A Song Across the Sea (42 page)

It could be the case. Just as before, Muldoon was trying to get at her by getting at the people close to her. The swine was threatening a child. Even if that was an idle threat—and she hoped to God it was—he’d already shown that he was willing to harm adults. Who would he hurt? Lotte? Adrienne? Celia?

She could not vanish into anonymity as she had before. She wouldn’t hide like a scared rabbit. There was too much at stake now. She had Mary to care for, and Reece to wait for. She would be here when he came home.

Tara vowed to fight Muldoon in the open this time. She had resources this time, and powerful friends. And before he harmed a hair on Mary’s head, Tara would kill him with her own two hands.

“Call the police,” she told Lotte. She hurried upstairs to talk to Adrienne. It was time to draw up some plans.

•  •  •

The French medical officer surveyed the rows of wounded men lining the tent and cursed his lack of supplies. His was but a crude field hospital, but Mon Dieu! It was impossible to provide medical care under these circumstances.

His most fortunate patients remained unconscious, unaware of their miserable surroundings. The big American was among that number, which was probably a blessing. His wounds were extensive and there was no more morphine for him should he awaken. Those despicable Germans were ruthlessly efficient at cutting off supply lines. They understood well that without munitions, food and medicine, an army was helpless.

Tomorrow, many of the wounded would be moved to a larger, better equipped hospital farther from the front. The Yank flier would, in all likelihood, not survive the move. It troubled the doctor that he was not able to tell the Americans the man’s identify, so his next of kin could be notified, but there were no dogtags. They must have been lost in the crash of his airplane. He wore no uniform, but then pilots often flaunted convention and wore their own attire. His clothes were American. A ragged band of French sabotage specialists operating behind enemy lines had found the flier and gotten him safely away, but there’d been no time to search the rubble.

The doctor sighed. The American would probably end up in an unmarked grave, and his family would never know of his fate. It was regrettable, but all too common these days. Many brave Frenchmen suffered the same end.

•  •  •

There was not enough to go on. The police couldn’t arrest Muldoon on the strength of the “M” scrawled as an abbreviated signature on the note.

Still, Tara was relieved at how differently the matter was handled this time around. She had people in her corner. People who had power and money and were willing to use their resources to help her. Mrs. Rutherford and Adrienne were two formidable women who wanted action.

They got it. It was decided that officers would be assigned to guard the exterior of the theater, Tara’s dressing room and even the Rutherford and Millinder mansions.

Muldoon would also be questioned, but no one in the room seriously believed he’d confess to anything.

“I hope they beat him to a pulp when they question him,” remarked Mrs. Rutherford, after the officers were gone.

“Celia!” Adrienne looked shocked.

“Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking the same thing,” Celia said crisply. “The man is wily. A good beating may be the only justice he’ll ever get.”

“I hope you’re wrong.”

As much as she appreciated their assistance, Tara felt awful for bringing this additional burden on Adrienne. She wondered if she should have refrained from telling Adrienne about Muldoon’s note. She could have found some other way to protect herself and Mary. But, no—enough secrets had been kept from Adrienne already. Besides, anyone associated with Tara could be in danger. The memory of Hap’s beating came back vividly.

“I do wish you’d move in here with me,” fretted Adrienne. “I’d feel better, knowing I could keep an eye on you and Mary.”

“Tara will be moving in with you soon enough, when Reece comes home,” said Mrs. Rutherford. Let me have her as my guest until then.”

“Yes, when Reece comes home…” echoed Adrienne wistfully.

Tara felt almost safe again. But not for long.

Two nights later Celia’s driver brought her motor car around and opened the door for Tara as usual. She started to climb in then stopped, gaping.

The fawn-colored leather upholstery in the back seat had been slashed to ribbons.

“He must have got to it when it was in the carriage house,” muttered the guard. “The bastard was on the grounds. But how did he know which motor car we take to the theater?”

“He’s been watching,” Tara said.

A note was skewered to the ruined seat, held in place by a vicious-looking hunting knife. Its symbolism was not lost on her.

It said simply:

Next time it’ll be you.

Tara started to shake uncontrollably.

•  •  •

Mrs. Flanagan finally felt well enough for the long walk to the theater. Once there, she stood in the alleyway near the stage door, waiting patiently, trying to ignore the night’s damp chill.

She was not alone. She was quite certain that no one else was on a mission as important as hers. The others were silly gawkers, waiting for a glimpse of a favorite performer. She wondered how her meeting with Tara would play out. Would the girl recognize her? It had been six long years since they met on the Titanic.

Would Tara be furious with her? Mrs. Flanagan knew she deserved punishment for what she’d done. But she’d just been so upset over Danny! Tears flooded her eyes. Danny, her own flesh and blood, lay at the bottom of the ocean while she carried on a charade with a child that did not belong to her. She tried to think about what she would say to Tara when she saw her.

The stage door was flung open. Actors hurried out into the night. Mrs. Flanagan didn’t notice the large, luxurious motor car that sidled up slowly alongside the building.

The crowd surged forward excitedly. Tara appeared, accompanied by a uniformed police officer. She kept her head down and hurried toward the waiting automobile.

“Tara McLaughlin!” Mrs. Flanagan screamed shrilly, rushing forward. “Please! Please wait! I have to talk to you!”

Alarmed, the officer shoved her away and guided Tara into the motor car. Mrs. Flanagan fell backward into several strangers, who impatiently pushed her out of their way. She got to her feet in time to see Tara’s blurry profile through the window of the motor car as it drove away.

“I have news of your brother!” she sobbed. “Please! Your brother…”

•  •  •

Reece awoke with a start. Where—? As his awareness sharpened, pain seized him in tremors. He thought that if he could just sit up, raise himself to a sitting position, he would feel better.

But he was unable to move; something constricting was wrapped around him. His vision cleared enough to observe layers of heavy bandages covering his chest and right arm. Images of what happened washed unhappily over him. He heard—in his memory—angry bursts of machine gun fire, felt the shocking sensation of feeling his flesh torn apart by hot metal projectiles.

But he was alive and in a hospital—a real hospital, by the look of it, not the makeshift tented infirmary he would have expected in a battle zone. How serious were his injuries? His right arm felt lifeless, as heavy as stone. At least it was still there. He’d seen enough soldier amputees in Europe to know how lucky he was. Tentatively, he tried to flex the fingers of his right hand. They throbbed in protest.

He again tried to sit up, even though the struggle made him lightheaded. He stopped trying when he saw a crimson stain blossom on the white bandages on his chest.

A nun with a nurse’s smock over her habit was suddenly standing over him, pushing him back down onto the bed. She was speaking to him in French.

“Please, Sister. You must…notify General John Damon,” he mumbled weakly in French. “My name is…Reece Waldron. Tell him…Reece Waldron.”

“Rest,” she murmured gently. “Don’t try to talk now.”

He gripped her wrist with his left hand, barely able to hold onto her.

“General John Damon. United States Army. Do you understand? Must…get word…must…”

The effort was too much for him. His consciousness ebbing away, he tried to hold fast to a single thought: Tara.

Then darkness took him again.

•  •  •

She was having a bad dream, a dream in which she was suffocating.

In an instant, she was wide awake and realizing that it was no dream. She clawed at the hand that was clamped over her mouth. Another hand was on her throat, squeezing hard. Her assailant’s knee was lodged painfully against her chest, his weight pinning her down on the bed.

“I could kill you right now if I wanted to,” Muldoon whispered venomously, his lips so close to her ear she could feel his warm breath.

The strong fingers tightened on her throat. She flailed at him with her fists, struggling for breath.

“You thought you were too good for me, didn’t you? Where’s your fine, rich husband now? Not here to save you, is he?”

She was close to blacking out. Her arms dropped limply to her sides. Abruptly, he let go of her. Her neck burned from the pressure of his hands. Would he take her by force, now that she couldn’t fight him?

Almost as if he sensed her thoughts, he laughed cruelly. “Not this time, I’m afraid. I must be on my way. Hope you’re not disappointed. I’ll just leave you to wonder when I’ll come for you. It’ll be soon. That much I promise you.”

He got off her and made his exit through the window. She hoped he’d fall from the second story to the ground below and break his neck.

When her tortured lungs finally pulled in enough air, Tara screamed with all her might. The household was quickly roused. Tara staggered to the window and leaned out. The white sheen of moonlight revealed footprints on the snow-coated ground outside, but there was no sign of Muldoon.

Celia and the servants soon appeared in their bedclothes, blinking in alarmed confusion. When she learned what had happened, Celia was beside herself. She sent for the police, who came faster than Tara would have thought possible.

“Did you see who it was? Can you identify him?”

“It was Muldoon,” she croaked wretchedly. “I know his voice.”

The doctor Celia summoned examined her and shook his head gravely, prescribing bed rest and a tincture to help her sleep.

The police searched for Muldoon but failed to find him. Tara was moved to a different room in the mansion, on the third floor. An iron grate was bolted over the window and a private guard was posted right outside her door. Not content with those measures, Hap and Mr. Schoener began taking turns performing sentry duty at Celia’s, staying up all night and periodically checking the doors and windows.

She missed several performances because the injuries to her throat made it impossible for her to sing, but her sick leave didn’t last long.

“At first I thought you should pull out of the show for awhile,” said Hap. “Now it looks like that theater may be the only place you are safe. Too many people around for him to try anything there.”

Hap also gave her a pocket pistol, a 41 caliber Remington. She marveled at its small size. Could it really do harm to someone?

“I thought a little one would be good for you. Easier to carry in your purse or pocket. You should take it with you everywhere you go,” Hap advised.

Tara wondered if she’d be able to aim the gun at another human being—even Muldoon—and pull the trigger. She hoped she’d never have to find out.

Celia declared herself satisfied with the new arrangements at her home. “He won’t get in here again.”

Tara tried to believe it.

•  •  •

A face floated in and out of focus then finally resolved itself into distinct, familiar features. It was John Damon. Confused, Reece blinked to clear his vision. The apparition remained. In fact, it smiled encouragingly.

“The doctors tell me you had them pretty worried for awhile,” Damon remarked.

“Where am I?”

“You’re still in France. Caught me here just by luck. I was over at divisional headquarters when someone brought me word that an American named Reece Waldron was in this hospital. It was a hell of a surprise. Never expected to find you alive. Almost missed you. I’m headed home in three days’ time.”

“General Damon, I have to get home.”

“Sure, sure,” Damon said, warmly but noncommittally. “In a couple of weeks, when you’re feeling stronger, we’ll arrange all that. I want to thank you for the good work you did. Really put us much further ahead than we were. Listen, did you get a good look at any Fokker triplanes? They’re unstable as all get out, but still outmaneuvering us in the sky whenever—”

“I have to get home right away,” Reece said, feeling an urgency that he couldn’t explain. Tara needed him. He was sure of it.

The general frowned irritably. “The doctor says you’re in no shape to travel yet. What’s the hurry, anyway. They’re treatin’ you all right here, aren’t they?”

“Take me with you when you go back to the States. I want to be on that ship.”

“That’s impossible.”

“You could arrange it, General.”

Damon shrugged. “Well, if you’re that determined. I still think it would be better if you waited awhile. You’re not going to get the kind of medical care during the crossing that you’re getting here. If you take a turn for the worse…” His meaning was clear. “And it’s risky right now. The damned Huns are sinking a lot of ships.”

Reece yawned. He had to get home to Tara. That was all he could think about.

Damon took the cue.

“Better let you get some rest.” He stood to leave. “Oh, I almost forgot.” He put an envelope on the bedside table. “This got to your base sometime after you got shot down.”

“One more thing, General. Could you wire the details of our arrival to my wife?” Reece settled his head deeper into the pillow, surprised at how a simple conversation could be so tiring. “Her name is Tara McLaughlin. That’s her professional name. Have the telegram sent to the Ardmore Theater. She’ll be sure to get it there.”