CHAPTER SEVEN

 

McCreedy Street had settled into a state of late Sunday afternoon somnolence. By the time Rory trudged down the steps from her second-story flat, shadows were already lengthening along the narrow street threading through rows of tightly packed brownstone buildings.

Nothing stirred on this quiet side street except an ancient buggy that creaked past and Miss Flanagan's overfed bulldog from across the way. When Rory opened the screen door, the cur set up a fearsome barking, and when Rory wheeled out her bicycle from where she stored it in the corridor, the dog went into an absolute frenzy, tugging on the chain keeping it affixed to a wrought-iron rail.

"Oh, be quiet, Finn MacCool," Rory muttered, maneuvering her bicycle down the stone steps to the pavement. Her head still throbbed from her revels of the night before, and the dog's yapping tore right through her.

Finn was Miss Flanagan's eyes and ears, alerting the nosy spinster to any movement in the neighborhood, so that she could peer past the lacy curtains adorning the tall windows of her first-story apartment. Not that it was necessary in this instance. The gangly woman was already perched on her front stoop, her long nose poked in Rory's direction.

"You missed mass this morning, Aurora Rose Kavanaugh," Miss Flanagan called out. "And you be preparing to ride that contraption of a Sunday. You’re paving the way to hell, me girl, that's certain sure."

"So I am," Rory shouted back over Finn's barking. "I went dancing with the devil last night."

The old lady gasped and crossed herself. Hiking up her skirts, Rory swung up onto her bike, her lips pursed in a grim smile. What would Miss Flanagan say if she told her the devil did not have horns and a pitchfork either? Only eyes as black as night, a grin as wicked as sin and a kiss that could fire a woman's blood hotter than any flames.

All that was best to keep that to herself. She had already shocked Miss Flanagan enough. The spinster huffed to her feet and stomped back into her house. Rory pedaled off, the sound of the bulldog's continued displeasure fading as she got farther down the street. She felt a little ashamed of herself. She usually made an effort to be polite to Miss Flanagan no matter how tiresome the woman could be.

But at the moment, Rory just wished the whole world would go away and leave her alone. She had danced all night and paid the price all day. By the time she had made her way home, the excitement of her escape from Zeke had faded, the miseries setting in. Queasy all afternoon, she had spent her day dozing on the sofa. Only an hour ago she had managed to choke down a little toast and some weak tea. A half hour later she had been able to dress. She had finally stirred herself to face the light of day, but the sun would be setting soon.

Disgraceful! She was never going to touch champagne again. Or Zeke Morrison either.

The thought caused Rory to pedal faster, as though the man were still in pursuit of her. She turned up Second Avenue, heading northward toward that part of the city where the warehouse of her balloon company was located.

As she cycled along, last night's events took on the aura of unreality. It was like some sort of strange dream. Had she really dined at Delmonico's, swayed to the music in the arms of a handsome stranger, been asked to become the mistress of a Fifth Avenue tycoon? She, Rory Kavanaugh, the hoyden of McCreedy Street?

It all seemed incredible in the light of day, back in her own part of New York. The streets she traversed were by no means part of Manhattan's notorious slum district, but it was a very workaday world all the same. Wash was strung along lines running between fire escapes; children played stickball on the pavement; plump housewives lingered on their front stoops, shelling peas for Sunday dinner; men with their hair slicked back into a holiday shine, wandered into the local corner saloon.

In such familiar, simple surroundings, it should have been easy to dismiss all thought of Zeke Morrison, to imagine the entire episode had never happened. Easy and utterly impossible.

Her mind kept replaying that moment when he had breathed kisses and promises against her hair. Anything you want, Aurora Rose, anything. It had not been the words themselves that had moved her, so much as the raw sincerity in his voice, the yearning that had touched some answering chord deep within her.

That combined with the headiness of his kiss, and Rory was ashamed to admit that she had been just the wee bit tempted to yield to his desires. It was fortunate that Zeke had also been impossibly arrogant, dismissing her balloon company as though it were a child's plaything. Otherwise she might have had more than missing mass to offer penance for at her next confession.

The best thing that she could do was just forget the man as surely as he must have forgotten her. Her fear that he would seek her out again now seemed absurd. A rich man like that, so handsome, so important. Lik¬ly he was already off on some other round of pleasure with his wealthy friends, such as that elegant Mrs. Van Hallsburg.

Instead of being relieved, the thought left her feeling as though her world had suddenly been deprived of all color and excitement. She tried to concentrate on her cycling instead, picking up the pace, steering round some horse droppings and taking care to avoid the path of an oncoming hansom cab.

She didn't usually cycle to the warehouse, which was many blocks away, the distance from her flat a little over two miles. But after being cooped up indoors for the better part of the day, she was grateful for the exercise. A soft breeze fanned her cheeks, and she could feel her color being restored.

The farther north she headed, the less pleasant became her surroundings. Snug brownstones disappeared, dilapidated tenements with broken windows taking their place. Between the close-packed buildings, Rory caught glimpses of the East River, its dank smell assaulting her nostrils like the odor of stale fish. Overhead the El thundered, the rushing trains spewing ashes and sparks, the tracks casting sinister shadows on the street below.

The warehouse was not located in the best of places, dockside areas not being the gentler side of New York. But it was safe enough to travel there in the daytime. Rory had learned to turn a blind eye to the increasing number of cheap saloons or those other tawdry establishments with heavy curtains at the window, frowsy young women lingering about the stoop.

"Er, boarding houses for seamstresses," her Da had always told her, rolling his eyes heavenward.

"Ha! Boarding houses for night chippies," Tony had whispered under his breath.

Whatever the case, Rory was prudent enough to suppress her curiosity about those brazen females. She always made purposefully for her warehouse and had never been bothered by any of the local denizens, except for a few occasional remarks.

Some of the lads who hung out at the billiard parlor across the street could never seem to resist shouting at her. Even on Sunday, there always were one or two who appeared to have nothing better to do than lean up against the lamppost, smoking and whistling at the girls.

As Rory wheeled her bicycle to a halt on the pavement and dismounted, one called across to her, "Hey, Rory! Purty ankles. Woo! Woo!"

Rory realized that she had forgotten to wear her gaiters again and had revealed too much when her skirts swirled upward. Her usual response would have been to shout back, "Aw, go chase yourself," but she felt in no mood for such banter today.

To the boy's obvious disappointment and confusion, she ignored him, groping in her pocket for the key to the side door. A large, weather-beaten structure, her warehouse was sandwiched in between a shoe factory and a textile merchant's receiving dock., The Transcontinental Balloon Company's wood frame showed evidence of rot. The sign her father had erected so proudly years before was chipped and faded, just like all of Da's dreams would be, if she didn't find a backer soon.

Rory thrust that depressing thought aside as she unlocked the door and wheeled her bicycle into the warehouse's gloomy interior. It was one vast chamber, three stories high, large enough to inflate a balloon inside to test it if need be. The small, grimy windows far overhead let in little light, so that the bales of silk, the boxes of iron filings and coils of rope were all little more than mysterious shadows.

As her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, Rory could make out the form of the wagon and hydrogen generator where Tony must have returned it the night before. The bag of the Katie Moira had been spread out to dry.

The sight of the deflated balloon weighed upon Rory's spirits. That and the unnatural silence of the vast, empty warehouse. It had been far different on other Sundays, when her Da had been alive. Then the warehouse had been all life and bustle, filled with her father's booming presence, readying the balloon, packing the wagon. That had always been their day on which they had bundled up the Katie Moira and taken her out into the country, launched the great balloon for no other reason than that the skies were blue, the clouds beckoning like distant white-capped mountains waiting to be conquered.

It was always Sunday afternoons now that seemed the longest, the time she missed her father the most. A tiny sigh came from Rory, which seemed to echo round the great cavern of the warehouse. As though to escape the sound, she turned and hurried up a narrow flight of stairs.

They led to a small office that overlooked the rest of the warehouse. Rory had reached for the knob when she stilled. A noise carried to her ears, one that had nothing to do with the scrape of her own shoe on the stair. Holding her breath, she listened intently. All was silent. She must have been imagining things. Just as she released the air from her lungs, she heard it again.

A stirring on the other side of the office door. Inching closer, she stole a peek through the door's small glass window. Someone was there. She could make out a masculine form sprawled on the floor behind her desk.

It would not be the first time some old vagrant had managed to sneak into the warehouse to sleep. Angelo was always so careless about locking up. Last time, Rory had gotten a real fright, tripping over a body at the foot of the stairs, but the poor old man had meant no harm.

All the same, Rory had prepared herself in case the like should ever happen again. Groping underneath a loose floorboard beside the door, she located a section of lead pipe she had squirreled away there. Hefting the heavy weapon, she inched open the door, her pulses racing.

This was foolish. She should go get help, summon a policeman. But if it was only that poor old tramp, she didn't want him arrested. She would take just one peek, and if the sleeping intruder looked at all dangerous, she would retreat.

Steeling herself, Rory tiptoed inside the office. She craned her neck, weapon at the ready, until she could see over the desk. The interloper was definitely male, his long limbs uncomfortably disposed on a makeshift bed of silk material. Rory could just make out a profusion of jet-black curls.

"Tony!" Rory breathed.

Relieved, she dropped the pipe onto the battered old desk and managed to light the oil lamp. Neither the sudden glow nor any of the sounds she made were enough to rouse Tony.

Coming round the desk, Rory stared down at her friend, wondering what he was doing here asleep on the office floor. How long had he been there? Had he waited up for her all night and through the day too?

She was stricken with remorse. During the past hours, she had hardly scarce given her old friend a single thought. She had wondered why he hadn't come to the flat earlier looking for her, but she had been too grateful to be left in peace to give the matter much consideration.

Bending down, she brushed aside his dark tumble of curls, her fingers skimming over a cheek roughened with a morning's growth of beard. It still seemed odd to note signs of manhood on one who in her mind would forever be the boy who used to tie her braids together, swing off her fire escape and share his peppermint sticks.

At her touch, Tony stirred. He rolled onto his back, his eyes fluttering open. Their brown depths clouded with confusion and then cleared as he focused on her.

"Rory!" He jerked upward. Too close to the desk, he banged his head on the corner and swore. As Rory straightened, he struggled to his feet, rubbing his crown.

"What time is it? When did you get here? Where the devil have you been?"

"Which question do you want me to answer first?" She stretched, flexing her back muscles like a lazy cat. She tried to keep her voice light, sensing a quarrel coming and wanting to avoid it.

When he glared at her, she settled on the most harmless question and replied, "I think it must be close on five o'clock."

"Five o'clock! And you're just now getting back here?"

"No, I've been at the apartment all day."

"No, you haven't. I sent Angelo round to look for you early this morning."

"He must have just missed me. Look, Tony, I am sorry I wasn't here to help with the balloon last night. I hope you managed all right."

"Oh, I managed all right—to go half out of my mind worrying about you.

Sinking into the chair behind her desk, Rory used the scarred surface as a barried between them. "You needn't have fretted so much about me. I can take care of myself. I hope you haven't been waiting here all day."

"All night and all day, until I fell asleep! I didn't know what you were up to, where to find you, but I was sure this would be the first place you would come."

His words only added to her discomfort, for he was right. Ordinarily that would have been her one thought, to get back to the warehouse, to examine the damage to the Katie Moira. It was the first time in her life, anything or anyone had ever managed to distract her from her work with the balloons.

"I had something more important to attend to," she said.

"You mean this?" He drew a crumpled paper from his pocket and tossed it on her desk. She recognized the remains of the note she had left for Tony at Morrison's house.

"I spend all day tracking you from those stupid fairgrounds, thinking this time that you must have broken your fool neck for sure. I finally located where the balloon went down, only to be told you have gone flitting off with some strange feller."

"I wasn't flitting," Rory snapped, then checked herself. She hated it when Tony assumed this badgering, dictatorial tone. But she also hated the deep shadows beneath his eyes, the look of hurt lurking beneath the anger. She resumed in gentler accents, "I had a business meeting with Mr. Morrison. He took me to supper at Delmonico's.”

"It took you all night to eat?"

"No, afterward, we went dancing,” Rory admitted reluctantly.

"Dancing! That sounds like a funny kind of business meeting to me."

"I was spending as much time with Mr. Morrison as I could, trying to persuade him to invest in the balloon company."

"And did you?"

"No. After all, it seems he was not interested."

"Damn right. I could have told you what he was after. I thought you had better sense than to set yourself up as a mash date for some rich swell."

"It wasn't like that at all."

"No, I suppose he was a perfect gentleman," Tony sneered. "He didn't even try to get fresh."

Rory didn't want to blush, but she couldn't help it. The memory of how it felt to be in Zeke's arms was too strong. Tony stared deep into her eyes and looked as though she had just kicked him in the gut.

"Gawd, Rory. You didn't let him kiss you?”

Rory wished she could glare back at him with defiance, even deny it. Instead she said,"That's really none of your business, Tony."

He whirled away from her and slammed his fist against the wall. "Damn it!" he choked. "I don't care how rich or powerful the bastard is. I'm going back there and break his face."

"Don't be so silly. You will do no such thing. Honestly, Tony, you are worse than my Da ever would have been. Sometimes I think you have been trying to take his place."

"No, it's not your father I want to be." He was regarding her with that hungry look again, the one that made Rory ache for him and want to shake him as well.

Please, Tony, don't. Don't say anymore, she begged silently. Seeking any kind of distraction, she yanked open the desk drawer and produced a well-worn ledger book. But it was impossible to make sense of any of the rows of neatly inked figures, not with Tony hovering over her desk, his hands jammed into his pockets.

"We have more important things to worry about than Zeke Morrison," she said. "Like how I am going to pay the rent on this warehouse. I don't suppose you collected our fee from Mr. Dutton before you came looking for me yesterday?"

"No, I didn't. Since I was expecting to find you dashed to pieces over New York, the money somehow slipped my mind. But I guess you can always have another go at that rich friend of yours." The bitterness in Tony's voice was as scalding as acid. When she didn't reply, he demanded, "Are you going to see him again?"

"Who?"

"You know damn well who. That Morrison."

It would have been so easy to set Tony's mind at rest, assure him that she never expected to keep company with Zeke again. Hadn't she already decided as much? Instead she surprised herself by murmuring, "I don't know."

"Don't you ever read the papers, Rory? The World calls him the mysterious millionaire. Everyone wonders where he came from, how he got his money."

"Not everyone. I never gave it much thought." Rory tried to sound indifferent, yet she could already feel herself begin to tense, ready to rush to Zeke's defense, and Tony had not even accused the man of anything yet.

But Tony was working up to it. He braced both hands on the desk and leaned over her, glowering, "You might be interested to hear that Angelo knows this fellow who says that Morrison—"

"Doesn't Angelo always know someone? Your brother is a worse busybody than Miss Flanagan."

"Angelo knows this fellow name of Julio from the old neighborhood," Tony said, raising his voice to drown her out. "And Julio says there's nothing mysterious about Morrison. He's nothing but a bum that used to work down on the docks, an orphan kid who ate out of garbage cans and picked pockets until he was adopted by this widow."

"How many dockworkers do you know that could earn enough money to live on Fifth Avenue?'

"None that could do it honestly. Julio also said—"

"Oh, stop it, Tony!" Rory slammed the ledger book closed, "I don't care what Julio says. And as for you and Angelo, I think you could find better use for your time than to gossip like a couple of old hens. I begin to wonder what I am paying the lot of you for."

Tony straightened, a bright flush stealing beneath his olive skin. "You don't have to pay me for nothing anymore 'cause I quit."

"Good!"

Spinning on his heel, he stomped toward the door. Their arguments always ended this way.. If she didn't end up by firing Tony, he would resign. But he always came back; they always patched up their disagreement.

Somehow it felt different this time as the door slammed shut behind Tony. Their quarrels had always been over trivial matters, mostly concerning some aspect of the balloon company. Tony had never left her looking as hurt as he was angry.

She should go after him. She rose from the desk and had started across the room when the door was flung violently open. Tony stood framed on the threshold, his rage fading, but the beseeching look he wore was far worse.

"I'm sorry, Rory. I don't mean to make you mad at me. You know I wouldn't be saying all these things if I didn't care so much about you."

"I know you do. Why don't we just forget this whole thing and—"

Her heart sank with dismay when he caught up her hands in a hard grip. "Rory, I-."

"Oh, no, Tony, please." She tried to retreat, but she saw there was no stopping him this time.

"I love you, Rory. I always have."

"Of course. Like a brother you do."

"No, not like a brother!" He yanked her into his arms. "I go just about crazy with jealousy thinking of you being with any other feller, not just this Morrison. And to let him kiss you! Why couldn't it have been me, Rory? Why not me?"

"Tony, stop!"

But he pressed his lips hard against her mouth. It was useless to resist. He was far too strong for her. All she could do was hold herself rigid and unresponsive. It was all wrong, and Tony was quick to sense that himself. He drew back, his eyes filled with longing and despair. She struggled to find the words to let him down as gently as she could.

But she didn't have to speak. After staring into her face, he released her, his shoulders slumping.

"Tony, I am so sorry," she whispered.

He swallowed hard and nodded, a heavy silence descending. Rory could feel something precious dying, another piece of her childhood slipping away. She retreated behind the desk again.

Tony gave a harsh laugh. "There's no need for that. I won't try to touch you again. I'm through making a fool of myself. You have nothing to fear from me."

"I know that, Tony."

Somehow her assurance only made things worse. He picked up his jacket that he had forgotten before and moved toward the door."I guess I better be getting home. Ma'll be ready to skin me for being late for supper again."

Simple words, the sort of easy remark he might have tossed off as he left any evening, only now it all sounded so strained.

Her voice came across as too hearty when she agreed. "Goodness yes, I don't want your mother mad at me again for keeping you. You run along. I'll lock up here,"

"Don't you stay late either. It's getting dark."

Rory promised she wouldn't. She thought he meant to go without another word, not even good-bye. But he looked back one last time to ask with a wistfulness that nearly broke her heart, "Is it because of that Morrison fellow? Is that why I don't have a chance with you? Did you fall in love with him?"

"Heavens, Tony, I only just met the man yesterday."

"Sometimes that's all it takes. There's something different about you. I can tell."

"I'm a day older." She tried to smile, but couldn't manage it. Only a day. Why did it suddenly feel like years?

Tony drew himself more erect, some of the fire returning to his eyes. "Well, I'm not going to stand by and let you get mixed up with some stranger. I'm going to find out more about this J. E. Morrison."

"Tony!"

"And if he does turn out to be a bad one, you are going to stay away from him, you hear?"

"Tony, please. Just go home."

But she could tell from the stubborn look on his face, her plea would go unheeded. When he let himself out, she sagged down onto the chair. Folding her arms upon the desk, she buried her face against her hands, her heart feeling too battered even for tears.

"Damn you, Tony," she mumbled. "You've ruined everything." She wanted to curse him and Zeke Morrison too. The pair of them had robbed her of her tranquility—Tony, with all his talk of love, spoiling their friendship; Zeke with his kisses, stirring desires inside of her she had never dreamed of.

Strange that for all her grief for her father, her worries over the fate of her company, she had still managed to stay relatively carefree. She had known exactly who she was, Seamus Kavanaugh's daughter, Tony's friend, the hoyden of McCreedy Street.

Now she felt so unsure of herself. Everything was so blasted complicated—most of all her confusing feelings about Zeke Morrison. Why hadn't she told Tony she never expected to see the man again? Why had she been so ready to fly to Zeke's defense when Tony had begun hinting things about him?

If she had given Tony the reassurance he sought, he would have let the matter drop. Now she knew he would never do so. He would keep prying until he got himself into trouble or else found something damning to tell her about Zeke.

And she had a feeling that might not be so hard to do. Zeke carried an aura about him, of ruthlessness certainly, but also whispers of a past that she sensed had not been pleasant.

Yet whatever Tony might uncover, it wasn't going to matter. Rory's instincts had never failed her, and she had looked into Zeke's eyes enough to know that he was not a bad man.

An odd judgment to pass on someone who had, after all, tried to seduce her, lure her into the very sort of wickedness that Tony warned her against. Zeke himself would admit that his intentions had not been honorable.

But there had been a tenderness in his voice that spoke of more than mere lust. Zeke Morrison had needs Rory doubted the man was even aware of himself. The trouble was he made her too much aware she had needs of her own.

Blast Tony anyway! She had been struggling to put the entire encounter with Zeke from her mind. Tony had stirred up all her memories of last night, raised questions she had not even thought to ask.

Did you fall in love with him?

What an absurd idea. Rory pressed her fingertips to her temple. Her head had begun to ache all over again with all these tormenting speculations chasing through her brain.

Rory leaned back in her chair and wished it could be yesterday again, when all she had had to worry about was going bankrupt. She thumbed through the ledger, knowing she should put some energy into going over the accounts or go below and make a stab at repairing the damage to the Katie Moira. But she could not summon the energy to do either.

To her disgust she caught herself daydreaming of night-dark eyes, a strong, square-cut jaw, waves of brown hair framing a man's face too bold for her peace of mind. Daydreaming? No, it was going to be more like night dreaming if she continued to hang about the warehouse, mooning over Zeke in this idiotic fashion. Rory cast a glance toward the window and realized that she had done exactly what she had promised Tony she wouldn't.

She had lingered at the warehouse until the sky beyond had turned a dark shade of purple. Scrambling to her feet, Rory cursed herself.

"Idiot!"

As if she hadn't done enough imprudent things in the past twenty-four hours. Even without Tony's warning, she knew it was sheer folly to be caught in this part of town after dark. Of course there was no question of riding her bicycle home. She would take the El, but even that was a good two blocks' walk to the nearest platform.

Hastening downstairs, Rory took one last look around to make sure that all the doors were secured for the night. As she let herself out onto the street, she noted with dismay that it was even later than she thought. All trace of the sun had gone, the moon a pale distant sliver in a cloudy night sky.

The street lamps had been lit, glimmers in the murky darkness. Up the street, honky-tonk piano music spilled out from one of the saloons, along with coarse, drunken laughter. But it was not those noisy denizens of the night that Rory had to worry about, but other silent shapes, which might be lurking in the doorways ahead.

Her fingers shook a little as she locked the side door, and she despised herself for a coward. As she set off down the pavement, her shoes made a solitary clatter, heading away from the raucous doings of the saloon, whose bright lights seemed a veritable haven compared to the darkness ahead of her.

Passing the textile dock, she could just make out the East River, a mysterious moving shadow. She could not help thinking of tales she had heard, of bloated bodies fished from those chilly depths.

Drowned was always the official verdict, ignoring obviously slit throats. In this part of town, even the police had a habit of avoiding trouble by looking the other way.

Quickening her steps, Rory chided herself for a fool. As if this walk wasn't bad enough, without allowing her thoughts to wander to such things as murder. She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard a footfall behind her.

Whirling about, she caught her breath, certain that someone was following her. But the street behind her was dark and empty. Swallowing hard, Rory told herself not to panic. She'd be damned if she would allow herself to be spooked by a shadow, run from nothing but the excesses of her own imagination.

Forcing herself to maintain a brisk but steady pace, she could not control the thudding of her own heart. For the worst was yet to come. Ahead of her loomed the wooden posts supporting the tracks of the El itself. To reach the platform, she had no choice but to cross beneath, where the darkness deepened into impenetrable shadow, where the support beams offered a dozen places of concealment.

She had just reached the dreaded spot when she heard it again, the hollow echo of a footstep not her own. Glancing nervously over her shoulder, this time she was quick enough to catch a form melting behind one of the wooden pillars some ten yards behind her.

Wouldn't it be just like Tony to have waited and tried to play watchdog without giving himself away? Just as though she was some frail damsel who couldn't look after herself. Rory tried to summon up anger, but what she experienced was more in the nature of a desperate hope.

"Tony?" she quavered. "Come on out. I know it's you."

No answer.

She saw other shapes moving. Dear God, whoever was out there, it was more than one. Without another thought, Rory turned and ran. She raced along, weaving between the pillars. The tracks overhead let in brief patches of light, guiding her toward the platform stairs. She thought she heard feet pounding in pursuit, but she could scarce discern anything above her heart thundering in her ears, the sound of her own ragged breathing.

What would she do even if she gained the platform? It might be minutes before a train came by. Yet to keep racing along beneath the tracks was madness. It did not even occur to her to try to scream. They were not deaf in this part of town, merely indifferent. She had no choice but to make her way up.

Grasping the handrail, she hurled herself up the steps, stumbling in the process. A soft cry escaped her, so certain was she that she would be overtaken at any moment. But when no monstrous hands reached out of the darkness to snatch at her, she recovered her footing and staggered on.

When she had nearly gained the relative security of the platform, she dared pause long enough to catch her breath and listen to determine the whereabouts of her pursuers. She heard no pounding on the stair behind her, only other sounds echoing from beneath the tracks.

Strange sounds—a loud crack, a thud, a low grunt. A fight. Someone was having a fistfight down below the stairs. The chase had had nothing to do with herself. Still feeling shaken and a little foolish, she summoned enough courage to bend down and peer beneath one of the openings in the stair.

Below her three men engaged in a deadly conflict, two of them raining blows upon a larger form. The big man went down and she caught the glint of something in one of his attacker's hands. A knife.

A cry caught in her throat as she realized she was about to witness the murder of some hapless stranger. The big man tried to roll clear, but the other two were upon him again. Enough lamplight filtered through the tracks to illuminate the face of the victim. A face that beneath the smear of blood was heart-stoppingly familiar.

Rory froze with the shock of recognition. With the helpless sensation of being caught in some nightmare, she watched the deadly blade arc downward before she was able to scream.

"Zeke!"