CHAPTER 20

Kenton came to his feet, glaring toward the door, then looking wildly at Jack Livingston.

Livingston got up more slowly, frowning. “It probably ain’t nothing,” he said. “People come up from time to time, wanting to meet me because I got this reputation of being a strange old hermit.”

“Should you answer the door or let it go?”

Livingston gnawed at his lower lip, frowning some more as he thought about it. Another round of knocking rattled the door.

“Hell, I’m answering. I’d rather know it ain’t Kevington than think it might be. If there’s a problem on the other side of that door, then bring it on and let’s deal with it.” Livingston reached under his vest and brought out the small revolver he carried there. “I ain’t answering it alone, though,” he said, shaking the pistol.

Kenton produced a derringer from his own pocket. “I’m of the same mind as you, Jack.”

Kenton and Livingston walked together toward the front of the house, keeping their footsteps light so as not to forewarn whoever was outside of their approach. Kenton positioned himself so that he would be hidden when the door was opened.

“Who the hell is it?” Livingston bellowed through the door.

“My name is Billy Connery,” came the reply, in an Irish brogue. “I work for the Illustrated American, and I think there may be someone here I need to see.”

Kenton felt like going through the floor. The Illustrated American had tracked him down! Dear Lord, if they knew he was alive, knew he was here, what else did they know?

He wondered for a moment if this was a ruse. But he knew there was a Billy Connery working for the magazine, an Irish illustrator hired about the time of his own disappearance. Kenton had picked this up through simply reading the magazine itself. Connery worked with Alex Gunnison quite closely. And Alex was probably worried about Kenton because of his lack of communication with him.…

It all fell together in Kenton’s mind. Alex Gunnison had launched a search for him, had somehow detected his presence in Culvertown, and had sent his new partner to find him. Maybe Gunnison himself was somewhere in town, too.

“Ask him to slide his identification card under the door,” Kenton whispered. “The Illustrated American issues standard identification cards.”

“I want to see some identification!” Livingston hollered through the door. “Prove to me you’re with the Illustrated American!”

“Just a moment.…”

A couple of moments later, the edge of a card appeared under the door. Livingston knelt and picked the card up, glanced at it, and handed it to Kenton.

There were no images on Illustrated American credential cards, so Kenton could not match the name on the card, that of William Clive Connery, with the so-far unseen face on the other side of the door. But the card was the authentic item. The accent sounded real enough, too.

He handed the card back to Livingston. “Maybe we should let him in,” he whispered. “I think this is all on the up-and-up.”

“But how in hell did they track you here?” Livingston whispered back.

“I don’t know. I think we’re going to have to talk to him, though, and find out. If they could find us, so could Kevington.”

Livingston nodded, then put his face close to the door. “Step back.… I’m opening this door. You come in slow and easy. I’ve got a pistol in my hand, and if I so much as don’t like the way you look, I’ll blow you straight to perdition! You understand me?”

“I do, sir. You have naught to fear from me.”

Naught to fear from me.… Kenton frowned. It was as Irish-sounding a phrase as he had ever heard, spoken in a distinctly Irish manner.

Too Irish, maybe? Too distinct? Maybe that brogue didn’t sound quite authentic after all. He experienced a moment of doubt.…

But Livingston had opened the door by this point and was stepping back to let their visitor enter.

*   *   *

As he entered the house, McCurden tried to come across as nervous, harmless, and even a little scared.

Kenton, behind the door, had a chance to study the new arrival before the new arrival saw him. Something struck Kenton as not right. He’d never met Billy Connery and had heard no descriptions of him, but for some unexplainable reason this man didn’t strike him as being authentic. Kenton wished that they hadn’t opened the door, or at least that he had hidden himself more completely.

“Mr. Livingston, sir, I’ve heard much about you,” McCurden said.

“Why are you here?”

“I’m looking for Mr. Brady Kenton, sir. I have reason to believe he may be here.”

“Ain’t you heard? Brady Kenton is dead.”

“No, sir. With all due respect, we both know he’s not. I was sent here to find him.”

There was no point in playing games. Kenton would be seen at any moment anyway. He stepped out from the corner so suddenly that the newcomer drew in his breath sharply.

McCurden looked into the face of one of America’s most famous journalists and couldn’t suppress a smile and a hungry glitter in his eye.

“Hello, Mr. Kenton.” He thrust out his hand. “Billy Connery. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Kenton did not want to shake hands with this man. Some inner alarm was sounding. But he shook the hand anyway.

“No one was to know I was alive,” Kenton said, in no humor for preliminaries and false friendliness. “How did you know?”

“I was informed by Mr. Gunnison. I don’t know how he knew.”

“Gunnison the father or Gunnison the son?”

Everyone knew that Alex Gunnison was the partner of Brady Kenton, so he seemed the more likely choice. “It was Alex who told me.”

“Alex told you … after I made him vow not to tell anyone?”

“He’s concerned about you.”

“How did he know I was here?”

The questions were growing harder. But it wouldn’t matter much longer. This pair was about to experience a jolting encounter with the truth. “I don’t know,” McCurden said. “He didn’t tell me.”

Kenton stared hard at the newcomer. “Who else knows?”

“Dr. David Kevington knows. That’s what has Alex worried. He’s afraid Kevington might try to find you and take Victoria back. You do have Victoria, don’t you?”

Kenton glanced at Livingston, whose look let him know that Livingston had the same suspicions he did.

“Tell me, Mr. Connery, how is Sarah?”

“Sarah?”

“Alex’s wife.”

“Oh, of course. Sarah is doing well.”

“You’ve talked to her?”

“Not long ago, as a matter of fact.”

“Did she mention to you that her name isn’t Sarah, but Roxanne?”

McCurden glared at him. “And my name isn’t Connery. It’s McCurden.”

He pulled a pistol from beneath his coat with unexpected speed and dexterity and aimed it at Livingston’s face.