Escapade (9781301744510) (40 page)

But as the image of Aurora Rose Kavanaugh's
lovely young features rose into Mrs. Van Hallsburg's mind, she
comprehended the allure of vengeance for the very first time.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Early morning mists curled off the East
River, rising slowly to assume the form of a woman, a flowing white
gown hanging from her in tattered shreds, silvery hair tangled
wildly about a face pallid as death, the eyes as empty as the black
void of a grave.

Rory shuddered as that pitiless gaze turned
in her direction. She slashed frantically at the ballast bags
weighting down the balloon, seeking to rise above the mist and that
terrifying visage. But as the balloon lifted, soaring skyward, the
spectral figure below let out a shriek of laughter.

Stretching her arms upward, the white witch
floated after Rory until her hands closed over the side of the
gondola, her fingers more bone than flesh. Rory sought to pry away
those cold grasping hands, but at the first touch, she could feel
that deathly chill spreading to herself. In horror she watched as
her own hands began aging, decaying before her very eyes.

"No!"

With a loud cry, Rory sat up, wrenching
herself awake. Bathed in cold sweat, it took her a moment to
realize she was safe, sprawled on the sofa of her flat. The
packages delivered by Altman's yesterday were bestrewn upon the
floor, mingling with the cozy furnishings of her parlor, familiar,
reassuring surroundings, and yet her heart thudded with fear. The
dream had been so vivid. She took a trembling survey of her hands,
relieved to find her skin smooth and warm, life yet thrumming
through her veins.

She released her breath in a shivery sigh and
raked her hands through her hair. Damn! She hated dreams like that.
Go back to sleep and forget about it, her Da would have told her.
He had always scoffed at the old superstitions of the banshee and
been sorry he had ever let her head be filled with such
nonsense.

Rory wished she could be equally as scornful,
but in the past her nightmare had always been followed with a
death. Whose might it be this time- her own?

Zeke had warned her she was going to break
her neck one of these days. But she wasn't even taking the balloon
up today. She had formed far different plans. The heavy ring of
keys left lying on the parlor table reminded her of what she had to
do, reminded her also of a future so bleak she didn't care if she
crashed to her death or not.

That was a wicked thought, and Rory was quick
to cross herself. All the same she did feel utterly miserable. Ever
since Zeke had stormed out of her apartment, she had drifted into a
state of lethargy, unable to do anything but replay their dreadful
quarrel over and over in her mind. Furious and despairing by turns,
her fretting had culminated in a sleepless night.

She had at last curled up on the sofa,
eventually drifting off somewhere in the wee hours of the morning,
falling asleep in time to have a nightmare. Just her luck.

Struggling to her feet, Rory pressed one hand
to the small of her back, stiff and aching from the posture she had
been sleeping in. She nearly tripped over one of the boxes. She
would have to notify Altman's to have them retrieve the parcels, or
else have the whole lot packed up and sent to Zeke's mansion.

Her trousseau, Zeke had called it. But there
could be no trousseau when there was to be no wedding. She had no
doubt but that all was ended between her and Zeke. What he had
done, trying to force her to abandon her dream, was dreadful, but
the words she had hurled at him were more unforgivable.

She could hardly believe she had been so
cruel, even in the grip of her rage and anguish. But perhaps what
she had said, driving Zeke away as nothing else could, would prove
kinder in the long run. It should have been obvious from the
beginning how unsuited they were for each other.

Even as she sought to convince herself, other
memories intruded, of dancing until dawn, sharing stolen kisses in
the little cottage by the sea, snuggling against Zeke's shoulder on
the bench in City Hall Park while watching the sun set. Memories of
how they had laughed, loved, even fought together, side by side,
ready to take on the toughest of villains, the whole world.
Memories that she had to suppress if she were going to make herself
believe that she was better off without Zeke Morrison in her
life.

She strode resolutely to her bedchamber. She
had spent enough time moping. She needed to get dressed and go to
the warehouse. Tony and the others would be expecting her to get
ready for the return of the government contractor. It was going to
be difficult enough to explain to them why they would be spending
the day otherwise engaged without facing them all with reddened
eyes.

Perched upon crates in the warehouse, Tony,
Pete and Angelo faced her in varying postures of confusion and
disbelief. She had finished explaining how Zeke Morrison had bought
the warehouse, rendering it necessary for Rory to remove all her
equipment from the premises.

"Wait a moment." Angelo scowled, scratching
the back of his head and succeeding in making his cowlick worse.
"Didn't you just say that Morrison left you the keys?"

"Yes, he did." Rory tapped her foot
impatiently, not wanting to offer any more explanation than she had
to. "And so?"

"Then the fellow must have changed his mind
about tossing us out, right?" Angelo appealed to Pete, who shrugged
but nodded in agreement.

"It makes no difference even if he did. I
have no desire to be the recipient of Mr. Morrison's
generosity."

"Resippy-what?" Angelo echoed. "What's that
mean?"

Tony, who had listened in silence, his arms
crossed over his chest, now spoke up, "It means Rory and Morrison
had some sort of a row and now Rory is being stubborn."

Rory glared at him. "It means nothing of the
kind. It's merely that I can no longer afford the rent here. So get
up off your tails and start packing."

Pete and Angelo slid off the crates, still
looking nonplussed, but preparing to begin. Tony, however, kept
shaking his head in a way that made Rory want to hit him. As the
other two shuffled off, he said, "I don't know what this is really
about, Rory. But I can take a good guess and for once I sympathize
with Morrison. If you were going to be my wife, I wouldn't want you
flying the damned balloons anymore either."

That Tony would range himself on Zeke's side
both wounded and annoyed her. "I'm not going to be anyone's wife,
Bertelli. Now I would appreciate your getting busy."

"What do you think you're going to do with
all this stuff?"

Rory hadn't thought that through clearly, but
she blustered, "For now, I suppose I'll have to cram it all into my
flat."

Tony rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to
say something, then apparently thought better of it. With a snort
of disgust, he moved off to supervise the other two boys.

They all fell to their task in a manner less
than enthusiastic, moving so slowly, exchanging so many superior
male glances over the illogic of women that Rory could no longer
bear to watch them. She stomped off upstairs to clear out her
office.

But as the minutes ticked by, she packed very
little, sitting behind her desk, staring up at the familiar cracks
on the ceiling, wondering if she was, as Tony said, merely being
stubborn.

Tony's ready sympathy for Zeke's position had
disturbed her more than she cared to admit. Was she being
unreasonable? She knew Zeke was only trying to protect her in his
rough way. But she couldn't accept his manner of doing things as
though her feelings and opinions didn't count. He was so
aggressive, bullying, maddening.

And she still loved him desperately.

Tears stung her eyes and she blinked them
fiercely away. There was no sense sitting here thinking such things
as that. She would only end up bawling. With a dogged set to her
lips, she forced herself into movement, heaving ledger books,
pencils, pens and ink bottles into a carton.

At noon she paused long enough to see how
Tony and the boys were doing. They had made suspiciously little
progress. Tony had gone off somewhere to fetch lunch back for all
of them, and she caught Angelo, in his usual garrulous fashion,
pausing to entertain a visitor.

Rory stopped on the last step, mildly
surprised to see Bill Duffy. She had no idea what could have
brought the reporter down to her warehouse. Much as she liked the
fellow, she approached warily.

Angelo sprang guiltily back to work at the
sight of her. Duffy grinned and doffed his derby. Rory studied the
man, detecting something different about him today. The shine of
his blue frock coat proclaimed it as brand new, and he had stuck a
carnation in his lapel. Always jaunty, he seemed particularly smug
and well pleased with himself.

"Good afternoon, Miss Kavanaugh," he said. "I
couldn't resist coming by for a peek at the infamous balloon
factory. Anything interesting going on this afternoon? You all seem
to be getting ready for something. Another flight perhaps?” His
fingers twitched, and Rory knew he would be reaching for his
notebook in another moment.

"Nothing newsworthy," she said quickly to
forestall him. "It's only that due to some setbacks, I am obliged
to vacate the warehouse."

"Say, that's too bad. And Morrison can't help
you? Lordy, the fellow's richer than .J. P. Morgan."

"No, er- Mr. Morrison is not very sympathetic
to my business interests."

"Well, you can smooth all that out after you
are married. And speaking of weddings, I don't suppose you would
let me cover yours as an exclusive?"

"You have been misled. There's not going to
be any wedding."

"Oh?" Duffy rocked back on his heels. "Had a
spat, did you?" he asked sympathetically.

The sigh that escaped her said
everything.

"Don't worry. He'll be back. I've never been
bitten by the love bug myself, but I've seen it happen to plenty of
other fellows. And believe me, Morrison has a bad case of it."

He coaxed a smile from her, but she really
didn't want to discuss it any further. She tried to excuse herself
on the grounds that she had work to do.

She hoped Duffy would take the hint and
leave, but the man seemed incapable of being discouraged by
anything less subtle than a club over the head. And Rory didn't
have the energy for that.

She allowed him to trail after her as she
returned to her office.

"Your marriage to Morrison would've made a
good story. But I've been doing all right for myself in any case.
In fact I just got a big raise in salary."

"Congratulations," Rory said. "And how is
your investigation into the Addison affair going?"

"That's what I'm talking about. Haven't you
been reading my stories?" He looked almost insulted when she shook
her head. "Well, it's just the biggest scandal since the days of
Boss Tweed. I found out that Decker had a partner in his nefarious
schemes. A woman, a real high-stepper. And you'd never believe
who!"

"I haven't a clue," she said wearily.

Duffy seemed disappointed when she wouldn't
even hazard a guess. "It happens to be none other than that
blue-blooded pillar of society, the Ice Goddess herself. Cynthia
Van Hallsburg."

Rory's head came up sharply at that, her eyes
widening in astonishment. Duffy smirked, looking pleased to have
provoked a reaction at last.

"Yessiree. And there's more. It looks as
though Decker was shot by someone. Not that I think a lady like
Mrs. Van H. could be capable of going that far."

"I think she could," Rory murmured, unable to
repress a tiny shiver.

She didn't know why she found Duffy's news so
unsettling, but she did. Mrs. Van Hallsburg meant nothing to her,
and yet something about the woman had always disturbed Rory, from
the time the woman had once figured in her dream, taking the place
of the banshee.

"Do you think Zeke knows all this?" she asked
Duffy anxiously.

"Morrison?" Duffy appeared surprised by the
question. He shrugged. "If he reads the right newspaper, he
does."

"Maybe he ought to be warned.”

“Warned? About what? So Mrs. Van H. dirtied
her hands investing in brothels and gaming dens. That hardly makes
her dangerous. And even if she was," Duffy puffed out his chest,
"she'd be more likely to come after yours truly."

Rory didn't agree, but she sought in vain for
the words to explain her fear. Duffy was a hardheaded reporter who
dealt in facts. How did one begin to explain to him such intangible
things as dreams, instincts and premonitions, without sounding a
fool?

"I would just feel better," she said, "if you
would go to Zeke and make sure he knows, or at least see if the
police have taken Mrs. Van Hallsburg into custody."

"Well, sure, if you want me to." He pulled
out his pocket watch and snapped open the case. "But I'm not
certain at this hour of day where to find him or Mrs. Van
Hallsburg."

"Say, Rory." Angelo's piping voice startled
them both. "She's downstairs." He had poked his head in the office
door in time to hear Duffy's last remark.

"What?" Rory gasped, hoping she must have
misunderstood the boy.

"That lady you were talking about, Mrs. Van
Whats-her¬name." Angelo jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "She's
waiting below, wanting to see you, Rory."

Rory paled as she exchanged a glance with
Duffy.

"She sent up her card." Angelo gave her a
crisp white rectangle of vellum now smudged by his fingerprints,
yet not enough to obscure the elegant, arrogant scrawl. The
faintest odor of perfume drifted from it, and Rory's hand trembled
as though she had just been handed some witch's charm.

Duffy let out a long, low whistle. "Well,
speak of the devil. What an opportunity. Show her upstairs,
kid."