The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1) (36 page)

As far as Cian was concerned, that was just fine.

Cian wanted to do worse. He wanted to break the little thief’s arms and throw him into the lion’s den. He wanted to knock the little shit to the ground and kick him until he stopped moving. He wanted, most of all, to make Sam as afraid as Cian had been.

But he settled for crushing the boy’s shoulder.

“He’s going to pass out,” Irene said. “Or be sick. Ease up.”

“He had a knife to your throat.”

“Well I have his knife now. And I don’t want his vomit on my shoes.”

Cian eased his grip.

Slightly.

Sam wiped sweat from his face in spite of the cold. He was sweating.

With an irritated grunt, Cian let go of the boy’s shoulder.

“Run, and I’ll shoot you.”

Sam nodded, massaging his aching shoulder. When Sam pulled his coat back, Cian saw fresh blood staining the boy’s shirt. Cian’s mouth tasted as though he’d been chewing limestone all morning. Heavy and dirty, all at the same time.

“Good God, what did you do to him?” Irene said.

“He tried to kidnap you,” Cian protested.

“I handled it.”

Cian opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Irene smiled and squeezed his hand.

His mouth snapped shut.

And he decided he would probably never understand women. Or, more specifically, Irene.

Automobiles crowded the streets around the station. Some of the new arrivals carried cameras and notepads, pushing their way onto the platform to snap photographs of the ruined train and the surviving passengers.

The surviving passengers. Cian’s stomach dropped below his belt. How many had survived? A fraction of those who had originally been on the train. A third? A quarter? How many had been left behind when Irene detached the cars.

Irene’s face was pale. Her dark eyes were wet. She was watching the crowd too.

Sam was still picking at his bloody shirt and, in general, looking like a particularly sulky child.

The sky looked like a piece of dirty wool that had been tacked into place by a drunken handyman. In places, the bunched up clouds drooped, sagging folds of gray, while in other parts the clouds had been stretched too thin. It was a dark, shitty day, and Cian wanted a drink.

More cars continued to jam the streets. In addition to the press, there were curious locals and passers-by, and family and friends who must have seen the trouble at Union Station and attempted to follow the train. Police were already at the station, segregating people for questioning.

Cian watched as a mustachioed police officer moved towards them. A woman in a massive black hat intercepted the policeman, and Cian grabbed Sam. By the arm, this time.

“Let’s go,” Cian said. “We don’t want to answer their questions.”

They moved around the edge of the platform, towards the steps that led down to the street. People on the sidewalk shouted questions, which Cian ignored. A man in a dark hat lunged in front of Cian, holding up a camera, and Cian shoved him back into the mass of bodies.

“You’ve got a good touch with the common folk,” Sam said.

“You’ll find out yourself,” Cian said.

He caught Sam grinning at Irene. Sam paled, swallowed his grin, and looked at the ground.

They were almost at the stairs when someone shouted Cian’s name.

Cian didn’t mean to turn. It was instinct. He glanced around.

And he met Captain Irving Harper’s gaze.

“That’s him,” Harper shouted. He had a white bandage around his forehead, visible under his hat, but he still looked as mean as sin. “Get him!”

Policemen plunged into the crowd, moving towards Cian and his friends.

“Hurry,” Cian said, holding Sam by one arm and Irene by the other as he rushed them down the steps.

“What’s that fellow want with you?” Sam asked.

“Shea!” Harper shouted. “Stop right there! You’re under arrest. Stop that man!”

A blocky fellow with a jaw-strap beard stepped into Cian’s path, holding out one hand.

Before Cian could move, Irene drove her heel onto the bearded man’s foot.

He went down with a howl.

“You’re both mad,” Sam said, staring from Cian to Irene. “Totally mad.”

“Keep moving,” was all Cian said.

Shouts were spreading now. Cian pushed Irene and Sam between the stalled cars. He kept an eye on Sam, because he didn’t trust the boy as much as an inch, but he had to keep an eye on Irene too. She’d gone loopy in the train after hitting her head, and although she seemed better now, there was no telling.

As though on cue, Sam twisted and tried to pull free, and Irene staggered.

“Help,” Sam shouted. “Police! Help!”

Cian let go of Irene. He took two steps, grabbed Sam by the coat and the back of the head, and slammed the boy into the closest automobile—a cream-colored Chrysler.

The crunch of a broken nose, and then the spray of blood across the Chrysler’s hood.

“My nose,” Sam shouted. He turned and swung. The blow was wild, glancing off Cian’s shoulder.

Cian landed on a punch on Sam’s chin. The boy’s eyes rolled up. His legs shivered like two old women in a draft.

Then he folded.

Cian dragged the boy over his shoulder. “Irene?”

“Fine,” she said, one hand pressed to her head. “Go.”

“But—”

“Go!”

A pair of policemen appeared between the cars, rushing towards Cian. He cast one glance at Irene and then ran, Sam’s weight throwing him off balance. The line of cars seemed interminable. Cian’s lungs burned as he pounded down the pavement. Sam might as well have been a sack of bricks.

And then, as Cian reached the end of the street, a Ford Model T pulled across his path.

Damn. Not a single break today.

Cian reached for the Colt.

Then the door swung open, and Pearl stared out at him. “Get in!”

“Irene,” Cian said. He jerked a thumb.

“I’ll get her,” Pearl said.

She dropped from the car, alighting with easy grace, and strolled away. Nothing more than a woman out on an errand.

Cian, on the other hand, felt like a sack of dirty laundry. Dirty laundry that had been trampled by a herd of angry cattle. He climbed into the back of the Ford, dropped Sam, and pulled the door shut.

Harry took one glance at Sam’s bloodied face. Then he turned his attention back to the street.

As they pulled away from the station, Harry spoke. His voice was careful. Non-committal. The voice of a man walking a tightrope.

“You didn’t kill him, did you?”

Irene wheezed. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Everything smelled like sweat and fear and the unmistakable need to give her hair a good wash. She leaned against one of the stopped cars. The metal was cold, pulling her skin close with a frozen kiss, but it felt good against the fever heat running in her blood. Shouts came closer along with heavy footsteps.

One of the policemen raced past her. The other stopped. He looked at her and hesitated.

“Miss? Are you alright?”

Irene nodded. His breath smelled like tomatoes.

And then the world went sideways, and her knees went out. The policeman caught her and called for help. He carried her to the ledge of the platform and helped her sit. More policemen raced past them, still in pursuit of Cian. Irene took slow breaths and patted her cheeks with snow. The policeman who had helped her looked up and down the street—anywhere but at her.

Irene wished that falling had been part of a plan. Instead, it was simply convenient. One fewer pursuer for Cian.

It was also hellishly embarrassing.

“Who is this?” a rough voice asked.

“I’m not sure, sir,” the officer responded. “She was being dragged along by that big fellow. I think he hit her, sir. See that cut to her forehead? She’s having trouble standing.”

“Miss?” the rough voice said.

Irene looked up. A bulldog-faced man studied her. His cheeks and jaw were covered with graying stubble. His eyes were folded in sad, dark pouches. Irene counted a half-dozen stains on his tie alone, and his suit and winter coat were frayed and dirty. He wore a revolver that looked like it could stop an elephant.

“My name is Captain Irving Harper,” he said. “Who are you?”

“Irene Lovell,” she said.

And then she realized that, all things considered, another name might have been a wiser choice. Everything seemed fuzzy after hitting her head. She wanted to lie down and sleep. Right here in the snow, if these men would be kind enough to allow her.

The bulldog-faced man—Harper, he’d said—looked at her as he pulled a crumpled notebook from his pocket and the stub of a pencil. He scribbled something and jammed the pencil between his teeth.

The ache in Irene’s head redoubled.

“You look familiar,” Harper said. “Have we met, Miss Lovell?”

Irene shook her head. But then she remembered where she’d seen Harper before. First in the alley, after the sauria had attacked and almost killed Cian. And then again in the hospital, when she’d gone to rescue Cian. The bulldog-faced man had walked right past her. She turned her face down and massaged her temples.

“Strange,” Harper said. “I could have sworn I’d seen you. No matter. Would you mind telling me how you know Cian Shea?”

“Who?”

“The man you were just with.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know him.”

“You don’t? I find that hard to believe, Miss Lovell. You were running with him. I saw you.”

“I was—I didn’t know him. He grabbed my arm.” Irene’s eyes watered. “I’m afraid my head is aching terribly. Could we speak about this later? I believe I should lie down.”

“Of course, Miss Lovell. Just a few more minutes. You say you didn’t know him and that he grabbed your arm. Why were you running with him then? You weren’t resisting. I heard the young man call for help. You, on the other hand, were silent. There are plenty of men here who would have leaped at the opportunity to help a woman in distress?”

“I’m a grown woman. I hardly need a man for everything that happens.”

“So you were not afraid when Shea grabbed you?”

The throb behind Irene’s eyes had crystallized into luminescent halos that clung to the everything she looked at. She closed her eyes. It helped a bit.

“Miss Lovell?”

“I’m so sorry. My head—”

“A moment longer. Could you explain your relationship to Cian Shea?”

“Cian?” It was growing harder to think. Words and images slipped through Irene’s fingers like sand at the bottom of the river. She cracked open her eyes. Light stabbed the back of her brain. She shut her eyes again. “Are you his friend?”

The man—she couldn’t remember his name—nodded. “Of course. I’m just trying to find him. Do you know where he is? Maybe at a hotel?”

Irene laughed, although the sound danced like broken glass in her head. “No, the hotel is a wreck.”

“Somewhere else, perhaps?”

“Yes. He’ll be at—”

“Irene!”

A woman’s voice. Familiar. Irene risked opening her eyes again. Pearl, dressed in a lovely red coat, pushed her way to the platform. Pearl’s hair had come loose and hung around her shoulders, and her cheeks were red from the cold.

“Officer,” Pearl said. “Thank goodness you found my friend.”

“Captain,” the man said.

“Irving Harper,” Irene said, as the name came back to her.

Harper nodded.

Pearl looked at Harper and then at Irene. “Irene, are you well? Heavens, what—” She turned to Harper. “She’s been struck.”

“Yes, I was—”

“You were sitting here, questioning her, while she bled to death in the cold.” Pearl pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, scooped up a bit of snow, and pressed the icy bundle to the side of Irene’s head.

It felt wonderful. Irene’s headache shrank by a mile.

“Of all the brute, cruel things,” Pearl was saying. “Officer, I’ll be speaking to your superior about this.”

“It’s Captain, ma’am. Miss Lovell—”

“I see you got her name out of her. And that wasn’t enough? The poor thing needs a doctor.”

“Miss Lovell is fine. Your name, ma’am—”

“Miss Lovell can’t even sit up straight and you’re badgering her. She could have been killed on that train. Look at her. Poor thing, she’s a wreck. Come on, Irene. Let’s get a cab.”

“I’m afraid I have a few more questions. Miss Lovell was just about to tell me something important.”

Pearl sniffed and helped Irene down from the platform. Irene’s legs wobbled, and Pearl caught her around the waist. Irene patted her hand.

Had she ever disliked Pearl? It seemed hard to imagine. That headache was a mountain blocking Irene’s memories.

“Nothing so important it can’t wait until she’s seen a doctor,” Pearl said. “That will be all for today.”

The frustration on Harper’s bulldog-face was visible, and Irene had to smother a sudden giggle. The poor man looked so pitifully bewildered.

“If I could have your address, then—” Harper asked.

“No need, Officer,” Pearl said. She guided Irene into the street and hailed a cab. “I can assure you that I will be in touch with your superior as soon as possible.”

Pearl climbed into the cab. As she shut the door, Irene heard Harper protest—one last time—“That would be captain, ma’am,” and then the cab pulled out into the street. Irene leaned back against the seat while Pearl dabbed the damp handkerchief to her temple.