Page 100 of Daredevil Lady and the Mysterious Millionaire
“Strangest darn thing,” Farmer Grey told the police who had been summoned to remove the body back to the city morgue. “One of the warmest spring days we’ve had this year, and yonder she lies all stiff and cold, the blood fair frozen to her face. When I first came upon her, I was near sick. A horrible sight. I’ll never forget it as long as I live.
Hours later, Zeke Morrison feared that he might not either. He stood outside the door leading into the morgue, uncertain he could cross that threshold and imprint upon his memory whatever grim scene lay beyond.
Duffy plucked at his sleeve. “Hey, Morrison, you going to be all right? You sure you want to go through with this? There are plenty of other people who could identify her. It’s not exactly as though she was any relation of—” Duffy broke off, unable to meet Zeke’s gaze. He reddened with embarrassment.
“I’m going in,” Zeke said. It wasn’t a question of wanting to. He had to. He had permitted enough of his past to haunt him without allowing Cynthia Van Hallsburg to become the most formidable ghost of all.
Shoving open the door, he stepped inside with Duffy following. A young policeman twitched back the sheet from the still, draped form resting upon the wooden table.
Zeke braced himself, but whatever horrors he had been expecting were not forthcoming. Any blood had been cleaned away, and those mocking cold blue eyes were closed forever, the rigid contours of her face retaining only a hint of the beauty she once had been. Gazing down upon her, it was almost impossible to believe any spark of life had ever animated those impassive features.
His mother.
No matter what Mrs. Van Hallsburg had claimed, the word had no meaning when attached to her. Zeke tried to dredge up some emotion at her passing, pity, anger, relief. But he felt nothing.
He made the identification and then left the room as the police officer drew the sheet back over her face. Outside, in the hall, Duffy appeared the more shaken, although he was doggedly making notes.
“Thank God, that’s over,” he said. “Now I suppose you’ll be hurrying back to your Miss Kavanaugh.”
Zeke nodded, Rory had wanted to accompany him to the police station, but he felt she had been through enough for one day. There had been so much he had wanted to say to her, butin the uproar that surrounded the aftermath of their narrow escape, the right moment had not presented itself.
Perhaps he was simply stalling, uncertain of her response, still fearing her rejection. It had been one thing to dash into reckless action and risk his neck to try to save her. A far different kind of courage was required to settle the differences between them, admit to her how wrong he had been and to ask her pardon.
Duffy seemed to sense some of his trepidation, for he clapped Zeke on the shoulder and wished him luck. “I have to be rushing off myself,” he said. “They’re holding the presses for me. I’ve got a helluva tale to tell. I only hope I got all the details straight.” Duffy cleared his throat, appearing uncomfortable. “Uh, Morrison, I couldn’t help wondering. That wasn’t true, was it, all that nonsense Mrs. Van Hallsburg spouted about your being her?—”
“Her bastard son?” Zeke filled in when Duffy hesitated. “Yes, it was. You’ve always said you’d get your story about me. Well, now I guess you have it.”
Duffy folded his notebook and tucked it back into his pocket. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Everyone knows Cynthia Van Hallsburg died childless. As far as I’m concerned, there won’t be anything worthwhile to print about you until the notice of your wedding.”
Zeke stared at him, astonished, more moved than he could say by this evidence of Duffy’s friendship. He extended his hand in a gesture of gratitude, but Duffy, never able to stay still for long, was already gone.
Twilight settled over McCreedy Street, the rows of tall brick houses basking in the last rays of the setting sun. The peaceful silence was only broken by the rattle of the occasional coach wheel or some straggling urchin being called into supper.
Rory sat on the front stoop of her apartment building, watching the moon rise. As a warm breeze tickled her cheek, she breathed deeply, appreciating as she never had before the sights and sounds of her street, not even minding the occasional yapping of Finn McCool.
After the madness she had lived through earlier, it was all so blessedly sane, so wonderfully normal. Rory wished she could lean back and fully enjoy the evening like any other girl on a Friday night, waiting for her beau to call.
But if Zeke did fulfill his promise to return, she knew he would be pulled down, wearied from his visit to the morgue. Despite the way they had clung to each other upon the warehouse roof, the tensions from their previous quarrel yet remained.
That realization still did not prevent her from glancing eagerly down the street at every new clopping of horses’ hooves. A wry smile touched Rory’s lips as she couldn’t help remembering Zeke’s last grand entrance onto McCreedy Street. When he did come, he would likely bring Miss Flanagan rushing to her window again.
After an hour of waiting, the minutes began to drag by. Rory’s pleasure in the evening began to fade before a feeling of mounting disappointment. Another vehicle turned the corner, but it was only a battered old wagon with two men perched upon the box. Rory regarded it with scant interest until it drew closer and she was better able to remark the outline of the second man, settled next to the driver. The narrow wagon seat was barely constructed to accommodate Zeke’s broad shoulders and athletic build.
Her mouth flying open in astonishment, Rory shot to her feet as the wagon pulled over to the curb. Even more startling than Zeke’s manner of arrival were the contents of the wagon. Shestared in disbelief at the familiar shape of the gondola, the ropes and trappings of the Katie Moira.
When Zeke clambered down from his perch, her stunned gaze flicked from him to the balloon and back again. She had rehearsed many ways of greeting him upon his return, but now all of them flew out of her head as she practically babbled.
“Zeke. What the ... I never expected— I don’t understand. What is this?”
“It’s your balloon, Aurora Rose,” he said with a flash of his old humor. “As long as I was down at the police station, I supposed I might as well see if there was anything left of the blasted thing. I lack your expert eye, but I think the gas bag can be mended. If you would give me the keys to the warehouse, I’ll have it sent on there.”
Rory was too dumbfounded by his gesture to respond. With great patience, he repeated his request until she finally groped in her pocket and handed the keys over. Zeke retrieved something from the front seat of the wagon before sending it on its way. When Rory followed the vehicle’s progress up the street, still tempted to rub her eyes, Zeke asked, “Is something wrong? I assumed you would want the balloon retrieved.”
“Yes, I would and I am very glad you did. But after your experience today, I would scarce have blamed you if you had wanted to set fire to it.”
“The thought did occur to me,” he admitted. “But hell, the day might come when I actually will be able to get myself to go up again. Though next time, I’d prefer to be in the basket.”
“Me too,” Rory said with a wavering smile, her wonder increasing along with the accelerated tempo of her heart, the wild hopes fluttering inside her.
