The Widow's Secret

by Sara Mitchell

  Scrubbed clean, wearing fresh clothes and feeling, finally, more alive than dead, Micah tugged out his pocket watch as the carriage rolled past the large street clock next to the Fifth Avenue Hotel. His watch, like his heart, ran fast.

  “It’s almost six-thirty. Can we make it by seven?”

  “I’ll ask the driver.” Jonathan glanced at Katya, sitting beside him in rigid silence. “Excuse me,” he murmured, his voice gentling. He twisted to open the glass, then shouted the question to the driver.

  At the next block the driver fought through the still-heavy pedestrian traffic, turning west on 25th. After steadying the horses, he snapped the whip, sending the carriage down the street at a fast trot.

  “My dear chap,” Dr. Aloysius commented to Micah, “I will be of little use to the young lady if we suffer a fatal mishap in the process of racing to her rescue.”

  “I promised to be back by sunset,” Micah said. “I don’t want her to be afraid.”

  Katya unbent enough to smack her palms together. Unable to write in the crowded carriage filled with people, and the load of parcels for Jocelyn and the Schullers she refused to relinquish, she glared across the murky interior at Micah.

  “You’re absolutely right,” he admitted. Over the last several months he’d come to know this girl almost as well as Jocelyn. “She’s a stout heart, and won’t be afraid at all. Nor should you, about her. Mrs. Schuller and I cleaned the wound and bound it tight. It wasn’t even bleeding when I left. The only reason I’m bringing Dr. Aloysius along is…” Stumped, he glanced across at Jon.

  “Is because Operative MacKenzie himself is afraid,” Jonathan finished dryly.

  “Not like I was twenty-four hours ago,” Micah responded without heat, understanding his assistant’s own struggle.

  Thirty-two minutes later the carriage rolled to a smooth halt on the broad avenue planned a decade earlier by Frederick Law Olmsted, whose vision included rolling green hills on bluffs overlooking the Hudson. Doubtless those dreams had not included clusters of shanties strung in a ragtag row behind the wooden fence lining Riverside Drive.

  The driver opened the door, and Micah leaped out. “I’ll let them know we’re not the police,” he said.

  “Mr. MacKenzie!” Heinrich darted out from beneath a stack of warped window frames leaning against the side of the shanty. “It is you! You’re back. You’re back!” He flung himself into Micah’s arms, jabbering in an excited mixture of English, Dutch and German as Micah swung him around in a triumphant circle.

  “We’re a little late.” He gestured to the others. “These people have come with me, to help.”

  “I’ll perform the introductions,” Jonathan said. “Go ahead, go rescue the damsel in distress. We’ll catch up. Heinrich?” He offered his hand to the boy. “I’m Mr. Tanner. I was supposed to be watching over Operative MacKenzie here. He slipped through my fingers, and I understand I have you to thank for taking care of him when I wasn’t able to.”

  Micah left them to it. With Katya on his heels, he sprinted to the front of the shanty, where Mrs. Schuller stood in the doorway, holding little Elfie. For a long moment the woman did not speak, her gaze moving between him and Katya. Then her lips curved in a grave smile. “We haf been waiting long, Mr. MacKenzie. But your lady is well. She tells me she has much faith in you.” And with a dignified bow she and Elfie stepped aside.

  He ducked through the doorway, and stopped dead. Jocelyn sat in a carved oak parlor chair, her leg propped on a crate. A patchwork quilt discreetly covered her from the waist down. Light from a smoky kerosene lamp hanging from a nail in the rafters illuminated her face. Moving like a sleepwalker, Micah approached her side, then fell to his knees. She reached up, touching her fingers to his freshly shaved cheek. “Do you know what I’ve been doing?” she whispered in a choked voice.

  He covered her hand with his. “Staying safe, and sleeping?”

  “That, too.” Her eyes glistened. “I’ve…been praying. To God. For you.”

  His breath huffed out, and with a hoarse sound he buried his face in the side of her neck. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, and he heard her soft voice murmuring in his ear, about love, and healing, and faith. Oblivious to their audience, Micah finally lifted his head and pressed a fervent kiss upon her half-parted lips, and the words ceased altogether.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  By the time they left the shanty, Katya had written two pages of questions for Jocelyn, and four pages outlining her own exploits after she sneaked out of the Brocks’ mansion at dawn. Amazingly, Heinrich and Elfie developed an instantaneous bond with the girl, communicating effortlessly with a tangled blend of words and pantomime. While Dr. Aloysius tended to Jocelyn, Heinrich answered most of Katya’s questions about what had transpired with her mistress since the previous night.

  “Remarkable young woman, that Katya,” Jonathan observed to Micah, who had refused to leave Jocelyn’s side. “And what a lucky stroke that Operative-in-Charge Bagg tripped over her on the post office steps this morning.”

  “I’d call it something other than luck,” Micah corrected lightly. “Did I tell you it was Jocelyn who taught her to read and write?”

  “Only about a dozen times.” Shaking his head, Jonathan moved out of the way, his expression closing up as he propped his shoulders against one of the shanty’s support beams and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Someday soon, Micah promised himself, he and Jocelyn together would have to formulate a plan to help Jon heal. Tenderness fluttered beneath his breastbone like thousands of tiny butterflies. Together. He liked the sound of that.

  “Amazing constitution,” Dr. Aloysius muttered beneath his breath several times as he applied adhesive plaster to close the incision, then wrapped the leg with a roll of fresh bandages from his medical bag. “I come prepared for a feverish, half-dead woman, and instead find a clean wound healing nicely, and an alert woman with excellent reflexes and healthy color.”

  A light blush stained Jocelyn’s freckled cheeks, though in typical Jocelyn fashion she downplayed her own strengths. “Mrs. Schuller and Mr. MacKenzie are excellent nurses.” She smiled down at Micah, who was sitting beside her on the floor. “You needn’t have dragged the poor doctor all the way up here.”

  “I wasn’t willing to take any more chances with your life.”

  “Speaking of her life,” Jonathan put in, the hard edge more pronounced, “I forgot to tell you, while you were asleep a telegram from Chief Hazen arrived. Mrs. Bingham is officially off this case, as are you. Chief Hazen indicated that the decision was his, regardless of your own wire suggesting the same. For some reason he takes offense when his operatives are abducted and used as punching bags.”

  “Punching bags?” Jocelyn asked.

  Micah grimaced. “And how did he learn those details, Mr. Tanner? What happened to your discretion?”

  Jonathan shoved away from the beam and strolled over, standing over Micah with clenched fists. “I stuffed it inside the envelope along with my last report to Washington. You should have Dr. Aloysius take a look at those bruises and your ribs. I do a little boxing, Mrs. Bingham,” he told Jocelyn without a shred of shame, “so I know what I’m talking about. That brigand hit him when Operative MacKenzie’s hands were tied behind his back.”

  “Only twice.” Micah heaved a sigh and rose, rested a reassuring hand on Jocelyn’s shoulder and quelled Dr. Aloysius’s concern with a look. “And I’m fine. Sore, but no busted ribs, all right? Let it rest, Jon.”

  “He killed my aunt. He was going to kill you. And those swine who found him at that warehouse let him go. They let him go free! He could have killed again.”

  “But he didn’t,” Micah reminded the angry young man firmly, glancing at Jocelyn. “The man’s name is Vanetti, which is the name you heard spoken in the Brocks’ library, correct?” Jocelyn nodded. “He’s on the Wanted posters of almost every law enforcement agency on the East Coast, not to mention Pinkerton’s. An alert police detective, not
on the Brocks’ payroll, nabbed him, largely because of Mr. Tanner’s excellent description. Vanetti was on the platform at Grand Central, with a one-way ticket to Chicago. Took two more officers and a baggage handler to, ah, convince Vanetti to cooperate. Now he’s in jail, where in due time he’ll receive the punishment he deserves for his crimes.”

  He looked back at Jonathan. “This part of the investigation is over, Mr. Tanner. Over. Let it go.”

  Jonathan glared around the small shanty as though he expected someone to stab him with a pitchfork. “I was supposed to protect my aunt, and she’s dead because I listened to you. I spent two blasted hours traveling all the way to Brooklyn and back to mail that telegram. I’m supposed to be protecting you, not being sent to a corner like I was a piddling puppy! Aunt Maisie’s murdered and you get yourself bushwhacked, all because you try to protect everyone but your own arrogant self.”

  “Mr. Tanner? Jonathan? I understand how you feel.” Spoken in that liquid Southern drawl, Jocelyn’s voice could have melted the iron girders supporting the El’s tracks. “He’s not really arrogant, he just cares too much sometimes. None of us is to blame for Mr. Vanetti’s actions. We’re only responsible for our own.”

  In the fitful light, Micah watched every muscle in his assistant’s body tighten, though he merely inclined his head. “I don’t know that I can agree. You saved his life, after all. Not me.”

  “Last night perhaps. How many times over these past months have you saved him, in silence and secrecy, when only God knew?” Jonathan shook his head, lips compressed into a thin line of renunciation. Compassion filled Jocelyn’s eyes. “I lived with silence and secrets for so many years I’d almost forgotten what it feels like not to be afraid. Fear, and feeling helpless, are universal to the human soul, Jonathan. Blaming yourself, blaming God only feeds the fear.”

  “Mrs. Bingham—”

  “My name is Jocelyn Tremayne,” she interrupted firmly, her hand searching for Micah. “As far as I’m concerned, Mrs. Bingham died last night, outside the Brocks’ library door. Please, call me Mrs. Tremayne.”

  “Mrs. Tremayne, I’m glad Operative MacKenzie has someone like you at his side.” He shoved away from the post. “Sir, now that Operative-in-Charge Bagg has taken over the proceedings, you won’t need an assistant any longer. The search warrants for the Brocks’ residence have been issued, as well as warrants to search the bank where both Virgil and Augustus have offices. Operative-in-Charge Bagg has men watching both places, with orders to follow and apprehend any members of the Brock family should they try to flee. He informed me that he thought you might want to arrest the principals yourself, and is willing to wait until ten o’clock before initiating them himself. Called it poetic justice.”

  Micah tugged out his watch. Eight thirty-seven. If they left immediately, and went straight to the Brock mansion, he would have the satisfaction of shackling Portia Brock in handcuffs himself, hopefully in view of all the servants. As for Virgil…

  “Micah? I want to be there, too,” Jocelyn announced. “They were my husband’s family, not my own, but I will always feel a sense of responsibility for what their greed did to you, to your father. To our country.”

  “You’re only responsible for your own actions,” Jon muttered.

  Micah scowled, and would have reprimanded him except instead of shrinking into herself, Jocelyn unbelievably—laughed. “Mr. Tanner, you’re absolutely right. How about if I want to be there because I’m working to control a vindictive streak, but haven’t mastered it yet?”

  The corner of Jonathan’s mouth twitched. He darted a quick glance of apology toward Micah. Micah, still reeling from the sound of his beloved’s musical laughter, shook his head. “Well, why not? Jocelyn deserves to be present for the coup de grâce as much as anyone. Is she able to travel, Dr. Aloysius?”

  The physician pondered his expansive belly, scratched beneath his neat spade-shaped beard and finally nodded. “I would prefer her to be in a bed, resting, for at least a week. Based upon my examination, however, I must admit there is no compelling medical reason, beyond prudence, that would prohibit her from a short detour?” He made a tsking sound. “’Tis a sorry day indeed, when members of one of New York’s finest families stand guilty of such malfeasance.”

  “An even sorrier day when their actions force people like Mrs. Schuller and her children to live in hovels like this,” Jonathan stated shortly. “I’ll escort Dr. Aloysius to the carriage. Since Mrs.…ah…Tremayne…will require extra room, I’ll catch the Ninth Avenue El.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Tanner.” Dr. Aloysius closed his black leather bag and donned his bowler.

  Frowning now, Micah watched his assistant offer stiff farewells to Magda, Katya and the two children. Jonathan skimmed little Elfie’s soft cheek with his index finger, bunched his hand in a fist to deliver a mock punch to Heinrich’s shoulder. He complimented Magda, and told Katya he admired her bravery, then ushered the doctor outside.

  A niggle of presentiment zinged through Micah. Leaning down, he murmured to Jocelyn, “Will you wait here for me a moment? Please?”

  After searching his face, she nodded. “I understand, Micah,” she murmured back. “Go after him. Do what you can.”

  He waited until Dr. Aloysius was settled inside the carriage and Jonathan had started down Riverside Drive. “I noticed you neglected to mention your destination, after you board the El,” he said, falling into step beside the other man.

  “I was hoping you hadn’t.” For several paces they walked in silence. “Mr. MacKenzie…let me go, sir.”

  “I will, Jon. But it’s not easy.” Clasping his hands behind his back, Micah looked toward the dark water of the Hudson River while he spoke. “Last night, I came within a hair’s breadth of losing my faith in God. I thought I’d endured the worst tragedies a man can suffer. I thought I survived because I believed God would give me the strength to bear whatever life tossed my way.”

  Memories prickled along his spine. “But I’d never been tied to a chair and blindfolded, never left alone in the dark with no expectation of rescue, and the knowledge that two more people I love very much would likely die because of me. One of those people, Jon, is you.”

  Jonathan’s head was lowered, his face averted; Micah was unable to read his expression. But at least he was listening. “I hope I never again feel the…the physical and emotional and spiritual paralysis, that I felt last night. If I do—” swallowing, Micah finished huskily “—if I do, I will remember that I survived it once before. I’ll remember that God didn’t really turn His back, any more than you and Jocelyn gave up trying to find me. We all come to forks in the road of life, Jon. I’d say you’re at one right now.”

  “I can’t work for the Secret Service any longer. No matter what you say, I…can’t.”

  “I know.”

  “Then…what do you want from me?”

  “I want to know that you’ll remember me as a Christian who faltered, who shook a fist at God and asked Him why. And I want you to remember that I chose to take the fork in the road that leads back to trust, to faith. That’s all.” Stepping back, he unclasped his hands, spreading them wide. “If you come to a place where you believe you have nowhere to go, I’d like to know you’ll come looking for me, if you’re still not ready to trust God.”

  Slowly, Jonathan lifted his head, even more slowly nodded. “All right. I can’t deny that I have a lot of doubts right now. I—I don’t know what I think, about a lot of things. Operative MacKenzie…”

  “Call me Micah. You’re no longer working for me.”

  In the purplish-black of a cloudy night, Micah barely caught his faint smile. “Thanks, then—Micah. I won’t forget. Anything.”

  “Be careful out there, all right? Boxing’s a dangerous pastime, whether against another man’s fist, or at shadows.”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, Micah.” He hesitated. “Mrs. Tremayne is right. You’re not arrogant at all.”

  He offered a hand, and Micah shook it, f
eeling the hard calluses on the edge of Jon’s palms, the careful strength of his grip. Protect him from developing calluses on his soul, Lord.

  A stray current of wind blew across the Hudson, sending white-tipped ripples splashing onto the shore like the rhythmic beat of a heart. For a moment or two after Jonathan Tanner melted into the darkness, Micah listened to the water, and the wind, relishing the sounds of nature. Of life.

  Then he strode swiftly back to the shanty to fetch Jocelyn and Katya. Justice was waiting to be served. He reached into his pocket, removed the five-pointed star and pinned the badge in place.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Lights blazed from every window of the Brocks’ stone mansion. The carriage halted directly in front of the twin pillars that flanked the brick walkway leading to the front doors.

  Almost immediately, a stocky man wearing dark clothes and a bowler poked his face inside the carriage, and touched his fingers to his hat in acknowledgment of Jocelyn before focusing on Micah. “Operative MacKenzie? I’m to tell you that Mr. and Mrs. Brock are in residence. An hour gone, Julius went with several companions to a bowling alley on East Thirteenth Street. Operative-in-Charge Bagg deemed him a person of no consequence at this time, so Mr. Julius was not detained. Virgil Brock, however, was arrested not thirty minutes ago, while waiting for the Cortlandt Street ferry in Jersey City.”

  “Botheration!” Jocelyn forgot her manners, but was too incensed to care. “The coward. I was looking forward to gloating over him.”

  The charged atmosphere lightened; both men’s faces momentarily relaxed.

  “You’ll still have an opportunity to gloat,” Micah promised.

  “We’d best make haste, sir. The orders are that as soon as you and Mrs. Bingham alight, everyone will converge at the front door.”

  “I assume the estate is surrounded, all entrances manned by trustworthy men?”

  “Handpicked, sir.”

  Micah nodded, then turned to Jocelyn. “Are you ready?”