“Listen to me, old man. As far as I’m concerned, you had a hand in me death and the deaths of me brothers. You think I don’t want revenge for that? I can take it out on you or on these men to whom you’ve been delivering corpses. I want names.”
“Don’t know them!”
“A direction, then. Where’s this Cuttery?”
“Down the waterfront,” Tim gasped. “At the foot of Perry Street.”
“Descriptions. Come on, you already started to tell us.”
“No, it’s too horrible. And I barely saw them. I just dumped them bodies—”
“And these men paid you?”
“Must have paid Mr. Maynard direct. I only ever got money for booze.”
Liam reached down and hauled the old man up by his collar. “Know what I could do to you?”
Fagan never protested the threat of violence. Liam could feel the lad’s anger, a presence at his back.
Old Tim promptly pissed himself; the smell arose into the already miasmic air. He whispered, “Both young men, as I say, not above thirty. One has a terrible white face and hair stark black. His eye—” Tim broke off again.
Liam shook him, but he remained silent.
“And the other man?”
“Red.”
“What? Red-haired, you mean? Ginger?”
“No. Red. Skin and all.”
“He’s dreaming it,” Fagan whispered. “A whiskey dream.”
“No.” Liam looked into Old Tim’s eyes and believed him. “There’s something quite horrible going on, lad.” He let Old Tim drop onto the doorstep and arose to Fagan’s side. “Happen we need to go down to the waterfront and find out what.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It took both of them—Clara and Georgina together—to get the draught down Nancy McMahon’s throat. Even as they coaxed and persuaded her, Clara asked herself if she’d mixed the right dose. This whole twisted tale had begun with murder, after all.
Nancy slowly quieted, and Georgina, who knew nothing about Clara’s inner battle, breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank the Lord! I’m sure the neighbors must have been ready to call the police, and we don’t want that, do we?”
“No.” Clara’s nervous energy had her dancing from foot to foot. She stood watching as Nancy eased back into the pink upholstered chair that had been Clara’s since childhood. She glanced at Georgina. “Go see if the children are all right.”
“Are you sure you want to be left alone with her?”
“It’s fine now. She’s calming.”
Georgina hurried out and shut the door firmly.
“All right, then.” Clara pulled up a second chair from the desk and sat. “It’s just the two of us now, Nancy. Let’s talk until you get sleepy.”
“I want my husband.”
So do I. Clara longed for him—body and soul—with an intensity that shocked her. “He’s not here, but I’m looking after you. You can confide in me.”
Nancy began to weep, but without the previous intensity. The sad tears merely seeped from her eyes. “I hate it here. I want to go home.”
“To Ireland?”
Nancy nodded. She truly was a lovely thing, despite the wild hair and tearstains. Clara’s heart clenched in her chest. No wonder Liam had married her.
“Will you tell me about your home, in Ireland?”
A faint smile chased the tears. Yes, Clara thought, the draught she’d administered had been a powerful one. Her father had possessed rare skill at compounding remedies.
“I was once happy there with Tom.”
“Your son?”
“Aye, wee love. My beautiful boy!” Tears filled her eyes, and her face crumpled.
Clara leaned forward and covered the woman’s hand with her own. “Nancy, tell me what happened.”
In a whisper, Nancy replied, “I was angry that night, so very angry. He’d gone out drinking again and taken the last of our money for whiskey and beer. Stealing food from our bairn’s mouth, that was. And the bairn had greeted for hours—I had the devil’s own time settling him. It wasn’t fair.”
“No, it wasn’t.” Clara could not help but agree, ruing Liam’s behavior in her mind.
“When I heard them coming, I got up and swung wide the door.”
“Them?”
“My husband and his brother. My man was so drunk he could barely stand. His brother had to lug him home. I flew at him—I couldn’t help it—and he turned his back on me, walked out. Would not even listen! I went after him, thinking only how angry I was. My elbow must have caught the lamp as I went past. I didn’t see—I was outside arguing with him all the while, and I didn’t see! My fault!”
“Nancy, no.” Clara took the woman by the shoulders. “It was an accident.”
“The cot—my wee son’s cot was right beside the chair. I’d put it there whilst I tried to quiet him. The oil splashed everywhere; it must have caught his blankets. We didn’t see until the flames leaped high—and then I screamed, and my man flew in, he flew in—snatched our son, but the thatch started to fall before they could get out again. So badly burned! Both of them badly burned, and the smoke… Wee Thomas never recovered. He took terrible sick on our journey, after, and died on the way.”
“What did you say, Nancy? Your husband was burned when he rescued your child?” But Liam bore no scars on his body. Clara had seen every inch of him. His big hands were calloused, yes, but showed no burns.
“The whole cottage went up like a haystack. I lost everything that night, everything.”
“Your son’s name—it was Tommy?” The pieces began to fall into place in Clara’s mind. “And what’s your husband’s name? Tell me, Nancy.”
“Thomas McMahon.” Abruptly, Nancy’s eyelids fluttered down as the strong draught began to do its work. But Clara needed answers from her yet.
“Nancy, listen to me. Liam—was he your husband’s brother? So you were never married to Liam, not then or ever?”
“Married to Liam?” Nancy’s eyes flashed open in a shocked gleam of blue. “Why would I wed with Liam, when ’twas Tom I loved? Loved him, for all his sins. But ’twas my fault, what happened, and I lost them both…”
Clara’s heart, already much abused, bounded in her chest. “Your husband died saving your son from the fire?”
“Tom didn’t die in the fire, nay. That came after. Couldn’t forgive himself for what happened to Tommy, no more could I. He took a gun…took a gun and shot himself.”
By God. Clara knew a rush of compassion. Little wonder the poor woman couldn’t live with her grief, and no wonder she had been out raving in the street. “I’m sorry, Nancy,” she whispered. “So very sorry.” What had Liam done? What could he do, in such a case?
“I couldn’t stay there any longer,” Nancy continued brokenly. “Liam took me to Dublin…had some relatives there. They gave us enough money for our passage, said we could have a better life in Canada. But Tommy died on the way, my wee angel went to join his Da, and I couldn’t outrun the pain.”
“But Nancy, on the ship’s manifest you and Liam were listed as man and wife.”
“Better that way. Liam said ’twas not safe for me to travel without the protection of a husband.” Nancy’s eyes closed. Clara clutched the woman’s fingers still more tightly. She had to be sure.
“Nancy, please—can you assure me Liam’s not wed, has never been wed?”
“Never. Swore to be a bachelor all his life, he did.”
Clara’s treacherous heart bounded again, with hope this time. Liam had acted in good faith, lent his protection to his brother’s grieving widow. And the fault, if anyone’s, belonged to Thomas McMahon. A tragedy all round, but at the heart of it, Liam—Liam was hers, hers, hers.
Gently she released Nancy’s hands and got to her feet. Nancy slumped to one side, drew a deeper breath, and subsided into sleep.
Thank heaven Clara hadn’t given her the double draught of sedative. She’d be a murderess, and for no good reason. She marv
eled at what the love of Liam McMahon had almost made her do, and she acknowledged the deep flaws in her own soul. Perhaps she truly was more like her grandfather Van Hamelin than she wanted to admit.
Because only her reluctance to betray the man her father had been by misusing the medicine he’d compounded had kept her from a very foul and ruthless deed.
And now—now she had to find Liam and share the truth with him.
****
“That’s the place.”
The afternoon had grown late, and at this time of year dark came early. Liam and Brendan Fagan huddled together in yet another alley, this one fortuitously stacked with a screen of empty crates, and looked at the warehouse directly ahead of them. The place was the only one at the foot of Perry Street, as Old Tim had described. It looked like an ordinary warehouse, but Liam sensed something different about it that he couldn’t quite identify.
“Someone inside,” said Fagan, who proved a very sharp lad indeed. “See? Those are steam-powered lights.”
So they were. And steam billowed from a number of vents set along the roof of the building in addition to the brick chimneys that belched smoke—coal smoke, from the smell of it.
“They make the steamies here?”
“No.” Fagan shook his head. “Those are turned out in a big operation south of Ohio Street. This is something else. See—they’re drawing water straight from the lake.”
“How d’you know?”
“Those are pipes, there.” Fagan waved a hand at plumbing barely seen. It grew darker fast, and the windows glowed more brightly.
“Come on.” Liam grabbed Fagan’s arm. “Let’s see if we can peer in.”
“Careful. There may be guards.”
There were. No sooner had Fagan spoken than someone appeared around the corner, coming from the harbor side. A steam unit it was—a big one and, from its silhouette, armed.
Liam swore bitterly. “I need to get inside.”
“No.”
“I need to know, Fagan, need to face these bastards. They’re killing our countrymen. Don’t you care?”
“Aye.”
“Don’t you want to know what the hell’s going on?”
“I do, but I’ll not be stupid about it.” Fagan drew a breath. “I wonder if we can take that steamie, the two of us.” He swore. “Och, damn. There’s another one.”
The two steam units met on their patrol and appeared to confer together. Just like the building, Liam sensed something different about them: they didn’t move exactly like steamies and must be very advanced models.
“Something not right here,” he muttered. “Those windows—they’re painted over.” He narrowed his eyes. “White paint. We’ll not be able to see in.”
“You want to get inside so badly?” asked a voice behind him. He felt the muzzle of a pistol bite the back of his head. “I think we can oblige.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“Our Liam’s in danger. Him and my Brendan, both,” Ruella gasped the words, breathless. She must have run all the way from the county jail, and Ruella hadn’t been built for running. Now she stood on Clara’s doorstep struggling for air, even while Clara’s stomach dropped.
“Come in.” Clara drew her friend into the foyer and looked at her in concern. “What kind of danger? Where are they?”
“Liam came to the jail earlier, looking for me. Said he wanted to talk to Old Tim, get some answers from him.”
“Oh, no.”
“I hooked him up with my boy, Fagan—you know how I’d asked him to look into the records at the jail.”
“I do.”
Ruella raised agonized eyes to Clara’s. “Maynard must have had some suspicions. As soon as the big Irishmen left the jail yard, I saw two of the jail guards leave and go after them. I think they’re the same two who were in on hanging Liam that night.”
Clara’s heart thudded. “Where were Liam and Brendan headed? To Old Tim’s, you say? You know where he lives?”
“Yes, but, Miss Clara, it’s dangerous, innit? No place for you.”
“Wherever Liam is, that’s the place for me. Listen to me, Ruella.” She seized the woman’s beefy arms. “I’ve just calmed Nancy enough to get some sense from her. She was never married to Liam but to his brother. My marriage to Liam’s legitimate. That should put a spike in my grandfather’s wheel. But I need Liam safe.”
Before Ruella could speak, Clara turned and bellowed up the stairs, “Georgina?”
When Georgina tiptoed down, Clara bade, “I must go out. Watch over Nancy for me, will you? And send a message to Theodore—better yet, get him to come here and wait with you. Tell him Liam’s never been married—so the bequest is in force.”
“But where are you going?”
“To find my husband.” Her husband. “Do you remember where Liam put my father’s pistol?”
Georgina’s dark eyes widened. “Why? You don’t mean to—”
“I may need it. I’ll take Dax, as well. Dax—” The steamie, having opened the door to Ruella, stood by silently.
“What is it, miss? What’s wrong?” Fred and Woodrow, having arrived home from work, appeared from the direction of the kitchen. Clara realized it was already very nearly dark out.
“Nothing for you to worry about, lads.”
“Is Mr. Liam in trouble?” Woodrow puffed himself up. “I’ll help him.”
“And I’ll protect you,” Fred added.
“Not a good idea, boys. You stay here and guard the household.”
“Beg pardon, miss, but we’re too old for you to tell us what to do anymore. We’re out earning a wage. And,” Fred added, proving they’d been eavesdropping, “I can handle a pistol.”
Clara exchanged looks with Ruella, who shrugged. “Appears we have a delegation.”
****
The windows of the warehouse had, indeed, been painted over, and the interior was brightly lit, making Liam blink after the dusk outside. The place smelled of hot metal and steam, with an underlying scent of something far less pleasant. Liam saw Brendan, hustled in beside him, wrinkle his nose as he caught it also.
It smelled like a slaughter yard. Or a charnel house. Somewhere beneath all the bright lights, death lingered here.
Yet at first glance, the open space looked almost too clean. A raft of white globes, powered by a steam turbine, hung in a row from the high ceiling, and Liam could just see the great furnace half way down the room.
In truth, he barely noticed it; all his attention had been caught by the occupants of the place.
For a man hurried out when their captors shoved them in—another followed quickly from the direction of the furnace. Both took Liam’s breath away.
The first—surely he whom Old Tim had striven to describe—had skin of a dead, chalk white, and long black hair worn loose on his shoulders. Everything about him seemed elongated—face, neck, body, features—Liam’s mind stuttered as he looked into the fellow’s face, and his stomach turned over. The man had but one eye, his left. The right socket held a metal contraption very like Dax’s joints but much more complex. It whirred and ratcheted and adjusted itself as the man regarded them.
A mechanical eye, grafted to flesh.
“Well, what have you brought us, gentlemen?” The monstrosity’s voice sounded in a thin whine like the buzz of many bees. For an instant Liam went dizzy, and he heard Fagan draw a breath.
“These two were poking round where they shouldn’t at the jail, and at Old Tim’s, as well. We followed them here.”
Stupid, stupid, stupid, Liam chastised himself, and could almost feel Brendan thinking the same. But the gun still pressed against the back of Liam’s head, and the steamies who had been on guard had joined the forced escort. Fight appeared futile, but now he wondered if a quick death outside might not have been preferable to whatever might happen in here.
“Who are you?” he asked. “And what’s going on here?”
The man ignored the questions as he might the yapping of a hound. “Ah�
�Irish! What a gift. This will make up for our inventory shortage earlier in the month.”
“He is your inventory shortage.” The fellow with the pistol pressed it harder. The as-yet-unseen man went on, “Two birds with one stone, you might say.”
“What goes on here?” The approaching man reached them. Liam took one glance into his face and could not make himself look again. The fellow had brown hair, somewhat mussed, and mild brown eyes—two of them—but his skin was red as if he’d been dipped into a vat of boiling oil. Burns, surely, and no doubt caused by steam in some terrible accident. Liam’s gaze dropped to the fellow’s body, and his stomach clenched once more. The man had no hands. That was, no flesh and blood hands. Instead, mechanical devices had been grafted to the flesh half the way up the forearms, gleaming metal far more sophisticated than what Liam had ever seen on any steamie. The skin that met the metal, seamed and deeply scarred, red and purple from burning, looked so painful Liam flinched inwardly.
“Jaysus, Mary, and Joseph,” Fagan breathed, and took a hasty step backward, bumping into the steamie behind him.
“We have been brought a bounty,” the black-haired man told his fellow. His lips pulled back in a snarl, revealing long teeth. “Two of them—Irish.”
“Ah.” Liam felt the second man perform a visual inspection, measuring his arms and legs, and the width of his chest. “Just what we need.” He, like the other, spoke as if Liam and Fagan were insensate. “A long night’s work ahead, it seems.”
“No matter, Charles. Pay the men, and they can be on their way.”
“Wait just a minute.” Fagan drew another deep breath. “I am a member of the Buffalo police force. I’m arresting you for—”
He got no further. Black-hair leaned toward him, the mechanical eye adjusting for closer inspection. “You were a member of the Buffalo police force,” he corrected. “Now you’re just a lump of Irish flesh. Useful flesh, at that.” He looked at the guards, and the eye adjusted with a series of audible clicks. “Tell your boss we’ll count these two toward his quota.”
The man with the mechanical hands, whom the other had called Charles, reached into his waistcoat and extracted a billfold. Liam could not help but watch in fascination as the fingers, moving with delicate precision, counted out two lots of dollars. The arms moved so smoothly they barely made a sound. He passed the money over, and the hard mouth of the pistol withdrew from the back of Liam’s head.
Dead Handsome Page 22
