The Only Gold (38 page)

Jonah swiped the snow from his glasses, only worsening his vision, and strained for any sign of life below, but the hurtling mass of white would not part to reassure him. His gaze went to the near unattainable distance between the sill and the nearest crossbar and he wondered how he could manage it. Then he was pocketing his glasses and climbing onto the sill to reach across to the bar. It was slick, with only just enough wood exposed to keep his fingers from sliding away. His grip would be numb in moments, but he had no time to find his gloves.

Clinging to the bar, he stepped onto the one below it. His shoe slid alarmingly on the ice, then found firmer footing. The wind hit, rocking the pole, and he held on in terror, certain the remaining wires would snap at once and send him plummeting. When they held, he filled his lungs with bitterly sharp air and dared to risk his poor purchase by sliding further along the crossbar. The pole bounced and trembled with every buffet of the wind, but he could not allow himself to stop each time, too afraid he would reach the bottom and find he was too late to help Reid.

As cold as the crossbars were, the insulators were colder. He pulled away from the porcelain, making a fist in an effort to preserve feeling in his hand, and reached past the insulator to grab the nearest hold on the wood. Ducking the wires from the crossbar above, he traversed the remaining space to the pole and found himself clinging to it as Reid had, gasping for breath and fearful of moving another inch. He glanced down, but the world was a white blur in every direction. The sense of disorientation heightened his fear, but a single thought reigned; he was not the only one fated to perish if he did not move, and quickly.

With two means of reaching the ground—sliding or falling—he sent up a silent entreaty to God that he might be successful at the former and began a descent to the bottom crossbar. Once there, he refused himself another glimpse of the chasm below. With little feeling left in his hands, he wondered how he would hold on all the way to the ground. If he could not lock together fingers nearly frostbitten, his scarf might work as a makeshift sling. He tugged it until it came free, nearly blowing from his grasp.

In his precarious position with one leg hooked over the crossbar, the other pressed against the pole, he wrapped the end of the scarf around his wrist, eased the length of it around the pole beneath the crossbar, and grasped the scarf’s other end with his free hand. Curling numb fingers around the fabric was almost more than he could do. Once he had hold of it, he knew the slender threads could not possibly see him safely to the ground. If he started to slide in the wrong direction, he could not hold on.

But there was no other way. Tightening his grip until pain shot through his hands, he pulled the scarf taut against the pole and gave up his hold on the bottom crossbar. The moment his leg was free, he began to slide. He tried to slow his descent by wrapping his legs around the pole, but the ice coating allowed no purchase. He began to lose his balance, sliding to one side, and in a panic he leaned back, trying to counterbalance with the aid of the scarf. Miraculously, he stayed upright for several feet before the pole rocked and the scarf slipped neatly out of his grasp. He got his arm around the pole—in vain, as he swung helplessly downward and lost his grip altogether.

He had a bare instant to conceive he was falling. Snow exploded around him smotheringly, and he lay where he had landed, shocked to be still conscious. The snow fell fast and he realized he would be buried if he didn’t get to his feet. As he struggled to sit, he sensed a presence and jerked his head up to find a snow-coated figure hovering over him. Momentary alarm gave way to surging relief as the face with its snow-frosted hair and brows came into focus. It was a relief echoed in the eyes that met his. “You’re never going to listen to me, are you?”

As Reid helped him to his feet, Jonah leaned in, raising his voice to be heard above the wind. “You may regard it as a matter of course.”

Reid grimaced, but Jonah thought it might be only a response to the weather. Tugging loose his scarf, Reid pushed one end of it into Jonah’s hand. “Don’t let go.”

The wind sweeping the alley merely whispered in comparison with the gale that struck them in William Street. The force knocked Jonah into the snow. Trying to shield himself from the stinging ice, he floundered to his feet. Bent against the wind, Reid waited for him before wading ahead, past the corner lamp jutting from the deep bank, and into a street eerily deserted. If anyone else braved the sidewalks, the rush of snow obscured their shapes. Other than the looming shadows of buildings on either side, Jonah could see nothing.

But Reid clearly knew just where to go. They had trudged a few feet along the curb before he stopped to dig. Not convinced they were in the right spot, Jonah helped him, and they uncovered a frighteningly limp form beneath the snow. Reid wasted no time in hauling her over his shoulder. When he continued to head away from the bank, Jonah wondered where on earth they were going. It was only when they were across the street that he saw the restaurant window. A sign dislodged from its hinges had left a jagged opening in the plate glass, one large enough to admit them into a debris-strewn, snow-swept dining room.

They made their way to the kitchen, where Reid laid his burden on a bench by the stove and drew away the hood to expose a pale face and damp blonde curls. Jonah caught his breath in dismay. “Alice!”

Reid snorted. “Unchaperoned, no less.”

Reid thought her foolish, but perhaps he believed the same of everyone at the bank, Jonah included. It did not bear considering. Jonah turned his attention to Alice, removing his coat to cover her.

Reid stopped him. “You’ll need your coat. We’ll use tablecloths. Warm them on the stove.”

Without a word, Jonah fished his glasses from under his coat and went back to the dining room. Through the gaping hole in the plate glass, the shuttered bank was a phantom only intermittently visible. He had deserted it, abandoned his duty in order to rescue one of the very men intent on robbing it, and he had no means to get back inside. Even if he did, he could not, unarmed and alone, prevent Barton from escaping with the money in hand. It might not be too late to summon the police—if police could be found in the midst of a storm that seemed in no way ready to abate. If the rest of the city was as battered and buried, he had little hope of locating help. But he could not leave Alice alone, if Reid was intent on going back to the bank.

Stumbling over broken glass amid the splintered remains of chairs and tables, Jonah gathered what dry cloth he could find and returned to the kitchen. The coal-stuffed stove was already beginning to glow, but Alice remained oblivious to it. Reid took the cloth from Jonah’s arms and laid it on the stovetop. As he turned back to Jonah, their eyes met and Jonah looked away. Whatever justifications or lies might be forthcoming, he could not hear either. He would want to believe every word. “We’ll need more cloth—”

“We’ve got plenty.”

“I’ll make some tea, then. It will warm her.” He turned to dig through the cupboards and a tremendous clatter at the kitchen door startled him. Reid reached the door first, cracking it wide enough to peer out.

“The chimney’s come down.” He shut the door with a decided forcefulness. “Let’s hope the rest of the building isn’t about to follow.”

Shaken, Jonah drew a chair from the worktable and sank into it. His hands and feet stung with returning warmth, waking an ache in bones that had been jarred in his fall. His leg seemed to have sustained the worst of it, throbbing each time he set his weight on it. Yet it was bearable, sized up against a deeper ache. He took in, with a detached sense of disbelief, the distant sound of more glass breaking, and he burrowed deeper into his coat, bowing his head. He was so tired.

A hand, warm and comforting, covered his. “Jonah.”

Jonah could not meet his eyes. “Is the world ending?” It seemed a pointless question, when he already knew the answer.

“Jo.” There was a note of humor amid the reproach coloring Reid’s tone. “Will you listen?”

Jonah raised his head reluctantly, and Reid pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, an affectionate gesture that only deepened the ache. He turned, withdrawing his hand from Reid’s, and started to rise. Pain spread through his leg, and he sucked in a breath and sat back down. “I hurt it, falling—”

“More likely climbing through the window,” Reid said as he pushed up the damp trouser leg to expose a long, shallow cut across Jonah’s shin. “It’s not bad—but we’ll have to clean it up. I think Alice can spare a tablecloth.” Rising, he draped the warmed cloths over her, all but the last, which he ripped to long shreds. Pulling up a second chair, he propped Jonah’s leg on it. “You know, I’ve never had such a perfectly planned job fall apart so fast and so thoroughly—and the funny part of it is, I had a feeling from the start—hell, from the instant I laid eyes on you, I knew it was destined to be upset. Not this magnificently….” He shook his head. “Though maybe I should’ve known, taking into account one goddamned contrary, exacting, single-minded assistant cashier who can’t let work go, even one day out of seven—”

“You’re railing at me?” Jonah said in amazement. “Of all the—” Cool liquid splashed against his skin and instantly burned. He fell back in the chair, gasping, and a hand grabbed his and held on tight.

“Sorry, Jo.” Reid shook the flask he must have confiscated from Liam. “I had to. You all right?”

The physical shock fading, Jonah still burned from the accusation hurled at him, even as he realized Reid had done it to distract him. He sat in silence as Reid bandaged his leg with a tenderness suited to the Reid of old. Reid called him contrary—but Reid was the confounding one, behaving as if nothing so terrible had happened between them. Jonah wanted to be angry, but only grief welled from the overwhelming exhaustion that had hold of him. “Reid….”

The gaze that took him in still brimmed with familiar emotion, and Jonah was hard put not to look away. “You know there can be no good end to this for any of you. You have a chance to go. Leave here and start someplace else. Go, and I won’t tell a soul. Barton and the others—the police will eventually find them. But you still have a chance. Please. Take it and go.”

Reid’s
brows drew together, lips parting. “For God’s sake.”

Jonah persisted, set on convincing him. “You never meant to be involved in this. At least—you’re regretting it. I know you. You’re not a thief—”

“Jo—”

“You made a mistake. An error in judgment. For whatever reason—”

“Jonah, stop.” His face still slack with disbelief, Reid dropped into the chair. “You’re right in one respect. I am regretting something. I wish I’d told you the truth long before this. Jo, I’m not here to rob the bank. I’m here to protect it. I was hired after Barton killed our agent in the course of the Boston robbery. We learned enough to track him to New York, and we were able to narrow down the banks we thought he’d target. We placed agents in half a dozen, and it didn’t take us long to narrow it down even further.” Reid’s lips curved, a wry light in his eyes. “Grandborough Bank was mine, by the luck of the draw.”

If it was another lie, it was a most unexpected one. “Mr. Grandborough… hired you?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re not a banker?”

Reid’s laugh was tired but not altogether humorless. “I do the job required. Some work I take to better than others.”