Rough Surrender

by Cari Silverwood

  “Did I? I saw her outside a brothel?” Menace glinted in Smythe’s eyes. “I deny ownership of course, or involvement. And, dare I say it, what a bad place to take your...lady, Leonhardt.”

  He counted up ten of his very loud heartbeats. Shooting the man here and now had benefits, but temporary ones. Threats would do no good unless they had backbone. Stick to the facts. Stay calm. “You were heard by an officer to threaten us.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Meisner, but I am in charge here.” The senior officer held up a hand. “Your Packard was seen on the street where the young lady went missing this morning. Also a hair ornament that belonged to her was found in the place, approximately, where the vehicle was parked.”

  “Is that it?” With a flick of his wrist Smythe lit his cigarette. He tossed the burnt-out match to the desk and it tumbled close to where Leonhardt sat. A tendril of smoke rose and petered out. “Paltry evidence,” he drawled. “I couldn’t convict a child of stealing a biscuit on such poor evidence.”

  “Well...” The officer frowned.

  “Has anyone seen me do anything? Seen me grab this lady and fling her down and tie her up? Put her in my automobile?” He lifted his eyebrow at Leonhardt. “Smack her around?”

  Damn him. He kept his hands still despite wanting to put them to Smythe’s neck. He’d not give the man the satisfaction of seeing he was riled.

  “No? Greer, have you seen any young lady being kidnapped by me lately?”

  “Ahem. No, sir, I have not.” The butler readjusted his feet then went back to being a statue.

  “Have you found anything bad in my vehicle? I’m sure you’ve searched it by now? Yes?”

  “Ah, yes. Trentman,” the officer snapped. “Go and search Mr. Smythe’s auto, please.”

  When the sheepish-looking constable stood and made for the door, the butler eased one door open. Outside, a car motor ran to a stop and a vehicle rolled in. A door slammed.

  What can I do? It was galling to see Smythe sitting there smoking and looking smug. He was so guilty the words were nearly printed on his forehead. And what he’d said before, had that been what he’d really done to her? The matchstick beneath his fingers snapped and a piece spun across the table toward Smythe.

  The man’s lips twitched and he uncrossed his legs, leaned over to whisper. “Careful, dear fellow, that might be construed as assault if it hit me.”

  The front door shut as the constable left but instead footsteps sounded in the hall. Had he forgotten something?

  The study door opened and Jeremy stepped in. The barely restrained excitement in his gaze made Leonhardt slide off the desk and straighten his cuffs. Smythe blew out a determined puff of smoke.

  “We’ve got you, you bastard.” Jeremy jabbed his finger at Smythe.

  “Steady on there!” The constable rose to his feet.

  “No. Wait.” Jeremy’s lips curved in a grim replica of a smile. “Just came from your headquarters. They’ve found a dress at a warehouse rented by Smythe.”

  “That means nothing.” A muscle ticked beside Smythe’s eye. He waved the cigarette, stubbed it out on an ashtray on the desk and stood.

  “Oh it does. It’s comes from a particular seamstress. Even torn as it is, it will be identifiable as Miss Evard’s.” He glanced at Leonhardt. Sadness brimmed from his eyes. “Sorry.”

  Hell. Torn. No way the police could have verified the seamstress yet, but the dress was going to be hers, he knew it.

  And Smythe did too. A red flush swept his face and he slipped his hand inside his coat.

  Leonhardt felt the hard metal of his weapon. A step closer and he was an arm’s length away, crowding the man just enough. “Getting ideas, Smythe? What’s in that coat? You’re outnumbered.”

  “I’ve done nothing. Even if that dress does belong to your lady, there’s no proof I was involved. Any employee of mine might have stolen the key. You should be out tracking them down.”

  “Where is she, Smythe? Where? If she dies because of you...if she’s injured, I’ll hunt you down.”

  “And what, Meisner? What?” He sneered. “I’m innocent until proven guilty under British law.”

  “Sirs!” The constable cleared his throat. “Please, I must insist you stand apart.”

  “Hah!” Leonhardt put on his meanest smile, then stepped so close he smelled Smythe’s hair cream, and looked down at him, making sure the man knew the height difference. Another foot and their shoes would touch. He dropped his voice an octave. “Tell me. If she dies, you will be linked to this. Murder is a hanging offense here. You want to die?”

  The flicker in Smythe’s eyes, the flinch of his arm, gave him warning. He grabbed the man by the throat and thrust him into the wall, pinned his hand inside his pocket. Another thump to punch the air from his guts and Smythe grunted. As he writhed, a small pistol tumbled from inside his coat to the floor.

  A scuffle and a thump then a gasp behind his back told him the butler had gone down.

  “My word. I do hope you weren’t planning on using that on us, Mr. Smythe? I’m most unhappy with that pistol, sir. I think we have enough to take him in for further questioning. Mr. Meisner, could you release him, sir?”

  He growled then shook the man’s throat. “In a moment, constable. Going to shoot were you? Have some real guts and tell us. Or do you want to die on the scaffold?”

  The gurgle from Smythe made him loosen his fist on the man’s throat. He gasped for a few seconds, coughed and wheezed.

  “I’ll tell you. Lars has her. No idea what he’s doing. None. Told him to let her go at the cemetery...behind the pyramid. Was just a little reminder for you. Saying don’t mess with me.” His lips stretched. “That’s all.”

  Was it though? He searched Smythe’s face and saw evil there. Saw utter disdain and satisfaction. As if he knew more had happened than he’d said out loud. As if something awful was planned for Faith.

  “You know, Leonhardt,” Smythe whispered, “I wonder who killed that other girl you fished from the river? Lars can be rather naughty.”

  Cold washed over Leonhardt like the coming of an ice storm. Every goddamn moment would count.

  He leaned in and whispered back, right in the man’s ear. “I’ll see you in hell, Smythe.” He pulled him off the wall and shoved him into the chair, then stepped back, wiping his hand on his trousers. Without turning away from Smythe and his dead ugly eyes, he spoke, “How fast can I get to the Western Cemetery by car? How fast can your men be there, constable?”

  “The telephone at the Heliopolis Hotel is the fastest means of communicating, sir. Twenty-five minutes for my men, perhaps, across the Nile and the bridges...it takes time. Longer from here.”

  “We don’t have time.” He clenched his fists, cracking his knuckles. “I know a faster way.” God help Faith...and him. The aerodrome was a minute away, if that. “I’ll get an airplane. I can fly. There’s one craft fuelled and ready to go.”

  Well, he could take off, and turning couldn’t be that hard, could it?

  As he strode for the door, Smythe laughed. “Have a nice death, Leonhardt. Even I know you can’t land in the sand. There’s nowhere to land out there. Nowhere!”

  One flight only under his belt, and that would damned well have to be enough. You could see the pyramids from Heliopolis, or so the pilots said. He could steer by sight. Faith would be waiting for him. If she was alive, she’d be waiting. He wouldn’t let her down. She’d be alive. She had to be.

  Chapter 33

  He sprinted with Jeremy across the grass. They’d driven straight through the closed gate and onto the field. Jimmy had left her airplane ready to go as he’d asked him to. At least he knew the way of engines, had memorized all the specifications of the Bleriot because that’s what he did.

  Engineers knew engines, remembered them...though the ones that left the damn ground and flew gave him the willies.

  As he stalked toward the craft, he eyed it–his enemy, and his only hope. Like some sort of child’s toy made larg
e. Paper, timber and cloth, and a few bits of wire to keep it strung together. Cut the flying cables and it’d fall apart. The noise of the grass underfoot seemed loud. The acrid smell of the castor oil lubrication and fuel stung his nose.

  “Jeremy! Take away the ladder once I use it then stand by the propeller. Be ready to swing it when I ask you to. Care you don’t get hit. And, man, thank you!”

  Jeremy nodded, gave a quick two-fingered salute. “Good luck!”

  “Thanks.” He threw the ladder upright, clambered up the steps and into the wickerwork seat. The way his heart thumped at him, it might pound straight through his chest any moment. Damn-it, he wasn’t scared of this. Nothing scared him.

  “Nothing scares me,” he muttered as he primed the carburetor, checked the coil ignition, ran through the starting sequence and glanced at the sole gauge–the oil pressure indicator. Everything worked the way it should. His hands were shaking, sweating. “Damn.” The last time he’d felt like this he’d been ten years old.

  Didn’t matter. He was going. Doing this. Had to. “Contact!” The propeller spun, sang, the Bleriot vibrated and, as Jeremy threw himself to the side, he lowered his goggles and advanced the throttle, and the plane trundled forward.

  The trees scrolled past, the wind picked up and the familiar oil speckled the goggles. “Maybe it’s good that I can’t see. This way I won’t see the ground coming. Haaa!” he yelled as the wheels left the ground, throwing out his defiance with that shout. Fear wasn’t getting him, not today, he had to be brave.

  At fifty feet up, a gust of wind blasted at him, and one wing lurched downward. The plane canted, headed earthward. He struggled with the foot pedals. “Up, up, up!” Slowly the wings tilted and came back to level.

  Without careful forward pressure on the stick, the plane steered down at the ground. Without constant attention, he’d be a smear on the landscape. The thing was alive and plotting against him. “No, you don’t. No way. I’ll master you, you bastard of a machine.” He never talked out loud either, just like he was never scared. He grinned at how ridiculous this would seem on the ground then laughed.

  “God–” He blinked away a tear or two. “You’d better be there when I arrive, Faith. Make this all worthwhile. Be there, sweetheart–alive and well. Please, God. Please.”

  He managed the slow turn away to the west where the sun was carving the pyramids anew out of darkness. The wash of golden light slowly delineated the triangle against the dawn-blackened sky as he roared closer and closer.

  * * * *

  Lars thumped her at least twice on the way. Draped over the pommel of the horse, she tried screaming through the gag. It was worth the risk but he hit her in the side of the stomach and blindfolded her, then thumped her again. She couldn’t hear anyone else, she ached and wanted to vomit, and the blanket covered her from head to toe. She gave in. Lord help her, she gave in.

  When he took her off the horse and over his shoulder again, the blindfold rubbed off.

  The Western Cemetery was a maze of gray and shadows, sand and stone, the living and the dead. He laid her on her back on a slab of cold stone then punched her once more in the stomach. While she gasped and retched, he tied her down, spread-eagled, with her hands and feet at each corner.

  The cool leeched into her flesh, calmed the burning throb of her back. Wind blew across her face. Sand scurried over her skin, and whirled around inside her ear. Some stuck to the corners of her nose and eyes and the sticky tracks of her tears. Above, the pyramid towered. Not the one they’d climbed...not the one she and Leonhardt had sat atop. The sun threatened to break across the horizon to either side of the pyramid’s base.

  “Nearly time. I like the idea of dawn.” Lars announced. He sniffled and rubbed his nose with the hand holding a long curved knife. The silver sheen of that knife beckoned her eyes, made her look even though she knew it was the instrument of her death. “Soon, it’s time.” He grinned down at her. “Can’t get loose, hey?”

  True. The ropes weren’t going to budge unless he gave her the knife. She wouldn’t think about what he meant to do. Dawn approached. Maybe, if she stared hard enough at the paling sky, time would slow, or stop.

  She was going to die.

  “Let’s see what color your blood is.” Lars leaned over her, turning the knife. He put the point to her throat and she felt the prick on her skin.

  A drone reached her ears. She inclined her head, heedless of the knife, to catch the noise better. An airplane. His eyes widened and Lars looked up. A small shadow passed above them at one or two hundred feet, engine roaring then spluttering. The noise lessened as it flew farther west. Twenty or thirty seconds later–it was difficult to tell since time wasn’t working properly–there was a crumpling bang and a distant explosion.

  No. Oh, please, no. That had been a Bleriot. Her Bleriot. Who would have been reckless enough to fly it over the desert and try to land it here? Nobody except Leonhardt. Her heart thudded wildly, threatened to tear itself loose from inside her. No. Please, God, no. She shut her eyes for a moment.

  When she opened them, in the out of focus distance, something off-white billowed across the edge of her vision, and vanished. What had that been?

  “Hell.” Lars lifted the knife, looked up then waggled his eyebrows. “Hope that wasn’t your rescue party, lady, ’cause I think it’s done for. Here, time to put you out of your misery.” He showed her the gleaming knife again, rotating it slowly so light flickered off the blade. “Just a little cut on your neck. You won’t feel much. Then I get to see what you taste like. Breakfast.” He smacked his lips and swiped his tongue across his mouth.

  Despair crept cold and silent through her, filling every space in her flesh and bones. This was how she would die, at the mercy of this monster. She stared at the pyramid behind him and tried not to see the descent of the knife, tried not to shake and show her fear.

  A crack and Lars staggered, red blossomed on his chest.

  “What?” He spluttered, pawing at his shirt. He stumbled and flailed at nothing, only to crumple, slide off the stone and disappear from her view. It all happened so fast.

  “Faith! I’m coming! Tell me if he rises!” Leonhardt’s voice.

  She couldn’t see a thing of Lars but didn’t dare close her eyes, or blink. All she could see was Leonhardt, leaping across the tops of the stones, from one to the other, gun in hand, coat flying like the tail of a dark-feathered hawk. He watched her between leaps, and she listened for any sound warning of Lars getting to his feet. Groans and bubbling coughs came from somewhere beneath eye level. The man lived. Then she heard scrabbling and scratching and the sounds of breathing became long and labored, like someone breathing through a sea of blood. By the time Leonhardt arrived, the sounds had ceased.

  “My God, Faith.” His last leap brought him down onto the sand next to her stone. Leonhardt glanced down. “He’s dead. Don’t worry about him. I’m here.” He bent and kissed her, pulled loose the gag then set to work on the ropes, slashing them one by one.

  “Can you sit up, love?”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice, but when he pulled her to him, her arms and legs refused to work and she half slid down his chest.

  “You’re cold,” he whispered. Then he climbed onto the stone with her and cradled her in his lap as he gently worked loose or cut the knots on her wrists and ankles. The blood crawled back into her flesh, ushering a ferocious wave of needles as the circulation returned. Leonhardt kissed her–hands, face, neck, and all the while he whispered assurances. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re going to be all right. Listen. Hear the police. Hear the motors. The horses. They’re coming. Everything is going to be all right.”

  He didn’t speak of the man who lay dead in the sand, below their feet, though she couldn’t forget him, didn’t know if she ever would. The revolver Leonhardt had used sat on the stone next to his thigh. She kept waiting for Lars to rise and seize the gun and shoot them both. But she didn’t say...she just watched the gun an
d held her breath now and then, listening for a sound from the sand at their feet. Listening.

  At first she nodded at Leonhardt’s words, then let him just speak and slowly they soothed her. Faith imagined the words rippling out, reaching down into her soul, and washing away all the dirtiness of the last day.

  “Thank you,” she said finally, voice rasping, looking straight into his autumn-brown eyes, seeing the worry there, worry she’d caused, and wanted to take it all back on herself. “I knew you’d come. I knew.” She lowered her head, stared at her hands, her cold, cold hands, at the fingers encrusted with blood and sand. Behind her eyes, the ache built like a dam waiting to break. “I’m sorry for all this. I’m so sorry for what I said.”

  “Shh.” He rocked her in his lap, wrapping her arms in to warm her hands against him. “You did nothing wrong. I’m sorry too.” He kissed the top of her head. “Just rest now. Quiet, and rest.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered again, snuggling against this big strong man. The pain from the whip grabbed at her whenever he stroked her back but she bit her lip and said nothing. She’d rather suffer, rather have him cuddling her than have no pain. And she wondered if her world would ever be the same again.

  A stray thought blossomed and she had to ask. “How did you do it? The plane crashed.”

  “Remember Leonardo’s invention? We discussed it on the rooftop that night.” The rumble of his voice reached her through the ear she pressed against his chest.

  She frowned. “The parachute? I saw something...”

  “Yes. I made one for you. And–” He let out a long, shaky sigh. “I found out it works. Never ever again. Damn-it that was awful. Your bloody goddamned plane was awful too.”

  That made her smile–Leonhardt scared of something. The smile released her somehow, set her free, and she cried for the first time since he’d found her. Silent tears at first, then small sobs spilled out. By the time the police arrived, she was crying, great wracking sobs and Leonhardt’s shirt was soaked.