James unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it off. His only hope as he saw it meant engaging this man’s professional interest, making him desire the challenge James represented.
“Ah,” Roesch said softly. “Ah.”
The scarring extended down the right side of James’ neck, across one broad shoulder and, in a mottled pattern, down his chest and right arm.
“Your face caught the worst of it.”
“A valve let loose. The boiling water caught me here”—James indicated his head—“and here”—his cheekbone—“and splashed down.”
“A wonder you didn’t lose that eye. An even greater wonder you survived the ensuing pain. It must have been considerable.”
James said nothing, merely stood with his shirt in his hands and the worst of himself exposed.
“It’s mainly the face I’m concerned about.”
“Indeed.”
“Can you help me?”
Roesch sighed. “I would like to, Mr. Kilter, I confess I would. You present a fascinating case. But such a surgery would be time consuming and very expensive.”
“We could come to terms.”
“Ah, Mr. Kilter, I sympathize, truly I do. But I think not.”
James swallowed hard. “If it’s a matter of the money, I could try and raise funds.” He already owed Tate bail, and Tate’s pockets were far from bottomless, but he knew Tate would help if he could.
“Mr. Kilter, it is not so much a matter of money. In fact I would be willing to donate my services; your case is such an interesting one.”
James’ heart leaped once more.
But Roesch went on, “There is still the cost of the medicines and the cadaver. I refuse to deal on the black market, and suitable donors are hard to come by. There would have to be a reasonable resemblance.”
“I’d be willing to wait as long as it takes.”
Roesch ignored that. “The main question, Mr. Kilter, would be one of endurance. I would have to strip all that damaged tissue away. The pain would be intense.”
James thought of Catherine and the look in her eyes. “I could endure it.” He could endure anything.
“You say that now. But there would be weeks of agony and no guarantee of success. In my trials, more than half the grafts have been rejected.”
“The hybrids—”
“The hybrids, Mr. Kilter, are living skin laid over steel. Steel feels no pain. The skin, as an organ, does possess that sense, but the hybrids have no brain to translate the signals. You, Mr. Kilter, have a brain that would experience it all.”
“Please, Dr. Roesch, don’t refuse me. You have no idea how I want this.”
Roesch’s gaze turned kind. “Oh, Mr. Kilter, I think I do.”
“Then—”
“With all due respect, Mr. Kilter, desire is not enough. My trials show that when the implant is rejected or if infection rages beneath the bed of the organ, the pain surpasses anything that has come before—in short, anything even you have felt.”
“Organ?”
“Never mistake, Mr. Kilter, the skin is an organ, the largest of the body. And I would wish to replace most of the face area in one procedure, in order to reduce the possibility of residual scarring.”
“I can take the pain, Dr. Roesch, I assure you.” If it gave him the chance to win Catherine, he could withstand anything.
But Roesch shook his head. “It would be irresponsible of me, Mr. Kilter. I’ve never attempted such a large graft.”
“Then this is your chance. I volunteer to be your subject. I’ll even sign a paper saying I won’t hold it against you if it fails.”
“Let me consider on it a while. Where might I reach you?”
“Through my employer, Michael Murphy on Niagara Street. When will I hear from you?”
Dr. Roesch gave him another long look. “Give me a week. But, Mr. Kilter, I wouldn’t get my hopes up, if I were you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“There’s a man going door to door asking after you.” Dottie put her head in the kitchen where Cat stood at the big sink washing vegetables for dinner. To be sure, she’d never imagined the mere preparation of food required such a great amount of bone-wearing labor. She’d always taken the meals that appeared in front of her for granted.
Now she forgot her aching back and looked up, startled. “What?”
Dottie, her white cap askew on her head, made a face. “Make no mistake, he had a picture of you and everything.”
The carrots fell from Cat’s suddenly nerveless fingers. A cold chill touched her spine. “A picture?”
“Well, a drawing—of you as a woman.” Dottie tipped her head to one side. “You were very pretty, weren’t you?”
“How can there be a drawing of me?” Cat’s thoughts seethed. And how could Boyd have enough men to go door to door? Had he been to Toronto already and threatened her family? She knew her mother had a drawing of her, kept on the piano in the sitting room of the big house she used to call home.
Tate Murphy had sent a man to Toronto too, but Cat hadn’t yet heard back from him.
Of course, Sebastian Boyd had more money than Tate—much more—and she was learning money could accomplish nearly anything.
“Where’s Roselyn?” she asked.
“Gone to the market. She’ll be back soon. The thing is,” Dottie leaned in further, “this man’s showing the drawing to everybody, our boarders as well as the neighbors. And you did run out in the street two days ago, during the incident.”
So she had, and with no cap covering her strawberry-blonde hair. And she’d clutched at Jamie’s hands the way a woman might. Another chill touched her, deadly cold.
Did Boyd know where she was? Had he found her? Or did he just suspect?
She glanced at the back door, which stood open to the sunny yard. Anyone could walk in here and snatch her.
She might never see Jamie again. Never touch him, never kiss him.
“Where did this man go?” she asked and hurried to close the door and throw the bolt.
“Last I saw him he was showing the picture to a group of children two doors down. Albert, who’s after you?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“A husband? Did you run away from him?”
“I’m not married, but it’s something like that.”
“Does Miss Murphy know?”
Cat nodded.
“The thing is,” Dottie hesitated, “this fellow’s offering a reward for word of you. Twenty dollars.” Dottie’s eyes widened. “Now, that’s a handsome amount of money. A fortune. Me, I’d never betray you for that, but thousands would.”
Cat looked at the little maid and a feeling settled over her that tasted of doom. Twenty dollars represented a fortune to this small, cheerful girl. Why shouldn’t she jump at it?
“You barely know me, Dottie,” she admitted. “And you don’t owe me anything.”
“We’re friends, right? Even if you are some high lady, from the look of that picture.”
“Thank you, Dottie. Does it look very much like me? Do you think other folks will be able to identify me when I’m dressed as a boy?”
Dottie shrugged. “Best to keep that hair covered. And stop kissing men.”
****
When Roselyn came home, Dottie told the story all over again. Roselyn’s broad, homely face flushed as she listened.
“The saints protect us! Only imagine having the brass to go through the city like that.” She eyed Cat unhappily. “This man wants you back, and no mistake.”
“Do you think I was seen when the police, the ambulance, and all that crowd were out in the street?”
“Maybe. Anyway, someone’s clearly fishing in this neighborhood. Dottie, love, where’s Ben? I need to send a message to Mr. Murphy.”
“I’ll go find him.”
Dottie ran off, and Cat stood wringing her hands. “Will Mr. Murphy want to move me?” She hoped not; she liked it here. The work might be hard, but Roselyn ran an honest house that h
ad started to feel like home.
“Lord only knows.”
“Ben wouldn’t betray me, would he? Twenty dollars…”
“Aye, a tempting sum. Ben’s a good sort but, lass, temptation’s temptation. Who can say?”
Dottie returned soon to say she couldn’t find Ben anywhere.
“He’s supposed to be polishing boots in the cellar,” Roselyn said and huffed off to look for herself.
Panic chewed at Cat with sharp teeth. What should she do? Wait here while Ben possibly led Boyd’s henchmen to her? Run and flee? But where? Back to Mr. Murphy’s, where she might take refuge with Jamie?
“I can’t find him.” Roselyn returned with a worried look in her eyes. “Dottie, you run and tell Mr. Murphy what’s happened, that’s a good lass.” She turned to Cat even as Dottie hurried off. “Meanwhile, you had better hide in your room till we find out what’s what.”
“But if someone comes I’ll be a sitting duck up there.” Only one set of narrow stairs led up, with no other way down.
“No one goes through my house, lass.” Calmly, Roselyn drew a butcher knife from the drawer. “But ’twould be all too easy to bust into this room.” She gave Cat a sympathetic look. “I know ’tis warm and stuffy up there, but keep away from the window where you can be seen.”
“What do you think Mr. Murphy will do?”
“Jesus only knows—Jesus and Tate. He’s the one good at guarding people, not me.”
The tiny attic room felt airless with the door shut and the window barely cracked. Cat ached to peer down on the street and see what might be happening. If she could catch a glimpse of this man going about after her, she might be able to identify him as one of Boyd’s crew. Instead she lay on the narrow cot, breathing the hot air and thinking about Jamie.
Would he come for her? She hoped so; she felt safer in his company than anywhere else. She built a fantasy during which they ran away together and lived as man and wife. She wanted that, had ever since she kissed him—no, even before. She longed to feel his big hands all over her, on her naked flesh.
Convincing him wouldn’t be easy. But maybe this crisis—terrifying as it was—might be the very thing to precipitate matters.
Yet where could they go? She might seek to disguise herself; Jamie never could. He would be eminently recognizable wherever they fled. And a crowd of people had seen her with him in the street. Once they put two and two together…
Being in her company could only endanger Jamie. She contemplated that unwelcome fact even while she shivered in longing for him. Once Boyd connected Jamie to her, the bastard would be unrelenting in pursuing him.
She’d already placed Jamie at risk, this man she adored.
She stared at the plaster ceiling while she regarded herself with unprecedented honesty. She adored James Kilter and everything about him, from the color of his eyes to the way he touched her. She loved the height and strength of him and the sound of his voice that made her breathless. She absolutely ached to welcome him inside her where no man had been. She wanted him hot and heavy on top of her.
She wanted him forever.
As for the rest of it—the scars, the half-ruined face, the taunts and insults—she barely cared, for she saw none of that when she looked at him. His propensity to go off kilter, as Mr. Murphy called it, worried her more. But she understood his triggers. At heart, Jamie Kilter was not a beast so much as a defender.
And who would have thought she, Catherine Delaney, would fall heart and soul for such a man? Oh, back in Toronto she’d expected one day to marry. She’d been courted by a number of highly eligible suitors and had rejected them all. Too choosey, her mother said. Too demanding. What if Cat had accepted one of those proposals? Would she have been able to better protect Becky from her stepfather?
That made her wonder where Becky might be now. Still safe, Cat hoped, and not in Boyd’s hands. If Boyd did get Becky, would he then stop pursuing Cat? No, because he believed he owned her. He pursued her now out of wounded pride, and pure spite.
What would Becky, what would Cat’s mother think of the man Cat had chosen? For she had chosen James Kilter, and no mistake—her heart had, and her heart always held true. An orphan, a workman barely educated; even disregarding his appearance, her mother would not consider him suitable. But, Cat’s heart cried, what did her mother know? She, who’d chosen a lout like Everett Kraus.
Cat’s ear caught the sound of raised voices then, drifting up from the street. She heard the outer door close and the muffled sounds of conversation two floors down.
Had Mr. Murphy come? Had Ben brought someone else?
Cat stiffened where she lay and heard the echo of footsteps climbing the hollow, wooden stairs. Someone came.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“I’d like to see Officer Kelly.”
The desk sergeant, the same man who’d booked James mere days ago, gave him a narrow look.
“You, back here again? Most our guests can’t keep far enough away once they’re sprung.”
James grimaced. “All the same, I’d like to talk to him. He works out of this station, doesn’t he?”
The desk sergeant raised sandy eyebrows. “You do know he’s an automaton?”
“Yes.”
“Not much for conversation, them.”
“Look, is he on duty or not?”
“Not.”
James’ heart sank.
“What do you want with him?”
“It’s personal.”
“Want to ask him for a date, do you? I have it on the best authority he likes women.”
Now James’ eyebrows flew up.
“Anyway, you’re no pretty boy, are you?”
“It’s nothing like that.”
“Well he’s off duty, but he doesn’t sleep much.” The sergeant snickered. “I happen to know when he’s not working he hangs out at a bar called Nellie’s, down on Perry Street.”
“I’ve heard of it.” Nellie’s used to be one of the toughest joints on the waterfront. Why would an automaton go there? But he said, “Thanks,” and left the station, the sergeant’s gaze drilling a hole between his shoulder blades.
Nellie’s was probably a stiff five minutes’ walk from the station and would be quiet at this hour of the afternoon. James set off briskly, the hot sun beating on his head.
Buffalo’s waterfront, a veritable warren of docks, warehouses, and bars, teemed with life. Squads of men unloaded cargo; others trundled it about on handcarts. An airship had just come in, and James paused to look at it, remembering the first time he’d seen Catherine. His heart clenched.
Nellie’s, no more than a shack, perched among a number of sister buildings a stone’s throw from the harbor. It didn’t look busy at this hour, but as James approached the door, which stood open, he heard music coming from inside. He stepped in and stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior.
Tables dotted the warped planks of the wooden floor, and a bar built of packing crates stretched on the left. Perhaps six or seven patrons occupied the tables, and an old man sat next to a small stage on the right, playing a concertina.
On the stage…
A woman danced, clad in nothing except long stockings. Her dancing was poor, her body better, and because he couldn’t help himself James watched her for a minute before he withdrew his gaze and scanned the room.
All men, as might be expected. Or were some of them automatons? He looked more closely, hoping to recognize Kelly, who, he remembered, had sprouted a crop of reddish-brown hair beneath his police cap.
He spotted the fellow at last, sitting dead center at a table with another patron, having a whiskey and watching the dancer. Amazement touched James. What was Kelly playing at? Automatons didn’t drink.
He walked over to the table and eyed both occupants. He couldn’t tell at first glance if the second man was also an automaton.
“Officer Kelly, do you remember me?”
Kelly gave him a salubrious look and tipp
ed the glass of whiskey he held in a jaunty salute, a gesture James had seen Tate make a hundred times, and pure Irish.
“I was part of the coal-horse confrontation on Prospect Street,” James clarified needlessly; automatons didn’t forget much.
“I am off duty.” Only the slight mechanical whine in the voice detracted from the illusion of pure humanity. As the desk sergeant had implied, Kelly had no need to sleep or, presumably, rest. Yet here he sat apparently immersed in recreation.
“I know; I’m sorry to interrupt. I was hoping for a word.”
“Hope, Kevin. He hopes. Must be a human.”
It seemed to be some kind of joke, for both Kelly and his companion emitted grinding sounds that, after a moment, James identified as laughter. The second automaton, who must be Kevin, got to its feet.
“I will leave you lads alone, then.”
“Sit,” Kelly invited magnanimously once the other hybrid moved off to the bar. “Watch the dancer. Do you like?”
James took Kevin’s chair and shot another judicious—and unpreventable—look at the stage where the woman had begun to remove one stocking. She had nice legs and passable breasts, but she was no Catherine.
He said carefully, “I didn’t come here to look at a woman.”
“You wish to talk to me.” Disconcertingly, Kelly’s countenance displayed little expression when he spoke, and the nuances in his voice were few. Difficult to gauge what he thought.
Did he think, as such?
“Would you like a whiskey?”
“No, thank you.”
“I can summon the bartender.”
Again, Kelly raised his glass. He wore a soft white shirt open at the neck to display his brawny chest and the cuff fell back, revealing a large scar at the wrist, white and rigid.
“I’m fine,” James assured him.
“If you wish to speak to me about the incident on Prospect Street, I am not at liberty to discuss it. If you want my opinion, you will probably get jail time. But it is my further opinion the cab driver was a piece of shite who deserved what you gave him.” Kelly paused thoughtfully. “I have no respect for men who beat their horses. As I told you that day, the way animals are treated in this city is abominable.”
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