He whirled around, stumbling awkwardly as he almost lost his balance. “Who is it?” he called, his voice echoing hollowly back at him from out of the impenetrable murky gloom. “Why are you following me?”
For a long, dreadful moment, he heard only the drip of moisture and the splash of a wherryman’s oars out on the river. But he knew this time that it wasn’t his imagination. Someone was following him. Someone had been following him, off and on, for days. And rather than feel foolish for believing it, he suddenly felt foolish for ever having doubted it. For doubting himself. For having kept his fears and suspicions quiet.
For not having hailed a bloody hackney when he left the hospital.
“What do you want from me?” he cried, his hand tightening around the cross brace of his crutch.
The shape of a man materialized out of the fog. Massive shoulders. Broad barrel chest. Long, heavily muscled arms. At first, the features were indistinct. Then Gibson saw the overly long, curly black hair and knew he was looking at Sampson Bullock.
“What do you want?” asked Gibson again.
Bullock drew up, an insolent smile slitting his beard-stubbled face. “What makes ye think I want anything with ye?”
“I know who you are. You’re Bullock.”
The smile broadened. “Told ye ’bout me, did she? Did she tell ye ’bout how she killed me baby brother?”
“She told me he beat his wife so badly she died.”
The smile was gone. “Never did. The bloody bitch fell down the stairs.”
“Don’t you mean he kicked her down the stairs?”
As soon as the words were said, Gibson wondered what kind of crazy, foolhardy courage had moved him to utter them. Once, he’d been a scrappy fellow, more than able to hold his own in a brawl and not above fighting a bit dirty when the occasion warranted it. But those days were far behind him, whereas Sampson Bullock looked like the kind of man who could wring the neck of an ox with his bare hands.
Gibson watched the big tradesman’s upper lip curl, his nose wrinkling as he gritted his teeth together as if in a snarl. Then a strange light of amusement flooded into his face, and he laughed.
“She’s stayin’ wit’ ye again, ain’t she? Like ye can protect her.” The tradesman’s small black eyes swept him scornfully. “A one-legged Irish surgeon? Think yer up to it, do ye?”
One of his big hands swept out to close around Gibson’s neck, the fingers digging deep into flesh and sinew. Still smiling, Bullock swung Gibson up and around to slam his back against the brick wall of the shop beside them. He was dimly aware of his crutch falling to the pavement with a clatter. All his being was focused on the viselike grip squeezing his throat, choking off his air.
“What’s the matter, Irishman? Can’t breathe?”
Gibson clawed frantically at the massive hand clamped around his throat. He heard a roaring in his ears. His vision dimmed, took on a strange, bloodred hue. He felt rather than saw Bullock thrust his face so close that his rough beard scraped Gibson’s cheek and a foul odor of rotten teeth washed over him.
“Ye tell her. Tell that bitch fer me. Tell her I’m gonna get her when I’m good an’ ready. But I’m gonna make her pay a bit more first.”
Still smiling, Bullock moved his outstretched arm back and forth, grinding the back of Gibson’s head against the rough brick wall behind him.
Then he took a step back and let Gibson go.
Gibson lost his balance, falling to his good knee, his peg leg sprawled out to one side as he struggled to keep from collapsing. He cradled his burning throat in his hands, sought to draw air deep into his lungs. He smelled his own fear in the sweat that slicked his body, felt the fog damp against his face.
When he looked up, the man was gone.
? ? ?
Gibson was bent over a basin, trying to pour water over the back of his head, when Alexi came to take the pitcher out of his hand.
“Here; let me do that for you.”
She took the cloth from his other hand and worked to gently clean the blood and bits of grit left by the bricks. “What happened to you?”
“Sampson Bullock evidently believes that the best way to ensure that his messages are delivered is to grind the messenger’s head into the nearest wall.”
Her hands stilled at their task. “Bullock did this?”
“It’s nothing.”
“What did he say?”
Gibson straightened slowly. He was painfully conscious of having stripped off his coat, so that he stood before her in shirtsleeves and waistcoat.
“What did he say?” she asked again when he didn’t answer.
He reached for a towel to dry his face and the back of his neck. Water dripped from his hair to run down his cheek, and he swiped at it.
She said, “I take it he threatened me?” She set aside the cloth she still held and turned toward the door. “I think I’ll go tell Mr. Sampson Bullock that if, in the future, he has anything to say to me, he needs to learn to say it to my face.”