Brenda Joyce - [Francesca Cahill 04]

by Deadly Desire

  A gentleman without a coat was walking ahead of him, but more slowly. As he stopped to regard a shop-front window, Evan shifted slightly so as to avoid bumping into him as he passed. But the man suddenly moved, and Evan was knocked completely off balance, almost to the point of falling.

  “Hey!” he exclaimed, regaining his balance and meeting a pair of dark eyes. “I do beg—” He never finished his sentence. Metal flashed in a gloved hand. In that instant, he knew the man was not a gentleman, just as he knew what was going to happen and why it was happening.

  But no shot was fired. He was hit in the back of the head. The pain was like lightning, blinding him.

  But still he managed to stay upright, panicked. And as he swung his fist to defend himself, he knew this was the end.

  His blow glanced off of the other man’s chest. And then brass knuckles connected with his cheek, and as his head snapped back, as the impact of the brutal blow filled him with more pain, Evan found his feet knocked out from under him as the man kicked him in the leg. As he went down, an arm went around him, like a vise.

  Panic.

  God, was this really the end?

  And even through the haze of white-hot pain, he felt himself dragged across the street, thrown down. He finally managed to see his assailant’s face, and he recognized that man as Charlie, just Charlie, a big brute who guarded a particular moneylender and loan shark. He knew he had to explain; the brass knuckles smashed across his forehead. Evan caught Charlie’s wrist.

  Charlie laughed, shaking him off, and a booted kick came, right in the ribs.

  Evan gasped, blinded, as his ribs cracked and broke.

  More kicks followed, each and every one carefully aimed—his stomach, his kidneys, his groin. There were more blows with the brass knuckles. And he lay helpless, a heap of broken bones, choking on his own blood.

  And then the whisper came. “Don’t worry; you won’t die. This is just a warning, Cahill,” it said.

  Fifteen

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 17, 1902 — 8:00 P.M.

  The warden had met them at the train depot, which consisted of nothing more than a wood shack with a bolted door and a dilapidated sign that was hanging lopsidedly and read: KENDALL. They were the only two passengers to disembark; in another hour and fifteen minutes the train would be stopping in Albany.

  “You must be Commissioner Bragg. Read a bit about you, I did. Guess you’re the lady detective, Miz Cahill. Decided to come down and meet you folks, as it ain’t often I got a big investigation on my hands.”

  Bragg shook Warden Timbull’s hands. The warden was a big man with heavy jowls and a huge belly. He was chewing tobacco and he smelled a bit like cheap whiskey, but he had smiling eyes. “Thanks for meeting us, Warden,” Bragg said. “I appreciate it, as time is of the essence. We are taking the twelve-oh-five back to the city tonight.”

  “Can’t say I blame you,” Timbull remarked, shifting the wad of tobacco to another cheek. He smiled as he picked up Francesca’s bag. “Now that’s the prettiest detective I ever did see.”

  Francesca actually flushed. “Thank you, Warden.”

  “Nothing of it,” he said, leading the way down three oak steps, one with a gaping crack, and onto a boardwalk that was crusted with ice and snow. “Careful. Slippery as anything out here.”

  As it was a dark, moonless night, it was hard to see, much less to watch her step. One streetlight was glowing perhaps a half a football field away, and as Francesca could see the outlines of a dozen buildings, she assumed that was the heart of the town. She felt Bragg grasp her elbow firmly and she dared to look at him.

  He avoided her eyes.

  He had been avoiding her all day, it seemed, no easy task, considering that they had been sharing a private compartment together ever since they had boarded the train just before noon. The eight-hour train ride had passed in an awkward manner, as if they were strangers, not a man and a woman in love or even friends. Bragg had hunkered down with more reports and files than any man should ever have to read. He’d merely remarked that this was his chance to catch up on paperwork and then he’d erected a brick wall around himself, which she knew she must not breach. Francesca had been stunned.

  She had expected to spend the day in conversation, discussing the case, politics, their life. Apparently Bragg had different ideas.

  Fortunately, Francesca had brought both her biology text and Flaubert’s Madame Bovary with her, and she used the time to catch up on her own studies. The conductor had also come by with various newspapers, and she had taken the Times, The Sun, and the Daily News. At six Bragg had suggested that they break to dine.

  Francesca had carefully folded up the Times. “You’re ignoring me,” she had said quietly. The truth was, she felt crushed.

  “I am trying to get through my work,” he’d said as quietly.

  “I think we need to talk.”

  “Francesca, I think that is not a good idea. We have a very long evening ahead of us.” His gaze was direct.

  “Why are you doing this?” She stood up.

  He hesitated. Then, “I am afraid to let you come too close—when we are alone like this. It is myself I do not trust,” he said, his eyes holding hers.

  With her somewhat relieved and somewhat mollified, they’d gone to the dining car. When they began their meal, Bragg told her that he’d sent a telegram to Shoz, advising him to come to New York. “I want to find out from Shoz himself what happened, and then I shall know how to proceed,” he had said.

  Francesca had reached across the linen-clad table to take his hand. As it was now dark out, nothing could be seen outside of the train’s window, with the dining car lit by glassdomed candles. “Then we shall know how to proceed, Bragg.”

  He had smiled a little at her, their eyes meeting, and she’d thought about the sleeper train they would take back to the city, her heart quickening. She knew he was thinking about it, too, for she saw the flare of heat in his eyes before he withdrew his hand, looked away, and picked up his fork, eating his steak with determination.

  Now Timbull heaved her small valise into the back of an open buggy. Bragg tossed in his own small duffel. “Sorry I ain’t got a better vehicle. Belongs to the prison, you know.”

  “How far is it from here?” Francesca asked.

  “Not far. Maybe thirty minutes.” He smiled at her, his teeth stained and yellow.

  When they were all seated together on the single front seat and on their way out of town, Timbull said, “Decided to read those files you asked for, in case it jogged the ole brain. Hard to recollect all the way back to ’96, much less to 1890.”

  “And did it help?” Bragg asked.

  Francesca was shivering. She sat between the two men, and she inched a bit closer to Bragg, her only wish to become warm.

  Timbull saw and eyed her. “Real cold up north, ain’t it? Five below, tonight.”

  “No wonder I can’t stop shivering,” Francesca said, managing a smile anyway.

  Bragg hesitated and their eyes met. Then he put his arm around her. “That coat isn’t warm enough.”

  “No, it is not,” Francesca agreed, her teeth chattering. Then, snuggling closer to him and trying to ignore the thrilling tingle of desire, she said, “What did you find, Warden?”

  “He sure was a model prisoner. Recall him now, oh yeah. Kept to himself, stayed out of fights, did as he was told.” Timbull glanced at them both as the gelding trotted along the snowy country road. They were passing rolling pastures now, Cranston having been left far behind. Cattle seemed to dot the countryside.

  “Craddock was a model prisoner?” Francesca gasped.

  Bragg twisted to look at her. “No, he’s talking about Shoz. Aren’t you, Warden?”

  “Yeah, Shozkay Savage. The Indian. He was no trouble, although when he first arrived, there were a few fights. I been warden here since ‘89. Once I read those files, it all come back to me. That Savage fellow ain’t the kind of man a fellow forgets. Strong, silent type. Yeah, I remem
ber him. Kinda man you don’t want to make mad, if you know what I mean. All them fights was him bein’ picked on, tested. Savage defended himself real good and then he was left alone. Can’t tell you what a big surprise it was, my bestbehavin’ prisoner up and escaping.” He frowned.

  Francesca was still shivering, and she was pleased when Bragg rubbed her arm lightly, not looking at her. “What about Craddock?” Bragg asked the warden. “Do you remember him at all?”

  “I didn’t, not until I read his file. Ha!” Timbull snorted. “Now he was a problem. He was in more fights than you could count, did solitary two dozen times. He actually stabbed a fellow inmate with a toothbrush, right in the eye, blindin’ him, the argument over some woman who came to visit one of them prisoners. He was trouble from day one,” Timbull said flatly. “An’ he didn’t think twice about taking out another man’s eye.”

  Francesca and Bragg exchanged a look.

  “That’s hardly a surprise,” Francesca said. “What about the relationship between Shoz Savage and Joseph Craddock?”

  “Don’t know.” He grinned at her.

  Francesca was disappointed. “Is there anyone at the prison now who was there in 1890 whom we might speak to?”

  “Doubt it,” Timbull said cheerfully. “’Nother five minutes or so. Prison’s up on the top of that hill.”

  Francesca followed his gaze and saw nothing but a series of dark hilly outlines.

  Bragg said, “I’ve had two of my men doing a bit of investigative work, Warden.”

  Timbull cocked a brow. Francesca looked at Bragg in surprise.

  “Apparently there was a big scandal just after you took over Fort Kendall.”

  Timbull stared. “You must mean the murder,” he finally said.

  Francesca twisted. “The murder? What murder?”

  Timbull sighed. “Just one of the prisoners, ma’am.”

  “It was never solved,” Bragg said quietly. “And Shoz escaped a week later, at the end of February 1890.”

  Timbull grunted. He shook the reins, urging the horse on.

  Francesca could not believe that Bragg had not mentioned this before. Of course, the murder of a fellow inmate just before Shoz’s escape might not mean anything. Or it could mean everything.

  “Warden? Surely you recall the first and only scandal of your administration of the prison?”

  He spat now, almost angrily, over the side of the buggy. “One morning a guard found him strung up in his cell, carved up good, and hanged. Coroner said he died from a broken neck, not loss of blood. Someone did a number on him.”

  “You mean torture?” Francesca gasped.

  “Oh, yeah, he was tortured, all right, Injun style. Long and slow.”

  Francesca did not want to think about the fact that Lucy’s husband was mostly Apache and, to use her own words, extremely hard and dangerous. “Who was he?” she whispered.

  “Cooper. Randy Cooper. Cooper had been a big man inside. He ran the show, so to speak. In every prison there’s a king and his army. Cooper was king. Big smart fellow, as cold as ice—colder. Anyone who didn’t play his game his way got his head busted, sooner or later. You know what I mean.” He gave Bragg a significant look. “Wasn’t a single witness, if you know what I mean. We’re here,” he said as they drove past a pair of fortlike gates.

  Francesca saw that a long, ugly building lay ahead of them, surrounded by a wood stockade. She shivered—this prison felt terribly unpleasant now.

  Bragg faced Timbull. “Any guesses as to why Cooper was tortured and murdered? Any suspicions as to who did it?”

  “There was an investigation, but bein’ as no one came forward to say a single word about him or the murder, it was dropped. He was a badass—er, a real bully, Commissioner. He had his own army of soldiers; even the guards were afraid of him.”

  “So any prisoner might have hated Cooper enough to torture and murder him?”

  “That’s right.”

  Francesca and Bragg faced each other again. It was a moment before he turned to Timbull. “Any interactions between him and Shoz?” Bragg asked.

  “Shoz got his ass kicked a few times, if I recall, by Cooper and his gang of thugs. Everyone did. But he wouldn’t join the gang; like I said, he kept to himself. Never said a word, pointed a finger, nuthin’. But generally speaking, they didn’t have any business, if you know what I mean.”

  “An’ Craddock?”

  Timbull grinned. “He was one of Cooper’s top guns. In fact, after Cooper, he was top man. When Cooper bit the bullet, Craddock got the throne.” With that, he heaved himself out of the front seat of the buggy.

  Francesca met Bragg’s glance. “What are you thinking? Where are you going with this?” She asked in a whisper so Warden Timbull would not hear.

  He hesitated. “Cooper was the alias Shoz used after escaping prison.”

  Three hours later, the local train was pulling out of Kendall. Francesca and Bragg had spent the past hours in the warden’s office, reading every word in the files of all three men, as well as the extremely scant investigative report. They had learned nothing new, but the warden had told them that Craddock’s reign hadn’t lasted very long—another felon had been placed at the prison, someone stronger, smarter, and meaner than Craddock, who had been demoted to a lieutenant again.

  “Lady’s compartment,” the conductor said, sliding open her wood door. Two beds were in the small space, one directly above the lower one. “Beds fold in. Table there comes out,” he said, indicating a folded tabletop beside which was a single small chair. “Dining car opens at six; club car stays open all night.” He turned in the small space of the corridor. “Your compartment, sir.” He slid open the door to an identical cubicle.

  “Thank you,” Bragg said.

  Because it was extremely difficult to move with the three of them standing in the narrow corridor, Francesca stepped inside her compartment. The conductor tipped his hat and walked on down the train.

  Francesca looked at Bragg. “We have to meet Shoz. I’m sure he has quite a bit to say on the subject of prison life—and some strong opinions about Cooper’s murder.”

  Bragg didn’t comment.

  She touched his arm; he was so very grim. “Just because Shoz used Cooper as an alias for seven years doesn’t mean he killed him.”

  “I’ll bet there were quite a few witnesses to Cooper’s murder, and I have a hunch that Craddock was one of them.”

  Francesca started.

  “I am going to the club car,” Bragg said abruptly. He smiled, but it was tight. “Good night, Francesca.”

  She felt her mouth drop open, but he didn’t see, as he was already walking after the conductor, swaying a bit along with the train.

  She was in disbelief. This was their chance to freely discuss the case, and he was simply walking away. And what was she supposed to do by herself? Sleep? As if she could!

  She slammed shut her compartment in a fit of anger, and it crossed her mind that Calder Hart would never abandon her like this. He’d go to the club car, fetch a pair of whiskeys, and they’d spend the next few hours discussing the world—and his jaded view of it.

  Francesca sat down hard on the lower bunk, whacking her head as she did so. Tears filled her eyes.

  She was losing him.

  She stood, because sitting was impossible without craning her neck in a hurtful position. She told herself that she was not losing him. He was trying to be virtuous. He was trying to protect her virtue—because he loved her. And because being alone with her was simply too difficult, now.

  Francesca moved carefully to the chair beside the folding tabletop, and sat down on it. What should she do?

  Hart’s image came to mind. Unless you come to your senses and forget this absurd notion that you love my brother, this is war.

  She did not want to think about Leigh Anne now.

  Rick is married; Calder is not.

  Grace’s words dared to echo next. Francesca wanted to clap her hands over her ears.
Neither of them knew that Bragg was prepared to divorce his wife for her. Perhaps she was wrong to refuse his marriage proposal. Perhaps their personal happiness was more important than his political future; besides, they could still reform the world even if he wasn’t in politics. There were hundreds of causes they could take up, hundreds of societies and unions to join and support, and countless charities to raise money for.

  But he was a natural-born leader. His place was in government.

  Francesca rubbed her eyes. Suddenly she was exhausted. Nothing was going the way she had hoped, and now, too late, she realized she had packed her sheer, lacy nightgown for a reason, so he could admire her in it—worse—to break his self-control.

  But he was stronger than she was. He wasn’t going to compromise her, and she loved him even more for it.

  But where, dear God, could they go from here?

  The answer was chilling. It whispered through her tiny sleeping compartment like a sigh coming from the train’s chugging wheels. Nowhere.

  Francesca left the stool abruptly, curling up on the lower bunk, hugging her pillow. The weight of worry coupled with grief settled upon her like a hundred-pound rock. Perhaps Bragg wasn’t her destiny after all; perhaps they were doomed.

  Tears moistened her eyes, blurring her vision. The train chugged on, but there was no comfort in the rocking motion or the steady sound. The small light from the lantern danced before her eyes. She saw Bragg and Leigh Anne; she saw Hart.

  Suddenly Francesca was awake. The lantern continued to burn brightly, and she realized she had fallen asleep, but obviously not for very long. She strained to hear, for something had awoken her, and then she was rewarded by the sound of his compartment door sliding closed with a loud and resounding click.

  She sat up, whacking her head as she did so.