The Truth of All Things (59 page)

Inside the observation platform, Grey watched as Jack Whitten set Lean’s pistol aside and grabbed his long wooden staff. The man struggled to get the wooden bar into place above the trapdoor. He wedged the top beneath a windowsill and started forcing the base under the lip of the door leading outside. With one fluid motion, Grey rolled himself up to a sitting position, got his weight over his crossed ankles, and forced himself upright. His hands were bound before him, but he had enough mobility to grab the rope Whitten had tied to the hook in the ceiling. Grey took hold of it and looped the rope twice. As Whitten finished jamming the trapdoor closed, Grey dropped the rope circle over the man’s head and yanked the ends, drawing the cord tight about Whitten’s neck.

Whitten spun around and was met with a backhanded blow from
Grey’s bound fists. He fell back against the doorframe, then drew the billhook from his belt. Grey was on him in an instant, seizing Whitten’s wrist and slamming it through a windowpane. The billhook clattered to the floor. The trapdoor banged, and Grey realized that Lean was throwing his weight against it, not realizing it was blocked.

Whitten tried to reach Lean’s pistol on the floor. Grey slipped his foot forward and kicked the gun, which slid over the doorjamb out onto the deck. The attempt to grab the weapon had put Whitten off balance, and Grey threw his weight forward. Whitten clutched at Grey, but the momentum carried both men through the open door.

The two men spilled out onto the narrow walkway surrounding the observation platform. Grey was on his side as he grappled with the killer. He saw his pistol nearby, where it had slipped out the door during the struggle. He let go of Whitten and stretched for the gun. He just reached the butt with his fingertips when Whitten clasped his wrist. There was a stinging on the back side of his hand as Whitten dug his nails into Grey’s flesh.

Grey jerked his body, flailing forward toward the gun. Whitten released his wrist and also grasped for the gun. The two of them struggled for control of it for a second before it slipped away, toward the edge of the deck. It passed under the bottom edge of the railing that circled the deck. The gun wobbled there for a split second, then disappeared over the side.

Whitten pushed away and scrambled to his feet. Grey bolted up as well but, hampered by his bound wrists, he was a half second too late. The man was on him again, pushing him back to the waist-high railing. Grey’s foot slipped out from under him. The deck was not level; it sloped away slightly from the building. The unexpected slant caught him off guard and gave Whitten the advantage needed to overpower him. Grey’s lower back pressed into the rail. The killer’s hands were at his throat, pushing, forcing his head back so that Grey arched out over the railing. He grabbed at Whitten’s hands, trying to break the man’s grip.

Jack Whitten was small but surprisingly strong. Grey didn’t have enough leverage; he was losing the battle, unable to pry the killer’s hands from around his neck. Grey stuck his right foot between two of
the railing’s balusters, twisting his lower leg around for support. Then he let go of Whitten’s grip and went for the throat instead, his fingers clutching, searching for the man’s windpipe, desperate to crush it. Grey strained to work his thumbs between the double strands of the rope that he had tightened around the killer’s neck.

He tried to force the killer back, to gain equal footing. The two stood that way for several seconds, each pushing at the other, both with every bit of strength they possessed. Grey was struggling to draw enough breath through his clenched teeth. At some point he bit his tongue, and blood-specked spittle flew from his mouth with each fierce exhalation.

Grey stared into the man’s eyes. There was a crazed glee there, a dark, bottomless rapture. Each man continued to choke the other, but the length of rope around the killer’s neck was interfering, keeping Grey from getting a solid grip.

Where the hell was Lean? Grey glanced through the glass, into the observation room. He saw Helen there on the floor, kicking with both legs, trying to snap or dislodge the solid wooden staff that was jamming the trapdoor shut. He saw her look out toward them. By the flickering candlelight, Grey caught Helen’s stare: equal parts fierce determination and terror.

He turned away, looking back into the face of Jack Whitten. Lack of oxygen was making dark spots appear before his eyes. He would be done soon. Beaten. Dead. Fear began to well up inside Grey, quickly boiling over into a fury, a burning, consuming anger toward the inhuman murderer who, with every second, was strangling the life out of him. Grey tried to focus. His eyes locked onto the length of rope that was angled toward them, dangling from the hook inside the observatory.

In an instant, Grey shifted his hands, from trying to clasp the man’s throat to instead clutching Whitten’s robe. He twisted his ankle free from around the baluster and jerked up and backward, yanking the killer toward him. The sudden, unexpected reversal in weight completely surprised Jack Whitten; he had no time to react. With their combined effort pushing back against the rail, the momentum was too strong.

Grey’s feet left the deck, and he teetered on the rail, then toppled backward, yanking on Whitten as he went. The killer’s body came with
him over the side. As they fell, Grey released the robe and grabbed the man’s body in a bear hug, tighter than he had ever clasped anything in his life. They fell clean through the air for another second before the rope around Whitten’s neck snapped them back. There was the clear sound—a sickening crack—and then the momentum slammed them into the outward-sloping side of the building.

Grey struck against the observatory sideways, his left shoulder taking the force of the blow. That arm went dead, and he slipped down, with only the grip of his right hand on the killer’s belt to support him. He took several deep gasps of air, then pulled himself up enough so that he could wrap his own legs around those of the dead man to whom he clung. Finally he glanced down — there was nothing but hard ground five stories below. Looking up, he saw Lean at the railing, fiddling with the rope.

“Hurry!” called Grey.

Grey’s strength was fading, and he couldn’t hold on much longer. Within seconds another length of rope came cascading down the side of the building.

“Take hold of this one,” Lean called out to him.

Grey flexed his leg muscles, tightening the grip on Whitten’s body. Then his right hand shot out to grab the new length of rope, and he wrapped it around his forearm several times. He reached out with one leg, then the other, snaking each around the dangling rope. Grey began to rise, and at the same time Whitten’s body sank toward the ground. He realized that they were both suspended by separate ends of the same rope. The deadweight of Whitten’s body, along with Lean’s pulling, was hoisting Grey back up toward the observation deck. He gave another look down and watched Whitten’s dark form dropping in jerky motions toward the earth.

A few more pulls and Lean was able to tie off the rope, then reach over the rail to grab hold of Grey. Once he was safely onto the deck, Lean slipped back into the observation platform to loosen Helen’s gag.

“Where’s Delia?” she pleaded as Lean cut away the ropes from her wrists.

“Home. Tom Doran’s there with her.”

“Oh, thank heaven!” Helen clasped Lean in a hug, then started shaking her arms, trying to regain circulation. She breathed deeply several times as she fought to control the wild pendulum of emotions she had endured that night. Then she caught sight of Grey standing in the doorway. She struggled to her feet, with Lean’s assistance.

“Are you out of your mind! How could you— What were you thinking? Were you trying to kill yourself? And before … that whole time … just ignored me.… Why were you … blathering on and provoking him …? Lucky he didn’t kill us both.”

Grey was in visible pain from his left shoulder, but a smirk appeared as he listened to Helen’s rant.

“This is not funny. I watched you throw yourself over the edge. I thought you were dead! Do you understand— How could you? You are so …” Helen stepped forward with her hand raised, about to slap Grey cross the face. “So absolutely maddening.” Instead of striking, Helen reached out, grabbed Grey’s lapels, yanked him down to her, and kissed him full on the lips.

After a few seconds, Lean forced an awkward cough. Helen released her hold on Grey.

“Forgive me,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me. It’s just—”

“No need to apologize.” Grey gave her an appreciative smile. “It’s been a most trying night. But if we stay here much longer, we’re going to have to answer a lot of difficult questions.”

“What do we do with his body? We could call it a suicide,” Lean said.

Grey shook his head. “We’ll need a carriage or wagon.”

“I spotted one around the side,” Lean said. “I think it’s the one he used to bring Helen here.”

“Excellent. Help me get him loaded, then get Miss Prescott home. I’ll see to the body.”

L
ean eyed the pair of gravediggers. They were a matched set: stout workmen with caps slanted to keep the sun off their faces and cigarettes dangling from the corners of slack jaws. Their frock coats would be set aside as soon as the last of the crowd dispersed, revealing soil-encrusted work clothes. Lean could see they were restless, eager to begin filling the hole before the late-August heat worsened. It was only eleven o’clock, but the sky was already developing a haze. It was the kind of day that begged for something other than a black suit, regardless of the occasion. While many of the mourners had shed genuine tears, Lean had noticed more than one who dabbed their eyes as an excuse to continuously wipe beads of sweat from their brows.

The last few tearful hugs were bestowed on Helen by some more distant relatives of Dr. Steig. The preacher had finished several minutes earlier, and most of the large crowd had already dissipated, moving up the slope toward the main gate of the Western Cemetery. A row of carriages, many lined with black crepe, waited there like so many hovering crows.

Emma turned to Lean. “Are you ready?”

“I’ll be right along.”

She gave his hand an encouraging squeeze. Emma led Owen to where Helen and Delia stood, not far from the double plot where Dr. Steig, after more than a dozen years, would join his late wife. Emma exchanged hugs and quiet words with Helen. Her departure left a small company of five: those whose lives had been threatened by Jack Whitten and his unknown female devotee the night before last. Lean supposed that it was the shared horror, as well as the confused manner in which that night had ended, that now left them clustered beside Dr. Steig’s grave.

After Whitten’s death they had located that man’s cab and deposited the former owner’s body inside. Grey had taken the reins and disappeared into the night. Lean had managed to hail another cab and get Helen back to her house. Not much had been said on that ride, other than repeated assurances that Delia was fine and the ordeal was truly over. Upon arrival, they found Doran inside, standing guard over the girl. There hadn’t been much opportunity or need for further discussion after the reunion of mother and daughter.

Now Lean, Tom Doran, and Grey, with his left arm in a sling, stood a few steps removed and waited for Helen to ready herself. With her daughter by her side, Helen gave the men a wide smile, tears welling up in her eyes once more. “Gentlemen. Thank you for coming. Thank you for everything.” She reached out her hand. “I’m so grateful to you, Mr. Grey. And, Archie, thank you ever so much.”

“I only wish …” Lean glanced at the grave, where the diggers were getting ready.

“I know. But still, for my daughter. And for letting me keep a promise to her.”

Lean clasped her hand and gave her a smile, not needing to know exactly what she’d meant. Helen then took Doran’s massive hand in her own and looked up into the man’s eyes. He was clearly uncomfortable with the entire scene.

“Tom, I can’t thank you enough. If anything had ever happened to Delia …” Helen’s voice began to crack, and she stepped back.

Doran’s ruddy complexion darkened a shade or two as he stammered out some muddled acceptance of thanks while also trying to ask if she was all right and then throwing in his own expression of gratitude, just in case one was warranted. Doran was then mercifully rescued from his own verbal efforts by Delia Prescott, who bolted forward to bear-hug the man.

“Thank you, Mr. Dor— Can I call you Uncle Tom?”

“Hmm? Err, well, sure, I s’pose. I mean …”

Delia had already moved on to Lean. “Thank you, too. Can I call you Uncle Archie?”

“Course you can, dear.”

She gave Lean a wide grin, then turned to face Perceval Grey, who regarded the girl with an expression that landed somewhere between embarrassment and the surprise of seeing a knife pulled from a hidden pocket.

“And thank you as well … Mr. Grey.” She did a little curtsy.

Grey tipped his hat in appreciation of the girl’s choice to restrain her youthful enthusiasm.

Before heading up the slope to where Rasmus Hansen had already climbed back atop the doctor’s old carriage, Helen invited them all over to Dr. Steig’s house for refreshments with the family. Lean accepted, while Grey merely gave a vague nod and Doran begged off, muttering something about staying behind to make sure the grave men did their piece right.