POE MUST DIE (6 page)

Figg snorted, then spat. In the candlelight, the spit was a silver sliver on Poe’s shoe. “Don’t be readin’ to me over his bloody coffin, mate. When’s his eyes goin’ to open, may I ask yer worship?”

Josiah cleared his throat. “Some-someone put him in a cab and told the driver to bring him here. That was a hour or so ago and I am given to understand that he had been down in Five Points.”

“What is Five Points, if I might make so bold?”

“A terrible slum, sir. Horrible place.” Josiah’s eyes widened. “Filled with Irish and coloreds and almost every soul there involved in the criminal pursuits. A wicked place and not one for a casual stroll.”

“This damn city reeks of Irish.”
So does London, for that matter.

“Famine, sir, 1846. Over a million died of hunger in Ireland and others left to come—”

“To come to any bleedin’ place where they could steal for a livin’.” Figg didn’t like the Irish. One had tried to bite Figg’s thumb off in a boxing match and Figg had stopped him by gouging out the Irishman’s left eye.

“Uh, Mr. Figg, if I might say so, he is not well, you know. Eddy is in poor health.”

“Sleeps well enough.”

“The smallest dram of whiskey—”

“I can bloody well see that, mate.”

Josiah gripped the candle with both hands to keep it from shaking. Hot wax oozed down onto his fingers. Fear of Figg sent the boy’s voice higher.
“Sir,
I mean sir, it is early and perhaps you would be warmed by coffee and brandy. If you come upstairs—”

“I ain’t leavin’ ’im.”

“He is a sick man, sir. Let him sleep and when he wakes, he will be in better condition to be of service to you.”

Figg, standing just beyond the circle of light from Josiah’s candle, looked at the nervous copyboy. Not much older than my Will and still growing. Within spitting distance of manhood, this one, and hair as yellow as the king’s gold. Scared of me and tryin’ hard not to tremble, him and me bein’ alone down here in this flippin’ ice house. Has Will’s eyes, he does, eyes as green as England’s hills. And he did offer me food and drink.

Brandy. Warms a man and that is a fact. Bit of food might help matters along as well, somethin’ simple and not too challengin’ to a man’s stomach. Figg reached down and picked up the carpetbag containing the few things he had brought with him from London.

“Could use somethin’ to eat while I waits. Willin’ to pay, I am.” He forced a quick smile which Josiah couldn’t see in the darkness.

But the copyboy heard the warmth in the boxer’s voice and he considered himself reprieved from the most horrible of unknown fates. His grin was enormous. “Just up those stairs in back of you, sir. I will place this candle on the packing case here so that Eddy shall have light when he awakens. It will be my pleasure to return and look in on him and most assuredly, I shall keep you advised concerning his every move.”

Figg’s mumble could scarcely be heard. “Pin a rose on ‘im.”

“Sir?”

“Just sayin’ goodbye to Mr. Bird and Bug, is all.” Welcome to North America, Pierce James Figg, you frozen, unlucky bugger.

Halfway up the stairs, Figg turned and again looked down at Poe and his mind went back two weeks ago to England where another man lay at Figg’s feet, this one having had his throat cut from ear to ear.

By Figg.

Figg was stomach down in cold, wet grass. He squinted through darkness and falling rain at the three men who had followed him into Regent’s Park.

The long, black frock coat he’d worn to his son’s hanging earlier today now covered his head and much of his body, allowing him to blend into the night, to become another shadow on the ground, to be come an extension of shadows cast by trees near the park zoo. Moonlight gleamed on rain slicked leaves and Figg’s right fist tightened around the small belt dagger. Bless you, Mr. Dickens, sir. This here little sticker ain’t no arsenal, but it is surely some small comfort to me.

A chilled rain drummed on his coat, drenching it, making it heavier. Pierce James Figg, master of the noble science of defense, master of the sword and cudgel, planned to use the rain-soaked coat as a weapon. The cold rain didn’t bother him; he had been cold and wet before and would be again.

Three.
Using the dagger point to lift the wet coat up an inch or two, he watched the killers spread out and look around for him. Figg’s smile was deadly. Come for my life, have you? Well, step closer me lovelies and we will start the dance, you and I.

“He’s bloomin’ ’ere. Stop fiddle arsin’ around, you two and find ‘im.” Figg recognized Rosehearty’s voice. Rosehearty was the leader, the one with a lantern and the high beaver hat. Six and a half feet tall, Rosehearty killed by shining the lantern in his victim’s face then quickly slashing him across the stomach with a small sword whose blade was keen enough to slice a hair in two.

“Ain’t with the animals, is he? I mean why the bleedin’ ’ell he come to a zoo, say I.” That was one-eyed Timothy Buck, who now carried his Boutet flintlock pistol inside his long coat to keep it dry.

Rosehearty held the lantern high. “Wherever ‘e is, we best find ‘im. We ain’t bein’ paid to stand out ‘ere in the bloody rain and hold ‘ands. We been told to do ‘im and do ‘im we will. Stubbs? Stubbs?”

Rosehearty called to the albino, a muscular man who carried a quarterstaff across his shoulder as though it were a musket. Stubbs’s pure white hair was wet and clinging to a face almost the exact color. Figg knew him as a cruel man who robbed
judys,
those prostitutes who worked without the protection of a
ponce.
Stubbs enjoyed beating women and had killed three with his hands.

“I ‘ear you, Master Hearty Rose.” Stubbs looked into the darkness towards Figg, as if his pink eyes could see the boxer.

Rosehearty pointed towards trees standing to the left of Figg. “Stroll over there, if you do not mind and see what you can see. We sees ‘im leave Mr. Dickens’ ’ouse and come in ‘ere, but now where the bleedin’ ’ell has the bastard gone?”

Figg lowered the wet coat an inch, turning his head sideways to watch Stubbs, quarterstaff still on his shoulder, walk away from Rosehearty and Buck.

“Bloody cold, it is.” Timothy Buck touched his black eyepatch which was soaked, then blew warm air in to his cupped hands. He would like it just fine if that limping old bastard Figg would show himself so’s Buck could put a ball in his ugly head and then they could all go to a tavern and enjoy life.

“Cold, you say.” Rosehearty’s voice was even colder. “Should we fail to do as Jonathan has ordered, it will grow suddenly warmer and not to our likin’,
so move your arse, you stupid sod!”

Rosehearty, shoulder length gray hair hanging down from under his tall beaver, knew Figg and hated him. Neither man had ever quarreled; they had never even spoken to one another. But their paths had crossed at sporting events
—
dogfights, boxing matches, at rat pits where bets were made as to how many rats a fighting dog could slaughter in a given time. Figg knew what Rosehearty was, an assassin for hire and the boxer despised him. Rosehearty hated Figg because Figg was not afraid of him.

“Buck, for the love of Jesus, will you please walk over there, yes there. Straight ahead. Look for some markin’s, somethin’ that says he ain’t just flapped his wings and gone to heaven. Zoo be the only other place ‘round ‘ere and them animals is locked up tight, so why should he be ’eaded there.”

Figg held his breath. Rosehearty was
flummut;
dangerous.

Rosehearty looked directly at the hidden Figg and said, “Best we not lose him.”

Buck shivered. “What if we do?”

“Then it’s a return to the home of the esteemed Master Charles Dickens, where we shall do our best to convince ‘im to tell us where we can find Mr. Figg. Master Dickens has ‘imself several children, so it should be a simple matter to get him to speak up.”

Figg’s eyes narrowed.
Dickens’ children.
Now there was no doubt about what to do. To protect Dickens’ family, Figg
must
kill all three men.

Timothy Buck walked towards the trees in front of him, towards Figg.

Buck talked to himself through chattering teeth, hugging himself to keep his flintlock pistol from falling from under his coat. “Mr. Figg, Mr. Figg. When I’ave you, I shall—”

You have me now!

Figg quickly rose to his knees, the rain-soaked coat in his left hand and he tossed it into Timothy Buck’s face.

Buck screamed with fear at the sudden movement, at the attack on his face from the darkness and went back on his heels, arms flailing in the air, trying to stop himself from falling backwards and Figg was up, crouched ready to spring.

“It’s ‘im! It’s ‘im! Oh God, oh God!” Buck shrieked like a woman and fell backwards onto the wet grass and Figg was on him, sitting on his chest and pulling the wet coat from Buck’s face, then placing the blade of the small dagger hard against the right side of Buck’s throat, pushing down and bringing the blade hard, deep and around in one savage stroke.

Then Figg, who had felt the pistol digging into his ass from under Buck’s coat, was clawing for it. He looked up fingers still tearing at cloth and buttons, seeing Rose hearty and Stubbs running towards him, with Stubbs the faster, Stubbs with his seven foot quarterstaff made of firm oak, a weapon that could crush your skull like a grape and smash your kneecaps into jelly. Figg could use one with superb skill.
If he had one.

The Boutet flintlock was in his hand and rain was in his eyes, but he fired quickly because the water could easily damage the pistol, wetting the powder and causing it to misfire.

Crack!
The ball caught Stubbs in the thigh, making him spin around and throw the quarterstaff high in the air. Damn his eyes! Figg had put the ball in Stubbs because he’d wanted that quarterstaff. The wood had reach and that’s what Figg wanted against the deadly Rosehearty and his lantern and small sword.

“One ball, Mr. Figg. Only one ball!” Rosehearty’s voice was triumphant as he raced towards the boxer. One life I gots too, thought Figg, and I am not quite ready to part with it.

True, the flintlock fired only one ball but Figg still had use for the pistol. He narrowed his eyes, turning his head to the side, desperate to keep the light from Rosehearty’s lantern from blinding him.

He stood and listened, hearing Stubbs moan and curse him and roll around on the wet ground, and he heard Rosehearty rushing towards him, mouth open and breathing loudly, confident of his skill, sure he would kill the boxer whom he hated so intensely.

Figg threw the empty pistol at Rosehearty, then ran towards Stubbs, following the sounds coming from the albino. Behind Figg, Rosehearty crouched, turning his body to protect the lantern, catching the tossed pistol on his right forearm.

“You cannot limp faster than I can run! I shall have you, Figg! I shall!”

Figg, still holding his drenched coat, reached Stubbs who lay on his back, pale, ugly face contorted with pain as he pressed down hard with blood covered hands on the hole in his left thigh. When he saw Figg, he raised himself to his elbows, eyes searching the darkness for his quarterstaff. “Kill you, you bloomin’
—”

Figg kicked him in the face, snapping Stubbs’s head violently to the right. Bleed and die, mate.

The staff.
Figg must have it.
Where the bloody hell is it? Damn the rain.

Figg saw it. Long, dark, lying half in moonlight and half in shadow. He limped towards it, widening his eyes to clear them of falling rain. Behind him, Figg heard Rosehearty splashing across the grass with long, loping strides, moving with remarkable swiftness for such a tall man. The staff was in Figg’s hand and his back was to Rosehearty who saw an easy kill and continued charging. The boxer”s
back and kidneys would bleed as well as his throat, so place the blade where he cannot see it and do as Jonathan ordered.

Figg, eyes on the ground, saw the yellow pool of light grow larger around him as Rosehearty drew closer, saw his own shadow lengthen, saw Rosehearty’s long shadow grow longer, longer.
…
The rain-soaked boxer waited, his back still to Rosehearty, still keeping the lantern’s deadly light directly from his eyes, still on one knee as though tired, fumbling, indecisive.

His eyes never left the ground, never left Rosehearty’s growing shadow.

Then he heard Rosehearty, heard the hissing noise as the assassin breathed through tightly clenched teeth, saw the killer’s shadow almost on him and that’s when Figg, back still to Rosehearty, savagely drove the end of the quarterst off into the pit of Rosehearty’s stomach.

All of the breath left the tall man in one long, harsh sigh. His eyes bulged and the pressure against his stomach was massive, destructive, and Rosehearty doubled over, his tall beaver hat tumbling from his long, gray head. Figg scampered to his feet and was merciless; in his large hands, the quarterstaff was a blur, a seven foot length of oak wielded with swift and vicious skill. He thought of his own dead, of what would happen to Dickens’ children if Rosehearty were to live.
For Will, for Althea.