Page 23
“Would you stop fighting us? You are not going anywhere anytime soon!” Edward snaps, pulling the rope tightly.
“Hah! Other than straight to the grave! Good knots in those ropes, brother. I knew you’d learned something from your friends in the Navy, eh?” I tease.
Edward narrows his eyes. “Shut it, you fucking bellend.”
His steps pound on the floor as he stalks over to the heavy bag.
“Hell. What do you have in here? Jesus, Mary, and fucking Joseph… Alcott. Get over here.” My brother states in surprise.
“What are you on about over there?” I secure the last tie to the table then step toward Edward.
“I don’t think he is just any rich man, brother. He is something else.” Edward sprints to the bound man and begins frisking his trousers. “Lemme check him, he can’t be what the hell I think he is, this can’t be bloody possible.”
The sound of rustling clothes fills the room as Edward pats down his pockets. Edward pulls another blade from the man’s coat. Then another from his boot. Then one from a sheath strapped against his ribs. The table between us grows crowded with knives. For once, I have nothing clever to say. Edward’s face drains of color.
“No,” he mutters.
I glance at him. “What?”
He does not answer. He reaches for the leather bag and overturns it onto the workbench. Newspaper clippings spill out. Medical instruments. Bloodied cloth. A folded sketch of Le Havre. And beneath it all, a woman’s ribbon stiff with dried crimson. The room goes unnaturally still. Edward looks at me, then I look at the man bound to our table.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here? Why do you have so many bloody knives on you? Hmm?” Edward reaches for the pocket square gagged in his mouth. Then hesitates. “I’m taking this out, so you may explain. You bite me, my fist will bless your face.”
When the gag is relinquished, the man licks his lips. Small coughs are expelled from his mouth. He looks around the area, studying us and judging his surroundings.
“Why do you have all those sharp instruments?” I ask with skepticism.
“You better tell the truth,” I demand from our captive.
The man wrinkles his nose and states, “Why, as much as I’d love to chit chat with you chaps, I best be going. I have some prior arrangements to attend to.”
Edward frowns while shifting his feet.
“We asked you a question, and you are going to answer it,” I seethe.
“I’m a surgeon,” he responds with a dry tone.
“Clearly not any regular surgeon,” Edward retorts. Irritation begins to permeate the air as my brother and I cross our arms and wait.
The man’s eyes shift between us as he shakes his shoulders to test the holds. “Ah, see, that is where I must not oblige. I’d rather you not interfere with my evening appointment. And if you release me, then I shall not negatively impact your lives. We can act like this night never happened and we never saw one another.”
Edward exhales dramatically and states in an angry tone, “Says the man tied to the table. Now speak! Who are you? I’m getting impatient.” Then Edward slams his fist atop the table, but the man does not flinch. Instead, he rolls his eyes in a defiant nature, but we persist.
“I’ll give you a countdown. By the end of the count, if you haven’t answered, then your toes shall suffer,” Edward threatens, then nods his head in my direction. I peer down at the knife held within my grasp as a sinister smile slides across my handsome reflection. Slowly I remove the man’s Oxford as he thrashes in desperation.
“Unhand me, you disgusting pig! Do not touch my digits!” The man shouts, then snarls in frustration as my brother and I circle the table in anticipation.
“Five,” I state.
“Four,” Edward says.
“Three,” I count.
“Two….” But after Edward counts, our attention is interrupted when we hear the sound of glass clattering to the ground.
“What the hell was that?” Edward’s tone seethes with irritation. He juts his finger in the captive’s face and orders, “You will tell us your name!”
We begin to turn toward the hallway but are taken aback by the man standing in our sights. I begin trying to ascertain the man’s motives; judging by his apparel, he seems to be a drunkard stepping out of a pub. Standing in the shattered shards is a man disheveled. The black trench coat is tattered, his attire is unprincipled, and from this distance he smells of ripe alcohol.
