of Solomon was made to materialize, all of their wishes and desires would be fulfilled. Standish had reminded Larney and Gunning of this.

He said, “Poe is determined to have his own magazine. He lives with the dream of being his own man and to secure financing he will do anything. Should he reach Mrs. Coltman’s private ear, then her funds would be diverted from Jonathan to Poe’s most needful purse. This, of course, would place a greater financial burden on the rest of us, since we all know how determined Jonathan is.” He paused. “And always in need of money.”

Volney Gunning narrowed his watery, blue eyes. “So we would each be liable for additional funds, should Jonathan request.”

Standish’s smile was as cold as the snow beneath his feet. “A request from Jonathan is never to be taken lightly.”

And in the silence that followed, Standish knew they would agree with him to kill Poe. Whether to continue their pleasures, or to save money Larney and Gunning would help him to murder Poe.
And Rachel would belong to Miles Standish.

Gunning said, “You saw Jonathan?”

“Yesterday.”

“And Jonathan wants Poe dead?”

Miles cleared his throat, looked down at the snow. He said nothing.

Larney tapped his small mouth with a gloved finger. “So be it. We must survive, must we not? Why should men as we be shamed and disgraced by the rantings of such as Poe?”

When Volney Gunning nodded his head in agreement his eyes were blinking at the massive Thor, as though sending him a heartfelt invitation,

“Listen!” Hugh Larney smiled, pointing to his carriage where three well-dressed men with cigars and goblets of champagne looked inside the open carriage door while listening to Dearborn Lapham sing.

Larney threw his goblet high into the air. “Dear me, a hymn! One I do so adore,
’There Is Rest for the Weary.
’ I paid an ancient and toothless whore to teach it to the child. It is my favorite. Mother and I would often sing it together, my little head on her knee.”

Miles Standish coughed behind his hand, biting his lip to keep from laughing out loud. The drivel one had to tolerate in order to arrange the killing of something as useless as Poe.

The little girl’s reedy voice carried across the snow covered field. Now all the men, wherever they were, stopped to listen.

“There is rest for the weary,

There is rest for you,

On the other side of Jordan,

In the sweet fields of Eden,

Where the Tree of Life is blooming,

There is rest for you.”

As scattered applause echoed in the frozen air, Miles Standish watched a sweating Negro bundled in winter clothing and boots rush up to Hugh Larney and whisper into his ear.

Larney threw his head back. “Ahhh. We commence. Some difficulty securing a horse without a damaged hoof and we had to clear away snow somewhat, though not entirely.”

He placed his hands to his mouth and yelled. “Gentlemen! Gentlemen, please! Make final your wagers! Those who wish to challenge me, I am going with Mr. Brown Boole and will accept all bets to the contrary, even money! Gentlemen, your wagers please!”

Larney, eyes shining with thoughts of the excitement to come, whispered from the corner of his mouth, “Boole’s your man, Miles. Large in the chest and strong teeth.”

“Strong teeth?”

“He has torn off many an ear in a punch-up with those teeth of his. Care to—”

“No thank you.”

“Then watch, my good fellow. Good sport, this. Much good sport. We have a physician on hand and I am sure, we will have need of him. Combat at such close quarters. Oh Miles, dear Miles, does not your heart lift at such a thought?”

It did, which bothered Miles. But it didn’t bother him enough to leave. He watched the two duelists, bare-chested and unsmiling, step into the brown coach. Two Negroes, bodies stocky with heavy clothing, their black faces impassive, entered the coach after the duelists. One Negro held the pair of stilettoes in his hand and sunlight glittered from the keen blades.

Larney said, “When the men are connected, my boys will drive the coach twice around.”

Standish asked, “What is to stop the duelists from killing each other immediately, I mean before the duel officially begins?”

“One of my boys will be on top with the driver. He will have a pistol, two pistols actually, with orders to put a ball into whoever violates the spirit of today’s glorious festivities.

Standish couldn’t take his eyes away from the brown coach. After long minutes, the two Negroes came out of the coach and one immediately climbed up to the driver’s seat, pulled back a small panel and taking a pistol from his belt, poked it into the opening. The other Negro waved his arms in a signal to Hugh Larney.

“Oh my, oh my!” cried Larney. “We are ready. Come Miles, come and watch me give the signal!”

Now all of the spectators, all male, drew closer to one another, grouping near the brown coach, cigars, champagne and food now forgotten. Standish watched Thor lift little Dearborn Lapham from the snow-covered ground up to the driver’s seat of Larney ‘s coach so that she could watch the duel. By God, that little girl was pretty, so very pretty! Standish, who had never been with a child whore, found himself staring at her. Then he shook his head. Child whores. And men about to slash each other with knives for the amusement of others. Today in these surroundings he knew he could easily end up wanting the child whore and he knew for certain that he was not going to leave this place until the duel was over.

Yes it was Hugh Larney who had arranged the duel, but it was Jonathan who had taught Miles Standish to choose excitement over shame.

Larney’s voice was shrill with anticipation. “Amos, are you ready?”

The Negro driver touched the reins to his cap. His companion on top of the coach kept his pistol pointed down inside, never taking his eyes from the duelists.

Larney’s small mouth was open, his eyes wide and bright as he quickly looked at his guests standing in the snow and staring back at him. He shouted, “Hail Caesar! We who are about to die salute thee! Let the games commence!”

Larney, arm outstretched, dropped his white silk handkerchief in the snow.

“Eeeeeah!” Amos yelled at the team of four horses, snapped his whip and the cracking noise of it echoed across the flat and frozen land. Miles Standish shivered with excitement as he watched the brown carriage fight for traction in the snow, slide left then right, roll forward and pick up speed. Again the whip cracked and now the coach rolled faster, pulling away from the starting point, picking up speed, its iron-rimmed wooden wheels spraying snow to either side of the road.

As the silent men and child whore watched, a man screamed inside the coach.

As if this were a signal, a few spectators ran after the coach, shouting, encouraging one man to kill, the other to die and Miles Standish, so excited that the cold no longer bothered him, imagined that the man screaming was Poe.

When the coach neared a turn in the crude snow-covered racetrack, the screaming suddenly stopped. Then the whip cracked over the horses’ flanks and when the scream started again, Miles’s breathing was almost orgasmic, for in his mind the screaming man in the coach
was
Poe.
Rachel Coltman now belonged to Miles Standish.

SIXTEEN

A
TERRIFIED
P
OE
couldn’t breathe.

Paralyzed by panic, he stood on the edge of a dark abyss, in a cold wind that whipped his brown hair around his face. He was in a night without end, unable to pull his eyes away from the interminable blackness at his feet, knowing he was doomed to tumble into it, to disappear down into its unending horror. The abyss was deep, bottomless. He was frightened of anything deep-the ocean, a pit, crater, the grave. He desperately wanted to flee this place but his feet were imbedded on the edge. The cold wind howled and shrieked, knifing into his bare flesh and still he couldn’t run, couldn’t leave the edge of the abyss. He had no control over himself; he teetered forward, leaning into the blackness
…

And suddenly he was in a coffin, deep within a grave, buried alive beneath damp earth, chest rising and falling as he fought for air. He pounded the inside of the coffin lid, fists wet with his own blood, knuckles pained and smashed, his cries of terror filling his ears. Buried alive! All of his life he’d lived with this fear and now it was real. Buried alive!

Death had been Poe’s obsession, a companion ever since it had claimed his stepmother, wife, those he’d loved above all others. Death, that most awesome of forces, had crept into his mind and lay in wait until called forth in his writings. But Death had warned Poe, warned him that it wanted more than merely his recognition of its existence; Death wanted Poe’s soul and now Death had claimed it, holding him in its clammy grip.