The Widow's Secret (20 page)

“Will you stay here, with Mrs. Tremayne, while I go have a quick look around myself? Mostly I just want to stretch my legs,” he added quickly, and Heinrich's small face lost the defensiveness. “I'll be back soon. Say, fifteen minutes? If Mrs. Tremayne should wake, would you reassure her? If you talk with her like you and I have talked, I'd appreciate it.” Watching the dark eyes in the candlelight, Micah offered his hand. “Agreed?” he asked, and after a moment the boy reluctantly thrust his hand out.

By his rough calculation, only fourteen minutes had elapsed by the time he reconnoitered the three-block landscape, verifying Heinrich's report. A waning moon in the now-cloudless sky shone on the policemen's ominous silhouettes. The one slacker continued to drowse against the telegraph pole. The others walked their beat, swinging their billy clubs with each step. Twice carriages rolled by on the street they'd have to cross to reach Riverside; in the distance Micah could hear the rattle and clatter of the Ninth Avenue El.

He returned to the cellar in thoughtful silence.

“Did you cover the hole?” Heinrich instantly demanded, not waiting for the answer as he shot up the steps to see for himself.

Smiling a little, Micah settled onto the floor beside Jocelyn; Heinrich returned, lit the candle and wriggled around Micah to Jocelyn's side.

“Would you like some broth?” he asked her, his gaze
openly adoring. “Chef François is the best in all of New York.”

“Thank you, Heinrich. I believe I would.” As he went to fetch it, she looked up at Micah with anxious eyes. “Is it safe for us to move? He warned me about the policemen.”

“What do you think, Heinrich?” Micah asked, as the boy offered Jocelyn the jar of beef broth, keeping his back to Micah.

The small body visibly relaxed. “We need to go while the policeman sleeps, I think.”

“I agree.” Micah exchanged a warm glance with Jocelyn. “Then as soon as Mrs. Tremayne finishes her broth, we'll head out.” He watched her expression soften as she thanked Heinrich for the soup, watched her praise without patronizing his courage and ingenuity.

And the thought seared into Micah's heart:
this woman was meant to be a mother.

He loved her with every fiber of his being. But Micah didn't know if he possessed the courage to wait in fearful agony for nine months, wondering if he would be forced to watch her life bleed away, or be told that his baby was not strong enough to live.

J
ocelyn remembered the journey as a series of wild fluctuations between nerve-shredding silences and noises that rattled her brain. The silent, moonlit night had become their enemy. Every creak of the crude, two-wheeled cart echoed like cannon shot, and Micah's labored breaths hurt her almost as much as the pain in her leg. When they reached the shelter of the last building, her heart sank. The magnitude of their escape route lay before them in a wide swath of deserted avenue, with a lone figure plainly visible, propped against a telegraph pole.

Micah carefully lowered the handles, then straightened and flexed his shoulders before turning to lean over Jocelyn. “All right?” he mouthed, and she nodded.

Heinrich sidled up, his face a dirt-smeared oval with a jutting chin. “If the policeman sees you, I will…will—”

Micah's hand curved over one narrow shoulder. “Divert him?” Heinrich nodded, and Jocelyn watched in bemused silence as Micah affectionately tugged the boy's cap down over his eyes. “Take care of yourself, sprout. I'll do my part.”

“Two blocks straight ahead, wait just inside Riverside Park, remember? I will meet you there.”

Before she could stop the gesture Jocelyn reached out, her fingers closing around an arm skinny as a broomstick handle. “Heinrich? Please be careful.”

He replied with the rude sound she deserved. “They won't catch me. I will be there. Do not worry, Missus.”

And he disappeared into the night.

Hands braced on either side of the cart, Micah brought his face next to Jocelyn's. “I love you,” he breathed. “This next stretch is probably going to hurt even more. Hold on, firefly.”

Before she could respond, he picked up the handles. When the sleeping policemen lurched upright, shouting as he pelted into the vacant lot behind them, Micah pulled the cart out of the shadows.

Halfway across the street, the policeman's whistle blew.

Teeth rattling, Jocelyn clamped her hands over the sides of the cart, bracing herself to help Micah the only way she could. Fiery darts of pain exploded throughout her body. She ignored them. Over the noise of the cart and Micah's labored pants, she heard more shouts from somewhere in the stygian depths of the abandoned shantytown.

Nobody ran toward her and Micah. Nobody ordered them to halt, or surrounded them and brandished their billy clubs in their faces.

When they reached the other side of the street, Micah did not slow down or stop. To the north, hulking shapes of half-finished mansions loomed above a stretch of flat land and scrubby trees. Jocelyn heard the mournful wail of a ship steaming along the Hudson, the distant ululation of a train whistle. Dizzy from the pain, nauseated from the cart's merciless jostling, she fixed her gaze on Micah's straining silhouette, and prayed.

An interminable span of time later, all motion and noise abruptly ceased. Jocelyn forced her frozen fingers to relin
quish their death grip on the rough sides of the cart. She would have spoken, but her mouth was too dry.

Slowly, Micah lowered the cart handles, then stood, hands dangling at his sides, head bowed, shoulders slumped in exhaustion. Beyond him the river flowed silvery-black beneath a star-splattered western sky.

And there, dashing toward them in the starlight, skinny arms waving in triumphant circles, was Heinrich.

When he reached them, Jocelyn watched with tears filling her eyes as Micah lifted the boy completely off his feet, then gathered him into a ferocious hug. For a brief instant, Heinrich dangled motionless, then his arms wrapped around Micah's neck, and he laid his head on Micah's shoulder.

Dawn was tiptoeing across the eastern horizon when they reached the shanty where Heinrich lived with his mother and four-year-old sister, Elfie.

“
Moeder,
they are here!” He scampered ahead to greet the woman who appeared in the doorway. She held up a hand lamp, which allowed Micah to maneuver the cart around a variety of objects Jocelyn once would have considered trash, to the entrance of what was now her home.

“We have little. But you are welcome.” Heinrich's mother introduced herself as Magda Schuller. “I have prepared a bed for the lady, and some food.”

“We have caused you too much trouble,” Jocelyn began, miserably aware that this woman was endangering herself and her children for them.

“It is no trouble.” Sadness clung to her like gray soot. “I am sorry I have not much to offer.”

Micah carefully lifted her from the cart, and Jocelyn briefly surveyed Magda Schuller's home. Scarcely larger than a gardener's shed, the structure was pieced together with mismatched boards, rough-cut logs and a tar-paper roof held
in place by thin slats. A narrow length of pipe protruded from the roof, functioning as a chimney. Jocelyn ended her survey with Magda, a slight woman wearing a scarf on her head and a faded shawl tied in a knot at her waist. She stood in the open doorway, her expression carefully blank. “You are offering everything you have,” Jocelyn told her, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Mr. MacKenzie and I are honored.”

“See,
Moeder?
” Heinrich grabbed his mother's hand and tugged her over to them. “They are not like those
hoechnawsyich
you clean houses for—”

“Heinrich!” She cuffed the back of his head, then smashed him against her side. “I can see myself, these people. Now, go. I have laid a fire. You will please light it? The lady is injured, and needs warmth.” Almost shyly, she nodded to Micah. “My son says you are in danger, with the police. They will not look for you here, I think.”

“We won't be in danger much longer, Mrs. Schuller, thanks to you and your son,” Micah said. “I appreciate more than you'll ever know, your taking in two fugitives.”

His arms tightened around Jocelyn. “I'm not setting you down, so please stop wriggling. In my current state, I might drop you.”

The night sky had faded to smudged gray, so she could clearly see that fatigue had carved deep lines on his brow, and either side of his mustache. His hair was disheveled, matted with perspiration, his collarless shirt streaked with dirt and dried blood. Equally concerned for him, Jocelyn murmured into his ear, “You're exhausted. I can feel you trembling.”

His mouth curved in a breathtaking smile. “I can still carry the woman I love over the threshold. Look on it as a dress rehearsal.”

Silenced, Jocelyn ducked her head, and gave herself into his keeping.

 

The New York office of the Secret Service was located in the post office building, in a large room divided by makeshift partitions into three cubicles. Within moments of Micah's appearance, at a little before eight o'clock in the morning, messenger boys were summoned, telegrams sent, and telephone operators were making dozens of calls—though none of them were to the police department.

Until Portia and Virgil Brock were arrested, Micah insisted on maintaining the illusion that he and Jocelyn were fugitives and that Jocelyn's surname was “Bingham.” “Too many police lackeys on the Brock payroll,” he said, his voice gravelly. He was beyond exhausted, buoyed only by elation, and determination.

“Don't like it,” Operative-in-Charge Bagg, chief official of the New York office, admitted. “Superintendent Byrnes resigned recently, you know. Had to—reformers created themselves a committee to investigate police corruption. So I see your point about the police, Operative MacKenzie. We certainly don't want to alert the wrong people. Until the charges against you and Mrs. Bingham are formally dropped, however, you will need to be accompanied by one of my operatives at all times, and stay out of sight.”

“I agree.” Micah's thoughts drifted back to Jocelyn, asleep when he'd left, guarded by a devoted Heinrich and the briskly efficient Magda Schuller. Heinrich's sister, Elfie, bright-eyed as a cricket, was enthralled with Jocelyn's hair, but when her mother instructed her not to touch it, Elfie obediently perched on a three-legged stool to maintain a silent vigil with her big brother.

For the moment, Micah could best protect them all through his absence.

“Back in October I brought an assistant with me from
Washington,” he said. “Jonathan Tanner. I've sent him a wire to one of our prearranged addresses. He's young, but a crackerjack bodyguard. So if you've no objections, I'd like him to resume duties as my nanny.”

Operative Bagg regarded him for a long moment, his clean-shaven, youthful appearance turning sober. “The telegrapher approached me with your message, which I did not send, because your Mr. Tanner wired us late last night. His aunt was murdered in her home, the same night you were abducted. Made to look like robbery. Mr. Tanner claims the foul deed's a ringer for the one that happened in Richmond.” After pondering the ceiling for a moment, he added, “Mr. Tanner further claims that there has been no police investigation whatsoever. You may well imagine his opinion of our city's police department is not…salutary?”

Dear God, how many more innocent people must suffer before You allow justice to be done?
“Do you know Mr. Tanner's whereabouts?”

“He's a mysterious fellow, plays cards close to the vest. I don't frankly know where he is, only that he promised to be here by—” he glanced at a large wall clock “—half past eight. He, um, also promised to bring you a change of clothes.”

“Efficient as always. I know I reek worse than a wet goat. Sorry. As soon as Mr. Tanner arrives, we'll take ourselves off to that hotel. While we're waiting…” He dug into his wrinkled, bloodstained trousers and produced a silver dollar coin, which he studied for a long moment before handing it to Bagg. “Mrs. Schuller pressed this into my hand as I was leaving. Probably her entire savings, but she knew it would be safer for me to hire a hansom, and neither Mrs. Bingham nor I had any change.” He adamantly refused to take Mr. Schuller's Sunday suit, which Magda had unpacked from a dented steamer trunk.
She was, Micah knew without her saying a word, hoping to have saved it for Heinrich, yet willingly offered it to a stranger.

“You can see why I risked my neck to walk a few miles instead. If we can find out how long Mrs. Schuller has had this coin, and where it came from, you might discover a trail to follow.”

Operative Bagg picked up a magnifying glass from his desk. “Mmm. Looks like the work of a gang we've been trying to arrest for several years. They passed a lot of coinage. Horse Market gang, they call themselves. Either tin or copper on the inside, most likely. Decent engraving, but notice the surface isn't quite as sharp as the real thing. We've found a number of these spurious goods in the last two months, mostly turned in by shop-and saloon keepers in the Seventh Ward.”

“Yessir. I'd like to replace that, if we can arrange it, with a real one, for Mrs. Schuller. It's the least she deserves.” He blinked, fighting a wave of dizziness. “There's more.” A plain oak straight chair had been shoved against the partition. Micah sat, then with the exaggerated care of a drunk removed his right shoe, fumbled inside the toe and at last produced the folded bills Jocelyn had given to him before she fell asleep. “Here's the proof we've been trying to unearth for eight years, courtesy of the most courageous woman I've ever known.”

His face screwed up in distaste, Bagg gingerly accepted the bills and spread them open on top of his desk. He gave a low whistle. “Amazing. Some of the best counterfeits I've ever seen. Very disturbing.”

“Mmm. Probably some of Benny Foggarty's finest work. But as soon as we arrest him and the Brocks, that ought to finally dry up the last of the manufacturing and wholesaling of counterfeit notes from out of New York City.” He wriggled
his foot back into his shoe. “Those notes, however, are my primary motivation for not alerting the police. Yes, we have proof to cut off at least two snake heads in this nest of vipers. But to cripple them beyond recovery, we're also going to need the molds and the plating apparatus…” His brain was shutting down, he realized groggily. He couldn't think of the words. “Without the identities of all their wholesalers…”

“Operative MacKenzie! Sir…” Bulging valise in one hand, Jonathan Tanner burst into the cubicle and rushed across the floor, skidding to a halt in front of Micah. The flat cap he wore was slipping, his hair beneath it ill-kempt; a streak of dirt blackened one of his cheekbones. “So it wasn't a lie. You
are
here. I wasn't sure, I've been trying to—I…” He lifted his spare hand to momentarily cover his face. “I came as fast as I could, sir,” he continued, all the emotion throttled. “I'm relieved to see you're alive.”

Micah scraped together what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Yes, I'm alive, looks notwithstanding.” He hesitated, then added heavily, “I wish I could think of what to say, about your aunt. I feel responsible.”

The younger man shook his head with a violence that belied his subdued voice. “Maybe so. Maybe we're both responsible, for using her house. But if I'd been there, she wouldn't be dead.”

Without warning he hurled the valise on the floor at Micah's feet. His hands clenched into fists. “I saw him leave.
I saw him,
but I was so concerned about my aunt I didn't follow him. And she was already dead. She never hurt anybody in her life. If I hadn't been staying with her—”

“Don't, Jon.” Micah heaved himself to his feet and wrapped a bracing arm around his assistant. Jonathan shoved him away, but when Micah staggered, almost taking them both to the floor, the younger man clutched his arm in a steadying grip.

“M-Mr. MacKenzie…she's dead, and the murdering dog who killed her escaped. I let him escape.” With a hoarse groan, Jonathan ceased resisting Micah's comfort and stood, shoulders shaking, while he unleashed a storm of grief.

Operative-in-Charge Bagg discreetly left the room, returning some moments later with a parcel wrapped in butcher paper tied with a string—and a bemused expression on his face. “There's a vendor on the street corner,” he explained absently, glancing sideways at Jonathan, who was now sitting hunched over in the chair Micah had vacated. His eyes were red, but he was calm. “Best pretzels in the City. Thought you gentlemen could use some food.”