From This Moment (40 page)

Romulus was glad Michael was willing to pull rank at the Boulder Point Police Department to get men posted at the train station, the two local stables where horses could be leased, and at the only ferry on the peninsula. Unless Ernest intended to walk home to Boston, they would catch him at one of these spots.

Romulus put his money on the train station. It was how the archivist had arrived in town, and it would be the quickest, most anonymous means of getting back to Boston. Two members of the local police were at the station, one a sergeant and the other a young officer who looked barely old enough to shave.

Romulus took a seat on one end of the station platform, while Michael monitored the other. They both wore caps pulled low over their foreheads. The worst thing would be if Ernest recognized them and fled before they could catch him.

Hours crawled past as Romulus scrutinized dozens of strangers who passed through the station. Against all hope, he kept looking for Stella. It was hard to imagine her dashing figure sauntering up to this rural train depot, but he couldn’t stop hoping and praying for her safety.

He refused to believe she was dead. Not Stella.

A commotion at the far end of the platform caught his attention. The two police officers emerged from behind the coal shed, guns drawn. Michael had given the signal, pointing out Ernest Palmer, who was approaching the ticket window. He was with two others, and all three men looked baffled as the police sergeant ordered them to stay put. There was no sign of Stella.

Romulus raced down the platform as the officers drew their pistols on the three men.

“What’s going on?” Ernest asked, his voice bewildered and hands raised high. The other two men joined in the universal sign of surrender. With his short stature and mild-mannered
bearing, Ernest was playing the confused victim to the hilt, but the other two men looked like they’d had toughness bred into them from birth. One was a brawny redhead, and the other had an ugly mustache and a bolt-action rifle in a sling across his back. He didn’t look frightened. He looked angry.

Michael strode forward. “Where’s Stella?” he demanded.

“Stella who?” Ernest replied with admirable calm.

“You know who I’m talking about,” Michael said. “Where is she?”

Perspiration dotted Ernest’s forehead, and he gave a weak little smile. “Why are you playing games? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Romulus scanned the situation. Three criminals, one with a powerful rifle on his back. Two police officers with pistols, but Michael and Romulus were unarmed. With lightning speed, the redhead standing beside Ernest drew a pistol from his coat and shot the young police officer. The officer recoiled and collapsed.

Without hesitation, the sergeant shot the redheaded man between his eyes. Bystanders panicked and raced for cover, but there was almost no place to hide on the boardwalk platform. The clerk behind the ticket window rolled down the wooden cover with a loud thump. A woman and her child huddled behind a metal bench, terrified. The man with the mustache got his rifle off his back and aimed it at the sergeant, who was fighting to overcome a misfire while the wounded young officer struggled to rise. The fallen policeman had blood running down his arm, but he managed to lift his gun, his hand wobbling badly.

“Enough!” Michael shouted. “It’s over. Enough!”

“It won’t be over until that copper drops his gun!” Ernest shrieked.

“And what will you do then? Shoot both officers dead? That’s a hanging offense. Shoot me? Shoot at them?” Michael asked,
gesturing to the bystanders huddled behind benches and lampposts. “It’s over! We killed a man thirty-five years ago and have been hiding it ever since. Samuel Alden went to prison for it, and it was all our fault.”

Michael shouted the words loud enough for everyone at the train station to hear. There was no going back now.

Ernest still held his hands in the air, but they shook wildly, making the sergeant nervous.

“Quit moving!” the sergeant bellowed, his weapon trained on Ernest.

A click sounded somewhere behind a cluster of trees near the hitching post. Romulus caught the glint of a rifle barrel in the shrubbery. “Behind you!” he shouted.

The crack of the rifle cut him off, and the sergeant pitched forward, his gun spinning out into the dirt. The man who had had the rifle on his back fired at the wounded officer still on his knees. The young officer rolled aside just in time. The henchman jerked back the bolt to eject the cartridge and reload another round.

Romulus wasn’t going to let him take another shot without a fight. Leaping across the platform, he kicked the rifle, sending it twirling onto the train tracks, then hauled back and landed a right hook on the henchman’s face.

He was vaguely aware of the hidden sniper emerging from the bushes and joining the fray, but Michael was already on him, dealing a swift series of combination punches.

He and Michael fought back to back. It was two against three, but raw speed, strength, and agility won out over men who couldn’t raise their weapons amid the onslaught of flying fists. When Ernest managed to get his pistol drawn, Romulus kicked it so hard it went flying and smacked against the wall of the train depot.

But another gunshot rang out, and Michael fell to his knees. The man from the bushes even now struggled to chamber a new round. Romulus bounded toward him and grabbed the barrel of the rifle before the sniper could reload. He tore the weapon away and swung it like a bat against the side of his attacker’s head. The man fell and did not move again.

There were more gunshots behind him, and Romulus hit the ground, uncertain where the shots were coming from. The young police officer who’d been grazed had risen to his knees and fired off a steady series of shots, taking down Ernest and the remaining henchman.

It was over.

For a few moments, it was as if time had stopped, the sound of gunshots still echoing in his ears. Romulus glanced frantically around the station, searching for any other henchmen who might still be in hiding.

No one emerged. It seemed that it was all well and truly over.

The sniper Romulus had clobbered had a sizeable wound on the side of his head but was still breathing. A newspaper boy who’d taken cover behind a bench came forward and landed a heavy boot on the wounded man’s back. “I’ll keep him locked down if you want to see to your friend.”

Romulus nodded in gratitude and darted to Michael, who lay curled on the bare platform. His face was pale, and the wheeze as he gasped for breath didn’t sound good. It gurgled, and blood trickled from his mouth. He’d been shot in the lung.

Romulus knelt beside him. “Can you hear me?” he asked.

Michael managed a single nod. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“I know you are. You did a brave thing.” Michael probably wouldn’t live to face the legal ramifications of his adolescent prank, but he’d confessed it openly and without reservation. That counted for a lot.

“Tried to be a good man,” Michael wheezed.

Romulus grabbed his hand. “You were.”

Whatever his old friend’s sins, Romulus could not doubt his remorse. He held Michael’s hand as the life faded from his eyes and the tension eased from his body. He could only pray that, in death, Michael would find the peace and forgiveness that had eluded him in life.

The sergeant was badly wounded but would probably live. The young police officer had only a flesh wound to his arm and helped sort out the mess. Of the four men involved in Stella’s disappearance, only the sniper in the bushes survived. By the time he roused from the clobbering Romulus had delivered, he had been handcuffed to a bench and had three police officers training their guns on him.

“You’ve killed the attorney general of Massachusetts,” Romulus said. “Your only prayer for mercy is if you tell us what you did with Stella West.”

Romulus held his breath, praying that, against all odds, Stella was still safe, but the guilt flushing the man’s face filled Romulus with dread.

“It was that slimy archivist’s idea,” the sniper said. “We didn’t want anything to do with it. We told him not to do it.”

Romulus couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. All he could do was brace himself for what was coming, but nothing could have prepared him for what he heard next.

“We cornered her in the cave down by the old Wallingford Fish Cannery. You can’t get out of there once the tide comes in. She drowned last night.”

He recoiled. Of all the ways for Stella to die, that had to be the worst.

It was possible this man was lying. Or that she had somehow escaped. He knew he was grasping at straws, but it was easier than facing the reality of her death. He would never have a chance to say that he’d been wrong about the two of them, that he was sorry.

But if there was a prayer that she still lived, or if her body hadn’t been dragged out to sea and could be recovered, he would find her. Her parents deserved the finality of a decent burial.

The tiny police force of Boulder Point was overwhelmed by the deaths of four men and two injured officers. They weren’t going to send anyone to help him, and frankly, he didn’t want their help. He needed to be alone right now.

He was warned the dirt road leading to the abandoned cannery was neglected and too bumpy for carriage traffic, so he rented a horse and set off.

It was late in the afternoon before Romulus could smell the salt from the sea as the horse carried him closer to the cannery. Thick pine forests framed both sides of the dusty rural lane.

He must be getting close, for the forest had thinned, giving way to reeds and sand dunes. The scent of pine was overwhelmed by the briny tang of salt. As he rounded a bend, pale blue water finally came into view. He kicked the horse into a trot, anxious to find the cannery and the dangerous cave where he might find Stella. He would need as much daylight as possible to begin the search. A glance to the right showed the ramshackle old cannery, cut off from the peninsula by about fifty yards of water. He looked in both directions for the cave, but the cliffs on both sides looked equally rocky and forbidding.

Wind buffeted him, and once again he cursed this bleak, depressing sight. It was an abandoned stretch of beach, where
everything was shades of gray, blue, and black. It wasn’t the kind of place someone as brilliantly colored as Stella West should have met her end.

It was impossible to know which direction would lead him to the cave, but to the south, a lone beachcomber picked his way along the shoreline. The beachcomber was almost a mile off, but perhaps he would be able to direct Romulus to the cave.

He guided the horse into the shallow surf, where the footing was pure sand and clear of the treacherous rocks. Water splashed onto his legs as he spurred the horse forward to catch up with the beachcomber. As he drew closer, it became clear the beachcomber was a woman, stopping every few yards to pick at something in the sand. He winced. She was eating the whelks that had washed ashore. Whelks were nasty little mollusks that were rubbery even when cooked and purely revolting when eaten raw.

A scraggly blond braid hung down her back, and the filthy dress looked as if she’d been rolling in the surf. She tossed another whelk shell behind her as she continued heading up the beach. He shuddered, glad he’d never been so hungry as to eat raw whelks.

The way she walked . . . he swallowed hard and refused to hope. Stella had an unmistakable saunter, full of grace and confidence. The beachcomber seemed close in size and shape to Stella, but in his wildest dreams he could not bear to hope . . .

“Excuse me, ma’am,” he called out. His voice was carried away on the wind, and he cleared his throat to shout louder. This time she heard him and turned around. His heart nearly stopped beating.

She gasped. “Romulus?”

He sprang down from the horse, staggering through the surf toward her. She was laughing as she ran toward him, flinging
her arms around his shoulders as he hoisted her in the air, twirling her in circles above the surf. Her skin was grubby and speckled with sand and salt, but her wind-chapped complexion had never looked prettier.

This felt like a dream, but it was too real, with the sun glaring in his eyes and the chilly rush of the water at his knees. One shoe had gotten pulled off as he’d twirled her in the air.