Again

by Sharon Cullars

  Joseph stared in comprehending fear at the barely lit figure of his poker partner, Roberto Salvatori. Something gleamed in his left hand. Staring harder, Joseph made out the silhouette of a switchblade.

  “You no walk too fast, rich man. Not very smart. Easy for someone to follow, tho it cost me much to hire a cab afta your own. And the cold, she hits the bones real hard when waitin’, but I find waitin’ worth the while.” The glimmer of teeth was barely perceptible in the darkness. Joseph peered around. There were still folks about, but none the likes who would come to someone’s rescue. They would more likely join in on the fun. But the only one he was worried about was the woman on his arm, who was clenching him in a way that would have earlier made his heart beat faster. Now, it just reminded him that he had something more valuable to protect.

  “Roberto, you never were one to take your losses like a good sport. But I’m not going to argue with you over funds. Here…all right, I’m just going to reach into my pocket to get my wallet, nothing else.”

  Still, he could feel the Italian’s nervousness. He had to disengage Rachel’s nervous hand to reach for the wallet that might save them both. Damnably, he had left his own knife at home, so he was at a disadvantage.

  Another figure neared them, and he held out hope that maybe there was a Samaritan among the denizen of thieves. But that hope was quickly dashed as he soon realized that his disadvantage was doubled as the man stopped next to Roberto.

  “I got the ride. Hadda kill the driva though,” the man said, his accent a fading brogue, indicating how long he had been in America. But different species were known to band together after a common prey. Joseph knew that his luck had just run dry, but inopportunely when the dearest thing he had ever possessed was with him. Unfortunately, Roberto also noticed.

  “Not mucha man, are you? Lovely whore like dis would keep a real man busy for hours. At least, dat’s ’mount of time wha I thought I was gonna have to wait. ’Magine my surprise when I seen you two comin’ out the door. Told myself, rich man no know how to pleasure a woman. Good thang Roberto knows how.”

  “Wait, you damn cur…”

  “Ah, ah, now,” Roberto waved the knife like a censoring finger. “Don’t make dis an unpleasant experience. We just gonna take a ride.”

  “Here!” Joseph threw the wallet at Roberto. His partner quickly grabbed it up from the ground. “There’s over a thousand in there, enough to keep your sorry ass for a month of days! Given my reputation, I’m hardly one to call in the police. So, just let me and the lady go, and we’ll call us even for tonight.”

  A bitter laugh ensued. “Rich man think we even. Lemme tell you, rich man, we ain’t never gonna be even. You always gonna have ev’ythang you want, while a bum like me havta kill himself on the docks just to keep a measly wormy bread on my plate. Even yo nigger whore is bedda than soma the Irish shanties that put out fo a whole week’s pay. But see, rich man, I gonna get me a taste of the good life, if just for dis night. I gonna know the fun life, like a rich man knows.”

  Roberto waved the knife, indicating they should begin walking to a vehicle parked across the street. Joseph recognized the insignia on the calash; it was the same he had hired to pick up Rachel. His guilt was hardly piqued as he realized that his actions tonight had already cost a life. His whole focus was to get Rachel, if not him, out of danger. The danger he had put her in.

  Roberto forced them into the calash, Joseph first, then Rachel. Then he squeezed in next to her, his knife pressed at her breast. “Just so you no get any hero ideas. You move, dis knife go in, unnerstan?”

  Joseph nodded. The other man took the driver’s seat and hit the lash across the horses’ backs, causing them to whinny in protest.

  “No so rough you Irish stupido! More easy, so dey do wha you say!” Roberto yelled at his cohort. Soon, the calash headed down the street. Joseph could only pray that they survived their destination.

  Chicago, 2006

  Tyne didn’t understand. Why did Joseph believe he killed Rachel? From what he had just told her, they had both been victimized by criminals.

  But he had put Rachel in a situation that obviously led to her death. That would make anybody feel responsible, as though he had killed her himself.

  “Joseph, don’t you see, you weren’t the one who killed Rachel,” she said softly.

  “But I did kill her,” David said quietly. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. God forgive me.”

  Tyne closed the space between them even farther, felt safe enough to stroke his hair, to comfort him.

  “No, you didn’t kill Rachel, Joseph.”

  When he looked at her, the hardness of his eyes caused her heart to skip a beat. “I know what happened to her, you don’t! You couldn’t possibly know!” His eyes clouded over, and he began again.

  New York—November 14, 1879

  Joseph knew they were in more trouble than he had anticipated when the calash stopped in front of an old warehouse at the south end of the long pier that ran along the East River. It was late into the evening, past the time when even the straggler dock men worked. Besides, it was Friday night, when hardworking men were eager to lighten their pockets of the change they had been paid. Given the solitude of the place, Joseph figured there was only one reason the men had brought them here—to dispose of their bodies. It might have been their plan for him all along, but they were more than willing to accommodate Rachel, as well.

  A chill wind came from the river, as well as the smell of discarded garbage that had been cast into its waters.

  Roberto got down first, his knife still aloft in the air, should either of them get any ideas. Joseph’s only plan at this time was to let himself be sacrificed to save Rachel, if that was even a remote possibility. He just had to find the perfect time; if he couldn’t kill them, he would occupy their attention totally, and hope that Rachel could get away.

  She had been quiet throughout the ride, even when the fiend took opportunities to feel along her breast, probably hoping to rile Joseph into action. Joseph had reined in his anger, though, knowing that it would better serve him later. Like the true lady she was, Rachel had maintained a dignified silence, never letting the ruffian see her fear. Even though she knew she could die this night, she would not die cowering. Joseph felt an ill-timed pride in the woman who would have his love always—and an unbearable guilt that he had brought her to this.

  “Step down, and don’t cha try nothin’,” Roberto warned, more to Joseph than Rachel, whose arm the man latched onto, his knife again at her breast. The other man descended from the driver’s seat. He looked avidly at Rachel and said, “Now for some real fun, huh, Roberto?”

  Roberto said nothing, but smiled, an evil expression obvious even in the dingy lights that scarcely lit the dock. He pulled at Rachel, his anticipation obvious, steering her toward the decrepit building. The door gave way easily with one swift kick of Roberto’s boot, and in a matter of seconds, all four of them were inside.

  Joseph’s heart fell even more as he made out two more figures in the lit interior. The warehouse was nearly empty, except for a few shipping boxes lining either wall. A rickety ladder rested against the floor of a second landing, which held more boxes. The air was cold and stale.

  The first man, Joseph did not recognize, not that it mattered. But the other, he knew all too well. Charlie Rhodes. Obviously, he and Roberto had hatched the scheme together, more out of a mutual resentment than mere robbery itself. Charlie had never had any love loss for Joseph, especially since he was more likely than not to lose to the latter’s usually expert skills. Tonight had been a rare fluke. But Joseph’s loss tonight had obviously not persuaded Charlie from his nefarious intent to see his gambling nemesis dead.

  Charlie stared at Rachel. “What the hell is this? It was just supposed to be him.” He nodded a head at Joseph. “Whatcha go and bring this nigga bitch here for?”

  “What else we gonna do wit’ her?” Roberto blasted back at his partner. “She wit’ him, she die
wit’ him. ’Sides,” he leered at her figure, “she a fine lookin’ whore, worth the trouble, ’ey?”

  Charlie and the fourth man seemed to think it over for a second, sizing up Rachel, whose cloak had been discarded in the calash at Roberto’s insistence. The men’s features slowly began to mimic Roberto’s ugly leer.

  Joseph cast a sidelong glance at Rachel. For the first time, he saw fear in her profile. She had expected death, maybe had even hoped for escape from despoilment from the first two men. Now that there were four, she had obviously given up hope of any escape.

  Charlie stepped to her, pinched her nipple, causing her to gasp. “That hurt, missie? Gonna be more of it, just you wait. Gonna make your fancy man watch us have fun wit’ ya. Then gonna watch as we make him show us wha he do to you in the dark.”

  “Please, if any of you are Christian men….” she began to plead.

  “Aah, I don’t think Christ gives a care for the likes of you, no how,” the fourth man piped up. Dark haired with blotchy skin, an ugly scar ran across his brow, marring what might have been a handsome face a long time ago. But age, drink, drugs, and the way of the street had sapped him of all virtue a long time ago.

  Roberto handed his second partner, their driver, the knife, so that he could commence with unbuckling his pants. Rachel stepped back, which gave Joseph the chance he had been waiting for. He quickly shoved Rachel aside and lunged for the man holding the knife. He hadn’t been as careful as his partner, and Joseph easily wrenched the knife away from the startled man.

  In a split second, he grabbed Rachel’s arm, the knife waving in the air toward three men, including Roberto and Charlie. He desperately pulled her toward the door and felt hope again the nearer he backed away from his captors. But where was the fourth man? The answer came in the unmistakable impression of the neck of a gun in his back.

  The fourth man had anticipated Joseph’s move. “Now, we’re not gonna leave before the party’s started, are we? You gotta watch us have at your whore, now don’t you? That’ll be the last thing you see on this earth.”

  The other men were closing in. Roberto had kicked off his pants, his stained long johns tattered in various places. He groped at the obscene bulge between his legs as he advanced toward Rachel. “All dis for you,” he taunted her. Joseph’s hand was still around Rachel’s arm. He felt the shudder go through her. He couldn’t imagine her horror. In his other hand, he still held the blade.

  “Now, drop the knife slowly,” the man behind him directed. “Otherwise, I’ll blow a hole in your back big enuf to dock a steamer.”

  Joseph knew that he was dead, whether he obeyed the man or not. There was no reasoning with these animals. And Rachel was dead, too. They would use her, then kill her. The only thing he could do was give her a clean, quick death so that she would not have to be despoiled by these men.

  His hand acted almost before his brain had stemmed over the decision. With a quick, easy move he brought the knife against the pliable skin of her neck. It gave way easily, a cascade of blood squirting her would-be attackers. The fourth man, reacting to Joseph’s sudden action, cocked the hammer of the gun. But when he sought to shoot, there was only a click indicating a jammed chamber. In that moment, Joseph dropped Rachel’s dying body to the wooden floor.

  “What the…” the man started at the gun, and in that flat second, Joseph lodged the knife into the man’s gut. Grief and vengeance moved him in his quest that none survive this night. Without a knife or another weapon, Roberto was already backing away, then he turned to run in the opposite direction. At that moment, his driver tried to make a pass around Joseph, seeking escape through the door. But Joseph reached out and rammed the knife into the back of the fleeing man’s neck. Blood spilled from the wound when Joseph pulled the weapon away.

  By now Roberto had reached the ladder that led up to the second story. Joseph ran the span of feet that separated him from his quarry. Roberto was nearly halfway up when Joseph kicked the ladder from beneath him. The already ponderous man fell heftily to the floor with an “Ooommph,” landing on his back. His ugly face was uglier with fear. He began crawling away.

  “Please, no do it! I was no gonna kill you! It was Charlie what planned it all! You see, it was his cousin you killed that time! He figured tonight would be good since you already drunk on the drugs and all! It was Charlie! Charlie!” This last was almost a scream.

  But Charlie wasn’t here, having escaped in the melee.

  The man sought to continue his plea, but Joseph pulled him up with one arm as though his weight was nothing. Then he slammed Roberto against the nearest wall, his hatred focused on this pathetic fool who was probably nothing but a pawn, but who had been too willing to hurt Rachel and to kill them both. There wasn’t an ounce of human left inside Joseph. Just predator instinct. His humanity lay dead on the floor where Rachel rested.

  Without a word, for the man didn’t deserve even that courtesy, Joseph plunged the knife into his neck, forever freezing Roberto’s pop-eyed horror on his face. Then he brutally pulled the weapon from the still warm flesh and slammed the blade into the man’s heart. The blood shot at Joseph, got into his mouth. The body half twisted as it fell to the floor, spraying the filthy walls red. The man’s blood was already soaking into the wooden floor.

  Joseph stood for what seemed like an eternity, staring down at the dead man, trying to steel himself for what he must do. He had survived, when he had not planned to. She had not, as he had so desperately wished. There was nothing he could do to save her. He turned slowly.

  She lay a few feet away. He walked slowly toward her, already knowing what he would do with her body. Already feeling the eternity of grief and shame he would feel for his lifetime. For several lifetimes.

  Chapter 37

  Chicago, 2006

  C armen Carvelli ran her finger down the names listed alongside the mailboxes. This had to be the building, it had to be. Her vision couldn’t have been wrong. She had wasted enough time driving around, at one point taking a wrong turn that had cost her precious minutes. Now standing in front of the brownstone, she found the name she’d been searching for. T. Jensen. Tyne Jensen, the name of the woman David had told her about. Carmen rang the bell once, twice in quick succession, then a third time. She shivered in the cold, closed her eyes in a quick prayer as she waited for a response. And saw David brandishing a knife. The same vision she’d had twice now.

  “Please, c’mon, c’mon,” she pleaded to the wind.

  But was only met with silence.

  He bent solemnly over Rachel’s lifeless body. Her beautiful vacant eyes stared up at him.

  He heard a motion and looked up. And there she was standing in front of him. It was all confusion. Rachel was dead…and alive.

  From somewhere, the sound of bells chimed. Their cheery sound mystified him. They were so incongruous to the moment.

  He saw the other Rachel walk toward the door and push a button. He heard a distant voice that seemed familiar yet he couldn’t figure from where.

  “Please, my name is Carmen Carvelli. My son, David, is he there with you?”

  Rachel said something he couldn’t make out, pushed a button in the wall. A waspish buzz sounded and she opened the door, waiting for someone.

  He stood from the lifeless Rachel, moved toward the unfamiliar Rachel who was still so beautiful, yet so different. The hair was not long, nor reddish, but dark. The lips, fuller. The eyes were still those of a doe and they sparkled as he remembered. She turned as he reached out to her and her eyes widened with fear. Fear of him.

  He took another step closer, thinking to comfort her, to tell her everything would be all right. That he would never let anything happen to her again.

  But she backed away, her eyes staring at his outstretched hand. “Where did that come from?”

  He stopped and looked down. In his hand was the knife that had taken Rachel’s life. The same knife he’d used to avenge her death. Not his own, but the one he took from one of the b
astards who sought to rape her. Strange. It was no longer bloodstained.

  Another gasp. Another voice. “Oh my God, David!”

  He looked up to see an older woman just in the doorway. Again, the voice and face were familiar, but he just couldn’t grasp why he knew her. She had called him David. Just as Rachel…no, not really Rachel…had done earlier. Why did they insist on calling him this name?

  “David, please,” the other one, the beautiful one, pleaded. There were tears in her eyes. He felt the need to kiss those tears away. He took a few more steps, and the other woman pulled something from the reticule she clutched in her hand.

  “David, please, I’m begging you!” The older woman had tears in her voice. He saw the gun in her hand. Saw that her hand was shaking. He had to get the gun away from her before she hurt herself. Before she hurt Rachel. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing Rachel again.

  He approached the woman, reaching out. Then there was a loud explosion.

  He felt himself falling back, felt the impact of his body hitting the floor. He shifted his head and saw Rachel lying next to him, her eyes still vacant. She was so near he could reach out to touch her. As he felt her cold flesh, he thought that this was as it should be. He should have died with her that first time.

  He closed his eyes and waited for death to take him.

  Chapter 38

  C armen Carvelli stood listening to the bleeps that tracked David’s tenuous hold on life. Every pause on the monitor caused her own heart to miss a beat. She clutched the cold bed railing as she looked down at her son, still unconscious after six hours. He was too pale, as though the transfused blood refused to flow through his veins. She placed a trembling hand to his forehead, tracing a finger along his flesh. He no longer felt clammy, but he was several degrees cooler than normal. The doctor—she couldn’t remember his name—had told her that David was expected to pull through, but that the next few hours were critical. She wanted to believe everything would be OK. But there were many things that could still go wrong. She could still lose him.