Weak Flesh (30 page)

She glanced down and stared charmingly at his body's instinctive reaction to her ministrations. "Oh, my."

For the moment he forgot his anger toward Oliver Nolan and groaned as her fingers closed over him. "Ah, an excellent idea."

#

Sometime later, in the quiet hours before dawn, Gage talked about the Indian Wars. With every word of the horrible tale, Meghan felt his withdrawal. Not physically – he still clutched her naked body against his side, still stroked her hip and bottom – but mentally he'd gone somewhere else.

Wherever the black place was, he wouldn't – or couldn't – take her with him.  

"You were a soldier," she whispered against his shoulder. "You had no choice."

He sneered and she knew the scorn was aimed at himself, not her. "There's always a choice."

"You had to follow orders," she argued.

"Yes, but I – I became someone else when I killed that young Indian Buck.
Something
else – primitive and savage."

"You can't go back and undo what's already been done, Tucker." She pulled away, knelt on the bed beside him, and turned his face toward her. "You can only move on and do the best you can with the rest of the life God gave you."

The desolation in his eyes, the agony in his face brought tears to her eyes. "I don't deserve you, Meghan. You're everything that's good and unspoiled. Christ, I don't know how to resist you even though I'm afraid what I am will tarnish you."

She swiped at the tear that slid treacherously down her cheek. "Well, it's a damned good thing you can't because I'm not letting you go."

#

The streets were still dark when Meghan climbed on the bicycle and started for home. She persuaded Gage to allow her to leave unescorted, arguing that if she were caught sneaking out of his lodgings alone, she could weave a more convincing story.

Satisfied with Mrs. Jolly's account of the scene she'd witnessed at the Swamp, Gage told her he'd focus his investigation elsewhere, although he still intended to confirm the story of the Reverend's daughter. Now that they'd learned Michael Hayes was married to Nell – and what a shock that news had been to Meghan! – the young medical student loomed as a bona fide suspect, one Gage would interrogate when he went to the Station House today.

But Meghan didn't believe Hayes was guilty. He seemed so devastated by Nell's death she didn't see how he could be her killer.

Gage also acquiesced to permitting Meghan to observe his interview with Hayes. With a shiver of excitement at that prospect, she cut through a thick copse of cypress trees near the Pasquotank River, a shortcut that would deliver her home faster.

Papa would be upset if he discovered she'd been out all night, although she suspected he'd be thrilled to learn that she and Tucker had an understanding. They
did
have an understanding, didn't they? They'd made love numerous times during the night, and she knew him well enough to know he wouldn't dally with her if he didn't care about her.

The thought made her giddy and she almost giggled with happiness as she jumped off the cycle to push it through a heavily rutted area. Hugging her joy to herself, she hurried along, eager to get home to her father.

Less than a quarter mile from the house, Meghan sensed rather than saw someone following her. At first she shook off the feeling. She was simply too happy to dwell on the possibility of danger this close to home.

At the moment she pushed past the muddy area and mounted the bicycle again, a dark shadow leapt from behind a gnarled oak tree. Her attacker slammed into her so hard she lost her balance and toppled off the bike. The machine crashed heavily on top of her as she tumbled into the mud and struck her head on a large boulder.

Dazed, she struggled to rise to her feet when a sack was tossed over her head – burlap, she thought, from the smell of it. The drawstring tightened around her neck. She tried to fight back, kicking and scratching, but her attacker straddled her, pinning her arms with his knees.

All the while the pressure round her neck increased. She coughed, choked and gagged as the precious air squeezed out of her. Frantic to regain her breath, she intensified her efforts, but gradually felt her vision go black as she fell into unconsciousness.

#

Gage could still detect the faint scent of honeysuckle and lemon soap as he buried his face in the pillow where Bailey had lain. He inhaled deeply, grinned like a fool, and rose gingerly from the bed.

As he shaved the scruff of beard from his face, he smiled, liking what he saw in the mirror for the first time in a long while. Today, he vowed, he'd ask Dr. Bailey permission for Meghan. She'd object to his phrasing it like that, of course, but he'd ask anyway.

And then he'd catch a killer.

He set off for the Station House with a springy step and a light heart.

Will Pruitt was on desk duty when Gage arrived. As he glanced into the jail cells he saw Michael Hayes looking ragged, but awake.

"Give me a few minutes first and then bring Hayes to my office," Gage told Pruitt. "When Meg – uh, Miss Bailey arrives, send her in right away."

Pruitt raised his eyebrows, stifled what could've been a grin, but kept his mouth shut.

#

Meghan opened her eyes to darkness so black she had a brief moment of panic that she'd gone blind. The murkiness disoriented and terrified her far more than her throbbing head. She strained to see, to get her bearings, but it was impossible in the inky pitch of the room where she lay on a hard surface.

Where was she and how had she gotten here?

Her mouth felt dry, her limbs heavy, and her body frigidly cold even in the trousers and coat. She slid her hands over her arms and legs to feel patches of dried dirt and wet mud.

She'd lost her cap, she thought irrelevantly. Biting down hard on her lower lip, she fought the urge to cry. She would not give whoever captured her the satisfaction of knowing how frightened she was. Not that anyone could see her – or anything else – in a place as black as hell.

Groping the areas around her, she ascertained she lay on her side on a wooden floor. The boards were warped and dank, and smelled of ancient mustiness.

As she raised herself into a sitting position, the room immediately spun around as if she were on a tilt-a-whirl. She groaned aloud when a sharp pain shot through her head and she covered her mouth against the nausea.

After the queasiness passed a moment later, she touched the side of her skull where the pain was the greatest. She swept her unbound hair to one side and probed the lump behind her ear. Where she'd hit her head on the rock, she guessed.

Bringing her fingertips to her nostrils, she inhaled the coppery smell of blood. The odor made her sick again – likely a concussion – and she eased back down to the floor to wait for the dizziness and nausea to pass.

If a concussion, she assessed, she must force herself to remain awake.

Inhaling deeply, she counted the seconds, willing her eyelids to stay open. The sound of water lapped nearby. She was somewhere near the river or the Swamp, she imagined, but which? And how had she gotten here?

The immediate past was fuzzy. She recalled going to Gage's room last evening and his insistence that she come straightaway to his office this morning. Well, actually she remembered far more than that, but she wouldn't let herself dwell on those precious moments. Not now while she was so vulnerable, while she was in the clutches of a madman.

But which madman?

Reverend Jolly, who possessed a thinly veiled rage beneath his Christian demeanor? Might not he chaff under his wife's recent dominance? Might a forceful man such as he strike out at someone, if not his wife, then another woman?

Her head began to swim again and she closed her eyes weakly as she curled into a ball to stave off the bitter cold.

#

Michael Hayes looked like a broken marionette. Clearly devastated over the death of Nell Carver, he slumped in the chair opposite Gage's desk. Knowing Hayes had been married to the dead girl, the Marshal understood his grief.

He leaned back in his office chair and surveyed Hayes with thoughtful eyes. He had no proof either to exonerate or convict the man of murder, but Gage didn't believe the young medical student had killed his new wife. Pallid and haggard, Hayes appeared defeated, and his grief seemed genuine.

Gage had seen plenty of soldiers out West who'd enjoyed killing the natives, torturing them, committing heinous acts that marked them as no better than those they fought. He'd known enough of the kind of man who reveled in violence to recognize it, but he didn't see it in the face or form of the crushed man across from him.

No, he didn't believe Hayes had murder in him.

Still, Gage had to do his job, had to investigate, question until he was satisfied enough to release Hayes. "What started the altercation last night, Mr. Hayes?"

"What?" Confused, Hayes looked up from examining the interlocked fingers he swung between his knees. "Uh, at the tavern? I did, I suppose."

"Why?"

"Why? I can't remember." Hayes' expression had the vulnerable look of a child being punished when he didn't understand what he'd done.

"Was it because of what one of the patrons said about Nell?"

Hayes shook his head as if to rattle his brain into working again. "I suppose so." A long silence, then a great sigh. "Someone, I think someone called her – said she was – a whore," he finished on a whisper.

His eyes were moist as he added, "Nell wasn't like that. She was tempestuous, but she was a good person."

Gage didn't know if that estimation was correct, but he'd allow the man to have his illusions. He suspected that Nell wouldn't have been satisfied long with a man as sensitive as Michael Hayes.

"Why did you sneak around to marry her?" he asked. "Why didn't you do the right thing and speak to her father?"

A show of temper flared up briefly and then extinguished just as quickly. "Mr. Carver was – he was particular about Nell. With my lack of prospects he'd never have allowed her to marry me. We both knew that."

"So instead you risked his wrath by running off with his eldest daughter. Didn't you think that would further infuriate him when he found out?"

Defeated, Hayes lifted his shoulders as though someone else pulled the strings.

Gage kept the annoyance out of his voice. He wanted to command Hayes to stiffen his spine, but instead spoke quietly. "Whose idea was it to elope?"

"We both wanted it. She loved me, Marshal, whatever you think of me, she wanted to marry me."

Maybe, Gage thought, but maybe Nell enjoyed the secrecy of an elopement, the thrill of doing something forbidden under her father's nose. "You must understand that, as her husband, you're a likely suspect in her murder."

Hayes shrugged. "Doesn't matter anymore."

"You need a stronger alibi, Mr. Hayes, because you have a strong motive."

Gage leaned forward, ticked off the items on his fingers. "The certificate shows you married Nell on November 18. She was with another man on November 20, the night she disappeared. Why was she with Jim Wade if she was your new bride?"

"I don't know. We agreed to pretend we weren't married until we found a way to tell her family." Hayes looked up with a hopeful expression. "Maybe she was breaking off with Wade?"

"She was dating another man!" Gage slammed his fist down on the desk. "What kind of man puts up with his wife's running around?"

Hayes didn't flinch, showed no reaction to the jarring sound made by Gage's fist on the desktop.

"A weak man, I suppose," Hayes answered at last, "like the one she married."

Chapter 34

Meghan thought she'd dozed off or lost consciousness because it was still dark when she opened her eyes again. She struggled to sit up, pushed back her hair, and hugged her knees to her chest.

How long had she been here? With the absence of light through the walls, a few hours, she surmised, still night.

Who was her kidnapper and what did he want with her? Why hadn't he come to taunt or bully her, to gloat over her helplessness? Why abandon her here? Did he mean her to die, alone and afraid? Or would he return?

She almost succumbed to panic that left her shaking. Stop that! Think, she scolded herself. She had to figure a way out of her predicament.

Although her head still pounded, when she touched her fingers to the spot, she no longer felt stickiness. Stretching her hands out in front of her like a blind man, she swept them in an arc around her.

Nothing but the rough boards on which she sat. Not a dirt floor, then. She lowered herself to her hands and knees, and with one arm extended, tried to determine the perimeter of the room.

Removing her belt, she rolled it up and left it to mark the spot where she'd sat. She created a makeshift knot in the trouser waistband and tugged it tight to keep the pants up, then crawled forward several inches at a time, deathly afraid she'd annoy some creepy crawly – a scorpion or snake.

Slowly she made her way forward, trying to maintain a straight line so she could find her way back to her starting place. Spatial determinations were confusing in the dark, but still she edged forward, counting the inches by feet, marking them off in her mind, until she reached a solid barrier.

A wall, she thought, feeling around to the sides and above her, anchoring herself and standing to lean against it, rude lumber for walls. Between the boards she could feel the smoother surface of the dried mud that mortared the logs together.

She figured she'd gone ten feet in one direction.

#

A wave of pity came over Gage as he observed the defeat in the droop of Hayes' shoulders.

"Have you no one who can verify your presence on the night in question, Mr. Hayes?" he asked gently. "No one who saw you at the University? Studying in your room? No one at all who can vouch for you?"

Hayes stared at the certificates framed and hung on the wall behind the Marshal's desk. "You were at West Point?"

Surprised, Gage glanced over his shoulder. "Yes."