Again (25 page)

Chicago, 2006

H
e didn’t respond as she stepped a little closer. His eyes still stared downward at a horror only he could see.

“Dav…Joseph, talk to me,” Tyne encouraged softly. “Tell me what you’re seeing.” And with a faith she couldn’t explain, she asked, “Is it me you see lying there?”

The man named Joseph lifted his head and turned to her. His face was contorted with his confusion and despair. “Rachel? But…it isn’t you, is it? After all, how could you be here?” He looked down, then at her again, as though trying to decide between reality and illusion. “I killed you,” he said in a voice strained with remorse and disbelief.

She edged closer. “No, David. I’m here, standing next to you. Please, try to understand that what you’re seeing there on the floor isn’t real. But I
am
real, Dav…I mean, Joseph. I’m right here, alive.”

For a second, it seemed as though he did understand as he stared at her, trying to comprehend. But just as suddenly a blaze of fury swept over his face. “What kind of trickery is this? You are not Rachel! You can’t be her because she lies here dead at my feet! And she’s lying there because of me! Because of me.” This last trailed off in a moan. “I did this to her!”

He looked at Tyne again with such incredible anger, she had to resist the urge to take a step back. He railed at her. “What did you think to gain by trying to make me believe Rachel is alive, and that you are her? Yes, you may resemble her…but you are not her! Because she was my everything….” He looked somberly at the empty floor, all of the anger visibly seeping from him. His voice was dead as he said, “And now I have nothing.”

Still uncertain of the rightness of what she was doing, Tyne reached out a tentative hand and laid it gently on his arm. “Tell me what happened to her, Joseph.”

She could feel his body trembling. Then he let out a wretched cry and said, “Dear, God, all I wanted to do was see her one last time, just one more time. I would have let her go. But…oh, God…everything is so blurred, I can’t even remember….”

She gripped him tighter, moved until she was a breath away from him. “Try to remember, Joseph. What happened to Rachel?”

New York—November 14, 1879

Joseph wanted to savor this evening, this hour. He had to restrain the craving that had nearly overtaken him the moment he saw her, the second he touched her hand. Her scent was soft jasmine and permeated the space around her. She sat in one of the two chairs, looking up at him with trepidation. He didn’t want to see that fear there, had not wanted her to feel threatened in any way. But how could she not? He had summoned her with a threat and then had brought her here to this godforsaken place to force her to do that which she would not willingly do.

A bottle of absinthe rested on a three-legged wooden table next to the only window. The table’s surface was scratched and bruised from years of overuse and the wear of time. Everything in the room was worn, tired, a pall to the eyes. By contrast, Rachel’s beauty shone like a precious diamond. In his desire to have her alone, he had paid the owner, a Mrs. Doggel, fifty dollars for the whole night with the stipulation that she was not to stay in the downstairs room where she usually slept. Not tonight. The old hag had happily snatched the money from his hand, then winked obscenely. “Rest assured, Mista, that ole bed up der has seen betta days, but she’ll do you well, nice and sturdy.” This had been followed by an equally obscene cackle that had made his skin crawl.

The bed did look sturdy. The legs were of oak, although quite scarred. He had also paid to have the mattress changed and had checked earlier to make sure his instructions were followed. There were also clean sheets, although somewhat faded to a mottled gray from their original white. He never wanted to soil her with someone else’s filth.

Joseph saw her note the direction of his gaze, saw a shade of color flood her caramel skin. Skin so soft, like the gossamer wings of a butterfly. Poetic hyperbole, he knew, but there was no other way to describe his pleasure in touching her. He felt himself stiffening, readying for her. But not yet. To distract himself, he grabbed one of the glass cups on the table. He poured the absinthe into the glass, then asked with his eyes whether he should do the same for her. She shook her head. She never did indulge in this sin, at least.

The liquor went down raw, a fire in his throat. It seared its way to his stomach, settled there, quietly simmering like the waters of Parnassus. No, not Parnassus, that elicitor of poetry, whose waters quench appetites and desires. If anything, his desires were stoked, aided by the liquor as well as the heroin he had earlier imbibed. Time was passing quickly; there was not much left of it. If he was to keep his word to her, he would have to move now.

In two strides, he walked to Rachel and abruptly pulled her up from the chair. The sudden motion caused her to inhale sharply. He closed his arms around her waist, and without a word, brought his lips down on hers.

Her lips were not compliant, and he felt her whole body stiffen against his assault. He could not help but compare this kiss to their first, when again she had stiffened against his sudden act, unexpected because moments before he had been sitting demurely in one of her parlor chairs in the house she shared with her brother. It had been his third visit, that one as furtive as the preceding two. From the moment he had left the ball weeks before, he knew that he would see her again, somehow. After diligently seeking out her address from sources around town, he had staked out her home for nearly a week until he knew her and her brother’s comings and goings, the exact times when they both left for work, when they returned. Her brother, the attorney, never returned until evening, leaving many hours between his return and that of his sister’s from her teaching duties at the school where classes ended in the early afternoon.

Though surprised when she answered the bell that first time and found him at her door, she had not denied him entry nor courtesy. Her graciousness had given him hope, and had emboldened him then much as the liquor emboldened him now. Their first kiss had been sweet; this one was bittersweet. Now, just like the first time, he felt her resistance give way, felt her body mold into his, her mouth soften, allowing his tongue access to her own.

Several intoxicating moments passed before he pulled away. She was breathing hard, her eyes luminous, her desire apparent. Still, she said breathlessly, “This
is
the last time. And if you dare threaten me again, I will simply leave the city and go someplace where you can never find me.”

The defiance, instead of tempering his ardor, set it ablaze. “There is no place you can go, Rachel, where I will not find you. Forever isn’t hardly enough time for us.”

“You’re mad!”

“If loving you is madness, then yes I am mad. I freely admit it. And like a happy lunatic, I welcome the madness and will enjoy its every pleasure.”

Unceremoniously, he grabbed the lacing of her bodice, and with a deftness of habit, unlaced the top of her dress. She did not protest, but neither did she aid him. After bodice, skirt, bustle, underwear, and shoes had been nearly ripped from her, she stood nude, her arms around her breasts as though to hide them from him. He pulled her arms away and settled his tongue on a nipple, knowing the pleasure this would elicit. With satisfaction, he heard her barely stifled moan.

His lips traveled along her breasts, nape, shoulders, touching every contour with the renewed vigor of an explorer too long kept from his quest. He could feel the stirrings and shudders, her body’s betrayal of her will.

He stopped only to finally lead her to the bed. He gave her a little shove, and she dropped onto the mattress with a small bounce. He then positioned her, hindered by her disobliging limbs. Letting lust take him, he shed his own clothes hastily. He joined her, resuming his trek along her body with tongue, lips, fingers, hands. Despite his varied attentions, she lay there as though dead or dying, her whole body stiff, unresponsive. Not even the earlier shudder. He lifted up to look at her face, then saw the lone tear running toward the pillow, where it merged into the already stained fibers.

In that moment, the passion left him, and shame settled in its place. Love didn’t ask for another’s abasement and he did love her. If he hadn’t known it before, if he had only thought that it was her beauty and flesh that called out to him, he knew now that he could never harm her soul. Not like last time, when he had forced her, to both their surprise. He hadn’t planned to hurt her then, but realized that it was her pain he had planned for now. Realized now that he could truly not force her body, nor her heart.

He rose from the bed, his emotions dead in the cold glare of self-examination.

“Get dressed,” he said quietly.

Her eyes registered confusion, until she realized he meant what he said. Then they held relief, a fact that stabbed his already wounded heart.

She sat up on the bed, her bare feet barely touching the floor. “So, you’ll let me go then? And not require…”

“You can go,” he said abruptly, already donning his own clothes with a somberness reserved for someone in preparation for a funeral.

“But why?”

He damned her curiosity. Couldn’t she just get dressed without questioning him? Without forcing him to admit to her as he had to himself that he had sunk so low that he didn’t think he could ever recover his own esteem? That he would forever know that he was no better than a rapist lurking in the dark waiting for his prey?

“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Just know that this will be the last time I ever ask anything of you and that I truly regret all that has happened between us.”

“Everything then?” she asked. There was a touch of hurt in the question.

“Woman, what do you want from me?” Will you please choose one road or another! You don’t want any part of me, yet you want me to want you! Well, I’ll not be the fool in this game anymore! Just get dressed, and I’ll get you a cab.”

He turned from her, trying not to listen to the rustling of clothing as she silently dressed.

He stood now fully dressed with his back to her, allowing her the dignity he had stolen earlier.

“You can turn around now,” she said, and he turned to find her standing quietly, beautifully regal in a green velvet and tulle dress. She’d been wearing green when he first saw her eons ago. Around her neck was a gold locket in the shape of a heart. She’d worn it that night also. She had told him that it was an anniversary present from her late husband. The color of the dress set off the glow of her skin, the luster of her reddish hair. Lust and desperation had blinded him earlier. He realized at this moment that this would be the last time he would see her.

“Let’s go.” He held out an arm, and for a second she seemed hesitant to touch him. He wondered that a man already dead could still feel pain.

He escorted her down the steep stairs. The state of the hostel was shameless, but indicative of the owner’s near poverty. As bad as this home was, it still was heads above the stifling, windowless apartments nearby that at times sheltered nearly twenty people.

They reached the door, opened it. He let her precede him. He had just descended the three stairs when he heard a familiar voice.

J
oseph thought he heard a woman’s voice, strangely familiar, floating to him on the wind. “What else happened, David?” But the words drifted away, quickly replaced by someone else’s.

“You left too soon, rich man. You no give me the chance to win some a tha money in your pockets. Now, dat’s no like a real gentleman, such is yo’self.”

Joseph stared in comprehending fear at the barely lit figure of his poker partner, Roberto Salvatori. Something gleamed in his left hand. Staring harder, Joseph made out the silhouette of a switchblade.

“You no walk too fast, rich man. Not very smart. Easy for someone to follow, tho it cost me much to hire a cab afta your own. And the cold, she hits the bones real hard when waitin’, but I find waitin’ worth the while.” The glimmer of teeth was barely perceptible in the darkness. Joseph peered around. There were still folks about, but none the likes who would come to someone’s rescue. They would more likely join in on the fun. But the only one he was worried about was the woman on his arm, who was clenching him in a way that would have earlier made his heart beat faster. Now, it just reminded him that he had something more valuable to protect.

“Roberto, you never were one to take your losses like a good sport. But I’m not going to argue with you over funds. Here…all right, I’m just going to reach into my pocket to get my wallet, nothing else.”

Still, he could feel the Italian’s nervousness. He had to disengage Rachel’s nervous hand to reach for the wallet that might save them both. Damnably, he had left his own knife at home, so he was at a disadvantage.

Another figure neared them, and he held out hope that maybe there was a Samaritan among the denizen of thieves. But that hope was quickly dashed as he soon realized that his disadvantage was doubled as the man stopped next to Roberto.

“I got the ride. Hadda kill the driva though,” the man said, his accent a fading brogue, indicating how long he had been in America. But different species were known to band together after a common prey. Joseph knew that his luck had just run dry, but inopportunely when the dearest thing he had ever possessed was with him. Unfortunately, Roberto also noticed.

“Not mucha man, are you? Lovely whore like dis would keep a real man busy for hours. At least, dat’s ’mount of time wha I thought I was gonna have to wait. ’Magine my surprise when I seen you two comin’ out the door. Told myself, rich man no know how to pleasure a woman. Good thang Roberto knows how.”

“Wait, you damn cur…”

“Ah, ah, now,” Roberto waved the knife like a censoring finger. “Don’t make dis an unpleasant experience. We just gonna take a ride.”

“Here!” Joseph threw the wallet at Roberto. His partner quickly grabbed it up from the ground. “There’s over a thousand in there, enough to keep your sorry ass for a month of days! Given my reputation, I’m hardly one to call in the police. So, just let me and the lady go, and we’ll call us even for tonight.”

A bitter laugh ensued. “Rich man think we even. Lemme tell you, rich man, we ain’t never gonna be even. You always gonna have ev’ythang you want, while a bum like me havta kill himself on the docks just to keep a measly wormy bread on my plate. Even yo nigger whore is bedda than soma the Irish shanties that put out fo a whole week’s pay. But see, rich man, I gonna get me a taste of the good life, if just for dis night. I gonna know the fun life, like a rich man knows.”

Roberto waved the knife, indicating they should begin walking to a vehicle parked across the street. Joseph recognized the insignia on the calash; it was the same he had hired to pick up Rachel. His guilt was hardly piqued as he realized that his actions tonight had already cost a life. His whole focus was to get Rachel, if not him, out of danger. The danger he had put her in.

Roberto forced them into the calash, Joseph first, then Rachel. Then he squeezed in next to her, his knife pressed at her breast. “Just so you no get any hero ideas. You move, dis knife go in, unnerstan?”

Joseph nodded. The other man took the driver’s seat and hit the lash across the horses’ backs, causing them to whinny in protest.

“No so rough you Irish stupido! More easy, so dey do wha you say!” Roberto yelled at his cohort. Soon, the calash headed down the street. Joseph could only pray that they survived their destination.

Chicago, 2006

Tyne didn’t understand. Why did Joseph believe he killed Rachel? From what he had just told her, they had both been victimized by criminals.

But he had put Rachel in a situation that obviously led to her death. That would make anybody feel responsible, as though he had killed her himself.

“Joseph, don’t you see, you weren’t the one who killed Rachel,” she said softly.

“But I did kill her,” David said quietly. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. God forgive me.”

Tyne closed the space between them even farther, felt safe enough to stroke his hair, to comfort him.

“No, you didn’t kill Rachel, Joseph.”

When he looked at her, the hardness of his eyes caused her heart to skip a beat. “I know what happened to her, you don’t! You couldn’t possibly know!” His eyes clouded over, and he began again.

New York—November 14, 1879

Joseph knew they were in more trouble than he had anticipated when the calash stopped in front of an old warehouse at the south end of the long pier that ran along the East River. It was late into the evening, past the time when even the straggler dock men worked. Besides, it was Friday night, when hardworking men were eager to lighten their pockets of the change they had been paid. Given the solitude of the place, Joseph figured there was only one reason the men had brought them here—to dispose of their bodies. It might have been their plan for him all along, but they were more than willing to accommodate Rachel, as well.

A chill wind came from the river, as well as the smell of discarded garbage that had been cast into its waters.

Roberto got down first, his knife still aloft in the air, should either of them get any ideas. Joseph’s only plan at this time was to let himself be sacrificed to save Rachel, if that was even a remote possibility. He just had to find the perfect time; if he couldn’t kill them, he would occupy their attention totally, and hope that Rachel could get away.

She had been quiet throughout the ride, even when the fiend took opportunities to feel along her breast, probably hoping to rile Joseph into action. Joseph had reined in his anger, though, knowing that it would better serve him later. Like the true lady she was, Rachel had maintained a dignified silence, never letting the ruffian see her fear. Even though she knew she could die this night, she would not die cowering. Joseph felt an ill-timed pride in the woman who would have his love always—and an unbearable guilt that he had brought her to this.

“Step down, and don’t cha try nothin’,” Roberto warned, more to Joseph than Rachel, whose arm the man latched onto, his knife again at her breast. The other man descended from the driver’s seat. He looked avidly at Rachel and said, “Now for some real fun, huh, Roberto?”

Roberto said nothing, but smiled, an evil expression obvious even in the dingy lights that scarcely lit the dock. He pulled at Rachel, his anticipation obvious, steering her toward the decrepit building. The door gave way easily with one swift kick of Roberto’s boot, and in a matter of seconds, all four of them were inside.

Joseph’s heart fell even more as he made out two more figures in the lit interior. The warehouse was nearly empty, except for a few shipping boxes lining either wall. A rickety ladder rested against the floor of a second landing, which held more boxes. The air was cold and stale.

The first man, Joseph did not recognize, not that it mattered. But the other, he knew all too well. Charlie Rhodes. Obviously, he and Roberto had hatched the scheme together, more out of a mutual resentment than mere robbery itself. Charlie had never had any love loss for Joseph, especially since he was more likely than not to lose to the latter’s usually expert skills. Tonight had been a rare fluke. But Joseph’s loss tonight had obviously not persuaded Charlie from his nefarious intent to see his gambling nemesis dead.

Charlie stared at Rachel. “What the hell is this? It was just supposed to be him.” He nodded a head at Joseph. “Whatcha go and bring this nigga bitch here for?”

“What else we gonna do wit’ her?” Roberto blasted back at his partner. “She wit’ him, she die wit’ him. ’Sides,” he leered at her figure, “she a fine lookin’ whore, worth the trouble, ’ey?”

Charlie and the fourth man seemed to think it over for a second, sizing up Rachel, whose cloak had been discarded in the calash at Roberto’s insistence. The men’s features slowly began to mimic Roberto’s ugly leer.

Joseph cast a sidelong glance at Rachel. For the first time, he saw fear in her profile. She had expected death, maybe had even hoped for escape from despoilment from the first two men. Now that there were four, she had obviously given up hope of any escape.

Charlie stepped to her, pinched her nipple, causing her to gasp. “That hurt, missie? Gonna be more of it, just you wait. Gonna make your fancy man watch us have fun wit’ ya. Then gonna watch as we make him show us wha he do to you in the dark.”

“Please, if any of you are Christian men….” she began to plead.

“Aah, I don’t think Christ gives a care for the likes of you, no how,” the fourth man piped up. Dark haired with blotchy skin, an ugly scar ran across his brow, marring what might have been a handsome face a long time ago. But age, drink, drugs, and the way of the street had sapped him of all virtue a long time ago.

Roberto handed his second partner, their driver, the knife, so that he could commence with unbuckling his pants. Rachel stepped back, which gave Joseph the chance he had been waiting for. He quickly shoved Rachel aside and lunged for the man holding the knife. He hadn’t been as careful as his partner, and Joseph easily wrenched the knife away from the startled man.

In a split second, he grabbed Rachel’s arm, the knife waving in the air toward three men, including Roberto and Charlie. He desperately pulled her toward the door and felt hope again the nearer he backed away from his captors. But where was the fourth man? The answer came in the unmistakable impression of the neck of a gun in his back.

The fourth man had anticipated Joseph’s move. “Now, we’re not gonna leave before the party’s started, are we? You gotta watch us have at your whore, now don’t you? That’ll be the last thing you see on this earth.”

The other men were closing in. Roberto had kicked off his pants, his stained long johns tattered in various places. He groped at the obscene bulge between his legs as he advanced toward Rachel. “All dis for you,” he taunted her. Joseph’s hand was still around Rachel’s arm. He felt the shudder go through her. He couldn’t imagine her horror. In his other hand, he still held the blade.

“Now, drop the knife slowly,” the man behind him directed. “Otherwise, I’ll blow a hole in your back big enuf to dock a steamer.”

Joseph knew that he was dead, whether he obeyed the man or not. There was no reasoning with these animals. And Rachel was dead, too. They would use her, then kill her. The only thing he could do was give her a clean, quick death so that she would not have to be despoiled by these men.

His hand acted almost before his brain had stemmed over the decision. With a quick, easy move he brought the knife against the pliable skin of her neck. It gave way easily, a cascade of blood squirting her would-be attackers. The fourth man, reacting to Joseph’s sudden action, cocked the hammer of the gun. But when he sought to shoot, there was only a click indicating a jammed chamber. In that moment, Joseph dropped Rachel’s dying body to the wooden floor.

“What the…” the man started at the gun, and in that flat second, Joseph lodged the knife into the man’s gut. Grief and vengeance moved him in his quest that none survive this night. Without a knife or another weapon, Roberto was already backing away, then he turned to run in the opposite direction. At that moment, his driver tried to make a pass around Joseph, seeking escape through the door. But Joseph reached out and rammed the knife into the back of the fleeing man’s neck. Blood spilled from the wound when Joseph pulled the weapon away.

By now Roberto had reached the ladder that led up to the second story. Joseph ran the span of feet that separated him from his quarry. Roberto was nearly halfway up when Joseph kicked the ladder from beneath him. The already ponderous man fell heftily to the floor with an “Ooommph,” landing on his back. His ugly face was uglier with fear. He began crawling away.

“Please, no do it! I was no gonna kill you! It was Charlie what planned it all! You see, it was his cousin you killed that time! He figured tonight would be good since you already drunk on the drugs and all! It was Charlie! Charlie!” This last was almost a scream.

But Charlie wasn’t here, having escaped in the melee.

The man sought to continue his plea, but Joseph pulled him up with one arm as though his weight was nothing. Then he slammed Roberto against the nearest wall, his hatred focused on this pathetic fool who was probably nothing but a pawn, but who had been too willing to hurt Rachel and to kill them both. There wasn’t an ounce of human left inside Joseph. Just predator instinct. His humanity lay dead on the floor where Rachel rested.

Without a word, for the man didn’t deserve even that courtesy, Joseph plunged the knife into his neck, forever freezing Roberto’s pop-eyed horror on his face. Then he brutally pulled the weapon from the still warm flesh and slammed the blade into the man’s heart. The blood shot at Joseph, got into his mouth. The body half twisted as it fell to the floor, spraying the filthy walls red. The man’s blood was already soaking into the wooden floor.

Joseph stood for what seemed like an eternity, staring down at the dead man, trying to steel himself for what he must do. He had survived, when he had not planned to. She had not, as he had so desperately wished. There was nothing he could do to save her. He turned slowly.