"But why were you crying, carina?"
Wyntir squirmed in her seat. "For the longest time, I couldn't remember anything about the day Papa died. But tonight, I recalled how he argued with Reverend Fowler because the preacher told Papa to send Dante packing.
"But Papa would never do that, of course. Dante was like family, and besides, Papa swore by Dante's music. Whenever Dante played the violin, the neck pain from Papa's mining injury went away. Dante couldn't play the fiddle all day, so he gave Papa a music box. By and By. That was the hymn. Papa listened to that song over and over again. And when he did, he felt as good as new."
Sadie thought she might be sick.
"On the day Papa died, I heard him shouting at Reverend Fowler. He said that spirit messages were hogwash. I was appalled! I mean, Papa was the one who'd first suggested that we use a medium to contact Mama!
"But for weeks, he'd been acting so strangely. So alien to his nature. Before Reverend Fowler left the house, he warned me that Papa was in danger. That same afternoon, Papa shot himself," she whispered hoarsely. "It was horrible—horrible! But no one tried to hurt Papa. Even the police said so."
Sadie swallowed hard. In light of what she knew about Dante Goddard, she wasn't sure she agreed with the police. However, to send him to the gallows, she needed a reliable witness. Right now, Wyntir's recollections were confused by grief, guilt, and whatever insidious "therapies" she'd suffered at Goddard's hands.
"Tell me, carina," she murmured, steering the conversation back to the journal, "who is this Minta who embroiders so beautifully?"
Wyntir hugged the book to her heart. "Minta was my best school friend. My goodness, I haven't seen her for years!" The glimmer of happiness faded from Wyntir's eyes. "And yet, I remember sitting on that window bench, writing about the eulogy she gave at Papa's funeral. That can't be right, can it?" Wyntir's voice broke. "You see, Fiore? I'm confusing my dreams with my waking life!"
"But your journal. You think it will help you recognize the difference?"
"Maybe." Wyntir bit her lip. "I hope so." She raised impossibly big, tear-filled eyes to Sadie's. "But I'm afraid! What if the dreams are real?"
"Then Nico and I will help you. We are your friends. And we have many friends. You are not alone, carina. Ever."
A tense little laugh bubbled past Wyntir's lips. She pressed shaking fingers to her mouth. "Oh, Fiore. I'm so afraid I'm going mad..."
"You are not mad, child. I assure you. You are strong. Resilient. We shall get to the bottom of your blackouts and your dreams."
Wyntir sighed. A great weight seemed to lift from her shoulders. "I suppose some dreams are easier to recognize than others."
"Like what?"
Her laugh was thin. Self-conscious. "Well, there was this one awful night, when I heard screams. From the basement. A woman was yelling my name. The voice sounded an awful lot like Minta's. I tried to find her. I walked forever down a claustrophobic staircase in a cold, dank crawlspace. Then I came to a cluttered place with broken furniture and empty barrels—like a basement. Across the room, a door was ajar. So I peeked inside and saw a sort of laboratory with cages and surgical tables! Isn't that bizarre?
"But the worst part was, Minta was locked inside one of those cages! I tried to get her out, but I couldn't find a key. Then we heard footsteps, so she told me to run. To go to the Pinkertons. But why would I go to the Pinkertons? Why wouldn't I go to the police?" Wyntir shook her head. "None of it makes sense—not that it should. It was a dream." She laughed with a little more conviction this time. "Something so sinister couldn't happen in real life."
Sadie wished she could share Wyntir's optimism.
"Since we are friends," Sadie said, striving for a warm, parental tone, "I shall take this journal from you. I shall keep it safe until you are ready to read the entries.
"But tonight, you will read nothing," Sadie continued, slipping the volume into her reticule. "You will speak to no one—no one—of these blackouts or dreams, capisci? Tonight is a celebration of you, of the beautiful, radiant woman you have become. Your house is full of loving friends and neighbors, who wish to celebrate your 21st birthday with cake, gifts, and champagne. And I shall be the first among them to toast all the wonderful possibilities of your future!"
Wyntir's giggle sounded like the ghost of her old self. Impulsively, she threw her arms around Sadie's neck, knocking her off balance. "I am so grateful you're my friend. Thank you. Thank you for everything. I love you, Fiore," she added shyly.
Then she bounded to her feet, her cheeks pink with anticipation, rather than gray with dread.
As Sadie gazed up into Wyntir's sweet, hopeful face, her eyes were drawn to a metallic glint in the rafters. Something long and shadowy was hiding there, with silver spurs.
Cass's eyes locked with hers.
She swallowed hard. Dear God, is he working alone? Where's Collie?
"Come on, Fiore." Wyntir grabbed her hand and pulled her off the settee. "Everyone's probably wondering where we are."
Reluctantly, Sadie let herself be dragged toward the door. "Watch your back," she mouthed to Cass.
He nodded and winked.
The door swung closed behind them.
As Cass let his eyes adjust to the dim light in the hearth once more, he had to admit: he'd been impressed. Sadie had diffused an emotional bomb and bought him time to search Greyfell Manor. He couldn't help but admire the flawless way she'd acted her role, gaining Wyntir's trust, coaxing her to spill her guts, then walking out the door with the Pinkertons' first solid evidence in the case. Sadie deserved extra points for accomplishing these feats in under 10 minutes, without alarming Wyntir or spooking Goddard.
Yep, Sadie was a smooth operator, all right. He had to give credit where credit was due. He might not like the idea of his woman working as a Pinkerton, but at least he could sleep easier, knowing she was good at her job.
Now it was time to do his.
Grimacing, he flexed his cramped muscles. He knew better than to plunge through nine feet of darkness without first pumping some blood through his limbs.
But before he could swing from his perch, the dumbwaiter shaft began to glow. Light radiated from the cracks between the books. Cass heard a faint scraping. The next thing he knew, the bookcase swung away from the wall, and Goddard ducked into the library with a lamp.
Cass drew a restraining breath. As the bookcase swung back into place, his fingers twitched, yearning to trigger the .38 up his sleeve. He wanted nothing better than to blow off Goddard's devious head. But his conscience wouldn't let him gun down an unarmed man.
Too bad I don't have a search warrant. I could have cuffed the bastard in front of all his pretentious, pinky-crooking friends.
Gritting his teeth, Cass watched Goddard cross the room. Something was troubling the thief. Otherwise, he wouldn't be speeding like an arrow for his loot.
Someone must have found the dogs!
Even as Cass drew this conclusion, Goddard's light struck the fifth shelf and its treasure box. The thief muttered an oath. Cass wanted to do the same. In his haste to hide from Wyntir, he'd shelved the book upside down. Even from this distance, he could see the gilt letters gleaming on the wrong side of the spine.
Goddard snatched the book from the shelf. But when he peeked inside, his panic quickly dissolved to relief. He began stuffing his clinking cache into his trouser pockets.
Over the next few minutes, he raided the shelves, grabbing five more volumes—situated in different bookcases—and shoving their contents into his pockets. Cass glimpsed a crimson flash, like flickering flames, which he suspected was the Heart of Fire. He also spied the serpentine slither of rainbows, which he recognized as Dolce's necklace.
At last, Goddard turned away from the shelves. He was frowning. Crossing to the liquor cabinet, he flipped open a humidor. The aroma of cognac-laced tobacco wafted to the rafters. Striking a match, he puffed his Cleopatra Federal cigar. Then he propped his rump on the padded arm of a leath
er chair. Cass could almost hear the fiend's mind at work as he tapped ash and blew smoke rings:
Someone—most likely Daredevil—broke into my house. Daredevil located the Heart of Fire, but he didn't steal it. Why? Was he spooked in the act? Is he waiting for the guests to leave and the servants to retire?
Maybe Daredevil isn't a thief. Maybe he's an undercover dick. Too bad. Police can be bribed. But a Pinkerton? Not likely.
So who is this elusive prick of a Pinkerton? Is he downstairs mingling with the guests? Is he hiding in the woodwork like a cockroach?
And how do I get the most pleasure out of killing him?
A few minutes passed before Goddard roused himself from his reverie. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. It read 9:40. Rubbing out his stogie, he straightened.
But as Goddard set off for the hall, something on the floor attracted his attention. He grew still. Stalking-wolf still. Cass didn't dare to breathe.
Goddard chuckled. Low and ominous, the sound vibrated with triumph as he squatted before the settee. Cass didn't know exactly what the murderer plucked from the carpet—some small, white gleaming thing—but every hair on the nape of Cass's neck stood straight. He didn't consider the omen a good sign. Sadie had been sitting on that couch!
With a dastardly smile, Goddard tucked his find into a vest pocket. Then he blew out his lamp and exited into the hall.
Son of a—!
Cass was cursing like a muleskinner when he swung down from the rafters. He'd run out of time. Because of that book, Goddard was looking for him. Soon the bastard would have all his servants looking, too.
But he probably won't have them looking in the dumbwaiter shaft.
Reason punctured Cass's sense of failure. He drew a fortifying breath. Steeling himself against impatience, he studied the bookcase by the scarlet glow of the hearth.
Now if I was a low-down, double-crossing thief—who thought I was too clever for a U.S. Marshal—where would I hide the lever that opens the door to my lair?
Acting on a hunch, Cass ran his hands over the unlit sconce near the bookcase. He found what felt like hidden hinges. When he tugged on the fixture, it bent forward, like a lever.
How original, he thought snidely, watching the door swung open.
Now he faced an especially narrow, spiral stairwell—just like Wyntir had described. The space could barely accommodate the shoulders of a six-foot man. Cass wasn't too surprised; the shaft had originally been built for a dumbwaiter, after all. What did surprise him was the eerie silence of the door as it swung closed. And the cushiony quiet of the steps each time he stepped on one. He suspected they were covered with some sort of rubber.
That would explain the stink, he thought, wrinkling his nose.
With his spurs echoing faintly in the shaft—and setting his nerves on edge—he descended past the kitchen, recognizable by yeasty smells. He knew he'd drawn close to the basement when he detected the pungent odor of mildew. He felt like he'd been descending for hours through the claustrophobic darkness, with its seeping walls and scurrying spiders.
Finally, he reached a locked door.
Untethering his Colts, he dragged a widdy from his hatband.
Cracking the lock took mere seconds. On the other side of the door, he found an old loom with a half-woven tapestry. Pushing past it, he stepped into the basement that Wyntir had described.
His heart quickened.
Upon first glance, the chamber looked like any other cellar in a house where the inhabitants had more space than they required. His lantern illuminated arched, brick buttresses and cobwebs. The hulking shadows to the left proved to be a furniture cemetery, featuring a ripped settee, a broken roll-top desk, and other relics too cumbersome to haul up the narrow stairs to the attic. To the right were barrels of corn, sacks of flour, pickled beets, and other preserved vegetables. A thick layer of dust coated everything—except the pristine tiles of limestone on the floor.
Cass's smile was mirthless. Sweeping away your footprints, Goddard?
He approached the farthest wall. It was remarkable for two reasons: first, its location. Why would a house, the length and breadth of Greyfell Manor, have a basement that was only 80 feet wide?
Secondly, Cass questioned its masonry. The clay of the bricks was similar in color—but not the exact shade—of the deep, dark red that characterized the other walls. The clay was also less stained by mildew. Clearly, someone had built this wall after the rest of the house had been constructed.
The odd wall was lined with open-shelved cabinets, loaded with bushels of onions, potatoes, and beans. A rack overhead stored kegs of ale. Cass figured the door that Wyntir had described must be behind one of the cabinets. He hunted for a lever and soon found it in the form of an empty beer keg's tap.
You're not as clever as you think you are, Goddard.
Visions of a terrified young woman, incarcerated in this hellhole, fueled Cass's fury. With a Colt gripped in each fist, he kicked the door wide, ready for anything.
But the scene his lantern illuminated was truly disturbing. At the center of the chamber were a hospital table and a throne-sized chair, equipped with thick leather straps for restraining heads, torsos, and limbs.
The chamber's left wall was lined with animal cages. Some contained live specimens—mostly rats and scorpions—but the human-sized cage, which hung from the ceiling, was empty, thank God. Suspended above it were an enormous lamp and three church bells, which were just incongruous enough to give Cass the creeps.
Shuddering, he turned his attention to the right side of the chamber. Above a long panel of mechanical levers, he saw a wall clock with a swinging pendulum. Below the panel was a table laden with musical novelties, ranging from pocket watches and humidors to a phonograph and organette. A neighboring cabinet with glass doors was filled with medicine bottles and instruments, such as scalpels, syringes, and some spooky-looking tongs with teeth.
Suddenly, his gaze alighted on a leather-bound journal. It rested in plain sight, atop a three-legged stool, which abutted the panel.
Had Goddard kept a record of his experiments?
Cass's neck prickled like his coyote namesake's. Using the warning to sharpen his awareness, he scanned for threats one final time before venturing into the chamber.
Ignoring the squeals of the rats, which were agitated by the lantern light, Cass flipped hastily through the open journal. The precise, neatly-penned entries contained names he recognized: Sheridan Welbourn, Mendel Baines, Malcom Renfield. By the time he reached the pages pertaining to Araminta Merripen, his skin was crawling.
Oct. 16:
Subject is a Pinkerton female. Clever, strong-willed. Resists verbal commands. Detects hallucinogens in food. Syringe required. Flashing light protocol initiated. First test: subject lost consciousness at 1 hour 21 minutes. When revived, refused to smash glass with fist...
Oct. 18:
Subject vulgar and violent. Music protocol initiated. Bells induced screams at 28 minutes. Subject lost consciousness at 36 minutes. Upon revival, demonstrated strong hesitation to obey smashing command. Still feels scorpion sting...
Oct. 20:
Subject no longer fears scorpion threat. Takes beatings in silence with some flinching. Succumbs to trance state fastest through music set to 3/4 time. Making
progress...
Oct. 23:
Subject obeys blindly. Feels no fear or pain. Carries out kill command to Farewell My Darling. Upon revival from trance, remembers nothing. Ready for field test...
Cass was shaking so hard when he reached the last line of that entry, he wanted to puke.
So help me God, no attorney is going to talk a jury out of hanging this unholy bastard. If I have to, I'll kill him myself.
Setting his jaw, Cass slammed the journal closed and lifted it off the stool. Only when he turned to leave did he notice the tether attached to the book's spine. By that time, it was too late. He'd already yanked the wire, springing Goddard's trap. A sickly-sweet puff of
air blew in his face.
Cass staggered. His vision blurred, and his muscles went slack. A metal door came crashing down, sealing off his escape. Overhead, the bells were pealing at a thunderous pitch. He sank to his knees, trying to cover his ears, but he couldn't make his arms stretch high enough.
Then the ceiling lamp began flashing with the brightness of the sun...
Chapter 20
Five Hours Later
A shadow had fallen across Sadie's heart. And it kept growing darker.
She'd first noticed her nagging sense of doom during the party. At the time, Wyntir had been dragging her through the library doors. When they'd reached the foot of the staircase, they'd found Mace waiting.
The senior agent's boisterous "Nico" soon brought the bloom to Wyntir's too-pale cheeks. She must have laughed with him for ten minutes. Sadie was glad to see Wyntir's good spirits restored, but soon that lunkhead of a butler reappeared. Standing behind his mistress like some tuxedoed Grim Reaper, Humphrey kept clearing his throat like a foghorn, until the conversation lulled long enough for him to speak.
"I regret to inform you, miss, that your animals are ailing."
Wyntir gave a little cry of dismay. "Tallie?"
"No, miss. The dogs. The groom moved Maxi and Brutus to the stables, where he can keep an eye on them. They're warm and comfortable."
"Does Dante know?"
"Yes, miss. He went to examine the dogs himself. He couldn't rouse them, but he said you shouldn't be alarmed. They're only sleeping."
Sadie struggled not to show her own dismay. She would have bet her Pinkerton pension that Cass had drugged those Dobermans. Now Goddard knew an intruder was prowling the premises!
Needless to say, Wyntir ignored her fiancé's advice. Grabbing a cape, she wrapped a scarf around her head and dashed for the stables, heedless of the fact that her cake still needed cutting and most of her guests were milling around the dining room, waiting for the big event.
"You wouldn't happen to know why the Dobermans are ailing, would you?" Mace asked dryly, keeping up his Nico pretense.
Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2) Page 26
