Conspiracy of Silence (Ravenwood Mysteries #4)

by Sabrina Flynn

  "What does it matter? We wouldn't have won a dime in court. Atticus Riot dug up dirt on me, and told Kingston about the incident in Chicago. If we had gone to court, it would've all come out, and I'd be in prison for fraud."

  "That wasn't our deal," Gray repeated.

  "I got your money!"

  Sarah jerked her head away from the wall. Her uncle's shout would have carried clear to her attic room.

  "You broke our deal." The words were a whisper—the kind that made Sarah shiver. "You can make it right by giving Kingston back his money and telling him you've changed your mind."

  "With my past I'll get ten years in San Quentin."

  "That's not my concern," Gray said. "Trust me, a jail cell is preferable to backing out on a deal with me. If you do as I say you'll be alive and pain free. Do we have an agreement?"

  "I can't."

  "Fair enough," Gray purred. "I'll take the money you owe us from the racetracks."

  "You said my debt would be cancelled if I did this."

  Gray clucked his tongue. "If you followed the plan to completion."

  "I don't have enough money."

  "That's unfortunate. I suppose you'll have to sell this house."

  "I don't own it." Walker sounded like he might be sick.

  "That's a shame. A real shame. Fortunately, there are other ways of extracting payment out of a man's flesh. Or his kin's. Your charming niece will help you settle your debt."

  Silence hung in the room. Sarah held her breath, listening with all her might.

  "I'll get the money, and give it back. I'll do whatever you say."

  "I like a man who is willing to change his mind, but we'll need collateral, of course."

  Sarah didn't like the tone of his voice, or the stark silence from her uncle. Fear zipped down her spine, and jolted her feet to action. She raced up the stairway, clutching her drawing pad.

  "No, you can't!" Uncle Lee's voice yelped from below. The door downstairs opened, and Sarah bolted up the next flight of stairs. She slipped into her attic room, shut the door, turned the key, and waited.

  Someone was walking up the stairs.

  Heart fluttering, she cast around for somewhere to hide. A knock spun her around.

  "Oh, Sarah dear." William Punt's voice came through the flimsy barrier. "Your uncle was wondering if you could make us more tea."

  Sarah froze. These were the men from the brick building. They had tried to kill Jin.

  Sarah dragged a stool over to her dresser and climbed on top. The knocking at her door became more demanding. Her knees shook on her precarious perch. She stood on the tips of her toes, and pushed at the skylight. But the edges were too far away. She was too short to reach them.

  The door shuddered, she began to slip, and the dresser started to tip. She leapt for an edge of the skylight as her dresser toppled. Her feet dangled in midair.

  Clenching her teeth, Sarah tried to pull herself up through the skylight, but she had never been good at tree climbing. She couldn't hold on. Her fingers started slipping. The door crashed open, and Sarah looked upwards, through the open skylight to the night sky and cold air, thinking it would be her last glimpse of freedom. Determined, she gathered herself for a final heave, but her situation turned hopeless—a man with almond-shaped eyes appeared overhead. There was no escaping now.

  28

  A Watery Grave

  One right does not soothe a multitude of wrongs. The scales of justice were far from balanced. —Z.R. Journal Excerpt

  THE SEA WAS BLACK as night and smooth as glass. Not a ripple stirred in the dark. Isobel drifted, going nowhere. Her sail hung limp, her boat was dead in the water.

  She looked heavenward, searching for stars to anchor herself, only to discover that the stars were missing. Pinpricks of red gleamed down at her, all connected by gossamer strands. The strands grew closer—a spider web was falling from the sky.

  She was the fly.

  Isobel reached for an oar, and braced herself, preparing to flee. Her oar dipped in the water. But it wasn't the sea. It was thick and black. Oil. Undaunted, she began to paddle. Every stroke was tedious. Her arms ached and her back strained. Slowly, her boat inched forward.

  Her oar snagged on something. She cursed, yanked it out, and peered overboard. A pale oval shape was floating below the surface. She stared, mesmerized, unable to move—unable to look away. A face broke through the dim—a dead man, eyes picked clean by the sea, lips black, face marbled and bloated. It was Curtis, the brother she had killed. His lips parted in speech. We move in the same circles.

  Isobel tightened her grip on the oar, clenched her jaw, and swung at the talking dead man. Again and again, full of rage. After all, he had put her there.

  ✥

  Isobel growled, bordering on a scream. She fought and thrashed until a heavy weight crushed her.

  "You're dreaming, Bel," a voice said. It was calm and warm. She opened her eyes. A face that was very much alive with worry stared back. Blood leaked from Riot's bottom lip.

  His chest was pressing against her thundering heart. Isobel wanted to wipe the blood away, but her wrists were pinned to the settee. She swallowed down bile.

  "I'm fine."

  He released her wrists.

  "I hit you," she rasped.

  Surprised, he touched his lips, fingertips coming back red. "I've never yet managed to dodge a punch in my sleep, but I intend to keep practicing."

  Isobel closed her eyes. "Curtis. I was dreaming of Curtis."

  The weight pressing down on her shifted, but didn't leave entirely. Riot slid to the side, his arms still around her. There was peace in that heartbeat—more so than she had ever imagined possible.

  A slight vibration in the hull caught Isobel's attention. Untangling herself from Riot, she threw open a porthole shutter. Still dark, but lightening, murky fog swam outside. Water lapped at the hull, and the boat rose and fell like a breath.

  "What is it?" he asked.

  On the opposite settee, Watson snapped his eyes open. The cat stood, hackles raised. She smelled—

  Isobel grabbed Riot's arms, and heaved him to the side. They tumbled off the settee, over the table, and a moment later thunder struck. A crash, splintering wood, and a groan that shook her bones. The cutter heeled sharply to starboard. Isobel slammed into the opposite hull, a teacup crunching under her body as the lantern swung wildly. Then glass shattered, snuffing the light.

  Shouts of alarms, bells, and an angry cat confused the darkness. The Lady seemed to sigh, and with a groan she rolled on her belly, towards the gaping hole in her side. Frigid water rushed into the cabin, steam hissing from the pot-bellied stove. Somewhere, Riot was shouting.

  "No!" A roar of water silenced her despair. Isobel fought her way free of blankets and clothing, and scrambled towards the hatch. Pain laced across her bare feet. The companionway ladder sat on its side. She threw herself at the hatch. It didn't budge.

  Riot found her in confusion. He gripped her arms, and she could feel terror in his bones. He hadn't yet learned to swim.

  "Try your hand at the hatch." In contrast, her voice was calm—that of a captain. Riot moved to obey, as she fought her way through water and wreckage. With every crack and groan of the Lady, she felt her heart splintering right along with her boat.

  Isobel waded into the forward cabin, and tried the hatch. "Damn." She picked up a spare anchor and started hammering, the water rising with every blow.

  "I can't open it, Bel!"

  "Come here."

  When Riot appeared, she thrust the anchor into his hands. "Keep trying," she shouted in his ear. "I'm going to see how large the breach is."

  His hand clamped around her arm, and she squeezed it in return. He knew what she planned to do. Communicating more in that touch than words could convey, Isobel left him, dragging herself through the water into the saloon.

  A plaintive cry gave her pause. Watson clung to the wood. She unlatched a porthole on the ceiling, and pushed the feline th
rough. At least Watson would survive.

  Peeling off her chemise, she breathed deeply, calming herself. She took in one last lungful and dove under the icy water. Blind, moving by touch, she pulled herself down to the breach in the hull, and probed the jagged wound. It stoked fury. Someone had injured her Lady.

  She stuck an arm through the breach, and then her head, kicking furiously. It was tight. Wooden shards dug into her skin, as the water fought her. She slapped a hand on the outside of the hull. Isobel emptied her lungs. That final inch made the difference. As she pulled herself through the breach, pain slashed down her back. She slipped through the opening.

  Lines and broken timber clogged the water. Empty and lightheaded from lack of air, she forced herself to relax, to take her time navigating the tangle. Her throat spasmed, aching to breathe. She swallowed, and her head broke the surface.

  Isobel gulped in air.

  A trawler loomed overhead. Its crew was shining lanterns at the sinking boat, but they weren't moving to help.

  The Lady was on her side, her mast level with the water, slowly sinking. Under cover of fog, Isobel swam towards Riot's banging, and stood on the rail. With numb fingers, she explored the hatch. A bar had been wedged against the wood. She gave the bar a sharp, upwards jab. It fell into the water, and the hatch flew open.

  Water surged. Isobel thrust her arm inside. A hand clamped onto her own, and she pulled, fighting the rush of water.

  She squeezed Riot's hand. Wait a moment, she thought. When water had filled the space, she pulled him through, and he fought his way to the surface.

  Beams of light touched their heads, but moved on. "Someone wedged the hatches closed. I'm not keen on signaling for help," she said in his ear. She felt him nod in agreement. They were in no state to raid the trawler and demand answers.

  Riot had a death grip on a line. Without a word, Isobel pulled herself along the capsized boat. Working quickly, she untied a small barrel she used to collect rain, and pushed it back towards Riot. The whites of his eyes were luminous in the fog. And for a moment, she feared he wouldn't budge. But with her gentle reassurance, he released the line, and grabbed for the barrel. Together, they swam from her ruined home.

  ✥

  With every kick, with every beam of lantern light reflecting off a broken hull, Isobel's heart broke a little more.

  Her Lady.

  Isobel was not a sentimental person. But this hurt.

  She and Riot kicked to a far wharf, and dragged themselves onto a floating dock. Riot peeled off his wet shirt, wrung it out, and draped it over her bare shoulders. She hadn't even escaped with the shirt on her back, let alone her trousers.

  The wet shirt made her colder. Teeth chattering, she looked towards the scattered lights. Her Lady. An ache stabbed her heart.

  A hand clamped around her arm. The combined shivering of two made her shake even more. She glanced at her partner. Riot's beard glistened in the dark. He had retained his spectacles, an undershirt, and trousers.

  "Your pocket watch was aboard," she chattered. It had been Ravenwood's, along with the walking stick, to say nothing of Riot's revolver and his lock picks.

  "I have the only thing that matters."

  "Your spectacles?"

  "You know me so well." He reached for the wharf ladder.

  Isobel gripped the ladder, and paused. Had Watson managed to swim to safety? Her gaze was drawn to the lights—to the wreckage. With a growl, she climbed.

  Alex would pay for this.

  Riot padded over the planks on silent feet. He seemed to have a destination in mind, but she was too numb to inquire, so she simply followed. A sea of masts bobbed in the shrouded harbor and the watchman's shack was only a dim outline. It was the early hours between night and dawn, edging towards sunrise. San Francisco was stirring. And all she wore was a wet shirt.

  Riot led the way through narrow streets and lanes. Lights began blinking on in boarding house windows. A lone hay wagon trundled past, and Riot ushered her down an alleyway. It was clean and empty. He stopped at an unmarked door, and knocked.

  A dark face poked out of a second-story window, and Riot took a step back. "Mr. Cottrill, you once offered your help. I've come to accept it."

  The face disappeared without a word.

  Cottrill. That name was familiar. Of course, she thought. The proprietor of the Fragrant Rose—the tobacconist whose wife had been murdered.

  The door opened, and Silas Cottrill ushered them inside. He glanced at her, did a double take, and quickly averted his eyes.

  "Thank you, Mr. Cottrill. We're in need of warmth and clothing."

  "I have both." The man's voice was soft. Everything about the place was polished, from his bald head to his brushed slippers, the banister, even the oak steps. The living area was as tidy. Rich aromas of herbs and spices warmed her throat and senses.

  Riot touched her back. "You're injured," he said under his breath. She glanced over her shoulder in surprise.

  "I can't feel a thing," she chattered.

  In short order, she was pushed towards a bathroom. Riot followed, closed the door, and turned on the taps. She peeled off her shirt and looked at her reflection in the mirror. A long red line slashed her flesh. "I barely squeezed through the breach," she explained. With every word, her chattering teeth nipped at her tongue. The result was a sort of drunken slur.

  Riot set aside his steamed spectacles, picked up a cloth, and wiped away the blood. "I don't think it needs stitching."

  "More of a scrape," she agreed.

  Riot was pale, his lips tinted blue, fingers trembling with cold. Not caring what Mr. Cottrill thought of the two of them in his bathroom, she slipped off his braces, pulled off his undershirt, and unbuttoned his trousers. He didn't argue. Only shivered his way into the steaming tub.

  Isobel hissed when the heat touched her skin. Retreating, she gathered herself for another try. This time, she eased in slowly, and leaned against Riot. His arms encircled her, more for shared heat than affection.

  "I'm going to kill Alex," she said after the tub filled.

  "We're not sure he orchestrated this."

  "There were bars across the hatches."

  "The detective who followed me earlier didn't seem to know anything about the Pagan Lady."

  He was right. As usual. In her fury, she had simply assumed it was Alex who'd arranged the 'accident'. But there was another possibility. That 'average' man who'd been lurking around the docks could very well belong to Parker Gray. They were caught between two powerful factions, and she felt crushed.

  Isobel clenched her teeth together to stop from shivering, but it only seemed to drive the cold deeper down in her bones. Riot tightened his arms, and she lay her head against his shoulder. He made a fine pillow. "I dreamed of Curtis just before that trawler rammed us. I was dead in the water, and a web was falling from the sky. Curtis spoke to me." Her words didn't do the nightmare justice.

  Riot waited, his hands slowly caressing her arms. The dream had dredged up memories best left buried.

  "Men in shadows," she murmured.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Curtis said something to me that night." Realization hit. "I never told you his exact words, did I?"

  "You were in shock."

  She thought back to that night—to the horror of realizing that her own flesh and blood had betrayed her, and had meant to kill her. "Curtis said, 'I'm an Engineer, in more ways than one. Exactly like Kingston, but not near as clumsy. We are not so petty and narrow-sighted as that. There are powerful men in the shadows—men who can accomplish anything.'"

  Isobel shivered anew.

  "I've been assuming Curtis was working with Kingston, or moving in the same circle, but prizefighters move in a circle, too. And they're not friends." Her thoughts raced, and ended on the tongs. "What if there are two sets of men in the shadows—like warring tongs—only these are white men with considerable power and money."

  "Engineers manipulating San Francisco from t
he shadows."

  She nodded. "Curtis wanted me out of the way. I thought he was after my inheritance, but what if there was more." She sat up, and turned to look at Riot. "I assumed Alex was working with Curtis, but their actions were contrary to each other."

  "Kingston didn't react to the token," he reminded.

  "No, he didn't, but this…Sing Ping King Sur is secretive. Perhaps they haven't revealed themselves yet. Maybe Curtis feared something else when I married Alex—that he was angling towards something."

  "Kingston works for the Southern Pacific Railways." A group of rich investors who nearly controlled California along with the rest of America. But they had not been altogether successful in San Francisco.

  "It makes sense, doesn't it? That the Southern Pacific would have enemies. But as powerful as they are, those enemies might not want themselves known yet."

  "Do you think Curtis was working with Sing Ping King Sur?" Riot asked.

  She raised her brows. "What better way to hide than behind the mask of a secretive Chinese tong. I doubt the Southern Pacific would look twice at a tong."

  "So who's behind it?"

  That was the question. Who was the spider that sat in the middle of the web—the mastermind? It wasn't Parker Gray. It was clear he was a middleman.

  "I haven't thought of my brother…of that night. I didn't want to," she murmured. Cold and drained, she hugged herself. "I'm full of bluster sometimes."

  He cupped her face in his hands. "You're full of courage, Bel. But that doesn't erase bad memories. It only means you eventually need to turn around and face your demons."

  "Like you?"

  He gave her a rueful smile. "It took me three years, and a great deal of help from you. I'm not sure I've faced them all."

  "We can scratch off nearly drowning in a shipwreck."

  "I nearly drowned last month."