Chapter 11: Circling
Merlin's heart dropped at Percival's words. "What do you mean?" he said. Shasta paled; Gwen looked from one to the other uneasily.
"Guess she left the physician's office," Percival said. "Just saw her cross the street."
Merlin's head snapped swiftly around of its own accord, even knowing the wagon was already out of sight. He should have known Padlow wouldn't drive out of town leaving her behind.
"Padlow – sort of – took her arm, and was talking to her," Percival continued, speaking to his wife as though framing an apology. "Guess she got in the back of the wagon, then."
Her safety was in danger, if not her life. He had no clue how Arthur was planning to accomplish his arrests, but Merlin's own situation had changed only slightly. Freya was with Padlow, heading for the dim little hovel, but the whereabouts of Burton and the reeve were still unknown to him. As long as that remained the case, he'd be risking himself and the success of the venture if he tried to take Freya from Padlow by force. They could be hidden here in town, watching for him; they could be hidden in the wooded area around Padlow's hut, waiting for him or both of them to ride in unsuspecting – that invitation about seeing Padlow about various odd jobs was an obvious trap.
Arthur was by no means untouchable, either, even if his three enemies became aware of the agent's writ. It wouldn't save him if there were no witnesses – maybe not even if there were.
The door pushed open, and Percival stepped to the side to admit Gaius and Alice, both out of breath and red-faced from the wind, though the wife wore what looked like her husband's coat.
"Merlin, I apologize for-" Gaius began.
Alice interrupted to explain succinctly, "She must've slipped out the moment we weren't looking."
"Why would she go to him?" Gwen said to Shasta, who answered only with a confused and worried frown.
"She said to me she wanted to keep Merlin from – from doing something he might have regretted later on," Gaius offered. "Maybe she expected to find him on the street, and found Padlow instead."
Merlin shook his head, jaw clenching. He turned and headed for the stairs as the others began arguing over what should be done, and took them two at a time. He swiped his saddlebags and canteen out from under the bed, checking to see that his extra blades and the far-seeing glass were still there, then stuffed them full to bulging with extra shirts and one blanket, and filled the canteen from the clean water in the pitcher. His long wool-lined coat hung on a peg just inside the door; he grabbed it also and returned to the common room in seconds, pulling the coat on as he went.
"Send someone for Arthur," he said tersely. "He should be at Cedric's place, if he's not somewhere between here and there. Tell him Padlow's back, and has taken Freya home. Tell him I've gone after them." Well, indirectly.
Percival nodded, still not quite meeting his eyes, but Merlin was certain the bartender would make sure it was done.
Gaius said, "No, Merlin, wait a moment –"
Merlin yanked the door open, strode across the hard-packed street.
Folk were beginning to stir again through the town, to come out, to talk in tight, tense clusters or hurry on into other establishments. If Whatley or Burton had eyes on him, he didn't want to betray alarm or heightened caution. Or hurry. They were expecting him to rush recklessly into confrontation, betting on the truth of Burton's accusations, maybe, and he had to assume they'd prepare accordingly.
He had to get outside their plans, make them relax and forget the threat of his presence – then he would strike. This also he'd learned from Morgana – once the quarry is aware of the hunt, you must make them believe you've lost their scent or have given up and turned back to home. And with Arthur's return to town, there would be two of them to worry about and keep an eye on; it would be doubly difficult and would at the very least cause them to split up, maybe even make mistakes without each other to check with.
Merlin crossed to the stable next to Elyan's forge, at the end of the street, and saddled the old nag himself, swinging the saddlebags up behind the saddle and fastening them. Once outside, he turned the nag's head back into town, in the direction opposite that taken by Padlow, and allowed the nag to choose its own speed. He could gather no indication, either from sidelong glance or the intuitive neck-hair-raising feeling, that anyone was still watching from a rooftop.
On the other hand, unless Burton and Whatley had both retreated to follow the wagon back to Padlow's hovel to prepare for a siege, there would be at least one of them here in town, and placed where the tavern and forge – the likeliest places for Merlin to be these days – would be in sight.
They'd expect Arthur to be ranging the countryside as he'd done every day for weeks, now, ostensibly still in search of a job; it would be a waste of time for them to try to track him down. Passing Gaius' office, he couldn't make up his mind whether it was a good thing that he and Freya had walked the back alley to the physician's office, or not.
Like most of the buildings lining the main street, the reeve's office – twin holding cells in back – had one large front window to allow anyone inside a good view of the street and town activities at a glance. The jail was too far down from the tavern to be able to see much from the window, though, and Padlow's wagon would have further obscured the line of sight, while parked outside Mike's. But Padlow's wagon was gone, now.
Merlin's keen gaze was alert to the jail more than to any other building, and detected a single dark-clad figure slip around the corner and disappear through the door. That fleeting instant was enough for Merlin to identify the reeve – Burton was bulkier, slower, clumsier, and in any case there was little chance of mistaking that red shirt. So the reeve, wherever he'd been stationed previously, was now in the jail. Presumably he'd seen Merlin the minute he left the tavern, and now watched him ride slowly down the street.
He took note of the mousy brown gelding tethered to the post outside the reeve's office, and the slicker laid over the saddle horn. As he passed the jail, Merlin kept his eyes fixed forward as though oblivious to the watching reeve within. He kept his grim smile hidden as well.
Reeve Whatley would see him alone, riding slowly out of town but away from Padlow's destination, dressed to spend any amount of time in the weather. The saddlebags bulged full, which could mean he was supplied to be on his own for many days in preparation for a trip – or not. The saddlebags could be packed with just about anything.
Let the reeve make of that what he could.
Merlin pressed the nag to a slightly brisker walk once out of town, and held the pace nearly a league. Either someone would follow to keep eyes on him, or no one would, which would mean his actions were free of anyone's knowledge once more.
Rein in the impatience. Control. Make haste slowly.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
It was a good hour's drive to their hut, along a winding track full of dead brown weeds and fallen leaves. Freya tried not to think, not to worry, but when Padlow drew the team to a halt and set the brake, her heart started hammering in quicker beats.
"Get a fire going," Padlow ordered her, jumping down and stepping forward to tend the horses. "Then start unloading some of this stuff. You should've been ready when I got back, but you weren't. Now you're going to have to pay the price, and work twice as hard."
Freya obeyed.
There was firewood and kindling left in the wood-box next to the stone fireplace, from what she hadn't used when Padlow left that spring and she'd moved back to town. The hut had remained dry – at least, there didn't seem to be any indication that the roof had leaked – so she soon had kindling lit and the small flames licking at two larger sections propped above it. The chimney was relatively clear, too, she was relieved to note; not much smoke drifted into the one-room dwelling.
She crouched on her heels by the hearth for a moment, surveying the ugly familiar surroundings, despair threatening. The dingy and often-patched quilt on the dusty husk mattress, the rough-hewn table and twine-bound chairs that tottered on the uneven plank floor. This year it seemed harder than ever to leave the cheer and companionship of Percival's Place to return here, and not wallow in self-pity and doubt.
Freya finally rose and lit the kerosene lamp on the mantel – it was noonish, but the sky was overcast and the hut windowless, and Padlow would be angry if she left the door open and allowed the heat to escape.
"Gal! Get out here!" Padlow shouted.
The wagon had been pulled to the side of the hut, the horses stabled behind. Her husband was pulling the canvas back from the wagon's frame; the hatch-door to the underground cellar yawned open beside it. Fallen leaves drifted dryly into the hole.
"You been getting lazy staying in town," Padlow remarked brusquely. "Guess you'd better remember how to work today." She tied the ends of her shawl behind her back and went to the wagon to begin unloading. "And don't drop none of it, neither!" he hollered.
It was tricky, maneuvering heavy boxes, sacks, and casks down the steep crumbling earthen steps into the dimness of the cramped underground space. After folding and stowing the canvas under the drivers' seat, Padlow came to sit on the back of the wagon and kick his boot-heels on the hanging back-gate, watching her work. He took a pipe from his jacket pocket but chewed the stem unlit.
"Everything just like I left it?" he questioned, jerking a short dirty thumb toward the hut.
"I guess so," she answered softly, not pausing in her work. "I don't know if Burton stayed here or not."
"He ever catch up with you?" Padlow then asked. It was a question posed every fall upon his return – she'd never had to answer in the affirmative, thank goodness – but she was sure that the wrong answer would earn her the beating of her life, and maybe not even a mention of the occurrence to his partner.
"No," she whispered. Her shoulder ached from balancing the forty pounds of flour down the ladder, but she didn't rub it. Not where he could see her action and curse or punish her weakness.
"Burton said the journal's gone," Padlow observed. His tone was uncharacteristically bland, which put her immediately on guard. "What do you know about that?"
"Nothing, Padlow," she answered truthfully, somewhat confused by the change of subject. Then a swift memory rushed through her – a rainy afternoon, a platform built into a tree, Merlin's dark eyes inscrutable as he questioned her. Had she mentioned the journal? A more recent memory – Agent Arthur saying…
One thing she'd never been good at was hiding her thoughts.
"Liar!" he snarled, seeing her expression. He pushed himself off the wagon, his face twisted in anger and jealousy. "Reeve Whatley himself saw the journal in one of the stranger's saddlebags – how did it get there?"
She retreated from him. She could hazard a guess – in fact understood pretty well now, why Merlin had gone to Camelot when he had, right after that conversation – but she opted for strict honesty when she said, "I don't know."
"Burton said you and the young stranger are getting pretty cozy," Padlow continued, his advance backing her toward the hut. "Burton thinks you been bunking up regular with him, that you plan to sell us out and take up with him permanent-like."
"No, I haven't done anything like that," Freya gasped. The rough bark of the log wall thudded into her back, catching at the fabric of her shawl.
"You're gonna tell me everything, aren't you?" he said, sauntering into her and leaning his hips into her body. He grabbed her face tightly between his two hands; the unlit pipe gouged into her cheek but she didn't dare pull away. "You're gonna tell me everything I wanna know about both them strangers – who they talk to, what they talk about." He pulled her head forward, then clunked it hard against the log behind with each phrase, increasing in force until tears stood in her eyes. He grinned, showing decaying teeth. "You're gonna tell me all about their plans to take the business. And then you're gonna tell me everything I need to know to get them both out of the way quiet-like."
Any remaining doubts she'd clung to that Merlin might have been mistaken now crumbled.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
No one followed.
Merlin left the road, heeling the nag to a stiff jog to cut through several orchards and the stubble of two harvested fields, heading back to the north. There was a stand of trees a couple of miles out of town where he'd be closer to Padlow's hut, and be able to see both ends of the main road through Emmett's Creek, with the aid of the glass in his saddlebags. He could also leave the nag there and continue on foot, if he so decided. He saw no one else as he rode, but the frenetic pace of the autumn work had died down with the approaching winter.
Cedric's farm was smaller than average for the region, but he also kept several dozen hogs in two low-lying buildings with attached mud-pens that spread over a couple of acres. It lay a good three leagues to the southeast of town, so whoever was sent to find Arthur might well spend the rest of the day doing it.
Reaching his destination, Merlin dismounted and let the nag crop whatever late-autumn grass it desired. Then he stationed himself by one tall cottonwood and unfolded the glass. From that height, he could look down onto the roofs of the buildings on the north side of town, a hodgepodge garden of squares edged by the main-street storefronts. He could even catch glimpses of the road between buildings. The newer shingles of Gaius' roof glowed golden among the weathered gray of the other shingled roofs.
His blood trembled through his veins, his breath hissed through his teeth. Hurry. Freya.
Can't, he told himself. Impatience will get us both killed. She had value to the murderer, after all - there would be questions for her. It was her choice to answer truthfully or not, quickly or slowly, but she wasn't stupid. He forced himself back into the revenger's mindset drilled into him by Morgana, beaten into him on the training field by Gwaine.
Since he hadn't been followed, Merlin gathered that the saddled gelding outside the reeve's office was ready for another purpose – reporting to Padlow, most likely. Whatley would have had sufficient opportunity from the time Merlin left town to ride the comparatively short distance to Padlow's hut; there was no point in Merlin hurrying there while the reeve remained.
Merlin continued scrutinizing the town – the roofs, the alleys, and especially the east and west roads winding outward. There wasn't much to see – the dirt roads, hard-packed after summer heat and fall rain, raised no dust. The folk he saw going about their business were ordinary, unremarkable. Smoke rose from most of the chimneys; a dusting of snow began to fall, to catch and collect along the ground in withered grass and weeds, atop fence rails.
More would fall, Merlin knew, and more heavily as well.
He let the glass drop, and for a moment considered. His revenge was so close he could feel it, but he could not afford to indulge in daydreams. There would be plenty of time to release emotion when the fight was drawn, when his quarry lay helplessly waiting for the final blow. Thoughts of Freya nudged him, but he refused to wonder how she fared from one moment to the next. The memories of pain incurred in past fights whispered to him of the possibilities she might be suffering, but he deliberately put away from him those images of similar punishment for her.
He was helping as swiftly as he was able. To accomplish it successfully, caution was vital. His stomach told him it was close to noon, and he took a mouthful or two of water from the canteen, for the basic reason of keeping his body fit to fight.
And waited.
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
A voice hailed from outside the cabin; Freya was immediately grateful to the owner for the reprieve, however brief. She was dizzy from Padlow's blows, her dress had been torn in two places, and blood dripped from her nose at least, probably her lip as well. Padlow paused with fist pulled back when the call came, then shoved her roughly back onto the bed.
"Don't move, you hear?" he warned, and slammed the door as he went outside to confront the intruder.
She heard him say the reeve's name, and some of the tension eased from her. Not Merlin, then. Not yet. Her arms shuddered under her weight, and she pushed herself awkwardly up to sitting, bracing herself with one hand on the rumpled quilt of the bed and one on the rough log wall.
The room tilted and drifted slightly to the left; she closed her eyes and focused on breathing. Tears trickled their way through the drying blood on her face, dripping unwiped from her chin.
Padlow had never thought twice about a kick, a shove, a casual backhand if she happened to be in his way. He wasn't slow, either, to slap or hit her for an imagined offense, to take his belt to her for something he considered more serious. A strip of kindling on rare occasion. But the beatings had never lasted this long, nor had they been conducted with such systematic brutality.
Freya honestly wasn't sure how much more she could take. She'd already fainted once, and he'd revived her with a bucketful of horribly cold well-water. But she hadn't yet told Padlow any more than he already knew, nothing to give his suspicion justifiable grounds.
For the last half-hour or more she'd been repeating, begging, "I can't tell you any more," while Padlow cursed her for being useless and stupid. But she was sure he wasn't through with her yet.
For the first time since the morning she'd woken to the knowledge and shame that Padlow had lain with her to make her his wife, Freya thought of escape. Leaving the hut and returning to town, avoiding discovery for a few days, was that any different than keeping the table between her and Padlow when he was drunk, or shifting silently in the bed so his groping hand wouldn't fall upon her before he fell back asleep, or remaining in the cellar until he'd forgotten his temper? Perhaps the right thing for her to do this time wasn't to endure silently and try to forgive, but to remove herself as if she were the cause of Padlow's temper.
Voices came to her, more clearly as the pain began to recede from her head. The door latch hadn't caught when Padlow slammed it, but had rebounded back a few inches. She leaned forward slightly and concentrated. Reeve Whatley was speaking; she could only make out a few words.
"Stranger… rode out… other… nowhere… trouble?"
And Padlow's more distinct growl, "We'll be waiting for them if they come. Did you see Burton as you were coming out?"
Freya couldn't make out the reeve's reply, but she was already shivering from Padlow's words. Merlin had ridden out of Emmett's Creek, and Burton was somewhere along the track between town and the cabin, ready and waiting. Freya was sure he wouldn't be standing in the middle of the path with a casual turn-back warning. Burton was safe to bet on at darts; if Merlin didn't have a blade in his chest before he felt it, he'd have one in his back.
Her escape, then, wouldn't be merely to save herself further pain and injury. She might be the only one able to save Merlin's life.
There was the door, and Padlow and the reeve in the dooryard. Freya stood, and stumbled a step before she caught her balance. Maybe she could slip outside, around the hut, and into the trees, before they noticed.
She reached the door at the same time as Padlow, returning. His smile was flat, nasty.
"Going somewhere?" he drawled. She backed up two paces, collapsed again on the edge of the bed, her heart in her throat. "Whatley says he saw the young stranger riding east out of town," Padlow continued. "Riding slow. Where'd he be going?"
East was a relief, a temporary reprieve. Whatever else Merlin intended, at least he wasn't riding straight into an ambush.
"I don't know," she answered.
He slapped her viciously and hard, spinning her so she almost fell from the bed to the floor. He wasn't going to let her go, not this time. If she believed Merlin was coming – sooner or later – then the only thing left for her to do would be to make Padlow believe himself safe, and call Burton off guard duty.
"Maybe he's leaving Emmett's Creek before winter sets in," she suggested, not trying to straighten but clinging to the edge of the box bed. Speaking with swollen lips hurt.
Padlow scowled, spread meaty hands along his hips. "Why'd he be wanting to do that?" he demanded. "We already know he's got some game here, and it ain't played out, yet."
She shook her head hopelessly. "I don't know," she repeated in a whisper. "Maybe he's not interested in tax collecting, after all." She figured if she spoke in suggestions, it wouldn't be as bad as telling an outright lie… but to save a life.
Padlow pondered the possibility a moment, shook his head. "No, Burton and Whatley both say the strangers are partners. And Whatley saw my journal-book in the other one's saddlebags."
"Maybe he was mistaken about what he saw," Freya offered timidly.
The scowl deepened over a glance to the empty mantel. "The journal's missing," he said in dark triumph. "Can't deny that."
"Maybe Burton lost it," she ventured, breathless at her own boldness.
"Burton don't read," he mocked her. "What would he be doing taking it anywhere? Besides," he remembered then, "Burton said the young stranger told him straight out they had the book and were gonna take the business for themselves."
Freya thought fast. She didn't know what Burton was alluding to, but it made sense for Merlin and Arthur to want Padlow and Burton to believe they were renegades themselves, at least until the time came for arrests.
"Maybe they changed their minds and decided it wasn't worth it," she invented. "The one stranger never found a steady job, and the younger one's is ending because Elyan's helper is recovering enough to work again. Maybe they just decided to move on before winter. Maybe they argued, and split up."
Padlow moved restlessly about the cabin; she could tell that her suggestions were causing him to rethink his course of action. He stopped before her, scrutinized her under heavy brows, while she tried not to cringe too obviously. His large right hand shot out to grab her left forearm, and he raised her to her feet with that grip.
"And maybe you're just trying to throw me off my mark," he spat. "Maybe you're just trying to set me up so I won't be ready when your lover comes calling." His other hand freed his belt knife and lifted it before her eyes in genuine threat. "Sorry, gal," he said, mocking the struggles her terror had renewed. "Didn't work."
…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..
Merlin's attention was caught by a rider emerging from the tree cover at the west end of town. Bringing the glass up to his eye, he followed the rider trotting toward Emmett's Creek. He noted the mousy brown color of the mount, the rider's weather slicker, and knew him for the reeve.
That confirmed two things – firstly, that the reeve had ridden to report Merlin's departure to Padlow. And secondly – with both him and Arthur gone from town, Burton would not have been left behind twiddling his thumbs while the reeve made the trip, therefore Burton was not in Emmett's Creek. He might be at the hut with Padlow, but it was more likely he was lying in ambush between the hut and town. Burton might hold his position all day and maybe through the night, if they did nothing, and the reeve would have nothing further to report until Arthur's return, which wouldn't be for a few hours yet. Whatley might or might not try to confront Arthur himself, but Arthur could deal with that, both physically and officially.
He decided to circle the hut and come at Burton from behind. With the trapper secured and left by the road, he could then take his time at the hut, separating Freya from Padlow when the opportunity arose without worrying about the murderer's partner. Then he'd have the assurance of an uninterrupted fight, of a single foe in front of him to focus on. It was a good plan, a solid plan.
Merlin snapped the glass shut, shoved it into his saddlebags, and mounted.
About a half-mile from the hut, Merlin left the nag covered by the extra blanket to protect it from snow and cold, and continued on foot.
He kept a small slim blade balanced in his hand as he made his way silently forward, to throw if need be. He expected Burton would be watching the track south toward town, but there was no point rushing ahead heedlessly.
The barest breath of air stirred, just enough to swirl the falling flakes of snow. There was no sound save the slight rustle of fallen leaves under Merlin's boots, but even that was muffled by the thickening layer of white.
After what seemed only moments, Merlin could see the horizontal stack of logs that was the back wall of the stable behind Padlow's hut. He angled his approach slightly to keep the structure between himself and the hut, even though there were no windows. His eyes roved constantly, and he paused often to listen. Burton would attack as soon as he sighted him, so he might have little warning of that, but at least he could be sure that if his progress went unchecked, his presence remained unknown.
He circled the stable to the right, crept along its wall, and paused again.
The two horses inside shifted restlessly, sensing him, but didn't make enough noise for those in the hut to hear or be alarmed. There was the wagon, emptied and left uncovered, receiving the drifting load of falling snow. Between the wagon and the hut was a low slanted door that led, Merlin assumed, to an underground cellar.
He watched for a moment; snowflakes landing soundlessly all around. He was aware that his fingers were cold, his nose and the tips of his ears. And in the silence of the snowy wood, he could hear – something. Voices? A low murmur, where no streams flowed anywhere for miles. His head turned, attempting to catch the direction of the sound he heard.
Voices from the hut, he decided. Padlow and Freya? He moved closer across the bare yard between stable and hut, pressed himself against the rough bark of the log wall, just behind the rise of the cellar door.
The hut had not been well-made, and Padlow's unexpected arrival meant that no one had yet stuffed the chinks between the logs against the coming winter's cold. Still, the wall was thick enough that though he distinguished two male voices, he couldn't make out the words.
He took a wide step over the cellar door and edged to the corner of the cabin. One quick glance told him that no horse was waiting for its visiting owner, so he could conclude with reasonable certainty that it was Burton who had joined Padlow in the hut; at least he would not have to venture down the track to incapacitate the trapper, but now he faced both at once. Merlin listened another moment as attentively as he could, but could gather no audible indication of Freya's presence.
Now, what?
If he called out, they could use her as a shield against him. If he broke the door down without warning, the same was true, and he'd lose precious seconds in scanning the room for his targets, leaving himself open to their attack in that time.
He needed some distraction, some way to make them leave the hut without alerting them to his presence. He took a step backward, and his boot-heel landed against the side of the cellar door.
Merlin had matches in his pocket, and it would be, he figured, justice for the damage done to Gaius 's office. He could start a fire in the cellar; that would bring all three of them out in a hurry, and he could disable the second man out, knock him unconscious to focus first on the other. It didn't really matter in the long run which was which – both would fight him and probably to the death.
He tucked his blade back down his boot, silently slipped open the latch, and pulled the slanted door of the cellar carefully upward. He wanted no creaking of unoiled hinges to give him away, so he lifted the wooden slab slowly, laid it back gently on the ground. Then descended the earthen steps quickly.
The thickness of the trees surrounding the hut and the waning afternoon light kept the cellar in gloomy darkness. And the fire – or lamplight – that filtered between the uneven planks of the floor overhead was not enough to see by clearly. Merlin stopped to let his eyes adjust, remaining motionless so he wouldn't knock anything over to alert those above. The planks of the floor weren't nearly as thick as the walls, and he could now make out Burton's voice.
"Too cold to wait out there with nothing to show for it," he grumbled. "No one came but the reeve, anyway."
The impenetrable gray resolved gradually into shapes around Merlin. A crate here, a cask there, a row of shelves built into the wall to the left intended for rows of canned or dried goods.
"Burton, you're a thick-headed toad," the second voice said, gruff and grainy. Merlin's spine chilled in a slow downward line; this was the first time he'd heard the murderer's voice. "Don't know who's coming down the track, now. Could be anyone, and here before we know it!"
"Well, you go out then. You can sit in the snow and wait," Burton continued sullenly. "It's a good thing I came back when I did, anyway. You'd have killed her if I hadn't come back when I did."
"What business is it of yours if I did?" Padlow returned. He coughed harshly and spat.
As Merlin moved forward, part of his mind registered that they were talking about Freya, even as he scanned the room for kerosene, a crate to use for kindling. Then a bundle of rags in the far corner shifted slightly, and Merlin approached in a silent horrified rush.
Freya was not in the cabin, then. She'd been locked beneath it.
His hand found her mouth swiftly, covering it, stifling a moan. He leaned forward until his lips brushed her ear. "Make no noise," he breathed. "Make no noise."
He couldn't tell if she understood him. You'd have killed her was serious enough, coming from Burton. There wasn't enough light for him to check her injuries there; they were too exposed to try to talk to each other, if she were capable of it. He could no longer light a fire to smoke the two men out, not leaving her down there, and without knowing the extent of her hurt, he didn't want to gamble that he had the time – or the ability - to break down the door and kill or disable both men before seeing to her wellbeing.
If he wanted her to live, if he wanted her to have a chance at it without further risk, he had to let his revenge slip this time.