She heard voices outside her cell. The scrape of the bolt being thrown. With a grating whine, the door swung open.
In the waning light, Mary recognized the bulk of Constable Peterson. “You have a visitor. . .Mrs. McKenzie.”
Mary leaped to her feet. Ed. Ed was back. Her prayer had been answered.
The constable stepped aside, then slammed the cell door shut behind. . .Ryzzi Kryzika.
three
Mary’s hope plummeted to despair. She swung away, unable to bear the sight of Ryzzi Kryzika’s ferret eyes and twisted smile. “I suppose you’re here to gloat.”
“On the contrary.” The little man stepped close. His hot breath singed the back of her neck. “I’ve come to save you.”
“Save me!” Mary spun around. “It’s knowin’ you that’s put me here. The man what grabbed me in the street thought I was one of yer girls.” She glared at the flashily dressed little man who was hardly taller than she. “I wonder where he got that idea?”
Ryzzi Kryzika cocked his hip and shoved bony hands into the pockets of his purple pinstripe suit. “It’s not so bad bein’ one a my girls, ya know. I take good care a my girls—and, like I promised my good friend Ed—I–I’m willin’ to take care a you. I’m here to post your bail.”
“No, thank you.” She turned away in disgust. “And as for bein’ Ed’s good friend, he hardly knew ya. If he had, he wouldn’t a been so foolish as to leave me in yer filthy hands.”
The man grabbed her arm. His pale eyes narrowed with a false smile. “Don’t get smart with me, girly,” he warned in a silky voice, “or I’ll leave ya here to rot.”
“I’d rather rot than be beholden to the likes o’ you.” Mary yanked free and pushed him aside. “Constable!” She pounded on the door of her cell. “Constable, me and Mr. Kryzika have finished our business.”
But before she knew what happened, the reprobate had slammed her against the brick wall and pinned back her arms. “Don’t mess with Fourth Street Ryzzi,” he snarled, his face so close his features were blurred. “You got that?” His breath was as rank as the hole in the corner of the cell. Mary turned her head. He grabbed her chin and twisted her face back to his. “You got that?” Though small, he was sinewy and strong. The more she struggled, the tighter his grasp.
“Constable!” Her cry was muffled by the bruising crush of his hand over her mouth.
“Keep at it, girly. I like ’em feisty. They bring a higher price.”
A higher price? Stark terror tore at Mary. Excited shouts from other cells matched her own as the evil little man pressed his body against hers, his cheek to hers, forcing her to hear his whispered threats. “If ya wanna see your sweet Eddie again, you’ll do what Ryzzi tells ya. Hear?” He squeezed her chin. “Ya hear?”
Struggling was useless. Mary let her body sag against him.
“That’s better,” he said.
As his hold relaxed, she lifted her head and spat in his face.
His eyes sprang wide as spittle ran down his cheek.
“Constable Peterson! Constable Peterson!” she cried, praying to be heard over the din. “Constable Peterson—”
Ryzzi grabbed her by the throat and pushed her to her knees. “Nobody can hear ya. Nobody cares.” His grip tightened. “Only Ryzzi Kryzika cared, and now he don’t care neither.” He drew back a fist.
The door flew open, and the constable caught his up-raised hand. “That’ll be enough, Kryzika, or you’ll be in jail yourself.”
The man’s frenzy died as quickly as it had been born. He danced back, brushed his suit of a phantom speck of lint. “I shoulda knowed better. She’s nothin’ but trash. I come here outta friendship to her husband. And what do I get for my trouble? The ingrate attacks me.” He shook his head. “Can you believe it.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Constable Peterson looked skeptical as he shoved him out the door.
At the threshold the constable turned, casting his eyes on Mary, who was slumped against the bunk rubbing her bruised neck. “You all right?”
She turned away. If he couldn’t see the truth when it was staring him in the face, what good would it do to tell him?
The officer paused, then shrugged, and slammed the cell door behind him.
Mary slumped again onto the bottom bunk, her cheek resting on the rough, grimy mattress. It smelled of mildew and sweat. Hopelessness dropped over her like a shroud.
Dear God, what was going to happen to her?
Maybe she should have made her deal with the devil after all. At least she’d have been out of this cesspool. But it was too late now.
Too late.
Drained, desolate, she closed her eyes.
If only she could wake up and find that it had been nothing but a bad dream. That it all had never happened. If only. . . Half asleep, her mind played back the events that had led her here.
Her father’s eyes were filled with rage as he lay at the bottom of the stairs, his leg twisted at a crazy angle beneath him. “I’ll get you for this, boy. I’ll get you.”
And Brody, who’d pushed him, loomed on the landing above, sixteen and suddenly as big as their dad, breathing with a white-hot fury to match the old man’s. “You’ll not hit my sister again. Not as long as I’m here to protect her.”
“By the saints, you’ll not threaten me, boy,” the old man roared, rearing up, then falling back in pain.
Behind the lad, fourteen-year-old Ethan stood, his eyes wide and bright, horror-struck by the sight and inevitable outcome. They’d all be made to suffer for their brother’s impulsive act. All three of them. Their father was indiscriminate in his thirst for retribution.
As if he needed an excuse.
From where she knelt beside him, Mary saw the neighbors’ heads poke from doorways to see what all the ruckus was about, watched them gather into whispering clumps.
And she saw the understanding and compassion in their faces.
Mr. Button from the apartment next door lumbered over and put his arm around Brody’s shoulder. “You’d better get out of here, son, or there’ll be hell to pay with that daddy of yours.”
“I’m not leaving my sister.”
“Go,” Mary commanded. “I’ll be all right.”
“No!” Brody stood resolute.
“You must.”
As she rose, her father grabbed at her ankle. “It won’t do no good. I’ll catch up to him. He can’t get away from me, by God.”
But he had gotten away. He and Ethan—for good. All the money she’d managed to squirrel away for her own escape, she gave to them. She helped them pack and pressed the dollars into Brody’s hand. “Take care of your brother,” she said.
And she managed not to weep till they were out of sight.
The next morning at the factory, Ed McKenzie, in that lighthearted, jesting way of his, said, “Run away with me.” The same as he had every day for the last month.
Mary was almost as surprised as he at her emphatic, “Yes!”
There was no longer anything to keep her there.
A week later they met at dawn on the dock, her excitement nothing compared to Ed’s. Once he’d made the commitment, it seemed he could hardly wait to be gone. The gold strike in Alaska had been his destination—until he met Mr. Ryzard Kryzika and learned the ship to South Africa’s gold fields would set sail first.
Ryzard Kryzika. Ryzzi Kryzika. The name slithered around in her brain like the snake that he was. Fourth Street Ryzzi. . .
❧
Mary heard a key rattle in the lock.
After a moment of disorientation, the rancid odor of the mattress attacked her senses, and she opened her eyes. For a moment she pondered which was more miserable, her memories or the present reality.
Constable Peterson filled the doorway. “The magistrate wants to question you now.”
She sat up.
The magistrate!
Nervously, she smoothed her skirt and tried to make a bun of her unruly curls with the few hairpins that hadn’t fallen in
to the street during her altercation.
“Get a hustle on,” the man said, dragging her to her feet. “He hasn’t got all day.”
Mary picked up the sad-looking little hat that had been stomped on, doing her best to reshape it, but with small success. Sighing, she placed it atop her head anyway. A lady was not seen without her hat and gloves, and having lost the latter, she’d have to make do with the former and hope the magistrate didn’t notice.
“You’ve fussed enough.” Constable Peterson pulled her out the door and up the narrow hall through the now familiar clamor of catcalls.
It was amazing what a person could get used to.
“Shut your faces, you louts.” The cell block rang from the constable’s nightstick striking the metal doors as he passed. “Blasted Boers are worse than the Blacks. At least the Kaffirs have sense enough to keep their mouths shut,” he muttered, pushing and yanking Mary like some rag doll toward the stairs.
She suddenly grabbed the railing and refused to budge.
Despite her quaking heart and trembling knees, she’d had enough. The magistrate would think her a common criminal if she allowed herself to be treated like one. Besides, a girl had a right to her dignity. Even a poor girl.
“What now?” The constable frowned.
“You don’t seem to realize,” she said in a voice far more brave than she felt, “I’m perfectly capable of makin’ it on my own without you draggin’ me.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh as if he were mightily put upon. But after a moment of enduring her steady gaze, he gave in. “Very well, but move along.”
In front of an imposing door on the second floor, Constable Peterson paused and stiffened to his full height before he knocked.
“Come in.”
Mary’s heart pounded. She had no idea what to expect. A chamber of torture? In that instant, before the door opened, her imagination took flight, as did much of her courage.
She was greatly relieved, then, to step into a sunny, well-appointed office with nothing more threatening in view than the head of a strange, horned animal mounted on the wall behind the desk.
A man at the window turned as they entered. He was tall, fearsomely so, with a helmet of dark curling hair and stern features that she might have considered handsome had she not been so apprehensive. As he approached, she saw that he was not young, but not old either. And his eyes—his dark, intense eyes—seemed. . .perhaps. . .kind.
Constable Peterson shoved her forward and handed him a sheet of paper. “You’ll note, sir,” the constable said, “that this Mary McKenzie was accused of trying to steal a gentleman’s wallet.”
“Thank you, Peterson, I can read.”
Mary protested. “But the man lied, sir. I didn’t do it.”
The magistrate quickly perused the paper, then looked at Mary. “Do you know what this says?”
“She signed it, sir.” Constable Peterson pointed to Mary’s signature at the bottom of the page.
The magistrate cast him an impatient glance. “I’m speaking to the young lady, Peterson. If you’ll allow me.” He turned back to Mary. “Do you know what you signed? Did you read this?”
There was something in his quiet voice and the gentle intensity of his eyes that made Mary incapable of pretending.
She hung her head and sensed in the ensuing silence that he understood.
“Fourth Street Ryzzi came to post her bail,” the constable interjected, with a look that implied much more.
When he didn’t finish the story, a rush of rage inflamed Mary. She drew herself up. Glaring at the constable, she said, “And I’m sure you’ll also tell him that I’d have none of it.” She looked up at the magistrate. “I’ll have nothin’ to do with that vile man.”
“Even if it meant having him post your bail?” the magistrate asked.
Mary looked away, remembering the brief moment when she had wondered herself if she should have accepted Ryzzi Kryzika’s offer. “Even then,” she murmured.
“There’s a pattern here, if you ask me,” the constable said.
“Nobody asked you, Peterson,” the magistrate responded through gritted teeth, clearly out of patience. “I’ll handle this now. Thank you.”
“But, sir—”
“That will be all.”
“But—”
“I’ll take this up with you later, Constable.”
In the wake of the magistrate’s sharp retort, Constable Peterson’s puffery fizzled like a deflated balloon.
Mary could not contain a momentary satisfaction as she watched him skulk from the office.
“Please sit down, Miss—”
“Mrs.—Mrs. Ed McKenzie.”
The magistrate glanced at the sheet he held as if seeking confirmation—as if he, too, doubted she was married. Yet his manner was courtly as he escorted her to the chair in front of the desk.
He treated her like a lady.
Colin sat down across from the young woman and laid the sheet of paper on his desk. His eyes lowered again on the line Peterson had struck through “marital status,” adding the single word, “questionable,” and felt a stab of compassion for her.
Folding his hands, he leaned forward. “Now, Mrs. . . McKenzie. You tell me what happened.”
Knowing what he had seen, he would now discover what he hadn’t.
He observed her as she spoke, the sorry excuse for a hat that hid her burnished curls. She should let them fall free, he thought. . .if only she knew it. Poor little thing.
“. . .leering and prancing,” she was saying, “I didn’t do nothin’ to attract him. And what he said to me was disgusting, sir.”
Colin was quite taken with the timbre of her voice. Even in her agitation it had a resonance and depth that could not be cultivated. It was captivating. “Go on,” he encouraged.
“The masher’d seen me talkin’ to that vile little Ryzzi Kryzika and he wouldn’t believe that—”
And her mouth. Not a pouty little beesting that was so much in fashion, but full, generous lips—
“. . .he wouldn’t believe I weren’t one of Ryzzi’s girls.”
A mouth that murdered the King’s English. Yet there was obvious intelligence in her face, and a dignity in her demeanor that he’d sensed even from a distance. “So then what happened?” he asked.
“Well, then the constable came. Constable Peterson, that is. After I hit the lecher and bloodied his nose. But Constable Peterson didn’t believe me and. . .and. . .” She swallowed and tears filled her soft brown eyes, eyes that Colin suspected had seen their share of pain long before the trauma of this day. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a white linen handkerchief, which he extended to her.
Hesitantly, she looked at it.
“It’s clean,” he assured her.
“I knew that.” She took it and daintily dabbed at her eyes and her charmingly tilted nose. “A gentleman like you wouldn’t hand a lady a soiled handkerchief. It’s just I was thinkin’ how I’d return it.”
Colin suppressed a smile. “We’ll worry about that later.” He leaned back. He couldn’t remember when he’d enjoyed an interrogation so much—if ever. “So then Constable Peterson arrested you for petty theft.”
She nodded, absently twisting the handkerchief between her fingers. “He asked me lotsa questions. But I don’t think he believed my answers. . .and then I signed his paper.” Her voice was getting smaller. “And he took me below.” A shudder ran through her that made Colin’s heart go out to her.
She lifted her gaze and a shy smile passed her lips. “I can’t say I’d recommend the cleanliness here,” she said softly. But the levity was soon lost, and he saw even more depressing thoughts reflected in her face. “What are ya gonna do with me?” she asked, her voice even thinner.
“How old are you, Mrs. McKenzie?”
“Nineteen.”
The poor little bird, he thought. The poor little vulnerable bird.
He straightened in his chair and crossed his hands again on the
desk. “First, I want you to know, I believe everything you’ve told me.”
“You do?” Her voice quavered.
Well, almost everything, he thought. Without a ring or papers he had to share Constable Peterson’s doubts about her phantom husband.
Then he told her about Henry and the telescope and how he’d observed the incident, but still had to hear it from her lips because there were things he couldn’t know that only she could tell him. Then he smiled. “As for what I’m going to do with you, I haven’t yet decided.”
“You mean you’re not gonna let me outta jail?”
He could see her fear. “Oh yes, of course. But I want to help you find a safe place to live. Johannesburg is too rough a town for a woman alone. And as I understand it, you aren’t sure when you can expect your. . .husband. . .to return.”
The young woman’s shoulders sagged.
“Maybe we can find you a job,” he said to encourage her. He looked down at the sheet on his desk. “It says here you sew.”
She nodded. “I was the best at assembling sleeves in the factory. I have the scars to prove it.” She smiled and held out her hand. “See my thumb? A sewing machine needle poked me when I was learnin’.”
He shook his head sympathetically. “That looks nasty.”
“ ’Twas at the time, but it don’t hurt no more. Serves as a reminder to pay attention to what I’m at.”
As he gazed at her strong, useful hand, Colin couldn’t help but be reminded of another that had impressed him not an hour ago, languid and pale, lifting a delicate teacup.
“And I’m good with children. I brought up my two brothers since they was four and six, when our mum died.”
“In Johannesburg, that might be a more marketable skill than assembling sleeves,” Colin said, an idea beginning to form. “It says on the sheet here that you’re staying at the Anderson Street Hotel.” The hotel had a reputation a cut below that of the jail, in Colin’s estimation.
She nodded.
“I reckon we can find you a more suitable place than that. I’m going to talk to my friends, the Bryants. Emma, Mrs. Bryant, is with child, and she might appreciate a companion. It might even work into a permanent situation. What do you think of that, Mrs. McKenzie?”
Out Of The Darkness Page 3