Blast Tony anyway! She had been struggling to put the entire encounter with Zeke from her mind. Tony had stirred up all her memories of last night, raised questions she had not even thought to ask.
Did you fall in love with him?
What an absurd idea. Rory pressed her fingertips to her temple. Her head had begun to ache all over again with all these tormenting speculations chasing through her brain.
Rory leaned back in her chair and wished it could be yesterday again, when all she had had to worry about was going bankrupt. She thumbed through the ledger, knowing she should put some energy into going over the accounts or go below and make a stab at repairing the damage to the Katie Moira. But she could not summon the energy to do either.
To her disgust she caught herself daydreaming of night-dark eyes, a strong, square-cut jaw, waves of brown hair framing a man’s face too bold for her peace of mind. Daydreaming? No, it was going to be more like night dreaming if she continued to hang about the warehouse, mooning over Zeke in this idiotic fashion. Rory cast a glance toward the window and realized that she had done exactly what she had promised Tony she wouldn’t.
She had lingered at the warehouse until the sky beyond had turned a dark shade of purple. Scrambling to her feet, Rory cursed herself.
“Idiot!”
As if she hadn’t done enough imprudent things in the past twenty-four hours. Even without Tony’s warning, she knew it was sheer folly to be caught in this part of town after dark. Of course there was no question of riding her bicycle home. She would take the El, but even that was a good two blocks’ walk to the nearest platform.
Hastening downstairs, Rory took one last look around to make sure that all the doors were secured for the night. As she let herself out onto the street, she noted with dismay that it was even later than she thought. All trace of the sun had gone, the moon a pale distant sliver in a cloudy night sky.
The street lamps had been lit, glimmers in the murky darkness. Up the street, honky-tonk piano music spilled out from one of the saloons, along with coarse, drunken laughter. But it was not those noisy denizens of the night that Rory had to worry about, but other silent shapes, which might be lurking in the doorways ahead.
Her fingers shook a little as she locked the side door, and she despised herself for a coward. As she set off down the pavement, her shoes made a solitary clatter, heading away from the raucous doings of the saloon, whose bright lights seemed a veritable haven compared to the darkness ahead of her.
Passing the textile dock, she could just make out the East River, a mysterious moving shadow. She could not help thinking of tales she had heard, of bloated bodies fished from those chilly depths.
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!”
Eight
