Deadly Love

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Deadly Love Page 17

by Brenda Joyce


  “I’ll wait ten more minutes,” Francesca said finally.

  Joel nodded, hopping back into the hansom. The driver demanded more money. Francesca gave him another silver dollar.

  Five minutes later, Joel went back in while Francesca fought nature’s sudden call. She was shivering now, for the cab was not heated and it was no more than twenty degrees out, with a brisk breeze. Joel instantly returned. “Maybe we should come back tomorrow,” he said. “He’s still playin‘ cards, Miss Cahill. He wouldn’t even talk to me.”

  Francesca recalled his disgusting kiss. His fetid breath. And worse, his smug, fearless eyes. She wet her lips. They should come back tomorrow, but by tomorrow, Jonny could be dead. Assuming he was still alive ...

  “I will go in.” She handed the driver five dollars. “No matter what, wait for us, we won’t be long,” she said.

  “Will do,” the driver said, smiling.

  Francesca shut the door, slipping on the ice. Very carefully, she crossed to the curb, and then to the saloon’s front door. Joel looked unhappy as he pushed it open for her.

  Once inside, Francesca was blasted with warmth—and that, at least, was a relief. Then she stood there, staring.

  The room was filled with men, all working-class immigrants, and none of them particularly reassuring in their demeanor or presence. In fact, most of the patrons, whether standing at the long wooden bar or seated at tables, were clearly, boisterously, drunk.

  There were women present, too. They were wearing short dresses that revealed stockings and high heels. The gowns were mostly red and cut extremely low. Francesca had never seen such an abundant display of bosom before, and so much long, wild, disheveled hair.

  She was, obviously, facing prostitutes. She could not tear her eyes away.

  And suddenly, she was seen. There were hoots, whistles, and catcalls.

  Francesca stiffened, suddenly aware of the remarks.

  “Princess! Over here! Want some fun? I’m the one!”

  Francesca felt her knees buckling; Joel moved in front of her, protectively.

  Oh, God, she thought. What am I doing? Am I insane?

  “Lady.” His voice was loud, so he could be heard over the cries and calls directed at her. “He’s at that corner table. Let’s do our business and leave.”

  She could not agree more. Francesca followed Joel’s gaze and saw Gordino, who was sitting back in a chair at a poker table with four other men. His card hand was lying face down, and he was staring at her. Francesca’s heart sank—she knew he recognized her.

  Joel grabbed her hand and pulled her forward. The hoots and calls continued.

  “Need some boffing?”

  “Hell, no. The lady wants a fuck!”

  Her face burned. Her heart was pounding its way right out of her chest. This was a terrible mistake—but damn it, she would get the information she wanted. Otherwise this nightmare would have been for nothing.

  “Princess! Forget him! Over here!” Someone grabbed her skirt.

  Francesca stumbled, weak with terror.

  “Let her go, cocksucker,” Joel snarled. And a knife flashed in his hand.

  Francesca gasped. The man, whom she did not even look at—she did not dare—released her skirt.

  “Fuck you, son of a bitch,” he growled at Joel.

  Joel pushed her forward. And Francesca found herself facing Gordino. He was grinning. “Hello, princess,” he said, slowly standing.

  He was a big, brawny man. Francesca smelled whiskey and tobacco on his breath. “Mr. Gordino, I must speak with you, and it is a most urgent matter!” she cried in a rush. “I will pay you handsomely for information!”

  “Yeah?” His hands were on his hips. “You can pay me all right, princess. Let’s go.”

  “Let’s go?” she squeaked. Because he had jerked his head behind him.

  “Upstairs. Leave the asswipe here.”

  She felt her cheeks flooding with heat again. Both at his language and at what she realized he wanted from her in payment. She swallowed hard. A lump had formed in her chest. It burned and hurt. “I will pay you handsomely, with cash.”

  He grinned lewdly. “Only one form of payment I want, and that’s a nice, rich piece of snatch.”

  Francesca inhaled. She could guess what that last word meant. “I will give you fifty dollars, sir, if you tell me who gave you the note that you gave to Joel on Sunday. The note pertaining to the abduction of the Burton boy.”

  “Maybe I will take the cash. Upstairs,” he said, and he laughed.

  Francesca realized she was shaking.

  “She ain’t goin‘ upstairs,” Joel said savagely. “You tell her what she wants to know, right here, and she’ll give you the money.”

  “Shut the fuck up, you little pisspot,” Gordino said, not once taking his eyes off of Francesca.

  “I am not going up those stairs,” Francesca heard herself say. Unfortunately, she also heard her own tone, and it was high and filled with fear. “So you may tell me what I want to know and take the money, Mr. Gordino, or I will leave and you will be no richer tonight than you were today.”

  “I’m real good, honey,” he said.

  Francesca stared.

  “All right,” he said. “Give me the money and I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  In that moment, elation rose up fast and hard in Francesca. She began to open her purse; Joel restrained her. “No,” he told her, then tossed at Gordino, “You tell her first, and then she pays you.”

  Gordino glared at Joel with such menace that her elation vanished instantly, and all Francesca could think about was that they had to get out of there, as quickly as possible. “It’s all right,” she said frantically, digging into her purse.

  “Lady, don’t!” Joel cried, warning her.

  Francesca shoved the fifty dollars at Gordino, jerking back just in case he decided to grab her along with the money.

  He grinned and counted it carefully, slowly. And then he pocketed it and looked up. “Well, thank you, princess,” he said.

  “Who gave you that note?”

  He laughed. Hard. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” he said. “But we can still go upstairs,” he added with a suggestive look.

  Francesca felt herself gape.

  “I told you not to give him the money first,” Joel cried.

  “You promised!” Francesca heard herself protest.

  He laughed harder.

  Joel had her hand. “He ain’t gonna sing. Let’s get the hell outta here.”

  “Mr. Gordino,” Francesca began, refusing to budge. “Please.”

  “If you come upstairs, I’ll tell you anything, an‘ more.”

  Francesca stared in disbelief, as Joel tugged hard on her hand. Gordino grinned. “Let’s go,” Joel said, and Francesca finally heard the nervousness in his tone.

  She looked around. Every single person in the saloon was staring, and none of the men looked much nicer than Gordino. “All right,” she managed, a whisper.

  Joel pulled her back through the tables. There were more whistles, and some extremely suggestive remarks, which Francesca somehow blocked out, perhaps by the noise of her deafening heartbeat. And suddenly they were outside on the street.

  “That dad—blasted cabby!” Joel shouted.

  Francesca suddenly realized that the street was deserted—the hansom was gone.

  “No,” she said, shocked and disbelieving. The driver had left them! Abandoned them! They were stranded.

  “C’mon. We can find a hansom on Broadway.”

  “At this hour?” Francesca gasped.

  “Well, we’ve got to go. C’mon.” Joel dragged her down the block.

  Francesca ran to keep up with him, stumbling on the uneven footing caused by the patches of frozen snow. How could this have happened? she managed to think as they raced toward Broadway. How? She had just suffered the worst night of her life—it had been a nightmare come true: those men, their eyes, those comments�
��and she wondered if she would ever be able to forget any of it. And it had all been for nothing. They had found Gordino. But all she had done was suffer a tremendous indignity—and she had lost close to seventy dollars as well.

  And what had Gordino meant when he had said that he didn’t know what she was talking about? Had he been honest with her? Or had he been lying—in order to protect himself and whoever was behind the Burton abduction?

  They paused on the corner of Broadway. A hansom was coming toward them and automatically Francesca’s arm shot up as she tried to flag it down. But it did not stop. It was occupied.

  And suddenly she and Joel were standing there alone on the vast, deserted avenue. And looking up and down Broadway, Francesca was afraid.

  “How will I get home?” Francesca whispered.

  “We can always walk to my flat,” Joel said. “An‘ you can stay there for the night.”

  Francesca briefly closed her eyes in sheer dismay. Her parents, should they discover her gone, would immediately call the police.

  And suddenly a roundsman was coming toward them.

  “Damn,” Joel whispered, about to bolt.

  Francesca grabbed his collar, detaining him. She had never seen a more welcome sight. “Officer!” she cried, “Please, please help.”

  The policeman saw her and hurried forward, eyes widening as he realized that she was a lady, and a fine one at that.

  Francesca intended to explain. Instead, she burst into tears.

  Francesca gripped the seat of the hansom, staring through the window in amazement, as her cab drew abreast of the entrance to her driveway. For three police wagons and Bragg’s roadster were parked in front of the Burton house. The mansion was ablaze with lights.

  Something had happened.

  Francesca had not a doubt, just as she had not a doubt that it was something terrible. “Stop, driver, stop right here!” she shouted, banging on the partition.

  The hansom braked hard. The horse danced in its traces in protest.

  “How much?” Francesca was already digging into her purse. And even as the cabby answered her, her mind was racing. She had to know what had occurred. Yet could she just jump out of the cab and rush into the Burtons’ home? How could she not?

  Francesca leapt out of the hansom. She was in such a rush that she fell headlong onto her hands and knees on a patch of lumpy gray ice.

  She inhaled hard and got to her feet. As she stood up, the front door of the house opened, and she had a clear view of Bragg standing in the hall, gesturing in that terse, commanding way of his. He was with a pair of officers and two detectives. Both detectives hurried from the house and outside to one of the wagons, where shivering patrolmen were standing.

  Bragg was turning away. He shot back around, having seen Francesca.

  The entire episode of that evening flashed through her mind. She desperately wanted to spill all. As Francesca hurried forward, she cautioned herself not to say a word. Hadn’t he told her himself that words could never be taken back? She needed to think things through. She could always tell him about the interlude with Gordino if she thought it best to do so on the morrow. It wasn’t as if she had learned anything useful, anyway. And she felt a twinge of guilt. Bragg would certainly want to know Gordino’s whereabouts.

  He was hurrying down the front steps. “Francesca?” He seemed incredulous, and his gaze went past her. Clearly he was stunned to find her without an escort.

  Francesca forced a bright smile. But she wondered if the smell of whiskey and cigarette smoke and overpowering perfume was hanging on to her from the saloon. “Bragg,” she heard herself cry. And she heard the odd note of relief in her own tone.

  He felt like a safe haven, even though the horror of the evening was long past.

  And then she looked beyond him at the brilliantly illuminated house. Or was it?

  “What are you doing out alone at this hour?” he demanded, taking her by the arm. He drew her directly under a street lamp. And he stared at her face. “Are you all right?” Suddenly he leaned closer, eyes dark and intent, and he sniffed.

  “I am fine!” she cried gaily. “I have passed the evening at Connie’s. I often go there alone—it is just round the corner, as you probably know.”

  He stared at her.

  Francesca continued to smile. How hard it was. How could he not believe her? Her tale was entirely plausible— except, of course, that no lady her age would ever travel home alone, even around the block, at such an hour. Francesca was quite certain that it was at least one in the morning.

  “Francesca, you are a poor liar,” he said flatly.

  She stiffened. Then, “I cannot say.”

  He continued to hold her arm. It was a moment before he spoke, and when he did so, it was with deliberation. “If you tell me that you are all right, if you tell me that nothing has happened, then I will have to respect your decision to keep your affairs private.” He was grim. There was a tic in his clenched jaw.

  Her affairs. Francesca suddenly recalled the conversation she’d had with Montrose the other day. Oh, God. He didn’t think she was out and about and up to no good with a lover, did he?

  But of course he would think such a thing. After all, he behaved the same way and he must assume others did, as well.

  She wished that she had not just recalled Bragg’s affair with Eliza.

  “Thank you,” she managed. Never had two words been harder to emit.

  His regard remained probing. The tic in his jaw did not go away.

  “What has happened?” Francesca asked, suddenly noticing how close they were standing to one another— which was undoubtedly why she was not shivering with cold. But he did not even have his coat on. She glanced up at the house. “Maybe we should go inside, Bragg, before you catch pneumonia.”

  “I will have you escorted home. I am leaving in a moment, anyway.” Something dark and weary—perhaps resignation—passed through his eyes.

  Francesca grabbed his arm before he could turn away. “What has happened?” she cried fearfully.

  “Another note.” His gaze locked with hers.

  She realized she was holding her breath. And that she had also gripped his hand. It was callused and hard, like Maggie’s. It was not a gentleman’s manicured hand.

  She did not release it. If anything, she clung to him more tightly. “Oh, no.”

  He pulled free and ran both hands through his tawny hair. “Goddamnit,” he said. “Goddamnit. Goddamnit.”

  She had heard worse that night, she could not be offended, and she felt tears forming in her eyes, tears for Jonny, because she knew now, she just knew, that he was dead. “Tell me.”

  He looked at her and his eyes were moist now, too. “I should not.”

  Francesca wiped her eyes.

  “Don’t cry,” he whispered.

  She started, and their eyes collided and held.

  He nodded. “His clothes. The pajamas he disappeared in. The note was pinned to them. The pajamas were covered with dirt, stained with blood, and frozen. And they were found on his bed. The note said, ‘D is for Dog’.”

  “ ‘D is for dog,’ ” Francesca whispered.

  “James found the pajamas and the note,” Bragg said harshly. “James found his brother’s clothes when he was going to bed.”

  Francesca was appalled. Tears slid down her face. “I thought James had been sent to his grandparents‘.”

  Bragg shook his head. “Eliza could not stand being apart from him. He came home this afternoon. It is understandable, I think.” Then he added, “He is asking for his twin.”

  She felt a fresh tear welling up in her eye. Of course, it was understandable, she thought. If she were Eliza, she would not let the remaining twin out of her sight. She plucked his sleeve. “Bragg. You do know what this means?”

  “We are analyzing the evidence,” he said, sighing heavily and looking away from her. It was, she knew, because he had been briefly unmanned.

  “D is for dog. Bones,” Fran
cesca said. “Bones, Bragg. Bones.”

  He looked at her. “Bones?”

  She licked her lips. She was sick. “A grave.”

  Chapter 11

  Wednesday, January 22, 1902—8 A.M.

  “Wake up.”

  Francesca vaguely heard her brother’s voice. She did not want to wake up. In fact, she was so terribly exhausted that she doubted she could raise her eyelids, much less move a single muscle.

  “Wake up, Fran. It’s eight o’clock. Today is Wednesday. You have a class at ten.”

  Class. She had cut her French literature class yesterday, and she had three classes today. Evan was right. She had algebra at ten this morning. What a wonderful thought.

  She still did not want to wake up. And as she became fully awake, she was stricken with the searing comprehension why.

  Jonny Burton was dead.

  The dirty, frozen, bloodstained pajamas that he had disappeared in had been found on his bed. By his twin brother. With the fifth note, “D is for Dog.”

  The monster was becoming obvious. Francesca sat up.

  “Fran?” Evan sat down on the foot of her bed. He was grim. But one brow slashed upward. “Are you sick?”

  She looked at him. Dog, bones, grave. How easy this last clue was. “He’s dead, Evan. I am certain of it,” she whispered, shaking and wondering if she was as ashen as she felt.

  His eyes widened. “Who? Jonny?”

  She nodded, pushing waves of hair out of her face. “There was another note ... I’m afraid I can’t go into the details, but it seems inescapable. That poor boy. Poor Eliza. Poor Burton,” she whispered.

  Clearly the monster wished to torment the Burtons. Yet who was he? Or she? Whoever it was, the person had access to the Burton home. The pajamas had been left right on Jonny’s bed.

  What kind of gesture was this?

  How confident the monster must be, Francesca thought, to walk into their home and leave the pajamas in the boy’s bedroom with another note.

  “I am so sorry,” Evan said, leaning forward. “God, what a horrid mess. I hope they find that madman and hang him by ... well, never mind,” he said.

  She flushed. She could guess what part of the madman’s anatomy Evan referred to. After last night she was afraid that very little in the way of vocabulary would ever stymie her again. Had she really gone into that saloon? Or had it been a nightmare? She felt her cheeks warm even more. If only she could forget those crude remarks and even cruder words.

 

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