Frail Blood

by Jo Robertson

  "Why did you not attend Joseph's funeral?" she asked, her voice a gravelly whisper that hardly reached the distance to where Machado stood with the pain of his long-kept secret.

  "Because she would be there and I couldn't face her again." His face twisted in an ugly grimace. "And my father – the bastard would be there too!"

  He did not apologize for his epithet, and the sudden blasphemy shocked Emma. Aaron Machado was a man who'd done unspeakable acts when younger. She was now certain of that fact. Why, then should it shock her that he murdered his own son? The gap between incest and murder was surely not so great a chasm on the broad spectrum of evil.

  He stared her down with hard, black eyes and Emma felt a tremor begin in her legs and travel upward to her hands as her grip tightened on her handbag. Would she have time to remove the pistol and aim before he reached her?

  "There were – are – evil people living in that house, Miss Knight. You must surely see that now."

  "Yes," she murmured, taking in the embodiment of one of those evil persons standing before her, confessing to the shocking deed. She hardened her heart and her words came out like stones of indictment. "And there were victims."

  Suddenly his demeanor changed, his voice softened, and his thick lips trembled as if he were a penitent asking forgiveness. "Victims, yes, you're right. Dupes. Innocents."

  All bluster fell away as the man sank to his knees, burying his head in his hands. "Poor baby Joe, he was the greatest victim of us all." Machado's muffled voice shook with remorse and desolation.

  "And Phoebe, of course." Emma stood over the man, feeling revulsion and compassion for the man at the same time. "Do not forget your sister Phoebe and what you did to her."

  The clock ticked loudly in the corner of the room, marking the passage of long minutes while Emma trembled in righteous anger and Aaron Machado sobbed into his hands.

  Finally, she swept toward the door, turning back to him with her hand on the knob. "No doubt, the sheriff will be in contact with you as soon as I inform him of your ... vile and unspeakable relationship with your sister."

  "What?" The bewilderment in Machado's voice was genuine and unmistakable. "What the devil are you talking about?"

  "Phoebe – the mother of your child." The words were an ugly cancer on her tongue.

  Machado sank back on his haunches, sprawled across the floor in astonishment. "Phoebe?"

  "Don't play innocent with me, Mr. Machado. You killed Joseph when he learned the hideous secret of his parentage."

  Aaron had begun shaking his head the moment Emma's accusation became clear to him. She could see this by the denial in his expression. "You've got it all backwards. Oh, God, what has she done?"

  He spoke as if to himself and seemed to draw back into a dark place in his mind. Who was the she whom he referenced? Phoebe or ... Emma watched as he struggled to pull back from the abyss.

  At last he stood to face her, sorrow and anger a mixed palette of grief on his face. "It's true, what you say, Miss Knight. I am Joseph's father."

  She'd already known that. Joseph was the babe he'd fathered and then abandoned.

  "But as God is my judge," Machado continued. "Phoebe is not his mother."

  Chapter 25

  "O, my offense is rank, it smells to heaven, it hath the primal eldest curse upon't." – Hamlet

  Where was she?

  Malachi meant to track Emma down even if it entailed storming the sacred walls of her parents' pristine fortress again. He'd spent the entire day searching for her until he received word the jury had arrived at a verdict. She hadn't been home, and neither Sarah nor Ralston knew where she'd gone, only that she'd taken the carriage.

  The thought of her without a chaperone clearly worried her servant and heightened Malachi's own concern for Emma's welfare. He'd checked at the newspaper, questioning Stephen and Thomas, but they had no inkling of her destination.

  "Wouldn't worry about her, Malachi," Stephen had said, his sleeves rolled up again and a wrench clutched tight in his right fist. "Emma can take care of herself."

  But his eyes slid away from Malachi, who had the distinct impression the older man kept something from him. "Would she have visited her parents?"

  "Not likely, after the giant row they had."

  Malachi wondered if Emma had spoken to Stephen since the weekend she'd spent so much time at Malachi's cabin. Although Stephen knew about the relationship, of course, having deflected the Knights' ire away from Emma, the man pretended as though nothing untoward had occurred between his niece and Malachi.

  A man who carried his own great secret probably disliked speculating about other people's private behaviors. A good poker player, Malachi was certain Stephen Knight knew more than he intended to say about his niece. His next words confirmed the idea

  "I imagine if Emma had taken off somewhere today and just returned," Stephen had said, a studied casualness in his tone, "she'd be in mighty need of a bath and a change of clothes." He sighed theatrically. "But Emma's unpredictable, if nothing else."

  Malachi now looked around the courtroom as the jurors returned to the jury box, their faces grim. Emma could not have known the verdict would come so soon, but still he'd hoped she'd be here, to rejoice with or comfort Alma ... and him.

  Judge Underwood entered the courtroom with a great flair and charged the jury to deliver its verdict. A few minutes later he chomped so hard on the unlit cigar in his mouth that it split off and dropped suddenly to the podium. His face and the portion of his neck that squeezed above his collar turned an apoplectic purple.

  "You can't reach a consensus?" he growled. "What the hell does that mean?" The jury foreman cringed in his seat at the corner of the jury box.

  Malachi slumped beside his client. He didn't know whether to be disappointed that Alma wasn't acquitted or thankful that the hung jury bought him more time to investigate the murder – time to look into Emma's findings. He glanced around the room – still no Emma – but the courtroom was packed to overflowing with sensation seekers who hoped to hear a woman would dangle at the end of a noose.

  But not today, he thought. For the moment his client was safe.

  Immediately after Underwood dismissed the jury and the courtroom cleared, Charles Fulton slapped a paper on the defense table. Malachi took his time speaking with Alma before he turned to inspect the chief prosecutor.

  Malachi smiled like a shark. "Charlie, my condolences. Today's outcome must be difficult for your career."

  "You won't be grinning like a jackass when you look at that." Fulton nodded toward the document.

  Sighing theatrically, Malachi picked up the piece of paper and scanned the contents. "You're re-filing charges? Surely even you aren't that stupid." Although he knew this was exactly what Fulton would do, he couldn't resist goading the man.

  Fulton gritted his teeth, flaring his nostrils like an angry bull ... or, more likely, a hyena. "I haven't nearly finished with your client, Rivers. She'll swing yet for this cowardly murder." The man stomped off down the aisle, his two lackeys in tow and trailing behind him.

  Unfortunately, the district attorney's display of confidence was well-founded. If Malachi didn't find new evidence to cast doubt on Alma's innocence, the next jury might convict her. Even without a murder conviction, his client could be charged with aggravated assault.

  "Am I free to go now, Mr. Rivers?" Alma's pinched face tugged at his sense of fairness as hard as she tugged at his sleeve.

  "No, Alma, I'm very sorry, but Mr. Fulton has re-charged you with Joseph's murder. The jury couldn't agree as to your guilt or innocence."

  "Can he do that?"

  "Sadly enough, he can. And being the kind of man he is, he will." He patted the woman's arm and tried to keep his expression from showing his discouragement. "But tomorrow's another day, Alma," he added brightly. "Chin up."

  After Alma was returned to her cell and Malachi had gathered up his trial papers, he walked the short distance down the hill to his office on Main S
treet. He wouldn't bother ringing Sarah Ralston this time, he vowed. He'd see for himself where the wandering Emma had gone.

  #

  The sheriff in Bakersfield had allowed Emma to call Uncle Stephen before she boarded the train back to Sacramento. Her explanation was brief, but she'd insisted she was well and would return home by nightfall. Stephen seemed content, if not happy with her words.

  When she arrived in the capitol city, she used her father's name and reputation for the first time in her life to request use of the station's telephone. The switchboard connected her with with Sarah. "Emma, where have you been? We've been frantic with worry."

  Still in a dazed shock, she couldn't answer at first. "I'll be home soon," she whispered.

  "What? Where? Emma, are you there?" The line grew fuzzy and then went dead. Emma didn't try again.

  Outside the station, she hired a hackney cab and made the distance to Placer Hills by early evening. Her driver pulled up in front of The Gazette office. Emma saw the crowd milling around the courthouse up on the hill.

  Uncle Stephen stood at the door to the newspaper office. "The verdict's in," he said, nodding toward them.

  "A judgment this quickly cannot bode well for Alma." As she hastened the cabbie toward home, she added, "Please do not tell him where I've gone, Stephen. I need time to ponder what I've learned today."

  "I don't know what you're talking about, Emma."

  #

  "Mr. Knight's been looking for you, Miss Emma." Sarah shut the front door behind her with a mighty thwack as Emma handed over her gloves and coat. "What a mess! Look at the dirt on your skirts. Where have you been?"

  Sarah had been chastising Emma far too long for her to bridle at the criticism. "I've been to Bakersfield, Sarah. I do not wish to speak about it. And yes, a hot bath would be just the thing, thank you."

  "Well, I'm sure you'll wish to know that Mr. Stephen called to say he and Thomas are preparing a special edition. Alma Bentley's jury had been unable to come to an agreement about her guilt or innocence."

  The servant bustled away, muttering and complaining about Emma's clothing, but she scarcely heard a word. She had to sort her thoughts. A hung jury? This she had not anticipated. So much to do. Where to begin?

  After some mulling she believed a hung jury would benefit Alma if she could not be acquitted. Now Emma was free to continue her odd investigation into the Machado family.

  She'd been tempted to wait for Malachi at the newspaper, to recount the strange events of the day, and tell him what she'd learned from Aaron Machado. But she knew he'd be consumed with consoling his client. Perhaps even preparing a new line of defense should the prosecution decide to try Alma again.

  Better for the moment to keep her own counsel and continue her investigation clandestinely. Stephen would not mention her sojourn to Bakersfield nor her brief stop at the newspaper office to Malachi.

  And mostly she simply needed to think.

  The sweetly fragranced bath nearly covered her breasts. Her hair piled high on her head, she soaked limbs sore and weary from the long ride and back in such a short time.

  But what she'd learned!

  If Aaron were to be believed, the entire configuration of the Machado family was bizarrely twisted. Even more horrible than she'd imagined.

  Without warning, the shouting from downstairs was followed quickly by a thundering of feet up the stairs to the second floor landing. Emma jerked up in the rapidly cooling water.

  "You can't go in there!" Sarah shouted from somewhere outside Emma's bedroom door right before a crash sounded. The door burst open and Malachi's voice bellowed from behind the bathroom door.

  "Emma Knight, are you in there?"

  Then the door swung open with a sharp bang and there Malachi stood, his face flushed and sweaty, his fists on his hips, hatless, jacketless – just like him, she thought crossly. Behind him Sarah clutched at his arm, trying to pull him out of the room.

  "Mr. Rivers, this is unseemly! How dare you? Get out of here this instant or I'll call Mr. Ralston to remove you!"

  Malachi flashed her a withering look at the ridiculous notion of her scrawny husband restraining him, and she backed away.

  "It's all right, Sarah. I can take care of Mr. Rivers," Emma said. "You may leave us alone now."

  "But Miss Emma – "

  "Sarah, I'm sure Mr. Rivers will behave like a gentleman now that he sees I am safe." She glared at Malachi, daring him to disagree.

  He held up his hands, palms outward and moved into the sitting area, throwing himself into an upholstered chair by the fireplace. With a disparaging glance, Sarah swirled around and stomped out of the room.

  Malachi watched Emma with hooded eyes through the open doorway, a clear view of her sitting in the now chilling bath water. Damn the man!

  She flounced out of the water, stepping onto the thick plush rug in front of the tub, all the while aware of his eyes raking over her wet, naked body. She turned her back on him and reached for a towel, wrapping it tightly around her body. She would not be intimidated by him. He'd seen her naked before, so why should she feel at a disadvantage now?

  All the while ignoring him, Emma toweled her body off, then padded to the dresser where she removed her chemise and drawers from their scented place in the top drawer. Performing such an intimate ritual in front of him disconcerted both of them, she noticed.

  He scowled at her through the glint of interest in his eyes. "Quit dawdling, Emma, unless you wish me to assist you in dressing."

  Hurriedly she completed her wardrobe, quickly pulling on a loose-fitting skirt and blouse. At last she turned to confront him. "All right, what do you want?"

  He leapt from his chair and crossed the room in a second, all control apparently gone. "Damn it, Emma, what do I want?" He grabbed her by the upper arms and gave her a rough shake. "I've been half out of my mind with worry over you. Where have you been?"

  She scowled and pushed at him. "I don't have to answer to you for my whereabouts, Malachi Rivers!"

  "Really? Even though I've had to rescue you once before from your foolish undertakings?" he shouted.

  She twisted out of his grasp and flung herself on the bed. "It's just like you to throw that in my face!"

  He narrowed his eyes and advanced on her. "That bed is a dangerous place for you to seek safety," he warned softly.

  She straightened quickly and tried to escape his clutches, but he was too strong. He pinned her beneath his weight, his legs astride her, the hard length welcoming even through the force of his anger. He ran his long fingers over her face and hair and she fancied there was a slight trembling in them.

  This vulnerable Malachi melted her defenses. "Emma, I was scared to death you'd been hurt – or worse."

  "I – I didn't mean to cause you worry, but. I couldn't wait around for the stupid trial to end."

  He placed a gentle kiss on her lips and then ran his thumb over where his mouth had lingered. "Where did you go?"

  "To Bakersfield."

  His body froze on top of hers. "To visit Aaron Machado?"

  She nodded. "I needed to see him for myself."

  Releasing her, he sat up abruptly and ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "God, Emma, you could've been killed. You have no idea whether Aaron Machado is a murderer or not."

  "I do now," she said, kneeling behind him and circling his waist. "We had a long talk and I have a story to tell you – a strange and horrible story."

  #

  He refused to hear Emma's story until he made sure that she hadn't been harmed in her reckless journey southeast. That Aaron Machado – whom he still wasn't certain was guiltless in his brother's murder – hadn't somehow roughened her up. Memories of the terror at the docks and her close call with death, or at the very least rape and bodily harm, underscored his fear for her.

  Now that he'd ascertained she was safe, he decided he'd cheerfully strangle Stephen Knight for lying to him. The man knew where Emma had been and could've alleviated Malach
i's apprehension.

  And now there was this new twist in the case.

  "After all the posturing for Phoebe as a villainess are you now suggesting that she is not the mother of Joseph Machado?" Malachi challenged, pushing his dinner plate aside as he stared at Emma across the table where they'd finished the light meal Sarah had grudgingly prepared them before she left.

  He leaned over to secure Emma's hand before clarifying what she'd just conveyed to him. "Phoebe Machado did not have a child the night Joseph, Jr., was born?"

  Emma shook her head.

  "Aaron Machado did not have sexual intercourse with his own sister, resulting in a pregnancy?"

  Emma's cheeks flamed prettily as she shook her head again.

  Releasing her hand, he rested both elbows on the table, watching her with careful eyes. "I am sorry to be so blunt, but I must know every detail of what Aaron told you."

  She placed her fork on the table beside her plate and clutched her fists in her lap.

  "As she originally claimed, Mrs. Machado was the woman who delivered a child that night?" he pressed.

  Emma nodded.

  "But Mr. Machado was not the father of that child?"

  A look of revulsion darkened Emma's expression. "I was wrong, Malachi. As unthinkable as the idea is, I thought that Aaron had seduced his sister, but he was innocent of that crime."

  "Such goings-on are horrific, but they occur more often than we want to acknowledge." Malachi twisted his lips in disgust. "But how can you be so sure of Aaron's innocence? His claim alone isn't sufficient to clear him."

  "I believe him." He could tell by the stubborn set of her jaw that she wouldn't budge on that point.

  "Then, what happened to persuade you?" Malachi swung away from the chair where he sat and cleared their dishes from the table, feeling his temper and impatience rise in equal proportion. "Is your original theory pure bunk? Did Alma fire that second shot and murder Joseph in actuality? Is she lying when she says she fired only once?"

  "Don't raise your voice," she complained. "I'm trying to understand this murky business. It is difficult for me to speak of such – affairs."