Rebel Fire (26 page)

“How tedious,” Balthassar said. “Mr. Rubinek?”

Rubinek leaned across from his chair and grabbed hold of Virginia's wrist, stretching her arm out straight and letting her hand point towards Balthassar.

“Excellent,” Balthassar said. He spoke a few guttural words in a language that Sherlock couldn't identify.

One of the cougars stood up and padded across to Virginia, skin sliding smoothly over slabs of muscle as it moved. She froze, breath suspended.

The cougar opened its mouth and stretched its neck out until Virginia's hand was inside its mouth. Rubinek let go and moved back into his chair. The big cat closed its mouth until its teeth were pressing into the flesh of Virginia's wrist.

“One of two things will happen now,” Balthassar said conversationally. “Either you will tell me what I want to know or my cougar will bite the girl's hand off.” The porcelain mask remained impassive, but Sherlock could sense a smile behind its smooth surface. “His name is Sherman, by the way. The other one is called Grant. My little joke.”

Virginia's eyes were fixed on Sherlock.

“I'll tell you,” Matty said urgently.

“No,” Balthassar said gently. “I want Master Sherlock to tell me. He, I perceive, is the leader of this little group. He is the one who needs to learn to fear me. He is the one who needs to be
trained
.” He paused for a moment. “You see, there are various ways to die. A bullet to the head is quick and painless, I believe. Bleeding to death is slow, and painful. You do not have the choice as to whether you will die: I have taken that choice away from you. You do, however, have a choice as to
how
you die: quickly or slowly, in agony or in peace.”

“Very well,” Sherlock said, heart pounding in his chest. “Call the cougar off and I'll answer your question.”

“No,” Balthassar said. “Answer the question and I will call off the cougar.”

The tension in the air was almost visible. Sherlock knew that he and Balthassar were testing their willpower against one another. The trouble was, Balthassar had all the advantages.

“The authorities know about John Wilkes Booth,” he said. “They know he's not dead, that he was brought to England from Japan, and that he's here in America now. The British government knows that, and so does the Pinkerton Agency. I presume they will tell the American government. They don't know what you intend doing with him.”

“Good,” Balthassar said. “More.”

“There
is
no more!” Sherlock shouted.

“There is always more. Do the authorities know about
me
, for instance?”

“No.”

“So you ended up on that train by accident? I don't think so.”

“We were following them!” Sherlock said, gesturing towards Berle and Rubinek. “We were trying to get Matty back.”

“And were you with anybody else on the train?” Balthassar's voice was calm but remorseless.

“No. We were by ourselves.”

“How remarkably resourceful of you.” Balthassar paused, and Sherlock got the impression that he was debating whether to tell Sherman to rip Virginia's hand off anyway.

Sherlock didn't bother praying. No outside entity was going to help them now. They were on their own, their fates depending on the whims of a madman.

The thought gave him an idea. Maybe he could turn that against the man in the porcelain mask.

Balthassar gave a curt order, and the cougar reluctantly pulled its head back so that its teeth were no longer pressing into Virginia's flesh. Her whole body seemed to wilt. The cougar gazed at her for a moment, then padded back to Balthassar's side.

“I have a question,” Sherlock said.

Balthassar regarded him, eyes red and black behind the holes in the mask. “Did you not understand the rules? I ask questions and you answer them, and that guarantees you a quick and painless death. That was our bargain.”

“But we only have your word for that,” Sherlock pointed out. “
I
think you're going to get all the answers you can out of us and then torture us anyway, just because you would enjoy it. On that basis, we don't gain anything by cooperating apart from a short delay before the torture starts.”

Balthassar mused for a while. “A logical analysis,” he conceded. “You do only have my word, and you don't know how good my word is. What is your counterproposal?”

“We
will
take you at your word,” Sherlock said, “
if
you answer our questions as well.”

“Interesting,” Balthassar mused. “I don't stand to lose anything on the deal, and I gain more information. On the other hand you don't lose anything, as I still get to choose the manner of your deaths either way, but you do gain information, and that apparently matters to you. So yes, I agree. Ask your questions.”

“What do you need John Wilkes Booth for?” Sherlock asked. “Why is the fact that he's alive and here in America important enough that people need to die to keep it a secret?”

“Oh,” Balthassar said calmly, “people need to die for all kinds of reasons, few of them important. But I like you, Sherlock Scott Holmes. You have spirit. So I'm going to tell you.” He glanced at Berle and Rubinek. “After all,
they
won't understand. They just want their money.”

“Hey—!” Berle started, then subsided when Balthassar stared at him.

“I realize you are British, but even you must have heard about the War Between the States,” Balthassar started.

Sherlock nodded. “My brother said it was about slavery.” He glanced at Virginia. “Her father said it was more complicated than that.”

“Her father is correct. In the end it was about self-determination. Eight years ago we had an election in which the Republican Party, led by Abraham Lincoln, used as the basis of their campaign a pledge to stop slavery from expanding beyond the states in which it already existed. Lincoln won the election, and that resulted in seven Southern states declaring their secession from the Union, even before he took office—South Carolina, Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, and Texas. They formed a new country, the Confederate States of America, with Jefferson Davis as president. Within two months, Virginia, Arkansas, North Carolina, and Tennessee had joined them.”

“What's ‘secession'?” Matty asked.

“Secession,” Balthassar explained, “is when a state withdraws from the Union of States and declares that it will set itself up as a separate entity. Secession is a right we believe to be guaranteed in the Declaration of Independence, but both the outgoing administration of James Buchanan, and the incoming administration of Abraham Lincoln disagreed. They considered it rebellion and declared it illegal.” He sighed. “Ultimately, it doesn't matter whether you believe that a man can keep slaves or not. What we were fighting for was our right to set up our own nation, separate from the one Lincoln was leading, and doing things our own way. If slavery hadn't been the cause, then it would have been something else.”

“But you lost,” Sherlock pointed out. “Ulysses S. Grant and William Sherman beat Robert E. Lee in battle. He surrendered.”

“He had no right to surrender,” Balthassar snapped. “He did not have the authority. The war goes on, even if it's not acknowledged as such. The Government in Exile of the Confederacy still seeks to establish freedom from the oppressive regime of the Union for those states who wish it.”

Sherlock's attention was distracted by a movement of Balthassar's hand. No, not
of
his hand, Sherlock realized, but
on
his hand. The material of the white glove on his left hand was flexing slightly, just where one of the bumps that Sherlock had noticed earlier was located. As he watched, the bump seemed to
move
, edging up the hand towards the wrist. What in heaven's name was it?

“Ah,” Balthassar said, noticing Sherlock's horrified gaze, “I see you have noticed one of my little companions. Allow me to make a more formal introduction.”

He reached towards his left hand with his right and took a grip of the top of the glove. With a firm, careful movement, he pulled it off.

Virginia gasped, while Matty made a sound of revulsion.

Balthassar's hand—minus its little finger—and his wrist were covered with what looked for a moment like boils, but which Sherlock realized were living things, like slugs. Their skin was a reddish grey and moist, and they seemed to pulse slightly as Sherlock watched.

“What
are
they?” he whispered.

Balthassar pulled off the other glove. His right hand—this one missing his fourth finger—was similarly covered with the sluglike creatures.

“Meet my doctors,” he said. “An entire medical team, dedicated to my well-being.”

Reaching up with his right hand, he undid a hook behind his left ear and pulled the porcelain mask off with one quick gesture.

The cougars hissed and tried to back away across the veranda.

Balthassar's face was gaunt, the cheekbones and nose prominent, but his features were difficult to distinguish beneath the tiny boneless creatures that clung to his white skin like black drops of tar.

 

F
OURTEEN

Virginia made a choking noise, as if she was trying to stop herself being sick. Matty said a single word that expressed his shock. Sherlock assumed it was a word he'd picked up along the waterways in his travels.

Sherlock himself was fascinated. Repelled, yes, but mainly fascinated. As he looked closer, he noticed that Balthassar's face was covered in small triangular scars. Whatever the things were that were clinging to his face, he'd been using them for some time.

“Hardly the face of a new country,” Sherlock said, trying to disguise his feelings. “I can see why you have to wear the mask.”

“All medical procedures have side effects,” Balthassar said quietly. “Mercury, used to treat syphilis, drives men mad. I consider myself fortunate that my own side effects are limited to the purely cosmetic.”

“But what
are
they?” Matty whispered.

It was Virginia who replied. “They're leeches,” she said. “Bloodsucking leeches. They live in streams and ponds in hot climates.”

“Bloodsucking leeches,” Matty repeated. “And you're
letting
them suck your blood? You're insane!”

“At least I'm alive,” Balthassar replied, unperturbed. “My family has an inherited disease. My father died of it, as did his father. The blood flows sluggishly in our veins. Without treatment our bodies simply start shutting down, bit by bit.” He raised a hand and looked at the obviously missing finger. “There wasn't a lot left of my father when he died.”

“And the leeches help?” Sherlock asked.

“They have a substance in their saliva that stops the blood from clotting. They have to, otherwise they would not be able to feed. With enough leeches attached to my skin, all of them feeding, all of them secreting that substance, my circulation is quicker. The blood rushes through my veins.”

“But—don't they suck your blood out?” Matty asked.

Balthassar shrugged. “A thimbleful each, perhaps. A small price to pay for good health, and one I do not begrudge them. Which reminds me…” He turned to Dr. Berle. “I believe you have something for me?”

Berle had a disturbed look on his face. He took the box from his lap and put it on the table, then flicked a catch on top and opened a lid. From inside he took a glass jar with a lid made of waxed paper that was fastened on with string.

Inside the jar was something horrifying.

The leeches on Duke Balthassar's face and hands—and presumably on the rest of his body as well—were small, barely larger than Sherlock's little finger. The one in the jar was the size of his clenched fist, and it was a bright, glistening red. It lay curled around the bottom of the jar, its tiny head waving blindly in the air, seeking sustenance.

Virginia clutched her hand to her mouth and turned away. The cougars, lying on the veranda nearby, tried to edge back even further. Their teeth were exposed and their eyes looked wild and scared, but their fear of Balthassar seemed to exceed their fear of the leech, and they didn't try to run.

“An impressive specimen,” Balthassar said, taking the jar from the table. “When did it last feed?”

“A month or so ago,” Berle replied. “Or so I'm told.” He paused and swallowed before continuing. “Duke, as a doctor—as
your
doctor—I have to tell you that this—
treatment
—isn't something I recommend. In fact, I'm not even convinced it works. The things you're doing to your body … they're
monstrous
!”

“I'm still alive, Doctor, and I still have all of my extremities, minus two fingers and some toes,” Balthassar replied. “That is all the proof I need.” He pulled at a loose strand of string, and the knot holding the waxed paper on undid itself. “And with this beautiful creature I will be able to think even more clearly and my stamina will be unbounded.”

He reached into the jar and carefully picked the leech out. It hung bonelessly from his fingers. He smoothed a strand of his fine white hair back from his face, then placed the leech behind his right ear.

The cougars made a mewing sound. They were terrified.

As Sherlock watched, the creature's head moved around, searching for a vein he presumed, then fastened itself onto Balthassar's skin. Its rear end manoeuvred for a moment, wriggling around, and then it too fastened itself down firmly.

Balthassar closed his eyes and smiled blissfully. “That's it,” he whispered. “That's right, my beauty. Feed. Feed away.”

“How … how long do they stay attached?” Sherlock asked.

“Days,” Balthassar replied dreamily, eyes still closed. “Weeks in some cases. When they have taken their fill they detach and hibernate for a month or two while they digest the still-fluid blood. I have a large supply of leeches—most from here in America, from Florida and from Alabama—but nothing like this one. Oh no,
nothing
like this one.” He smiled. “I knew it was there, in the jungles of the Far East. I could feel its presence. It called out to me, asking me to come and get it.”