Escapade (9781301744510) Read online

  Drowned was always the official verdict, ignoring obviously slit throats. In this part of town, even the police had a habit of avoiding trouble by looking the other way.

  Quickening her steps, Rory chided herself for a fool. As if this walk wasn't bad enough, without allowing her thoughts to wander to such things as murder. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard a footfall behind her.

  Whirling about, she caught her breath, certain that someone was following her. But the street behind her was dark and empty. Swallowing hard, Rory told herself not to panic. She'd be damned if she would allow herself to be spooked by a shadow, run from nothing but the excesses of her own imagination.

  Forcing herself to maintain a brisk but steady pace, she could not control the thudding of her own heart. For the worst was yet to come. Ahead of her loomed the wooden posts supporting the tracks of the El itself. To reach the platform, she had no choice but to cross beneath, where the darkness deepened into impenetrable shadow, where the support beams offered a dozen places of concealment.

  She had just reached the dreaded spot when she heard it again, the hollow echo of a footstep not her own. Glancing nervously over her shoulder, this time she was quick enough to catch a form melting behind one of the wooden pillars some ten yards behind her.

  Wouldn't it be just like Tony to have waited and tried to play watchdog without giving himself away? Just as though she was some frail damsel who couldn't look after herself. Rory tried to summon up anger, but what she experienced was more in the nature of a desperate hope.

  "Tony?" she quavered. "Come on out. I know it's you."

  No answer.

  She saw other shapes moving. Dear God, whoever was out there, it was more than one. Without another thought, Rory turned and ran. She raced along, weaving between the pillars. The tracks overhead let in brief patches of light, guiding her toward the platform stairs. She thought she heard feet pounding in pursuit, but she could scarce discern anything above her heart thundering in her ears, the sound of her own ragged breathing.

  What would she do even if she gained the platform? It might be minutes before a train came by. Yet to keep racing along beneath the tracks was madness. It did not even occur to her to try to scream. They were not deaf in this part of town, merely indifferent. She had no choice but to make her way up.

  Grasping the handrail, she hurled herself up the steps, stumbling in the process. A soft cry escaped her, so certain was she that she would be overtaken at any moment. But when no monstrous hands reached out of the darkness to snatch at her, she recovered her footing and staggered on.

  When she had nearly gained the relative security of the platform, she dared pause long enough to catch her breath and listen to determine the whereabouts of her pursuers. She heard no pounding on the stair behind her, only other sounds echoing from beneath the tracks.

  Strange sounds—a loud crack, a thud, a low grunt. A fight. Someone was having a fistfight down below the stairs. The chase had had nothing to do with herself. Still feeling shaken and a little foolish, she summoned enough courage to bend down and peer beneath one of the openings in the stair.

  Below her three men engaged in a deadly conflict, two of them raining blows upon a larger form. The big man went down and she caught the glint of something in one of his attacker's hands. A knife.

  A cry caught in her throat as she realized she was about to witness the murder of some hapless stranger. The big man tried to roll clear, but the other two were upon him again. Enough lamplight filtered through the tracks to illuminate the face of the victim. A face that beneath the smear of blood was heart-stoppingly familiar.

  Rory froze with the shock of recognition. With the helpless sensation of being caught in some nightmare, she watched the deadly blade arc downward before she was able to scream.

  "Zeke!"

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  From far away, Zeke heard Rory cry his name. But he was aware of nothing but the feel of sharp rocks grinding against his back, the weight of his assailant bearing him down. A shaft of light piercing the tracks above streaked across coarse features, an ugly raised scar bisecting the chin, thick lips almost slavering, like a mad dog scenting the kill. One meaty hand flashed a butcher's knife toward Zeke's throat.

  Zeke caught his attacker's wrist, deflecting the blade just in time. Every muscle in his forearms strained upward to put distance between that sharp cutting edge and his flesh. Gritting his teeth, Zeke tasted his own blood from the blow that had felled him in the darkness. He sensed his second opponent nearby—a short, squat man, watching the deadly contest, wheezing to get his breath.

  Christ, Zeke thought. This was a little more than he had bargained for when he trailed Rory from the warehouse. He had been off the streets too long, allowing two clumsy thugs such as these to catch him unaware.

  But like a fish tossed back into water, Zeke felt the old moves coming back to him. Managing to get his other hand free, he struck, gouging his fingers into the deep pockets of flesh surrounding his opponent's eyes. As the scarred one yelped with pain, Zeke drove his knee upward, square into the man's groin.

  With another howl, the rogue rolled off Zeke, doubling over. Getting to his knees, he tried to raise himself. When he regained his footing, these two cutthroats were going to be mighty sorry they ever singled him out for their mark. But from the shadows came the other one, his thick boot catching Zeke hard in the chest.

  Zeke grunted with pain but grabbed the squatty one's leg. With a vicious tug, he upended the man on his buttocks. Using one of the railroad pillars for a support, Zeke drew himself upright just in time to see the scarred one going for his knife again.

  Zeke rammed his heel down, crushing the man's hand, forcing him to release the weapon. After that, all descended into a mayhem of flailing fists, gouging, biting, kicking.

  Zeke received another hard knock to the head, but he gave better than he got, taking a keen satisfaction when his knuckles connected against bone and flesh. Caught up in the battle, it took him a moment to realize reinforcements had arrived. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the blur of furious movement that was Rory.

  "Get the hell out of here," he gasped at her, but she was doing all right for herself. Snatching up a broken segment of railroad tie, she rained blows down upon the hapless head of the pudgy one.

  Just as Zeke rammed his fist into the most vulnerable part of the scarred one’s stomach, a shrill whistle pierced the night. Zeke's attacker fell back, and as the police whistle sounded again, he took to his heels. Clutching his head, the squat one staggered after him, the two of them swallowed up by the darkness.

  Old instincts died hard. At the call of the police whistle, Zeke had to suppress a strong urge to bolt. Instead he sagged back against one of the pillars, panting for breath.

  "Zeke, are you badly hurt?"

  Rory's features swam before his gaze, her face as pale as the moonlight, her eyes silvery pools of fear and concern. She wrapped one arm about his waist, trying to shore him up with her own slender frame.

  "Are you all right?" she asked.

  "Just fine now." He ached in a dozen different places, his jaw was swelling, but none of that seemed to matter as he draped his arm about her shoulders, drawing her close.

  She glanced up at him, wariness replacing her initial concern, but before she could say another word, the law descended upon them in the form of a trim blue-coated officer, his lean face and trim mustache shadowed beneath his gray helmet. Zeke winced at the familiar sight of the thick billy club the policeman swung in one hand.

  "Now then, what's all this disturbing of the peace?” the man demanded in a thick brogue. "Why, it's the little lady from the balloon company. Has this villain been bothering you, Miss Kavanaugh?"

  "No, Sergeant O'Connell. I was up on the platform to catch the train when I saw this gentleman being set upon by thieves. They ran back that way toward the docks." Rory gestured vigorously. "If you hurry, you might still catch them."

  But
O'Connell showed no inclination to bestir himself. He spared a glance up the street and then shrugged. "Certain the rogues are long gone, more's the pity. Were they after taking your wallet, Mr. Morrison?"

  Zeke shook his head, still too winded to reply. Once a trifling skirmish such as this would have been only a prelude to a rollicking night, which often ended with a trip in the paddy wagon. He must be getting old.

  "Poor lad." O'Connell edged closer, but his commiserating smile didn't strike Zeke as being very genuine. "You'll be needing a doctor, I'm thinking. Don't you fret, Miss Kavanaugh. You've done your duty as a good citizen. You run along and catch your train. I’ll be looking after the gentleman."

  “Not necessary," Zeke said, straightening painfully. To his surprise, Rory stepped between him and the officer, a small but fierce barrier. In the glow of the street lamp, Zeke could almost see her bristle.

  "You needn't put yourself to any further trouble, Sergeant. Mr. Morrison is a friend of mine. I will take care of him."

  "No trouble at all, Miss Kavanaugh," the sergeant said, but Rory stood her ground. O'Connell eyed them both for a moment, his fingers twitching, running along the length of his nightstick.

  But he gave way, saying, "Well, if you are certain I can be of no help, I will bid you good night."

  The policeman shuffled off down the street, pausing once to look back. Zeke was only too pleased to be rid of the officer. With a grateful sigh, he wrapped his arm about Rory's shoulders. But she pulled away from him.

  "I have a feeling you are quite capable of standing on your own power, Mr. Morrison."

  "Mr. Morrison?" he repeated. "What happened to Zeke?"

  She glared and spun away from him, stomping back toward the steps leading up to the platform. Zeke hobbled stiffly after her. This was getting to be quite a habit, chasing this woman through the streets of New York.

  As he mounted the steps behind her, he called, "Lucky for you I happened along, wasn't it? You little fool! Don't you know better than to go traipsing these streets after dark?"

  A few steps above him, she whirled about, hands on hips. "You didn't just happen along, Morrison. You were following me."

  He thought of trying to deny it, but he saw the absurdity of such a course. In a swirl of skirts, Rory vanished up the steps. By the time he caught up with her, she had flounced down upon the platform bench, her arms crossed over her chest in a most forbidding fashion. With a heavy sigh, Zeke sank down beside her, grimacing at the pain in his side. He hoped he hadn't managed to crack his ribs again. Rory scooted farther down until she was almost falling off the edge of the bench.

  "I did follow you," Zeke admitted. "I still had the business card you gave me and came out to have a look at your warehouse. I never thought I'd be lucky enough to find you here, but I caught a glimpse of you passing by one of the windows. I decided I'd just wait until you left and see where you went."

  “You put yourself to a great deal of bother, Mr. Morrison."

  "I wanted to find out where you lived and after the way we parted this morning, I was afraid you wouldn't tell me."

  “You were quite right."

  When he draped his arm along the back of the bench, she sprang up like a scalded cat.

  "Please, Rory," he coaxed, "I only wanted to see you again, just talk to you."

  She gave a small sniff. "I suppose you want to tell me some blather about how sorry you are, how much you regret that outrageous proposal you made me."

  "I am sorry," Zeke began contritely enough, but was unable to repress his grin, no matter how much his jaw ached. "I am sorry you wouldn't accept it."

  Rory expelled her breath in a furious hiss. "You are impossible! I'd hit you myself if you weren't already so black and blue. Now if you will excuse me, I have a train to catch."

  "What? Are you just going to leave me like this to collapse on the platform?"

  "I see no danger of that. I am sure someone as clever as you will have no difficulty finding your way home."

  "Well if that is the way you feel—," he started to say, then doubled over, emitting a groan that was only half-faked.

  He had at least caught Rory's attention. She shot him a look of contempt. But when he slumped down on the bench, clutching at his forehead, the hardness of her expression wavered.

  "Oh, stop that," she ordered, but her voice was laced with uncertainty. She inched closer. "I know you weren't hurt that bad. Nothing could dent that thick skull of yours."

  "No, of course not." Zeke moaned. "Don't concern yourself. Just a few broken ribs, I guess. A little concussion. I doubt I'll black out before someone else comes along."

  "Morrison, if you are faking-." She hurried over and bent down to peer at him. He permitted a spasm of pain to wrack his features.

  "Zeke?" She placed one hand tentatively on his shoulder. "Oh, the devil! The train's coming. Come on. I'll help you. Are you dizzy? Lean on me."

  With a heroic nod, he struggled to his feet, only too willing to encircle the softness of her shoulders, burdening her with just enough of his weight to be convincing without crushing her.

  As she helped him toward the tracks, he gazed down at the fine strands of her hair tossed into that gypsy-wild tangle that was already becoming so familiar to him. His mouth curved into a tender smile, a smile he was quick to erase when she chanced to glance up at him.

  Although she regarded him with suspicion, she made no effort to draw away. The El clattered forward in an ear-shattering rumble, the whistle blasting as the train hissed to a halt in a cloud of acrid steam and sparks.

  A few passengers disembarked as he and Rory eased their way through the narrow door. Zeke sank down onto the nearest empty seat, Rory nearly lurching on top of him as the train jerked into movement once more. In another few seconds they were lumbering off through the night.

  Zeke supposed he must look as disreputable as a tomcat that had strayed down one alley too many. Besides the bruises swelling his cheek, his Chesterfield coat was torn and blood-stained. But he drew only a few curious glances from the other passengers. For the most part, New Yorkers tended to mind their own business. Rory drew a plain linen handkerchief from her pocket and wrapped up his bleeding knuckles. Something in her manner of brisk efficiency told him this wasn't the first time she had tended the wounds of a man after a bout of fisticuffs.

  Mrs. Van H. would have taken one look at him, given a shudder of distaste and ordered him to return when he appeared more like a gentleman. But Rory did not seem in the least shocked by his condition or the fight she had just witnessed.

  She said with grudging admiration, "You handled yourself real well back there. I guess you didn't need my help. Not at all what I would have expected from a Fifth Avenue swell."

  "Swells don't last long in this part of town," he returned dryly.

  His remark caused her to glance sharply up at him, but she made no comment as she finished knotting the handkerchief. "There. That's the best I can do until I get you home."

  Home- that had a nice sound to it, Zeke thought, resting his head back against the seat. He had to admit he had had his doubts earlier when he had been tearing along in that hansom cab, Rory's card clutched in his fist.

  Even then he hadn't been sure what madness had come over him, setting out in pursuit of a woman who had already rejected him once. But now that he had seen Rory again, he understood. It was indeed a madness, but of the sweetest kind.

  One touch of her hand and he felt the full force of his desire for her all over again. When she stroked her fingers along the line of his jaw, earnestly examining the extent of his bruise, he didn't even flinch. Instead he had an urge to cup her hand, press a kiss against the warm center of her palm.

  But he restrained himself. He could scarce try to make love to her on the El, and he didn't want her running away from him again.

  Gently, Zeke. Go gently this time. Even the clack of the train wheels seemed to admonish him. So he bided his time, allowing his eyes to drift half-closed, soothe
d by her feather-light caress and the monotonous clatter of the train.

  It had been a long time since he had ridden on the El. He had forgotten how the tracks seemed to cut through the very pulse of the city. It was as if one could thrust out one's hand and reach into the upper stories of the tenement windows.

  Vignettes flashed by like scenes from a play: a lodging house where some pathetic old men were bedding down on the floor; the topmost room of one of those hellish sweat¬shops, young girls growing old before their time hunched over sewing machines; a dingy parlor where a haggard lad was swilling rotgut and shooting dice.

  Yet in the midst of this, there was an occasional room with a plump motherly woman darning socks or standing over a steaming iron while a brood of children romped like puppies at her feet. It never failed to amaze Zeke, the strength of such women, their ability to fashion a place that could be called home even in the midst of such wretched poverty.

  It never failed to remind him that he had known such a home once, such a woman.

  "Zeke?"

  Rory's voice recalled him from his thoughts. He was a little surprised to discover that he was no longer leaning back, but sitting bolt upright and staring out the train window.

  Finding Rory's troubled gaze upon him, he forced himself to settle back.

  "Is your pain getting worse?" she asked. "You had such an odd look in your eyes just now."

  He forced a smile. "I guess over the years, I have taken a few too many knocks to the head."

  No, Rory thought. More likely too many knocks to the heart. This wasn't the first time she had seen that haunted look shadow Zeke's face. Although outwardly she accepted his explanation, she could not help but wonder what ghosts he had glimpsed out the windows of the train.

  She studied the man who had erupted back into her life. Earlier today she had tried hard to dismiss Zeke as though he had been some figment of her imagination. But she saw now it had been Delmonico's and that castle on Fifth Avenue that had seemed like a dream, but not Zeke.