The Only Gold (35 page)

“No—” Jonah reached futilely to stop him. With the confiscation of his glasses went any hope of escape. He might manage his way around the bank without them, but not out in the wide, dark world.

“Liam.” Reid’s voice was quiet, but Jonah heard the irritation.

“Let him sit helpless,” Liam said. “Maybe after a time, he’ll see a little better for it.”

Unable to read either man’s face, Jonah dropped his gaze and sank back in the chair. He could do naught but listen, and even that was taken from him when Reid and Liam left him in the dozing Barton’s care, and the cloakroom stood silent, but for the rising wind outside.

The
night had never been so endless, nor so cold. Jonah yielded to weariness more than once, his eyes drifting shut to ease him toward oblivion. Voices remained distant, though the occasional argument jarred him to dim consciousness. The wind was worse, rattling the windows and finally waking him fully, to discover morning had not yet come. The deepening chill had numbed his face and left him goose fleshed, but that was a lesser discomfort at the moment. He stood on aching legs and trod carefully past Scroggs, sprawled, sleeping, on the window seat.

“Need to take a piss?”

Startled, Jonah tried to evade him, but Scroggs got a handful of his coat and dragged him to sit. “You think you can do as you want? This ain’t your bank while I’m here. And privy privileges won’t come cheap.” He stood, hauling Jonah up, and began to dig through his pockets. Jonah endured it. Resistance would only win him a black eye. Scroggs found his pocketbook and deposited the contents in his own voluminous coat before stepping aside. “As you please.”

Making use of the facilities with hands bound proved a slow and difficult process. When he came out of the washroom, Scroggs was still awake and waiting for him, apparently finding too much pleasure in toying with him to leave off. “You don’t remember me—do you, you son of a bitch.”

About to ask why he should, Jonah realized they
had
met—under similar circumstances, ten long years before. Scroggs, bearded and considerably broader, little resembled the man Jonah only vaguely recalled; but his eyes had the same hard gleam, a watchful menace he made no effort to conceal.

“I remember,” Jonah said. “You tried to rob us—then left your confederate to face the police on his own.”

“Bet you’re damned sorry you didn’t shoot me when you had the chance.” Scroggs drew a knife and started toward him. Jonah backed away, fighting for breath enough to shout—though no one would hear over the storm’s thunder. Scroggs grabbed him and pushed him against the door—only to cut loose the rope binding him. “The coat and the frock. Hand them over.”

Jonah stared at him, still reeling. “It’s too cold—”

“Damned right.”

Jonah glanced toward the opposite door, but no rescue was forthcoming. He drew off his overcoat, then his frock coat, and stood in his shirtsleeves while Scroggs made a pillow of one and a blanket of the other. Before returning to his rest, Scroggs pushed him into the chair, and cutting the remains of the rope in two, used the pieces to tie Jonah’s wrists to the arms. He was far from gentle, and the pain distracted Jonah, until the bitter cold became the greater misery.

Judging by the wind, snow had to be falling fiercely, and the temperature continued to fall with it. Jonah pushed his chair further from the window until he was against the back wall of the cloakroom, but barely a quarter of an hour passed before he was shivering. He leaned forward, closing his eyes, and wished for the relief of sleep. It washed over him tormentingly, giving him brief periods of subdued awareness. But he was shivering all the more when he woke, and the loss of sensation in his hands and feet alarmed him. The abrupt opening of the door made him start, and he squinted across the room, dreading what new shape the nightmare would take.

“Worthless bastard.” Reid gave the panel under the window seat a solid kick, and Scroggs shot up, sputtering. “Six o’clock,” Reid said. “Liam’s packing the drill. We’re going to give the sledge a try.”

“Damn,” Scroggs muttered, but rose and went out.

Another figure—Gil, Jonah thought—came in, carrying a lantern, and waited silently at the door. Jonah blinked, trying in vain to summon sharper vision. Fearful Reid would leave, he pushed clumsily against the floor to roll the chair forward. Reid stepped suddenly in front of him, bringing the chair to a stop. A blade brushed Jonah’s wrists, and the ropes were gone. Hands on either side of his face made him flinch. “Don’t—”

“Your glasses,” Reid said quietly, and settled them in place. “I’m sorry, Jo.”

He sounded sick at heart. Jonah couldn’t make sense of anything—least of all, that. “It’s morning?”

“Almost six.” Reid straightened. “We’ve got to get out of here by seven.”

The disorientation persisted. “You’re taking me?”

Reid grasped his hand and pulled a coat sleeve over it. When he didn’t answer, Jonah tried a different tack. “Just tell me you won’t be the one to shoot me.”

Reid sucked in a breath. “No one’s going to shoot you.” Though the light in his eyes remained troubled, his conviction on that point seemed clear. He pulled the other sleeve up Jonah’s arm and buttoned the frock. The overcoat came next, to Jonah’s immense relief. He tried with numb fingers to find the buttons, and Reid pushed his hands away. “I’ll do it. Think you can stand?”

Not at all certain, Jonah allowed Reid to draw him to his feet. His knees started to give, and Reid’s grip on him tightened. As they moved to the door, sensation began to return, pain with it. Reid kept him moving until they were back in the lobby. The two dark lanterns revealed the damage to the vault door. The drill had pierced the outer plates, but hadn’t bored deep enough to permit the infiltration of gunpowder. As far as Jonah could see, they’d found as little luck with the wedges and jimmy.

Scroggs took the sledgehammer in hand as Liam wrapped the smaller tools in the burlap. At Barton’s signal, Scroggs heaved the sledge against the vault door. Copper struck steel, and the sound rang louder than Jonah expected, reverberating through the lobby. Gil looked at his brother in alarm. “You’re sure no one can hear it in the street?”

“With that storm blowing?” Barton chuckled. “Continue, Mr. Scroggs.”

The crash of copper and steel competed with the pounding wind for long minutes, until Scroggs was perspiring despite the cold. He stepped back from the vault, and Liam leaned wearily over the dial. Jonah feared failure as much as success—for even if Reid meant to shield him, he was only one against four.

The time lock held.

Liam pushed himself away from the door and seized the sledge. Hefting it with a curse, he struck precisely where the time lock was seated on the other side. He kept swinging until, breathless, he staggered and fell against the door. Splaying a hand on the dial, he turned it with infinite care—in vain. A bitter laugh broke from him, and he curled his fingers into a fist as if he could beat his way through. “All this goddamned work. For what?” He twisted around with such black rancor, Jonah stepped back involuntarily.

Reid scooped up the burlap and unrolled it, sending tools clattering across Margaret’s desk. “I say we try to open a seam for the powder. I don’t think we’re far off.”

“We won’t manage it in less than an hour,” Barton said. “If we’re to try that, we may as well wait for the lock to expire.”

“And when the clerks arrive beforehand?” Reid asked.

“I think a notice at the door….” Barton considered for a moment. “Something to the effect that the bank is shut till nine, due to the weather. With both your signature and Mr. Woolner’s appended, it will persuade the staff to return at a later hour without fear of reprisal.”

“I won’t sign it,” Jonah said.

“You would prefer we hold everyone prisoner until we’ve finished our business?”

The idea of Margaret, Helen, and the rest of the staff tied up and shut in the cloakroom was not to be thought of. Jonah sank into Margaret’s chair and took up a pen. The very act made him feel like an accomplice, if one under duress. But no sooner had he uncapped the ink than Reid took the pen from his hand. “I think it would be better if I wrote it. I am cashier.”

The others seemed amused. Only Jonah saw the determined set of his mouth and realized Reid was protecting him. The notion that Liam might be blackmailing Reid had been one of hope more than belief. Now Jonah wondered if it was the case.

The note written, Reid started to rise, and Barton reminded him to include Jonah’s signature. Reid obligingly turned the paper around and pushed it across the desk toward Jonah. With little choice, Jonah picked up the pen—to discover Reid had signed for him. “Pen dry?” Reid asked.

He must have dried the nib on his coat. “It will do.” Jonah went through the pretense of adding his signature. “Will you put it on the door?”

“Mr. Woolner, if you will,” Barton said amiably. “Gil, be a good fellow and go with him. He may require assistance with the shutter.”

Gil trailing him with a dark lantern, Jonah crossed to the door and opened the shutter. Snow coated the door so thickly, he could not see beyond the glass. “Mr. Abbott, please bring the lantern.”

Gil came nearer, but the light did not penetrate the snow. Liam stalked to the door, the others accompanying him, and gestured for Gil to raise the lantern. Snow rose uniformly to the top of the glass and went on, seemingly, above it—how far, Jonah could not guess.

Liam, recovering his wits first, unlocked the door and set his weight against it. The door yielded a bare inch. “Son of a bitch.” He leaned harder, but it was only when Reid and Scroggs put their shoulders to it that the door budged another few inches—still inadequate to allow passage, even if the way were clear.

“We can dig out,” Gil said.

Scroggs snorted. “If we don’t, someone will be digging in, soon enough.”

Reid moved to the nearest window and turned back the shutter. A wall of snow darkened the glass. “We may need powder to blow our way out of the bank,” he said wryly.

Barton shut the door, directing Liam to lock it. “The side door will not be so buried,” he suggested.

“Well, let’s find out before we start digging,” Scroggs said. “We’ve got damned little time left, as it is.”

“I’ll go.” Gil went at a run.

Reid began to close the shutter. “We’d better leave the note, in case Satterfield or anyone else digs through—”

A shout from the corridor cut him off. Liam swung around and dashed across the lobby, leaving the others to race after him. Jonah, at the last, arrived to find him kneeling over Gil, who lay limp and still in front of the door. In the open doorway, ice-encased wires drooped, some swinging loose to flash with electrical fire amidst the snow flurries. Above, a telegraph pole hung at a sharp angle, and with every gust, the pole swayed, crossbars striking the third-floor windows.

Wind thundering down the alley slammed the door into the wires, showering sparks, until Reid took a walking stick from the umbrella stand and used it to pull the door shut. His face grim, he thrust the stick back into the stand hard enough to make the metal ring. “Liam?”