The Alienist - Caleb Carr [187]
“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 pronounced. “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 Japheth 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 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 God! Tell me, Kreizler—tell me we’ve got him! A lot of what that man said confuses the hell out of me, but please, please tell me that we’ve got a solution!”
Kreizler allowed himself to smile, and held up his right fist passionately. “We’ve got the pieces of one, John—that much I’m sure of. Perhaps not 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!”
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 assailant.
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