Dawn of the Golden Promise (28 page)

Before she could weaken, she deliberately allowed fragments of Ruth Marriott's accusations to surface. The woman obviously knew Patrick well. Intimately.

Disgust renewed itself, and for a moment she turned away from both of them. Ruth Marriott had spoken of things meant to be private, hidden between husband and wife, secrets never intended to be shared outside the sanctity of marriage. Alice shuddered, forcing down a wave of nausea.

She turned around to find Patrick glaring at Ruth Marriott with an expression of undisguised malice, his features contorted to an ugly mask. The other woman apparently failed to recognize the intensity of his anger, for she seemed bent on pressing him to some sort of agreement.

“At least your wife understands my predicament,” she was saying. “You might just as well stop trying to deny it, Patrick! She knows, and she's willing to help me.”

Alice saw the last of his control shatter, inverting to a dark, pulsing rage. He raised a hand as if to strike Ruth Marriott, who shrank away from him with a look of pure horror.

“You little slut!”
he roared, looming over her. “I warned you! I told you not to come here!”

Ruth stumbled back from him, but he caught her wrists and held her with one hand while grasping her throat with the other.

Alice rushed at him.
“Patrick! No!”

He seemed deaf to her scream, gave no sign that he even knew she was in the room. At last he released Ruth's throat, gripped her by the shoulders, and shoved her to the open doorway.

The woman's terror was unmistakable, yet she seemed determined to stand her ground. “You can't do this! Your wife believes me. She knows I'm telling the truth!”

Patrick shot a look at Alice over his shoulder as if to say he would deal with her later. She cringed at the fury burning out of his eyes.

He swung back to Ruth Marriott. “You've gone too far, you little fool! I warned you!”

Alice watched in disbelief as he began shaking Ruth like a worthless doll. She tried to wrest free of him, but he yanked her around, forcing her out the door and into the hall.

Alice ran after them. At the landing, Patrick pushed Ruth Marriott backward toward the staircase. With one hand locked about her throat he held her captive, while with the other hand he leveled a gun at her head.

The terrified woman was trying to free herself, flailing her arms, pounding him with her fists as she gasped for breath. But Patrick seemed possessed. Livid in his fury, he bent over her, and Alice suddenly realized what he intended.

She clutched the banister and screamed at him,
“Dear Lord—Patrick, no! You can't!”

If he heard her choked cry, he ignored it.

Ruth Marriott's eyes, filled with horror, locked on Patrick's. Her skin had faded to a deathly gray, and all at once her body seemed to fold. Her knees buckled, and she went limp.

Alice forgot her own fear, her trembling legs, her heart which threatened to explode at any instant. Pushing away from the banister, she charged at Patrick.

But she was too late. Even as she reached him, he shoved Ruth Marriott hard. The woman tumbled backward, crashing down one step after another until she hit the bottom and lay like a broken doll, sprawled and silent.

Crying out, Alice started down the steps after her. But Patrick caught her arm in a viselike grip, yanking her back and holding her fast with his left hand.

Then with his right hand, he raised the pistol and aimed it at the woman at the bottom of the steps.

“Oh, dear God no, Patrick!
No!
”

“Shut up! Stay out of this!”

His grip on her arm tightened. “I intend to make sure she can't cause any more trouble!”

“You can't do this! I won't let you!”

Alice seized his right arm, clinging to him, trying to force him to lower the gun.

Patrick turned on her, his face distorted. His eyes were savage, the eyes of a wild animal out of control. Alice knew in a white hot instant of clarity that something had been unleashed in him, something that had always been there, lurking just below the surface. Something cruel and corrupt…and utterly evil.

Suddenly she saw the truth—he would murder her if she persisted. She mattered little more to him than Ruth Marriott—if indeed she had ever mattered at all.

The realization hit her like a blow, and she faltered. Alice's senses took in everything at once…the still form of Ruth Marriott, surely dead, at the bottom of the stairway…the maid, Nancy, appearing in the hallway below, shrieking hysterically…Patrick pushing at her, trying to throw her off him…her own weakness, the awful sickness welling up in her…

Pure instinct made her grapple for the gun. She pulled at his arm with all her strength and felt cold steel under her fingers. Patrick roared in fury and gave one last violent shove. The gun exploded.

He uttered a hoarse cry of surprise, and the pistol clattered to the floor.

Patrick looked at her, his eyes wide with shock.
“Alice?”
he gasped.

Then he doubled over, sinking to his knees, clutching his chest. With a shudder, he collapsed.

Alice stared at him. Somewhere she heard someone screaming, and as darkness closed around her, she realized the tortured cries were her own.

P
ART
T
WO

Be sure of this: The wicked will not go unpunished,
but those who are righteous will go free.

PROVERBS 11:21

20

Why do those eyes lie open in sleep,
What's hid in the black of his mind?

F. R. HIGGINS (1896–1941)

Dublin, Ireland
August

R
ook Mooney turned over, still wide awake, though it was long after midnight. The mattress on the sagging bed was nothing but straw, thin and ridged.

Like sleeping on a washboard.

The bed went with the rest of the room—a cramped, dingy pesthole with one window and a broken-down washstand as the only furnishing besides the bed. The place was little more than a pantry, hot and filthy, but it was all he could afford; he had left most of his money in the gambling pits in Lisbon.

Sprawled on his back, he stared up at the ceiling, its mottled layers revealed by the faint wedge of moonlight filtering through the grime-encrusted window. After a moment he raised himself up on one elbow to swill from the bottle of whiskey he had brought to bed with him.

This would be his last night in this hellhole, and good riddance. Tomorrow he would go back to the big house on the hill.

Nelson Hall
, it was called. As if a house merited a name. As if it was gentry like those who lived inside.

Curse them all! They'd not be so uppity when he was done.

He had stayed two days up there the first time, holed up like a rat. It hadn't stopped raining the whole time. Finally, hungry and cold, he had given it over and come back to the city.

But he had seen her. Seen her at the window upstairs, peering out. Looking straight at the coach house, as if she knew he was there, waiting for her.

Maybe she
did
know. Maybe she felt his closeness, smelled his rage. Knew he was coming after her.

He hoped so. He wanted her afraid. Scared out of her wits. Just like before.

He remembered how she had tried to scream, the choking sound that had come out instead.

He scowled and took another swig of whiskey. Just the sight of him had scared her plenty.

Well, she'd be scared this time too. More than before, and not just because of his face. One look at the knife would set her off good. He'd teach her.

He'd have to be careful of that big black, though.

The cripple in the wheelchair would be no problem. No more trouble than a flea on a dog. But that black devil was something else. Maybe he ought to get rid of him first thing.

And those Gypsy dogs on the other side of the stream. They could be trouble, too.

He caught the sweat on his face with his sleeve and took another drink. What kind of people were they anyhow, letting those filthy Gypsies squat on their land?

Even his Aunt Fee wouldn't have taken up with a Gypsy. The old witch had hauled just about everything else into her bed, but never a Gypsy.

He twisted his face at the memory of his aunt, one finger going to the split lip she had given him. If the old hag hadn't gone after him with a knife, he would have had himself a decent job. The women wouldn't get wild-eyed at the sight of him. He wouldn't have to pay to get them to be nice to him, or else beat it out of them.

His mind went back to his plans. The black, that was the one he'd have to be careful of. Him and the dog.

Cussed wolfhound. Devil's own, that's what they were. More wolf than dog, and that was the truth. And this was a big one. The biggest he'd ever seen.

He glanced at the half-empty bottle in his hand, then tipped it again. No use saving it. He had another to take with him.

He ought to get some sleep. Needed to be fit tomorrow.

But he couldn't stop thinking about her. It had been almost two weeks since he had hidden in the coach house the first time, since he'd seen her at the window. Long enough to stoke his rage and his need.

Soon. It oughtn't to take long, but this time he was going prepared to stay as long as need be. He had spent the last of his coins on some bread and cheese—and a spare bottle.

He had everything he needed to wait it out.

Until he got what he came for.

He reached underneath the bed, drew out the knife, and ran his thumb along the sharp steel of the blade. This time, she wouldn't get off so easy.

21

Your love creates for me
a haven, a holy place,
where we abide.

MORGAN FITZGERALD (1850)

Glendalough, Ireland

M
organ Fitzgerald no longer remembered when the idea of a brief retreat for himself and Finola had first occurred to him. He only knew he would always be grateful for these past three days.