Hawk's Prize (27 page)

Those concerns foremost in his mind, Jason drew Elizabeth closer. He loved her. Now, while she lay in his arms, he wanted to show her that he’d meant every word he’d said.

Wordlessly, lovingly, Jason covered Elizabeth’s lips with his.

Drew came abruptly awake at the sound of movement in the hallway outside Tricia’s bedroom door. Momentarily disoriented, he reviewed the events of the night past—his highly emotional reunion with Whit, and then the long hours of loving he had spent with Tricia in his arms.

At the sound of footsteps racing past the door, Drew threw back the coverlet and reached for his clothes. He glanced at the window, where an early morning sun was shining brightly, then hushed Tricia when she sat up in bed questioningly. He dressed quickly, reached for his gun, and looked back at Tricia as she drew her wrapper closed around her. He motioned her out of harm’s way as he unlocked the door silently and pulled it open.

Startled to see Chantalle standing there in her flowered robe, he asked, “What’s going on, Chantalle?”

Chantalle swallowed and responded hoarsely, “I was just going to knock. I thought you were here. I heard you come in with Tricia last night.” She paused, and then said in a rush, “It’s Angie, Drew. Will just found her body in the woods beside the house. She’s dead. Somebody killed her.”

Expressionless, Drew asked, “How do you know it wasn’t an accident?”

“She was half dressed, and somebody had beaten her badly.”

Drew heard the sound of distress that escaped Tricia’s lips. She rushed to Chantalle and hugged her tightly. He heard her whisper, “I’m so sorry, Chantalle. I know Angie was a problem sometimes, but—”

“But she was one of my girls and I let her down.”
Dislodging herself gently from the consolation of Tricia’s embrace, Chantalle said self-accusingly, “It was my duty to protect her, and I failed.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Chantalle.” Trembling as they approached, Georgia, Lily, and Mavis halted teary-eyed beside Chantalle. Mavis continued, “We all knew about Angie’s nightly ritual—that she sneaked out the back door and slipped into the woods to smoke her
cigarettes
every night before she went to sleep. We tried to tell her she was crazy to take the chance, that it wasn’t safe—especially after Willie was killed—but she said nobody ever saw her.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Mavis replied apologetically, “We knew your rules, and we knew how Angie was. None of us wanted to make her mad, because we were sure she’d make us pay somehow.”

“Have you notified the authorities about Angie’s death?” Drew asked Chantalle.

She nodded. “I sent Will directly to the Adjutant General’s Office. Colonel Madison should be here any minute with his men. I left Carlos with Angie’s body in the meantime.”

Drew mumbled, “First Willie . . . now Angie.” He said tightly, “You can’t leave the rear entrance of the house open anymore, Chantalle.”

Chantalle nodded. She swayed uncertainly, and Drew slid a steadying arm around her. “Come on, I’ll take you back to your room.”

“No, I’m all right.”

Drew scrutinized Chantalle’s determined expression
and inwardly marveled. She would not allow herself to give in to weakness.

Tricia moved closer to Chantalle to provide support, and Drew said softly, “You know I can’t be seen here when Colonel Madison comes, Chantalle. I can’t afford to give him a reason to look into my background.”

“I understand. Do what you have to do to keep yourself safe. I’ll take care of everything here.” She turned toward the women beside her and said, “Come on, girls.”

Chantalle started back down the hallway with her women, and Drew turned toward Tricia. He said brusquely, “I need to bring Whit up to date on what happened. We’ll get to the bottom of this, Tricia. I promise you that.” His expression tight, he whispered, “In the meantime, I want you to lock your door behind you when you enter your room, and lock it when you leave, do you understand? I don’t want you to leave it open—ever.”

“You don’t have to worry, Drew. Chantalle will lock the rear door just as you said.”

“I want you to lock
your
door, too. Promise me!”

“All right, I promise.”

“I have to leave now.” Drew hesitated, and then whispered hoarsely, “Never doubt that I love you, Tricia, or that I’ll be back for you.”

His head snapping up at the sound of a military command being issued in the backyard, Drew kissed Tricia swiftly. He looked down at the key that Tricia had pressed into his hand.

“It’s a key to my door, but it works on the rear door, too.” Tricia continued softly, “Chantalle had an extra
one made for me a long time ago. She may have forgotten, but I never did. It made me feel like I belonged to somebody, and I’ve never been without it . . . until now.” She swallowed and then whispered, “Come back whenever you can, Drew. Whenever you do, I’ll be waiting.”

Kissing her swiftly, Drew moved down the staircase toward the front door with a silent vow to return.

Simon sat still and silent in his customary place at the graceful mahogany table in Willard Spunk’s office conference room. He didn’t like the fact that the Galveston consortium meeting had been called so early in the morning—especially since he hadn’t received notification until the last minute. He noted that although bright shafts of morning sunlight lit the office cheerfully, the room was unnaturally silent as the members took their places without the casual small talk and greetings normally exchanged around the table. As far as he was concerned, that was fine. He didn’t feel like talking either.

Willard, short, balding, middle-aged, and with an occasional eye for the ladies that went ignored by most, was a conservative “city father” who was generally well respected. Simon had always enjoyed an amiable relationship with Willard, who considered him one of the city’s foremost businessmen. That fact was evident in the deference shown to him and his opinions, and in the manner in which Willard and the other members normally accepted his advice—advice Simon gave gladly and with a feigned modesty that appeared to impress every one of them.

Yet he could not escape the feeling that today was different somehow.

Simon looked at the consortium members as they assumed their customary places at the table. Joseph Weatherby, Jonathan Grimel, Douglas Forbes, Winston Lyle, Horace Greene, Martin Long, and James Carter—all seemed to avoid his eye as Willard convened the meeting—but Simon laid his unease to his own discomfiture. He had awakened that morning exhausted and sleep-deprived because of his visit to the wooded area near Chantalle’s house in the middle of the previous night. Angie’s unplanned demise annoyed him. He had intended to use her further, and she had cheated him of the evening’s full enjoyment. He disliked having his plans disrupted for any reason, most especially by a wanton whore who had proved unworthy of his attentions and trust.

It also annoyed him that because of his injured hand and Angie, he had arrived at Spunk’s office irritable and out of sorts. The need to conceal his ill humor and to pretend a cheerful attitude did not improve his mood. He was unprepared when Willard turned toward him, his round face devoid of its usual smile, and announced that the consortium had decided against taking his advice and would not sign an agreement allocating municipal funds to cosmetic changes in the city while there was still a possibility that improvements to the harbor might be necessary.

Simon forced himself to smile. His tone gracious, he responded, “Surely you aren’t concerned about the rumor presently circulating that because the facilities of Galveston harbor are limited, Houston might take
over its shipping business. That’s preposterous. You know very well that Galveston’s natural harbor is an asset that Houston does not have and that—”

“Yes, we know all that, Simon.” Willard maintained his sober demeanor as he continued, “But the consortium met at an emergency meeting yesterday and we made our decision then. We do not intend to sign any commitment that may limit our direction in the future.”

“An emergency meeting to which I wasn’t invited . . .”

“We thought it best that way.”

Simon stiffened. “Signing the agreement is a way of proving our confidence in the city . . . a way of dismissing the negative rumors. I cannot stress enough—”

“You’re wasting your breath, Simon. We’ve made our decision. This meeting was called today only to inform you before we made our decision public.” Willard glanced at the forum and said abruptly, “The motion stands that we should not sign an agreement limiting changes in Galveston harbor. Does anyone second it?”

Two
yeas
sounded.

“All in favor?”

There was a chorus of assent.

Willard slapped down his gavel and said, “The motion is passed and the meeting is adjourned.”

Startled by the swiftness of proceedings that totally ignored customary protocol, Simon watched as Willard headed for the door. When the other members followed, nodding wordlessly in his direction, Simon stood up slowly. The room was empty when he made his way toward the door, inwardly raging at the
speed and efficiency with which his counsel had been overridden.

Houston businessmen were depending on him to facilitate the agreement that would guarantee their investment in Houston’s commercial shipping. The grandiose future he had engineered for himself, and which he had believed he was only a few steps from achieving, had been snatched from his grasp—and he didn’t know why!

Simon started toward Spunk’s private office. Ignoring the clerk who attempted to block his entrance, he pushed open the door and said, “I demand an explanation, Willard! I think you owe me one, and I don’t intend to leave until I get it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Simon.” Willard looked at him coldly. “We’ve all sought your advice on the future of our city, and in most cases have taken it—but not this time.”

“You do realize that you and the consortium are revealing a lack of confidence in Galveston, and that lack of confidence will be transmitted to companies seeking to locate here, thereby limiting Galveston’s future.”

“Possibly.”

“Then why do you refuse to sign the agreement?”

Willard stared at him across his massive desk. A small man, Williard appeared dwarfed by the impressive piece of furniture, but his voice was not lacking in authority as he said, “The answer to your question is simple—the members have become suspicious of your motives.”

“Suspicious of—” Simon felt the blood rush to his
head as he said, “Could you tell me what has caused this sudden
suspicion of my motives?”

“Talk is rife on the docks about you, Simon . . . disturbing talk.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do. It appears that inquiries have been made over the past few months about your activities before, during, and after the war. Negative reports have reached our ears recently that disturb us greatly.”

“Rumors? Is that what you’re talking about?”

“More than rumors.”

“Anything that is claimed without proof is a rumor.”

“Perhaps . . . and perhaps proof is on the way.” Willard’s round face did not lose its stern expression as he continued, “The consortium prefers to err on the side of caution. We will not sign anything that might limit Galveston’s future.”

“Foolishness!”

Hesitating, Willard began slowly, “I think you should know that these inquiries to which I refer have loosened tongues in areas that might surprise you. Individuals who will remain unnamed by me at this time have levied some rather shocking charges against you, including collaboration . . . intimidation . . . unfair practices that have in some cases affected innocent lives.”

“As if some of those charges have not been made against every member of the consortium at one time or another!”

“Perhaps . . . but never with such uniformity and rancor.”

“This is ridiculous, Willard.” Changing his tone, Simon smiled as he said, “You know me well. You know
I would never stoop to the level of committing those crimes.”

“Then you have nothing to fear, do you, Simon? When the Adjutant General’s Office concludes its investigation, the charges will be dismissed and—”

Simon interrupted coldly, “You’re telling me that someone has actually made a substantiated complaint against me and has asked the Adjutant General’s Office to investigate it?”

“That appears to be the case. Actually, I was informed yesterday that the complaint would be presented first thing this morning. The members of the consortium were notified in advance, which necessitated the emergency meeting I spoke of. The complaint has been signed by men with whom we are all familiar—businessmen, captains of ships that service this port—including some of your own captains and various men and women working on the docks who have had dealings with you or your company in some way.”

“Dealings with my company . . . well, we both know that a man I trusted with the processing of my affairs, Bruce Carlton, was found to have a dark side of which I was not aware. Perhaps he is to blame for the problem.”

“I’m afraid no one believes that, Simon. We are all aware that Bruce never made a move without your permission.”

“So, what you’re saying is that the sins of one of my employees have begun shading my reputation!”

Willard stood up abruptly. “Look at it this way, Simon. If you are found innocent of the charges when the investigation is completed, everyone in Galveston
will owe you an apology. You’ll be able to write your own ticket.”

“Of course. There is always a bright side, isn’t there?” He stared at Willard coldly. “I suppose there is nothing more for us to discuss.”

Not waiting for Willard’s reply, Simon stomped out of the office with his head high. His postures stiff, he climbed into his carriage and ordered sharply, “Take me home.”

The carriage snapped into motion as Simon silently railed at his realization that life as he knew it in Gal-veston was beginning to crumble.

But he wasn’t finished yet.

Colonel Clay Madison stood with military erectness in the backyard of Chantalle Beauchamp’s bordello. He glanced at the madam, who stood silently nearby, her beautiful daughter at her side as his men searched the area. Without her customary makeup, Chantalle’s face was pale and her matronly frame was wracked with intermittent shivers. He had already interviewed her and the members of her house, but he had gained little pertinent information. One thing was certain. She and the members of her house had been shocked and frightened by Angie’s death, but Chantalle was determined to stay and learn all she could about it.