Susan Wiggs Great Chicago Fire Trilogy Complete Collection

by Susan Wiggs

She studied him in the flickering light. He looked very tall and forbidding. His head had been shaved recently, for lice, she supposed. The job had been carelessly done, and in addition to the large gash from the collapsing timber, there were small cuts here and there from falling glass. He reminded her of the bloodthirsty pirates in some of the forbidden stories she and Miss Deborah used to read together in secret, late at night.

  They followed the seething crowd, Bull reluctantly leaning on her and gritting his teeth every step of the way. Squinting against a storm of flying sparks, she recognized the slender, handsome spire of St. Brendan’s in the distance. Against the unnaturally bright sky, it glowed like a beacon.

  St. Brendan’s might be safe, she thought. It was as if the very hand of her own dear gran were guiding her toward sanctuary. The old woman had found solace there, and its yard, with a wrought iron gazebo and a little prayer garden, was her final resting place. That had to mean something. But how to get there? She would have to go north to the river and then double back south in order to avoid the conflagration.

  She was shouting her plan to Bull when, at the corner of Monroe and Market Streets, the world split apart. A huge explosion, fueled by someone’s abandoned supply of gunpowder or kerosene, brought down buildings like dominoes. Fireballs whooshed through the alleys, sucking away every bit of fresh air. For a few terrifying moments, Kathleen could find nothing to breathe. People and wagons and animals lurched and tumbled along the road like leaves before a storm.

  Kathleen clutched Bull’s hand and held on tight, ducking her head to avoid flying debris. He dragged her into the shelter of a brick doorway, where broken glass crunched underfoot and the firestorm howled past with the fury of a prairie tornado.

  Just for a moment, everything went eerily still. It was as if the storm were gathering its breath for another assault. Kathleen heard the swish of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears, and she gripped Bull’s hand with all her might. In the terrible lull, a voice sounded, shrieking through the unnatural silence with an unearthly resonance that made Kathleen’s scalp tingle. “My baby! My baby!”

  Her cry summoned a crowd. The panicked mother rushed toward a burning building shrouded in smoke and flame. High in a broken-out window, a pair of small hands clung to the concrete sill. “My baby!” the woman screamed a third time.

  Seconds later, the wind shifted and the fire took hold again. Flames rode the swirling gale through the ruined street, feasting on the doomed buildings and trees, swallowing up the building with the stranded child.

  Two people restrained the hysterical woman. She fought them, calling for her baby, trying to claw her way free. Kathleen knew for certain that the woman would plunge straight into the fire to rescue her missing child. Everyone watching shared the excruciating pain of hopelessness.

  Then, out of the smoke, a man strode forward, backlit by the flames. An opera cape billowed from his shoulders like a pair of dark wings, and he didn’t even hesitate as he walked into the inferno.

  More spectators gathered, wide-eyed with terror and mute with wonder. Kathleen held her breath and beside her, Bull stood as still as a hitch post. The mother kept screaming as she tried to escape those who held her back. The stranger leaped toward an exterior iron stairway. He reached for the bottom rung of the ladder, pulling himself up with lithe, graceful movements. Finding a foothold on the stair, he climbed swiftly to the second storey. Balancing on the window ledge, he teetered wildly, hair and cape blown by powerful gusts of wind.

  “God save the ee-jit,” an onlooker said. “He’s going to get himself killed.”

  Someone else hushed the speaker, though he’d only said aloud what everyone was thinking.

  The reaching flames swallowed up the man on the ledge. There was no sign of the child, either. Kathleen squinted, desperate to see through the curtain of fire, but for endless moments, no one could tell what was happening.

  The distraught mother wailed, making the most terrible sound Kathleen had ever heard. People turned away, covering their faces. Kathleen shut her eyes and sagged against the doorway, drained and defeated from witnessing the tragedy.

  Then a collective gasp compelled her to look again. The tall man had reappeared through the smoke and flames. He descended the ladder with fluid haste.

  In his arms he carried a small, screaming child. In a hail of sparks and ash, the man dropped to the ground and raced away from the fire. He surrendered the child to the weeping, grateful mother and then turned away. The firelight fell over curling black hair and a face that struck Kathleen mute with recognition. Dylan Kennedy.

  FIVE

  Of all the misbegotten luck, Dylan thought, brushing impatiently at a spark that had settled on his silk-lined cape. And he’d been doing so well up till now. Costello had him dead to rights, but a timely surge of traffic on the bridge had provided a distraction. More nimble than the older man, Dylan had climbed up under the bridge, heaved himself over the top and melted into the crowd.

  At the Omnibus Stables he’d commandeered an express wagon, and had done a brisk business in the wealthy Lowry Block, offering to transport valuables to safety. He’d collected some fenceable fine art, a bit of cash and jewelry, and some decent clothes, including a set of Italian shirts a gentleman would be proud to own. Now he found himself empty-handed and forced to rescue useless toddlers from the flames. He’d had to abandon the well-provisioned cart in order to go after the child and give it back to its blubbering mother.

  The feat was no more hazardous than the firewalk he used to perform for audiences in Buffalo. But while he had been occupied with the rescue, the wagon had been taken by the flames, all the booty ruined beneath tons of incinerating rubble. People watching the rescue had looked to him as a hero, a role that fit him about as well as a hair shirt.

  The night was still young, he told himself, staving off a wave of weary frustration. And deep down, he acknowledged that no fortune was worth the life of a child.

  He wiped the sweat and ash from his face, squeezed his stinging eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he opened his eyes, he noticed a woman in a green dress hurrying toward him. Her face glowed with wonder and admiration, and he realized she had witnessed the rescue.

  For the first time in hours, a grin broke over his face. Maybe his luck was about to change.

  He performed a graceful bow as if he stood in the middle of a formal ballroom rather than a burning street. “Shall we dance?” he asked.

  Her smile of pride and relief made him feel ten feet tall. “I can’t believe you did that,” she said. “You were truly wonderful.”

  “All in a night’s work.” He sounded perfectly modest, but inside, his heart sang. For once, his timing had been impeccable. He had found his heiress again, and he had impressed her. That was something, at least.

  An African giant loomed over her abruptly, and Dylan felt a clutch of fear in his gut. Shit. If he had to defend her from this brute—

  “This fellow bothering you, miss?” the giant asked.

  “Not at the moment,” she said. “Mr. Kennedy, this is Eugene Waxman. Also known as Bull.”

  Bull wore prison trousers and a threatening scowl. Dylan recognized the implacable look of unquestioning loyalty in the huge man’s face. For some reason, the giant had given his large self, and his allegiance, to the small and beautiful heiress. Maybe he hoped for a reward for rescuing her.

  Not if Dylan had anything to say about the matter. He would rescue her. If people of quality wondered what he would do with the reward money, he’d promise to donate it to his favorite charitable cause. Himself.

  Hot light flashed over her as flames shot skyward. She was beautiful still, despite a decided undoing of her red hair and some wear and tear on the ruby cloak and green dress.

  And her jewels were missing.

  He wanted to ask what she had done with the diamonds but didn’t want to be too obvious. Nor did he want the huge person called Bull to get any ideas.

  Dylan di
d not let his concern show, but cocked out his arm. “We had best ficher le camp,” he suggested. “I’m not fond of hot weather.”

  She hesitated only a moment, then took his arm. “Bull needs help walking,” she said. “He has a head injury, and I think he hurt his ankle. I’m sure you won’t mind supporting him.”

  Dylan and Bull stared at one another. Suspicion flashed between them, followed by a rapid succession of dislike, distrust, perhaps even recognition. Dylan had a sixth sense about people. He could pick out a chiseler in any crowd; it was like looking into a mirror.

  Bull wasn’t a chiseler but a brute criminal. The moment passed and Bull shook his head. “I reckon I can walk on my own now.”

  Kate looked exasperated, but she started forward. Bull limped along beside her. Dylan kept sneaking glances at her unadorned ears, bosom, wrists. Had someone stolen the jewels? Had she hidden them away somewhere? He felt a sinking disappointment. She was one of the most charming creatures he had ever met. But she was even more charming with her jewels.

  A speeding cart, minus its driver, stampeded down the middle of the road. Dylan had no time to think, only to act. He grabbed the tailgate of the cart and hoisted himself up. The jolts over the ruined roadway nearly flung him off, but he took hold of one long leather ribbon. It was an amateur’s rig but he could still control the horse. Hauling back with gradual pressure, he managed to stop the cart at the curb beside the river.

  Kate and Bull came toward him as he jettisoned the few items that remained in the cart. A crate of old quilts and a box of family photographs and papers hit the water with a splash, then sank out of sight.

  “Those are someone’s treasures,” Kathleen objected.

  “Now they’ll always know where to find them.” As his passengers climbed in, Dylan urged the tired, nervous horse forward. “I thought you’d be off to the suburbs, waiting out the fire in safety with the other society fribbles,” he said.

  She stared straight ahead as she answered, “I was unfortunately separated from my friends. Our coach crashed.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “No, but all was chaos.”

  “What was your destination?” He hoped like hell she didn’t expect him to provide accommodations.

  She didn’t answer, and he thought she had not heard. As they passed the Chicago Tribune building at Dearborn and Madison, he noticed men on the roof, frantically and futilely wetting it down in order to fend off the approaching blaze.

  A building across the way exploded, and the horse bolted. Even straining to hold the beast in, Dylan began feeling decidedly more optimistic about things. His red-haired passenger clutched the sides of the cart and regarded the fire as if it were a dragon pursuing them. Fear did not diminish her looks; perhaps it even enhanced them by lending her a vulnerability that made him want to keep her safe. No wonder the jailbird stuck to her like a large tick.

  They were nearing a branch of the river when he heard the shouts.

  At first he could see nothing through the murky veil of smoke. Then a gust of wind cleared the area and he saw a family by the roadside. A prosperous-looking man and woman struggled to help an elderly invalid toward the lake. Burdened with a strongbox and a swaddled baby, his wife followed behind.

  “They need help,” Kate declared. “Stop the cart.”

  Capital, thought Dylan, pulling back on the reins. A bleeding heart.

  “Meine mutter,” the man said, then stammered out in German-accented English. “She cannot walk. I have nothing to give you in exchange for the cart—”

  His wife rapped out something in German and indicated the heavy box. The man nodded and opened it, igniting Dylan’s interest. Perhaps there was a deal to be made after all.

  The German extracted a dog-eared document. “I am the owner of the Hotel St. George,” he said. “Here is the deed. I give it to you in exchange for your cart.”

  Dylan eyed him skeptically. “You’re giving me a hotel?”

  “Ja, the deed is all I have left after this unholy night.”

  “The hotel has burned to the ground, hasn’t it?”

  The man spread his hands. “You never know, eh?” A scribbled receipt was drawn up, signed and witnessed using the charred end of a stick for a pencil. The proprietor handed over the papers.

  Dylan felt his optimism slipping, but he took the worthless document and thrust it inside his shirt. “Let’s get her into the cart, then,” he said.

  He and the German made a seat of their clasped hands. The old woman was surprisingly hefty and quite vocal as they lifted her. She shrieked and babbled the whole time, clutching, with absurd protectiveness, a live chicken in her arms. The German’s wife hovered nearby, cradling the baby to her chest.

  Dylan knew the horse couldn’t handle all of them even if the cart were large enough—which it wasn’t. Kate and Bull had already assessed the situation and climbed out of the wagon.

  “Isn’t he just the sweetest thing?” Kate cooed over the squalling infant.

  Dylan heaved a long-suffering sigh. He spoke briefly to the German, pointing out what he hoped was the most expeditious route to the lakeshore. The crammed cart rolled away.

  Dylan patted the deed. “I sold him the cart in exchange for the Hotel St. George.” He laughed at her confusion. “Don’t worry. It’s probably a pile of ash and rubble, but I’ve always been fond of gambling.”

  Bull held his bleeding head and started walking with slow, slogging steps. They managed to cover only half a block before the blaze hemmed them in on three sides. Flames roared down the alley like great, hot tongues, driving them back.

  “Where are we?” asked Kate, clutching his arm in a way that gratified him. It was an unfortunate neighborhood of brothels and bunko houses. Ramrod Hall disgorged a small army of soiled doves in various states of undress, many of them clutching their valuables to their ample chests. Kate eyed them with frank fascination and possibly a little envy.

  There was nowhere to go but south. The way to the river was choked off by buildings that had collapsed in a series of explosions. The route eastward, to the lake, consisted of one vast, burning wasteland. Kate held fast to his hand as he pulled her along with the crowd. Bull stayed obstinately at her other side.

  Dylan wished the jailbird would go away. There was an unwelcome intelligence in Bull’s dark eyes, a knowledge of the harsh ways of the world. A man like Bull was no easy dupe and Dylan preferred them easy.

  He squeezed Kate’s hand and smiled. “Courage, my dear,” he said. “We’ll find a way out of this, see if we don’t.”

  As if to mock his words, flames lashed out of the building they were passing. The heat was so intense that at first it numbed him. Then came the hideous glaring pain, streaking over him like a lightning bolt. With an instinct he didn’t know he possessed, he wrapped his entire self around Kate and shielded her from the worst of the roaring flames.

  “This way,” Bull bellowed, leading the way down a narrow, smoke-filled street. Using his massive shoulder, he butted open a thick, painted door and they scurried inside. Dylan slammed the door behind them. It was fully dark and clammy with the smells of earth and stone. Some years ago, all the buildings of Chicago had been raised to avoid flooding. Many of them had crawl-spaces and forgotten places beneath them.

  “Hold tight,” Dylan said. “We’ll figure out where we are.” With one hand grasping Kate’s and the other groping along the wall, he moved forward. In a few minutes his shin smacked up against a riser. Gritting his teeth to keep in an oath, he said, “I’ve found a staircase.” They climbed blindly to another door and opened it. A high window somewhere let in the firelight. Thick pillars flanked a brick-and-stone chamber crowded with benches. Dylan stopped and turned.

  “Where the hell are we?” he wondered aloud.

  “St. Brendan’s,” said Kate, her voice thin with wonder and relief. “We’ve come full circle.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a church. St. Brendan’s church.”


  St. Brendan’s, the name on the mass card she’d dropped. This was what had led him to her. An eerie feeling passed through Dylan even though he didn’t believe in the supernatural.

  “Come in,” called a brisk, pleasant voice. “Come in, and quickly. Be certain you close the door behind you. And here I thought I would be the last to leave.” A youthful priest swept toward them as if borne on a wave of optimism.

  “I am Father Michael McCoughy.” Brisk and officious, he led them across a dim sanctuary, cavernously empty of humanity. At the end of the main aisle stood a huge font half-full of holy water. Colored windows depicting images of sweet-faced martyrs glowed with the light from outside.

  An unexpected feeling came over Dylan. A certain…sentiment so filled with tenderness and awe that it made him catch his breath. His heart filled with the ache of yearning, and he stood speechless, staring.

  Remembering.

  But what was he remembering? He had no memory of being in this church. Truth be told, he had barred memories of his early life from his mind, no matter how much his heart wanted to remember. For him, life began in a train station in New York City where his mother had walked away from him and never looked back.

  He had no idea why he felt such a warmth and affinity for this place.

  The priest was speaking and gesticulating. Dylan forced himself to pay attention.

  “We did all we could,” the cleric said, “and the rest is in God’s hands. This way, through the back of the sanctuary, was clear a few moments ago.”

  “Must we leave, Father?” asked Kate, her voice keen with distress. “We’ve come so far, and Bull is injured.”

  “’Tisn’t safe. We’ve soaked the carpets and doused the walls but the fire’s only a block away. The steeple’s made of wood, so it’s bound to catch and torch the place altogether. If it leaves this place standing it’ll be a miracle entirely. We must leave here, much as I hate to do it. The closest safe haven is the courthouse. You can rest there.”

  “I won’t go to no courthouse.” Bull sank to a pew, holding his head.