Chapter 26 #2
Culhane sat in manacles in the conference room, under guard. He looked up at them and he was almost the picture of innocence. But he did not speak. He hadn’t said a word since Bragg had told him he was under arrest.
“We have confirmed, Father, that the knife you assaulted Mrs. Kennedy with is the murder weapon used by the Slasher. Any reasonable jury will find you guilty of her attempted murder and I have little doubt that you will be convicted of murder in the first degree as well.”
He stared coldly at them.
“You murdered two fine young ladies,” Francesca cried. “Why?”
Culhane looked at her and she was chilled by his regard. “Ladies? I don’t think so. Each and every one deserved to die for their faithless behavior. The world is a better place, Miss Cahill, without them.” He never took his brilliant eyes from her.
She knew she was safe in the conference room but she had the uncanny feeling that he wished to murder her, as well. And he was not confessing to his crimes. “Why? Why were they faithless?”
“Kate Sullivan was a whore. She deserted her husband, just as Gwen O’Neil did. Francis O’Leary was no less a whore for carrying on with Wilson. They received their just deserts, I think.” His eyes blazed.
“But what about Margaret Cooper?” Francesca asked, shivering.
He looked away.
Francesca stared at Bragg. He stepped forward and Culhane cried, “She was the mistake!” He covered his face with his hands and began to cry.
Francesca had known it, but she was not jubilant. “You wanted to kill Gwen, didn’t you? But you attacked the wrong woman.”
“God forgive me,” he whispered, sobbing. “She did not belong to my flock, I did not know her. I never meant to hurt her, she was not a blight on my parish!”
“And Maggie Kennedy?” Bragg asked quietly. “Did she also deserve to die?”
He nodded, looking up, his face covered with tears. “She has been whoring for your brother, Miss Cahill.” Then he stared at her, his eyes glittering with hatred. “I saw you,” he whispered. “I saw you yesterday in Calder Hart’s library.” And his gaze was burning with accusation.
She jumped backward, her cheeks heating, understanding his meaning and horrified by it. “You spied on us?” she cried.
He stood and pointed at her with both shackled hands. “You are next,” he cried. “You, the most faithless one of all!”
Bragg seized him and thrust him at the police officer, who had his billy stick in hand. “Get him out of here,” he said in disgust.
“Yes, sir,” the young rookie said. He jerked Culhane from the room, but not before the priest looked back at Francesca, crying, “Oh yes, weep in fear, because the faithless shall die!”
“Shut your trap,” the officer said, pushing him out of the room.
“The faithless shall die,” Culhane shouted as he was marched down the corridor. His footsteps sounded, his words almost echoed, and then there was only silence in the hall.
Francesca was trembling. She looked up as Bragg took her by the shoulders. “Oh dear,” she whispered. “I wonder if I was next.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said fiercely. “Culhane is in custody and he will be going to the electric chair. Thank God he did not get his chance to go after you.”
She exhaled, still trembling, feeling quite certain that Culhane had watched her and Hart making love. She shuddered at the notion.
“It’s all right,” Bragg said softly.
She met his steady regard. Then she touched his cheek. “I know. I simply am horrified to think of his spying on me…” She trailed off for a moment, not wanting to explain.
But he knew, for he released her, turning away. He wandered over to the window behind his desk, staring down at Mulberry Street.
She followed. “I know I’ve said this before. How can I help?”
He turned, smiling a little. “Your friendship is a help, Francesca.”
“Should I call on Leigh Anne again? She is so melancholy, Rick. Maybe a good friend would help her out of this morass of despair.”
“That would be nice,” he said, not smiling.
She did not know what to do, for she felt certain she saw pain reflected in his eyes. So she took his hand and squeezed it.
He felt as if he had been sitting in the salon for hours.
He was alone, a stiff drink at hand, his second or third.
He couldn’t seem to stop recalling the sight of Maggie in that monster’s arms, his knife at her throat.
He was more than shaken—he was sick to his stomach. And there was simply no denying it.
The salon doors were wide open. He heard footsteps and leaped to his feet, vaguely aware of being utterly disheveled.
His jacket had been tossed aside a long time ago, his necktie was askew, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows.
Rourke paused on the threshold of the salon.
His gaze widened. “Have you been working yourself up? She is fine, Evan. That is a mere scratch on her throat. I am sure the trauma of the attack was far worse.”
“Is Dr. Finney with her still?” Evan asked urgently.
“He just left,” Rourke said, clasping his shoulder while giving him a sidelong look. “He gave her some laudanum. He has prescribed an evening of rest.”
“I want to see her,” Evan said, not waiting for a reply. He hurried from the salon and then stood in the hall helplessly, having no idea where to go.
Rourke pointed to the left. “Calder gave her the north wing of the house.”
“Remind me to thank him,” Evan said over his shoulder, hurrying down the corridor.
Rourke called after him, “The suite is on the second floor!”
Evan took the stairs two at a time, breathlessly.
That horrific image of Maggie in Culhane’s crazed embrace remained, her face stark with fear.
The door to the sitting room of her suite was open and a fire danced in the hearth.
Maggie’s bedroom was to the right and instantly he saw her, lying in the canopied bed, asleep.
Joel sat with her, at her feet; the other children were nowhere to be seen. Evan vaguely recalled the housekeeper had taken them to the kitchen for ice cream some time ago.
His heart raced.
Joel saw him and jumped up. Before Evan could cross the threshold, he had launched himself off the bed and into his arms.
Evan held him, hard. “It’s all right,” he said softly, kissing Joel’s head. “Your mother is fine. She has had a bad scare, nothing more.”
For one more moment, Joel clung, and then he stepped back. His eyes were shining with unshed tears but he was trying to be manly. “You saved her, you did. Thank you, Mr. Cahill, thank you very much.” He held out his hand.
Evan suddenly realized that Maggie was not asleep at all. She lay very still, but her eyes were open and fixed on them. He somehow took Joel’s hand, his heart beating like a drum. Somehow, he tore his gaze free from hers and looked at the small boy. “You’re welcome,” he said.
Then he looked back at the woman in the bed. “May I?” he asked as politely as possible. Being formal was no easy task.
“Please,” she whispered, understanding perfectly well his request to enter the room.
He came slowly forward, wishing he’d brought flowers. There was a linen bandage on her throat. “Thank God you are all right!” he heard himself exclaim.
She lifted her hand.
He took it, holding it tightly, his heart racing now with impossible speed.
She wet her lips. “You saved me. Thank you, Evan.”
He wanted to sit on the bed beside her, but that would be a terrible lapse of manners, so he did not. He simply clung to her small, slender, callused hand. There was so much he wished to say. But what could he say?
Was he in love?
He was stunned. If so, he was beginning to understand that he had never been in love before—not this way.
And he whispered, “I have never been so afraid, Maggie. I saw you with that killer…” He could not continue then.
Tears filled her eyes. “I was afraid, too. I thought about my children, what they would do without me, but then I knew you would look after them. Wouldn’t you?”
And finally he sat down on the bed by her hip, as it was the most natural of acts, still holding her hand. “Yes, of course I would take them in, you know that. But you are fine! You have had a terrible fright, but it is over now, and you are safe.”
She suddenly tugged her hand free and he was dismayed. He wanted to hold her hand for hours and hours, he thought, but then she stunned him by cupping his jaw. He went still. “I owe you so much more than I can ever repay,” she said unsteadily.
His mind went blank and his heart surged with frightening force. He knew he should not kiss her, he knew it. It was his only coherent thought. And he leaned over her.
Her hand dropped away, her eyes widened.
He closed his own eyes, continuing to see her blue eyes wide with surprise, and he pressed his mouth to hers.
She gasped.
And he claimed her lips, firmly and insistently, again and again, holding her shoulders now, trying to savor her taste so he would never, ever forget it. She kissed him back, at first hesitantly, and then with growing urgency.
They kissed and kissed.
At some point, many moments later, he felt her mouth tire, he felt her body soften, and with surprise, he felt her become still. He ceased, drawing back. And then he realized that the laudanum had taken effect.
Maggie Kennedy was soundly asleep.
He sat there, staring at her, incapable of drawing a normal breath. Time, which had ceased, began to move again. Reality, which had been suspended, returned. And his heart was flooded with anguish.
He got to his feet.
She was so pretty, lying there asleep.
How it hurt, looking at her.
In a few more days he would marry Bartolla.
He prayed Maggie would have no recollection of their kiss.
He was rigid with tension as he entered the front hall of his Madison Square flat, a bouquet of red hothouse roses in his hand. The flowers were for Leigh Anne. He felt certain that they would be rejected—that he would be rejected. Dread accompanied the tension, and with it, heartache.