by BJ Hoff
He broke off, searching her face. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone that the child is mine, Terese. For both our sakes. Jack may be my brother, but he also pays my salary. I can’t afford to have him cutting me loose in a fit of temper, especially if I’m going to help you and the child.”
Disgust washed over Terese in that moment as she realized what she was seeing in his eyes. He was afraid. If not actually afraid of his brother, then afraid of the power the man held over him—afraid that he might sever the purse strings. And Brady, she thought grimly, would not enjoy being poor. Not at all.
“He might even fire your brother as well,” Brady went on to warn her. “You must understand the importance of this.”
Terese thought she understood much more than Brady would have guessed.
He laid it out before her then, the plan he’d concocted. She would say she had been attacked, he explained, and that her pregnancy was the result of that attack. He would set everything in place with the news article. The attack, he assured her, would evoke even more sympathy from Jack and the Vanguard’s readers.
Terese sat there, saying nothing as she listened to him arranging her life for her—fashioning her lies for her. The peculiar thing was that she felt nothing the entire time he was coaching her.
Strange, in light of what he had meant to her—and not so long ago—that she could feel so little for him now. Only contempt.
At the end, he tried to encourage her. “You know, you’ve come through an unbelievable succession of tragedies, Terese. Most people, if they’d gone through everything that you have, would be sitting around whining and feeling sorry for themselves. But not you. You’re a survivor.” He paused. “Whether you believe this or not, Terese, I’ve always admired you for your pluck. You’re stronger than you know.”
His flattering words had given Terese no sense of satisfaction. Perhaps when the shock of this day had worn thin, she would again come to care about what he thought of her. But at this moment, it meant nothing.
Moreover, in spite of the neatly arranged plan he had devised for her, Terese wasn’t convinced that she ought to go through with it. There might be an alternative.
The thoughts she’d had during the night now resurfaced. The prospect of going to America had seemed far more desirable when there had been no child to consider. She could have gone unencumbered. There would have been no need for subterfuge and secrets. She wouldn’t have had to lie to Cavan just to face him. Now everything was so complicated.
She shuddered, remembering how angry she had been with Brady for calling the baby a complication. But how could she possibly make such a drastic change in her life while carrying a child? And she must not forget that she would have to raise that child. Brady might make all sorts of promises to help, but she knew she couldn’t trust him. And as for his rich and powerful brother, if Jack Kane was truly the hard man Brady made him out to be, it would be folly itself to rely on him.
Was she really willing to gamble her entire future on a wastrel like Brady or, more foolish still, a complete stranger like his brother? Hadn’t she learned by now that she dared not trust anyone but herself?
Even Cavan, once he learned of her condition, might turn his back on her. He had abandoned her once, when she had been only a child. Who was to say he wouldn’t do it again?
Without realizing it, she had begun to walk. She glanced around once, then quickened her pace. An urgency had begun to build in her, a need to act now, before she lost her nerve.
She had already decided that she would let the Kanes pay her passage to America. That seemed only fair, after the way Brady had deceived her. That meant she would be able to keep her meager savings either to give her a start in the States…or to do something about the child.
Surely the latter made more sense. Without the burden of the child, she would be free to live life her way. She would not have to depend on the Kanes or anyone else—not even Cavan. She would be responsible only for herself. She could make her own way.
Just as she always had.
36
CONFRONTATION WITH EVIL
I see black dragons mount the sky,
I see earth yawn beneath my feet—
JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN
Terese had taken care to make herself as inconspicuous as possible for her excursion into this shameful, secret district of Galway, knotting her hair at the nape of her neck and then tying a kerchief over her head. Even though she was not known in the city, she would hate to have anyone recognize her in this infamous place.
The afternoon had turned gloomy, with lowering clouds threatening another downpour like that of the previous day; consequently, the narrow streets were not as crowded as they might have been otherwise. She found the area she was looking for with little difficulty, but it was another matter entirely to locate the specific place she needed to go. Once inside the district, she began to ask questions, which only invited the attentions of some of the rough sailors and other men lurking about. One great, filthy ape put his hands on her, but Terese turned on him with such viciousness that he backed off with a sneer and a shrug. Slatternly women stared at her with open resentment. Some jeered or hurled coarse epithets as she passed by, and one even stopped her with the abhorrent suggestion that she should join their ranks.
Finally, she gained a civil answer without mockery, this from a weary-looking harlot who appeared to be well past the years when a man would be likely to pay for her favors. The woman—who called herself Letty—appeared brittle and even fragile beneath the layers of face paint and tinted hair. She looked at Terese with a knowing sadness and told her of a place on the fringes of this sinful sector where she might find the solution to her problem.
“Ask for Gypsy Sorcha,” she said, giving a reassuring pat to the stained red bodice of her dress. “Be sure to tell her Letty sent you. And never mind her face, love. Most get used to it after a time.” Her faded blue eyes studied Terese for a moment. “You know you’ll need money.”
Terese nodded. She had her money pouch with her, as she always did, ever since her aunt had robbed her of her meager savings.
“Use your wits next time, love,” Letty warned her, her powdered face cracking with weblike wrinkles as she sent Terese on her way. “You’ll not be wanting to do this more than once, I’ll wager.”
It had begun to sprinkle rain by the time Terese came upon the garishly painted wagon squatting in the rear of a V-shaped pocket of dilapidated buildings.
She was shaking all over. As she approached, she felt the hair at the back of her neck rising. The street reeked with the smell of animal dung and garbage. From the front of the buildings came the sound of bottles breaking and loud, raucous laughter. But here in the back, there was no one to be seen.
The door to the wagon was standing open, but she knocked on the frame anyway, then stepped back. After a moment, the ugliest old woman Terese had ever seen appeared in the doorway. She was encased in what appeared to be several layers of multicolored fabrics, the topmost soiled and faded in several places. Some sort of headdress—a kind of turban—framed her jowly face. Strands of wet-looking gray hair tangled across her forehead. Terese tried not to stare at the sizable warts protruding from the old woman’s chin or the angry red scar that trailed the right side of her face, from her forehead to her jawbone.
“Well, what is it, then?”
Terese was shaking even more treacherously now and felt almost lightheaded. “I—I am here to see Gypsy Sorcha.”
“And now that you’ve seen me?” snapped the hideous old woman. “What d’you want, girl?”
Before Terese could answer, the other twisted her lip, saying, “So it’s that business, is it? Have you money?”
Terese’s mouth tasted like seawater. “I—yes, I have money.”
“Get yourself in here, then, and let’s get on with it.” The woman turned and went back inside without waiting to see if Terese would follow.
The first thing Terese saw when she stepped into the
gloom-veiled interior was the soiled bed on the opposite wall of the wagon. She did not want to think what the dark stains might be or how the randomly tossed blanket might smell.
“Get out of your clothes and lie down over there,” ordered the old crone, pointing to the bed and taking several sharp-looking utensils out of a basket.
Terese turned her gaze to the sagging bed, taking in the table nearby, which held an assortment of empty liquor bottles and a stack of unfolded rags. Again she looked at the old woman, who was still bent over the basket, muttering to herself as she rifled through its contents and came up empty-handed.
The stink of waste and the squalor of her surroundings suddenly struck Terese like a wall of floodwater. She felt the floor of the wagon tilt beneath her. Her legs threatened to buckle. She uttered a moan of despair, then went stumbling from the wagon into the street, looking for a place to be sick.
Behind her, the old gypsy woman shrieked an oath, then after a moment went back inside.
Terese fell to her knees on the cobbled street, heaving. It was raining hard by now, and as she huddled there, sick, her body racked with violent weeping, she welcomed the drenching rain like a blessing. She was desperate to rid herself of the sights and smells of this sordid place. She felt as if the stench of evil was all over her, and she willed the rain to wash away the filth from her body…and from her soul.
After a long time, she finally raised her head. Still on her knees, hunched over the street, she found herself looking down into a pool of water. She stared for a long time at the reflection of her face. She still felt dirty…contaminated…as if the filth, the wickedness of this place and the old gypsy woman had somehow mired her. In that instant, the terrible reality of where she was…and what she had been about to do…stared back at her, and she saw with dreadful clarity her own debasement.
She had no idea how long she stayed there, hunched and soaking, looking into the pool of rainwater as if it were the mirror of her soul, until at last she found the strength to get to her feet and start toward home. She staggered, stumbling over the rain-slicked streets, fighting her way past the gauntlet of questions pressing in on her, driving herself to leave the horror and the pain of the past behind her.
For the first time in what seemed an endless time, she prayed. She prayed to a God who, for all she knew, might not condescend to hear the prayers of a sinful girl like herself. She prayed out of the depths of fear and desperation and disbelief. She prayed for a forgiveness she was no longer sure she even believed in, a mercy that would wash away the stains from her soul even as the drenching rain washed away the reek of corruption still clinging to her body.
And for the first time since she had learned of the child she carried, she sensed—even in the frenzied confusion of her thoughts and the black uncertainty of her future—a purpose, a reason to look forward and not turn back.
37
OF LAWYERS AND LAWSUITS
The Pharisee’s cant goes up for peace,
But the cries of his victims never cease.
JOHN BOYLE O’REILLY
NEW YORK CITY
New York City sweltered in August. No air moved between the buildings. No rain fell to ease the blistering heat. The days ended with no relief from the same hot stickiness with which they had begun.
Jack Kane, on his way to the first of two calls, slung his suit coat over his shoulder, making a face at the vicious stench given off by the garbage heaped in the streets and gutters. Even the dogs seemed loath to forage on a day like this. The rubbish piles in the street didn’t bother Jack so much in the winter; frozen, they didn’t stink. But in the summer he felt that the stuff was a veritable affront to a city that considered itself one of the leading commerce centers of the world.
Some commerce center, that couldn’t even manage its own garbage removal.
Jack had decided against taking a cab, thinking the heat would be more tolerable if he walked. But after only a few minutes of winding his way between clattering carriages, brewery drays, and freight wagons—and the foul clods of droppings deposited by the countless horses drawing these vehicles—he was already questioning his judgment. He was drenched with perspiration, his shirt glued to his back and his hair as wet as if he’d just stepped out of the bath. By the time he reached the offices of Foxworth & McCann, he would have traded his gold watch for a jug of cold water. But at least he’d arrived free of horse dung on his shoes and had managed to avoid being run over—neither of which came easily in New York these days.
There was nothing pretentious about the painted sign in front of the building where Foxworth & McCann maintained one of the most profitable law offices in the city. They occupied only the ground floor of a four-story building in one of the seedier parts of Broadway. Supposedly, a couple of rooms on the second floor were used for storage, but Jack suspected that this “storage area” offered refuge to some of the firm’s more unsavory clients until their attorneys could persuade them to turn themselves in to the authorities.
Jack stopped inside the vestibule to mop his face and hair with a handkerchief before entering the waiting room. It was late enough that there were no other clients around, and Harry Ogg, the firm’s fussy, pompous clerk, wasn’t at his usual place of command at the front desk.
Of course, this wasn’t exactly the type of office in which respectable clients sat around waiting to keep appointments. In reality, respectable clients were probably at a minimum at Foxworth & McCann. The firm was known to deal with any number of individuals whom the more prestigious law firms declined to represent—the criminal underworld, crooked politicos, husbands of straying wives, and the occasional “gentleman” who compromised his reputation by the inability to control his passions.
No doubt it was this flourishing, corrupt clientele that largely accounted for the firm’s prosperity. Not that Foxworth & McCann limited themselves entirely to the disreputable element. They also looked out for the interests of selected theater performers, artists, and other members of the less illustrious professions.
Since journalists were usually considered suspect—if not actually vulgar, at least common—by the old guard, Foxworth & McCann also attracted more than their share of newspapermen, Jack Kane among them.
It never failed to amuse Jack that some of the wealthiest, most influential men in the city—in the state, for that matter—were summarily rejected by the upper classes. Without a distinguished genealogy, either through his own family or his wife’s, a man could acquire one fortune after another and still be held in contempt.
To be descended from an affluent, upper-crust family—an old family—automatically stamped a man as a person of breeding, character, and unquestionable morality. That was another source of amusement for Jack, since he had unearthed substantial evidence to the contrary. He knew for a fact that some of the most sordid and outright criminal establishments in New York were owned by a number of the city’s more eminent natives.
Being Irish, of course—even if obscenely wealthy—automatically disqualified one from any sort of estimable position in society. Unlike some, however, Jack had never coveted such standing, nor did he resent the inequity. To the contrary, he took a certain perverse satisfaction in the knowledge that he could rankle most of the uptown swells simply by being what he was: an Irishman who had a great deal more money than they did—and considerably more power in city and state affairs. When the occasion warranted, he didn’t hesitate to flaunt his Irishness or his influence. He was equally comfortable with both and rather enjoyed the awareness that others weren’t.
The door to Avery Foxworth’s office was open, and Jack wasn’t surprised to find the attorney waiting for him. Foxworth stood when Jack entered, not from any sense of deference, certainly—Avery Foxworth deferred to no man—but more from the courtesy that so often seemed at odds with the rest of his character.
“I got your message, Jack. It’s good to see you.” Foxworth came halfway round his desk, smiling, hand extended. There was still a trace of
Britain in the attorney’s speech, though he claimed to be twenty years removed from his native land. As always, the man was impeccably barbered and impressively tailored. Jack had never seen Foxworth in anything but solemn gray or sober black, yet he invariably managed to give his somber apparel a certain enviable elegance.
Jack took the chair offered to him, settling himself across the desk from Foxworth, who reached to adjust an iron paperweight until it was exactly square with the edge of the desk. Jack watched him, as always curious about the enigmatic attorney. Everything about Avery Foxworth reeked of breeding. He wasn’t tall but somehow managed to give a sense of height. Slender and fine-boned, he nevertheless appeared anything but delicate. His hair was the color of dark sand and showed very little gray. Overall, Foxworth projected a quiet dignity that stopped just short of being severe. Only those deep-set, slate eyes gave away the man’s intensity and keen intelligence.
How Foxworth had ever ended up in his present situation was anyone’s guess. His partner, Charlie McCann, was one of the most flamboyant, ostentatious Irishmen around town—and one of the most corrupt. Charlie was as ample in girth and as jolly in nature as Avery was slight and serious. Yet here in the heart of one of the city’s shadiest districts, these two, wildly opposite in every respect, had made a veritable fortune defending all manner of degenerates and reprobates—at the same time disproving the almost universal assumption that an Irishman and an Englishman could not possibly coexist in any atmosphere other than that of murderous loathing.
Jack got along with both men but tended to trust Foxworth more and dealt with him almost exclusively. This puzzled him to some extent, because at times he had a sense that Avery could be brutally ruthless and utterly lacking in compassion.
But then, perhaps that was what made him such a formidable foe in the courtroom.