Dead Ringer

by Kat Ross

  He raced up the stairs. My breath caught as he tripped over a loose square of carpeting just below the last riser, but he recovered and launched himself down the hall toward the source of the taunting music.

  “Wait! What if it’s not Emma?” I yelled. “What if it’s . . . . Oh, damn.”

  Moran was already gone. I lifted my skirts and dashed up the stairs just as the playing abruptly ceased, the final dire note hanging in the air. I moved cautiously down the hall. The door to the music room stood open and I saw Emma leaning against the piano, dark eyes flashing. She pointed a pistol at Moran’s head.

  “Go away, Miss Pell,” she said tightly. She gripped the gun with arms outstretched and I could see her aim wavering a little.

  Moran stood stock still, radiating murderous rage.

  “Where’s the charter?” I took a small step inside the room. “We found Hannah Ferber. She said it’s not too late.”

  “It is for him!”

  “Please, Miss Bayard—”

  She cocked her head, her gaze riveted on Moran. “It’s coming for you, James. There’s no escape this time. No early release for good behavior.” She drew a shuddering breath. “You’re so clever, aren’t you? You’ve managed to survive longer than the others, and I’m glad! Longer to suffer, longer to imagine your final moments. They say if you live long enough, you’ll get to actually meet it before you die. Take its cold hand, let it whisper in your ear.” Emma’s face twitched, but the hand holding the gun steadied.

  “Klara’s stories gave me such nightmares for years,” she muttered. “Terrible, terrible nightmares. The doppelgänger was the worst, but there were others. Have you ever heard of Der Struwwelpeter?” She gave a mirthless laugh. “Ten morality tales of wicked children and their ghastly fates. No?”

  Her voice assumed a thick German accent. “Shall we have The Very Sad Tale with the Matches, in which stupid Paulinchen sets herself on fire and burns to death? Or the Story of the Thumb-Sucker, in which dirty little Conrad runs afoul of a roving tailor who cuts his thumbs off with giant scissors?”

  I cleared my throat. “I will concede that Miss Schmidt was a rather horrid nursemaid, but—”

  “Shut up!” Emma glared at me. “You’ve no idea, do you? Not a clue, either of you. My parents were barely cold in their graves when I was packed off to live here. Tamsin was too busy drinking herself into a stupor to deal with a grieving child so she gave me over to Klara. She spared you the attentions of that monstrous old creature, James, but she didn’t give a damn about me!”

  Emma’s finger tightened a fraction on the trigger. “Declan was the only one who showed me affection. The only one who cared about me. And you took him away, James. You took him away!” The last words rose to an inhuman shriek. Even Moran flinched slightly.

  Her eyes glazed over. “The boy had to be punished for what he did. Punished quite severely. Declan told me so. He would never rest until it was done, and done proper, mind you.”

  The boy. I remembered what Klara said, that his father never used his Christian name.

  A look of cunning came over Emma’s pretty face. “So I thought to myself, maybe that old monster can help me. Maybe she knows a way.”

  “And she sent you to Hannah Ferber,” I said quietly.

  “Hannah.” The name was uttered with disdain. “I expected her to be more impressive. But she took the money in the end and the spell worked, so I can’t complain.” Her rosebud lips compressed into a line. “I felt sorry for Danny and the others. I did. But it couldn’t be helped. Declan said so and he was right. It couldn’t be helped.”

  A slow, cruel grin spread across her features. “I waited so patiently for his turn to come around. I watched as the truth dawned and he saw his own death every time he looked in the mirror. What could be more terrifying than the evil that lurks within all of us? To meet one’s dark half face to face? The endless night of the soul made manifest . . . .”

  She went in this vein for a few tedious minutes. The monologue was a mélange of self-pity, questionable psychology, and half-baked religious notions that under other circumstances might have been humorous. Yet all the while she spoke, I could feel the tension building in the room, like the change in air pressure before a storm, and I knew Moran felt it, too.

  “Enough!” he roared at last, causing Emma to jump.

  I expected the gun to go off, but that’s not what happened.

  Her olive complexion flushed dark pink. “Don’t you dare—”

  “Where is it, ye mad bitch?” His fists clenched and I heard the hint of an Irish brogue again. Moran didn’t seem to notice, but considering that he was born in New York City and raised with a silver spoon, it was decidedly eerie.

  Emma gave a little frown. “Where’s what?”

  Moran’s last thread of sanity snapped. He hurled himself at his aunt. I saw her finger tighten on the trigger and then she stumbled forward as the brindle dog Blue slammed into her from behind. Emma fell to hands and knees and Moran was on her like a tiger, seizing her by the scruff of the neck and shaking her. John’s warning sprang to mind.

  He’s going to snap her slender neck.

  “Go ahead and kill me, James!” she choked out. “You know you want to!”

  He gave her another hard shake. “Where’s the charter, Emma?”

  “I know all about you!” she sobbed. “You’re nothing but a common criminal! You wear his face, but you’re not half the man—”

  “Me? What about you? Murdering innocents who never did you a single wrong. And the curse won’t stop with me. It’ll go on until all seven of us are dead.” She writhed in his grasp and Moran threw her to the floor, then pinned her arms with his knees and grabbed the gun from where it had fallen. “The devil take you, Emma Bayard, I wager there’s a special place in Hell waiting for you. I’m sure my father’s already there!”

  She glared up at him. “It was worth it!” she screeched. “I’d do it again. I’m only sorry Tamsin isn’t here to see you die!”

  Moran thumbed back the hammer and I rushed over and knelt down beside him.

  “You’ll hang this time,” I whispered, my throat dry. “At the very least it will be life in prison. You’ll never get out. Never. It’s what she wants. Look at me. Don’t do this.”

  He pressed the barrel against Emma’s forehead and she went still.

  “James, James, listen to me.” I had him by the sleeve and I could feel the strength of his arm. Every muscle was rigid with tension.

  “Go, Pell,” he snarled. “Leave now.”

  “Don’t do this. I’m begging you.”

  “Let go of me,” Moran said slowly, “or I swear on my mother’s life I’ll shoot you both.”

  He met my gaze and there was nothing in his eyes but hatred.

  I knew then that they were lost, he and Emma both. It was as if all the light in the world had gone out. Evil would triumph this night and I wasn’t even sure if it was supernatural or human.

  I released his arm and stepped away.

  “Coward,” Emma hissed. “You don’t have the guts.”

  Moran’s mouth set hard. It was the same thing Declan had said. His last words, in fact.

  I could have sworn the windows were latched tight, but a sudden howling gust sent one of the shutters slamming against the stone façade. It sounded like Klara Schmidt clapping her hands together.

  Bang!

  I saw his brains splatter the wall!

  Emma started laughing, a mirthless cackle that hardly sounded human.

  How I wanted to turn my back and run from that horrid house! Yet something gave me strength. It wasn’t the whiskey this time. It was my sister. I heard her dry, mordant voice as if she were standing next to me.

  There’s no one else, Harrison.

  I drew a deep breath and marched back over to Moran, suddenly furious.

  “If you want to blame someone,” I shouted, “blame your father for seducing an innocent young girl and destroying her!”

>   His eyes darkened and I thought he would shoot me on the spot. The muzzle of the gun pressed harder against Emma’s forehead. She stopped laughing and tears trickled from the corners of her eyes.

  “You’re better than him,” I said in a quieter tone. “You’re better than this.” I hardly dared to breathe as I reached out and laid my hand on his. How cold it felt. He didn’t resist as I eased the barrel away from Emma’s face.

  Moran blinked rapidly, his face frightened and confused, as if waking from a nightmare. He jammed the gun in his waistband and stood, his whole body trembling. Then he staggered to the piano bench and sat down heavily.

  For a long minute, the only sounds were the wind and Emma’s weeping. I knelt down next to her.

  “Please, Miss Bayard,” I said softly. “It’s over now. You must have the charter hidden somewhere. Won’t you tell me where it is?”

  “No,” she spat. “It won’t make a difference anyway. The other is coming, he’s coming, and you can’t stop him—”

  Bang!

  The loose shutter beat a staccato rhythm against the side of the house. Moran turned to stare at it, apprehension in his eyes.

  “Stay away from the window,” I told him, rising to my feet.

  He gave a hollow laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere near it, Pell.”

  Emma’s hitching sobs faded. She sat up against the sofa and hugged her knees to her chest. Her expression was difficult to read, but I didn’t much like it.

  I cautiously walked to the window and pulled open the drapes. It was a wild, blustery night. Half the trees in Central Park would be stripped of their leaves by morning. I started to raise the window sash when a bird plummeted out of the sky and struck the glass. It happened so fast I wasn’t even sure what kind it was, though I had the impression of a poor sparrow.

  I cried out in surprise and stepped back, straight into an end table holding a vase of tulips. The table rocked on spindly legs. The vase began to slide. I reached for it, fingertips brushing crimson petals as the vase tipped over the edge and struck the parquet wood floor. By some miracle it didn’t break, though the porcelain looked paper thin and the vase was clearly a valuable antique.

  Water crept across the floor.

  “Get away from it, Pell,” Moran whispered. He climbed up on the piano bench, the gun clasped loosely in one hand.

  I backed up just before the water touched my boots.

  Ice trickled down my spine. Small details acquired ominous importance.

  The red tulips littering the floor. That spreading pool of water. The flickering gas jets. The shutter, still banging and banging against the wall outside. The black dog that now stood in the doorway, growling low in its throat.

  A diabolical mousetrap.

  But who was nibbling the cheese this time?

  “You clumsy cow.”

  Emma glared at me. Her face was red and puffy but composed. She bent down to retrieve the vase, which was slowly rolling toward the fireplace. At that moment, the dog trotted forward and nudged her hip. Emma slipped in the puddle of water. On her way down, she struck her temple against the corner of the mantle.

  “Damn!” she exclaimed, rubbing her head. “That hurt.”

  It was only a glancing blow. I saw no blood.

  But when Emma straightened, her face had the blank countenance of a doll. The vase slipped from her fingers and this time it did break, shattering into pieces on the marble hearth. She tilted her head at Moran. “Declan?” she murmured.

  The dog whimpered and slunk backwards, tail between its legs.

  From his perch on the piano bench, Moran stared at her with a frozen expression.

  “Declan?” she said again.

  Her eyes appeared oddly mismatched and I realized that Emma’s left pupil was dilated but not the right. The previous spring I had helped John study for a test on brain disorders and recalled what the symptom meant. I went to Moran, moving slowly and quietly. Emma’s brow furrowed and the fingers of one hand twitched spasmodically.

  “She’s had a cerebral aneurism,” I whispered in his ear. “She’s bleeding in her brain and she’ll lose consciousness soon. Right now she’s confused enough to think you’re her dead lover. You must play along.”

  Moran shot me a look of profound revulsion.

  “Just do it,” I hissed. “While she’s still able to speak. She won’t tell you where the charter is, but she’d tell him.”

  He gave a reluctant nod and approached her, taking care not to step in the puddle of water. Emma looked up at him with a slavish devotion that made my skin crawl. I could tell Moran felt the same, but he mastered himself and reached for her hand.

  “Darling Emmeline.” The voice was deeper than Moran’s own, and harshly commanding, yet with a musical cadence. “My bonny girl.”

  “Declan,” she whispered, raising her other hand to stroke his cheek. Moran’s jaw clenched but he tolerated the caress. “I knew you’d come back to me.”

  She tried to kiss him and he took her firmly by the shoulders, holding her at arm’s length. Moran’s face was not what I would ever call soft, but now it settled into lines of unyielding cruelty. The transformation was eerie to behold. It was him, yet not – just like the doppelgänger.

  “Where is the charter?” he demanded. “Give it to me so I can make sure James never finds it. Then you and I can be together forever.”

  Her hungry gaze devoured him. “Why are you angry with me, Declan? I did all you asked.”

  He shook his head in denial. Emma’s right eyelid began to sag down her face. She raised a trembling hand. “My head . . . .”

  “Where is it?” His fingers sank into her arms and she gave a little cry.

  “Don’t hurt her,” I hissed.

  “Hurt her,” Emma echoed in a childish voice that rose with each word. “Hurt her, hurt her. Don’t, don’t, don’t!” Moran blinked in surprise as she threw herself at him, hands tangling in his hair as she kissed him with desperate abandon.

  He stepped back, the mask slipping so I could see his confusion and disgust. But then he mastered himself and his voice rang with cold authority. “Where is the charter, Emma?”

  Her mouth worked but no sound came out.

  “Where is it?” he grated.

  She glanced at the piano, a mute plea in her eyes. Moran dashed over and lifted the lid, jamming the prop into place. He groped inside and gave a cry of triumph.

  “You’re a genius, Pell!” he crowed, brandishing a folded square of paper.

  Emma had gone vacant again. A thin line of blood ran from one nostril, dripping from her chin and staining her green dress. She looked pitiful standing there forgotten, so I took her by the arm and led her to the loveseat. She didn’t resist when I gently pressed her down to sit.

  “Black spells can rebound on the summoner,” Moran muttered, grabbing a box of matches from the mantle. “That’s what the witch said. What are the odds of a healthy young woman having a sudden stroke?”

  “I don’t know. Long, I’d reckon.”

  “Very long,” he agreed with a dark chuckle. Moran struck a match and lit the pile of kindling one of the scullery maids had left ready in the hearth. It blazed to life, the flames crackling. He held up the charter and studied it for a moment, his face grim. “Remind me never to sign a contract in blood again, Pell.”

  With those words, Moran hurled the founding charter of the Pythagoras Society into the fireplace. We watched in silence as the edge caught and the parchment curled and turned black. The wind sucked the ash up the chimney and Moran stirred it with the poker until every scrap was devoured.

  “I wonder how Emma learned about it,” he said. “I never told a soul. Only the ones who signed it knew it even existed.”

  She still sat on the loveseat where I had put her, docile as a child. He stared at her, a suspicious look on his face.

  “Maybe she searched your rooms and got lucky.”

  Moran frowned. “Nothing else was disturbed and I
’m sure I would have noticed, no matter how careful she tried to be. I keep that room under lock and key at all times. You say she broke in with a hairpin?”

  I nodded. “A few months ago, after she learned the spell from Hannah Ferber.”

  “One of us had to have told her it was there,” he muttered. “It’s too much of a coincidence!”

  “We’ll sort that later,” I said wearily. “But your aunt needs a doctor. We can’t wait for John—”

  “The hell with her.”

  “Surely you can see how she was used,” I exclaimed. “She’s a disturbed woman who has suffered brain damage.”

  Moran found the whiskey bottle on the sideboard. “I’m not saying my father wasn’t a bastard, and I could almost forgive her for what she did to me. But Cash? Danny and Francis?” He gulped down a shot and gave the fire a violent poke. “Never.” He stared into the flames. “Christ, what will I tell Mother?”

  “She’s not a child. Don’t you think she deserves the truth?”

  He turned to me. “Thank you for all you’ve done, Pell. I do appreciate it and I’m more than willing to pay a bonus fee on top of our other deal. You’ve earned it.” Moran leaned forward, a belligerent look in his eye. “But stay out of my affairs.”

  I rose to my feet. “Gladly! This case has been the most miserable, demoralizing experience of my entire—”

  Above the wind, I heard the faint sound of the front door opening and felt a surge of relief. Moran stalked to the window and yanked the curtain aside. The wind must have shifted for the shutter had finally stopped banging.

  “The Night Squad is here,” I said in a cool tone. “I would strongly recommend being honest with Sergeant Mallory in all respects. If you cooperate, I’m sure he’ll keep the matter quiet. I’m not sure what your aunt will be charged with, but she’s incapable of harming anyone in her current state. They can take her into custody and arrange for a sanity hearing—”

  “Would you be quiet for a minute?” Moran was peering out the window. When he turned back to me, the blood had drained from his face. “There’s no police wagon down there,” he said softly.

  Emma started laughing like a hyena, insane barks that swelled in volume until I had to cover my ears. Moran gave her a savage shake and she cut off abruptly. In the silence that followed, I heard a single set of footsteps ascending the staircase.