Against a Brightening Sky

by Jaime Lee Moyer

  Alina’s head came up and she jerked back. Her voice was a low, angry hiss. “Don’t treat me like a child needing comfort, Countess, or mistake me for a fool. I heard the wind and I know what the voices mean. The hunters know where I am.”

  “I never meant to insult you.” Dora’s smile was small and tight, her expression guarded. “But now I’m curious. Why did you call me countess?”

  “Because—” Alina stopped and stared, her mouth half open to speak. Her anger melted away. “I don’t know. For an instant, I thought I remembered you. Are you a countess?”

  Isadora looked away, fiddling with her skirt and crossing her legs, stalling for time before she answered. She’d unlocked one of Alina’s memories, but she hadn’t expected this memory. Dora rarely spoke of her time in Europe, waving any questions away and maintaining that time was long in the past. I’d never pressed her for details.

  All I knew of her marriage to Mikal was that she’d lost him. Marrying Mikal might have bestowed a title on her. If so, I’d never known.

  “Answer her, Dora. Let her know if that was a real memory or not.” Sam still leaned against the open car door, hands in his trouser pockets. He looked pointedly at Isadora. “Are you a countess or not?”

  Dora started to wave his question away, as she’d done with all of mine, but something stopped her. She studied Alina’s face, searching for some memory of her own. “I was a countess once, but the title died with my husband Mikal. His relatives had scads of children, both boys and girls. There were always packs of cousins running wild when the family got together, but no one minded. Mikal died a little over twelve years ago now. You would have been very young at the time.”

  “But I could have been one of those children. You could have known my parents.” Alina’s face lit up with eagerness and the hope she’d found a friend among strangers. She kissed the back of Isadora’s hand. “And I remembered you were a countess. I must know you!”

  Dora brushed strands of hair back from Alina’s face while pain and sadness moved through her eyes in rapid succession. I knew then she couldn’t bring herself to push Alina further. Not now. “Remembering that much is a good first step. When we leave here, you’re going to come and stay with me. My house has special protections and I give you my word the hunters can’t find you there. Once you’re safe, we’ll work on uncovering the rest of your memories.”

  “Just who do you think you are?” Libby’s face flushed scarlet and her voice rose. “You don’t have the right to make decisions for her. And I don’t see how you can claim no one will ever find Alina at your house. That’s utterly ridiculous.”

  Alina and I stared, startled by the outburst. She pulled back against the seat, wary at being caught in the middle and unsure how to react.

  “I’m not making decisions for her, I’m offering her sanctuary.” Isadora never lost her smile, but there was nothing friendly in her demeanor. That Libby didn’t back down in the face of Dora’s icy stare was a testament to either her fortitude or her foolishness. “Letting her stay with you was a mistake, one that put the children in danger and that I’m trying to make amends for. And despite what you think, Alina will be safer with me, Miss Mills. I’m not in the business of making spurious claims I can’t support. Just accept the fact that I have means at my disposal that aren’t available to everyone, and things will go swimmingly.”

  Sam had stayed quiet, as I had, but he spoke up now. “Don’t take offense, Libby. Moving Alina to Dora’s place really is best. If anyone can keep her hidden and safe, Dora can. I made the decision at the fountain to get between Alina and the people looking for her. Dora’s making it now. No one else need be in harm’s way.” He looked deep into Libby’s eyes. “You’ve done an outstanding job taking care of Jake since Miranda was killed. Let us take care of Alina. You can see the sense in that, can’t you?”

  I thought at first Libby was going to cry. She shut her eyes and kissed the top of Jake’s head before rallying to face Sam, the stern set of her jaw at odds with the wistfulness in her eyes. “You know Dora better than I, Sam, and I can see you’ve thought this through. I didn’t think at all. I owe you an apology, Dora. I spoke out of turn.”

  Libby never looked away from Sam’s face, never so much as glanced at Dora while apologizing. I realized that Sadie’s instincts hadn’t failed her after all. Sam wasn’t courting Libby, but she dearly wished he would.

  “Apology accepted. No real harm done.” Dora glanced my way and arched an eyebrow. She’d noticed as well. The only one who didn’t see was Sam.

  The smoke on the far side of the street was thicker now. Wind whipped dark, sooty clouds in circles and shot tendrils off in all directions. If I listened closely, faint sorrowful voices could still be heard on the wind, but they sounded distant, as if traveling from some far-off place.

  I thought to wonder if the watcher had left as well. An instant’s concentration set me straight. Alina’s guardian filled my head as soon as I looked, greatly amused that I’d imagined it wandering far.

  Fire engines had arrived. Limp lengths of canvas hose lay uncoiled on the street, held ready at the nozzle end by a line of strong men. Other firemen worked to open the hydrants. Water spurted out the nozzle, jarring the men fighting to hold the hose steady. Arcing fountains of water drenched the front and side of Libby’s house from the roof to the ground floor. The children rescued by Finlay and Perry hung out of squad car windows to watch. They seemed disappointed that the fire died so quickly.

  The princess ghost popped into view behind Libby’s head, filling the center of the window closing off the driver’s compartment up front. Faceless royals clouded the rest of the glass surrounding her, dimmer and harder to see, but there. I’d not seen them with the princess before, but maybe they’d been there all along, hidden. What I didn’t understand was why I saw them now.

  Seeing all these haunts clustered together shredded the last of my doubt about whose memories the princess ghost came from. She wasn’t the cherished recollection of a stranger I hadn’t yet found. She belonged to Alina.

  * * *

  The fire went out quickly, the damage to Libby’s house minimal. A stack of wooden crates, many of them stuffed with old newspapers and creosote-soaked rags, was found against the outside wall near the kitchen. The fire had started there, whether by accident or deliberately none of us knew. Some of the older boys from the neighborhood had used a pole to shove the burning crates away from the building before the fire engines arrived. Libby would have lost the house for sure otherwise.

  Gabe’s men stayed to keep an eye on things and to help Libby clean up water that had seeped around the windows, and scrub soot from the kitchen. Sam drove me home before continuing on to Dora’s. He’d volunteered to stay with Isadora and Alina until Randy got home.

  Changing out of smoke-tainted clothing took only a few minutes. I lay down on the bed, meaning to do nothing more than rest for a short time before Gabe came home. The princess ghost filled my dressing table mirror, staring into my eyes with the endless patience of the dead.

  I stared back, skittish about thinking too hard about how she might have died. What she’d meant to Alina in life and why she’d come to me were marginally safer topics for thought, but led me in just as many circles.

  Asking the ghost outright was a sign of how desperate I was for answers. “Who were you, spirit? Were you a cousin, a sister? A friend? You meant a great deal to Alina or you wouldn’t exist. Tell me so I can help her.”

  The ghost stayed silent, her voice frozen in the past in the same way her image was frozen in the glass. That wasn’t unexpected. After all, memories spoke only in dreams.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised at falling asleep and into a memory. I’d asked her to tell.

  * * *

  The narrow beds were hard, our room always cold, but my sisters and I took comfort in each other’s company. At night we wrote letters to Mama and Papa, telling them little stories about our day. A sparrow building a nest in
a tree, or the first snowfall softening the edge of a stone wall—we wanted our parents to see what we’d seen while we were apart. Most of the letters we saved for the day we could hand Mama and Papa the ribbon-wrapped bundle to read.

  Other letters we finished and tossed on the coal grate, poking at thin paper until it caught in a flash of heat and light. Those were letters written on the days we were most frightened.

  We’d pushed two beds together as the nights grew unbearably cold, the four of us warmer and less alone sleeping together. After the second night, we left them that way. I’d faced down a bleary-eyed guard who stank of beer and insisted we put them back in their proper places. He’d stomped away, returning not long after with the young officer who’d smiled at me the day we’d arrived.

  I’d learned since he was a lieutenant and that his name was Dmitri. He’d come into our bedroom, hands behind his back, and listened carefully while the bleary-eyed guard explained that moving the beds was against regulations. All the while, I saw the lieutenant eyeing the frost on the windows, the heavy shawls the four of us wore, and the meager pile of blankets.

  The guard finished reciting his list of our sins, and Lieutenant Dmitri turned to me. He touched his cap and bobbed his head. “Explain to the private why you’re moving furniture, miss. He doesn’t understand why you insist on pushing the beds together.”

  I stepped in front of my sisters, determined not to show fear. “This room is always cold. The blankets are too thin and there is never enough coal to last through the night. Sleeping together is warmer.”

  Lieutenant Dmitri nodded curtly before turning to the scowling guard. He clapped the man on the shoulder. “I told you there was a simple reason, Nikolai. No escape plots, just a desire to be warm at night. Leave the beds where they are.”

  The lieutenant paused in the doorway, his gaze taking in the sparse furnishings of our room. I’d have sworn I saw anger in his eyes, just for an instant, but he walked away too quickly for me to be sure.

  I went back to playing cards with my sisters. Putting the lieutenant’s visit out of my mind was best. We had no friends here, only jailers.

  * * *

  Mai was crouched next to me when I woke, green eyes gleaming in the half light and watching the princess ghost in the mirror. The princess had turned away, looking toward something I couldn’t see.

  I tucked the cat under my arm and went to the kitchen to start supper, thinking hard about what I’d witnessed.

  That the story was true was never in doubt. What I didn’t know was how to use what I’d learned.

  CHAPTER 9

  Gabe

  Gabe climbed out of the patrol car gingerly, more stiff and sore after two days of sitting at his desk than he’d imagined. A new murder case in a well-off neighborhood meant his convalescence was over, like it or not. He stood next to the car for a few seconds to steady himself and look around.

  He couldn’t swear that he and Jack had been in this neighborhood before, but Gabe knew many just like this. Tall, compact two-story houses lined each side of the street, survivors of the ’06 quake and fire. Neat box hedges or waist-high black iron fences separated front yards from the sidewalk. A few yards had beds of roses just starting to bloom, or window boxes full of bright-faced pansies and primrose.

  From the outside, Marguerite DeVere’s house looked like all the others on the block, but inside, her girls catered to men with lots of money and even more power. Gabe would be willing to wager that everyone in the neighborhood knew what went on inside. As long as Maggie’s business didn’t spill out into the street, people turned a blind eye. She ran a clean, quiet house and took care of her girls, refusing to allow anyone to hurt them.

  News traveled fast when one of her customers turned up dead in a girl’s bed. The combination of titillation and scandal was irresistible.

  Sidewalks on both sides of the street were packed with neighbors and tradesmen. Shock was the overwhelming emotion on most faces, the result of a deep-seated belief that murder and other heinous crimes happened to other people, in other neighborhoods. A few onlookers craned their necks or stood on tiptoe to see over the people in front of them, no doubt hoping to catch a glimpse of someone important.

  Anyone of any prominence was long gone, sent safely away before the police were called. Maggie wasn’t going to risk exposing her clientele.

  Gabe settled his hat and shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, his face set in the calm, professional mask he wore while working. He let Randy Dodd and Marshall Henderson carve a path for him through a sea of respectable merchants and their wives, bankers, and frightened, wide-eyed servant girls. All of them backed away, still too stunned to shout questions or demand Gabe take action of some kind. That wouldn’t last.

  He let his guard down once he crossed the line of policemen shutting off the small front yard from the street. With his back turned, no one could see him wince as he climbed the front steps and went into the house. Good sense said he should have stayed confined to the office a few days longer, nursing his wounds until each breath didn’t flirt with pain.

  That was before Randy Dodd came into his office and described the beat cop’s report. Good sense couldn’t override the warning chill that spiked up Gabe’s spine, or the inescapable truth that he had to see the scene himself. Why he was so sure was a question he never had an answer for, but Gabe had learned to pay attention. He couldn’t sit by and let another detective handle this case.

  The entry hall was full of cops, both men from Gabe’s squad and neighboring precincts. Voices echoed off the high ceiling and black marble floor, adding to the noise. Two huge crystal chandeliers filled the entry with yellow electric light, pushing shadows into tiny spaces under round rosewood tables laden with flower vases. A pair of overstuffed chairs, upholstered in burgundy velvet and trimmed with neat rows of brass nail heads, sat on either side of the parlor door.

  Noah Baker was the senior man on the scene. He’d taken charge and was doing Jack’s job, handing out assignments and taking reports, making sure nothing was missed. In all the years Gabe had known him, Noah had never shown any interest in command. Baker was doing a good job under the circumstances, but Gabe never expected anything less from his men.

  He saw Lon Rockwell coming down the staircase, hugging the wall to avoid interfering with Taylor dusting the banister for fingerprints. Lon looked right at Gabe and quickened his steps. “Marshall, see what you can do to help Noah. Sergeant Rockwell can fill me in on where we stand.”

  Rockwell had years of experience on some of the roughest streets in the city. The expression on Lon’s face as he threaded his way through the crowded entryway told Gabe he’d been right to come. “Captain, I’m glad you’re here. The victim’s upstairs, a Mr. J. B. Rigaux according to Miss DeVere.” Lon ran fingers through his hair and glanced toward the top of the stairs. “I wouldn’t let the coroner’s men move the body until you got here. You—you need to see this. He’s in the last room at the end of the hall.”

  “All right. Lead the way.” He caught Randy’s eye. “Come with us. I want you to take notes.”

  He trudged up the stairs behind Rockwell, moving as slowly as a man twice his age. Gabe paused at the top and pressed a hand to his side, shaky and sweating. “The beat cop said a girl named Trula May was found with the victim, but that the killer didn’t hurt her. Did she see anything?”

  Lon’s neck flushed hot, and spots of color burned on his cheeks. “No, sir, I’m afraid not. Trula May was crying too hard to say much, but Miss Maggie explained. Mr. Rigaux liked to do special things with some of the girls. He paid extra for girls that were willing.”

  Randy looked up from his notebook, an eyebrow quirked and pencil poised over the page. “What kind of special things?”

  “Ropes and blindfolds.” Lon flushed deeper and waved Gabe toward an open door. “Mr. Rigaux liked to tie them up.”

  Baxter had set up the tripod for his new Speed Graphic and was busily taking photographs. Gabe
stayed back out of the way. The photographs were important, a record they could come back to time and again. He still studied everything about the room and the placement of the body carefully, setting the details in his mind.

  The room wasn’t overly fancy, decorated more to set a mood than to impress. White lace curtains hung over the street-side windows, but heavy damask panels hung behind, shutting out light and the view from below. Red silk scarves covered bedside lampshades, softening and tinting the harsh electric light. Rigaux’s clothes—an expensive shirt and collar, black jacket and black trousers—were folded neatly on a padded bench under the street-side window. Polished black boots sat on the floor underneath.

  Short lengths of thick rope sheathed in soft satin were knotted to the headboard. Trula May wouldn’t have been able to get loose on her own, and the cord looked to have had been hastily cut to free her. Small chintz and taffeta pillows in delicate pinks and mauve filled the corners of a settee. The pillows matched the torn, blood-splashed coverlet that had slipped half off the bed and onto the floor.

  Breathing through his mouth was an old habit, helping to block out the worst of the smell of stale piss, the stench of blood and voided bowels. Rigaux had panicked when attacked and lost control, a common thing for someone who’d died suddenly and violently. Gabe guessed Rigaux had been somewhere between thirty-five and forty, and looked to be a few inches shorter than Jack. At one time, his thick brown hair had been slicked back with pomade, but now it stuck up at odd, grotesque angles.

  Rigaux’s naked body sprawled across the bed on his stomach, as if he’d attempted to crawl away. At first glance, Gabe thought the victim’s throat had been cut, but he soon realized there wasn’t enough blood. A closer look revealed a thin wire garrote wrapped four times around the man’s neck. The first two fingers of one hand were trapped under a loop of wire and nearly severed.