Dawn of the Golden Promise (46 page)

When the captain turned back to Sergeant Price, his face was as hard as Bhima had ever seen it. “You do realize, do you not, Denny,” he said, his voice low and tight, “that a blighter capable of ordering the abduction and murder of his own niece will not give a second thought to killing a cop?”

The sergeant was no longer smiling. “You need not fret yourself, Mike—Captain. I can handle a white-livered Englishman with no great fuss.”

The captain's expression remained dour, but the deal had been made. From this point on, Bhima knew, there was nothing he and the others could do except to wait…and pray.

Later that night, Kerry Dalton waited inside the darkened kitchen on Thirty-fourth Street, her arms trembling as she cradled her sleeping little girl. Molly Mackenzie, the Daltons' tall, pragmatic housekeeper, stood beside Kerry, arms folded across her sturdy chest, dark eyes watchful. Every now and then she would try to convince Kerry to let her hold Amanda. But Kerry could not bear to let her child out of her arms until the last moment, the last second.

When the knock came at the back door, Kerry, still holding Amanda, opened it herself. She was completely unprepared for what she saw.

A grimy, hard-looking hooligan of a man stood before her—his face blackened with soot, a day-old growth of beard stubbling his chin, a worn cap pulled down menacingly over his eyes.

Kerry's heart leaped into her throat, and her pulse began to pound. Instinctively she shrank back. Her terror must have been obvious, for the intruder instantly whipped off the cap and smiled gently at her.

“'Tis me, Mrs. Dalton,” he said softly, stepping into the kitchen. “Denny Price.”

Kerry let out a tense breath and tried to force a smile. “Sergeant Price…well. Jess told me you could play the role, but I didn't expect…”

“Didn't expect me to look quite so convincing, now?” He grinned in earnest.

Kerry looked him up and down. He did look the felon, and that was the truth. Then her gaze fell on a tattered, lumpy carpetbag gripped in his left hand. A large bag, large enough to hold a small…

She gasped and drew Amanda closer. “No!”

Sergeant Price's eyes followed her gaze to the bag. “It's a bluff,” he said hurriedly. “Didn't the pastor tell you?”

“You—you mean,” she stammered, “you're going to try to convince Winston that my daughter's body—” She choked on the word.

The sergeant nodded almost apologetically.

“I won't let her go!” Kerry said fiercely. “You don't need her. You've got…
that
.” She shuddered, fighting to maintain some semblance of composure.

“Winston is determined to see the bod—the lass,” Sergeant Price answered grimly. “We hope he won't insist on looking inside. But if he does, we'll have to be able to produce the girl. To get the evidence we need, you see.”

Sergeant Price regarded her steadily. “My life upon it, Mrs. Dalton,” he said firmly. “I'll not let the lass be harmed.” He set down the carpetbag and held out his arms for Amanda.

The sleeping child's warmth could not begin to penetrate the cold tide of dread that swept through Kerry as she dragged her gaze from Sergeant Price's soot-streaked face to his waiting arms.

She took a jerky step backward, stopping when Molly steadied her with a restraining hand.

“Trust me,” he murmured. His eyes, still compassionate, held Kerry's.

Finally, her throat closing, her heart breaking, she transferred the warm, infinitely precious bundle from her arms to his.

When Winston had not shown up at the dime museum by ten past ten, Michael's stomach was so sour as to make him ill. As he stood, gun in hand, listening through the paper-thin wall separating this room from Bhima's, perspiration ringed his neck and trailed down his back, leaving him clammy and uncomfortable.

If they had launched this bizarre exploit for nothing, he thought he would never be able to look Jess Dalton in the eye again. To put the kindly preacher and his wife through such an ordeal only to have it fail—

It couldn't fail. Please, God, don't let it fail.

In the next room, Bhima's room, only Fritz Cochran—the Stump—waited for Winston's arrival. Here, behind Michael on the small cot that served Pauley Runyan as a bed, Jess Dalton kept his vigil with his daughter, who had finally fallen back to sleep in her daddy's arms. With them, Bhima and Pauley—the museum's Strong Man—waited in tense silence.

Michael knew the torment the pastor must be going through. He could only hope the man would be able to stay put until this was over.

While he waited, he worried that something had gone wrong, something had happened to spoil their scheme. But what? What
could
go wrong, at least until Winston himself showed up?

The light knock at the door of the next room was hesitant, uncertain, but Michael heard it at once.

Behind him, the others stirred. He lifted a hand to warn them to silence.

The walls were so thin that they muffled the voices scarcely at all. His heart leaped to his throat when he heard the clipped tones of the unmistakable British accent, followed by an oath.

“Abominable slum! It's hard to say which is worse, the dogs running loose in the streets or those squalid little beggars trying to bleed money from a man!”

Fritz Cochran said nothing as the Englishman charged through the door, brushing rain from the shoulders of his jacket. “I took a hack, but the driver could scarcely get past all the filthy little savages in the street! What a hellhole!”

He stopped in the middle of the room, looking around. “Where is he?”

“He'll be here,” Fritz said, carefully concealing his own emotions. “Any minute, now, I'm sure.”

Winston continued to shake the rain from his hair and clothing. “I cannot
wait
to get out of this loathsome pit! It's hard to believe people actually live in such squalor.”

Fritz watched him, saying nothing.

Winston, finally still, frowned at Fritz. “You're quite sure you can depend on this thug you hired? You said he was a bad sort altogether.”

Fritz nodded. “He'll show. You can count on him.”

Winston snorted. “I rather doubt
that.”

“He'll do the job. That's all that matters to you, isn't it?” He paused. “You do have the money? Mine as well as his?”

Winston eyed him for a second or two. “I have the money. But it stays right here”—he patted his breast pocket—“until I see the proof.”

Fritz had all he could do not to kick the man. It was true he had no arms, but life in the Bowery had taught him clever use of his feet.

“You actually intend to view the child's body?” he said, wondering at a man who could stoop so low.

Winston lifted an eyebrow. “For the amount I'm paying you and your roughneck friend, I'll see what I've bought. But if he doesn't show up before long, you can say goodbye to your own profit. If he reneges on the job, neither of you sees the money, remember?”

“He'll show,” Fritz said again, praying it would be soon.

When the rap on the door finally came, Fritz jumped, watching nervously as the man stepped inside.

Sergeant Price certainly
looked
the part of the felon, with his dirty, rumpled clothes and soot-streaked face. He carried a lumpy, tattered carpetbag in one hand. Fritz held his breath and waited.

The Englishman's gaze raked the newcomer.

“Well?” he snapped.

“Not so loud,” the abductor warned, his tone harsh. “You're the Brit?”

“I'll ask the questions, if you don't mind! Have you done the job I'm paying you for?”

Price regarded his interrogator. With his cap pulled low and a fierce glare in his eyes, he gave off a strong aura of menace. “You haven't paid me for nothin' yet,” he answered sullenly. His eyes flickered to the large carpetbag he held in his hand.

Winston's face flamed, and his eyes narrowed. “Let me see,” he breathed.

“Not until I have my money,” Price returned. His grip tightened on the handle of the bag.

“Let me see the evidence, you fool—now!” The Englishman grabbed the heavy carpetbag, heaved it onto the narrow cot, and jerked it open. With his back to both men, he froze. For a moment complete silence descended over the tiny room.

Fritz's blood ran cold. Sergeant Price had better be convincing—very convincing—or they were both dead men.