by Brenda Joyce
It seemed impossible. Not only was she tied up, but to make matters even worse, she lay still tied to the stool on her side on the hard cold floor. Hours ago she had tried to hop over to the worktable. Instead, she’d fallen over to the floor.
And her wrists felt raw from trying to work them out of the rope. Her eyes were filled with tears that were partly frustration and partly fear and tinged with the grief she dared not admit to yet. She had to escape. Because maybe Jonny was not dead, and she certainly had no wish to die. God, she was only twenty years old.
Hadn’t Bragg warned her repeatedly not to become involved in the investigation? Hadn’t her father and Evan said the exact same thing? Of course, she hadn’t listened.
At least MacDougal was on Bragg’s list of suspects.
She fought for composure. How many hours had passed since MacDougal had locked her in the basement after killing Joel? Had anyone noticed that she was missing? Surely someone had noticed by now!
And who was MacDougal’s employer? Eliza?
Eliza would never condone murder, Francesca was certain of it.
But what did he—or they—plan to do with her?
A small sound made her stiffen and lift her cheek off the cold floor. What was that?
She suddenly envisioned an army of rats scurrying around the floor, where she lay—scurrying around her— and she stiffened, alarmed. She could think of nothing worse.
Another small sound made her pant with desperation.
And then she froze. The sound wasn’t a scurrying one. Had it been a moan?
“Joel?” she whispered, seized with hope. Her voice came out low and hoarse. “Joel?” she cried, more loudly.
And this time, there was no mistaking his moan.
“You’re alive! Thank God, you’re alive,” Francesca cried, bursting with relief and a joy that was impossible to describe. Once again, she tried to wiggle herself into an upright position on the floor, but it was impossible. Worse, she was going to wet her drawers if she was not allowed to relieve herself very soon.
“Miss Cahill?” Then, “Ouch. Shit. I’m bleedin‘!”
Francesca’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she watched as Joel sat up, touching the back of his head. In the dark shadows his face was starkly white. “Are you all right?”
“Just a bit weak, mebbe dizzy,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear it.
“Be careful! MacDougal walloped you on the back of the head with his gun and you lost blood. Joel! I thought you were dead!” Suddenly Francesca began to cry. The tears just streamed down her face and would not stop.
“Hey, are you crying over me?” he asked, gaping.
“Yes,” she managed. Then, “Joel, I must go to the bathroom.”
He giggled.
She giggled, too. At least it stopped the sudden flood of tears. Then, “We have to get out of here. He might come back and kill us both.”
“He might kill me,” Joel said, getting onto his knees. “But he won’t ever kill you ‘cause there would be hell to pay.”
Francesca was suddenly filled with hope. Joel was alive and together they would find a way out of this dire predicament, and maybe he was right. If she should be murdered, disappearing, there would be hell to pay. No monster could ever think to get away with such a thing.
On the other hand, the monster was a madman. He was insane.
Joel’s hands had been tied in front of his body and his ankles hadn’t been bound at all. She watched him stand. He swayed a little.
“Oh, dear. You’ve lost blood—”
“I’ve been worse.” He walked over to the worktable, and a second later had picked up a saw. “Look at this.” He grinned.
More hope surged within her. Then she stiffened as he knelt beside her. “Please be careful,” she cried as he inserted the saw between her wrists.
“Don’t worry. I ain’t going to saw off your hands.”
Her heart lurched as he began to saw. And suddenly her arms broke apart. “Thank God.” She rolled over and sat up, the stool still attached to her ankles. Within seconds, Joel had severed that binding, too. Then Francesca sawed the rope binding his hands apart. Their gazes locked. “Now what?”
“We get outta here,” Joel said. He took the saw from her but did not return it to the table.
“The door upstairs is locked.”
“Yeah?” Joel’s grin was challenging. He groped around the worktable and came up with a long, thin picklike tool. “Follow me, lady.”
Francesca followed him eagerly up the stairs. Joel handed her the saw—which she was afraid he intended to use as a weapon—and she watched him insert the long, thin blade of the tool into the lock. In an instant, it clicked, and Joel popped open the door. “Let’s go,” he said firmly.
Saw in hand, her heart pumping with adrenaline, Francesca hurried into the hall behind him. They turned the first corner without seeing or hearing anyone, but then, as they approached the library, voices could be heard. And one of them was MacDougal’s.
Joel’s pace increased. Clearly he intended to bolt past the library door, which was ajar, and make a mad dash for the front door. Francesca gripped his shoulder, detaining him. Pressing her mouth to his ear, she whispered, almost soundlessly, “Wait.”
He glanced at her, mouth pursed, shaking his head emphatically no.
Francesca ignored him, inching along the wall toward the library door. Whomever MacDougal was speaking to, she felt certain it was the madman who had abducted and perhaps murdered Jonny Burton.
“Don’t worry,” MacDougal was saying. “They’re both tied up. We got plenty of time to decide what to do with them.”
“Plenty of time to decide what to do with them!”
Francesca almost gasped—because the speaker was Robert Burton.
“Francesca Cahill is on to us, MacDougal, and all because of your ineptitude. I cannot just dispose of her the way one would an unwanted cat.”
“She don’t know about you, sir,” MacDougal said. “I never said a word.”
“Well, that was intelligent, at least. Goddamnit. What am I going to do with her?” A pause ensued. Then, “So you think the boy is dead?”
“I think so.”
“Well, that’s one problem, minor though it may be, that is solved.” A silence fell.
Francesca touched Joel’s hand with her free palm. Their eyes met. She mouthed, “Let’s go.” But she was thinking, stunned, Burton. It is Burton. Not Eliza. It is Burton and he either hates his wife or he hates Bragg and he knows the twins are not his own and, dear God, does this mean that Jonny is dead?
And what would Burton do to them if he caught them now?
The thought was terrifying.
They dashed past the library door.
“Jesus!” Burton shouted. “It’s her! It’s Francesca Cahill!”
They ran down the corridor, as fast as they could, pursued by Burton and MacDougal. A shot sounded. Francesca thought the bullet whizzed past her ear. She did not want to die. She had to escape.
“Not here,” Burton shouted at MacDougal from behind them, sounding far too close for comfort.
Francesca and Joel slid around the last corner and wound up skidding into the front hall. And as they did so, Eliza Burton stepped out of a salon. She was extremely pale and moving with the odd feebleness of a much older person. She blinked at the sight of them, pausing.
And a hand grabbed Francesca by her collar, yanking her backward, against a hard male body and a warm steel gun.
“Miss Cahill?” Eliza asked, her eyes wide and unfocused, going from Francesca to MacDougal, who was holding her, and then to Burton himself. “Robert? What is going on here?”
“Nothing, dear. A vast misunderstanding.” Burton stepped past Francesca, smiling, and she felt the gun disappear, although MacDougal’s grip did not lessen.
In fact, he snarled in her ear, “Do not speak and do not move.”
Bewildered, so much so that Francesca wondered if she was on
laudanum, Eliza blinked anew at her husband. “A misunderstanding?” She shook her head. “Why is Miss Cahill holding that saw? And by the by, the police commissioner is looking for her.”
“It’s not a misunderstanding,” Francesca suddenly shouted. “Burton has abducted your son!” And she whacked backward at MacDougal with the saw with all of her might. As she did so, from the corner of her eye, she saw two things happen simultaneously.
Bragg stepped out of the salon where Eliza had been, and Joel tackled Burton around the legs, knocking him off balance and to the floor. MacDougal howled from the impact of the saw upon his leg.
Francesca met Bragg’s astonished gaze and then he wasn’t astonished anymore. In fact, faster than any eye could see, he pulled a gun and then she felt the Scotsman’s gun jab her between her shoulder blades. The gun went off.
For one horrifying instant, Francesca thought she had been shot and that she was about to die.
Instead, MacDougal’s eyes widened and he was flung backward by the bullet, staggering back against the wall. In a flash, Francesca realized that Bragg had shot him. Half of his right pants leg was severed, and his knee was covered with blood. He slid down the wall to the floor. Francesca leapt away from him.
Turning, she saw Burton racing for the front door, past Eliza, who had recoiled and was watching him with dazed amazement. Bragg leapt on him from behind. The two men went down in a tangled heap, and then Bragg was on top, pointing his gun right between Burton’s eyes. Burton went still. He did not move.
And Francesca’s heart lurched with no small amount of relief.
“This is a mistake,” Robert Burton rasped.
There was no mistaking Bragg’s smile. It was cold and ruthless and all of Francesca’s relief vanished. “I don’t think so,” he said. And without removing the gun or even turning his head, he said, “Francesca, pick up MacDougal’s gun and call the police.”
Francesca had been paralyzed. She reacted, darting to the fallen man, and picking up the gun that had slid from his fingers and now lay on the floor. She backed away from him.
“Are you all right?” Bragg asked, never taking his eyes off Burton.
“Yes,” she whispered. Then, more audibly, “We are fine.”
“I don’t understand,” Eliza said hoarsely. “Rick, what are you doing? Please let Robert up.”
Bragg did not answer her. He jammed the gun harder into Burton’s forehead, causing the skin to stretch grotesquely. “Where is the boy?” he demanded.
Burton spat at him.
Bragg slid the gun into the waistband of his trousers, lifted Burton up, and slammed his fist into the other man’s face.
Francesca wanted to run to him and stop him from a bout of uncontrolled violence. But MacDougal had ceased howling and he was staring at her with an unnerving intensity. She trained the gun she was holding on him, afraid he might try something. The gun was shaking so terribly— it was her own hand, she realized, that she could not control.
Eliza ran forward as several servants rushed into the hall. “What are you doing, Rick? Surely you don’t think ...” She trailed off.
“Everyone stay back,” Bragg commanded the staff. No one moved. “Eliza. Your husband has held Francesca and this boy captive because they were about to discover the truth.” Bragg kept a firm grip on Burton, but he did hold Eliza’s regard. “Burton is the madman who abducted Jonny.”
“No,” Eliza whispered, ashen. Tears started to trickle down her face. “No. I don’t believe it. It isn’t possible. He may be—” She stopped.
“I would never do such a thing, darling,” Burton cried. “Ever. Do you think I would hurt our own child?”
Eliza shook her head tearfully. “I do not know what to think,” she whispered.
Francesca stared and briefly her gaze locked with Bragg’s. Burton did not know. Burton did not know that the boys were not his. There was hope. “Bragg.”
He met her gaze again, his eyes wide, understanding her. Then he faced Burton. He lowered his face even more closely to the other man’s and spoke so softly it was almost impossible to hear him. “You don’t know? You don’t know why I will kill you with my own bare hands if anything has happened to Jonny?”
Burton stared. “Bugger off,” he said harshly.
Bragg’s smile was savage. “They’re mine. I was your wife’s lover seven years ago and I am the father of the twins, Burton. I want my son.”
Burton turned white. “You’re lying,” he shouted. “I know you took her to bed, they all have, but the boys are mine!”
Bragg stood, hefting Burton to his feet and throwing him hard at the wall. Burton hit it but managed to catch himself before falling. He turned and faced his wife. “He’s lying, isn’t he?”
Eliza stood there, looking from one man to the other, as white or whiter of countenance than her husband was. More tears welled in her eyes and began to fall. “No.”
Burton stared and stared and then he cried out, “You whore! You goddamn bitch whore! God, I have had to watch you take lover after lover all of these years—and I was about to break you, wasn’t I? Destroy you? Finally, I was so close, finally, the day was mine, finally, vengeance was mine, for all those years of fucking. But the boys aren’t even mine? You would deny me even my own heirs? You goddamn bitch!” He screamed, trembling like a lunatic, “You are the one who belongs behind bars!”
Eliza did not cringe. “I hate you,” she said, lifting her chin, still crying. “I have always hated you. It was Bragg I loved when I was forced to marry you and I am glad the twins are his. Where is my son? Damn you to hell! Where is Jonny?” she screamed.
Burton roared and rushed toward her. “Never! You will never see him again, bitch!”
Bragg caught him before he could reach Eliza; he grabbed him and spun him back around. And very deliberately, he pointed his gun and shot Burton in the knee.
Francesca’s heart felt as if it had stopped; Burton screamed and fell to the floor, clutching his wounded, bleeding knee, writhing hysterically.
“You’re crippled for life,” Bragg said calmly as Francesca watched with her heart wedged somewhere in the vicinity of her throat. “And you have three seconds to tell me what I want before I shoot off your other kneecap, making it impossible for you to walk.”
Burton looked up at him, tears in his eyes. “Fuck you.”
“One,” Bragg said.
Francesca stopped breathing.
“Two,” Bragg continued.
“Let me,” Eliza suddenly screamed. “Let me do it!”
“Three,” Bragg said, handing her the gun.
“Wait! He’s at 208 Fourth Avenue. I let an apartment there!” Burton cried. More tears fell. “I need a doctor,” he said. “Please,” he sobbed.
Bragg walked away from him. He took the gun Francesca was holding and handed it to a servant. “Do not let anyone move until the police arrive. If they move, shoot them.”
“I’m coming with you,” Eliza cried, her face pinched with incredulity and desperation.
Bragg nodded. He ordered a housemaid to get her coat. And he said, “Francesca, you can put the saw down now.”
Francesca stared as Bragg accepted a coat handed to him by a breathless servant. She glanced down at the bloody saw she held and felt ill; she dropped it immediately. She was still shaking.
Then she watched Bragg put his arm around Eliza and they hurried to the door. Francesca did not hesitate. She ran after them.
Eliza was crying as they paused on the stoop of the tenement on Fourth Avenue where Burton had apparently rented an apartment. The building was old, squat and dirty. Worried, Francesca kept her arm around Eliza while Bragg pounded on the front door; several roundsmen stood behind him, as did two detectives. Not far from where they stood, a train was roaring by down the center of the avenue. The force of the speeding locomotive was so great that the sidewalk where they stood seemed to tremble and vibrate.
The door did not open.
Bragg pounde
d again. “Open up! This is the New York City police!” he said.
“Why won’t someone, anyone, open that door?” Eliza whispered, her face tear-streaked, as the door remained tightly closed.
“Don’t worry,” Francesca tried, squeezing her shoulders. She expected Bragg to signal the police officers to move in with their clubs and break down the door. But suddenly he threw his shoulder and all of his weight at the door, repeatedly, as if he were a human battering ram. Francesca cried out, afraid he would hurt himself and badly, when the door flew in off of its hinges, causing her to cringe as well.
Bragg barged inside, followed by the cadre of police.
Eliza broke free of Francesca, racing after the men. Francesca lifted her skirts and followed, determined to keep Eliza in sight.
A tall, thin young woman in a servant’s black dress and white apron stood by the stairs in the center of the hall, as still as a statue, her eyes wide and bugging.
Bragg gripped her arm. “Where is the boy?” he demanded.
She came to life. Tears filled her eyes. “I knew it wasn’t right, I knew he was some kind of crook,” she whispered hoarsely.
Bragg shook her. “Where is he?” he cried.
“Where is my son?” Eliza screamed at her, rushing forward.
The Irish girl shrank away. “Upstairs. First room. Don’t hurt me,” she whispered in fright.
Bragg did not wait. He took the stairs two at a time, Eliza on his heels, stumbling after him. Francesca managed to run up behind the two of them, the police behind her.
She halted on the threshold of a dark, poorly lit bedroom, panting and out of breath. In it was a narrow bed, a dresser and a rocking chair. Jonny lay on the bed, curled up on his side soundly asleep in the day’s lengthening shadows. He clutched a frayed and stained teddy bear to his small chest. He was in a shirt and his knickers, and his breathing was shallow and uneven.
“Jon,” Bragg said roughly.
But Eliza cried out, rushing past Bragg, as the little boy blinked and stirred. “Jonathan, Jonathan, it’s Mother, it’s Mother,” she wept, pulling the half-sleeping child into her arms and holding him hard against her chest. And she wept.