Dawn of the Golden Promise (44 page)

Denny looked at him, deliberating how much, if anything, he might say. Mike was his friend, his only close friend if truth were told, but he was also his captain. He wouldn't want Mike to think one of his sergeants had turned into a weak sister.

But in spite of his caution, he suddenly found himself letting go, pouring out in one explosive rush of disjointed words his feelings, his frustrations, and his fears in regard to Quinn O'Shea. He confessed the urge that sometimes came upon him to shake the girl for her obstinacy, an urge that could just as easily change to a desire to embrace her with great tenderness. He admitted to the hurt he felt when she avoided him or shied away as if he were a wild beast—like a spear to his heart, that feeling. He told Mike how it incensed him when she took on airs and tried to play the grand lady, making him feel like a great bumbling eejit. He even confessed to the terrible fierce jealousy that overcame him when he chanced to see her acting a bit too chummy with the Kavanagh lad.

Mike listened, as he always did when one of his men spoke his mind or his heart, saying not a word the entire time, but rather suffering Denny's rambling tirade. He had a way, Mike did, of patiently hearing a man out, as if his problem was the most momentous event of the hour, worthy of a captain's undivided attention.

Only when Denny finally slumped back in the monster of a chair, spent and weak as an old woman, did Mike lean forward and smile at him—a kind, brotherly sort of smile that let Denny know at once that he had not lost his friend's respect or strained his patience.

“Denny, my boy,” Mike said kindly, “it is clear that you are finally in love.”

“Surely not,” Denny protested, at the same time acknowledging his own suspicions. He sat up straight, knotting his hands on his knees. “I am altogether miserable, Mike.”

Mike nodded, a look of great wisdom upon him. “Aye. It is as I said. Poor lad, you are finally in love.”

In his room at the end of the corridor, Bhima the Turtle Boy listened with growing anger as the Stump unraveled his narrative about the stranger and his gruesome offer.

All manner of sick jokes were routinely bantered about at the expense of Bhima, who had no legs, when he was seen in the company of Fritz Cochran—the Stump—who had no arms. Despite the cruel humor their companionship incurred, the two had become good friends over the years.

Bhima scooted the cart that bore his legless torso a little closer to his friend. “What did you tell him?”

“I told him it would take a bit of time, but I thought I knew just the sort of roughneck who might be willing to handle the job for him.”

Bhima's eyes widened, and Fritz rushed to explain. “I thought it best to let him believe he'd found his man. Otherwise he might go looking elsewhere, don't you see?”

Bhima did see, and he was thankful for his friend's quick wits. “How are you to contact him again? And when?”

“He's to stop by later tonight. I told him I'd set up a meeting by then.” He paused. “So—what do we do?”

Bhima's mind raced. “We have to tell Pastor Dalton right away, of course.”

“He's over to the mission now, or at least he was. I'll go and fetch him.”

“Wait. We need to send for Captain Burke as well. I'd not want to risk making a mistake and somehow jeopardize the little girl. The captain will know what to do.”

Fritz nodded. “I'll get Pauley to go for the captain, while I fetch the preacher.”

“Be careful,” Bhima cautioned as Fritz turned to go. “Whatever we do, we mustn't let word of this slip to anyone else. There's a great deal at stake here. And it's our chance to help Pastor Dalton.”

“That's true. The Lord knows that good man has given up enough to help us. The least we can do is return his kindness.”

As soon as Denny Price was out the door, Michael went upstairs to the bedroom. He fully expected to find Sara napping. Instead, she was sitting in the rocking chair, looking out the window.

It was unlike her to be idle. On those rare occasions when she sat quietly in the afternoons, it was usually with a book or some mending.

Guilt stabbed at Michael. Apparently his behavior had distressed her more than he would have thought.

She looked at him when he entered the room, but immediately turned back to the window.

After closing the door, he went to stand behind her, his hand on either post of the rocking chair.

He cleared his throat. “Denny Price was here,” he said. “He asked after you.”

She nodded but made no reply.

Michael hesitated for a moment, his insides aching at her coolness. “Denny is in love, it would seem,” he ventured lightly, hoping to thaw her icy composure.

She slowed the rocking motion of the chair but made no move to look at him. “Denny Price? In love with whom?”

Encouraged, Michael came around to stand in front of her. “You'll not believe it. 'Tis Quinn O'Shea. He has fallen for Quinn O'Shea.”

She stopped rocking altogether now, and he could almost hear her busy mind wheeling with possibilities. “Quinn O'Shea and Denny Price?” She hesitated, then started rocking again. “I'm not at all surprised.”

Michael stared at her. “Well, I am! The girl doesn't strike me as the sort to turn the head of a charmer like Denny Price.”

She shrugged. “I'd say they would be a good match. Quinn is enterprising, intelligent, and high-spirited.”

“She's spirited, right enough,” Michael muttered.

Sara gave him a sharp look. “And Denny Price is enterprising, intelligent—and
hardheaded.
It should be an ideal relationship.”

“There is no ‘relationship,'” Michael pointed out. “Denny says the girl wants nothing to do with him.”

She lifted one eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe. From what I've been told, women practically fall at Denny's feet.”

“Nothing quite so dramatic as that, but he does seem to have a way with the ladies.”

She appeared to be warming to the conversation. Determined to put their tiff of the morning behind them, Michael hurried on. “Denny insists that the girl avoids him. Even when they're together, he says she's as guarded as a cornered wildcat.”

Sara seemed to consider his words. “I suppose it might be the difference in their ages. Quinn's awfully young.”

That stopped Michael for a moment, long enough for him to do some quick calculations. “There's not all that much more difference in
their
ages than there is in
ours
,” he said. His tone sounded defensive, but he couldn't entirely keep his hurt feelings under wraps.

She looked at him, her expression unreadable. “I suppose that's true.”

He ground his teeth. She was still riled, all right.

“Sara…can we talk about this morning?”

She looked away. “I can't think why. There doesn't seem to be any reaching you on the subject, Michael.”

“The subject of Patrick Walsh, you mean.”

She nodded.

“Why can't you understand how I feel?”

She turned her gaze back to him, and he was surprised to see concern in her eyes rather than exasperation. “Oh, Michael—I
do
understand how you feel! That's what upsets me so. None of this is like you.”

“
What
isn't like me?” he countered stiffly.

She studied him for a moment. “To be so…coldhearted! I understand your bitterness about Patrick Walsh, but—”

“So I'm bitter, am I?”

“Yes, you
are
! You're bitter and resentful and angry. Perhaps you don't realize it, but when you talk about Walsh and how—how ‘easy' he got off, I hear this terrible anger in you. Why can't you just accept what happened to the man and go on?”

He looked at her for a moment, then began to pace the room. “Sara—I'm a policeman. Try to understand, if you will, why I feel the way I do about Patrick Walsh. I deal with the lowest sort of human being almost every day of my life. Some are little more than mindless beasts. They steal from the poor, they swindle the honest, they lie and they murder and they rape—they destroy
lives
, Sara. And more often than not, they get away clean with it all.”

He stopped by the window again but did not face her. Instead, he turned to look out into the rain-veiled afternoon.

“I know it must seem to you that by now I should have learned how to shake it off—the cruelty, the madness, the injustice of it all and put it behind me.” He turned back to her. “Most of the time I can do just that. Otherwise, I expect I would have gone mad long before now.”

He raked his hands down both sides of his face and expelled a long breath. “The thing is, Sara,” he said, struggling to articulate his feelings, “once in a great while, a cop comes up against a true monster. There are real monsters out there, Sara, believe me. Monsters who spend their entire lives preying on the innocent, taking—always taking—whatever they can from the unsuspecting or the helpless. They destroy the lives of almost everyone they touch. Sometimes they even destroy the lives of those who love them.”

Suddenly bone-weary, he sank down on the window seat. The rain had brought a dull ache to his knees, and he rubbed them as he went on. “Patrick Walsh was just such a monster. That sort has no conscience. No heart. I recognized him for what he was the first time I met him. I
knew
, Sara. I just knew.”

He looked up. The indifferent glare had disappeared from her eyes, and she was leaning toward him, understanding softening her face.
Her dear face…

“I can't explain what Walsh provoked in me,” he went on. “Contempt. Disgust. Anger, most of all. It enraged me that he had become so successful and powerful—and obscenely wealthy—at the expense of those less fortunate. That he simply didn't care what he did, how many lives he ruined. Even ours, in a way. If it hadn't been for him, Tierney wouldn't be in exile in Ireland. The boy will forever bear the scars of Patrick Walsh's evil ambition.

“I simply couldn't stop him. Every time I thought I had him on the ropes, he slipped away. Every attempt I made to bring him down failed. For so long I lived with such a terrible feeling of
helplessness
inside me because of the man, don't you see? And then, all of a sudden—” He pulled in a shuddering breath, spreading his hands palms up. “All of a sudden, he was gone. In an instant. Just like that, he was gone.”

He looked at her, almost pleading for her understanding.

“Ah, Sara—I felt so incredibly
cheated
! I felt as if justice itself had been violated. It was almost as if Walsh's death was just one more escape—one more time he had managed to evade the punishment he deserved! He was a monster, and I wanted him to pay, and when he didn't—” He stopped, shaking his head, for there were no more words.

“Oh, Michael…Michael…”

She drew him into her arms, and he had all he could do not to blubber like a babe. For so long he had carried the weight of his emotions alone. Any longer and he thought he might have died with the burden.

He took the rocking chair now, pulling her onto his lap, into his arms. She pressed his head against her heart, soothing him as she might have a hurting child.