Authors: Rachel Cartwright
“Perhaps Bret and Mr. Wallace can’t help their weakness, but you?” Timothy turned to face him again. “Gabrielle will loathe you forever once she knows the truth.”
Caden removed his pocket watch from his vest and clicked open the cover. “Fluorescence,” he remarked. “Such a remarkable thing the way it glows in the dark.”
A puzzled expression flitted across Timothy’s face.
Caden snapped the cover closed and placed the watch back in his vest pocket.
“I believe our business is finished, Doctor, and I would think so is your work in Galveston.”
Caden turned, fixing his dark dilating eyes on the short, swarthy man beneath his gaze. All the forces of nature had converged on this place and time so that the past could reconcile with the present and together, bow before the future. So what manner of groveling thing was this to threaten the greater destiny of the ascendant race?
He reached down and gripped the shorter man by the shoulder. “Timothy,” said Caden, his voice the tone of a deep, lost sigh. “We shouldn’t part company like this. You and I come from higher breeding. If my assistant is guilty of any transgression in your eyes then I would like to make amends for his actions.”
“I think that is too late, Doctor Hellreich,” Timothy answered without turning around. “For both of you.”
“Perhaps not, good friend.” He pulled back slowly on the young man’s shoulder. “Remember when I spoke on the seven root races of mankind?”
Timothy turned around, his face flinching with bafflement at the question. “Vaguely, but I’m not in a mood for anymore of your fancy words.”
“Please,
Tim
,” Caden smiled. “Give me a final moment to leave you with something to always remember me by.” He put his gloved hand back into the pocket of his long walking coat. “After many thousands of years, the fourth race—the Atlanteans—interbred with beasts.”
He stepped closer until he was only an arm’s length away. “This tragedy split our ancestral stock into two separate species, one of pure, human Aryan and the other, all manner of bestial strain, whose descendants now overpopulate our world and tax its resources to the limit. So, as you can see, Timothy . . .”
Caden grinned, shifting his weight forward. “If the best of humanity is to survive, the others must be removed no matter what the cost.”
They stood in front of the rear door of the hall. From the opposite alleyway there came the growing din and clatter of a motor engine as a vehicle made its way down toward the back of the Society hall.
Timothy looked in the direction of the approaching rumble and racket of backfires then turned and spat, hitting the doctor’s left shoe. “This is pointless and I’ve had enough of your—”
Caden jammed the two barrels of Bret McGowan’s Remington derringer into the side of Timothy’s temple. “My point, little
Timoteo
. Interbreeding reduces man’s psychic powers to nothing. Proof positive is you standing here with that gaping ape mouth, and only at this instant comprehending your fate. Evolution shows no mercy, my unfortunate friend.” Caden pulled the trigger once, exploding a hole in the petrified man’s temple.
Timothy DeRocha collapsed back on the steps in a crumpled heap of limbs and clothing. The dripping bits of gory bone and blood on the wall of the Society building glistened in the moonlight as they ran down the brick.
The headlights shone against the far end of the adjacent sawmill wall. In a few seconds, the vehicle would be turning the corner.
Caden placed the small revolver in plain view on the dead man’s chest, then turned and ran into the darkness at the opposite end of the alley, concealing himself behind the sawmill wall. He waited and watched, savoring the ferocious animal pleasure he felt from the comfort of his hiding place.
The vehicle turned the corner, advancing only a few feet before stopping. The engine clanked and sputtered to an abrupt silence followed by the dimming glare from the headlight.
In the darkness, Caden heard awkward, irregular steps coming down the alleyway. He edged around the corner of the sawmill wall and watched the reeling figure of a man walk toward the dead body, the somber moonlight coming full upon his face.
Bret McGowan stumbled as he sang bits and pieces of ‘Lorena,’ his hoarse voice coughing out words from the song
. “But then, ’tis past; the years have gone. I’ll not call
up their shadowy forms; I’ll say to them, ‘Lost years, sleep on, sleep on, nor heed life’s pelting storms.’”
Caden observed as Bret approached the dead body. He watched him pause, his stance wavering as he reached in his jacket and pulled something out of the inside pocket. “What? Don’t like my singing? Then pick yourself up, man, and fight!” He offered a small hip flask toward the reclined corpse. “Or share a drink if you’ve still got the strength to—”
Bret’s arm fell limp and he dropped the flask on the alleyway. The metal container clanged against the brick surface, spilling its liquor in a small puddle.
He took a few more steps closer, then stooped down beside the body. “Lord in heaven . . . Timothy?” He picked up the derringer from the corpse’s chest. “What have you done?”
Caden, concealed in the darkness, focused his concentration on the execution of the final step in his design. He composed his expression, removing any hint of lingering excitement from the necessary removal of that unfortunate DeRocha fool. Breathing in a measured, relaxed pattern, he stepped out from the shadows behind the sawmill wall.
Facing Bret McGowan’s back, he padded toward his stunned and unsuspecting dupe. Society members knew that Doctor Hellreich always took in an evening walk at this time after his lecture or studies, and there was no reason to assume that tonight should be any different. “Ahh. There you are, Mr. McGowan.” Caden paused. “The commotion your vehicle makes is like a gun—”
Bret McGowan spun around, holding the derringer in his shaking hand. His eyes were wide with terror like an escaped convict. “What . . .” He took a tottering step toward Caden. “What happened here?”
Caden glanced down at Timothy’s corpse. He stepped back and raised his head so that Bret could clearly see his look of shock and disbelief. “My God, sir. What have you done?”
The bewildered man stepped toward Caden and raised the revolver. “I . . . I found him like this . . . but how—”
Caden raised his gloved hands, trying to shield his face and chest. “No, please, don’t shoot!” He bellowed the rest of his words as loudly as he could. “Help me someone! Please! He’s got a gun!”
Bret glanced back at the dead body. “You . . . you double-dealing bastard. What are you up to?”
The rear door of the Society hall swung open. Edward ran out of the entrance, holding an oil lantern. “Doctor Hellreich?” He paused as agreed to catch his breath. “Sir, is that you? I heard—Oh, God!”
Edward turned away from the corpse for a moment then swung around to face Bret McGowan. “What are you doing?” He looked down at the corpse then back up to the ill-fated man standing beside the body. “You’ve shot a man in cold blood!”
“No!” Bret shook his head and lurched toward Edward “I found him. He was like that when I arrived!”
Liam Dawson and Hadlee Foster ran outside. The lantern light flared yellow-white against the darkness of the alleyway walls as the men surrounded the body. They looked down at the dead man and then back to their friend, still holding the derringer.
“Liam? Hadlee? Tell them. You know I’d never—”
“Christ, Bret,” Liam contorted his features and took a step back. “We were discussing business and I thought I heard that locomotive of yours back here, but—” He glanced down at the body again. “Why?”
“Come on partner.” Hadlee held out his hand. “Give me the gun.”
“But I didn’t—”
“Bret, for Christ’s sake,” Hadlee yelled. “Arley Caldwell’s inside and Miss Armstrong has likely already called the police. Do you want to get shot too? Now give me the goddamn gun!”
“Rebecca?” Bret raised his hand as if to examine the small gun clenched between his fingers in more detail. “No. It’s impossible. She couldn’t . . .”
The accused man let his head drop as if the weight of terrifying realization that it carried was no longer something it could support. He gripped the gun by the barrel and handed the butt to Hadlee Foster. His friend examined the weapon for a few moments.
“Is it his?” asked Liam.
Hadlee held it up toward the small light over the rear door of the Society hall. “Could be, but I’ll have to check it inside by the light.”
“I . . . I must have lost it somewhere,” Bret offered in his defense, his voice just above a whisper. “Liam, Hadlee . . . somebody found it or it was stolen—”
“The only thing that has been stolen, Mr. McGowan,” Caden said, pointing down to the dead body, “has been that poor man’s life.” He walked over and joined the group of men. “And I shudder to think who would have been next if Edward had not heard my calls for help.”
From within the Society hall, the sound of more rapid footsteps came toward the open door. Arley Caldwell stopped at the threshold and peered at each of the assembled men. He lowered his gaze toward the corpse. Without a word, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a revolver. “Who did this?”
Edward pointed at Bret. “I heard a cry for help and when I arrived I found Mr. McGowan standing over the body and aiming a gun at Doctor Hellreich.” He gestured down at the body. “I think . . . it’s Mr. DeRocha.”
“Timothy?” Arley stepped past the body. He gasped and raised his revolver at the dumbfounded man still holding the derringer. “What’s wrong with you, Bret? You’ve gone sick in the head, boy. Lord, all that poison you keep taking and mixing with liquor.”
He stepped back from the corpse. “I’m just thankful Gabrielle isn’t here to see this after everything else you’ve done to break her heart.”
“Arley, no, I came here to meet
him
.” Bret McGowan jabbed his finger toward Caden. “We were supposed to meet inside.” He swayed on his feet and took a few steps toward Arley. “Philip told me . . . about what happened to my mother . . . what that goddamn bastard did.”
Bret lunged at Caden. Edward rushed forward and grabbed Bret by the throat, pulling him back as Liam and Hadlee tried to wrestle the flailing man to the bricks. Bret fought back like an enraged beast and maintained his footing.
“Mad as a bull,” Arley said. He stepped forward and knocked the struggling man on the temple with the butt of his revolver.
Bret’s legs buckled, but he would not go down.
“And just as strong.” Arley whacked him harder a second time. Bret McGowan wavered for a few moments then slumped forward as the men wrestled him to the bricks.
“Hold him there,” Caden ordered, “and leave everything as it is until the police arrive.”
Arley turned and faced Caden . “What was all that about meeting Bret?”
Caden lowered his gaze and squinted at the unconscious, prostrate man. “The wild ranting of a drunken opium fiend. Excess of one aggravates the delirium of the other. I suspected this would happen and warned Gabrielle.”
Taking a breath, Caden consciously relaxed his expression and touched Arley on the arm in a gesture of mutual assurance. “I promised to meet Mr. McGowan, try to talk sense with him, but these . . . these violent hallucinations of his about terrible events from his childhood . . .”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but for all my knowledge of human nature, this is quite beyond my abilities to offer a remedy. All we can do now is show compassion . . . and hope the court will too.”
Caden studied each troubled, uncertain face of the whispering men gathered around their unconscious friend. Their words were of disbelief and pity for what Bret McGowan had done but the silence of their deepest fear spoke loudest of all.
After all, how would polite society judge these fine gentlemen? What guilt through association had they already risked if discovered with this murderer still holding the bloody gun in his hand?
Caden glanced up at the open door. Rebecca stood in the moonlit shadows of the threshold, her hand over her mouth. She cried out, reeled, and ran back into the building. Caden grinned.
Destiny always keeps her appointments, Mr. McGowan, and so do I.
CHAPTER 20
Friday, September 7, 10:30 p.m.
“Easy there, Hadlee.” Liam put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “You’re not roping a steer.”
Caden and the others watched Hadlee wrap the rope around Bret’s neck. He yanked and tied it to the unconscious man’s hands behind his back. “Three of us couldn’t bring him down,” Hadlee puffed, “and Arley had to cold cock him twice! When he comes to, a fella in his condition, even a friend, might turn around and gore you.” He stood. “Just like a bull.”
“Rebecca has called the police and they will arrive shortly,” Caden informed them. “Please, gentlemen, if you would be so kind to take Mr. McGowan inside.”
He motioned toward the open rear door. “I think there has been enough tragedy for one night and there is no need for any of you to involve yourselves any deeper in this sordid affair.”
Arley turned to him. “Caden? You want us to leave this murderer with you?”
Caden put his hand on the older man’s shoulder. “Arley, I appreciate your concern, but you must think of the larger significance of this situation. Do you really want your family’s impeccable name and reputation connected in any way to what happened here tonight?”
Liam and Hadlee pivoted on their feet. They stepped away from their insensate friend and stood beside Mr. Caldwell. The men lingered for a breath, as if unable to focus on anything except the raw implication of what they had just heard.
“That’s right, gentlemen,” Caden continued. “All of you have much to risk and nothing to gain by involving yourselves in this troubling occurrence.”
They looked at each other as though waiting for the first reassuring murmur that would allow them to scurry away to their safe beds and wait for the familiar warmth of the next day.
Liam gestured toward the bound man. “But, perhaps we can help Bret. We’re all witnesses to what happened.”