The Illusionist's Apprentice
Page 24
“I knew you had to work, but that you’d come back to me.” She pressed her lips at the corner of his mouth.
“Wren, I see where I’m standing right now, and I don’t take this lightly,” he said, feeling too inept for words.
“I know. But it was time.” She looked around, as if introducing him to the most secret part of her heart—the blooms and life growing strong and bold from every corner. “You’ve seen the war room out there. And I wanted you to see this instead. Here. It’s my peace. And you know the real me behind it.”
“You don’t know everything, Wren. There’s too much to say and I can’t think . . .”
“The thinker is without thought? However did I manage to cause that?”
He hesitated, the reality of seeing Jenny Charles, and not Wren Lockhart, too much for his heart to handle. “I meant, we need to talk.”
“Talk . . . Okay then.” A few small words and she was wounded that quickly. “We can start with the case first—if that’s easier for you.”
Elliot stepped back to his bag, knelt, and opened it. The papers inside were mostly dry—only the edges had absorbed enough water to ripple the paper. He reached for the sheet on top, then stood and walked over to her.
“What’s this?” She wrinkled her brow.
“Read it.”
Wren grasped the paper in gentle fingertips, then flipped the sheet up in front of her eyes, scanning the words on the typed page as Elliot recited them in his mind. “. . . an effect on the peripheral nervous system consistent with toxicity—not of foxglove, but of the Batrachotoxin-R family, resulting in cardio toxic effects similar to digoxin toxicity and acute cardiac arrest.”
She looked up, her eyes wide. “What do these notes mean? That Victor Peale was poisoned?”
“It looks that way.”
“You’re sure it’s this drug—Batrachotoxin-R?”
Elliot nodded. Just once. “The toxicology report was sent to Alexander Gettler, a renowned toxicologist in New York. And though the original report named the foxglove plant as the probable culprit, there were some inconsistencies. The effects on Peale’s body were similar to the foxglove—arrhythmia, cardiac arrest—but we were at a loss because there wasn’t a trace of it in his system. So Gettler’s office researched the case, and after examining the evidence, he found it. A drug of that kind is rare and more than potent. There’s no antidote, so once it’s administered, that’s it. Which means Victor Peale’s death was no accident. And now we have conclusive proof.”
He gazed down at her as a pained look washed clean over the lovely lines of her face. “I’ve shocked you.”
“No . . . But I—”
She lost her breath. He knew why.
It was one thing to suspect foul play, but it was quite another to have proof of cold-blooded murder. Elliot hated that it could become commonplace in his line of work, but Wren wasn’t used to such blunt matters of life and death. Whether Stapleton was the culprit or not, it could change things once the truth behind a case began to unravel. He’d seen it before, the lengths a man could go to dispose of another human life.
She didn’t look to be dealing with it very well. Her skin had gone pale and her hand trembled slightly as she handed the paper back.
“But if this drug was in Victor Peale’s system, as you say, and he was in fact dead when the doctor examined him, how was he able to stand and walk out on that stage? Did the examiner give his opinion on that?”
“A drug was administered, he believes, to slow Victor’s heart. To give him the appearance of having been dead already. He’s concluded it was a rush of adrenaline that awakened Peale in that coffin. It was enough to give him the ability to walk out on that stage, but not enough to overcome the effects of the first drug, which ultimately proved fatal.”
“The doctor gave him a dose of adrenaline while he was in the coffin? Surely not.”
He shook his head. There was only one person who’d been within close enough proximity to administer the drug on that stage. And she wasn’t talking—yet.
“Not the doctor, Wren.”
“Amberley.” Wren drew in a deep breath. “You’re sure.”
“Yes. She had the opportunity. Now we just need to know the motive behind it.”
“You said the drug is rare. If that’s true, then you should be able to determine who would have access to it and find out who’s responsible from there. If that’s the case, Amberley would have left a trail leading right to her.”
“That’s what we’re looking at now. But as I said, it’s quite rare. Not seen much here in the States.” He glanced through the open door. “Do you have any botany books in your library?”
She nodded, the magic of the moment that had passed between them long shattered by the foreboding talk of death. “Yes. This way.”
Wren led him to the library and flipped on the table lamp before she turned to the bookshelf. He watched her, wishing for the life of him that he could read her thoughts now.
She ran her index finger over the spines of several books. Scanning the shelves for the right title. He noted the way she flowed through the sections of shelved books.
“I thought the library was just for show.”
She shrugged it off, still searching through her books. “It is. Except for these—the books. They’ve always been mine.” Wren hooked a finger over the spine of a thick book and drew it down into her hand. “And it’s not a plant-borne toxin. You’ll find it comes from a bird. I believe this book will have what you need.”
“Islands of the South Pacific?” Elliot read the title on the spine, then stared back at her. “How did you know?”
Wren turned away, running her fingers over another spine, one blue and worn, lovely and familiar. She pulled the book down from the shelf and lovingly ran her hand over the cover.
“Wren, how did you know where that toxin came from? I didn’t tell you.”
He asked a second time, but she didn’t answer. Just hugged the book to her chest as she approached him. She slipped The Welsh Fairy Book on top of the botany volume in his hands, then eased up on the tip of her toes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.
Tears were building in her eyes as she said, “This is for you. In case you should need some reading later.”
“But this is your book. Yours and Charlotte’s. Why would you give it to me?”
Wren smiled, tears falling from her lashes. “I want you to have it. And no matter what happens, I need to know that there’s someone who will look after Charlotte. That someone will tell her stories, so she’ll know there cannot be dark without the light that will overcome it. Whatever darkness there is, God’s light shines brighter. It has to. He’s the Hero in every story—especially this one. I’m . . .” Her voice hitched, emotion catching fire. “I’m entrusting her to you.”
Elliot discarded the books on the desk, fear hitting him like a lightning strike. He’d never seen Wren cry.
Her reaction shattered him.
He cupped his hands under her elbows, drawing her close. And without care for pretenses or propriety, he stayed there. Close enough to feel the warmth of her breath against his neck. He ran a finger under her eye, catching a tear before it cut a path down her cheek.
“Wren . . . please. God help me, I need you to tell me why you’re giving me this. What is it you’re holding so close?”
A knock cut through the air between them.
Irina stood in the doorway to the glass house, a look of shock on her face. “Excuse me, Ms. Lockhart, but . . .” She looked at their stance, huddled in the center of the dim room and diverted her eyes. “A call just came in. It’s urgent.”
Wren was quiet for long seconds, then nodded. She stepped back, spine straight again, voice solid, and said, “Yes. I’ll take it. Thank you.”
“No. It was for Agent Matthews.”
Elliot started, turning toward the doorway. “Me?”
Irina nodded uncomfortably, twisting her hands in front of her. “Yes, sir.
It was from the Federal Bureau office. I’m sorry but . . . they say Agent Finnegan’s been shot. They don’t know if he’s still alive.”
“What?” He broke away from Wren. “What do you mean they don’t know if he’s still alive? What happened?”
“It’s all they would tell me, sir. Except that you’re needed at the Bureau office immediately and you’ll be briefed once you get there.”
God, please no . . .
Elliot’s chest burned with anger.
Not Connor. Not the kid with barely a year at the Bureau and enough gusto for ten field agents. Not on his watch.
He slammed his fist against the desk.
Not again . . .
“Wren, I’m sorry, but I have to go.”
“Of course you do. Go,” she whispered, mumbling through shock.
“I have to make sure he’s okay. I can’t—”
“I can’t be responsible for anyone else’s death” was what he wanted to say but stopped short, clearing his throat of unfettered emotion.
“I’ll see to Connor first. We’ll have to make arrangements to move Amberley as soon as possible. The cottage isn’t safe any longer.” He started toward the door. “But please stay here. I can’t take the chance that you’ll be out on the streets alone, not after all this. I can’t handle this if I’m worried about you.”
“I promise. We’ll stay here.”
He nodded. Still blown apart inside but soothed enough to know she wouldn’t be caught up in the turn of events. “I will come back, Wren. When I can. And we’ll continue this conversation. I just have to—”
“Go. I understand. You’re wasting precious time here when Connor needs you.” Wren ushered him through to the glass house. She lifted his hat and leather briefcase from the latent trail of raindrops. “Go. Agent Finnegan will have my prayers. You both will.”
“I’ll get word to you, just as soon as Amberley is settled.”
Irina cut in behind them. “It won’t do any good, sir. They said Mrs. Dover’s gone missing too.”
Wren leaned back against the library desk, moments after Elliot had gone.
He’d swept out into the rain, leaving in haste to get to Connor’s side. His worry, the pained look upon his face . . . She couldn’t possibly forget it. Guilt, it had a pain all its own. One she’d seen reflecting back at her in the mirror for too many years. The weight of it crushed her heart for him. If the worst happened to Connor, God forbid it, Elliot would never forgive himself.
The searing burn of guilt would finish him.
Staring through the doorway to the glass house, Wren watched the melody of the birds’ flight.
Why hadn’t they tried to escape?
They never did. Not even in her stage show. They flew over balconies. Under theater ceilings. Turning endless circles in cages of glass . . . But the birds never found freedom. They floated from branch to branch, content in their caged world, when if they’d been brave but once, they could have flown out the next time the door had been opened . . .
Why, when freedom was so close, did they cling to their chains?
Wren tore her gaze from the winged creatures, the fight to suppress emotion a losing battle. She let go for a rare moment, allowing herself to weep into her hands.
It had felt too right, the way Elliot had held her.
Kissed her.
How he’d accepted all parts of her without reproach. And now, knowing the part she’d played in one man’s death, and if Connor, too, were to meet the same fate . . . It was all too terrible to endure.
Wren inhaled deeply, summoning the courage to cross the room to the apothecary table on the far wall.
The jars’ labels were clearly marked. She ran her finger over the glass rim of each one, looking for a specific bottle . . . pitohui. Her instincts must have been wrong. There simply had to be an explanation. She’d find the bottle, full and stoppered as it always had been. The apothecary table was a prop, after all. It didn’t contain any real substances. She’d find it and by the time Elliot returned, she’d have come to a different conclusion.
Except, the spot lay defiant before her eyes; a clear glass bottle had been slipped in to take the place of the old one.
And her heart sank.
The other bottle and its contents were a mere prop no longer.
They were gone, likely used on Victor Peale weeks before. And the toxicology report Elliot had just shown her proved the truth. That only one other person in the world knew a toxin like that was part of the ruse in Wren’s library. Only, it wasn’t an illusion this time. The toxin was real—terribly real and potent enough to bring death without turning back.
A split second of horror gripped her, and Wren shuddered.
She turned, thinking to dash back into the glass house for her walking stick before she confronted Irina, but a hard blow struck her in the side of the head, halting her steps.
Wren tumbled down hard, until she was crawling on all fours.
A wave of nausea threatened to make her wretch as her vision blurred, swirling the colors of the rug into shapeless forms. As she collapsed there, the last thing she expected to see was the face of her friend, her green eyes intense and unapologetic, holding the bloodied hilt of a sword she’d stripped down from the library wall.
Wren reached out toward Irina, her arm lifeless and heavy as it fell back down in a thud against the floor. A warm trail dripped down the side of her face, running over the bridge of her nose. She wiped at it, blood mixed with tears, darkening her palm.
And a black sleep became her friend.
CHAPTER 20
MARCH 6, 1927
BOSTON CITY HOSPITAL
745 MASSACHUSETTS AVENUE
BOSTON, MASS.
Elliot hadn’t been to a hospital for what felt like ages, though his aunt had only passed the year before. But he walked through sterile halls, dodging uniformed nurses and patrons in the halls for the second time in twenty-four hours. It was supposed to be a place that made the sick well again. Yet he found his stomach twisting in knots over the hope that Connor had turned a corner and was finally awake.
Elliot nodded to the officer on duty outside the hospital room door and slipped in. Connor’s eyelids fluttered at the sound of the creaking door, and he opened them. His face faded into a sleepy smile.
“You look tired.” It was no surprise Connor’s voice sounded like raked-over gravel. He winced, pain hitching him when he tried to talk.
Elliot hadn’t even known he’d held his breath until that moment. He exhaled, relief washing over him at the sight of his partner, not in a morgue, but alive and talking, even if he was broken and bruised in a hospital bed.
“Under the circumstances, I think that’s what I’m supposed to say to you.”
“And I’m supposed to reply that I feel like death and probably look close to it.”
Connor must have felt well enough if he could toss out quips at the drop of a hat. That at least was something to be grateful for. He readjusted against the pillows at his back and patted a heavily bandaged thigh. “Guess I won’t be chasing any rumrunners down for a while—leastwise, not on foot. Maybe the Bureau has an equine unit I can look into.”
“I think we’ll get you a nice, quiet desk job after all this.”
“You can leave right now if you start talking rubbish like that. A man can only take so much.”
“Well, no one’s going to ask you to run anywhere right now.” Elliot slid a chair up beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Like a good hangover times ten.” Connor tried to shake his head and grimaced against the bandages compressed to the side of his collarbone. “But don’t go all partner on me. It’s just a scratch. I’ll be out of here tomorrow and back on the job by the end of the week. And we’ll finish this case like men.”
“It didn’t look like a scratch when I first saw you last night. And the doctors seemed to think it was serious enough that they transferred you to a larger hospital in the city.”
Elliot hesitated.
Of course Connor wanted to appear strong as an ox, though he was likely as worried as Elliot was. Those involved in the case seemed to be dropping like flies. It was the unspoken concern permeating the room, for sure—Amberley was still out there somewhere. Trouble was, Wren was too, and Elliot still didn’t know what to make of it all.
“I was going to wait to tell you, but since you’re awake . . .”
Despite his wounds, Connor sat up a little straighter. “Amberley?”
Elliot shook his head. “She’s missing. We’ve got agents out looking, but I’m sorry. There’s nothing so far. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t on edge for a new reason now too.” His heart felt a stab just to say it out loud. “Wren’s unaccounted for.”
“Unaccounted for? Is that a nice way of saying she’s been pinched too?”
“I stopped by the estate house this morning, and it was locked up tight. No sign of her. Her car wasn’t in the carriage house. It’s set me to worry, though. I went to the Bijou, thinking she may have been preparing for a show. But no one’s heard anything. I was in the theater district so I stopped over at the Castleton, out of distraction more than anything. But it’s closed, just as she said. Boarded up from the outside. I don’t know what to make of it. It’s as if she just faded into the night.”
Connor tore his gaze away to stare at a blank spot somewhere out the window on the far wall. “It doesn’t mean anything concrete. Wren knows her own mind. Who’s to say she didn’t step out for something? A new lead, perhaps? Or maybe it’s as common as posting letters or going for a dress fitting.”
“Wren doesn’t wear dresses,” Elliot shot back, frustration growing.
“You know what I meant.”
“She wouldn’t have gone out, Connor. Not for errands and certainly not for something as unnecessary as building her wardrobe. I asked her to stay put. She promised me she would.”