Conspiracy of Silence (Ravenwood Mysteries #4)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Riot reached for the next bucket. Another mass of fish heads and guts splattered into the water. "Did you know great whites breed twenty miles from here?"

  "You'll regret this," Gray spat.

  "I see you do." Riot let his words hang in the silence, until it settled between Gray's ears. "Where is Sarah?" he asked.

  "Go to hell."

  Without ceremony, Riot grabbed the ropes around Gray's legs, and yanked him towards the edge of the rowboat. Monty moved to the other side, acting as a counterweight.

  "Hawaiians believe that some of the dead transform into sharks. An aumakua. I wonder how many dead bodies you've tossed in this ocean? What shark is waiting for you, Gray?"

  "You're bluffing."

  Riot grabbed Gray by the arms and yanked him off the bottom of the boat. "I never bluff." He shoved him overboard.

  Gray yelped, and desperately turned, catching his armpits on the boat's rim. Cold water sucked the air from his lungs. He gasped. His legs, bound with rope, kicked ineffectively, splashing in the sea.

  "Where is Sarah?" Riot asked again.

  "I don't know!" It was pure panic. Freezing water and sharks were a potent combination.

  Monty picked up another bucket, and upended it over Gray's head. "Whoops."

  Gray fought for air. "We don't have her!"

  "You killed Lee Walker."

  Gray tried to shimmy back aboard, his eyes rolling to the side, searching the black water. "Walker backed out of our deal."

  "And what did you do with Sarah?"

  "She ran. We thought you had her."

  Riot searched his face. Open terror. No lies.

  "And Lincoln Howe?"

  Parker Gray pressed his lips together, but there was a tremble in his mask. Riot grabbed his arms and lifted, shoving him backwards. A splash bounced off the water.

  Gray came up spluttering. "I can't swim!"

  "You didn't seem overly concerned that I couldn't swim when you rammed the Pagan Lady."

  "I'll tell you whatever you want!" Gray's head went under. He came up coughing. Riot tossed him a cork vest. He grabbed onto it and clung, gasping for air.

  "Where is Lincoln Howe?"

  "Haul me back in the boat!"

  "You best talk fast, Gray. I saw a fin. And the thing of it is, after that first bite I'll pull you out of the water. So don't imagine I intend to make death easy for you." Imagination is a curious thing. Shadows become leviathans, and a ripple of a wave becomes a hunter.

  "Andrew Ross was handling Howe. Bill took over after Ross was murdered by that hatchet man."

  "On whose orders?"

  Gray clung to his cork vest, head swiveling from side to side. He jerked, as if something had brushed his legs. "The Engineer."

  "The old man who was giving you orders the night I visited?"

  Gray nodded.

  "Name?"

  "I don't know."

  "Where did William Punt move his plague operation?"

  Gray's eyes widened.

  "I know more than you think. And I'll know if you lie. I'll only ask once more: where did he move his operation?"

  "I don't know!"

  "What do you know?"

  "I was supposed to have Lee Walker stage an accident on one of Vincent Claiborne's properties. It didn't matter which one. I was told that it needed to go to court. I don't know why. We don't ask questions."

  "Whose 'we'?" Riot showed his teeth.

  Gray clamped his lips together.

  "Do you know why sailors never learn to swim?" Riot asked. "Because they'd rather drown than be picked apart by sharks."

  "There aren't any sharks here."

  "Not yet." Riot searched the darkness. It was a blur. "But they're attracted to splashing."

  Gray stilled.

  "You haven't told me anything I don't already know. If you won't talk, then I'll say my goodbyes. Don't worry, if the sharks don't come, the cold will kill you." Riot touched the brim of his hat. "Enjoy the night, Gray. The stars are brilliant out here."

  Monty smirked, and reached for the oars. The rowboat slid away from Parker Gray.

  "Riot!" Gray shouted. "You can't leave me out here! I swear, I don't know where the girl is! She escaped through the skylight and vanished!" His cries bounced over the water, becoming more desperate. "Claiborne was being set up for something. I don't know what it was!"

  His shouts faded, and Monty chuckled. "You're a cold-hearted bastard, A.J." His admiration was plain. Then a line attached to the cork vest went taut. Monty grunted at the added weight as Gray was tugged in their wake.

  "I'm afraid I'm not as cold-hearted as you'd like."

  31

  Mark of Death

  I have made a deal with the devil. —Z.R. Journal Excerpt

  ISOBEL KINGSTON ROLLED TO a stop, and put her foot down for balance. She listened for a number of seconds. Slowly, she edged forward, peeking around a corner. William Punt had hopped aboard the Park and Ocean line, disembarked at Market, and taken a brisk walk to Second Street. She had nearly lost him twice. The fog had been both savior and villain, serving as cover—for both of them.

  And now her quarry was slowing, a hunted man finally reaching safety. William Punt glanced over his shoulder. Isobel froze. Sudden movement attracts the eye, where a still shadow does not. She remained still.

  Heavy breathing approached from behind her. Isobel thrust her hand backwards, signaling for her companion to stop. Breaks squeaked, and she hissed. But she didn't take her eyes from Punt. From the panting sounds, she imagined her twin hunched over the handlebars.

  "Did we lose him again?" Margaret whispered. A seasoned bicyclist, she wasn't even winded.

  Isobel didn't answer. She watched Punt turn a corner, counted to thirty, and zipped across the street. The process was repeated twice, until they came to an empty street.

  The trio stared in dismay.

  "How could you lose him again?" Lotario murmured.

  Isobel glanced at her twin, and he arched a cheeky brow in reply.

  A light flicked on in an upper-story window. "Do you think that's him?" Margaret asked.

  A door was squashed between a haberdashery and a pharmacy. "There's only one way to find out." Isobel leaned her bicycle against a wall.

  "Did you bring a revolver?" Margaret asked Lotario.

  Lotario sniffed. "I'm hardly Watson."

  "I did," Isobel said.

  "Good ol' Watson," Lotario drawled.

  "Guard the bicycles, Holmes. Stay here, both of you."

  Before her friends could protest, she trotted across the street. The thought of putting Margaret and Lotario in harm's way made her sick. She hoped they would take her order to heart, but she couldn't waste time making sure. Sarah might be inside that home.

  A veil of silver muted edges, creating a dreamlike atmosphere that swam with gaslights. So close to Market, the buildings here were ornate and gaudy, which made for easy climbing.

  Isobel slipped behind a column, braced herself against a nearby wall, and shimmied her way upwards. When she ran out of wall, she reached around an overhang, and found a ledge. With a foot braced on the wall, she stretched and gripped the ledge with both hands. A silent swing, and she pulled herself upwards. The rest was simple, and she came to balance on a jutting ledge just under a windowsill. Few residents ever locked upper-story windows. As she had hoped, the window was cracked open, and she peeked through a gap in the curtains.

  William Punt rushed from room to room, collecting belongings and tossing them into a suitcase. He was packing some clothes, but mostly jewelry and cash. A fire was roaring in the hearth. Not the deep burn of charcoal or wood, but a hungry flame that curled a mound of papers black.

  He was jumping ship. But where was Sarah?

  Isobel tightened her grip on the ledge and squeezed her eyes shut, as the sickening answer washed over her. Gray and Punt had already killed the girl.

  A carriage rattled over cobblestones. Isobel pressed herself against the ston
e front. The carriage rolled to a stop, and the door opened. She watched as a figure wearing a bowler exited. He walked underneath her perch, and a few seconds later, the door below opened.

  The hackman clucked his horse forward, and the carriage disappeared into the fog. Isobel squinted through the curtain gap. She could hear footsteps climbing stairs. William Punt rushed to his overcoat, and drew a revolver from its pocket. It was a brazen little gold-plated gun. He aimed it at the exit.

  A man appeared in the doorway, and William took a step back.

  "Leaving?" the man asked. The stranger hadn't even blinked. Few men could keep their cool when faced with the business end of a revolver. He had mustache and side burns, and there was nothing at all remarkable about him. Brown hair poked from under his hat brim, and his dull eyes and whiskers were no different than those of a thousand men in San Francisco.

  "It's you." William lowered his weapon. "Everything is completely buggered."

  "What happened?" the stranger asked.

  William gave a sharp laugh. "What happened? Atticus Riot and his cross-dressing bitch happened. They've meddled, and thwarted us at every step."

  The stranger crossed his arms, and leaned casually against the doorway. It put William at ease. He stuffed his revolver back into his pocket.

  "Thwarted," the stranger said. He had a bland, monotone voice. "Now there's a fancy British word, but was thwarted reason enough to kill them?"

  William growled, and clicked his suitcase shut. "We tried, but they escaped. We rammed their boat and boarded, but it was empty. They knew about Lee Walker, the basement, and I suspect they took the girl. Someone is playing informant."

  Or someone, namely me, is overly curious, Isobel thought.

  "What happened to Lee Walker?"

  "Parker decided to abandon the plan."

  "So you killed him?" the Stranger asked.

  "Accidental fire." William said it proudly, as if he were a child expecting a treat. "You'll tell the Engineer? There was nothing we could do to salvage the operation. But the seeds have been planted—the plague is seeping into Chinatown."

  "I'm sure he'll understand. Secrecy trumps all else."

  "Yes, of course." William ran a relieved hand through his hair.

  "And where is Parker Gray?"

  "I don't know. There was a fire at the Ocean Club. It turned out to be Riot's doing. I saw him with the firefighters. Parker went after him, and there were gunshots. I thought it best to leave, so I could make a report."

  Isobel's heart lurched.

  The stranger dipped his chin. "Understandable. Did the girl, Sarah Byrne, see you at her uncle's home?"

  "Yes."

  "Where is she?"

  "She disappeared. As I said, we think Riot took her. But we retrieved his walking stick from the boat wreckage."

  The stranger glanced around the sitting room. "Where is it?"

  William deflated. "At the club."

  "I gathered information about Charlotte Bonnie so you could retrieve that stick—not try to kill Atticus Riot."

  "They needed killing."

  "I told you, Atticus Riot is off limits."

  "He's meddling in our affairs!"

  "You were ordered to keep away from him, and yet you provoked him."

  "We didn't do a thing."

  The stranger cocked his head. "I'd say abducting his woman was an act of aggression."

  "We didn't know!"

  The man reached into his pocket, and brought out a cigarette. With slow, careful movements, he struck a match, and lit the cigarette. When smoke caressed the air in front of his face, he looked back to William, as if remembering he was still there. "It's your job to know."

  "A mistake that won't happen again."

  "I'm afraid it's already happened again."

  William took a step backwards towards the window.

  "Atticus Riot believes you have Sarah Byrne. He gave Mr. Jon a message. I warned you, and yet you poked the rabid dog, Bill."

  "Gray and I will make things right."

  The stranger blew out a thin line of smoke. He reached into his inner pocket again, and laid something on a side table. "From the Engineer."

  William raised his hands. "Let me speak with him. We can salvage this. We'll start over—I have ideas."

  "You brought attention to us."

  "It was Riot and his bitch!" William hissed.

  "You know what to do. What is required of you."

  William went rigid.

  "Where's that stiff British upper lip I've heard so much about?"

  He squared his shoulders. "I'd rather be alone."

  "I question your resolve." A gunshot rocked the window pane. Blood splattered the glass in front of her. Isobel jerked, lost her footing, and slipped. Fingers latched onto the ledge, as her boots scuffed stone.

  Footsteps approached the window, and she went still, dangling by her fingertips. The curtains twitched to the side, and then the footsteps moved away. The door below her opened, and all thoughts of confronting the man ran to the farthest corner of her mind. So quick. One moment he was standing there as calm as could be, and the next—

  She swallowed down panic, and held her breath. Smoke tickled her nostrils. Every fiber of her body shook, waiting for the inevitable gunshot that would drop her to the earth.

  The stranger breathed in the night air. Casual, unhurried, enjoying his smoke. A frantic sound interrupted him. Someone was beating a lamppost. Isobel didn't dare move, not even to glance to the side. Her fingers were cramped, on the verge of slipping.

  The man's footsteps faded down the street, and Isobel pulled herself up to safety. Arms trembling, she gripped the windowsill and searched the street. He was gone.

  Shaken, she forced herself to look through the curtain gap. William Punt lay on the carpet. Blood seeped from a hole in his forehead, and a pool had spread underneath him. Open eyes stared at the ceiling. The suitcase was gone.

  Curiosity overrode all sense. Unthinking, Isobel wrenched open the window and slipped inside. She didn't look at William Punt—didn't trust herself to. Instead, she focused on avoiding his blood and hurried over to the side table. A single disc of white lay on its top. Drops of blood polluted its pristine surface.

  A sharp whistle slapped sense into her. Isobel whipped a handkerchief from her pocket to snatch up the token. She poked her head into the other rooms. All empty.

  She bolted towards the window to peek outside. Two policemen were headed towards the house. Isobel ducked back inside, and took a moment to curse her stupidity. With a gun in her pocket and a man bleeding into the carpet, there was only one place she'd be headed. The gallows.

  Lotario and Margaret rushed from a side street, waving their hands in panic. Isobel watched as they pointed down the street in the direction of the actual killer.

  The first policeman took off in that direction, but to her dismay, the second ran towards William Punt's house. He went straight up the stairway, and Isobel slipped out the window, easing it closed.

  There'd be more police on the way. Without wasting time, she hung from the ledge, and dropped. Her ankle buckled, and pain shot up her leg. She rolled onto hands and knees, and tried to rise, but her right foot wasn't cooperating. She fell back down.

  A hand grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. Before she could fall, a man smelling of pipe smoke ducked under her arm to support her weight.

  "Keep an eye on her, he says," Tim mumbled, hoisting a Winchester in his other hand.

  Isobel wobbled with relief. Together, they made a quick beat down the street.

  "Gawd dammit, that was dumb," he spat when they were clear of danger.

  Margaret poked her head from around a building. "Who are you talking to?"

  "All of you!" Tim growled.

  Lotario rushed over. "Were you shot?"

  "No. I hurt my foot," she bit out.

  Lotario fired off a string of questions. "Was Sarah in there? Who was that man in the window? Where's Punt?" />
  Tim hissed them to silence. "Bring the bicycles."

  They did as ordered, Lotario laboring as he tried to push two bicycles, his own and Isobel's. When they were out of earshot, Tim stopped, and managed to simultaneously glare at all three of them. "Never summon the police until you're sure your friend didn't do the shooting."

  "I thought that man was going to shoot her. He looked dangerous," Lotario defended.

  "You think? I had a rifle trained on him."

  "We didn't know that," Margaret shot back. "Why didn't you shoot him?"

  "I'd like to make it to eighty without a noose around my neck. 'He looked dangerous' doesn't justify killing a man, especially in court these days."

  "She was about to fall," Margaret added sullenly.

  Tim ignored the observation. "And you, Miss Bel—"

  "I'm grateful for your assistance."

  He grumbled.

  "That man shot William Punt in cold blood. There was no warning." Her voice shook, and Tim tightened his hold on her. Even without her throbbing ankle, she doubted she'd be able to stand without his aid.

  "I figured something happened when you nearly fell."

  "How did you find us?" Isobel asked.

  "I saw you go after Punt. He struck me as the yellow-bellied type, so I figured he'd head home first."

  Ahead, a horse stood calmly in the middle of the street. Tim whistled the same warning that he had given Isobel through the window. The horse trotted over to him. The mare was as old as Tim, and nipped Isobel as he helped her climb into the saddle.

  Tim eyed the bicycle that Lotario was wheeling along with his own. "A.J. is going to owe me for this," he grumbled. Tim slung his Winchester over a shoulder, gripped the handlebars, and flashed his gold teeth. "Did you know I used to do trick riding on the ol' penny-farthings?"

  After tonight, she'd never doubt Tim's wild claims again.

  32

  Defeat

  The proof is at hand. —Z.R. Journal Excerpt

  SECRECY WAS IMPOSSIBLE IN a home of alert ears. The moment Tim lit a lantern in the barn, Jin sat up from where she had been sleeping. Hay stuck out from her hair, and she narrowed her eyes. "Why are you limping?"