The street lamps had been lit, glimmers in
the murky darkness. Up the street, honky-tonk piano music spilled
out from one of the saloons, along with coarse, drunken laughter.
But it was not those noisy denizens of the night that Rory had to
worry about, but other silent shapes, which might be lurking in the
doorways ahead.
Her fingers shook a little as she locked the
side door, and she despised herself for a coward. As she set off
down the pavement, her shoes made a solitary clatter, heading away
from the raucous doings of the saloon, whose bright lights seemed a
veritable haven compared to the darkness ahead of her.
Passing the textile dock, she could just make
out the East River, a mysterious moving shadow. She could not help
thinking of tales she had heard, of bloated bodies fished from
those chilly depths.
Drowned was always the official verdict,
ignoring obviously slit throats. In this part of town, even the
police had a habit of avoiding trouble by looking the other
way.
Quickening her steps, Rory chided herself for
a fool. As if this walk wasn't bad enough, without allowing her
thoughts to wander to such things as murder. She nearly jumped out
of her skin when she heard a footfall behind her.
Whirling about, she caught her breath,
certain that someone was following her. But the street behind her
was dark and empty. Swallowing hard, Rory told herself not to
panic. She'd be damned if she would allow herself to be spooked by
a shadow, run from nothing but the excesses of her own
imagination.
Forcing herself to maintain a brisk but
steady pace, she could not control the thudding of her own heart.
For the worst was yet to come. Ahead of her loomed the wooden posts
supporting the tracks of the El itself. To reach the platform, she
had no choice but to cross beneath, where the darkness deepened
into impenetrable shadow, where the support beams offered a dozen
places of concealment.
She had just reached the dreaded spot when
she heard it again, the hollow echo of a footstep not her own.
Glancing nervously over her shoulder, this time she was quick
enough to catch a form melting behind one of the wooden pillars
some ten yards behind her.
Wouldn't it be just like Tony to have waited
and tried to play watchdog without giving himself away? Just as
though she was some frail damsel who couldn't look after herself.
Rory tried to summon up anger, but what she experienced was more in
the nature of a desperate hope.
"Tony?" she quavered. "Come on out. I know
it's you."
No answer.
She saw other shapes moving. Dear God,
whoever was out there, it was more than one. Without another
thought, Rory turned and ran. She raced along, weaving between the
pillars. The tracks overhead let in brief patches of light, guiding
her toward the platform stairs. She thought she heard feet pounding
in pursuit, but she could scarce discern anything above her heart
thundering in her ears, the sound of her own ragged breathing.
What would she do even if she gained the
platform? It might be minutes before a train came by. Yet to keep
racing along beneath the tracks was madness. It did not even occur
to her to try to scream. They were not deaf in this part of town,
merely indifferent. She had no choice but to make her way up.
Grasping the handrail, she hurled herself up
the steps, stumbling in the process. A soft cry escaped her, so
certain was she that she would be overtaken at any moment. But when
no monstrous hands reached out of the darkness to snatch at her,
she recovered her footing and staggered on.
When she had nearly gained the relative
security of the platform, she dared pause long enough to catch her
breath and listen to determine the whereabouts of her pursuers. She
heard no pounding on the stair behind her, only other sounds
echoing from beneath the tracks.
Strange sounds—a loud crack, a thud, a low
grunt. A fight. Someone was having a fistfight down below the
stairs. The chase had had nothing to do with herself. Still feeling
shaken and a little foolish, she summoned enough courage to bend
down and peer beneath one of the openings in the stair.
Below her three men engaged in a deadly
conflict, two of them raining blows upon a larger form. The big man
went down and she caught the glint of something in one of his
attacker's hands. A knife.
A cry caught in her throat as she realized
she was about to witness the murder of some hapless stranger. The
big man tried to roll clear, but the other two were upon him again.
Enough lamplight filtered through the tracks to illuminate the face
of the victim. A face that beneath the smear of blood was
heart-stoppingly familiar.
Rory froze with the shock of recognition.
With the helpless sensation of being caught in some nightmare, she
watched the deadly blade arc downward before she was able to
scream.
"Zeke!"
CHAPTER EIGHT
From far away, Zeke heard Rory cry his name.
But he was aware of nothing but the feel of sharp rocks grinding
against his back, the weight of his assailant bearing him down. A
shaft of light piercing the tracks above streaked across coarse
features, an ugly raised scar bisecting the chin, thick lips almost
slavering, like a mad dog scenting the kill. One meaty hand flashed
a butcher's knife toward Zeke's throat.
Zeke caught his attacker's wrist, deflecting
the blade just in time. Every muscle in his forearms strained
upward to put distance between that sharp cutting edge and his
flesh. Gritting his teeth, Zeke tasted his own blood from the blow
that had felled him in the darkness. He sensed his second opponent
nearby—a short, squat man, watching the deadly contest, wheezing to
get his breath.
Christ, Zeke thought. This was a little more
than he had bargained for when he trailed Rory from the warehouse.
He had been off the streets too long, allowing two clumsy thugs
such as these to catch him unaware.
But like a fish tossed back into water, Zeke
felt the old moves coming back to him. Managing to get his other
hand free, he struck, gouging his fingers into the deep pockets of
flesh surrounding his opponent's eyes. As the scarred one yelped
with pain, Zeke drove his knee upward, square into the man's
groin.
With another howl, the rogue rolled off Zeke,
doubling over. Getting to his knees, he tried to raise himself.
When he regained his footing, these two cutthroats were going to be
mighty sorry they ever singled him out for their mark. But from the
shadows came the other one, his thick boot catching Zeke hard in
the chest.
Zeke grunted with pain but grabbed the
squatty one's leg. With a vicious tug, he upended the man on his
buttocks. Using one of the railroad pillars for a support, Zeke
drew himself upright just in time to see the scarred one going for
his knife again.
Zeke rammed his heel down, crushing the man's
hand, forcing him to release the weapon. After that, all descended
into a mayhem of flailing fists, gouging, biting, kicking.
Zeke received another hard knock to the head,
but he gave better than he got, taking a keen satisfaction when his
knuckles connected against bone and flesh. Caught up in the battle,
it took him a moment to realize reinforcements had arrived. Out of
the corner of his eye, he caught the blur of furious movement that
was Rory.
"Get the hell out of here," he gasped at her,
but she was doing all right for herself. Snatching up a broken
segment of railroad tie, she rained blows down upon the hapless
head of the pudgy one.
Just as Zeke rammed his fist into the most
vulnerable part of the scarred one’s stomach, a shrill whistle
pierced the night. Zeke's attacker fell back, and as the police
whistle sounded again, he took to his heels. Clutching his head,
the squat one staggered after him, the two of them swallowed up by
the darkness.
Old instincts died hard. At the call of the
police whistle, Zeke had to suppress a strong urge to bolt. Instead
he sagged back against one of the pillars, panting for breath.
"Zeke, are you badly hurt?"
Rory's features swam before his gaze, her
face as pale as the moonlight, her eyes silvery pools of fear and
concern. She wrapped one arm about his waist, trying to shore him
up with her own slender frame.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"Just fine now." He ached in a dozen
different places, his jaw was swelling, but none of that seemed to
matter as he draped his arm about her shoulders, drawing her
close.
She glanced up at him, wariness replacing her
initial concern, but before she could say another word, the law
descended upon them in the form of a trim blue-coated officer, his
lean face and trim mustache shadowed beneath his gray helmet. Zeke
winced at the familiar sight of the thick billy club the policeman
swung in one hand.
"Now then, what's all this disturbing of the
peace?” the man demanded in a thick brogue. "Why, it's the little
lady from the balloon company. Has this villain been bothering you,
Miss Kavanaugh?"
"No, Sergeant O'Connell. I was up on the
platform to catch the train when I saw this gentleman being set
upon by thieves. They ran back that way toward the docks." Rory
gestured vigorously. "If you hurry, you might still catch
them."
But O'Connell showed no inclination to bestir
himself. He spared a glance up the street and then shrugged.
"Certain the rogues are long gone, more's the pity. Were they after
taking your wallet, Mr. Morrison?"
Zeke shook his head, still too winded to
reply. Once a trifling skirmish such as this would have been only a
prelude to a rollicking night, which often ended with a trip in the
paddy wagon. He must be getting old.
"Poor lad." O'Connell edged closer, but his
commiserating smile didn't strike Zeke as being very genuine.
"You'll be needing a doctor, I'm thinking. Don't you fret, Miss
Kavanaugh. You've done your duty as a good citizen. You run along
and catch your train. I’ll be looking after the gentleman."
“Not necessary," Zeke said, straightening
painfully. To his surprise, Rory stepped between him and the
officer, a small but fierce barrier. In the glow of the street
lamp, Zeke could almost see her bristle.
"You needn't put yourself to any further
trouble, Sergeant. Mr. Morrison is a friend of mine. I will take
care of him."
"No trouble at all, Miss Kavanaugh," the
sergeant said, but Rory stood her ground. O'Connell eyed them both
for a moment, his fingers twitching, running along the length of
his nightstick.
But he gave way, saying, "Well, if you are
certain I can be of no help, I will bid you good night."
The policeman shuffled off down the street,
pausing once to look back. Zeke was only too pleased to be rid of
the officer. With a grateful sigh, he wrapped his arm about Rory's
shoulders. But she pulled away from him.
"I have a feeling you are quite capable of
standing on your own power, Mr. Morrison."
"Mr. Morrison?" he repeated. "What happened
to Zeke?"
She glared and spun away from him, stomping
back toward the steps leading up to the platform. Zeke hobbled
stiffly after her. This was getting to be quite a habit, chasing
this woman through the streets of New York.
As he mounted the steps behind her, he
called, "Lucky for you I happened along, wasn't it? You little
fool! Don't you know better than to go traipsing these streets
after dark?"
A few steps above him, she whirled about,
hands on hips. "You didn't just happen along, Morrison. You were
following me."
He thought of trying to deny it, but he saw
the absurdity of such a course. In a swirl of skirts, Rory vanished
up the steps. By the time he caught up with her, she had flounced
down upon the platform bench, her arms crossed over her chest in a
most forbidding fashion. With a heavy sigh, Zeke sank down beside
her, grimacing at the pain in his side. He hoped he hadn't managed
to crack his ribs again. Rory scooted farther down until she was
almost falling off the edge of the bench.
"I did follow you," Zeke admitted. "I still
had the business card you gave me and came out to have a look at
your warehouse. I never thought I'd be lucky enough to find you
here, but I caught a glimpse of you passing by one of the windows.
I decided I'd just wait until you left and see where you went."
“You put yourself to a great deal of bother,
Mr. Morrison."
"I wanted to find out where you lived and
after the way we parted this morning, I was afraid you wouldn't
tell me."
“You were quite right."
When he draped his arm along the back of the
bench, she sprang up like a scalded cat.
"Please, Rory," he coaxed, "I only wanted to
see you again, just talk to you."
She gave a small sniff. "I suppose you want
to tell me some blather about how sorry you are, how much you
regret that outrageous proposal you made me."
"I am sorry," Zeke began contritely enough,
but was unable to repress his grin, no matter how much his jaw
ached. "I am sorry you wouldn't accept it."
Rory expelled her breath in a furious hiss.
"You are impossible! I'd hit you myself if you weren't already so
black and blue. Now if you will excuse me, I have a train to
catch."
"What? Are you just going to leave me like
this to collapse on the platform?"
"I see no danger of that. I am sure someone
as clever as you will have no difficulty finding your way
home."
"Well if that is the way you feel—," he
started to say, then doubled over, emitting a groan that was only
half-faked.
He had at least caught Rory's attention. She
shot him a look of contempt. But when he slumped down on the bench,
clutching at his forehead, the hardness of her expression
wavered.
"Oh, stop that," she ordered, but her voice
was laced with uncertainty. She inched closer. "I know you weren't
hurt that bad. Nothing could dent that thick skull of yours."