Dawn of the Golden Promise (41 page)

Michael leaned forward. “That's wonderful, Pastor. You must be greatly relieved.”

A muscle tightened at the corner of Dalton's eye, and his smile faded. “We're grateful, of course. At least this will give our attorney more time to investigate Winston's background and prepare a stronger case in our behalf. But as long as there's even the slightest chance that we might lose Amanda—” He stopped, looking down at his clenched hands on the desk. “Well, it's difficult.”

“You'll have the girl before all is done,” Michael said. “I can't believe any judge with half a heart would send the child off with a virtual stranger. Why, she's little more than a babe.”

A worried expression settled over Dalton's features. “I pray you're right. But the fact is that Winston isn't exactly a stranger to Amanda any longer. The court has allowed him to see her each week—only for an hour, but that's probably long enough for him to ingratiate himself with her. She's a very trusting little girl.”

He shook his head, then glanced up. “Ah, Michael, I have a veritable war going on inside me these days. At times I think that if I truly want what's best for Amanda, and if Winston is prepared to make a good life for her, perhaps I shouldn't fight him. But then I see the anguish in Kerry's eyes or feel the knife twist in my own heart, and I can't seem to get beyond the terror that we might actually lose her—or my rage at Colin Winston for being the cause of it all.”

Michael nodded but said nothing. He knew about rage well enough these days.

Since the death of Patrick Walsh, he had harbored a silent but steady fury. He knew the resentment simmering in him was wrong. He called himself a Christian, had tried to live as one most of his life. But a real Christian possessed the grace of forgiveness, didn't he? A real Christian left the business of judgment up to God. Yet despite a fundamental belief that God was fair and would eventually bring His perfect justice to pass, he could not seem to rid himself of the growing bitterness in his heart. He felt disillusioned, cheated—and angry.

There had been a time when he had vowed to bring down Patrick Walsh, to make him pay for all the evil he had wrought, the lives he had ruined—including that of Michael's own son, Tierney. Instead, Walsh had ultimately been destroyed by his own weakness of the flesh. Confronted by his mistress, the woman he had wronged, he was slain, if accidentally, by the hand of his wife—the woman he had betrayed.

Somehow it seemed grossly unfair. There should be the very devil to pay for a man like that, a man without scruples, without conscience.

Walsh had been thoroughly corrupt, a pirate who had pillaged uncounted numbers of the city's immigrant population. From his merciless dock runners, preying on those just off the ships, the shameful tenements from which even the rats tried to escape, the taverns and gambling dens and brothels, he had unleashed almost every form of depravity and corruption upon the city. He had even tried to corrupt Michael's own son, and failing that, had tried to have Tierney killed.

Michael could not help but believe there should be a merciless retribution for one who had caused so much misery, so much tragedy, in the lives of thousands. There ought to be
justice.

And for longer than he could remember, he had intended to be an agent of that justice.

But now Walsh was gone, killed in an instant, no doubt surrendering his life with little suffering and no remorse. The vermin had gotten off entirely too easily.

Michael's stomach wrenched. He and Sara had argued about his “irrational obsession,” as she called it, again this morning. She was being affected by his helpless rage at Walsh's death, but still he couldn't seem to help himself. Or maybe he didn't
want
to.

His mouth filled with the vile taste of his own bitterness. He looked up to find Jess Dalton studying him with a curious expression.

“Why do I think you're angry, too, my friend?” The pastor's voice was gentle. “What burdens you so?”

Michael blinked, regarding the kind features of the big man across the desk. For a moment he was tempted to unburden himself and seek Dalton's counsel. Preacher or not, he obviously understood anger. Jess Dalton wasn't one to condemn another man for his feelings.

But what was the point? Walsh was dead. There was no changing fate, no going back. And words, no matter how wise or well-intentioned, would not extinguish the coals of bitterness that still smoked in his own heart.

He gave a tight smile and shrugged. “No burden, Pastor. Just some things I need to work out. But tell me about this Winston character. Last time we talked, you were making plans to have him investigated.”

The big preacher's unsettling blue gaze searched Michael's for another moment, then cleared. “Yes. Hancock—Lawrence Hancock, our attorney—is doing just that. He has a man in England working on it, and another here. So far we've learned little more than we already knew. Winston was estranged from his father—Amanda's grandfather—and had been for some time. Before Amanda's mother died, she told Nicholas Grafton that her brother drank and gambled heavily. Apparently, he was altogether irresponsible. Their father ordered him out of the house more than once because of his profligate ways.”

Dalton stopped, again frowning. “But that's not necessarily going to keep the court from awarding him custody of Amanda.”

“So you
are
suing for custody, then?”

“Oh yes. We had the preliminary adoption papers under way when Winston showed up, but now we've had to go back and institute an actual suit for temporary custody.”

Michael frowned. “It seems obvious to me, Pastor, that almost any judge would find you and your wife far more acceptable guardians for the child. Especially since she's already been in your home for several months.”

Jess Dalton shook his head. “But Colin Winston is her
uncle.
That makes all the difference. Or at least it may, unless we can find evidence—significant evidence—to absolutely prove he would be an unfit guardian. We need something rather drastic, I'm afraid.”

“That might not be as difficult as you think,” Michael offered, getting to his feet. “It's been my experience that a man who spends his life at the bottle and the gaming tables often leaves a wide and dirty trail behind him. I don't know that there's much I can do to help, but I'll nose about to see what I can turn up. For now, though, I'd best be off. Where would you like the clothing boxes, by the way?”

Dalton stood, coming around to again shake Michael's hand. “In the hall will be fine. Tell Sara we're grateful, as always. And you know we'd appreciate any help you can give us with Amanda.” He paused, his friendly, bearded face close enough that Michael could see the question in his eyes. “And, Michael—if I can ever help
you
, you've only to ask.”

Once more the preacher's compelling gaze seemed to probe Michael's soul.

An uncomfortable idea altogether, he realized, given his soul's present condition.

Colin Winston scanned the marquee of the dime museum with distaste. The display left little doubt as to what waited inside.

The place was no museum at all, of course, but a freak show. In this dreadful slum called the
Bowery
, such places seemed to abound. Apparently Americans were fascinated by the grotesque.

Still, it ought to be just the place to find the sort of ruffian he was looking for. Not necessarily among the freaks themselves, although that was a possibility. He thought it more likely that one of the disgusting creatures inside might point him to the sort of thug required for the business at hand. If not, he would try the rough-looking blighters milling about on the corner.

He paid his admission to a scowling barker with a drooping moustache and a flashing diamond ring on every finger, then passed by the mean-looking dwarf manning the door. Winston met the loathsome creature's scowl with a sneer of his own and went inside.

He paid scant attention to the human monstrosities on stage, registering only the vaguest awareness of a bearded lady and a revolting youth without legs billed as the
Turtle Boy.
He turned his gaze to a decidedly ugly specimen being introduced as the
Strong Man.
An enormous thick neck joined a head like that of an iron bull to a body that looked as invincible as an oak tree. Beside the Strong Man, at the end of the row, stood a tall, thin albino, almost spectral in appearance, and beside him, a man with two empty sleeves and a horribly scarred face.

Winston shuddered and hurried on, exiting the exhibition hall through a side door he thought might lead backstage. A wizened old man on a stool near the door stopped him, gruffly asking his business.

“Actually I'm looking for a particular chap,” Winston said pleasantly. “Perhaps you could help, or at least might direct me to someone who could.”

The other simply stared at him, obviously unsoftened by Winston's forced cordiality.

“Large fellow,” Winston chattered on, attempting to describe the sort of criminal type he hoped to find. “Bit of a rogue. Somewhat unsavory, I'm afraid. Anyone come to mind?”

The old man eyed him with contempt. “No more than a couple of hundred or so is all.”

Still sour-faced, the grizzled custodian raked Winston with a knowing look. “'Tis the Stump you want to be talkin' to. If he's of a mind to talk, that is. He knows most of the ugly mugs about the Bowery, I'd wager. He's the one who can put you in touch.”

“The Stump?”

“He's on stage right now. The one what has no arms.”

Winston swallowed. His reluctance to confront one of the freaks in residence warred with his anxiousness to finish the nasty job still ahead.

After a moment his impatience won out. “Is there somewhere I can wait for him?” he asked the scowling custodian.

“Two doors down on the right.” The old man stabbed a finger in the direction of a dark, narrow hallway.

Winston's gaze went to the shadowed corridor behind the irascible custodian. A shiver trailed down his spine. He imagined all manner of ghastly abominations lurking in the corners, could almost smell the vile odors that surely permeated such a place.

He steeled himself, looking straight ahead as he started down the dim, scaling hallway. He fumed as he went at his deceased father—and at Dalton, the hulking dolt of a clergyman who had forced him to such a pass.

His original plan had been simply to collect the girl and take her back to England. Once there, he would rely on his old chum, Charley Seagrave, a jaded solicitor with even less scruples than Winston's own, to arrange a legal guardianship and see to the details of the will. His niece could be dealt with later, after he'd had time to plan more thoroughly.

But Dalton had gotten hostile and moved to delay things. Now the entire matter couldn't be resolved for at least another month.

Just enough time for Dalton to launch an investigation, an investigation that
could
lead to Winston's losing the girl altogether. Even out here among the savages, the courts might not look kindly on a
profligate
, to use his dear departed father's favorite indictment of his only son. Especially a profligate whose gambling debts exceeded half the value of the family estate, and whose thirst for whiskey was practically legendary in London.

So, as distasteful and inconvenient as it was, he had effected a swift change of plans. He would have the girl abducted and gotten rid of
before
she was placed in his custody. That would keep him clear of the law. As soon as the deed was discovered and his unfortunate niece out of the way, he would be on
his
way back to England, to his inheritance and a new life—a much more comfortable life.

At the door the old man had indicated, Winston stopped, sniffing the stale air in the corridor. He leaned against the wall—gingerly, with only one shoulder, for the plaster was filthy—and stood brooding over his lot as he waited for the one called Stump.

None of this was his fault, really. All credit went to his intractable, puritanical father, who had taken it upon himself to punish his wayward children for their rebellion.

No doubt his father would view it all as divine justice, since he had always thought himself to be in league with the Divine. A duly appointed administrator of righteous retribution.