Chapter 31 #2
Her language was going to hell. So much for her parochial school upbringing, but then again, the nuns hadn't covered what to do when one was pushed into a mine shaft.
Probably even Sister Inez would allow for a few curse words in this situation.
She shook her head—hard. She had to stay in control. No room for hysteria here.
She struggled to her feet, wincing as she put weight on her right foot.
Not broken at least. But it hurt. A lot.
She focused on the flickering candlelight.
Holding it away from her body, she surveyed the shaft.
Only about half of it was illuminated and it was frustratingly round, curling in an almost perfect semicircle without an opening to mar the arc. Damn .
She limped forward, holding the candle high so that the other half of the shaft was illuminated. The light glanced off ivory, and two black eyes stared back at her. She bit back a scream and tightened her grip on the candle. The eyes were joined by a jaunty grin. A grimace really—a death mask.
Her heart lurched and descended a moment for a conference with her stomach.
Cara could only stare at the skeletal remains.
All that was left of a person. Her cellmate so to speak.
Cellmates. Her stomach demanded more time as she stared at a second skull.
This one looked gentler somehow than the first. Its eye sockets were just as empty, but the smile was less jaunty, more feminine somehow.
Her stomach heaved, then settled, the voting evidently completed, but her mind sent in the minority opinion.
Get Out . Not bad advice. She circled the cavern looking for the exit tunnel.
There wasn't any. What had once been a tunnel was now nothing more than a pile of shale and rubble, the pair of skeletons marking the entrance with frightening punctuation.
There was no exit. This was the end of the line.
The smiling skulls seemed to mock her and she turned away to avoid their knowing gazes.
A glint of something caught her eye as she turned and she bent with the candle to see what it was.
A band of gold circled the smaller skeleton's bony finger.
Cara fought with her stomach, heart, and brain before she found the strength to reach for the ring.
With a deeply drawn breath and a mumbled apology, she snatched it away.
The gold was smooth from years of wear, the faint pattern of etched flowers almost faded from the band. A wedding ring. She held it up into the soft glow of the candle light. R.O., D.M., 1858. Initials. A date. Her sluggish mind processed the information. A wedding ring. R.O. D. M.
D. M. — Duncan Macpherson. Her mind clicked into gear. R.O.—Rose. Rose O'Malley. Oh God. Her stomach signed off altogether. She was on her own.
She looked at the remains of Michael's mother and what had to be Zach, and took a deep, but not particularly cleansing, breath.
What did one say to the dead? She sank to the ground, leaning back against a wall, her right hand still clenched around the wedding ring, her head inches from Zach's.
She ran her left hand over the cool silver of Loralee's locket, tears filling her eyes. So many dreams…
Michael grabbed Patrick's elbow, recognizing his brother's need to fight. But that would only get them both killed. "We need to find Cara," he whispered, and Patrick nodded in mute acceptance as they moved to the wall of the tunnel.
"I see you both remember how to follow orders." Owen sounded smug, almost relieved.
Michael had to bite his tongue to keep from responding. Patrick, obviously, had no such self-restraint. "You killed our mother." The words were harsh and they hung in the cavern as if carved from stone.
Owen narrowed his eyes, watching them. "No." His response was angry. Abrupt. Secure, in only the way the deranged can be. "She killed herself."
"Why?" Patrick asked. "Because she loved Father more than you?"
"She loved me." The words were clipped, explosive.
Michael was beginning to follow the train of Patrick's conversation. "She never loved anyone but our father. You know that, Owen." He threw the words out, trying for distraction.
What he got was rage. A rage so fierce and out of control, he felt his brother flinch. " She loved me ."
"No." The word was like an epitaph in its finality. Patrick spewed it almost as if it were an obscenity.
"She always loved me. That's why I did it," Owen retaliated.
"Did what?" Keep him talking, Michael's brain demanded. Patrick was face forward against the tunnel. Michael had opted for a less conciliatory stance, his back to the rock wall.
"Killed her."
Michael felt sick inside. "You killed her?"
"I had to."
The man in front of him shrank a little and Michael swallowed his bile. "Why?"
"She wouldn't come with me." Owen sounded like a three year old who hadn't gotten his way.
"When you offered her the silver?" Patrick asked, his back still turned.
Owen leveled the gun, his chest heaving in and out in agitation. "I offered her more than the damn silver. I offered her my life." He waited for some reaction, and when he got none, he continued. "Duncan led her on. Year after year, he promised her the moon, but never, never did he deliver."
Michael couldn't argue his father's faults. The fact was that his mother loved his father despite those flaws. It hadn't mattered. Suddenly his worries about Cara took on new relevance. If she was still alive . His mind fastened on the idea, holding it close to his heart. She had to be alive.
"She turned you down. All of it. She turned you down," Patrick hissed.
Owen's face twisted with anger. "I did it all for her, and she had the audacity to say no. No one says no to Owen Prescott, no one."
"But what about Zach?"
Owen waved the gun. "Oh, that was simple enough. I used my rifle. The man was dead before he knew what had happened."
Michael took a step forward. Owen pointed the gun.
"Move back."
Michael obliged him. "But surely you didn't expect my mother to fall into your arms after you murdered her friend?"
Owen looked surprised. "He wasn't her friend. He was a no account muleskinner. Beneath her notice. It never occurred to me that he might matter to her."
Michael was struck at the way Owen dismissed the man.
"But he was a husband and a father," Patrick put in.
Owen shrugged, obviously not understanding the relevance of Patrick's statement. "He was nobody. And if he did have a wife, she was nobody as well."
"So you proposed to do what?" Michael asked. "Take my mother away from all the murder and mayhem?"
His sarcasm was wasted on Owen. "Of course. She deserved better."
"And you were the one to give it to her?" Patrick's jaw tightened, his hand moving between his body and the wall.
"I was the only one who could give it to her, " Owen said.
Michael grimaced. "But she didn't want you."
Owen's face flushed with fury. "No. She only wanted your father. The stupid woman couldn't see what was right in front of her eyes. She called me a murderer and a traitor. Me. Who'd loved her since New York…" He broke off.
"So you killed her." Patrick's voice was calm, but firm.
Owen cocked his head, looking at them both. "I killed her." The pronouncement was absolute.
Michael needed to know. It was probably perverse, but he needed to know. "So then you stole the silver?"
"Only after I'd killed them I couldn't exactly leave it lying around, now could I? Thanks to your father it was readily identifiable." Owen sounded almost disdainful.
"The rose."
"Yes." Owen sighed. "It's a pity you two had to figure this out. I had hoped to avoid the unpleasantness." He leveled the gun.
"So what? You hid it?" Patrick asked.
"Right here. Under your father's nose. I used the lower level. One of the tunnels we'd abandoned. I hid it in some old machinery."
"But Father found it. That's why you killed him."
"The drunken bastard. Always nosing around. I should have melted the damn stuff and sold it off. "
"Why didn't you?"
"I got lazy." Owen shrugged. "Truth is, it was more work than it was worth. I didn't need the money, and I never thought anyone would find it. Besides, I liked knowing it was here, right under everyone's noses."
"And when Father found it, he moved it."
"Stupid ass."
"But if you didn't need it, why go to all this trouble?" Patrick frowned. "Why not let someone else find it and cart it away?"
"Because sooner or later the story was going to come out. You were already starting to ask questions, Patrick. And Michael was a wildcard. I didn't know if he was alive or dead. I have Striker to thank for that."
"So you killed him." Michael said, trying to make sense where there obviously was none.
Owen shrugged. "It was kill him or kill you, and he'd out grown his usefulness. I always tie up my loose ends."
"Like us?" The pain in Patrick's voice was almost palpable.
Owen sighed. "As I said I was trying to avoid this."
"But now, just like that, it's over? Your loyalty to our family— to me— was all a lie?"
"I loved you in my own fashion, I suppose." Owen waved the gun in Patrick's direction. "Michael, too, for that matter. But in the end, you're just like your mother. You'd rather be with your father than me. The old bastard didn't deserve what he had."
"More than you, Owen." Patrick's words were whispered, his voice tight with emotion. "More than you."
"Spoken just like a good son." Owen sneered. "Which brings us full circle, I'm afraid."
Michael started to move, to lunge forward, but he caught his brother's eye and froze. "Wait," Patrick mouthed, his gaze darting downward significantly. Michael glanced down, sucking in a startled breath. Patrick had a second gun concealed between the wall and his body.
"One more move like that and my Rose is a mother without children." Owen shot into the air to prove his point and rocks rained down around their heads.
Patrick seized the moment and swung around, gun blazing.
Owen fired in response, but it was too late, the shot went wild, and he dropped to his knees, clutching his chest, his eyes locked on Patrick, his expression one of disbelief.
One minute he was frozen there, and the next he collapsed, twitched once and was still.
Patrick let out a long breath, somewhere between a moan and a sigh. "He never really understood."
Michael dropped a hand to his brother's shoulder. "Understood what?"
"That it was all about family. Always about family." Patrick lifted his head, tears making his eyes seem bright in the flickering darkness, the gun dangling from one hand. "We take care of our own , Michael, and it was my turn."
Michael squeezed his shoulder, realizing his brother was no longer a boy. Somewhere in all that had happened, Patrick had found his way. He'd grown into a man.
"Patrick?" Loralee's frightened scream reached them just before she ran into the circle of light. She skidded to a halt, her eyes wide as she took in the two of them standing over Owen's body. "I heard gun shots. I thought… I thought…"
"We're all right."
"Is he dead?" Her eyes searched Patrick's face, and he nodded.
"Did he?"
Again Patrick nodded. "My mother—and Zach."
"Then I'm glad the bastard is dead." Loralee pulled in a shaky breath, searching the darkness. "Where's Cara?"
"I don't know." Michael felt as if the words were being wrenched from him.
Patrick grabbed his shoulders. "Where were she and Owen before this started?"
Michael drew in a deep breath, forcing control. She might still be alive. And she might still need him. And he'd promised he'd be there. "That way." He pointed into the dark, already moving in that direction. "In tunnel northwest-three."