by Eve Gaddy
Emmitt was in the hospital, a victim of a brutal attack and robbery. And now Henry Young was dead. Jonas knew in his heart the two events were related, and that they could both be traced back to Lawrence Westbrook. He didn’t know how Westbrook had discovered Young’s plan to recant his testimony so quickly, but he’d bet his last dollar that’s what had happened. Even if Jonas hadn’t had the dream about Cal’s death, he’d believe Westbrook was Cal’s murderer, as well as the man responsible for Henry Young’s death.
But he couldn’t prove it.
He got up and wandered into the next room. Claire sat in the clunky chair beside the couch, reading—what else—her ancestor’s journal. When she saw him, she closed it and put it aside.
“You look better.”
He went to the chair, leaned down, and kissed her. “I feel better. I want a shower, though, and I don’t have any clean clothes over here. Why don’t we go to my place?”
“All right. We need to talk.”
“Yeah, we do. Would you mind picking up some food on the way? I’m sure I don’t have anything to eat in my refrigerator.”
“Sure. Chinese okay?”
“Sounds good. Unless you’d rather I pick it up.”
“No, I’ll do it. I’ll meet you there.”
A little more than an hour later, Jonas felt like a different person. He was still tired, still discouraged about Emmitt and Henry Young and the cops’ seeming intractability in refusing to see a correlation between the two events. Not to mention, their refusal to believe in Westbrook’s involvement. But at least he’d had sleep and food.
“You had another dream, didn’t you?” Claire said after they’d cleared away the leftovers and were sitting in his living room.
“Yes. And I told Emmitt about it. I talked to him about our theory, for lack of a better word.”
“What made you decide to tell him? How did he react?”
“He didn’t tell me I was crazy. Which is more than I’d have done if the situation had been reversed.” He scrubbed his hands over his face and continued. “Emmitt and I were talking about the night watchman recanting his testimony. We discussed how to convince the cops to look into Westbrook’s alibi, and Emmitt commented that unless we had an eyewitness to the crime, we were going to have to trust the cops to figure it out.”
“An eyewitness?” She searched his face. “Oh, my God. That’s what you dreamed about. Calvin’s shooting.”
Jonas nodded. “Lawrence Westbrook killed him. So we have an eyewitness. Me. Sort of. Unfortunately, the person who saw it was the victim. And something tells me the cops won’t buy our theory about why I’m dreaming these things or the truth of any of this.”
“No, they won’t believe you.” She took his hand, held it, and squeezed comfortingly. “But I believe you. That must have been horrible.”
“It wasn’t fun.” He was quiet a moment. “Bella was with him. When he died, she was there, holding him in her arms.” He looked at Claire intensely. “I know it sounds crazy but I felt him. I felt him die, I heard Bella say she loved him. That she’d always love him. Calvin loved her so much.” So much that Jonas was starting to wonder if he had his own feelings about Claire mixed up with what Calvin and Bella had felt. But somehow he didn’t think Claire would appreciate hearing that, so he kept the thought to himself.
“We can’t just let Lawrence get away with it. With murder. Not now that we know for sure. But what are we going to do? Especially if the police don’t believe us.”
“I don’t know.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I’ll talk to O’Connor. See if he has any ideas how to get the cops to buy into our theory. Or think of a way to get Westbrook to confess.”
“Confess? Lawrence? I don’t think there’s a chance in hell that arrogant bastard will confess.”
“Yeah, it seems unlikely to me, too.”
“This makes what I’m about to tell you make more sense,” Claire said.
“That’s right, you said you had something to talk about. You said you were seeing your lawyer today. Is that what this is about?” He had a brief, unreasonable fear that she hadn’t gone through with the divorce. He knew it was irrational, knew Claire had been certain what she wanted, but he still couldn’t help worrying.
“Yes, it’s official. I’m legally divorced. Glenn and I signed the final papers today.”
“Good.” He couldn’t put a name to the look on her face. But she wasn’t happy. “Isn’t it? Did you have second thoughts?”
“About the divorce?” She shook her head decisively. “Of course I didn’t. What I have to tell you isn’t exactly related to the divorce. I talked to Glenn afterward. I hadn’t planned on seeing him, but he was waiting for me after I left my lawyer’s office.”
“Did the son of a bitch hurt you?” He wouldn’t get away with it if he had. Not again.
“No, nothing like that. At this point I think he’s as happy to get rid of me as I am of him. No, he’s worried about his father. He thinks Lawrence is losing it. He wanted to warn me.”
“Warn you about what?”
“Lawrence tried to convince Glenn to kill you.”
Okay, that surprised him. Maybe it shouldn’t have, but it did. “Lawrence wants me dead. And Glenn told you this out of the goodness of his heart? Not likely.”
“Glenn said if his father ‘got lucky’ and killed you, he didn’t want to be blamed for it. He wasn’t about to go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit. He said he refused, and his father acted like he hadn’t meant it. But he must have, Jonas. Lawrence must think you know something. Why else would he ask Glenn to kill you?”
“I can think of a number of reasons, but suspecting that I know something about the murder does top the list. It’s no secret Emmitt and I are friends, or that we’ve been looking into Calvin’s death, for that matter. Westbrook could be worried about what Emmitt told me concerning Young’s testimony. Still, it seems extreme.”
“I don’t think so. It seems logical to me, considering we believe Lawrence had a hand in Emmitt’s attack as well as the night watchman’s death.”
“Yes, but it’s not like he knows I was there. I doubt Westbrook believes in past lives.”
“No, but maybe we should tell him.”
“Tell him we’ve lived before?” It wasn’t as crazy as it sounded. The fact that Jonas knew exactly what had happened the night Calvin was shot would be bound to shake up Westbrook. The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. Jonas smiled. “Maybe we should.”
“YOU LOOK SURPRISED to see me,” Lawrence said to Dervish.
Dervish swung open his door and stepped back to let him in. “I am. Figured you’d think of a way out of it. Parting with that much cash must hurt. You do have it, don’t you?”
“Some of it. You’ll get the rest once I get the notes and computer.” Lawrence set a black briefcase down on the scarred coffee table and pulled the bottle of scotch out of the paper bag. “Get some glasses. Getting rid of you deserves a drink.”
Dervish’s eyes lit up at the sight of the scotch. “Don’t mind if I do.” He went into the kitchen of the small apartment. The place was a dump, not that it surprised Lawrence.
Lawrence set out the scotch bottle on the equally battered small table in the dining room area, making sure he could turn his back to Dervish as he poured. He had his own flask in his pocket and would make sure to give Dervish the doctored scotch. He glanced at the briefcase he’d set on the coffee table, knowing Dervish wouldn’t be able to resist opening it.
“How do I know you’re good for the rest?” Dervish said, handing him the glasses.
“You don’t. Take a look,” Lawrence said carelessly, gesturing toward the briefcase.
With his back to him, he heard Dervish open the briefcase and draw in a breath. “Holy shit, that’
s a lot of green. And this is only part of it?”
“Did you really think I’d hand all that cash over without seeing the goods? I have a note with instructions on how to get the rest.” He held up a piece of paper in one hand and Dervish’s glass in the other. “Now, where are the notes and computer?” When the ex-cop reached for the glass, Lawrence held it away. “Business first. You’ve seen the cash. Give.”
Dervish jerked his head, indicating a corner of the living room. “It’s all there. Now give me the scotch.”
The asshole polished off the first glass in one long drink, then held out the glass for more. Lawrence poured him another, took a sip of his own. “I don’t have to remind you I don’t ever want to see your sorry face again, do I?”
“Don’t worry. Me and my money are going to Tahiti tomorrow morning. No way would I risk coming back to this shithole.” He drained the second glass in slightly more time than the first had taken.
Lawrence waited until Dervish had polished off the entire bottle, never noticing that Lawrence’s own drink came from a flask he’d hidden in his pocket. When the ex-cop was comatose, his breathing labored, Lawrence rose and pulled a baggie out of his pocket, tossing it on the table. He’d crushed one of the pills and left enough in the baggie for the cops to be able to confirm it was the same drug that was in the bottle. He hadn’t bothered with forging a note. Dervish had no one he’d leave a note for. In fact, Lawrence couldn’t think of a soul who’d miss the bastard.
He picked up the notes and computer and stowed them in a beat-up duffle he’d brought and left by the door, unnoticed by Dervish. Searching the rest of the apartment, he found a small recorder that Dervish had secreted in his bedside table.
Sorry piece of shit, Lawrence thought. The recorder was bound to belong to the journalist, proving Dervish was hedging his bets by keeping something back. Pouring himself another sip of scotch from his flask, he took the chair beside the couch and settled down to wait.
Finally satisfied Dervish was dead, Lawrence pulled on latex gloves, washed his glass and put it up, then wiped down everything he’d touched. Not that he was particularly worried anyone would look further than the obvious explanation of suicide. Given the state of Frank Dervish’s finances, suicide was a slam-dunk cause of death. But Lawrence hadn’t survived as long as he had without being careful.
He put his disguise back on over his regular clothes. In the stairwell, before seeing Dervish, he’d taken off the grubby outer clothes and stuffed them in a bag. Out came the large dingy shirt, the ripped jeans so big they fit over his pants, a fake beard, a grimy ball cap, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. No one would associate Lawrence Westbrook, banker, with the bum entering or leaving Dervish’s apartment building. The last thing he did was close up the briefcase with the money and put it in the duffle along with everything else.
Hoisting the bag over his shoulder, he looked at the dead man and smiled. “You dumb son of a bitch. That’s what happens to people who fuck with me.”
He refrained from whistling as he left, careful to keep his gait similar to that of a down-on-his-luck bum. Inside, though, he was happier than he’d been in a long time. Now to take care of Jonas Clark, and the rest of his problems would disappear along with Clark.
July 31, 1859
“ELIJAH, WHERE ARE you?”
The shack looked no different than it had the countless times before when she’d been there to help fugitives, or the two times she’d been with Elijah. There was no reason to feel impending doom. She was simply nervous. Then she saw him, and her heart rejoiced. She ran forward to meet him.
“I was afraid you weren’t coming.”
He kissed her. “Cain’t believe it’s time. I’ve wanted this for so long.”
“Freedom? Or me?” she teased.
He smiled a bit sadly. “Both.”
“What’s wrong? Is something wrong?”
“Just a feeling. Don’t pay me no never mind.”
She shoved aside the thought that in the past it had been best to trust Elijah’s “feelings.” He’d been proven right more often than not. “Is someone meeting us?” she asked instead.
“No. We walk to the next station. About seven miles from here. From there we rides in a wagon. Where is your clothes? You cain’t wear that,” he said, gesturing at her dress.
“I was waiting to put them on.”
He gathered her hands together and kissed them. “Sarah, I love you. Always will.”
“You know I’ll always love you too.” She searched his face in the dim light of the oil lantern. “Did you hear something? Are you worried?”
“Always.”
“Victor isn’t supposed to return for another week. That should give us time to get away. Not to Mexico, but far enough south he won’t be able to find us easily.”
“Who all knows we’s leavin’?”
“Only my sister and her husband. And Celia. But she’s on her way to Rachel’s even now. I knew she couldn’t stay once I was gone, nor would she want to. But Rachel will take care of her.” She wished badly that Celia would go with them, but she had refused. Though she hadn’t said it, Sarah knew Celia was in love with one of Rachel’s servants. “Did you tell anyone?” she asked him.
“Jest the conductor. He gave me directions to the next stop. You’d better get dressed.”
Now that the time was here, she was nervous, fearing what could happen. Yet never did she think she was doing the wrong thing. She picked up the pants, and the door to the shack slammed open.
“Goddamn your soul to hell, you faithless bitch!” Victor roared.
Her heart simply stopped.
November Present Day
“NO, NO! ELIJAH!” Sarah stretched out a hand in supplication. “No, please don’t . . . Victor, don’t do this.”
“Claire, wake up. It’s Jonas. Hush, it’s just a dream.”
Claire woke suddenly, tears streaming, heart pounding. She opened her eyes and blinked as slow recognition dawned. “Jonas? Oh, thank God.”
He reached across her to turn on the light, then gathered her to him. “You were dreaming.”
She felt him kiss the top of her head. “He found them,” she said shakily. “Sarah’s husband found them together. She knew they were both going to die.”
“It was a dream, Claire. They’re all long gone.”
She looked up at him, unable to express the torment she’d felt. She still felt. “Not to me. To me it feels as if it happened today. As if it were you and me.”
“It was a dream,” he repeated, his voice deep and soothing. “Only a dream. You’re safe. We’re both safe.” He took her hand, placed it on his chest. “See, I’m here. I’m real. I’m no dream.”
“Hold me.”
“I am. I won’t let go.”
He kissed her, his tongue sliding inside to tangle with hers. She wanted him desperately. Wanted to prove to herself that unlike in the past, the two of them were alive. Lovers. Always. She stripped off her sleep shirt, wiggled out of her panties, watched him pull off his boxers and turn to her. She put one arm around his neck and held him close. Slid her other hand over the warm skin of his chest, feeling the lovely glide of muscles under her palm. His heart beat strong, steady and reassuring.
He kissed her again, and she drowned in the kiss, in the thrill of his touch, the play of their tongues. Drank in his scent, his taste. Her arms tightened around him as she poured herself into the moment. Her heart swelled with love.
Jonas rolled over, pulling her on top of him. He played with her breasts, taking first one, then the other in his mouth. The rasp of his tongue, each liquid pull of his mouth on her nipples sent shivers of sensation coursing through her. His fingers danced over her, sliding in and out, heightening desire. She rubbed against him, smiling at his groan of pleasure.
When she could wait no longer, she took him inside her, gasping at the feel of his hard flesh entering her. He thrust and she squeezed tight, again and again, riding him until the pleasure crested, burst. She kissed him, and overcome, collapsed on his chest.
Eventually she could move. Claire rose on one arm and looked down at him. “Jonas?” He opened his eyes and smiled at her. “I love you, Jonas.”
His smile widened. He slipped a hand through her hair, pulled her face down to his. Kissed her, gently, thoroughly. “That’s good. I love you too. So much.” He kissed her again. She sank into the kiss, wrapped him in her arms as they rolled back over and he made love to her again.
She wanted their love to last forever. But she knew in her heart that it wouldn’t. That it couldn’t. Restlessly, she went back to sleep. And dreamed again.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
August 1, 1859
THEY LYNCHED HIM at dawn.
He struggled, kicking out, then digging his worn boots into the ground as they dragged him toward the tree, the huge live oak standing sentinel on the front lawn. But he could do nothing against five men.
Oh, God, no. No, please, she pled silently, knowing it was a futile prayer. They had tied his hands, beaten him until she could see the blood dripping from his face and body in the eerie fog of the emerging dawn. Despairing, she put her hand to the window, choked out a cry as they threw him up on the horse and placed the noose around his neck.
My love. My only love.
After it was over, when Elijah moved no longer, one of the men turned and strode back to the house. She heard him coming up the stairs, braced herself when he kicked in her door. He held a bullwhip in his hands and smiled that thin, cruel smile she knew so well.
“Now it’s your turn,” her husband said, and raised the whip.
The whip bit, burned like a fire on her skin, in her soul. She cried out in torment, in despair. She couldn’t stop the agony, the bright, hot pain of it. She prayed for darkness, for death.