Silent Witnesses

by Annelie Wendeberg

  Zach shook his head.

  'His name is Moran. He will not hesitate, so you mustn't either. He has one target.' I tipped my head toward Klara. She didn't notice the gesture. Zach's eyes grew large. His shoulders quivered.

  'The tunnel is the reason I bought this house,' I added.

  'I thought you rented it.' Zach seemed utterly lost. 'You said you…' He shook his head again, frowning.

  'I've said a lot of things that aren't true. And I'm very sorry I had to.'

  His hand compressed around the spade handle. A brief nod. Spine straight, chin set. ‘I’ll keep her safe.’

  With a trembling voice, I continued, 'It might not… Moran might not be here. But there are signs that tell me he…might be close. Two months ago, he was spotted near Paris. And I know that he is…searching.' It was so hard to convey all relevant information without using words that would scare Klara witless. How much did she understand of my insinuations?

  'I know now where I have to…look to find out where he is. I'll go tonight.'

  Zach's gaze was glued to my daughter. I saw resolution, and a fierce protectiveness that bordered on rage. There were moments when I wished he weren't married.

  And then there were moments I was happy he had Margery. This was one of them.

  'Zach?' I said softly. His eyes found mine. 'I am glad you are here. I am happy my daughter has you both. Please know that your future is taken care of. You will never need to worry about money. In case…' The sun dabbed small rainbows into my vision. I blinked them away. 'Promise me that you will not let her out of your sight. Not for a moment. That you will carry the gun at all times. Tonight, Margery and Klara will sleep in my bed, and the secret door will be left ajar. Should you need it. Guard them. When I return tonight…' I put emphasis on the last word, to let him know I would return. That I wouldn't risk my life foolishly. 'I will not walk, but skip along the hallway so that you know it's me. Anyone walking quietly, sneaking in… You know how to use a revolver. It's the same make I have. Do not hesitate. The man is a hunter.'

  'I promise,' he whispered.

  'Mama?'

  My chin dropped. Zach made a strangled noise.

  Klara hid her face in my chest.

  I kissed the top of her head. 'Can you say it again?'

  She bumped her mouth against my throat, again and again, producing a babababa noise. Then, she lifted her head and declared, 'Mamamamamamammamamammaaaaaaa!'

  Joy exploded from my chest, and I laughed until my vision swam.

  Klara clapped both hands to my cheeks and pressed a slobbery kiss to my mouth.

  * * *

  Quietly, I shut the door and crossed the room, the thick carpet muffling my footfalls. The softness of my approach felt absurd. I wanted to rage, not be silent. Tear down the house, and not be soft. A step from the bed, I held the bullseye lantern aloft. A light blue glint sent my heart into my throat and my feet staggering back.

  Warren's eyes were half open.

  But he did not move. Did not even blink. The flame caught his irises. He looked straight at me, unseeing. His chest rose and fell as soft hisses escaped his nostrils.

  I scanned the room, the clutter on the nightstand, the pile of books beneath the bed, the pair of slippers, but I found no weapon within his reach. Calming myself with deep breaths, I retreated to a chair, sat on the armrest, and placed the lantern on a table next to me. Then I shifted the beam to his face.

  Grunting, he turned away and threw an arm over his eyes. A moment later, he snored.

  I opened the lantern's hatch to spread more light in the room. 'Warren Amaury.'

  He took a deep breath and mumbled into his sleeve.

  'Wake up.'

  No reaction.

  'Warren! Wake up,' I bit out.

  Nothing.

  I pulled back the hammer of my revolver. The metallic snick produced an instant effect. Warren's body snapped to attention. How interesting.

  He jerked upright, blinked at the gun in my lap, then up at my face. His Adam's apple bobbed. 'I should have kn-kn-kn…' With a furious growl he threw the back of his head against the headboard. '…known the man would have no s-s-scruples.'

  I felt a cold smile spreading on my face as my heart dropped to my toes. I'd been right. But Warren? Why him?

  'Where is he?'

  'How would I know? N-n-n…' Again, he slammed his head against the wood. 'New York was where I last saw him. B-b-but that he'd go that far.' He thrust his chin toward me and my gun.

  'What are you talking about?'

  'Well, obv-v-v…' Warren sucked in air, and let it out with a growl. His hand came up to his face. 'I hate it. Obviously he w-w-wants…' He dropped his hand and in a flash it shot forward. A small object hurtled at me. Hit me. A world of pain opened its maws and poured a nauseating mix of darkness and flickering lights into my brain.

  My head hit the floor. A weight fell onto my stomach. I batted at it — him — but he caught my wrists and clamped them under his shins.

  'Well, well. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine you worked for McConaughey.' His stutter was gone.

  I'd never imagined him being such a friend-betraying pig of a bastard. 'Who?' I pressed out.

  'Come, now. I know what you want. And what McConaughey wants. The question is, why would you agree to it?'

  'Who is McConaughey?' I tried to move my arms, but they were firmly pinned under his shins. His knees were pressing into my upper arms. 'You are hurting me.’

  He laughed. Then he leant close to my face, effectively increasing the pain in my arms. 'I don't care.'

  I smashed my forehead against his nose. The pain in my head nearly drowned out the satisfying crunch of his nasal bone.

  'Ohmygodnotagain,' he groaned, tipped backward and…freed my arms.

  Two quick punches to his chin sent him sprawling to the floor. I pounced on his ribcage and pinned him the same way he'd trapped me earlier. I found my gun on the floor next to his shoulder. And grabbed it.

  'Where is Moran?'

  Warren blinked. 'Who?'

  'We won't get anywhere like this. Let me explain the situation to you: Moran has sworn to kill me and abduct my daughter. Maybe to kill her, maybe to send her to strangers to do whatever they wish to her.'

  I set the mouth of the revolver against his throat. His eyes widened. 'You will be very dead, Warren Amaury, if you don't tell me where Moran is. I don't care why you work for him, so don't you even get started on excuses or explanations. All I want to know is where he is. You have two seconds.' I applied more pressure to his Adam's apple.

  He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He tried again. His eyes began to water. 'I-I-I…' He shut his eyes, and then…he began to sing. 'I have no idea what you are talking about, and this is so embarrassing. I can't even string two words together without sounding like a jackhammer or a castrated hound.'

  'Are you joking?'

  He set his jaw, and shook his head.

  'I don't believe you,' I said.

  He managed a one-shouldered shrug.

  'You drew portraits of me and gave them to someone. Who?'

  Warren looked stunned. Genuinely stunned. His gaze shifted to the door. And then I heard it, too.

  Footfalls.

  A knock sounded, followed by the voice of Owens. 'Mr Amaury, Sir, I heard strange noises. Is everything all right?'

  I nodded at the gun.

  Warren had the audacity to roll his eyes. 'I am in the company of a lady,' he sang out. And then with a sure voice, 'She is a pretty wild thing, Owens.'

  There was a pause before a sour reply came, 'Bragging is unnecessary, Mr Amaury.'

  'Well, stopper your ears, will you!'

  'Good night, Mr Amaury, Sir. Try not to break the furniture.'

  Warren looked up at me, all fear gone despite being held at gunpoint. 'Let's begin anew, shall we. I am Warren Amaury. Sometimes I sing. I doubt McConaughey sent you, and I swear on all that is holy that I have no idea who Moran is.'
<
br />   I pushed the gun harder against his flesh. His face reddened. 'Let's begin anew, shall we? Let's begin with you being honest for once.' I leant closer. His eyes flared. Yes, there was fear, perhaps even panic. I whispered, 'Have you ever read about men who come between a mother bear and her cub? All that's left of them is bloody ribbons. Do you truly want to put yourself between me and my child, Warren?'

  'I s-s-swear…' He swallowed, his eyes darting about the room. A tear escaped from the corner of his eye. As he looked back at me, I found resolution in his face. 'Whoever used that portrait against you, it wasn't me. I have no idea who did it, but I can help you find him.' He cleared his throat. 'Now, would you be so f-f-forthcoming and get off me. It's r-rather uncomf-f-fortable.'

  'I see no reason to be forthcom—'

  He bucked and threw me off, pinned me with his arm across my throat. I retaliated with a sharp right hook. His jaw rattled.

  'Bloody hell!' he hollered, shoved me away, and sat back. 'Who taught you that?'

  'My gardener!' I hissed and jumped for the gun that lay between us.

  But Warren was faster.

  He snatched it, snapped open the cylinder, and tipped the bullets onto his palm. Then he tossed the gun in my lap. 'So. Time to talk. Let's call it a trade of information. An answer for an answer. Why did your gardener teach you boxing?'

  I scooted far out of Warren's reach, and leant against an armchair. This wasn't going the way I'd planned. But talking would give me enough time — and perhaps enough information — to decide on my next move. 'Who said he taught me? I needed a sparring partner, so I asked my gardener. Now it's my turn to—'

  'Not so fast. You did not explain why your gardener is your…pug. You barely even answered the question.' Warren huffed a laugh. 'The gardener, for Christ's sake!'

  'Don't you dare mock him!' I jabbed a finger at Warren. He held up his hands. I continued. 'As I said, a man wants my daughter, and I am protecting her.'

  'And that includes shooting?' He dipped his gaze to my gun.

  'It's not your turn, it's mine. To whom did you give my portrait?'

  He pressed his mouth to a slash. 'I have not given it to anyone. I'm not in the habit of giving away my scribbles. Especially not when they depict a woman.' Even in the faint light, I could see him blush. He turned his gaze away.

  'How, then, do you explain the fact that a drawing that's undeniably yours was found on the body of a murder victim?'

  He gaped. 'What?'

  'You heard me.'

  'How do you know it's mine?'

  'I've seen your portraits. And it's… It's clear from the way you draw the eyes.' I explained.

  'Is it?'

  'They are alive. I've never seen that before.'

  His gaze drifted to the nightstand.

  'You keep drawings of me in your nightstand?' I was aghast.

  'I keep whatever I'm currently working on in my nightstand.' He stood and rummaged in the drawer, then strode past me and left the room. I followed him to another room with a cluttered desk, and shelves upon shelves of books. He worked his way through stacks of papers and folders, drawers, and even the dustbin.

  'I can't find it,' he finally said.

  'Find what?'

  'My sketchbook. The one I was using last.'

  'How convenient.'

  'Be quiet for a moment,' he barked, sat in a chair behind the desk, and propped his chin on his hand. The other hand drummed on the polished oak surface.

  I walked back to the bedroom, picked the bullets off the rug, and slid them into the cylinder. When I returned to Warren's office, he looked wary.

  'I'm currently not planning to shoot you,' I said.

  'I tend to disagree.'

  'Really?'

  'After what I tell you, you may wish to put a bullet in my stomach. Makes for a painful and drawn out death.'

  'We shall see.'

  He rubbed his brow, and said, 'You weren't here last Friday.'

  'I had…things to do.'

  'Everyone was here but you. We drank. We had fun. And later that evening, Hattie caught me drawing you.'

  I couldn't believe it! 'You drew my portrait? From memory?'

  He shrugged. 'I have a photographic memory. It's mostly annoying. Anyway, Hattie took the sketchbook away and threw it on the shelf. But it's not there anymore. The servants don't touch these things, so…'

  The thought sickened me. Warren betraying me was…well, I could stomach that. But Hattie? She was a friend. She'd…befriended me and dragged me with her. Had insisted I get to know the Freak Consortium. Why?

  He saw my grip on the gun tighten. 'If you put that gun anywhere near my sister, I will have you killed.'

  'I need to talk to her.'

  'I am aware of that. That's why I'll accompany you when you visit her tomorrow.'

  Yes. It would draw too much attention if I showed up at her house, woke up her husband and children, and pointed a gun at her. But one whole night to wait? So much could happen in a night. 'Who was in your house last Friday?'

  He paused, scratching his neck. 'As I said. All the Freaks but you. Hattie would never do anything against your wishes. She's protective of you. She knew you didn't want me to draw you, so she took the portrait from me. She gave me hell.' He grinned. 'Whoever gave it to the…murderer, it wasn't Hattie.'

  'You knew I didn't want you to draw me, but you did it anyway. Why?'

  He shrugged. 'Because I could.'

  'To hell with you, Warren Amaury!'

  He held up his hands. 'I swear, I would have burned it that same night! Or maybe in the morning.'

  'Hattie probably took it, so you wouldn't take it to bed with you,' I shot at him. His violent blush told me I had hit the mark. 'Really? Gods, Warren, for that alone you’ve earned yourself a good kick in the ballsack!'

  'You don't understand,' he mumbled.

  'And what precisely do I not understand?' I hissed.

  'It is not…what you think. When I draw, I…enjoy what's behind the…the m-mask. I d-d-draw…' He rose and walked once again to the shelf, pulled out a sketchbook, and gave it to me.

  I flipped it open, held it closer to the light, and found… 'Scantily-clad women? This is your defence? Sketches of prostitutes?'

  10

  The street lamp where I'd left my bicycle was…naked. Blast it! I kicked at it, only to end up hurting my toe. 'Cockchafers!'

  I looked up at a lit window in Warren's townhouse. He had a telephone, perhaps he could… No. I didn't want his help.

  But I had to get home. Fast. To make sure Klara was safe. And Zach and Margery.

  There was no cab around, so I started off at a run, the bump on my forehead throbbing with every step.

  The drawings Warren had shown me… To describe them as unusual wouldn't do them justice. The man had the ability to put pain and beauty on paper with just a few pencil strokes. And without the slightest trace of self-consciousness, he'd talked about brothels and prostitutes, knowing where each of the women he'd drawn lived. Their past. Their clients. The things the women loved and hated.

  And as he had listened to them with wide-open senses, he'd brought their very souls to paper.

  I'd told him that if he ever again drew me, I'd burn down his house. He assured me that being woken up with a gun in his visage had been quite enough of a warning.

  I was passing the Common and still had not spotted a cab. It was maddening!

  I thought of Zach and Margery. I would tell them tonight. All they needed to know. Despite my head swimming and my eye aching as if a small hammer and anvil were embedded behind it.

  I walked down Washington Street into a seedier area of Boston, and passed a narrow alley near the asylum. Noises reached my ear. Those of a man running. An instant later, someone shot past me followed by…a ghost? No, a man in his nightshirt. His hair and moustache on end.

  McCurley?

  The slap slap of his naked feet on the cobbles echoed off the walls. As he rushed past me, he bit ou
t, 'Hide!'

  Then he screeched to a halt. That's when I noticed the loud footfalls of the other man had stopped.

  Silence hollered in my ears.

  Time slowed to a crawl.

  I felt for the warm, smooth leather of my holster, the butt of my revolver — coarser, rougher. A little colder.

  In the corner of my vision, a dark silhouette stood perfectly still.

  I turned. The figure was raising his arm. A gun in his hand.

  Smoke curled from the mouth of the man's gun. The muzzle gaped at me. I hadn't heard the shot. Or had I? Was I hit?

  I blinked.

  Only then did three sharp cracks cut to my ears. And ring in my head.

  I stared at my outstretched hand, my gun. There, too, was a wisp of smoke.

  Time snapped back into place. And a breadth of impressions slammed into me. The small twinge of pain in my right wrist. The rustle of clothes as the man sank to his knees. The grunt from his mouth. The dribbling of dark liquid from his lips. He coughed, and a spray of blood hit the pavement. Heated discussions behind windows. Lights flickering on all along the alley. Heads bobbing in and out of view. Terrified mutterings, whisperings.

  And then McCurley moved. I jumped in shock. I had totally forgotten about him.

  He circled the dark figure that was beginning to tip aside.

  I did not move.

  The man was now flat on his back. His legs were twitching. McCurley kicked his gun aside, knelt, and put his hand to the man's throat for a moment. My feet stepped forward of their own accord.

  McCurley whirled around. His gaze slid from my shoes, to my knickerbockers, to the gun in my hand. And up to my face. He looked as though he were seeing me for the first time.

  'You?'

  'Were you expecting someone else?' I was surprised that my voice was so calm. 'Who is this man?'

  'Pale-eyed Joey. Convicted of triple murder. He escaped a month ago, and thought he should take revenge on the officer who arrested him.' McCurley rose to his feet. 'Why do you have a gun?'