Caden observed as Bret approached the dead body. He watched him pause, his stance wavering as he reached in his jacket and pulled something out of the inside pocket. “What? Don’t like my singing? Then pick yourself up, man, and fight!” He offered a small hip flask toward the reclined corpse. “Or share a drink if you’ve still got the strength to—”
Bret’s arm fell limp and he dropped the flask on the alleyway. The metal container clanged against the brick surface, spilling its liquor in a small puddle.
He took a few more steps closer, then stooped down beside the body. “Lord in heaven . . . Timothy?” He picked up the derringer from the corpse’s chest. “What have you done?”
Caden, concealed in the darkness, focused his concentration on the execution of the final step in his design. He composed his expression, removing any hint of lingering excitement from the necessary removal of that unfortunate DeRocha fool. Breathing in a measured, relaxed pattern, he stepped out from the shadows behind the sawmill wall.
Facing Bret McGowan’s back, he padded toward his stunned and unsuspecting dupe. Society members knew that Doctor Hellreich always took in an evening walk at this time after his lecture or studies, and there was no reason to assume that tonight should be any different. “Ahh. There you are, Mr. McGowan.” Caden paused. “The commotion your vehicle makes is like a gun—”
Bret McGowan spun around, holding the derringer in his shaking hand. His eyes were wide with terror like an escaped convict. “What . . .” He took a tottering step toward Caden. “What happened here?”
Caden glanced down at Timothy’s corpse. He stepped back and raised his head so that Bret could clearly see his look of shock and disbelief. “My God, sir. What have you done?”
The bewildered man stepped toward Caden and raised the revolver. “I . . . I found him like this . . . but how—”
Caden raised his gloved hands, trying to shield his face and chest. “No, please, don’t shoot!” He bellowed the rest of his words as loudly as he could. “Help me someone! Please! He’s got a gun!”
Bret glanced back at the dead body. “You . . . you double-dealing bastard. What are you up to?”
The rear door of the Society hall swung open. Edward ran out of the entrance, holding an oil lantern. “Doctor Hellreich?” He paused as agreed to catch his breath. “Sir, is that you? I heard—Oh, God!”
Edward turned away from the corpse for a moment then swung around to face Bret McGowan. “What are you doing?” He looked down at the corpse then back up to the ill-fated man standing beside the body. “You’ve shot a man in cold blood!”
“No!” Bret shook his head and lurched toward Edward “I found him. He was like that when I arrived!”
Liam Dawson and Hadlee Foster ran outside. The lantern light flared yellow-white against the darkness of the alleyway walls as the men surrounded the body. They looked down at the dead man and then back to their friend, still holding the derringer.
“Liam? Hadlee? Tell them. You know I’d never—”
“Christ, Bret,” Liam contorted his features and took a step back. “We were discussing business and I thought I heard that locomotive of yours back here, but—” He glanced down at the body again. “Why?”
“Come on partner.” Hadlee held out his hand. “Give me the gun.”
“But I didn’t—”
“Bret, for Christ’s sake,” Hadlee yelled. “Arley Caldwell’s inside and Miss Armstrong has likely already called the police. Do you want to get shot too? Now give me the goddamn gun!”
“Rebecca?” Bret raised his hand as if to examine the small gun clenched between his fingers in more detail. “No. It’s impossible. She couldn’t . . .”
The accused man let his head drop as if the weight of terrifying realization that it carried was no longer something it could support. He gripped the gun by the barrel and handed the butt to Hadlee Foster. His friend examined the weapon for a few moments.
“Is it his?” asked Liam.
Hadlee held it up toward the small light over the rear door of the Society hall. “Could be, but I’ll have to check it inside by the light.”
“I . . . I must have lost it somewhere,” Bret offered in his defense, his voice just above a whisper. “Liam, Hadlee . . . somebody found it or it was stolen—”
“The only thing that has been stolen, Mr. McGowan,” Caden said, pointing down to the dead body, “has been that poor man’s life.” He walked over and joined the group of men. “And I shudder to think who would have been next if Edward had not heard my calls for help.”
From within the Society hall, the sound of more rapid footsteps came toward the open door. Arley Caldwell stopped at the threshold and peered at each of the assembled men. He lowered his gaze toward the corpse. Without a word, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a revolver. “Who did this?”
Edward pointed at Bret. “I heard a cry for help and when I arrived I found Mr. McGowan standing over the body and aiming a gun at Doctor Hellreich.” He gestured down at the body. “I think . . . it’s Mr. DeRocha.”
“Timothy?” Arley stepped past the body. He gasped and raised his revolver at the dumbfounded man still holding the derringer. “What’s wrong with you, Bret? You’ve gone sick in the head, boy. Lord, all that poison you keep taking and mixing with liquor.”
He stepped back from the corpse. “I’m just thankful Gabrielle isn’t here to see this after everything else you’ve done to break her heart.”
“Arley, no, I came here to meet him.” Bret McGowan jabbed his finger toward Caden. “We were supposed to meet inside.” He swayed on his feet and took a few steps toward Arley. “Philip told me . . . about what happened to my mother . . . what that goddamn bastard did.”
Bret lunged at Caden. Edward rushed forward and grabbed Bret by the throat, pulling him back as Liam and Hadlee tried to wrestle the flailing man to the bricks. Bret fought back like an enraged beast and maintained his footing.
“Mad as a bull,” Arley said. He stepped forward and knocked the struggling man on the temple with the butt of his revolver.
Bret’s legs buckled, but he would not go down.
“And just as strong.” Arley whacked him harder a second time. Bret McGowan wavered for a few moments then slumped forward as the men wrestled him to the bricks.
“Hold him there,” Caden ordered, “and leave everything as it is until the police arrive.”
Arley turned and faced Caden . “What was all that about meeting Bret?”
Caden lowered his gaze and squinted at the unconscious, prostrate man. “The wild ranting of a drunken opium fiend. Excess of one aggravates the delirium of the other. I suspected this would happen and warned Gabrielle.”
Taking a breath, Caden consciously relaxed his expression and touched Arley on the arm in a gesture of mutual assurance. “I promised to meet Mr. McGowan, try to talk sense with him, but these . . . these violent hallucinations of his about terrible events from his childhood . . .”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but for all my knowledge of human nature, this is quite beyond my abilities to offer a remedy. All we can do now is show compassion . . . and hope the court will too.”
Caden studied each troubled, uncertain face of the whispering men gathered around their unconscious friend. Their words were of disbelief and pity for what Bret McGowan had done but the silence of their deepest fear spoke loudest of all.
After all, how would polite society judge these fine gentlemen? What guilt through association had they already risked if discovered with this murderer still holding the bloody gun in his hand?
Caden glanced up at the open door. Rebecca stood in the moonlit shadows of the threshold, her hand over her mouth. She cried out, reeled, and ran back into the building. Caden grinned. Destiny always keeps her appointments, Mr. McGowan, and so do I.
CHAPTER 20
Friday, September 7, 10:30 p.m.
“Easy there, Hadlee.” Liam put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You’re no
t roping a steer.”
Caden and the others watched Hadlee wrap the rope around Bret’s neck. He yanked and tied it to the unconscious man’s hands behind his back. “Three of us couldn’t bring him down,” Hadlee puffed, “and Arley had to cold cock him twice! When he comes to, a fella in his condition, even a friend, might turn around and gore you.” He stood. “Just like a bull.”
“Rebecca has called the police and they will arrive shortly,” Caden informed them. “Please, gentlemen, if you would be so kind to take Mr. McGowan inside.”
He motioned toward the open rear door. “I think there has been enough tragedy for one night and there is no need for any of you to involve yourselves any deeper in this sordid affair.”
Arley turned to him. “Caden? You want us to leave this murderer with you?”
Caden put his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Arley, I appreciate your concern, but you must think of the larger significance of this situation. Do you really want your family’s impeccable name and reputation connected in any way to what happened here tonight?”
Liam and Hadlee pivoted on their feet. They stepped away from their insensate friend and stood beside Mr. Caldwell. The men lingered for a breath, as if unable to focus on anything except the raw implication of what they had just heard.
“That’s right, gentlemen,” Caden continued. “All of you have much to risk and nothing to gain by involving yourselves in this troubling occurrence.”
They looked at each other as though waiting for the first reassuring murmur that would allow them to scurry away to their safe beds and wait for the familiar warmth of the next day.
Liam gestured toward the bound man. “But, perhaps we can help Bret. We’re all witnesses to what happened.”
“Are we really, Mr. Dawson?” Caden questioned. “Which one of us can truly say what transpired here tonight?” He stepped over to DeRocha’s corpse. “Each man in his own way happened upon this scene, yet we know how eager the popular press is to embellish the facts and make insinuations that have no basis in truth and serve only to sensationalize their tawdry melodramas for their gullible readers.”
The three men muttered amongst themselves. Hadlee turned and looked down at his unconscious friend. “Maybe you’ve got a point, Doctor,” he said. “The only thing we heard was Bret’s automobile backfiring . . . then someone yelling for help.”
“They could have been arguing,” Liam offered. “DeRocha’s always been jealous of Bret and Gabrielle. Maybe Timothy confronted him. Bret could have shot him in self-defense.”
“If he left the vehicle motor running,” Arley Caldwell said, rubbing his beard. “The shots could have occurred any time and it would have sounded just like his engine backfiring.”
“Or, was he leaving the corpse on our doorstep,” Edward suggested, “hoping to incriminate Doctor Hellreich and the Society?”
“And that, gentlemen, is my point.” Caden walked back and stood beside Edward.
His assistant’s timing was impeccable. Caden could see the seeds of uncertainty taking root in the doubting looks of men who now regretted attending the conveniently arranged private Society meeting this evening. “Any number of things could have occurred between Mr. DeRocha and Mr. McGowan, so, before we rush to any final judgments, I suggest you take my advice and leave your unfortunate friend inside the Society hall and depart immediately before the police arrive.”
“But Bret will remember,” Hadlee objected, “that we were all here. He’ll tell them.”
Caden exchanged glances with Edward. Caden walked back and stood in front of the three men. “If saving each of you from the ridicule of public scrutiny in the press will help to save his own neck from the rope, I believe Mr. McGowan will remain mute on your presence here. And if he decides to speak . . .”
He pointed back at the corpse. “Then he only calls forth testimony that is sure to lead him to the hangman’s noose.”
Arley pulled open his jacket and hooked his thumbs underneath his suspenders. “How do you know he’ll listen to reason, Caden?”
“Because, my friend, a drowning man will grab onto anything if it will keep his head above water a minute longer.”
The men stared at each other for the longest time. Hadlee spat on the bricks and they glanced back at the corpse.
“There will be time to pay your respects when he is lying in state, gentlemen,” Caden said. “Now, quickly, each of you take hold of him and lift him inside.”
Edward grabbed Bret McGowan’s legs. “There is a room in the cellar, doctor. We can leave him there until the police arrive.”
Edward pulled the creaking, hewn door open on its rusted hinges. Caden strode into the dank cellar and paused, making sure everything was as he had left it. He nodded to Edward and his assistant closed the door behind him.
A single oil lamp burned on top of an ancient, empty fish barrel in the middle of the damp cellar room. The immediate sensation of finally being alone with Bret McGowan was not at all what he expected—so much that he was only aware of his own discomfort rather than relishing his victory over this troublesome rival.
Bret McGowan lay sprawled on an old, moldy straw mattress, his hands and feet tied to the legs of the rusting metal spring frame. The glimmer of the yellow light flickered on his closed eyes. The thick cord of old hangman’s rope around his neck was fastened securely to a hook in the brick pillar behind his head.
How like a McGowan to die like a mad dog tied to a rope. Caden stood over the bound prisoner, examining his face as if looking at a prepared specimen.
Gone was the aggressive sneer of a powerful adversary—the sunken cheeks and sweaty, wan skin already betrayed the corrupting weakness that was surely advancing through Bret’s helpless body, the very smell of his skin revealing the rot from within.
Caden grimaced and took a step back. Which masculine qualities could women have possibly found attractive in this travesty of a man? Another sharp cramp stabbed at his groin.
After pausing to let the discomfort run its course and expire, he finally spoke. “Mr. McGowan . . . Bret, open your eyes. I know you can hear me.”
Bret didn’t move or open his eyes. He continued to lay silent and motionless in his presence.
Caden picked up the glass of water near the pitcher. He splashed the water on his prisoner’s face. Bret coughed and blinked. He shook his head and squinted up at Caden.
“Shrewd men,” Caden continued, “never let the ignorance and mistakes of youth poison their present wisdom and resolve. It is the current circumstances that should interest us. Whatever the past may have been between us, it is meaningless now.”
Bret sprang from the mattress like a mad man, but the rope held him fast to the bed frame. His wild eyes glared at Caden. “Meaningless? You son of a bitch! You and the other bastards raped my mother then—” He spat at him. “You hung my father!”
“And what would you do now, Bret? The war over all these years, all the wasted blood, dried and turned to dust. Another generation of young men destroyed, their promise and potential for greatness discarded by the conflicting whims of a few old men.”
He stepped forward. “Would you kill me? Have your revenge on me now for the sins of my youth? It is not old blood that you should worry about but new, freshly spilled in the alley behind the hall.” Caden waited until the flush of fury settled to a glistening sweat on the man’s pale face.
Bret groaned and closed his eyes. “Something . . . happened to Timothy. I was looking for you, then—”
“Then, you met up with Mr. DeRocha, who was late and rushing to attend my private meeting.” Caden put his gloved hand in the pocket of his coat and stood beside the lamp on the fish barrel. “Yes, something happened,” he continued, “and it happened between the two of you over Gabrielle Caldwell.” He turned up the flame. “You argued, you drew your weapon, and fired.”
Bret opened his eyes and coughed. “No, no. I found him.” He coughed again, harder. “Lying there.”
“And what about this?” Caden held out his gloved hand. In his open palm was Bret McGowan’s ivory-handled derringer.
Bret gaped at the revolver and squinted harder as if to make sure it really was his own. “I . . . I don’t know. I can’t remember everything.”
Caden withdrew his hand and placed the derringer back in his coat pocket. “How unfortunate for you, Bret. It seems much of your memory is plagued with the same symptoms typical of your indulgences.”
He withdrew his gloved hand, stretching then curling his fingers as he spoke. “But don’t worry, sir, for I witnessed the entire tragedy and I can testify that you were attacked by Mr. DeRocha, and in your diminished state, feared for your life and acted only out of self-defense.”
Bret blinked several times, opening his eyes ever wider. His forehead, a series of undulating frowns. “What the hell are you going on about? DeRocha . . . he was laying there and the next thing I saw—”
“Blood on your hands from the blood on your gun. Don’t be a fool, man. I’m offering you the only opportunity you’ll ever have to save what’s left of your worthless neck.”
Caden reached into the inside front pocket of his jacket and pulled out a piece of folded legal paper. “As the only witness to your crime, I have prepared the necessary affidavit that will function as your sworn confession and my statement. It will be witnessed by my assistant, Edward.”
He held the paper out to Bret. “But there are three conditions that you must agree to before I allow you to sign it.” He snapped the document back.
Bret spat at him. “Join Satan, Hellreich. With a name like that you’re already halfway—”
“First, you will not mention the presence of the other men. Second—”
“The second I get out of here.” Bret shook his arms and legs, straining and pulling at the ropes. “I’ll string you up like the raping bastard you are!”
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