Free Liahona by D. J. Butler

the Pinkerton sauntered in.   It was the one with the Bowler Hat, and
he seemed to be looking for someone.   He peered under both the stall doors, Jed crouching extra low in the
shadow of the crawlspace just in case Bowler Hat decided his quarry might be a
spider or a monkey, and called out, “Diamond!”
    Was that all he wanted, to find his friend Diamond? Jed
wondered.   Would he have to spend
more time up here waiting, ignoring the vile noises and breathing in the rotten
stink of his fellow human beings?   As he thought of it, the image struck him as a pretty good description
of life generally.
    But no, Bowler Hat had the urge.   He selected the stall with the cleanest ’pot, shut himself
in, hung his duster over the stall door, and dropped his trousers.  
    Why is it, Jed wondered, that naked men looked so damn
silly?   At least the Pinkerton kept
his shirt on.
    Jed wasn’t certain that the Pinkerton had to die.   But he had chewed the matter over after
his conversation with Poe, watching the two men work the room and flash their
calotype, and had come to the conclusion that it was best if the two detectives
disappeared.   He couldn’t be sure
whether they were his enemies or enemies of his enemies, and the uncertainty
would complicate all his decisions.   He hadn’t discussed his resolution with Poe, had decided to take it into
his own hands to cut the Gorgon knot, as Poe himself was fond of saying, and
just wipe the problem out.   The
world was uncertain, unclear, dirty and dangerous, and a man still had to act.
    Bowler Hat grunted, tensed the muscles of his shoulders,
emitted an unpleasant odor, and relaxed.   Now he was vulnerable.   Jed
stretched the piano wire from one hand to the other, waited until he heard his
target exhale, and then jumped.
    Long years of playing the acrobat or the geek or the animal
wrestler in one-horse southern towns made his attack possible.   Jed dropped easily onto Bowler Hat’s
shoulders and simultaneously threw a loop of the wire around his neck.  
    The hat hit the filthy floor as the big Pinkerton jumped
back, smashing Jed against the plascrete wall of the stall—
    thud!—
    Jed grunted, but held tight—
    the Pinkerton pulled, kicked, strained—
    Jed squeezed tighter, just like holding shut the jaws of an
alligator—
    the Pinkerton clawed, scratching Jed’s arms, and smashed Jed
against the walls several more times—
    oomph!
    but by the time the big man realized that his only chance
was his pistol and grabbed for it, he was passing out.
    Jed landed hard, wedged into the corner of the stall as
Bowler Hat fell back onto the squatpot.   He continued the garroting until he was sure the Pinkerton was dead,
then climbed down, feeling more irritated than sickened by his surroundings.   He quickly stripped the man of interesting
personal effects—a Maxim Husher (he raised his eyebrows and whistled), a
wallet, a badge—before climbing the cold water pipe back up into the
crawlspace where he’d left the canister.
    The attack and the theft had together taken two minutes or
less.   Now Jed popped open the lid
of the canister and shook its contents down onto Bowler Hat’s prone body.   Several dozen brass beetles, scarabs Poe would call them, fell onto the bare lower half
and into the clothing folds of the dead Pinkerton.  
    Inside the hinged lid of the canister there were two
buttons.   Jed pressed one of them,
and the scarabs set to work.   With
fine brass mandibles, relentless brass claws and tiny jets of powerful acids,
they made short work of the corpse, squirting acid onto the man’s body and then
plucking away the dissolving and scorching bits and consuming them, like a
woman plucking the flesh off a boiled chicken.   Like a snowball tossed into a campfire, the man’s body just
melted.
    Jed watched, fascinated and a little bit disgusted, though
he kept one nervous eye on the door.   Not that he was surprised at what the inside of another man looked