The Alienist - Caleb Carr [188]
“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.”
“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.”
“Long-range assassins 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 attitude—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 Japheth 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, damn 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 space, “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 lashing 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