The Widow's Secret (16 page)

“Very well. As always, you've made your point. I'll take care of everything.”

“See that you do. Are you sure the ubiquitous Lothario is someplace safe? No chance of discovery?”

“No chance at all. You'll appreciate this, Mother. Last year, when all the banks were going belly-up, I was able to buy several acres of land a couple of blocks from the Dakota, along Seventy-second Street.” A malicious laugh slithered under the door panels. “Nothing's there at the moment but the dregs of a filthy shantytown—shacks, abandoned stores, a couple of caved-in warehouses. No tenants or sharecroppers are left. I made sure of that some months ago. I have plans for that property. By the time I'm finished, the Dakota Apartments will look like a tenement housing project by comparison.”

“You're a good son, Virgil, with a good head when you put your mind in it. And Mr. MacKenzie is…?”

Jocelyn swallowed against the bile swimming at the back of her throat as she listened to Virgil's bragging. “Like I told you, nobody lives there now but rats, stray dogs and Mr. MacKenzie. I was told he's been secured in the basement of a storage warehouse, near the center of the property. Can't even hear street traffic.”

“Very well. Now tell me about the urgent issue that couldn't wait until morning.”

“I don't trust Jocelyn. You saw what she looked like when she returned, earlier this evening. The little fool's in love with MacKenzie, and I wouldn't put it past him to try and recruit
her.
Frankly, Mother, we shouldn't have left her here unguarded. In fact, before I leave for my meeting with Vanetti, I plan to go check her room.”

“Pah! Your jealousy is showing.” For a moment thick silence stained the air. Her skin clammy, Jocelyn held her breath, then gingerly pressed her ear closer against the panel. “…point is well taken. MacKenzie is a dangerous nuisance. We don't need him any longer, but Jocelyn remains more useful to me alive, regardless of your suspicions. I'll quell her intractable nature soon enough.”

Virgil snorted. “And what do you plan to tell my dear cousin about her missing lover?”

“She'll never know anything except that he suffered a tragic accident. Jocelyn will recover, and I will encourage her dependence upon me, which I will continue to make use of, until I persuade her to share her knowledge of the whereabouts of my $500,000. Then, if I don't have her disposed of, I might marry her off to the most decrepit, vulgar pantywaist I can find.”

“How charming.” The phrase, pungent with nastiness, triggered Jocelyn's fuse.

“I want Mr. MacKenzie taken care of tonight.” The quick tattoo of her heels approached the sliding pocket doors.

Galvanized, Jocelyn flew across the hall and ducked back into the servant's antechamber. Katya leaped to her feet, but froze when Jocelyn held up her hand. Rage pulsed in a drumroll from her toes to the tips of her fingers. Quivering with its intensity, she waited motionless until the muffled
sound of Portia's and Virgil's voices echoed faintly back down to the main hall from the second-floor landing.

Then she turned to Katya. “They've captured Micah, and they plan to kill him—tonight. I'm not going to let that happen, because Virgil made a bad mistake. He gloated to his mother, bragged that nobody could find Micah. My cousin is wrong. I'm going to find Mr. MacKenzie, and free him before they have the opportunity to carry out their evil plans.”

S
ometimes, over the ceaseless moaning of the wind, Micah heard the scuffle of mice; once he thought he heard a dog bark. The building grated and groaned in concert with the wind, but he no longer flinched every time a board creaked somewhere above him. His captor would return when he returned; Micah could wonder whether it was day or night, or speculate on how many hours he had left to live—a futile exercise because there were no answers, only present absolutes. He was bound and blindfolded, in a dark room, alone.

Thirst plagued him, and his muscles burned from the thick coils of rope that bound him in this chair. The headache at least had abated to a dull throb he could ignore, and for a while now he'd applied his sluggish thinking to the task of how to escape. Instincts aside, even the greenest rube would conclude that were Micah to obey instructions, tamely waiting like a caged bear, when his captor returned the villainous cur was more likely to slit his throat than quench his thirst.

He hoped Jonathan had managed to contact Operative-in-Charge Bagg of the New York office, though Micah nursed
few illusions that he would be found alive if he couldn't escape on his own. Fear for Jocelyn gnawed unabated at his vitals. He must escape, for her sake more than his own. The threat against her had been designed to pulverize, and it had almost worked.

Except…they didn't know Jocelyn the way he knew her. She would saw off her tongue before she betrayed him, because, though she hadn't spoken the words, she was in love with him. He'd felt it in her touch, in the kisses they'd shared, seen it shining from her eyes.

He didn't want to think about what would happen to Jocelyn if he failed to escape from this foul-smelling dungeon. Seven years ago he'd wondered if he would ever recover. Back then he had clung to his faith, his family, his friends, marveling at how God could use grief to toughen the external shell of one's faith, while time softened the internal agony until it turned to acceptance. Slowly, his heart healed.

By the time he met Jocelyn again in Richmond, he had climbed out of the pit, believing without pretense or pride that he was now strong enough to handle whatever life tossed his way. He trusted God to keep His promises, to fulfill His purpose for Micah's life, to reveal plans that would prosper his spiritual walk, not harm his soul.

Jocelyn was right. He was an idealistic fool.

His reactions seven years ago simply reflected those of a man shielding himself, through denial and numbness, from more than he could bear. Time hadn't healed; time had merely made him complacent. Arrogant.

Hours of darkness eked by while Micah clung with slipping fingers to faith that seemed to slide through them like fog. Isolation and darkness finally accomplished their work, stripping his soul of pretense: the strongest man could be broken. Faithful believers could…abandon all hope.

For his entire adult life, Micah had striven to honor the Lord, even amidst unspeakable grief. Not once, back then, had he asked the inevitable question. No, not Micah, the devout man of God with a staunch biblical name, wrapped securely in faith. Micah MacKenzie knew all the answers. God bequeathed to human beings the singular attribute—a moral conscience, with the ability to make choices based on that conscience. Which meant mankind no longer lived a perfect life in a perfect garden, having made poor choices since Adam and Eve bit into an apple. So, of course human beings lived in a fallen world, full of evil and sorrow.

Like a brainless lamb, Micah, like Job, had chosen—
ha!
—to trust in God's ultimate goodness over an imperfect mortal's lack of understanding.

Now, in this dark hole that might as well have been in the belly of a large fish, Micah confronted the detritus of his moral superiority. He was no better than aeons of believers who, albeit in sincerity, thought they understood enough to not ask the question.

He should have remembered that even the Son of God cried out from the cross:
“My God, My God, why have You forsaken me?”

How appropriate that Micah choke down his humble pie while bound hand and foot, blind as a beggar, wondering if the next sound he heard would be his last.

Why?
I'm asking now, Lord.
Why
have You allowed this to happen?
Why would God bring him and Jocelyn together, only for Micah to be exterminated like an insect, leaving Jocelyn forever hardened or, even more gut-wrenching, murdered with the same callousness as his father?

Jocelyn. Jocelyn…

Gradually, as hours passed and a bone-numbing cold set in, doubt metamorphosed into anger. No! By all he held
sacred—including his faith,
no
. He wasn't Jesus, wasn't the Savior of all mankind. He was a man, and while he had a breath of life in his lungs, he refused to turn his cheek for death to smite its fatal blow. His captors had shackled his body, deprived him of sight.

They had almost succeeded in shackling his emotions, his mind.

Anger was a potent elixir, particularly when it shattered the last of your illusions.

I'm angry at You, God. Angry, hurt and, yes, feeling betrayed.
Like Jocelyn. The cup was bitter, but Micah downed it in a single furious gulp.

There are none so foolish as those who light a candle to see where they've come from, and never see the chasm in front of them before they fall into it.

Jocelyn…forgive me.

All right, then. God had not seen fit to free Micah from his plight, so with only the power of his will as a weapon Micah set himself to the task. Muscles straining, sweat dripping from his forehead, down his back, he twisted and wriggled and jerked, ignoring the pain. If he could break the chair legs, he might get enough slack in the ropes to enable him to slide free, or use the splintered wood to saw through them. If he could—

“Micah? Are you in here?”

The faint feminine call shot a sizzling jolt of electricity through him that nearly stopped his heart. The counterfeiting networks he'd encountered were not above using women to lure the unwary into a trap. Some of those women had been innocent dupes, but they accomplished the task regardless. Micah ceased his exertions, chest heaving while he debated whether or not to respond.

“Micah!” Footsteps scurried in a whispery shuffle on the
floor above. “Ouch! Oohh…there have to be stairs…He said the basement.…
Micah!
If you can hear me, please answer!”

It
was
Jocelyn.

Yelling was not wise, but Micah saw no other choice. If she'd been followed, they had little time. “Down here!” he shouted. “Jocelyn, there are stairs. Find them, but don't call out again.” His struggle to free himself intensified. She couldn't defend herself for long if she were attacked.

He heard the rattle of the doorknob, and the hinges squeaking in protest. Before he could blink twice he was engulfed in the faint scent of gardenia and damp wool.

“Micah…Micah, are you hurt? What did he do? I'll kill him myself, the blackguard!”

She yanked the sack from his head. The room was pitch-dark, save for the glow of a carriage lantern next to the door. A carriage lantern? Hours in the dark had adjusted Micah's vision; he looked up into the face of his beloved, a moon-pale oval swathed in the folds of her hooded cloak. Biting her lip, she lifted her hands to his face and wiped the sweat away with fingers that shook. But as she leaned over him a thin beam of lantern light illuminated her eyes, eyes blazing with a terrible wrath.

“How could he?
How could he!
” She tore at the ropes. “Micah…the knots are too tight. I can't…”

Micah's heart swelled in admiration, and love. “Gently, sweetheart. You're here. You're all right. I don't know how, but you're here.” He couldn't help the grin that felt like it would crack his face. “You're all right,” he repeated, stupefied. “Except I'm supposed to rescue you. You rewrote the fairy tale.”

“I quit believing in fairy tales when I was seventeen. Oh, these wicked knots!” She flexed her fingers as she glared at his bound wrists. “If I can't untie these ropes my version of
the story will turn into a spectacular failure. I should have thought of this—of course they would keep you confined, unable to move. I should have filched a knife somewhere. I should have—” Her breath hitched. “There wasn't time. There's little time now. I—Micah, I know who the ringleaders are. It's Virgil, and his mother. His
mother.
Not my uncles.” Her fingers fumbled at his wrists again. “P-Portia and Virgil were in the library. I heard them, through the door. They're going to kill you, he's probably not five minutes behind me. I ran, I had to leave Katya, but I knew if I couldn't find you first I couldn't bear—”

“Jocelyn, listen to me. Hush. Listen to me.”

She blinked, but Micah watched in relief as awareness flickered. She straightened, pinched the bridge of her nose, then released a pent-up breath. “Sorry. I just…Seeing you like this was a shock. I'm all right now.”

“Of course you are.” For the first time he directed his attention to his surroundings, a shiver of disgust rippling along his muscles. Dust and dirt coated indistinguishable lumps of boxes, crates and several long tarpaulin-covered piles of lumber with their sawed-off ends poking out. The floorboards were warped, stained, and without the filter of the empty flour sack they had used to cover his head, the putrid stench of mildew and rotten garbage made his eyes water. “We need a sharp object. Sorry to have to ask, but I'm afraid you're the only one able to search for it.”

Without a word Jocelyn dashed across the room to fetch the lantern. “I paid the hansom driver with my last two dollars, to sell me this lantern,” she confided as she strode undaunted across the floor to a shrouded stack of metal objects. After a cursory search she moved farther away. Micah realized that she was likely talking to divert them both from his helplessness. “I imagine he decided two dollars was safer
than a demented woman threatening to have him arrested for not aiding a distressed widow.” Boards clattered, and she sneezed. “I'm afraid I wasn't very ladylike.”

“I think you're the most magnificent woman I've ever known.” Since he couldn't help her, Micah resumed his own struggles, and had finally managed to free his left thumb when he heard Jocelyn stifle an exclamation.

“What is it?” he asked sharply.

“A dead…creature.” She cleared her throat and muttered an apology.

Micah clamped his lips together to keep from yelling at her to hurry, instead redoubling his efforts to free himself.

Several moments later she exclaimed, “Found something!” and scurried back to his side. “I don't know what it is, only that the ends are sharp.” She set the lantern on the floor, behind the wooden beam to which he and the chair were tied. “Hold still. I'll try to cut the rope, not you.” A bubble of half-hysterical laughter escaped. “Chief Hazen would never forgive me.”

Outside, the dog resumed barking again.

Micah prayed.

“Almost…there!” Jocelyn muttered, and Micah felt the ropes fall away from his wrists.

Pain streaked up his arms; Jocelyn attacked the ropes around his chest while he dangled his hands, flexed his fingers and clenched his teeth while abused muscles and nerves screamed back to life. By the time she'd sawed through the ropes that bound his torso he was limber enough to relieve her of the makeshift tool, taking over the job of freeing his legs.

“I'm sorry I couldn't find a knife.”

“You did. It just looks like a whiffletree bolt.”

“A what?”

With a grunt of effort he tugged the last knot free and began massaging his legs. “You found a whiffletree bolt—wait. Since you're from Virginia, you might know it as a swingletree bolt. They're used to fasten the crossbar, where the harness traces are fastened.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” She stared down at the metal bolt, whose end curved like a bow into two sharp points.

“Someday I'll show you.” The back of his neck prickled. Staggering, he used the hewn beam to lever himself up. “Right now, we need to extinguish this lantern, and hope we can escape from the building before whoever that dog is barking at enters it.”

“Oh.” Bending, Jocelyn lifted the lantern and snuffed the flame, plunging the room into unrelieved darkness.

“Take my hand.” Micah found her fingers.

On the floor above them, footsteps moved in rapid thuds toward the corner where the stairs led to the basement. Grimly, Micah weighed their options, then tugged Jocelyn across the room toward the door. “Shh…” He situated them on the wall next to the doorway, shoving Jocelyn behind him. When the person clattering down the stairs opened the door, his gaze would be directed toward the center of the room, where Micah was supposed to be. “Get ready to run up those stairs,” he whispered into her ear, his lips brushing the soft hair.

She squeezed his hand.

Seconds later a blinding spear of light filled the stairwell, followed by the solid bulk of a man, moving fast. He burst into the room, aiming the light as Micah predicted toward the center of the room—and the empty chair.

The man uttered a foul curse, obscenities that flowed unabated as he made a beeline for the chair. Micah gave
Jocelyn a hard shove into the darkened stairwell; for a simmering second, time stretched, hovering forever on the brink between discretion and bloodlust.
He could take him.
Knock him senseless, then break a couple of his ribs when he was helpless. Give him what he deserved.

Instead, Micah turned away, and followed Jocelyn up the stairs.

Suddenly, they heard a bellow, and light flooded the stairwell. “Stop! I'll kill you both!” Still swearing threats, the man stormed up the stairs behind them.

Jocelyn stumbled.

Micah wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her off her feet, scrambling for purchase on the worn treads. They gained the top of the landing and Micah released Jocelyn, who darted out of the way, behind one of the support beams. Thin white moonbeams streamed through cracks in the boarded windows where half the boards had fallen off. “Get outside,” Micah ordered. “Don't look back. I'll find you.”