Casey swallowed and pressed his head into the wall. He needed to keep his control. He needed to look in a calm fashion so that he could assess and understand the situation. Why and how she had ended up here didn’t matter, only that they were going to kill her. He did not intend to allow that to happen.
She was clearly exhausted and terrified. Her hands were clasped protectively around the mound of her stomach. The pregnancy was well advanced, dangerously so. She was terribly quiet, almost as if she thought she might disappear from their view if she stayed silent. There was a bruise on the right side of her jaw, a stark black and blue blossom against her pale skin. Her hands were scraped on the backs, the knuckles slightly swollen. There was a glint of silver on her left hand and he remembered his long ago wish that his ring held the magic to lead him back to its match. In the future, he thought, he was going to have to be far more specific when he wished for things.
“Please, you can just go,” she was saying. “Just go, I swear I won’t tell anyone. I’ll say you wore masks the entire time and that I can’t identify you. Please.”
“Shut up, whore!” A woman, whom he hadn’t noticed up to this point, darted out and slapped Pamela hard across the face. She cried out, just a small cry but it broke his heart to hear it. She backed into the corner, cowering into the filthy mattress. He realized she was chained by one ankle to the wall. His hands fisted instinctively. He would kill the small mad-looking woman first. Just cut her throat, swift as that.
“If neither of yez is man enough to kill the woman, I will do it myself. So shut yer mouths an’ quit yer bleatin’ about it. We have to wait until the baby is born.” She flicked a glance at Pamela. “It can’t be much longer, she looks like she’s about to burst with it.”
He put his forehead to the crumbling stone, wishing he could just break through it and save her. Three men and one woman, which meant he had to count on at least four weapons. He couldn’t take them head on, it was going to have to be an attack of a totally different sort, which would hold its own risks. He stood there a moment longer, hands fisted at his sides, the small cry she’d uttered when the woman slapped her echoing in his head. He had to go so he could come back and save her. The very idea made him sick to his stomach, but he couldn’t take on three men and a crazed woman alone. He wanted to make sure the odds were in his favor as much as he could possibly stack them. And that meant he needed a gun. He pulled back from the wall and that was when a bit of stone, loosened by his touch, fell to the floor. It made a racket like a bag of marbles falling on glass, or at least it felt so to him. He stood there paralyzed, not even breathing, and furious with himself for his carelessness. It was the proximity to Pamela, he knew. That one simple fact had completely unmoored him.
“Did ye hear that?”
“Probably rats or birds, livin’ in the walls,” said one of the men. He could hear the crunch of boots on the floor, as the one who had spoken walked toward the fireplace.
“Go check the other rooms in the corridor,” said the bald man with the extremely red face.
Casey thought wildly about the bag and the boots he had left in the room behind him. Please, dear God, let the fool overlook them, let the shadows be deep enough to hide them. If they caught him, he had no doubt they would kill him. The thought of it almost made him laugh—to come this far, to regain a little of who he had been and then to be killed in front of his own long-lost wife, would be beyond a tragic irony. It would be, he thought, with a bubble of panic building in his chest, really quite Irish in scope.
He could hear the man coming down the hall, stopping at each doorway to look. He knew the layout like the back of his own hand, and he counted the rooms off as the man halted and walked, halted and walked. The room with part of the floor missing but with all the window panes curiously intact. The room with the blue door hanging off its hinges, its brass door knocker long turned black. The room where the vines had crawled in through the window and overwhelmed everything inside, so that it seemed a secret garden held within crumbling stone walls. And then at last the room in which he now stood, with only a flimsy door between him and the man. He stayed perfectly still, certain that his heart must be echoing through the tiny space, it was beating so hard. Those goddamn boots. He couldn’t believe he’d done something so stupid.
The man came in the room. To Casey, standing in the ridiculously small cupboard, sweating, it seemed that he looked around for several minutes. In reality it was probably only a few seconds before he went back out. It was dark in the room and clearly he’d missed the boots. Or he was standing out there in the dark corridor. Casey barely dared to breathe. He forced himself to count to one hundred before he eased open the door to his cupboard. He couldn’t see anyone in the room; he stepped out slowly, aware that the man could be waiting in the shadows for Casey to pop his head out so he could blow it off.
He grabbed his bag and his boots and crept to the doorway. He hesitated for a second; he would have to risk it. He went right along the corridor, even though it went against every instinct he had to walk away from Pamela. He was halfway down the long dark stretch when he heard someone coming along right behind him. He went a few more feet and then ducked to the right down a set of stairs. Had the person seen his outlines moving ahead of him in the corridor? He didn’t think so, or surely the man would have yelled out to warn the others before giving chase. He went down another set of stairs, thinking it was likely the safest option. The man was probably going outside and not into the bowels of the building, which is where he now appeared to be. He waited for a few minutes, breathing in the cold air and letting his heart resume a steadier pace. Above him a door creaked and a rush of cold air swept over him. The man had gone outside. He breathed out with relief and then reached into his bag, took out his torch and clicked it on.
He was in a cellar of sorts with a long tunnel running under the length of the building. He paused to put his boots back on and then walked along the tunnel. There were small rooms off to one side and he flashed the light around each one of them. With luck he might find some sort of weapon. One man had left. He thought it possible he could take two with something like a length of pipe. It was clear no one had been here in a very long time. Cobwebs fluttered in the dank air and he could hear water dripping further into the tunnel. He shivered. The atmosphere wasn’t of the sort to bolster a man’s courage. Some of the rooms held old half-rotted chairs, stacks of chamber pots and disturbingly, a bed with a heap of chain attached to its frame. Halfway down the tunnel, just when he was thinking he ought to turn back, he saw the crates. Two of them, covered in heavy canvas. He went in the room and pulled back the canvas, excitement running through his veins. It couldn’t possibly be guns, and if there were guns there might not be ammunition to go with them. He pried the lid off of one crate, disbelieving his luck. Guns tightly packed in straw and in good shape. Clean, dry and in prime firing condition.
“Please God,” he said and pried the lid off the other container to find his short prayer had been answered. Ammunition and lots of it. Enough to start a small scale war. It was odd that someone had chosen to keep guns here, but thank Christ and all the saints that someone had.
He chose two weapons and two boxes of shot. If he got in a fire fight he wanted to make certain he had ammunition enough to kill every last man in that room, before they killed him. He was a good shot and the months in the mountains had sharpened his skill. At close range he would have chosen a pistol, but at the distance he was going to shoot from he needed the long barrel of a rifle with a sight. The one he had picked was a short-action Mauser. It was top-notch for accuracy, and come hell or high water or damp it always worked. He wouldn’t have to worry about it malfunctioning on him; he couldn’t afford the slightest complication. He was going to have to take out two men before even one of them could get near Pamela. He put the pistol in the waistband of his pants. He might need it if any of the men managed to escape the building. He took a deep breath. He was as ready as he could possibly
be.
Outside, he crept low and fast over the ground. There was an oak not too far from the building and not too close either. He knew it would give him the best vantage point. He slung the rifle over his back and began the climb into the tree. His knee hurt but he ignored the pain, focused only on getting level with that one window. The wind was blowing hard and the branches were slick with freezing rain. It made the climb difficult and it was going to make getting a decent shot hard, too. There wasn’t time to wait for better weather and so he kept climbing, a strange calm settling over him now that he had begun on a course of action.
He found a branch he thought would bear his weight that was a tiny bit higher than the window. He took the rifle from his back and held it in his right hand, using his left to wipe the cold rain from his eyes.
Casey settled himself as firmly as he could, his mind buzzing slightly with panic. He looked through the sight and felt his heart drop as he did. The third man was back and was right next to Pamela. With the wind and the rain, he risked hitting her and missing the man entirely. He needed the man to move and wished he could will the bastard to step away from her and yet stay within sight of the window, giving him a clear shot.
“Make him move,” he muttered between his teeth, uncertain if a higher power was likely to assist him in killing a man, but feeling a plea was worth a try. It seemed the universe was listening, for the man turned his head as if he sensed something. It widened the gap between him and Pamela to a scant few more inches, but it was going to have to be enough. God forgive him, it was going to have to be enough.
He couldn’t think about the risk; he had a job to do and it had never been more important that he do it right. He felt a thin line of sweat break out on his forehead. He realized he wasn’t breathing and that his chest was tight with the lack of oxygen. He stretched his neck a little and then settled his eye to the sight once more. He could feel the press of his rosary beads in his pocket. He would pray when this was done, or he would collapse entirely.
A man’s voice, his father’s voice, he realized, echoed through his head, as if the man stood now over his shoulder, his words there to shore up his son’s courage.
“Never seen anyone with a shot like you, son, ye could take the eyeball out of a gnat from a half mile away. Ye’ve a good steady hand on ye, and an eye like an eagle.”
He took a long breath. “Daddy, if ye can hear me, keep my hand steady and steel my nerve.”
For a second, he thought he felt the touch, light as air, of a big hand on his shoulder.
He let out his breath and took the shot.
Chapter Eighty-nine
I Rest in the Grace of the World
FOR A MOMENT she wondered if she was dead, and then she opened her eyes and realized she was, indeed, alive. Around her all was silent, except for a scrabbling in one corner. Rats, maybe, smelling the blood. All the men were dead. She couldn’t see Elspeth. As far as she could tell, huddled here on her filthy mattress, all the men had been shot in the chest—shot dead center.
Her ears were ringing and she rubbed them a little, daring to sit up a bit more so she could better see. She thought there had been five shots all together. She hoped Elspeth had been hit by one of them.
The scrabbling in the corner coalesced like a spider emerging from a hole. Elspeth was still alive, but judging by her movements, badly injured. She was dragging herself along the floor, a gruesome noise which was both wet and scratchy at the same time. She’d been shot in her left leg. She was dragging herself with purpose and Pamela looked along her sight line to see that one of the men’s guns had fallen away from him and was just a few feet beyond her mattress.
If she stretched out on her side as far as possible, she just might be able to reach it first. It was awkward getting over on her side but she used the mattress for a bit of traction, bracing her feet into it to push herself forward. She wiggled out across the floor, as Elspeth continued to make her slow way toward the gun, her left leg dragging behind her.
Pamela’s fingers were at least an inch shy of the gun and her ankle felt like it was going to break if she applied any more strain on it. She stretched once again and felt something give a little in her back but it was enough to let her reach the gun. She wrapped her fingers around it and pulled it toward her just as Elspeth slapped her hand, wet with blood, on the muzzle. She pulled the trigger and Elspeth howled in pain, and then there was the sound of feet running up the stairs. Was it the shooter, come to finish the job, and more importantly, was he friend or foe?
Two men came through the door—one friend, one foe—Jamie and with him, the Reverend Lucien Broughton. The latter had a gun. She had thought her heart couldn’t squeeze any tighter than it already had, but it did, as she realized the gun was trained on Jamie and that his hands were bound.
“Oh, Elspeth,” the Reverend sighed, looking down at the woman now scrabbling to get up off the floor despite her leg and bloodied hand. “What a naughty girl you have been. You’ve made a terrible mess of things, haven’t you? And now I’m going to have to clean it up. Pamela, slide that gun across the floor or I’m going to shoot your lover in the head.”
She did as she was told so that the gun was well clear of Elspeth who, clutching her wounded hand, had managed to drag herself up into a sitting position. It became obvious why she’d been dragging her leg, for her kneecap was shattered and the flesh over top of it was torn wide, exposing the pearly gristle of tendon and bone. She had a knife clutched in her good hand though, and Pamela feared the woman was mad enough that she wasn’t aware of the pain right now and so would not have its limitations.
She looked at Jamie then. Their situation was untenable and about, she knew, to become tragic but it was such a relief to see a loved face that she thought she might break down in tears just at the sight of him. He gave her a look, a question in his face and she answered in kind. What these last days had meant to him, she could only imagine. By that look alone she understood that Conor and Isabelle were fine, and that there was nothing beyond these walls she need fear.
“Here she is, just as I promised. And now brought face-to-face with it, will you keep your word?”
“I made a bargain,” Jamie said. “I will keep my word and you must keep yours. She has to be clear of here first.”
“Jamie—what bargain?” she asked. Her voice was barely above a whisper.
The Reverend looked at her, a chill little smile playing about his mouth. She had not seen this man since a night long ago, when he had killed someone who’d been intent on doing the same to her.
“He offered his life in exchange for yours and that of his child.”
Pamela breathed out, horrified. “Jamie, no.”
“Kneel down,” the Reverend said and Pamela felt the world sway around her. She shook her head and realized tears were running down her face. He would do it, and Lucien would not understand the depth of the sacrifice nor the willingness with which it was given. Because love was not restrained by fear, and did not shape itself to such forms. Like water trapped amidst rock, love wound around, rose above or wore down all obstacles in its pathway. Love, not hatred. And so Jamie Kirkpatrick looked into the eyes of his own love, and kneeled down.
The Reverend smiled. “I had wondered if you meant it.”
“Yes, I meant it,” Jamie said. He did not look at Lucien but at her as he said it. “Now unshackle her.”
“Do as he says, Elspeth. Take the chain off her leg.”
“Are ye going to just let her go?” Elspeth said, a wild disbelief in her voice. “Ye have no right. I took her, I want the baby.”
“No, Elspeth. Take the chain off her leg or I will shoot you.” He pointed the gun at her, briefly, to show that he meant it. “The baby is not for you. The baby is theirs.”
“The baby is his?” she asked, a dawning horror in her face.
“Yes, the baby is his. I’ve never touched the woman,” he said and smiled.
“But you…you made me think…”
>
“I didn’t make you think or do anything, Elspeth,” he said smoothly. “You did all of this of your own free will. Only now you’ve taken it too far. Only I remove players from the board. Not you. You did not have my permission to do any of this.”
“Permission? I saved you from this harlot,” she said, spitting with rage.
“How?” he asked. “You made a fantasy in your head and allowed it to bloom into something dark and terrible. Now, remove the chain as I told you to.”
Elspeth unlocked the chain around her ankle, though she did it so roughly that Pamela’s ankle was bleeding by the time the manacle slid free. She needed to get to her feet and yet she was afraid to, for fear that if she stood, Elspeth would see that the back of her clothes were soaked. She understood what the pulling in her back had been. Her water had broken.
“Elspeth, get away from her. She is to go free. I am a man of my word and I promised she would go free.”
“No, I won’t do it. I want the baby.” Elspeth had managed to drag herself to her feet. Pamela had been right—the woman was no longer feeling pain.
Pamela got to her feet, legs trembling, afraid that so small an effort was going to push her into full-fledged labor. Both Conor and Isabelle’s births had been sudden and intense. She could not afford to have that happen here. The woman was right behind her and Pamela felt the cold prickle of the knife, right at the base of her spine. She froze in place.
“No,” Elspeth said, her voice defiant. “I am not letting her go. I want the baby.”
“Elspeth, shut up,” the Reverend said, his patience clearly fraying. “I will deal with you after this is over. Take the knife from her or I will do it for you.”
Elspeth slid the knife up a little to where, if she stabbed her, it would likely be fatal. Pamela could feel it poking into her back, just above her kidneys. One wrong move and she would be dead. She pulled a little to the right, where the window yawned open behind them. If the shooter was still there, and if he was indeed a friend, then maybe, just maybe, she could tilt the balance a little in their favor. Elspeth was so focused on the Reverend she might not realize where she was in the room in relation to the window.
In the Country of Shadows (Exit Unicorns Series Book 4) Page 100
