It was Grimm who answered with a shake of his head. The young man read everything he could get his hands on.
"You said Sarah wasn't supposed to know about the deal." Isobel said.
Riot nodded. "Her uncle wasn't supposed to tell her."
"And now Lee Walker is dead. If our theory about two rival organizations is correct, this could be bad for my dear husband."
"It could," Riot agreed.
Isobel tugged on her cap. "If Sarah weren't missing, I'd be content to sit back and let Parker Gray have his way with Alex."
"So where is Sarah?" This question came from Grimm. All eyes looked to him in surprise. Grimm hadn't spoken for six years. He'd broken that silence the week before, but hadn't said a word since.
"We don't know." Riot opened the hack door, and dragged a locked box from under the seat. Tim liked to keep a small arsenal at hand. Riot took out a belt and holster, and wrapped it around his waist. He picked up a Colt Peacemaker and meticulously began to load the chambers.
His favored No. 3 was at the bottom of the bay, but he had extra—a double-action Colt Lightning was nestled in his spare shoulder holster and a concealed Shopkeeper was strapped to his ankle.
"So now you're going to burst into the brick building and shoot the lot of them?" Isobel asked.
"If need be."
Isobel sidled up to him, and lowered her voice. "You tried that before, and nearly died. Your partner did die. As your current partner, I don't much care for that plan."
"I didn't just 'shoot the lot of them.'" Isobel's brows shot up, and he relented. "That came later. I tried to do things properly, and that's what got Ravenwood killed."
"So guns blazing this time? We don't even know if Sarah is in the brick building."
"I'll wager Parker Gray knows where she is."
"And he can kill her the moment he catches sight of us."
Riot snapped the loading gate closed.
Isobel touched his arm. "Do you know why Ari doesn't like guns?" she asked softly.
"Because they aren't for anything but killing?"
"No, because when a man has a gun in his hand, he can't think of any other option. So put the gun down and talk with me."
"I am talking, Bel. But you and I come from different times. Men like Parker Gray and Alex Kingston can't be stopped in courts. I won't let them hurt Sarah, and I don't intend to let them harm my current partner."
"I can take care of myself. Same as you. And, well, if I don't, you can slap an 'I told you so' on my headstone."
A half smile cracked his grim mask. "Right alongside the 'we managed'?" He holstered his revolver—a smooth, no nonsense maneuver.
"What? No twirling gun?"
"I'm a gunfighter, not a gunslinger. A gun is for killing, not flashing."
The memory of squeezing the trigger in Curtis' pocket hit her. "No," she breathed, feeling lightheaded. "There's nothing flashy about them."
Riot leaned in closer. "Here's a question for you, Bel. Are you willing to gamble a girl's life on your choice?"
Isobel held his eyes. And she felt responsibility settle on her shoulders—that heavy, stifling weight that he had lived with every single day of his professional career. It was crippling.
She squared her shoulders. "I'm not willing to risk her life by rushing in blind."
"What do you have in mind?"
That was the question. Their enemies had every advantage. She and Riot were flies caught in a web, waiting for the widow's whim.
Isobel looked to the crowd, to the husk of charred brick, to the brave men in their war-like helmets who'd been fighting the blaze. "In the midst of chaos, there is also opportunity," she quoted The Art of War under her breath. And then she had it, a pleased smile spreading over her lips.
"We bring in another spider."
30
The Spider
I hope he will forgive me. For what I have done, and for what I am about to do. —Z.R. Journal Excerpt
Saturday, March 24, 1900
SHADOWS MOVED LIKE WRAITHS around a three-story brick building. Guards. Armed men had replaced gentlemen seeking carnal pleasures. While light leaked from between curtains, it deepened the foggy night rather than illuminating it.
San Francisco's silver mistress served Isobel's purposes nicely.
Beyond, a cluster of fairy lights floated in the murk, where the Falcons Bicycle Club were hosting a banquet. Laughter traveled over the dunes. Some thirty people were crammed around a giant outdoor table. The impromptu celebration had been joined by the Fuzzy Bunch, a group of long-haired Bohemians who were always game for fun.
"Lotario certainly delivered," Riot said in her ear.
"You paid for the champagne."
"And the fireworks."
"He's convinced you're courting him."
"I'm certainly courting his favor. I'll need his blessing when you accept my marriage proposal."
Isobel glanced sideways at her companion. "You are an optimistic fellow."
"That is no way to propose to a woman, boy," a gruff voice said. Tim glared over her head at Riot.
"Do you mind, old man?"
"Yes, I do. Do it proper or I'll shanghai you all over again."
"That is precisely why I do not drink anything you hand me."
Tim muttered and returned his gaze on the gentleman's club. "You sure about this, Miss Bel?"
"Of course not." She glanced towards the floating lights. "But from what I've heard, the Falcons' festivities shouldn't raise suspicion."
Tim grunted. "You sound like you're trying to convince yourself."
A firework burst in the night, flowering into a bloom of red. Cheers rang from the Falcons' clubhouse, and a burst of blue followed. That was her signal. Isobel placed a hand on Riot's bearded cheek, and turned his face towards hers. She kissed him for a good five seconds. Leaving him dazed, she hoisted her rucksack and darted down the dune carrying a saddle blanket under her arm.
The guards seemed hypnotized by the fireworks, and they drifted towards the display. Away from Isobel. She crouched at a corner post of the wrought iron fence. Another explosion of light and a hundred crackling pops burst over the brick building. And then another. This one thundering over the building's roof.
A guard hurried inside. Isobel tossed the saddle blanket over the top of the fence, covering its spikes. She climbed up and over, and pulled the blanket off in one smooth motion. Safely down, she dropped the blanket and kicked sand over it.
Firecrackers lit the fog with a crackling rainbow of colors. Bicyclists sped past the building, sparklers tied to their wheels and handlebars, aiming others into the air. And at each other.
Isobel raced over the sand, grabbed the drainage pipe, and climbed up with all the speed of a rigging monkey. For a girl who had spent her life at sea, the drain pipe was no more than a staircase compared to a mast in a storm.
The fog parted, and the moon shone for a second. She pulled herself onto the roof, and moved towards the first chimney. A firework burst overhead, illuminating her. She dropped to her belly with a curse, but the guards below were busy shouting at the bicyclists.
Opening her rucksack, she selected two cylinders. Striking a match, she lit fuses, and tossed them both down the nearest chimney. With a wild grin, she hurried to the next chimney, repeating the process. Smoke billowed out of the stacks, and windows were thrown open. When every pipe was choking out smoke, she uncorked a bottle of paraffin and upended her rucksack. Tucking smoke bombs in her coat pockets, she poured a line of paraffin to the roof's edge. Isobel lit a match. "For my Lady." She touched the flame to the oil.
If only it were dynamite. As a trail of fire snaked towards the pile of explosives, Isobel disappeared over the edge and began to scurry down the drainpipe. An explosion of fireworks rocked the roof. Broken brick rained down, and she pressed against the side of the building. When the smoke finally cleared, she slid down the pipe. Her feet hit the sand and she darted towards the carriage house.
Men ran for the pump, shouting in confusion. A panicked bell rang in the night as flames licked at the fog. Isobel lit her remaining smoke bombs and rolled them into the carriage house. Then as casual as could be, she strolled out the front gate and joined the Falcons, Fuzzy Bunch, and all the residents of Carville who had come to watch the bastion of wealth burn.
"If only it was a real fire," Lotario whispered at her side.
"At least you have your champagne and fireworks."
Lotario smiled, and passed her a bottle. "To mischief."
"To chaos."
"If they've harmed Sarah…" his voice cracked.
She slipped an arm around her twin's waist. But her gaze was elsewhere, roaming over the crowd of spectators. A lone man caught her attention. Lean and tall, he was fleeing the brick building. She recognized that gait.
"Hold this." She thrust the bottle at Lotario, and turned to one of the Falcon's members. Margaret was grinning from ear to ear.
"Can I borrow that." It was more demand than question.
Margaret tightened her grip on the handlebars. "You can borrow his. I'm going with you."
Isobel groaned. Without asking, she liberated a bicycle from a gentleman and peddled after William Punt.
✥
Tim whistled low. "That woman of yours is trouble."
Atticus Riot watched the flames rising into the night. "I know." He traded bowler for leather fire helmet, and patted Tim on the back. "Keep an eye on her." His old friend had his one good eye glued to a sight, and his Winchester rifle aimed at the building.
"Whose gonna keep an eye on you?" Tim asked, without looking up.
Riot flashed his teeth, hoisted an axe, and walked towards the road to meet his ride.
Three white horses galloped down Ocean Boulevard pulling a steam engine. A wagon of red shirts followed, champagne bottles and axes in hand. In the commotion, Riot joined the rush of redshirts from Chemical Engine No. 8.
Captain Kelly, a friend of Captain Gabriel Wood's, pretended not to notice the newcomer. "You know what to do, boys!"
The firefighters took a swig from their bottles, then pulled wet handkerchiefs over their faces. Ladders were hoisted, hoses aimed at the fire, and a rush of boots slammed into the building. Axes were raised, wood splintered, and they barged into the smoke-filled house.
"Out! Everyone out!" the Captain bellowed.
Parker Gray stood his ground in the foyer. "We can handle this ourselves."
"Tell it to the mayor." Captain Kelly shoved passed him, and his men raced up the staircase. Others branched out, smashing furniture, vases, and anything that looked expensive.
Riot tightened his grip on the axe. Parker Gray stood defenseless as firefighters rushed past. Though sorely tempted, Riot swallowed down his anger and shouldered past the man, bumping him to the side. Five men moved towards the back of the building, veering off in different directions. Riot slipped off to the side, down a stairwell, and unbarred the basement door. Taking the bar with him, he thumbed on his light, and stepped inside.
Cobwebs covered the brick, and a lingering scent of mold permeated the cold. This was where Parker Gray had dragged Isobel to torture her. He shined his light into the corners, to see if Sarah might be hiding in a shadow. She wasn't there. Clenching his jaw, he tossed the bar down, turned on his heel and stalked out into the smoke-filled hallway.
A revolver barked, and Riot was showered with splintered wood. Pain dug into his cheek and Riot threw his axe. It spun wildly towards his attacker. With his left hand, he drew. Before the axe reached the end of the hallway, he squeezed the trigger—twice. The attacker dropped his revolver as blood blossomed on his shoulder. But the man didn't fall. He bent to pick up his weapon. Riot rushed forward, snatched up his axe and drove the butt of it into the man's stomach.
The man dropped to his knees. As he fell, Parker Gray rounded the corner. Riot lunged. But his axe was too poorly balanced for the maneuver. A gunshot burst into the hallway, and the axe shaft shuddered in his hands. The impact of the bullet traveled up his arms until he was numb. He lost his grip on the axe, but didn't hesitate. Riot stepped inside Gray's reach, locked Gray's arm under his own, and jerked. A bone snapped. Gray's revolver clattered to the ground.
Riot was blinded by gun smoke, and a neat left hook caught him off guard. His head slammed against the wall. A fist to his kidney, and another. Riot lifted his foot, and brought it down on Gray's knee.
The man buckled.
Riot stepped back, and locked his arms around Parker Gray's neck. Fists pummeled his thigh and knee. Riot squeezed. One jerk would silence Gray for good. Riot gritted his teeth, and held on tight. Slowly, Gray lost his strength, and finally slumped. Releasing the choke hold, Riot drove a fist into Gray's face. It knocked the man out cold.
A round of cheers was raised in the hallway. Riot blinked past blood to see a sea of fuzzy red. He swiped a hand across his eyes. No spectacles.
"Damn it," he muttered. Feeling a revolver underfoot, he crouched to pick it up while squinting at the floor for a sheen of silver.
Boots marched forward. Riot was patted on the back. "Nice bit a'work." This was followed by the distinct crunch of glass as the firefighters filed past.
With a sigh, Riot straightened. And as each face came into his circle of vision, he nodded his thanks. "What do we do with him?" a voice asked. It belonged to Monty.
Riot squinted at his agent, an indistinct outline of red. "Did you find Sarah?"
A round blob of flesh on a pair of shoulders moved from side to side. "She's not here. But I found this." Monty stepped forward, and his edges sharpened. He held Ravenwood's walking stick—the one Riot abandoned on the Pagan Lady. "It's the only thing me and Matt didn't find aboard the boat."
Monty handed it over. Riot's knuckles whitened as he looked down at Parker Gray. "Is William Punt here?"
"Maybe Tim's rounded him up." Monty kicked his boot against Gray. "Whatcha want to do with this sack of meat?"
"Arrest him, of course."
Monty grunted. "And the butler that's just standing in the sitting room—him too?"
"Watch Gray." Riot walked briskly down the hallway, dodging blurry red shirts, and receiving pats on the back. Along with supplying the Falcons Club, he had also bought the fire station enough champagne to last them a year.
A blurry slash of black stood in the sitting room. Riot cautiously moved towards it, until Mr. Jon swam into view. He stood silent, clad in elegant silks, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Where is Sarah?" Riot asked in Cantonese.
"We do not have her, Din Gau."
"Who does?"
"I do not know."
"Does Punt?"
"Not that I am aware."
Riot took a step forward. "Don't you know everything that goes on here?"
Mr. Jon raised his brows. "I see many things. I don't know."
"Where did you last see Mr. Punt?"
"Here."
Riot tapped the knob of his stick. Why had they taken the walking stick from the Pagan Lady? As a trophy?
"Last night a boat was rammed. I was on it."
"Too bad."
Riot tossed up the stick, and caught it in the middle. Mr. Jon flinched, and Riot leaned forward, the silver knob between their chins. "My walking stick was aboard, and now I find it here. I know you will take whatever information you have to the hangman's noose, so I won't bother asking you how this turned up here."
"Salvage."
"You can tell that to the police."
"I intend to."
Riot paused. There was an inflection in his voice—a knowing. Mr. Jon was not intimidated by threats of police. And why would he be? If Sing Ping King Sur could bribe a judge to release Jim Parks early, who else might they have in their pocket?
Riot took out a red token and held it in front of Mr. Jon's eyes. "I know what this is. Tell the old fat man who was sitting in that chair the other night, that if Sarah Byrne is not returned to me by morning
, I will bring hell down on every one of you."
"We do not have her."
"You set fire to her uncle's home."
Mr. Jon frowned. "When?"
"Last night."
"I'm only a butler. I don't know everything Parker Gray does. A chain's link only knows what it is connected to."
"Then you won't mind if I take Parker Gray to the police?"
"You may do whatever you wish, Din Gau."
✥
Those final words whispered in Riot's mind. Whatever I wish. Mr. Jon seemed to be washing his hands of Parker Gray. Odd for a butler.
The rowboat rose and fell with a swell, and the sea misted his face. It burned. Riot didn't much care to know what he looked like. The right side of his face was swollen, and he took care with how he moved. But all of that was of secondary concern. Parker Gray groaned, and lifted his head. Then he froze. He was a fish on a line—hooked, caught, and trapped.
"This good?" Monty asked.
Riot squinted at the night. "Good enough." Without spectacles, he had no idea how far they were from shore. He tried not to think about it.
Monty secured the oars, as the rowboat bobbed on a black sea.
Parker Gray lay on the bottom of the rowboat, his hands tied in front, his feet bound. It was comfortable compared to how he had kept Isobel for a day.
Riot dabbed at the blood leaking from his nose and washed it away in the water. "When I was younger, one of the sailors I sailed with was attacked by a great white shark. It's not something you forget." He reached behind him and picked up a bucket, removing the lid. A rank smell assaulted his senses. Riot tapped the bucket. "He was fishing. Hooked a big one, and was pulled right overboard into a sea of chum."
Riot dumped the bucket of chum overboard. Fish guts plopped into the water, and Parker Gray's eyes flew open.
"The thing of it was…the shark didn't eat him. It only sampled him, and left." He traced a curve from his upper rib, to his belly button, and down to his hip. "You'd think a man would die instantly, but not this fellow. He howled for a good minute."
Conspiracy of Silence (Ravenwood Mysteries #4) Page 21