Second Chance (The Deadman Series Book 5)

by Linell Jeppsen

  THE LITTLE GLOBE THEATER PRESENTS

  A FOLLY!

  Matthew couldn’t help but grin, even as he noticed a large number of guests pausing to stare, point and titter in scandalized fascination in front of the tent.

  His dearly departed wife Iris would have laughed out loud as well. Her father, Gerald Winters, who had passed away five years ago, owned and operated the Little Globe Theater for almost two decades. The theater was situated right next to the Seattle Opera House, and like an open sewer drain, it caught the run-off from its more exalted sister.

  Burly-Q, stage shows, Can-Can and comedic farce were the Globe’s specialty and, although no one here tonight would openly admit to patronizing the place, there was hardly a living, adult soul in Seattle who hadn’t snuck in at least once to see a show.

  The fact that the Globe had set up shop here for the guest’s amusement tonight, though, was setting fire to the crowd’s ever-growing sensation of impending scandal.

  Annie took Matthew’s arm and murmured, “Well, Mr. King made it, I see…”

  Tom King, a long-time employee of Gerald’s (and an old friend of Matthew’s), had inherited The Globe when the old man died. A few days ago, being the perfectionist he was, Tom had howled at Matthew about not having enough time to pull off a good performance for tonight’s show.

  Matthew had soothed the younger man, telling him the performance didn’t matter nearly as much as the message being reenacted in front of the audience tonight. Tommy had grumped and groaned but he and his fine troupe of actors were here as requested.

  Matthew put his hand on Annie’s and said, “Yes…and, as Caesar once said, ‘Let the games begin!’”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The Triumph

  Matthew and his party no sooner found an empty table and sat down, when a gentleman with a bright red mask and a dark goatee strode to the front of the large room and said, “Welcome to the ball, Ladies and Gentlemen! As many of you know, the Masons normally don’t make our ‘Level’ promotions public, but we decided, in light of what has happened over the last week or so, to make an exception.”

  He paused for a moment, and the gaslights scattered along the walls shone off the red devil’s mask he wore, casting an eerie shadow on the golden floorboards at his feet. “We felt that, at this time of grief over the loss of our beloved Grand Master, we should celebrate his life and his commitment to justice. Please, raise your glasses high to the memory of the Honorable Judge McKinley!”

  Raising a champagne flute, the masked man drained his glass and cried, “Here, here!” Immediately, the guests raised their glasses and echoed his toast.

  After the hubbub died down a bit, he continued. “This is also a commencement celebration. Although the formal initiation ceremony will remain a private Mason-only affair, please give a hearty welcome to our new Grand Master, Edward Branson!”

  A somewhat weak ovation rippled through the crowd as a bent and ugly old man was wheeled onto the dance floor. Matthew had heard that Branson, unlike Clyde Thurston, was not well-liked. He was too gruff, far too stingy with his many purse strings, and seemed to hold himself above everyone else, no matter their wealth or lineage. This was not a good way to endear oneself to the high society circles in the Seattle area.

  A tall gentleman wearing a simple black mask and a long gray hooded cloak pushed Branson’s wheeled chair. Matthew immediately knew who that man was, though his form was hidden. Stephen Castle was quite recognizable with his erect carriage and his silver mane of hair.

  So did Fanny Castle, judging by the way she was staring in shock at the man she had thought was long gone. She shook her head in fear and Matthew saw the widow McKinley, who sat next to her, lean forward in concern.

  Matthew had seen Mrs. Castle come in earlier, along with Mrs. McKinley. He also saw the police commissioner, a portly man named Homer Styles, Sheriff Walker, Seattle mayor William Womack, and a number of other luminaries. Crossing mental fingers, he hoped that these powerful citizens were enough to cast Branson into a pit of shame.

  Glancing over at the police commissioner’s table, Matthew realized that Castle’s appearance had not gone unchecked by the sheriff, either. Walker was whispering fiercely into his boss’s ear, and Matthew wondered if an arrest was imminent, but the host with the devil’s mask spoke again.

  “Our dear Mr. Branson has been a Freemason for over forty years now. He was not, at the time of Judge McKinley’s death, second in line to be the Grand Master of this lodge, but circumstances have intervened to make it so. Ladies and Gents, please make sure to wish him well while you enjoy the ball, the good food, and the fine music… And, in addition to tonight’s festivities, a special performance is planned for our intermission!”

  The devil stood still for a moment, and Matthew could have sworn he grinned. “In approximately two hours, please be seated while the acclaimed Little Globe Theater players put on a performance for your entertainment!” The devil then bowed with a flourish and cried out, “Enjoy!”

  There was a burst of delighted laughter and immediately the orchestra set to with gusto. Matthew was left to wonder whether the wheels he and his friends had just set into motion would be enough to roll over and crush Branson and Castle or if what was left of the Trinity would just dust itself off and walk away laughing.

  “I want to go home now, goddammit! I made my appearance…what more do they want of me?” Branson grumbled querulously.

  Castle wished they could all go home, but he said, “The Masons have thrown this ball in your honor as well as Judge McKinley’s, Edward. You must stay, at least for a few hours. You don’t want to seem ungracious, do you?”

  Edward sighed in exasperation. Although it appeared his triumph was a done deal, his gout was killing him and gas was building in his bowels. He knew, however, that Stephen was right. He had not been formally initiated yet…if he did something untoward now, he might not become Grand Master at all. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, all right. But, as soon as that damn Folly is finished I want to go back home!”

  Stephen pushed Edward’s chair toward a table with Branson’s name on it by the front of the stage. There were only two place settings there, which he thought odd, but apparently, Branson and his plus-one were not to be disturbed, which, considering the old man’s flatulence, was just as well.

  Stephen got Edward comfortably situated, and then sat down on the opposite side of the table. Gazing across the room, Stephen watched as the guests rose to dance. Ball gowns swirled and twirled around the room like so many bright umbrellas and the masks the dancers wore lent a mysterious, somewhat sinister glamour to the affair.

  Stephen thought, who can know what lurks behind those elaborate facades… friend or foe? He still wasn’t sure whether coming back to Seattle was the right move, or not. Branson had assured him, though, that no one knew that he was in any way connected to the death of that small boy.

  Mike Lowry, the one man who actually could point the finger of blame, had been sprung out of jail on bail by Castle and Castle Attorneys at Law. He had also been found dead, early this morning in his own home. He had, apparently, hung himself in remorse after killing an innocent kid in a skirmish by the city market.

  Branson’s doing, Stephen supposed, but he couldn’t help but feel relieved that, once again, his name was staying clean. Stephen adjusted his mask so he could see the crowd a little better. The usual suspects, he thought. All the climbers in Seattle’s society set were there, of course, plus many political movers and shakers. He gazed at the table where the sheriff, the mayor and the Seattle Police commissioner sat eating. They seemed tense, and it gave him a bit of a chill. Normally, Womack would be two sheets to the wind by now, cheeks red and eyes bleary with too much whiskey.

  Stephen shook the chill off. As far as he could tell, everything boded well for him and Branson. Also, he thought, maybe now that Edward is being elevated to Grand Master of this lodge, the old man will finally lose interest in the gold and silver mines in n
orth Idaho. God knows, he’ll be kept busy by his new Masonic duties.

  “Stephen, did you hear me?” Branson barked.

  Castle jumped and said, “What? Did you say something?”

  Edward glared. “Yes! I asked if you would go and fetch me some of those shrimps…and maybe some cake?”

  Stephen stood up. “Of course. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  Walking close to the stage to avoid the dancers, Stephen approached the food tables. He stepped up to a table filled with china and cutlery, and reached for a plate when he felt a soft hand touch his back. “Stephen…what on Earth are you doing here?” Fanny whispered in his ear.

  Shocked, Stephen turned around and saw his wife standing behind him. There were a number of people queuing up behind her, so he grasped her hand and pulled her to a quiet corner. Facing her, he leaned close and said, “I might ask the same thing, wife! You never come to these types of affairs, not unless it’s for a coming out. And, how did you receive an invitation to a Mason ball?”

  Fanny glared. “I have been receiving invitations to all manner of parties since I was just a girl, Stephen!” Her eyes flashed indignantly, and then grew moist with unshed tears. “But to answer your question, Henny McKinley invited me.” She pulled a snow-white hankie from her sleeve and dabbed at the make-up on her pale cheeks.

  “Now,” she whispered. “Pray tell, husband, why you haven’t been returning my phone calls? I needed you!”

  Stephen bowed his head in remorse. Nodding, he said, “Yes, Fanny, I know about what happened, and I am truly sorry. My men told me you were alright, though, after Mr. Wilcox attacked Timmy, and I’ve been kept very busy with my own affairs. Not the least of which is making sure that Wilcox pays for his crime!”

  Fanny stared up at her husband’s face in shock. “What in God’s name are you talking about, Stephen? Timmy shot himself, in my own tea room, in front of my very eyes! Who told you that Matthew Wilcox had anything to do with what happened?”

  Castle looked down into his wife’s face, feeling the blood leave his own cheeks as the implications of her words sank in. Thinking back, he realized that he had taken Edward’s words as gospel and, in his own sorrow, he had failed to do the proper research as to whether the old man spoke the truth or not.

  Now, a young boy was dead in a failed assassination attempt, and his men were still scattered all over the city trying to finish the job on Matthew Wilcox and his son Chance, who according to Fanny, were innocent in Timmy’s death.

  “Stephen…answer me, please!” Fanny cried.

  Castle spoke through frozen lips. “Branson did, of course.”

  “Branson!” Fanny hissed. “Branson was the one who started this, husband! Timmy told me, before he killed himself, that Branson wanted him to kill you…and me! Timmy couldn’t make himself do it, Stephen. I think he came to the house, thinking you might be home. He came because his heart was broken.”

  Stephen staggered slightly and walked on weak legs toward a chair by the wall. Fanny followed and sat in a chair next to him. She took his hand and leaning close, she said, “Stephen, you must go…now! There is something planned for tonight—something we hope will expose Branson for the fiend he is.”

  Stephen looked at her sideways, and asked, “We? Who is this ‘we,’ Fanny?”

  Mrs. Castle sat up straight. “Me, Matthew and Chance Wilcox, Ian Revell, and Judge McKinley’s widow, Henrietta. We think we have landed on a plan that will bring Edward Branson down for good!”

  “But,” she went on. “You must go, my love. I fear that you are too close to Branson to stay clear of this affair. Leave, please! Go to one of your hiding places and make yourself invisible for a while. Just give me a little time and I’ll send as much money as I possibly can to ensure that you live comfortably.”

  Stephen felt the walls closing in on him. He had loved Timothy Farnsworth in his own way, just as he loved his fierce little wife. He wished he could take it all back…the Trinity, the murders, the all-consuming quest for wealth, the feelings of inadequacy he had always felt at being a relatively poor man in a rich man’s world.

  But it was too late, and he knew it. Fanny clutched his hand once more and raised it to her lips. “Dear, dear Stephen. Before you leave, just know how much I have always loved you…that will never change.”

  She stood up with tears sparkling like diamonds in her eyes, and said, “Go…now!”

  Within moments, Stephen Castle stood up and fled the premises. He didn’t realize it yet, but four very large and extremely deadly masked men left the building as well.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The Witness

  Ian Revell stepped into a private bathroom situated within his late uncle’s office and shut the door behind him. He was shaking and his hands were clammy with nervous sweat.

  He removed his red devil’s mask and stared into his own reflection. The dark whiskers of his phony goatee itched miserably and he peeled that off as well. Then, he ran cold water from the tap and splashed his face, over and over again until he felt clean and calm.

  Although he felt a thrill of vengeful excitement at what he had done, he worried that contacting the Knights Templar Order of the Red Cross was simply too much. He wondered whether his uncle (were he still alive) would have ever considered such a thing or if, even now, the judge was looking down upon his actions as something a common murderer might do.

  Still, Ian had no intention of trying to stop matters now that they were in play. Ian had been raised (and trained) to navigate within the circles of wealth and power. He knew, as well as anyone, that the wealthy operated under a different set of rules than regular folk. They could, and often did, get away with murder, theft, graft, blackmail and all assorted crimes most people would rot in jail for.

  He knew that, unless something drastic happened, Edward Branson would not only get away with murdering his beloved uncle, but he would also take the judge’s place in the Masonic Lodge in Seattle…a maneuver Ian himself had orchestrated in order to seek justice!

  Shuddering at the thought, Ian studied his own scared eyes for a second and then grabbed a hand towel and wiped his face dry. Stepping back into his uncle’s office, he made his way to a chiffonier and pulled out a snowy, white shirt and black silk suspenders. If he guessed right, he was about to have company and he wanted to look his best…calm, cool and collected, rather than the nervous, quivering pantywaist he felt like on the inside.

  Turning to the credenza, Ian splashed two fingers of scotch into a glass and drained it dry. He considered another and changed his mind. This particular Order of Knights frowned upon alcohol consumption, and Ian didn’t want their righteous wrath turned on him after they were finished with Castle.

  He sat down behind his uncle’s desk and laced his fingers together. He could hear the orchestra’s music floating up the stairs…he wished for a moment that he could go downstairs and dance the night away with one of the pretty women he had seen in the ballroom.

  Shaking his head at his own childishness, Ian took a deep breath and waited for the inevitable.

  Stephen Castle had every intention of hailing a cab and heading to the train station and away from Branson for good. The grounds were fairly large, the size of a city block, but he knew the cabbies were out in force tonight, hoping, no doubt, to make a few coins hauling the rich party-goers home after the ball.

  He didn’t care to step out into the brightly lit street entrance so he hustled down a cobblestone pathway by the side of the building and out onto the back of the property. Peering through darkness, tall trees and shrubs toward the next block, Stephen let his eyes adjust. After a moment, he spied a fairly wide trail he could use to make his way to the back fence and onto the adjacent street.

  He could see a few couples walking arm in arm through the shadows, and at one point he heard a barely-suppressed quarrel, but then he was in the clear. Picking up the pace, he kept his eyes glued to a flickering gas lamp on the street ahead.

&nb
sp; He started slightly when he heard a branch snap to his left and he stopped to peer into a thicket. Staring into the dark, he saw nothing and shrugged. Probably a squirrel, he thought, or a night owl…

  Suddenly and nearly silently, several huge, cloaked figures came out of the darkness to surround him. He only just began to shout out in alarm when his arms were seized from behind and a firm, heavy hand covered his mouth. He squirmed, grunting in fear, when he heard a whisper in his ear, “We do not wish to kill you, Mr. Castle, but believe me when I say we are prepared to do so if you do not cooperate.”

  Castle stood still, heart pounding in dread. A wadded up piece of material was shoved into his mouth and a long scarf tied over it to serve as a gag. Another piece of material was pressed firmly over his nose and a sharp odor filled Stephen’s nostrils. Try as he might to keep from breathing in the noxious fumes, he had no choice.

  Stephen felt his eyelids grow heavy and knew he was falling to the ground, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He made one mighty effort to ascertain who his assailants were, and the last thing he thought before falling unconscious was What on Earth are the Templars doing here… and why do they want me…?

  Then Stephen Castle knew no more.

  Castle awoke slowly with a mouth that tasted sour and a pounding headache. His stomach roiled uneasily, and the electric lights scattered about the room hurt his eyes.

  He blinked…there was a glowing white wall standing close to where he sat sprawled in a chair. A white glare with blood-red stripes…Yes! Stephen thought. I remember… the Knights Templar Order of the Red Cross were the ones who accosted me outside.

  Stunned, Stephen shook his head. There were, to his knowledge, no Templars in Washington State—much less such a fiercely militant order—and he simply couldn’t imagine what they were doing here in this room with him, of all people…he was, after all, one of the least religious people he knew!

  Enunciating carefully, Castle said, “What the hell is going on? Wha…what do you want with me?”