He watched rough fellows coming and going from the security office at all hours. They didn’t have the look of guards. Others were sharply dressed. And once daily, he saw Mr. Tim.
Part of his duties were cleaning, so after he finished with Gale, he went to sweep offices and empty garbage cans. Keeping his head low, he stepped into Carson’s office to sweep. Despite his height, no one paid Grimm any mind. He didn’t talk, so people assumed he couldn’t hear, and that made him near to invisible to most folks.
That was what Grimm had been doing for most of his life—ever since he made one tragic mistake. The office telephone rang, but he didn’t react. He went about his sweeping.
Carson glanced his way. “Boy, get out.”
Grimm didn’t respond. He was playing deaf after all, and his back was to the man. He’d done that on purpose.
“Boy!”
Sweep, sweep, sweep.
Carson cursed under his breath and picked up the line. He said nothing, only listened to the man on the other end.
“I need a cleaner now,” a demanding voice thundered through the line
“That’s not how this works,” Carson murmured.
“I don’t care how it works. Send a man now. That little problem I hired you to take care of has blown up.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s a dying female detective in my house, and a girl is accusing my son-in-law of murder. I need them gone.”
Grimm breathed in through his nose and out, keeping his breath even and his movements steady. But after hearing that, it was hard. He forced his hands to relax, despite a thundering heart.
“Did you burn everything as instructed?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Carson hung up the line. Grimm emptied the pan into the garbage can, then picked it up. He didn’t linger, or do anything other than what he usually did. Grimm carried the can out, and another man rushed past him, disappearing inside. The door slammed.
Grimm lingered outside to listen.
“Men were waiting last night. The target is still alive.”
So cryptic. But whatever it meant caused Carson to pick up the telephone again. “Get me the Principle.” If the person on the other line said anything, Grimm couldn’t make it out. But he could hear Carson’s muffled voice through the door. “I think we’ve been compromised, sir.”
A pause.
“Yessir.”
The telephone clicked.
“Time to fold,” Carson said. “Burn it all.”
Footsteps approached from the other side of the door, and Grimm shot down the stairs. He ducked under the wooden stairs, clutching the garbage can to his chest and pressing himself into shadow.
Carson hurried down the stairway. The man walked off in a hurry to sounds of furniture being toppled above.
Grimm frowned. Were they actually going to burn the stable house? There were horses under the office.
There’s a dying female detective in my house… The words chilled his blood. He needed to find Mr. Tim. He needed to save the horses. But there was only one of him. Grimm didn’t have time to consider his actions. He had to act. Now.
Carson was halfway around the training pen when Grimm caught sight of another man—wiry with longish brown hair. He stood at the fence smoking.
Grimm froze. The stranger was looking right at him. He stared far too long, before peeling off to follow Carson.
Grimm wanted to run, but he was frozen with fear. Sarah. She was in danger. Grimm dropped his garbage can and ran into the stable to save the horses first.
61
The Art of Cussing
Even dying Isobel wasn’t the type to go quietly. She pawed at Sarah’s hand, then shoved it aside, and pressed her own against the towel.
“The window,” Isobel croaked.
“I’m not leaving you.”
“You have to.”
“I’m not leaving you,” Sarah insisted.
“Get me help.”
Sarah faltered. It was hard to argue with that logic. Isobel rolled onto her side and struggled to her knees, swaying with pain.
“You need to lie down.”
Isobel clenched her jaw and tried to stand, still pressing the bloody towel to her side. A jerking lunge sent her careening into the bed. Sarah rushed over to put an arm under her uninjured side.
Isobel growled against the pain, even as her knees buckled, then started cussing up a storm. It gave her strength. Sarah helped Isobel stagger over to the window, where she collapsed on a nearby armchair.
“They’ll… kill you,” Isobel wheezed.
Sarah wiped her hands on her dress. She didn’t dare look at them. She knew by the smell and slickness what she’d find, so she focused on the window.
Sarah unlatched it, pushed open both windowpanes, and looked over the ledge. The ground seemed to pull her downward—her head grew heavy and the world spun as if calling to her. Just a shift of her weight forward, a loosening of her hands, a push of her legs, and…
She jerked backwards. “I can’t,” she said, frantic. “We’re on the third floor.”
“Have to.”
“I can’t even climb a tree.”
Isobel swallowed, seemed to gather strength, then pushed herself up and staggered over to the windowsill. She didn’t so much as lean on it as fall. Sarah grabbed her as she slumped, but Isobel caught herself on the sill with one bloody hand planted on the outside of the house.
“You can’t climb out!” Sarah said.
“I can fall,” she breathed.
Sarah looked at her. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“Fine! I’ll climb down and get help.” Sarah started shedding her coat, as Isobel’s head drooped. Sweat beaded on her bloodless face, and she shuddered with every breath.
Sarah stepped up to the window, but Isobel shook her head. “Rapunzel.”
“My hair isn’t long enough,” Sarah said.
Isobel nodded to the bed. “Sheets.”
“Right.”
Sarah ran over to the bed and yanked off the sheets to begin tying every piece of bedding, linen, and drape she could find with a good sailor’s knot the way Isobel had taught her. Then she tied one end to the four-poster bed and tossed the bundle out of the window. It unfurled, ending just shy of the ground. But it would do. Sarah had fallen out of enough trees to know she could drop at least five feet.
Panic fluttered like a bird in her rib cage. She’d only wanted to go to the park today. Why couldn’t she have a normal life? She put one leg over the sill and felt the pull of the earth. She grabbed onto the linen rope and squeezed her eyes shut, trembling from head to toe.
“Sarah,” Isobel wheezed.
Sarah cracked open an eye.
“Move?”
Sarah tried to move. But Isobel was right. She wasn’t moving. She just sat there on the sill with a death grip on the rope.
Isobel slid back inside, slumping to a stop on the floor. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “My fault.”
“No, it’s not!”
“Tell Riot…” Isobel never finished. She just sort of faded.
“Hell no,” Sarah growled, dropping back onto the bedroom floor.
Working quickly, she ripped apart the buttons on Isobel’s dress and stuffed the towel against her bleeding side. Then she tore a strip of cloth from Isobel’s chemise and used it to cinch the towel tight and keep steady pressure on the wound.
Keep them warm. Keep them calm. Keep their feet up, her gramma whispered from memory.
Sarah straightened Isobel out on the floor, put pillows under her feet, then snatched a blanket that’d been too heavy to use for the rope. She bundled her mother up, then turned back to the window.
“Shit, shit, shit…” Sarah kept up a litany of curses as she slid over the windowsill and down the rope. And damn it. Cursing did help.
Ian Noble stared at the telephone with rising anger. That fool o
n the other end had hung up on him. Him. Ian Noble. Fury rose in his breast, heating his flesh. He tore the telephone stand from the desk, and threw it across the room.
How to fix this? Who was the woman upstairs? Ian stormed over to his locked desk drawer and knelt to examine the lock. Scratches.
She’d definitely been snooping in his office. What had the girl called her? “Isobel…” Where had he heard that name?
It clicked, and the blood turned cold in his veins. His fingers twitched, even the ones he’d lost to frostbite. The cold had tried to kill him once, but he wasn’t one to go down easy. Ian Noble always did what needed doing.
He glanced at the fireplace, then quickly unlocked his desk drawer and gathered up the betting slip, the newspaper, and anything else that might damn him. He dumped it all into the hearth. He struck a match, savoring the warmth of flame, and lit the edges of paper.
The door opened to reveal his wife. Her eyes were red from crying, her cheeks wet, her face drained of blood. She looked like a ghost. And her eyes… her eyes were so vacant.
“Finny, we need to call…” she cut off, focusing on the ruined telephone. “Have you called an ambulance for Freddie? I think that horrid little girl is working with the maid. Freddie must’ve caught them stealing. I should never have trusted a reference from one of Imogen’s friends…”
Yes, that was it. Stealing. Ian hadn’t fired a shot. He’d only locked a pair of thieves inside a room. He turned from the hearth and went to his wife, taking her by the arms. “I’ll fix this, my darling. I’ll take care of it all,” he said softly. “Don’t I always?”
She rested her head against his chest. “You do. You always do. But…” she sniffed and craned her neck to look at him. “That horrid girl and her accusations. We can’t have those sorts of rumors floating about.”
He rubbed a hand along her back. “Yes, I know. They won’t leave the house.”
“Swear it?”
“I swear it, darling.”
She gazed off into the distance. “I warned Dominic. Sin ruins a heart. His gave out, and now this… thieves in our own home. Freddie dying. He’s such a heroic young man.”
Ian looked down at his wife. Somewhere along the way she’d started believing her own lies. It was easier that way. And he knew better than to shatter her illusions—her health was fragile, and he loved her so very much.
“Why don’t you go to bed, darling. Rest. I’ll take care of everything.”
“You’re such a good man, Finny.”
He bent to kiss her lips, then watched her drift down the hallway like a ghost. Ian Noble would take care of business. His way. For his wife’s sanity.
62
Dark Places
Grimm threw open the stall doors and drove the horses out with an urgent smack. They were racehorses; it took little urging to get them moving. He opened Gale’s door, and as the horse danced out he swung onto his back, urging him towards the open barn doors.
There was a sound like wind. A whoosh of it sucking inwards, then bursting outwards. The blast hit Grimm, nearly knocking him off Gale’s back. Shards of flaming debris rained down on them and he hunched over the horse’s neck, trying to shield him from the worst of it.
Gale took off like a bullet, charging towards men who were running towards the stable. They dived out of the way as Gale thundered past.
Grimm’s ears rang. The world moved with frantic silence. He saw alarm in men’s eyes; smelled acrid smoke and gunpowder; felt Gale’s frantic breathing. The horse was out of control, and Grimm was on top of him.
Gripping the wild horse with his thighs, he held on tight to the mane and hunched down like a jockey, stretching his arm out along Gale’s neck. “Whoa there, boy. It’s all right. Slow it down,” he soothed, patting the horse’s neck.
A quick volley of gunfire sounded over the chaos. Gale screamed, and reared. Grimm slipped off his back and rolled out of the way, as the horse stomped back to earth. Then Gale bolted with a spray of dirt.
Grimm staggered to his feet. His back felt like it was on fire. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that he was on fire. Cursing, he rolled onto the ground to smother the flames, then scrambled over to a building and put his back to the wall, trying to make sense of what was happening.
Black smoke billowed from the building. Men rushed towards it, shouting as they lugged water buckets. The horses had scattered, screaming in panic, and handlers and jockeys were chasing after them.
Another gunshot. Grimm didn’t think. He bolted. Straight towards a volley of gunfire. He rounded a corner, and came skidding to a stop when he saw Carson behind a hay cart with a gun in his hand.
Grimm threw himself back around the corner as a bullet zipped through the air. “Give it up, Carson!” a voice shouted. It was Mr. Tim.
Grimm risked a peek around his corner. He spotted a flash of white beard in a darkened stable doorway.
“Detectives are all over your operation.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Carson yelled. He popped up and fired. But his gun wasn’t aimed at Tim, it was aimed in a different direction. Wood splintered somewhere across the yard.
Keeping low to the ground, Grimm risked another peek to see who Carson was aiming for. It was the stranger he’d seen outside the stable house. The Stranger was hunkered down behind a water trough. He and Tim had Carson pinned in a sort of triangle pattern. With a gun Grimm would have had a clear shot at Carson, but he was no killer.
“Then lay your gun down and we’ll have a civil chat,” Tim said. He sounded so friendly, so conversational and calm, like he was just sitting down to eat with the family.
Grimm wished he felt so calm. Sweat rolled into his eyes as he quaked with fear. He didn’t like violence. There was no time to think. No time to consider. Grimm wanted this nightmare to stop. It was taking him back to dark places.
He squeezed his eyes shut against memory.
“Look here, we know you’re not pulling the strings. We could strike a bargain,” Tim offered.
Carson tensed, then sprang up and fired off a shot at the Stranger, before bolting towards Grimm’s corner.
Carson ran for his life as gunshots barked, and bullets zipped past to splinter wood. A bullet pegged the man, and he staggered but kept running. Grimm thrust out his foot as Carson rounded the corner. The man tripped and fell, his gun tumbling to the ground.
Grimm didn’t stop to think. He dove for the gun and reached it first. Carson tackled him, trying to pry it from his hand. Grimm drove his elbow back into Carson’s throat, then scrambled away. He cocked the gun and aimed it at Carson’s face.
The man froze.
“I don’t want to shoot you, mister,” Grimm murmured. “But I will.”
Surprise flickered across Carson’s face, then came the realization that Tim was telling the truth—he was surrounded by detectives.
Carson raised his hands, and Grimm slowly scooted back. With the gun still aimed, he climbed onto his knees. His hand wasn’t shaking now; the finger he had poised on the trigger felt right.
A gunshot shattered everything.
A hole appeared on Carson’s forehead—perfectly round, blood spilled from the wound. Grimm blinked. He’d fired. How?
No.
Carson fell forward. Dead.
Grimm stared in shock at the revolver in his hand. But no… something wasn’t right. It was still cocked. He hadn’t fired the gun. What the hell?
Mr. Tim’s face bobbed around the corner for a peek. When he saw Carson, he stepped out into the open.
“He was gonna kill the boy,” a voice said at Grimm’s back.
Tim’s eyes narrowed to slits of ice. Grimm spun around to find the Stranger standing there, a smoking gun in his hand. He holstered it with a smooth motion.
“You all right, Grimm?” Tim asked.
Grimm hesitated. Carson hadn’t even flinched. It was on the tip of his tongue to say so, but he caught a dangerous glint in the Stranger’s eye.
Tim stepped forward and carefully reached for the gun in Grimm’s hand. He uncocked it before prying Grimm’s fingers off the grip. Tim held his eyes for a tick, then glanced towards the Stranger.
“That’s some fine work, Sam,” Tim said.
Grimm didn’t have time to worry about the man—this Sam. Maybe Carson had been reaching for a hidden weapon. It didn’t matter. He cleared confusion from his throat. “I think Isobel and Sarah are in trouble, Mr. Tim. I heard Carson on the telephone. Whoever was on the other end said there was a dying female detective in his house and a girl was accusing his son-in-law of murder. And that he needed them gone.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Tim swore. “Pray there’s someone at the agency. I’ll find a telephone.”
As the old man took off with surprising speed, Grimm blew out a breath, a weight of worry leaving his shoulders. He climbed to his feet.
“Thank you, sir,” he said with a nod.
Sam touched his hat brim. “No problem, Josiah.”
Grimm turned ashen. He went cold inside, as the man hooked a thumb over his belt, directly beside his holstered gun. Grimm didn’t dare move. There was a dead man at their feet with a hole in his head, blood still seeping into the dirt. This man had just shot him, and the more Grimm thought about it, the more he realized Carson hadn’t so much as flinched.
“Who’s Josiah?” Grimm croaked.
Sam plucked a cigarette from behind his ear. “I thought I recognized your mother during the police raid,” he said, striking a match. Keeping one eye on Grimm, he bent to light the end of his cigarette. “Little Josiah Shaw all grown up, and with an unclaimed bounty on his head.”
Grimm’s mouth went dry. He felt like he was falling into darkness.
Sam flicked the match on the ground. “Does your friend Mr. Tim know who you are?”
Grimm pressed his lips together, shaking his head.
“’Course not. I’ll tell you what, Josiah. You’ve done me a favor here,” Sam said, nodding to Carson’s corpse. “So I’ll return it and we’ll call it even. I’ll give you a head start before I tell the authorities where to find a wanted man. Deal?”
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