Chapter 29
KODIAK
Alice crashes into the cabin, near falls against me. Her hands are slick with blood, chest heaving. The knife I gave her hits the floorboards with a clatter.
I catch her by the shoulders, hold her up, but my gut’s already turning.
“What happened? Who did this?”
Her lips shake. “I did.” The words spill out, small and broken. “I killed him.”
This ain’t her blood. For a heartbeat I just stare, waiting for her to say something else. Something that makes a lick of sense. But she don’t. Tears stream down her face, her whole body quaking like she might shatter in my hands.
“You killed the Pinkerton,” I murmur, more wonder than question.
She presses her face to my chest, sobbing. “I had to. He knew everything. Knew who I was. Who you are. He was going to tell the captain. He was going to take you.”
Her words tumble out in a flood. I wrap her tight, stroke her hair, my heart pounding like a war drum. She’s never hurt a fly in her life, and now she’s cut down a man. For me. For us. There ain’t no greater proof of love than this, bloody and terrible though it is.
I kiss the crown of her head, breathing her in even through the copper stink clinging to her.
“Lamb, listen, you done what you had to.”
Her sobs ease just enough for her to lift her face. “He’s in the writing room. Slumped over. I just ran.”
“Then we ain’t got time to waste.” I cup her cheek, make her meet my eyes. “You’re mine, Alice, and I’ll see us both off this boat, no matter what it takes.”
I leave her in the cabin with orders to clean herself up proper, bolt the door and not open it for no one but me. The passage is quiet as I walk, ship groaning, daylight too bright, too exposed in the briny air. I push into the writing room and shut the door behind me.
The Pinkerton is slumped on the floor, head lolled to one side, waistcoat soaked black-red.
His eyes stare glassy past me, like he still don’t believe what hit him.
Hell, I can’t believe it either. I check his throat, though I already know.
A shiver runs through me, not from death but from the thought of her putting that blade to him. She saved me.
But now I gotta save us.
Can’t exactly drag ’em out. Nothing like getting caught carrying a dead detective. They’ll hang me right off the side of the ship. Maybe…
What if I could hide him real good?
I grab him by the lapels, hauling him up, all dead weight. He slides, head knocking the desk with a crack that sounds like a gunshot, knocking over a jar of ink. It paints a black streak across his cheek and crashes to the floor. I freeze, breath caught.
Footsteps in the corridor. Slow. Stop right outside the door.
My heart hammers. I crouch low, keeping one hand clamped on his coat, other hand reaching for my revolver. A shadow cuts across the strip of light under the door.
A man’s voice, faint but clear: “You hear that?”
“What?” another man says.
“Door’s shut. Thought it stayed open during the day.”
A chuckle answers. “Maybe someone’s writing something private in there. Come on, leave it.”
“First-class folk just like to hear their own words scratching paper.”
The footsteps move on. Fade.
I let out a slow breath. Christ almighty. Work faster.
I drag him ’cross the floor, fixing to get ’em close to the settee shoved against the far wall, burgundy velvet cushions faded, a drapery hanging loose over the window behind. Better than leaving him there than sprawled like a gutted hog.
“Come on, you rat bastard,” I mutter.
I wrestle him down the gap between the settee and the wall, shoulder jammed to keep him from sliding back out.
I curse and shove harder till he disappears into shadow.
The velvet drapery hangs heavy, thick as a horse blanket.
I yank it down from the rod, fling it over the heap he makes.
A dark bundle now. Maybe a steward’ll think it’s extra bedding, maybe they won’t look twice.
I wipe my palms on my trousers, strain to hear. Only the creak of the ship now. Rush of wind. One last look—just a heap of shadows in the corner. Passable.
My pulse beats in my ears as I ease the door open, peeking out.
I near choke. Breakfast’s letting out, and the passage floods with ladies in lace, gents in fine coats, children darting between skirts.
Laughter, chatter. Too many eyes. I draw back a fraction, keeping my hand on the knob, fighting the urge to slam the door shut.
That’d be worse. Louder, drawing attention.
A pair of women stop close by, fussing with their shawls, blocking the way like a barricade.
Now.
I slip out, force my face blank, steady my breath. Just another passenger, nothing out of sorts. Slipping into the tide, I let the crowd swallow me.
“Mr. Byron!”
Shit. I recognize Mrs. Taft’s voice as it cuts through the crowd, shrill as a bell. I turn, teeth hard together, praying my face don’t show a damn thing. She’s waving a silly lace handkerchief, her husband lumbering behind her like a horse in a waistcoat.
“There you are,” she trills, hurriedly weaving through the other first-class passengers. “Why, your wife told us you were ill.”
“Feeling better by the hour,” I say. My voice don’t shake, thank Christ.
Mrs. Taft beams, reaching for my arm. “Then you’ll join us for a stroll on deck? The sun is glorious.” Her gloved hand hovers close. Too close. I swear the stench of that Pinkerton’s gore hangs on my sleeve.
Behind her, Mr. Taft booms, “Come on, man, a little air will do you good.”
Every second I linger is a noose drawing tighter. The Pinkerton’s lying cold just yards away, and these two stand here, wanting me to walk polite into daylight.
Suppose it don’t hurt to blend in with ordinary folks right about now.
Mrs. Taft latches onto my arm before I can sidestep, silk glove cool on my sleeve. The patch of blood under the cloth, tacky even now, sticks to my arm against her pressure. If she squeezes harder—Christ.
“The sea is so calm today,” she says, steering me toward the companionway. “You’d never guess we were moving at all.”
Mr. Taft chimes in at my other side. “That’s the mark of a fine vessel. I heard the captain say we have made excellent time and should be in Galveston in just a few hours.”
Good. That’s good. We can survive a few hours.
We step out onto the deck, sunlight sharp, air heavy with damp. The horizon stretches clean and endless. Mrs. Taft chatters on, pointing out gulls, sails, the sparkle of the water. Her perfume curls sweet around me, covering the scent of the kill. She leans closer, patting my arm.
“And how is your dear wife faring? She seemed well at breakfast.”
“She is. Much better, I think.”
Mr. Taft claps me on the back. “Fine woman, your wife. A good match for a strong fellow like you. Pennington said as much himself yesterday.”
My gut lurches, but I school my face blank. “Pennington?”
“Detective fellow,” Taft says. “Sharp as a tack. I dare say he’s the sort of man who notices everything.”
Bet he ain’t seen Alice coming, I think, and damn near crack a smile.
Mrs. Taft fans herself with a giggle. “Why, Mr. Byron, you must have met him.”
I shake my head like I’ve missed the obvious. “Can’t say I recall the name. Perhaps I’ve been too long cooped up in our cabin.”
Mr. Taft roars, amused. “Well, you’ll make his acquaintance soon enough. He makes it his business to meet everyone.”
His cold, dead eyes laid on me just a few minutes ago. “I look forward to it.”
We stroll past children playing with hoops, women trailing parasols, uniformed crew walking with ordinary purpose. I keep my shoulders square, my pace easy, though sweat prickles under my collar.
Mrs. Taft prattles on about Galveston—its promenades, its society, how much she wishes us to visit them in Sabine so she can introduce Alice at some garden party. “A woman with such poise must be the jewel of Ohio.”
“Ohio?” I ask. The word damn near stops me cold.
“Why yes. That is where you and Mrs. Byron are from, is it not?”
“Oh, yes. Of course.”
Why would Alice tell them we were from Ohio? Christ almighty. If they do a little digging won’t be hard to see that missing woman from Ohio looks an awful lot like Mrs. Byron. They’ll know we’re in Galveston.
It takes a special kind of screwing up to burn a new city before ever setting foot there.
I clear my throat. “I wonder if I’ve pushed myself too soon. You’ll forgive me; I think it’s best I continue to rest.”
“Oh dear,” Mrs. Taft says. “Please do rest, and send your dear wife our regards.”
As she rests her hand on my arm, I notice a bit of blood on her white glove.
Jesus H. Christ.
“Of course,” I say. I tip my hat, give them the smile they want, and step back from the rail. I move quick, sly, back into the flow of guests, but I’m taller than almost every son of a bitch out here. Picked the wrong occupation when I can’t help but stick out like a gopher from a damn hole.
Just make it back to Alice. Lock the door. Wait for land.
I round the corner of the deckhouse—and near freeze.
A man stands by the rail, bowler hat low, cigar smoldering between his teeth. Badge glinting faint at his vest. Goddamn Pinkerton.
His hand flicks open a silver watch. He checks the time, snaps it shut, scans the deck.
Waiting.
Waiting for Pennington, most like. I knew those bastards never travelled alone. How many of them are here? My gut knots. Lord above, we ain’t ever getting off this ship.
I duck my head, keep my stride steady, though every nerve screams to turn and bolt. Just a husband going back to his wife. Just another passenger.
But when I pass him, his eyes flick up, meet mine. Sharp. Measuring.
The weight of that stare clings to me long after I’ve walked on.