Story: "Daredevil - Part 9 - Phantoms of Treachery"

Napoleon, a survivor from the Mutiny of the Bounty, and a demonic killer in the cobblestoned streets of Toulon, 1793.

This is Part 9 of the story.
If you haven't read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4 , Part 5, Part 6, Part 7 or Part 8 yet, please start there.

PHANTOMS OF TREACHERY 

TOULON, NOVEMBER 1793

Lamb was out of breath. For the last twenty minutes, he had kept a fast pace, running, down every dark alley, looking for the man. At one point, he thought he saw Esperanza, the dark-haired Spanish prostitute. Esperanza Ascension de la Cruz. Her name was memorable, precisely because it did seem, to him, the name of a ‘courtesan’, as they preferred to call themselves, not that of a common camp follower, which is what she was. He thought he saw her, walking away from an inn, but then he lost sight of her.

Lamb stopped, caught his breath, leaning against a wall.

Was it even real?

Had he just convinced himself that he saw the shape, the shadow-man?

And then, just as he was thinking that it had all been a trick, one he had played on his own mind, just then, he saw the shadow-man.

The tall, thin shape, stepped out of a dark alley, and it was as if the fog followed him, took shape around him.

As the man stepped into the light of a street-lanthorn, the fog cleared, and Lamb could finally see him, fully, the shape no longer shapeless, but solid, the long dark cloak flaring out, long arms and legs, face covered in the shadow from the brim of the oddly tall hat, the likes of which Lamb had only seen a few times before, in the streets of London, a new fashion called a ‘topper’, or a ‘stovepipe.’ The thin man was standing still, almost as if waiting for Lamb, beckoning.

Lamb moved quietly closer, and the thin man seemed preoccupied, turning back towards the alley he just emerged from, taking slow, halting steps. He stopped. He was hunched over, his back to Lamb, his shoulders shaking. The shadow-man was crying, sobbing, convulsing in tears, pale, long-fingered hands covering his face.

Lamb pulled the large hunting knife from his boot, stepped up behind the man, and placed the tip of the blade against the man’s side, just under the ribs.

“Stand still, Sir.” Lamb spoke quietly. “Very still, or I swear I will stick you, like a pig.”

“Samuel?” Something familiar about that cracking voice. That voice from the past.

“Turn around. But slowly.” Lamb moved the knife just a few inches away, still at the ready.

The man turns. At exactly the same height, they stand face to face. They see each other, close, and there is no mistake.

“Peter? Peter Skinner?” Yes, there was no doubt, this was Peter, the fifteen year old boy he had known.

Though not a boy anymore, a man now, aged in the four years, just like Lamb, looking ten years, fifteen years older than his actual age of nineteen, gaunt, haunted, wide eyes wild and sunken in dark-circled sockets.

“Samuel.” The Peter-shadow reached for him, long pale fingers clawing a hold on Lamb’s coat. Fingers that, Lamb could now see, were covered in blood, his face also streaked with blood, the front of his dark waistcoat glistening with blood.

Lamb stepped back, breaking free from Skinner’s grip.

“No, wait,” Skinner stepped forward, pale, bloody hands stretching out towards him. “You don’t understand. It came back with us, on the ‘Pandora’. It’s here.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The … thing … the killer. Oh, you don’t understand. How could you understand. Let me explain. Let me tell you the story.”

Lamb stepped closer again, brandishing the large hunting knife, grabbing Skinner by the lapel of his long coat.

“I understand this. You’re on the run. They brought you back on the ‘Pandora’, along with the other mutineers, to face the hangman, but you escaped. So, if the killer came back on the ‘Pandora’, if the killer is here, then that makes you the killer.”

“You’re right about the ‘Pandora’, right about the escape, but I’m not —”

“— you’re not the killer?” Lamb pushed Skinner backwards into the alley.

The light from the street-lanthorn was dim.

The dead woman — Esperanza — was a dark lump in a pool of black blood.

“You’re not the killer, but here you stand, blood on your hands, blood all over you. Peter, you were always the worst liar. And now, a killer.”

“No, no.” Skinner shook his head so violently that the stovepipe hat came loose, tumbled to the ground, landing in the pool of blood. “I was following him. I was following the killer.”

Lamb laughed, ruefully. “Really? Well, what do I care? Killer or mutineer, what does it matter. You’re going to the gallows, regardless.”

“Samuel, for the love of God. We must stop this thing.”

“No, there is no we. I must stop you.”

Too late, he saw the look in Skinner’s eyes, the look of surprise, then relief, then triumph, all flitting across his gaunt features in quick successions. Then they were on him, ambushing from behind, four strong arms holding him, wrestling the knife free from his grip, pushing him down to the ground.

Looking up, he could only see two shadows, two phantoms.

Then they pulled him out from the alley, still holding him down, and in the yellow, flickering light from the street-lanthorn, he could see: Jean and Freund.

Phantoms, yes, phantoms of treachery.

— END PART 9 - TO BE CONTINUED —

Click here to go to Part 10 of the story.