by Kate Belli
A wave of blackness crossed her vision, and Genevieve dug her palms into the rough wall behind her, willing herself to stay upright and conscious. “And you get money,” she said, alarmed at how faint her own voice sounded. She willed it to be louder. “I’m sure they offered you lots of money.”
He watched her dispassionately. “As I said, we weren’t all born with a silver spoon. But yes, I’m about to become very wealthy, and Mr. McCaffrey is about to be very dead.”
“How? How will they kill him?” Bouts of darkness continued to dance across her eyes. Genevieve dug her palms into the wall again, the pain of thick splinters gouging her hands forcing her consciousness back to alertness.
Clive shook his head. “Not my job, and I don’t care. Once he’s gone, other evidence will conveniently be found. We’ll make the story stick, despite the retraction.” He flashed a sour smile in her direction. “You should have accepted me when you had the chance.”
Anger flared, hot and satisfying, temporarily blocking her fear and snapping her focus into place. “Is that what this is about? Are you still pouting because I wouldn’t have dinner with you?”
Clive moved faster than she would have thought possible, pinning her against the wall and gripping her jaw roughly in his hand.
“Do not mock me, Miss Stewart,” he gasped. “Your little stunt might have cost me my career, and I am not in a mood to be taunted.”
“Your journalistic mistakes are not my fault,” Genevieve managed, heart pounding.
He released her suddenly, shoving her to one side so that she lost her balance and stumbled. As she steadied herself, the strident noise of the tavern ballooned in again as the door opened.
Ernest Clark surveyed the scene with distaste. “Why is she still here?” he asked. It clicked for Genevieve: his had been the other voice she’d heard arguing with Clive earlier.
“Sometimes, Ernest, we must dirty our hands ourselves,” a third voice sighed.
Tommy Meade wound his way around Ernest and smiled at Genevieve.
“I’ve dirtied my hands plenty,” Ernest muttered, shutting the door. She bit her lip and tried to calculate whether she could somehow get past all three men and to the door. It didn’t seem likely.
“Mr. Meade,” Genevieve said, pushing herself off the wall. She wasn’t going down without a fight. “How nice to see you again.”
Tommy responded with an amused smirk. “Likewise, Miss Stewart.” He advanced until she found herself backed against the same wall Clive had pinned her against earlier.
The rivulets of fear Genevieve felt expanded, though she did her best to maintain a brave facade.
Smiling his predatory smile, Tommy gently wagged his finger in Genevieve’s face. “You’ve been a very naughty girl, Miss Stewart. Inconvenient. And I don’t like to be inconvenienced, do I, Clive,” Tommy continued, keeping Genevieve fixed in his unwavering stare.
“No, sir, not at all,” drawled Clive lazily from behind the other man, clearly enjoying seeing Genevieve terrorized. She swallowed her fear and scanned the room for a weapon, gritting her teeth in frustration when nothing obvious presented itself. Perhaps the bottle?
“Your snooping was inconvenient,” Tommy continued. “Your presence here right now is inconvenient. This fool was meant to have killed you weeks ago.” His eyes flicked toward Clive, who ducked his head and looked away.
Fury arose anew in her. It was Clive who had attacked her in the records room.
“And Danny has been inconvenient for years,” Tommy said, shaking his head in mock sadness. “He should have stayed abroad.”
“How did you know Daniel had told me about his sister?” Genevieve managed to ask through her fear. It had been bothering her since the article came out.
A quick look of surprise crossed Tommy’s face. “Told you, did he? Danny boy is more smitten than I thought. I’ve known for years, Miss Stewart, and simply have been waiting for the right occasion to use the information.” He shrugged. “Many in the old hood knew.”
“It didn’t matter whether McCaffrey had told you or not,” Clive added with a nasty laugh. “What mattered was that he thought you betrayed him, thought you uncovered his past secrets. And it worked, didn’t it? You both backed off your snooping, and I heard McCaffrey disappeared. All your precious retraction did was get you fired, and out of my hair for good.”
Tommy sighed deeply, wrenching her attention back his way. His forearm suddenly blocked her windpipe as his body pressed against hers, holding her captive. Genevieve gasped for breath as he said, as casually as if he were ordering a cup of tea, “That’s enough pleasant conversation. As I said, if one wants a job done right, sometimes one must do it oneself.”
The crushing forearm was replaced by a thin knife, its cruel edge pressing against her throat. The blade was so sharp that she didn’t feel the shallow cut, but the sensation of warm liquid trickling down her neck told her one had been made, and she knew Tommy wouldn’t hesitate to slice her neck open and leave her to die in the back room of this tavern.
Tommy cut his eyes toward Clive, and with a quick shove she felt herself pushed into the chest of her former coworker, who pinned her arms behind her back. Struggling would only increase the pressure of the blade, which never left her vulnerable throat. Genevieve kept as still as she could, even breathing as shallowly as possible. Panic began to blur the edges of her vision.
“It may be a small consolation, Miss Stewart, but I’ve no doubt you’ll be mourned,” Tommy whispered again, almost tenderly. “Your family appears very loving. And for what it’s worth, I’ve never seen Danny boy so taken with a woman. I’m sure he would have married you eventually. If there’s one thing Danny is, it’s honorable.” He fairly spat the last word, increasing the force of the knife as Genevieve desperately shrank into Clive’s chest in an effort to avoid its deepening push.
A bellow of pure rage rang through the thin walls of the tavern.
The trio froze, the knife a hair’s edge away from ending Genevieve’s life. Over Tommy’s shoulder, she saw Ernest leap toward the door and open it.
Another bellow, and the noise in the tavern stopped abruptly. If it hadn’t been for the blade pressed against her throat, Genevieve would have sagged in relief.
Daniel.
Tommy cocked his head, listening. A sliver of a smile emerged on his thin, hard face.
“Danny boy,” he said quietly. “I wasn’t sure he’d get here in time. Frankly, I wasn’t sure he’d come at all. Thought he might have stayed drunk for a month after that article.” He turned the smile on Genevieve, who tried to shrink back farther, to no avail.
“That sister was always his weak spot. I knew it would come in handy someday,” Tommy remarked in a conversational tone. He pointed the knife at Genevieve’s face, a mere fraction of an inch from her left eye. She could suddenly, barely breath. “The secret to surviving, Miss Stewart, is to have no weak spots. To not care. Because if one cares, that can be exploited, don’t you see?”
Their eyes locked. Genevieve held her breath, not daring to speak. One couldn’t reason with a madman.
The knife moved away from her eye and pointed at Clive. “You, finish your job,” Tommy instructed. The knife then pointed at Ernest. “And you, take care of our new guest.”
“And what will you be taking care of?” she spat in Tommy’s direction.
Condescending amusement washed over Tommy’s face. “Matters more important than you, dearie. I’ve got a mayoral campaign to continue, and how would it look for a candidate to be found slumming at the Eagle Head Tavern?”
The knife disappeared somewhere in the folds of Tommy’s coat as he cast a significant look at both Ernest and Clive, and then he slipped out the door, Ernest following closely behind.
Clive’s hold on Genevieve’s arms tightened as he shoved her up against the wall again, this time turning her around so her cheek pushed into its rough surface. He used the force of his body to keep her pinned against the wall but said noth
ing. He was pressed so close into her that Genevieve could smell his rank body odor rising from underneath fading layers of cologne. She fought to keep from gagging but also remained quiet, mind working frantically. Their ragged breath mingled, and each stilled as they listened to what sounded like gathering commotion outside the tavern. After what seemed like an eternity but was likely less than a minute, all noise from the outside ceased, and an eerie silence settled.
They waited. The quiet swelled until it became almost oppressive. It was worse, far worse, than the cries and jeers Genevieve had faintly made out earlier through the thin tavern walls.
What on earth was going on?
Where was Daniel? Was he injured? She had to get out of there and help him. She thought of Tommy’s knife and Ernest’s cold eyes and shuddered. Daniel needed to be warned.
She eyed the half-empty bottle on the table behind Clive, then risked a glance at her captor. His face was still inches from hers, but his gaze was riveted toward the door to the outer room of the tavern. His jaw worked and sweat dripped from his brow, despite the steadily dropping temperature. He appeared completely focused on trying to decipher what was happening outside. Suddenly, a loud cheer rose from the street. Clive started slightly, straining toward the door instinctively and relaxing his hold a fraction. Genevieve didn’t waste a second. Using all of her considerable strength, she thrust herself backward into Clive’s chest, ignoring the waves of pain that exploded in her head. Her unexpected movement caught him off-balance, and he stumbled backward, mouth open in shock, falling into the small table behind him. The rickety piece of furniture couldn’t hold the force of his weight and collapsed underneath him, smashing the whiskey bottle as well. Clive gave his own bellow of surprise and pain; the bottle’s shards must have pierced his back.
Quick as a flash, Genevieve darted for the door and dashed into the outer room of the tavern. It was empty save for a crowd of men gathered at the front door, straining to see what was happening on the street. They were four or five deep, at least, and Genevieve knew she’d never be able to push through them to safety before Clive reached her. She could already hear him scraping along the floor and cursing at the glass stuck in his back. He would be on her momentarily. Seeing a stairway that snaked upward behind the bar, she dashed for it, not knowing where it would lead.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Genevieve found herself in a long hallway lined with closed doors. She heard Clive’s roar of rage as he stumbled up behind her, followed by another cheer from the crowd gathered on the street. She had a fleeting moment to wish for Daniel’s safety as she tried several locked doors in vain, before one opened underneath her sweaty grasp to reveal a second flight of stairs. A quick glance over her shoulder showed Clive emerging, red-faced, bloody and furious, at the end of the hall behind her. Seeing no other option, she went for the stairs and slammed the door shut behind her, knowing that without a lock it wouldn’t keep him out long.
The winds had picked up, the icy rain shifting to wet, heavy snow, the first few flakes swirling in an ever-darkening sky. Genevieve staggered onto the rooftop of the three-story building and immediately sought a way down other than the staircase she’d just ascended. She knew how to throw a punch, but casual boxing with her brothers in the park was a far cry from fighting for her life on an icy rooftop with a deranged man, particularly when she was weak and injured. It was better to run, run to safety if she could find it. Usually these rooftops connected and she could simply transverse the buildings until she found a way down, but this appeared to be a stand-alone … there! Genevieve spied where the building did not connect to its neighbor, but there was a foot or so between them—that would be an easy enough distance to navigate. She sped in that direction but was stopped before arriving by Clive, who was suddenly looming in front of her.
Genevieve’s heart pounded as she slowly backed toward the edge of the roof. There was a drop to the courtyard at the back of the building behind her.
“I’ll finish the job, all right,” Clive snarled. He lunged for her, and reacting on pure instinct built from a childhood spent sparring with boys, Genevieve ducked and dodged to her right, simultaneously swinging with her right fist. She clipped Clive in the side, inadvertently adding to the momentum he’d already gained from his dive in her direction.
“No!” Genevieve yelled, horrified, as for one heart-stopping moment Clive teetered on the roof’s edge. She reached forward, but it was too late; his balance tipped and there was a sickening thud as his body hit the pavement three stories below. Shaking, Genevieve risked a glance over the edge of the roof, shuddering deeper as she saw Clive’s mangled and broken form twisted in an impossible position.
A shout from the opposite side of the building wrenched her thoughts back to Daniel and what must be an altercation with Ernest. Leaving Clive’s corpse to whatever fate might befall it, she raced down the stairs again and toward the sounds of fighting.
CHAPTER 23
“Meade!” Daniel bellowed again, growing hoarse. He stood in front of the Eagle Head Tavern as a few flakes of snow began to fall. Except for the crowd that had clustered at the door of the bar, most of whom had emerged from its depths at his first cry, the small triangle-shaped square was nearly empty. Any passerby had either joined the crowd or hurried inside to safety.
He waited. Genevieve was inside. He would see her safe, and he would end this. Now.
Billy had been cutting across the park in the early morning hours, ready to take up his post outside the Stewart house as previously arranged, when he had become distracted by a cat’s mournful cry. After extricating the cold creature from underneath a shrub, he spied two figures far down the path, and watched the man strike the woman and carry her away. Instantly understanding that he had failed at his task, Billy rushed to find Daniel at the Gramercy mansion and mournfully relayed the tale, still holding the shivering cat.
Daniel realized that he should have known Genevieve wouldn’t stay put, despite her promise. Rupert was already with him, as they had retreated to his house to plan their next steps, but Daniel knew he would need more muscle than that to take on Tommy. He gathered Asher, Billy, and Paddy and set off for the Eagle Head Tavern.
Daniel was prepared to wait all day. He knew Meade was in there, knew the tavern was an Oyster Knife stronghold of old. Sure enough, he recognized more than half the men—and a few women—who had gathered and watched him in silence.
They weren’t watching just Daniel. He would have come alone and torn the wretched place apart plank by plank to find Genevieve, but as he, Rupert, and Asher had made their way across town, Paddy and Billy had silently peeled away, and by the time he had reached the intersection where the tavern stood, a gathering of Bayard Toughs were waiting. Word had gotten out: Daniel McCaffrey needed help, and Daniel was one of their own. The Toughs had answered the call and now stood assembled behind him, some with weapons, some armed only with their fists, all ready to fight.
They waited. A wooden sign of a neighboring druggist squeaked as it swung in the growing wind. The noise from the sign was joined by another creak, this time from the tavern door slowly opening.
The crowd parted, and Daniel started in surprise, as it wasn’t Tommy who emerged but Ernest Clark. Clark impassively surveyed the situation, making note of the four dozen or so Bayard Toughs standing motionless behind Daniel, and doubtless equally aware of Tommy’s numbers gathered around the entrance of the bar.
It would be a fairly even fight, if it came to that.
Despite the wet cold, Daniel had removed his jacket and rolled his shirt-sleeves high on his upper arms, exposing the tattoos that identified him as a Tough. His shirt was plastered to his skin from rain and the beginning of wet snow, but he wasn’t going to hide who he was anymore. He was a Bayard Tough from Five Points. He was the son of Irish immigrants. He was also a Harvard-educated lawyer and in possession of one of the largest fortunes in the city, indeed in the country. He was a member of the Astor 400 who knew which fork to
use, which suit of evening clothes to wear, and which architect to employ to design his summer cottage in Newport.
He was all of these things at once. He belonged to both worlds.
Daniel faced Clark, tense and ready, jaw clenched. “Where’s Meade?” he growled.
Clark eyed him with disdain. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied. “Mr. Meade wouldn’t patronize an establishment such as this.”
It took every ounce of control Daniel possessed not to pounce on the other man and immediately begin beating him to a bloody pulp.
“It’s all going to come crashing down, Clark,” he warned. “Meade won’t save you. He has no loyalty to anyone but himself. Do you really want to take the fall for these others? Meade, Andrew Huffington?”
Ernest’s coat was already off, and he began to casually roll up his shirt-sleeves as well. “We’re really not that different, you know,” he remarked. “I came up in Chicago instead of New York, but like you, I’m not really one of them. The swells. Of course, you inherited your fortune. I made mine.” Ernest began to walk in a half circle toward him, and Daniel took a few steps in the opposite direction. Not retreating. Assessing. He knew how to fight Tommy, knew that man’s weaknesses and tricks. He wasn’t sure what to expect from Clark.
“And why risk that fortune?” Daniel asked. The crowd surrounding them was silent, watching. Ernest changed direction. He appeared to be doing his own assessing.
The other man barked a short laugh. “Taking risks is how I got where I am. I’m willing to risk everything for her.”
Daniel understood in an instant. “Sarah Huffington.” The words emerged on a cloud of white air, but he barely felt the cold.
“She’s too good for that ancient husband of hers. But the money she’ll have as a widow, combined with what we’re making … we’ll rule this town.” Ernest stopped, and Daniel could see the other man readying his body to fight. He followed suit, bending his knees slightly and tightening his fists.