The Widow's Secret (15 page)

If she had not seen Benny Foggarty in the garden—had it only been last night?—how long would Virgil have perpetuated his charade? A strangled sound emerged from her throat because, for Jocelyn, the charade was over.

Katya tugged her sleeve.

“Katya…I know this sounds confusing, and fearful. But we are leaving. Tonight, before the Brocks return.” Tears stung her eyes. She grabbed the younger girl's hand, squeezed it, then leaned to remove her shoe and retrieve the folded bills. Silently, she showed them to Katya.

Equally silent, Katya took one of the bills and studied it, turning it over, her expression baffled.

“I believe these are counterfeit,” Jocelyn explained, rubbing her temples to calm an incipient headache. “Over the past few months Micah—Mr. MacKenzie, has been doing more than courting me. He's also been teaching me how to distinguish a counterfeit bill from a real one. Here—take this five-dollar bill, as well. Now you have two bills, and I have two, so both of us have evidence for Mr. MacKenzie. Put yours in your pocket for now. Later you can stuff them in your
brogans, like I put mine in my shoes. They'll be safer.” She hoped. “But right now we have to
hurry
. The Brocks could return home within the hour. And Virgil is leaving for St. Louis the day after tomorrow.”
Virgil, the vermin,
she thought, revulsion thickening her voice. “I'll explain everything later. For now, move as quickly as you can. Dress in your warmest clothes, pack only your small carpetbag.”

A scant fifteen minutes later Katya met Jocelyn at the bedroom door, carpetbag in one hand, a note in the other.
Am not afraid. I trust you. Trust Mr. MacKenzie. Trust God.

“I hope your trust is not misplaced.” Swallowing a lump, she jammed the note in the pocket of her walking skirt, then tugged on her gloves. She had not taken the time to change, and carried no luggage at all. Everything she owned was tainted, and as soon as she passed these bills to Micah, she would purchase a costume or two with her own money, then burn the outfit in which she was fleeing.

After turning out the lamps, she glanced over toward her bed to verify that in the darkness the hump beneath the bed-covers resembled a person. Opening the door, she peered out into the hall, urgency shoving at her with impatient hands.

Like a pair of thieves they made their way down the servants' stairs and onto the main floor, remaining in shadows as much as possible. Jocelyn had decided to escape through a door at the back entrance, though the route forced them to traverse the entire length of the main hall, not to mention the vestibule where poor Palmer maintained his vigil.

They had just reached the library when a man's voice angrily exploded through the closed pocket doors.

“…necessary to discuss Mr. MacKenzie tonight!”

Katya jumped, her throat muscles convulsing in an un-voiced gasp. With the speed of desperation, Jocelyn grabbed the maid's arm and scuttled them into the small antecham
ber next to the library, where servants of guests waited for the duration of a visit.

Not much larger than the closet in Jocelyn's bedroom, the room offered a safe enough bolt-hole: none of the Brocks would deign to step foot in a place decorated with cast-off furniture, where lowly servants mingled. A narrow window shrouded in heavy velvet drapery lent an oppressive atmosphere to the small space that sent fresh chills racing over Jocelyn's skin. She sat Katya down in an unattractive wicker chair, took a deep breath, then explained to her maid what she was going to do.

W
ater dripped somewhere, a slow monotonous pling. Micah would have found the noise intolerable, except it reassured him that he was still alive. After blinking several times, he attempted to lift his head again. This time, pain did not plunge him back into unconsciousness. For a while he sat, his mind emptied out, until the blinding throb at the back of his head subsided to a bearable ache.

He did not know how long he'd been unconscious, or where he had been taken. The damp, musty odor and the quality of the silence indicated a room, or building, that was abandoned. He also wasn't gagged, convincing evidence that nobody would be within yelling distance.

His abductors certainly knew their business. Though not gagged, he was bound hand and foot to a wood chair, and a cloth sack completely covered his head. The sack comforted him. Apparently their ultimate crime was not murder. At the moment, anyway. No matter how one sliced this pie, however, Operative Micah MacKenzie was effectively useless, so he contented himself with listening to the water drip and pretended he was enjoying a Mozart sonata.

Some fragment of emotion struggled to grab his attention, a disquieting chord that clashed with the simple one-note water sonata. Then consciousness drifted back into a murky swamp.

Time passed. He roused himself again, tried praying, but his thoughts remained disconnected, disjointed.

Footsteps scraped along the floorboards somewhere over his head, a muffled but audible tread that at last broke through Micah's stupor. He tensed, marking the direction of each step, of where each board creaked, his sluggish mind automatically counting seconds. A door groaned open behind him, its hinges grating in protest. The heavy footsteps approached until Micah could hear the person breathing, smell the pungent odor of tobacco, musk and a whiff of some spice—cloves? Cinnamon?

“Well. You're awake at last.”

The masculine voice was stripped of any overtly recognizable accents. Training or upbringing? Micah wondered. “Barely,” he acknowledged, surprised by the huskiness of his own voice. “Can I have something to drink? My throat's parched.”

A thoughtful pause ensued. “Didn't bring anything with me this time. Depending on how nice you are, I'll think about it.”

“Depending on how long you plan to keep me alive, you might remember that a man can live longer without food, than he can water. How long have I been here, anyway?”

“Shrewd as an alley rat, aren't you? Even got yourself a college degree. Seems to me a smart fellow would have got himself a nice job, married a nice girl, raised a family and bought them a nice house in…Queens, perhaps? I hear there's a real nice neighborhood over there.”

They knew. They knew too much.
And if they knew Micah's
identity, if they knew about Jonathan, as well, they would automatically suspect Jocelyn. Jocelyn, whom he had left alone and unprotected because of his own pride. His arrogance.
She should be safe for another day or two,
he'd asserted confidently to Jonathan,
because I've been invited to dinner tomorrow night.
Micah shivered, raw with fear. Anger. Resolved on a visceral level to keep both reactions from showing. “Seems to me a smart fellow wouldn't involve himself in kidnapping.”

An unpleasant chortle echoed hollowly in the room. “Pay's good, real good. Besides, I don't have a daddy whose employer financed his son's education. Wonder what your daddy would say, seeing what you've done with your life. Biting the hand that fed you, so to speak.”

Do not let him goad you into losing your temper.
With an effort that coated his skin in sweat, Micah forced his muscles to relax, forced himself to take long deep breaths. Prayed the grinding headache would distract him sufficiently from his fear for Jocelyn to match wits with his abductor. “Any particular reason you're poking at me, or are you naturally mean?”

Something hard punched into his stomach. A gasp of pain whistled through his clenched lips; nausea burned at the back of his throat.
I can…do all things…Jesus, I can bear this because You're with me….
“Naturally mean,” he mumbled, and braced himself for the next blow.

The footsteps shifted, circled in a quick impatient scuffle around Micah. “It's a shame I'm under orders not to kill you. Push much harder, Mr. MacKenzie, and I might decide to come up with a new set of orders. Wait…I forgot. It's Operative MacKenzie, of the U.S. Secret Service. Someone spilled all your secrets, Mr. Operative MacKenzie. Want to know who?”

“I hope you paid him in counterfeit bills.”

This time the laugh rasped Micah's nerves to the breaking point. He couldn't stop a reflexive flinch when the man, still chuckling, whispered directly through the sack, into his ear. “It wasn't a ‘he.'”

Sickening silence wrapped around Micah's windpipe and squeezed.

“Go ahead,” the malevolent voice persisted. “Ask me who it was. Ask me who told all about you, in her refined Southern drawl.”

Jocelyn. Father in heaven, Jesus, Jesus, don't let them hurt her….

With careless brutality the man grabbed a fistful of Micah's hair through the sack and yanked his head back. White-hot agony lanced his skull and lights flashed behind his eyes. “Can't stand hearing about your sweetheart? She's a looker, all right. Always preferred my sugarcakes with golden hair and plenty of curves—till I got me a gander of all that fiery red hair. And those eyes—they can freeze a man but I bet they'd also keep him warm at night.”

“Leave her and your vile speculations out of this. You want to use me as a punching bag, I can't stop you. But save your breath and quit wasting my time, telling me lies about Mrs. Bingham.”
Be strong, sweetheart.
“Because that's what they are. Lies. I know her.”

And she'd already experienced enough betrayal and loss for three lifetimes.

With a contemptuous growl his tormentor released his hold on Micah's hair. “Twisted your shirttails into a knot, has she? Wish I was going to be around when you learn the truth.”

This ham-fisted brute wouldn't know the truth if it were announced with heavenly trumpets. “Perhaps,” Micah said
between gritted teeth, “we'll both be there. One of us will be disappointed, and it won't be me.”

This time he managed to tighten his abdominal muscles enough to weather the next blow. Seconds later, the sickening spice odor intensified as his captor's breath huffed into his ear once more.

“You might want to think about where you are now, Mr. Not-so-Secret Service man. Think long, and hard, about what will happen to your little redbird if you're not sitting right here the next time I return.”

The threat bludgeoned with more force than his fists. Micah clenched his bound fingers until bones cracked, but his will was crumbling beneath the river of fear, outrage and hatred that rampaged through him. “What are you saying?”

“I'm saying if you're not sitting right here the next time I return, or the next time, or until hell freezes over, the widow will be pushing up daisies beside her dear departed husband. Understand that, Operative MacKenzie?”

Long after the door slammed, long after the footsteps faded until only the silence screamed, Micah sat without moving, while the river of rage hurled him against the shoals in furious waves.

But eventually the flood subsided to a trickle. Head drooped, body battered, in that moment, fear and hopelessness chained him far more tightly than the ropes keeping him a blinded prisoner on a chair in an empty room.

 

Micah. They were talking about
Micah
.

Jocelyn slowly relaxed her cramped fingers. Panic would help neither Micah, nor her and Katya. The same glacial numbness that had seized her when she discovered Virgil's perfidy thickened until, with perfect calm, she was able to turn to Katya and whisper, “Something might have happened
to Mr. MacKenzie. I'm going to see if I can listen through the library door. You stay here. If I'm caught—” She laid a bracing hand on the girl's shoulder. “Be brave, Katya. For me, for Mr. MacKenzie. If I'm caught, hide in here until you can slip outside.” Hopefully the strategy would protect Katya from a blistering cross-examination at best. At worst…Jocelyn couldn't bear to think about what the Brocks would do to this vulnerable young woman.

Nor could she renege on her promise to help Micah. Quickly, she withdrew her coin purse and grabbed a handful of coins, pressing them into Katya's damp palm. “Here. This will pay for the hansom. You need to go to the post office,” she ordered in a hurried whisper. “It's at the corner of Broadway and Park Row. The Secret Service's New York office is inside this building, but do
not
write ‘Secret Service' on your tablet. Write ‘Post Office,' and that's all.”

Out in the hall, the grandfather clock tolled the quarter hour. Time…How long since the Brocks had returned home, how long since Virgil had entered the library? Who was he talking to, and
how much longer would they remain?

“Go ahead and put the counterfeit bills I gave you under your feet, inside your brogans,” she instructed Katya as levelly as she could. “They'll be safe there. Remember—nobody but a man who has the proper identification to prove he is an employee of the Secret Service can see those bills, Katya. You're strong, and stubborn. Don't let anyone intimidate you just because you can't speak.”

Katya nodded, but through the thin beam of light that shone beneath the door Jocelyn watched two tears well up, then slide down the quivering cheeks.

The promise tumbled out. “I'll be back in a few minutes, probably.” She straightened, a monstrous desolation clutching at her soul.

Never make promises,
Chadwick used to tell her, his sculpted lips twisted in self-mockery.
You inevitably break them. Nobody keeps their word anymore, my dear.

She didn't want to hear that voice inside her head ever again. She wanted to hear Micah's voice, wanted to bask in the assurance of his soul-deep faith. A faith born in hope, tested through tragedy, tensile-strong against cynicism.

She hugged Katya tightly. “You'll be fine. God will be with you. Remember that, most of all.” Please let it be true, she added silently.

As she raced in a soundless dash over to the library, more fragments of scripture, ignored for over a decade, seeped into her heart.
Never will I leave you…the Lord is faithful…Be still, and know….

All right, Lord. If those verses are true, now would be a good time…

“…and the old lady, probably the assistant's relative. Vanetti says he had no choice. I don't believe him. He enjoys killing. But he told me he pinched enough to make it look like burglary. I warned you when this happened in Richmond that the affair could turn messy, that Vanetti enjoys taking life. I'm not a prude, Mother, but this makes the third murder in three years.”

Mother?
Virgil wasn't talking to his father, or some other vile criminal—he was talking to
Portia
. Aunt Portia, whose skill at dissembling far exceeded Jocelyn's.

She shouldn't have been surprised by anything, nor even hurt. When Portia spoke, irrevocably confirming her identity, Jocelyn's world tilted, then settled into cold resolve.

“Sometimes death is an unfortunate but necessary consequence of a life action. Men bluster and boast about their power, but most of their manly displays are nothing but a facade to hide a weakness of character. You disappoint me,
Virgil, and I trust I'll not be subjected to any more squeamish outbursts. As for Vanetti, I'm fully aware of his propensities. Six years ago Rupert's bookkeeper was actually Vanetti's first assignment with us. The man had become suspicious, and far too inquisitive. So I hired Vanetti, and provided enough erroneous information to send the Secret Service buffoons into an endless maze.”

“But wasn't Uncle Rupert's bookkeeper MacKenzie's—”

“I don't recall his name,” Portia interrupted testily. “I made a decision then, to do whatever was necessary to deflect undue attention from our business.” Her voice abruptly changed to the soft coaxing tone she used to secure Jocelyn's—and anyone else's—compliance. “It was difficult, yes. But it had to be done. Virgil, you must believe me. I retain Vanetti's services only to protect my family.”

“Why didn't you buy these people off? It's not as though we're lacking the resources.”

“Those resources have steadily dried up in the last five years, because of the Secret Service. Why do you think your brother moved to St. Louis? Some of our best manufacturers and wholesalers have disappeared entirely from the city, all because of those interfering government agents. Don't you understand? I've had no choice but to resort to extreme measures, like Vanetti. Wipe that self-righteous smile off your face and use your brain. MacKenzie and his ilk can no longer be bought, or turned. So unless you fancy cooling your heels in the Second District Prison, you do what you're told.”

“Yes, Mother,” came Virgil's mocking response. “And Mr. MacKenzie's assistant? Does he suffer the same fate as his aunt?”

“That decision will be made when he is located. In the meantime, we must reexamine our own resources.”

“Are you referring to Benny? He's the one who alerted us to the truth about MacKenzie. Otherwise, we'd still be sharing meals and evenings out with the two-faced—” He cut off the rest of the sentence.

“I suspect Mr. Foggarty has been playing both ends against the middle. As for those two footpads you hired from the police department…they should have discovered MacKenzie's true identity weeks ago, along with the existence of another undercover operative working with Mr. MacKenzie.” She spat Micah's name as though it were an epithet.