"My knuckles didn't think so," Dury answered. "She used to come across them with a stick like-but once again, I'm off the subject. You wanted to know what became of my brother."

"Yes," I answered. "But before that, tell us-what sort of a boy was he? You've said odd-odd in what way?"

"j.a.pheth?" Having secured the wheel to the manure spreader's axle, Dury stood and laid hold of a large pole. "In what way was he not?...I suppose you couldn't expect much more, from a child born out of anger and unwanted by both his parents. To my mother he was a symbol of my father's savagery and l.u.s.t, and to my father-to my father, much as he wanted more children, j.a.pheth was always a symbol of his degradation, of that terrible night when desire made an animal of him." Using the long pole, Dury knocked the piled rocks out from under the spreader's axle, at which the machine fell to the earthern floor of the barn and rolled a few feet forward. Satisfied with his work, Dury took up a shovel and kept talking. "The world is full of pitfalls for a boy left on his own. I tried to give j.a.pheth what help I could, but by the time he was old enough for us to be real friends I had been sent to work on a nearby farm and saw little of him. I knew that he was suffering all that I'd endured in that house, and even more. And I wished that I could have been more help."

"Did he ever tell you," I asked, "just what was happening?"

"No. But I saw some of it," Dury said as he began to shovel manure from the floor of several livestock stalls into the spreader. "And on Sundays I'd try to spend time with him, and show him that there was much he could still enjoy about life, whatever happened at home. I taught him how to climb the mountains, and we spent whole days and nights up there. But in the end...In the end, I don't believe that anyone could have counteracted my mother's influence."

"Was she-violent?"

Dury shook his head, and spoke in a voice that seemed judicious and honest. "I don't think j.a.pheth suffered in that way any more than I had. The occasional strap to the backside from my father, and nothing more. No, I believed then, and I still believe now, that my mother's ways were far more-devious." Dury laid his shovel aside, sat down on one of the large rocks that had supported the spreader, and took out a pouch of tobacco and a pipe. "I suppose, in a way, that I was luckier than j.a.pheth, only because my mother's feelings toward me had always taken the form of thorough indifference. But j.a.pheth-it didn't seem enough for her to merely deprive him of love. She took issue with his every action, his every move, however insignificant. Even when he was an infant, even before he had any awareness or control over himself-she'd badger him about everything he did."

Kreizler leaned forward, offering a match that Dury took only reluctantly. "What do you mean by 'everything,' Mr. Dury?" Laszlo asked.

"You're a medical man, Doctor," Dury answered. "I think you can guess." Smoking for a few seconds to get a good coal going in his pipe, Dury finally shook his head and grunted angrily. "The cruel b.i.t.c.h! Hard words, I know, for a man to a.s.sign to his own dead mother. But if you could have seen her, gentlemen-at him, always at him. And when he complained, or cried, or went into a rage over it, she'd say things so despicable that I would've thought them beyond even her." Dury stood up and continued shoveling. "That he wasn't her son. That he was the child of red Indians-dirty, man-eating savages who'd left him in a bundle at our door. The poor little fellow half-believed it, too." him, always at him. And when he complained, or cried, or went into a rage over it, she'd say things so despicable that I would've thought them beyond even her." Dury stood up and continued shoveling. "That he wasn't her son. That he was the child of red Indians-dirty, man-eating savages who'd left him in a bundle at our door. The poor little fellow half-believed it, too."

Pieces were falling into place with every pa.s.sing minute; and as they did, it became steadily more difficult for me to control a profound, swelling sense of discovery and triumph. I almost wished that Dury would end his account, just so I could run outside and scream to the heavens that, all opposition be d.a.m.ned, Kreizler and I were going to catch our man. But I knew that self-control was more important now than it had ever been, and I tried to follow Kreizler's self-composed example.

"And what happened," Laszlo asked, "when your brother got a bit older? Old enough, that is, to-"

With savage, terrifying suddenness, Adam Dury screamed incomprehensibly and threw his shovel against the rear wall of the barn. The chickens in the adjacent coop sent up a flurry of frightened clucks and feathers, and, hearing them, Dury wrenched his pipe from his mouth and attempted to regain control over himself. Kreizler and I made no move, though I know my own eyes had gone quite wide with shock.

"I think," Dury seethed, "that we had all best be honest with each other. Gentlemen. Gentlemen."

Kreizler said nothing, and my own voice quavered badly as I asked, "Honest, Mr. Dury? But I a.s.sure you-"

"d.a.m.n it!" Dury shouted, slamming a foot to the earth. Then he waited a few more seconds, until he could speak more calmly again. "Don't you think there was talk of it at the time? Do you imagine that simply because I'm a farmer I'm also an idiot? I know what it is you're here to find out!"

I was about to offer further protests, but Kreizler touched my arm. "Mr. Dury has been exceptionally forthright with us, Moore. I believe we owe him the same courtesy." Dury nodded, and his breathing became something like regular as Kreizler went on: "Yes, Mr. Dury. We believe there is every chance that your brother murdered your parents."

A pitiable sound, half-sob and half-gasp, got out of our host. "And is alive?" he said, almost all traces of anger gone from his voice.

Kreizler nodded slowly, and Dury held his arms up helplessly. "But why should it matter now? So long ago-it's over, done. If my brother is alive, he's never contacted me. Why should it matter?"

"Then you suspected it yourself?" Kreizler said, avoiding the question as he produced a flask of whiskey and held it out to Dury.

Dury nodded again and took a drink, no longer displaying the resentment toward Laszlo that he'd shown earlier. I had thought that att.i.tude the result of Kreizler's accent; I could see now that it had been sp.a.w.ned by Dury's suspicion that this visit-from what he must have thought a very strange sort of doctor-might reach just such a pa.s.s.

"Yes," Dury said at length. "You must remember, Doctor, that I'd lived among the Sioux, as a boy. I had several friends, in their villages. And I'd witnessed the uprising in '62. I knew that the explanation the police finally accepted of my parents' death was almost certainly a lie. And more than that, I knew-my brother."

"You knew that he was capable of such an act," Kreizler said softly. He was maneuvering very carefully, now, just as he'd done with Jesse Pomeroy. His voice remained calm, but his questions became steadily more pointed. "How, Mr. Dury? How did you know?"

I felt a twinge of real sympathy when a tear appeared on Dury's cheek. "When j.a.pheth was-oh, nine or ten," he said softly, after taking another deep pull from the flask, "we spent a few days up in the Shaw.a.n.gunks. Hunting and trapping small game-squirrel, possum, c.o.o.ns, and such. I'd taught him to shoot, but he wasn't much for it. A born trapper, j.a.pheth was. He'd spend a whole day searching out an animal's lair or nest and then wait for hours, alone in the dark, to spring his scheme. It was a talent. But one day we were hunting separately-I'd gone to trail some bobcat tracks I'd spotted-and as I came back to camp I heard a strange, terrible scream. A wail. High-pitched and faint, but awful. As I came into the camp I caught a glimpse of j.a.pheth. He'd trapped himself a possum, and he was-he was cutting the thing to pieces while it was still alive. I ran up and put a bullet in the poor creature's brain, and took my brother aside. He had an evil sort of light in his eyes, but after I'd hollered at him for a while, he began to cry and seemed truly sorry. I thought it was a lone incident-the kind of thing a boy might do if he knew no better, and wouldn't do again once he'd been told." Dury began to poke at his pipe, which had gone out.

Kreizler offered another match. "But it wasn't," he said.

"No," Dury answered. "It happened several times over the next few years-several times that I knew of, that is. He never bothered the big animals, the cattle or horses on the farms around us. It was always-always the small creatures that seemed to bring it out in him. I kept trying to put a stop to it; and then..."

His voice trailing off, Dury sat and stared at the ground, seemingly unwilling to go on. Kreizler, however, kept after him gently: "And then something worse happened?"

Dury smoked and nodded. "But I didn't hold him responsible, Doctor. And I think you'll agree that I was right not to." One of his hands became a fist and he slammed it into his thigh. "But my mother, d.a.m.n her, just took it as another example of j.a.pheth's devilish behavior. Claimed he brought it on himself, as if any boy would!"

"I'm afraid you'll have to explain, Mr. Dury," I said.

He nodded quickly, then took a final sip of whiskey before handing the flask back to Kreizler. "Yes, yes. I'm sorry. Let me see-this would have been during the summer of-h.e.l.l, it was just before I moved away, the summer of '75 it must've been. j.a.pheth was eleven. At the farm where I'd been working they'd recently hired a new man; he was just a few years older than me. A charming character, to all appearances. Seemed to have quite a way with children. We got to be friendly, and eventually I invited him along on a hunting trip. He took a great interest in j.a.pheth, and my brother took a real liking to him-so much so that the fellow came along on a few more outings. j.a.pheth and he would go off trapping together, while I hunted larger game. I'd explained to this-this thing thing that I thought was a man that j.a.pheth was to be discouraged from tormenting any animals they might catch. The fellow seemed to understand the situation thoroughly. I trusted him, you see, to look after my brother." A dull knocking sound came from the outer wall of the barn. "And he betrayed that trust," Dury said, getting to his feet. "In the worst way a man can." Opening the filthy window and sticking his head out it, Dury called: "Now, you! Go on away from there, I've told you-go on!" He came back inside, scratching at the few hairs on his head. "Fool horse. Covers himself in burrs to get at a little patch of clover that grows behind the barn, and I can't seem to...I'm sorry, gentlemen. At any rate, I found j.a.pheth in our camp one evening, half-naked and weeping, bleeding from the-well, bleeding. The fiend I'd left him with was gone. We never saw him again." that I thought was a man that j.a.pheth was to be discouraged from tormenting any animals they might catch. The fellow seemed to understand the situation thoroughly. I trusted him, you see, to look after my brother." A dull knocking sound came from the outer wall of the barn. "And he betrayed that trust," Dury said, getting to his feet. "In the worst way a man can." Opening the filthy window and sticking his head out it, Dury called: "Now, you! Go on away from there, I've told you-go on!" He came back inside, scratching at the few hairs on his head. "Fool horse. Covers himself in burrs to get at a little patch of clover that grows behind the barn, and I can't seem to...I'm sorry, gentlemen. At any rate, I found j.a.pheth in our camp one evening, half-naked and weeping, bleeding from the-well, bleeding. The fiend I'd left him with was gone. We never saw him again."

From the exterior of the barn came the same m.u.f.fled pounding, prompting Dury to grab a long, thin switch and head for the door. "If you'll just give me a moment, gentlemen."

"Mr. Dury?" Kreizler called. Our host stopped and turned at the barn doorway. "This fellow, the farmhand-can you recall his name?"

"Indeed I can, Doctor," Dury answered. "Guilt has burned it into my memory. Beecham-George Beecham. Excuse me."

The name struck me harder than had any piece of information that had been revealed thus far, and turned much of the triumphant exhilaration that I'd been feeling back into confusion. "George Beecham?" I whispered. "But, Kreizler, if j.a.pheth Dury is, in fact-" Beecham?" I whispered. "But, Kreizler, if j.a.pheth Dury is, in fact-"

Kreizler held up an urgent, silencing finger. "Save your questions, Moore, and remember one thing-if we can avoid it, let's keep our true object from this man. We know almost everything we need to know. Now-make an excuse, and let's depart."

"Everything we need-well, you may know everything you need to know, but I've still got a thousand questions! And why should we keep it from him, he's got a right-"

"What good can it do him?" Kreizler whispered harshly. "The man has suffered and agonized over this affair for years. What purpose can it serve, of his or or ours, to tell him that we believe his brother responsible not only for his parents' murders, but for the deaths of half a dozen children?" ours, to tell him that we believe his brother responsible not only for his parents' murders, but for the deaths of half a dozen children?"

That gave me pause; for if, in fact, j.a.pheth Dury was alive, but had never tried to contact his brother, Adam, then there was no way in which this tormented farmer could further a.s.sist our investigation. And to tell him of our suspicions, even before they were substantiated, did indeed seem the very height of mental cruelty. For all these reasons, when Dury returned from disciplining his horse, I followed Kreizler's instructions and concocted a tale about a train back to New York and deadlines that had to be met, using all the standard excuses I'd employed a thousand times in my journalistic career to get out of similarly difficult situations.

"But you've got to tell me something, honestly, before you go," Dury said, as he walked us back to the surrey. "This business about writing an article on cases that have gone unsolved-is there any truth in that? Or are you going to reopen this case alone and speculate about my brother's involvement by using the information I've given you?"

"I can a.s.sure you, Mr. Dury," I answered, the truth enabling me to speak with conviction, "there will be no newspaper articles about your brother. What you've told us allows us to see how the police investigating the case went wrong-nothing more. It shall be treated just as you've told it to us-in the strictest confidence."

That brought a firm shake of my hand by Dury. "Thank you, sir."

"Your brother suffered a great deal," Kreizler answered, also shaking Dury's hand. "And I suspect that his suffering has gone on, in the years since your parents were killed-if indeed he is still alive. It is not our place to judge him, or to profit from his misery." The tight skin of Dury's face grew tighter as he strained to hold back strong emotions. "I have just one or two more questions," Laszlo went on, "if you wouldn't mind."

"If I have the answers, they're yours, Doctor," Dury said.

Kreizler inclined his head appreciatively. "Your father. Many Reformed ministers place little emphasis on church holidays-but I get the feeling he did otherwise?"

"Indeed," Dury answered. "Holidays were among the only pleasant occasions in our house. My mother objected, of course. She'd get out her Bible and explain why such celebrations amounted to papistry and what punishments those who celebrated them could expect. But my father persisted-in fact, he gave some of his finest sermons on holidays. But I can't see how-"

Kreizler's black eyes were positively alight as he held up a hand. "It's a small point, I know, but I was curious." Climbing up onto the surrey, Laszlo appeared to remember something. "Oh, and another detail." Dury looked up expectantly as I joined Kreizler in the carriage. "Your brother, j.a.pheth," Laszlo went on. "At what point did he develop the-the difficulty in his face?"

"His spasms?" Dury answered, again puzzled by the question. "He always had them, to the best of my recollection. Perhaps not when he was an infant, but soon after that and for the rest of his-well, for as long as I knew him, at any rate."

"They were constant?"

"Yes," Dury said searching his memory. Then he smiled. "Except, of course, in the mountains. When he was trapping. Those eyes of his were as calm as a pond then."

I wasn't at all sure how many more revelations I could hear without bursting, but Kreizler took it all in stride. "A sad but in many ways remarkable boy," he p.r.o.nounced. "You wouldn't have a photograph of him, I suppose?"

"He always refused to be photographed, Doctor-understandably."

"Yes. Yes, I suppose so. Well, goodbye, Mr. Dury."

We finally pulled away from the little farm. I turned to watch Adam Dury tread heavily back into the barn, his long, powerful legs and large, booted feet still sinking deep into the mire and refuse that surrounded the building. And then, just before he went inside, he stopped suddenly and turned quickly toward the road.

"Kreizler," I said. "Did Sara mention there being anything about j.a.pheth Dury's tic in the newspaper stories about the family?"

"Not that I recall," Kreizler answered, without turning around. "Why?"

"Because based on Adam Dury's present expression, I'd say it wasn't wasn't ever mentioned-and he's just realized it. He's going to have a tough time figuring out how we could've known." Though my enthusiasm was still mounting, I tried hard to get it under control as I turned back around and declared, "Good G.o.d! Tell me, Kreizler-tell me we've got him! A lot of what that man said confuses the h.e.l.l out of me, but please, ever mentioned-and he's just realized it. He's going to have a tough time figuring out how we could've known." Though my enthusiasm was still mounting, I tried hard to get it under control as I turned back around and declared, "Good G.o.d! Tell me, Kreizler-tell me we've got him! A lot of what that man said confuses the h.e.l.l out of me, but please, please please tell me that we've got a solution!" tell me that we've got a solution!"

Kreizler allowed himself to smile, and held up his right fist pa.s.sionately. "We've got the pieces of one, John-that much I'm sure of. Perhaps not all all the pieces, yet, and perhaps not correctly arranged-but yes, we have most of it! Driver! You may take us directly to the Back Bay Station! There is a 6:05 train to New York, as I remember-we must be on it!" the pieces, yet, and perhaps not correctly arranged-but yes, we have most of it! Driver! You may take us directly to the Back Bay Station! There is a 6:05 train to New York, as I remember-we must be on it!"

For what must have been miles we were full of scarcely coherent expressions of triumph and relief; and if I'd known how brief this feeling would be, I might have savored it more than I did. But an hour or so past the halfway point of our return trip to the Back Bay Station, a sound not unlike the short, sharp crack of a broken tree limb rang out in the distance, signaling the end of all exultation. I can distinctly remember the crack's being immediately followed by a very short, hissing sort of sound; and then something slammed into the horse that was drawing our surrey, bringing a fountain of blood from the beast's neck and knocking it stone-dead to the ground. Before the driver, Kreizler, or I could react there was another sharp crack and hiss, and then an inch or so of flesh was torn out of Laszlo's upper right arm.

CHAPTER 35.

With a short cry and a long curse Kreizler spun to the floor of the surrey. Knowing that we were still badly exposed, I forced him to jump out of the carriage and then crawl underneath it, where we both pressed ourselves close to the ground. Our driver, by contrast, walked out and into the open, for the apparent purpose of studying his dead horse. I urged the man to get down; but the evident loss of future revenue had made him blind to his present safety, and he continued to make a tempting target out of himself-until, that is, another report sounded and a bullet whined into the ground near his feet. Looking up and suddenly comprehending the danger he was in, the driver took to his heels and made for some thick woods fifty yards behind us, on the opposite side of the road from a stand of trees that seemed to be harboring our a.s.sailant.

As he continued to seethe and swear oaths, Kreizler also managed to get his jacket off, following which he instructed me on how to minister to his wound. It didn't appear as serious as it was messy-the bullet had just nicked the muscles of his upper arm-and the most important thing was to stop the bleeding. After removing my belt I fas.h.i.+oned it into a tourniquet just above the bleeding gash, and then drew it tight. Tearing Laszlo's s.h.i.+rtsleeve, I made it into a bandage, and soon the crimson flow had ebbed. When a bullet crashed into the wheel of the surrey, however, shattering one of the thick spokes, I was reminded of how soon we might have other injuries to address.

"Where is he?" Kreizler said, scanning the trees in front of us.

"I saw some smoke, just left of that white birch," I answered, pointing. "Who is he, is what I want to know." is he, is what I want to know."

"I fear we have entirely too many possibilities to choose from," Kreizler replied, tightening his bandage a bit and groaning as he did. "Our adversaries from New York would be the most obvious choice. Comstock's authority and influence are quite national. national."

"Long-range a.s.sa.s.sins don't really seem like Comstock's style, though. Or Byrnes's, for that matter. What about Dury?"

"Dury?"

"Maybe that realization about the twitch changed his att.i.tude-he may think we're crossing him."

"But did he really seem a murderer," Kreizler asked, folding his arm and cradling it, "for all his violent talk? Besides, he made it sound as though he's a decent shot-unlike this fellow."

That gave me a thought: "What about...him? Our killer? He could've followed us from New York. And if it is is j.a.pheth Dury, remember that Adam said he never really took to shooting." j.a.pheth Dury, remember that Adam said he never really took to shooting."

Kreizler considered the idea as he continued to scan the woods, then shook his head. "You're being fanciful, Moore. Why follow us here?"

"Because he knew where we were going. He knows where his brother lives, and that talking to Adam could help us track him down."

Laszlo's head kept shaking. "It's too fantastic. It's Comstock, I tell you-"

Another gunshot suddenly cut through the air, and then a bullet tore large shards of wood out of the side of the surrey.

"Point well taken," I said, in answer to the bullet. "We can argue about all this later." I turned to study the woods behind us. "Looks like the driver made it to those trees all right. Do you think you can run with that arm?"

Kreizler groaned once sharply. "As easily as I can lie here, d.a.m.n it!"

I grabbed Laszlo's jacket. "When you get into the open," I said, "try not to run in a straight line." We both turned and crawled to the other side of the carriage. "Keep your movements irregular. Go on ahead, and I'll follow in case you have trouble."

"I've a rather unsettling feeling," Kreizler said, scanning the fifty yards of open s.p.a.ce, "that such trouble is likely to be permanent, in this case." That thought seemed to strike Laszlo hard. Just as he was about to take flight, he stopped and fingered his silver watch, then handed it to me. "Listen, John-on the chance that-well, I want you to give this to-"

I smiled and pushed the watch back at him. "A rank sentimentalist, just as I always suspected. Go on, you can give it to her yourself-move!"

Fifty yards of supposedly open northeastern terrain can seem a lot more difficult to cover than you might imagine when the stakes of the run are mortal. Every little rodent hole, ditch, puddle, root, and stone between the carriage and the woods became an almost insurmountable obstacle, my pounding heart having robbed my legs and feet of their usual agility. I suppose it took Kreizler and me somewhere under a minute to run the fifty yards to safety; and though we were apparently menaced by only a single gunman who didn't have anything like expert aim, it felt as though we were in a full-scale battle. The air around my head seemed alive with bullets, though I don't think more than three or four shots were actually taken at us; and by the time I completed the escape, with branches las.h.i.+ng at my face as I propelled myself further and further into the wooded darkness, I was as close to incontinent as I hope ever to be.

I found Kreizler propped up against an enormous fir tree. His bandage and tourniquet had loosened, allowing a new flow of blood to stream down his arm. After retightening both dressings I draped his jacket around his shoulders, for it seemed that he was growing cold and losing color.

"We'll stay parallel to the road," I said quietly, "until we catch sight of some traffic. We're not far from Brookline, and we can get a lift to the station from there."

I got Laszlo up and helped him start through the thick woods, keeping one eye on the road so that we never lost track of it. When we came within sight of the buildings of Brookline I figured it was safe to come out of the woods and move at a faster clip. Soon after we had, an ice van came by and drew to a halt, its driver jumping down to ask what had befallen us. I made up a story about a carriage accident, prompting the man to offer us a ride as far as the Back Bay Station. This proved a doubly fortunate stroke, for several large pieces of ice from the van driver's stock eased the pain in Kreizler's arm.

By the time the Back Bay Station came into view it was almost five-thirty, and the afternoon sunlight had begun to take on an amber, hazy quality. I asked our driver to let us off near a small stand of scraggly pines some two hundred yards from the station itself, and after we'd gotten off the van and thanked the man for his help and his ice, which had almost completely checked the flow of blood from Kreizler's arm, I hustled Laszlo into the shadowy darkness beneath the deep green boughs.

"I'm as enamored of nature as the next man, Moore," Kreizler said in confusion. "But this hardly seems the time. Why didn't we drive to the station?"

"If that was one of Comstock and Byrnes's men back there," I answered, picking a spot among the pine needles that offered a good view of the station house, "he'll probably guess that this is our next move. He may be waiting for us."

"Ah," Laszlo noised. "I see your point." He crouched down on the pine needles, then began rearranging his bandage. "So we wait here, and then board the train unseen when it arrives."

"Right," I answered.

Kreizler drew out his silver watch. "Almost half an hour."

I glanced over at him pointedly and smiled a bit. "Just enough time for you to explain that schoolboy gesture with your watch back there."

Kreizler looked away quickly, and I was surprised by the extent to which the comment seemed to embarra.s.s him. "There is," he said, returning my smile despite himself, "no chance that you'll forget that incident, I suppose?"

"None."

He nodded. "I thought not."

I sat down near him. "Well?" I said. "Are you going to marry the girl or not?"

Laszlo shrugged a bit. "I have-considered it."

I let my head fall with a quiet laugh. "My G.o.d...marriage. Have you-well, you know-asked her?" Laszlo shook his head. "You might want to wait until the investigation's over," I said. "She'll be more likely to agree."

Kreizler looked puzzled at that. "Why?"

"Well," I answered simply, "she'll have proved her point, if you know what I mean. And be more amenable to tying herself down."