by BJ Hoff
He put a finger to her lips to hush her. “Don’t you dare be sorry, ma girsha. Don’t you dare. I’ve been a bear to live with, I know, and you have every right to call me to account. I’m the one who’s sorry, and I will try to change my ways, I promise you.”
They remained as they were for a long time, locked closely together, rocking slowly forward and back, comforting each other.
At last she eased back just enough to search his face. “Michael? Would it surprise you to know I’ve had some of the same feelings you have, about Patrick Walsh?”
He frowned at her in disbelief.
“Truly, Michael, I have. I even talked with Jess Dalton about them. I was angry, too, Michael, like you.”
“You never told me. Why wouldn’t you tell me, Sara?”
“I’m not sure. I knew you were hurting even more, and I suppose I was afraid my anger might only make things worse for you. I wanted to give you the time…and the freedom…to work through your feelings in your own way.”
He pulled her head down and brushed his lips over her forehead.
“Do you want to know what Jess Dalton told me, Michael?”
He smiled to himself. “Of course, sweetheart.” She would tell him in any event.
“Well…you know how he is. He seems to understand how you feel, even if he doesn’t agree. After I’d bared my soul, he leaned back in that dilapidated old chair of his—I’m always afraid it’s going to collapse beneath him—and smiled at me. Then he said something very strange, or at least I thought it strange at the time. He said that if we really understood what we were asking for when we demanded justice, we wouldn’t be so quick to ask.”
Michael went on stroking her hair, waiting for her to explain.
“When I asked him what he meant, he got the most peculiar look in his eyes. ‘Sara,’ he said, ‘two thousand years ago, if God had given us justice instead of a cross, where do you think we’d all be today?’”
Michael stopped rocking, although he continued to hold her even more tightly. He could almost hear Jess Dalton’s deep, gentle voice as Sara went on.
“He talked about the fact that while we all deserve God’s justice, He gave us mercy instead. For which we can be eternally thankful, of course,” she added quietly.
Michael swallowed, his mind scrambling to grasp the significance of her words—Jess Dalton’s words.
“And then he said something else, Michael, something that really made me think. Of course, Jess Dalton has a way of doing that, doesn’t he? Saying things that make you think, even when you would really rather not. He said, ‘As to punishment for Patrick Walsh, I won’t presume to speculate on what awaits a man like that on the other side. But I do believe with all my heart that the loss of heaven is the most grievous punishment of all. To lose all hope of eternity with our Lord is surely a most terrible, terrible judgment. And I daily thank my Savior that He has granted me His mercy, rather than the justice I deserve.’”
Michael wrapped his arms around her and again tried not to weep. The words she had spoken seemed to linger, echoing throughout the room, in his mind, in his soul. And in that moment, in the stillness of their bedroom with his wife’s love draped all about him like a curtain shutting out the world, he felt something stir deep inside him, felt the beginnings of a healing and a peace that he knew could only have come from the Father of Mercy.
Anxious to be home out of the rain, Denny Price had run most of the distance from Mike’s house when he met up with Pauley Runyan—the “Strong Man” from Brewster’s dime museum in the Bowery.
This was not the sort of neighborhood where a boy from a dime museum might ordinarily be found. Indeed, Denny thought he probably wouldn’t have recognized Pauley at all, had the lad not stopped him in his tracks.
Pauley was wearing the sort of open-throated shirt and dark work trousers common to any of the factory workers throughout the city, rather than the abbreviated stage costume that showed off his enormous size and muscles. He looked, Denny decided as he studied him, surprisingly ordinary.
“Well, Pauley, what are you doing up here—and in such a hurry at that?”
The lad was puffing as if he, too, had run most of the way. “Sergeant,” he said after catching his breath, “I’ve been sent to fetch Captain Burke. I went to the station first, and Officer Ryan said the captain would be at home.”
“He is. I’ve only just left him. Something wrong, Pauley?”
The youth took off his wet cap and ran a hand through his hair, a riot of dark brown curls. “Bhima said to ask the captain to come to the museum at once! Said it concerns the little girl taken in by the preacher.”
Denny’s interest quickened. “Pastor Dalton’s little lass, do you mean?”
“That’s the one, sir. Stump went to fetch the preacher from the mission while I was sent for Captain Burke.” He caught a breath, then went on. “Bhima said I should ask the captain to come as quickly as possible.”
Denny considered the boy’s explanation for only an instant. “You know the captain’s house, do you?”
Pauley shook his head. “No, sir, but I’ll find it. On West Thirty-fourth, Bhima said.”
Denny nodded, thinking. “I’ll fetch the captain. You go on back to the museum. If there’s trouble, Bhima may need you.”
The boy hesitated only a moment. “All right, sir. But will you tell the captain, Bhima says it’s urgent?”
“I will. Go on now.”
Denny stood watching Pauley’s muscular back for another second or two, then turned and took off at a run in the opposite direction.
33
A Well-Intentioned Deception
For who can say by what strange way
Christ brings His will to light…
OSCAR WILDE (1854–1900)
The steadily increasing rain brought an early darkness to the day. In Bhima’s small room at the back of the dime museum, the oil lamp gave just enough light to reveal the men huddled close to one another in the shadows.
Their faces were intense, troubled, lined with varying degrees of anger and speculation. As the discussion among them grew more heated, their expressions grew even more strained.
“Surely we would have evidence enough,” said Jess Dalton, his usually genial voice now edged with worry, “without resorting to such measures.”
Captain Burke shook his head. “I fear not, Pastor.” He darted a glance to the sergeant.
Sergeant Price, his red hair still slicked to his head, his shirt wet and clinging, looked from the captain to the preacher, giving a nod to indicate his agreement.
“It seems so extreme,” Jess Dalton persisted. “And dangerous.”
Bhima looked at him. “I say this with all respect, Pastor, but the real danger is to your little girl unless we act immediately.”
For a fleeting moment Bhima saw a look of utter panic fill the pastor’s eyes—the expression of a drowning man going down for the last time and finding not so much as a scrap of driftwood to cling to. “But do we have to bring her here?” he asked. “Couldn’t we…isn’t there some way…?”
Captain Burke turned a look of understanding on the anxious preacher. “We’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe, Pastor,” he said quietly. “We’ll try to bluff him, but if Winston calls our hand, we may have to produce the lass. Still, we’ll protect her with our lives, if it comes to that.”
The big preacher frowned and ran a hand through his dark curly hair. “All right. We’ll do whatever you say, Michael.” His voice was resigned. “But it still doesn’t make sense to me. Why can’t you just arrest Winston on the strength of his proposition? Surely he’s incriminated himself simply by approaching Fritz with such a scheme.”
The captain’s gaze traveled from the pastor to Fritz, then came to rest on Bhima for a second or two. Bhima sensed the policeman’s dilemma and moved to rescue him. “I expect what Captain Burke is trying to avoid saying, Pastor, is that no court would be likely to accept the word of people such as us.
You might say we have no real, ah, credibility, with the law. It would be the word of a man of English gentry against…us.”
Captain Burke shot him a look that was both embarrassed and grateful. Jess Dalton studied Bhima for a moment, a look of understanding dawning in his eyes.
“If you will allow my opinion, Pastor,” Bhima said quietly, “I believe Captain Burke’s way is best.”
“He’s right, Pastor,” Sergeant Price put in, turning toward the captain at his side. “The court can hardly ignore firsthand evidence from two city policemen. And it’s for me to do the job.”
A good man, the sergeant, thought Bhima. Decent and sturdy, a man who respected all the right things, such as truth and justice and the law. In that regard, he bore a close similarity to Captain Burke, who now stood glaring at the man beside him.
“It is not for you,” declared the captain. “You will stay here with the pastor and back me up when I return.”
“No, Mike—er, Captain. Begging your pardon, but you don’t have the looks for such a nasty business, don’t you see?”
The captain’s eyes narrowed, but before he could make a rebuttal the sergeant hurried on. “Ah, Mike, no offense, but you’re just a shade too civilized-looking for such a job.” With a good-natured grin, he crossed his arms over his chest. “This kind of ugly business calls for a mean mug like my own, don’t you see? Why, there’s little effort it will take for me to play the outlaw, and that’s the truth!”
Bhima found the sergeant’s appraisal of himself altogether too harsh, but his observation about the captain’s “civilized” appearance was incisive. He doubted that Captain Burke had it in him to make a very convincing hoodlum.
The friendship between the two policemen was evident as they stood searching each other’s eyes, just as the conflict taking place inside the captain was unmistakable. “No doubt you’ll make a more believable felon than I,” he said dryly. “But I still outrank you, Sergeant, and you will remember that.”
Sergeant Price, still grinning, merely shrugged.
The captain regarded him for another moment, then gave a gesture of concession with his hand. “All right, then. You’ll do the job.”
He turned to Fritz Cochran. “When Winston returns for your answer, set the deed for later tonight. Tell him it’s absolutely no deal unless he hands the money over himself when the lass is—delivered.” He paused. “You have to demand this very thing, mind: he must bring the money tonight, and bring it here. No later than ten o’clock. No exceptions.”
Fritz nodded. “Ten o’clock,” he said solemnly.
“Pastor—” The captain turned to Pastor Dalton. “Will your wife cooperate? We’ll need her agreement to pull this off.”
The preacher didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was none too confident. “I’ll have to convince her. Kerry has been terribly distraught about Amanda. But once she realizes…yes, I think she’ll consent.”
When the captain turned back to Sergeant Price, his face was as hard as Bhima had ever seen it. “You do realize, do you not, Denny,” he said, his voice low and tight, “that a blighter capable of ordering the abduction and murder of his own niece will not give a second thought to killing a cop?”
The sergeant was no longer smiling. “You need not fret yourself, Mike—Captain. I can handle a white-livered Englishman with no great fuss.”
The captain’s expression remained dour, but the deal had been made. From this point on, Bhima knew, there was nothing he and the others could do except to wait…and pray.
Later that night, Kerry Dalton waited inside the darkened kitchen on Thirty-fourth Street, her arms trembling as she cradled her sleeping little girl. Molly Mackenzie, the Daltons’ tall, pragmatic housekeeper, stood beside Kerry, arms folded across her sturdy chest, dark eyes watchful. Every now and then she would try to convince Kerry to let her hold Amanda. But Kerry could not bear to let her child out of her arms until the last moment, the last second.
When the knock came at the back door, Kerry, still holding Amanda, opened it herself. She was completely unprepared for what she saw.
A grimy, hard-looking hooligan of a man stood before her—his face blackened with soot, a day-old growth of beard stubbling his chin, a worn cap pulled down menacingly over his eyes.
Kerry’s heart leaped into her throat, and her pulse began to pound. Instinctively she shrank back. Her terror must have been obvious, for the intruder instantly whipped off the cap and smiled gently at her.
“’Tis me, Mrs. Dalton,” he said softly, stepping into the kitchen. “Denny Price.”
Kerry let out a tense breath and tried to force a smile. “Sergeant Price…well. Jess told me you could play the role, but I didn’t expect…”
“Didn’t expect me to look quite so convincing, now?” He grinned in earnest.
Kerry looked him up and down. He did look the felon, and that was the truth. Then her gaze fell on a tattered, lumpy carpetbag gripped in his left hand. A large bag, large enough to hold a small…
She gasped and drew Amanda closer. “No!”
Sergeant Price’s eyes followed her gaze to the bag. “It’s a bluff,” he said hurriedly. “Didn’t the pastor tell you?”
“You—you mean,” she stammered, “you’re going to try to convince Winston that my daughter’s body—” She choked on the word.
The sergeant nodded almost apologetically.
“I won’t let her go!” Kerry said fiercely. “You don’t need her. You’ve got…that.” She shuddered, fighting to maintain some semblance of composure.
“Winston is determined to see the bod—the lass,” Sergeant Price answered grimly. “We hope he won’t insist on looking inside. But if he does, we’ll have to be able to produce the girl. To get the evidence we need, you see.”
Sergeant Price regarded her steadily. “My life upon it, Mrs. Dalton,” he said firmly. “I’ll not let the lass be harmed.” He set down the carpetbag and held out his arms for Amanda.
The sleeping child’s warmth could not begin to penetrate the cold tide of dread that swept through Kerry as she dragged her gaze from Sergeant Price’s soot-streaked face to his waiting arms.
She took a jerky step backward, stopping when Molly steadied her with a restraining hand.
“Trust me,” he murmured. His eyes, still compassionate, held Kerry’s.
Finally, her throat closing, her heart breaking, she transferred the warm, infinitely precious bundle from her arms to his.
When Winston had not shown up at the dime museum by ten past ten, Michael’s stomach was so sour as to make him ill. As he stood, gun in hand, listening through the paper-thin wall separating this room from Bhima’s, perspiration ringed his neck and trailed down his back, leaving him clammy and uncomfortable.
If they had launched this bizarre exploit for nothing, he thought he would never be able to look Jess Dalton in the eye again. To put the kindly preacher and his wife through such an ordeal only to have it fail—
It couldn’t fail. Please, God, don’t let it fail.
In the next room, Bhima’s room, only Fritz Cochran—the Stump—waited for Winston’s arrival. Here, behind Michael on the small cot that served Pauley Runyan as a bed, Jess Dalton kept his vigil with his daughter, who had finally fallen back to sleep in her daddy’s arms. With them, Bhima and Pauley—the museum’s Strong Man—waited in tense silence.
Michael knew the torment the pastor must be going through. He could only hope the man would be able to stay put until this was over.
While he waited, he worried that something had gone wrong, something had happened to spoil their scheme. But what? What could go wrong, at least until Winston himself showed up?
The light knock at the door of the next room was hesitant, uncertain, but Michael heard it at once.
Behind him, the others stirred. He lifted a hand to warn them to silence.
The walls were so thin that they muffled the voices scarcely at all. His heart leaped to his throat when
he heard the clipped tones of the unmistakable British accent, followed by an oath.
“Abominable slum! It’s hard to say which is worse, the dogs running loose in the streets or those squalid little beggars trying to bleed money from a man!”
Fritz Cochran said nothing as the Englishman charged through the door, brushing rain from the shoulders of his jacket. “I took a hack, but the driver could scarcely get past all the filthy little savages in the street! What a hellhole!”
He stopped in the middle of the room, looking around. “Where is he?”
“He’ll be here,” Fritz said, carefully concealing his own emotions. “Any minute, now, I’m sure.”
Winston continued to shake the rain from his hair and clothing. “I cannot wait to get out of this loathsome pit! It’s hard to believe people actually live in such squalor.”
Fritz watched him, saying nothing.
Winston, finally still, frowned at Fritz. “You’re quite sure you can depend on this thug you hired? You said he was a bad sort altogether.”
Fritz nodded. “He’ll show. You can count on him.”
Winston snorted. “I rather doubt that.”
“He’ll do the job. That’s all that matters to you, isn’t it?” He paused. “You do have the money? Mine as well as his?”
Winston eyed him for a second or two. “I have the money. But it stays right here”—he patted his breast pocket—“until I see the proof.”
Fritz had all he could do not to kick the man. It was true he had no arms, but life in the Bowery had taught him clever use of his feet.
“You actually intend to view the child’s body?” he said, wondering at a man who could stoop so low.
Winston lifted an eyebrow. “For the amount I’m paying you and your roughneck friend, I’ll see what I’ve bought. But if he doesn’t show up before long, you can say goodbye to your own profit. If he reneges on the job, neither of you sees the money, remember?”