Christie (47 page)

"I am the one," came the chilling response.

"But
why?"

The words were more than a question. Christie uttered them in a barely audible whisper whose tones denoted almost a plea, a desperate attempt at summoning something rational to restore to order a world suddenly gone topsy-turvy, and when no immediate answer came, she repeated the final word as if by restating the question, she might give added impetus to her frantic quest to reap sanity from chaos.

"Why?"

"I fear we've little time for explanations .now," said Philip coldly. "Eventually, you'll have your clarifications. For the moment, we must hurry on another course. Don that pelisse!" he ordered, indicating the garment which had been left for her on a chair nearby.

As Christie moved to comply, Philip stepped cautiously to the bed and began to untie Lula's feet with one hand while with the other he continued to point his pistol at Christie.

Noting this, Christie gave him a small, derisive laugh as she summoned a shred of courage. "You know, Uncle, I wonder if you really would fire that weapon, knowing the sound it would make, and your home full of people tonight."

Philip's pale eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. "You always were quick, my" dear. Your point is well taken. Let us see, then, how you respond to this, instead."

He slid his hand beneath his coat and produced a menacing-looking dagger, its blade glimmering
ominously in the thin light. Then he slipped the pistol into the band of his breeches while at the same time taking a posture which made Christie's blood run cold. He picked up the basket in which Adam lay, holding it with one hand by its twin swing handles, while with his knife hand, he held the dagger over the infant.

"Now I believe I should have little trouble with either of you," said Philip, smiling coldly. Then to Lula, "Get up!" The words were a snapped command.

Lula struggled to obey, finding the act difficult with her hands tied behind, keeping her off balance. At last she succeeded, and Christie wondered if Philip could read as well as she, the venom which poured forth at him from those black eyes.

Philip used his foot to push forward on the floor, toward Christie, what she now noticed was one of her valises. It was apparently fully packed.

"Carry that," he ordered. "Even you wouldn't do any of the running away you've become noted for without packing some clothes, you see." He smiled, but again Christie noticed it was a pretend smile, reaching only his lips, and she shivered as she comprehended the import of his words. Whatever he v, as going to do with her—with all of them, she realized grimly—his plan had already been afforded a plausible explanation for her disappearance by her own dooming past behavior!

Silently she picked up the valise and together with Lula, followed her dagger-wielding uncle out of the room.

Chapter Twenty Eight

Garrett reached the Golden Gate in less than a half-hour's time. Handing over Jet to a richly liveried groom, he entered the tavern's common room and headed straight for the stairs to the right of the bar. The heavyset man standing at the base of the stairs smiled in recognition and indicated with a slight toss of his head that the guest might ascend.

Finding his way easily in the dimly lit upstairs corridor, Garrett approached the proper door and was admitted by another taciturn guard whose nod implied recognition. He entered the brightly lit, smoke-filled room and was immediately greeted by several people standing nearby.

"Why, it's Garrett Randall! Haven't seen you here in months!" exclaimed John Hartley. Hartley was a neighbor of his, living not too great a distance upriver from Riverlea. Garrett smiled a greeting and they exchanged a few polite words, including Garrett's response that the babe and his beautiful wife whom Hartley had seen at Adam's christening were well and would certainly join him in a visit to the Hartley plantation, should an invitation
come forth.

Then Garrett's eyes fell on two figures seated over a
small gaming table at the far end of the room.
Murmuring excuses to several others who called out
greetings, he headed in the seated couple's direction.

The woman was the bewigged, overpowdered half-owner of the tavern whose job it was to play hostess in the Golden Gate's upstairs rooms. Her name was Mary Symonds. But she was far more than a hostess. A handsome woman, all dressed despite the powder and such, she must have been well over forty, but hardly looked it. Rumor had it she was the illegitimate offspring of an English lord who, lest she prove an embarrassment to him, had sent her to the colonies after bestowing on her a genteel education and enough money to make her way in the New World. But somewhere along the line, perhaps from her barmaid mother, Mary had learned to wield a deck of cards in expert fashion, as many a loser in these upstairs apartments would testify. But it was said she was honest and had a way about her to make even the worst losing streak palatable to those who gamed with her. She was favored by a likable nature and a ready wit, two qualities which were as much responsible for the making of her fortune as her knowledge of gaming or her benefactor's generous stake.

Seated across from her was Beau Richardson, a half-empty brandy snifter in one hand, his chin bobbing on his chest.

"Here, now, my lad. Don't you think it's time you called it an evening?" said Mary as Garrett approached. Then she looked up. "Oh, by the king's
wig! If it isn't the devil's own green-eyed spawn come to bestow his handsome presence upon us! Good evening, Mr. Randall. Have you come to win away from me all I've gained for an evening again?"

The words were spoken good-naturedly, and Garrett smiled a response with similar intent. "No, I'm going to spare you this time, Mary. I've actually come on an errand. Will you allow me a few words with young Richardson, here?"

"Done," said Mary, rising, "but it's a disappointing night when a gentleman with your looks comes asking for a young man and not a young lady." She eyed the door to an inner chamber where, as Garrett knew from occasions in the past, one of the pretty daughters of her partner, George Oaks, might be found to warm some sheets for certain special guests. "Good to see you again, sir!" Giving him a nod, she moved to another table.

Garrett took the seat she had occupied and gained Beau's attention by pulling the brandy snifter carefully out of his hand.

Beau gave him an accusing look. "Y've been s-shent to s-s-shpy on me by that ol' tyran'!"

"Hardly," said Garrett. "Spying's something I've no stomach for. But now that I'm here, I could provide good company for the ride home. You've been missed at the ball," he added.

Beau gave him a smirking half-grin. "Now, d'you mean t' 'nform me my noble-princ'pled father-'n-law's gonna wan' my 'fensive preshence at his home when I'm in thish drrunken shtate? Him, who never touched more 'n a drop 'n 'is life?"

Garrett was about to argue further when something clicked in his brain. Suddenly his casual attitude vanished and he leaned forward to gaze into Beau's face with serious mien.

"What say you? Surely your dislike for the man makes you exaggerate! Philip does drink, doesn't he?"

"Nnnary a drop!" came the reply. "Cannot take the shtuff! Makes 'im deadly ill! Al'ays has!"

"Beau, listen to me! You're sure of this?"

"Ash I am of my own name. I'm not
that
drunk!"

Dimly, like the faintly heard droning of a fly at a windowpane whose presence is audible before it is seen, Garrett heard the words spinning out to him from that conversation in the study. . . . "And I'm also afraid, much as I'm ashamed to admit it, that I was quite inebriated at the time. . . . The fellow who lost it? I can no more remember his name than I can his
face."

"Furthermore," Beau was continuing, "if ol'
breeches was s-sho againsht my comin' here
t'night, how come he gave me a thoushand from 'is
own purshe t' shpend? Mayhap he wan'ed ol' Beau
out o' the houshe on purp-purposhe, mayhap."

Another click, and then a cold feeling of dread stole through Garrett's limbs. Philip
gave
Beau the money to gamble tonight! And then deliberately sent Garrett on this errand to get him away from the—

Like a wildcat who has been waiting patiently while on the hunt and who then suddenly spying its prey, springs into action, Garrett rose and moved

ross the room and out. He flew down the stairs, taking them two and three at a time, his feet barely touching their surface before moving downward
again. Like a bolt, he was out the door and flying through the cool night air toward the building where the guests' carriages and mounts were tended, his mind burning with only one thought, "Christie, I've got to get to Christie!"

He was thankful he hadn't pressed Jet too hard on the ride over, for now he feverishly called for every ounce of strength and speed the big stallion had to offer, and silently he wished he had taken Thunder instead.

Reaching Stanhope Manor in less than fifteen minutes, he threw the reins at the startled-looking black footman and said to him grimly, hoping against hope it wouldn't be necessary, "See to my spent horse and have our gray made ready immediately!"

Then, taking the front entrance, he raced into the house and made for the ballroom. Summoning as much calm as he was able, he approached Margaret and inquired of Christie.

"Why, no, Garrett," said Margaret, "I've not seen her for some time. Nor you, for that matter, until now. And I wish someone would be kind enough to inform me of what is going on! First, Beau disappears, then you and your wife, and now, even Philip is missing. If this continues-—"

"Excuse me," said Garrett, and he strode rapidly from the room, taking the stairs as quickly, yet inconspicuously, as possible.

His head spun as 'he tried to assemble the facts. Only this afternoon, when he had gone into town to inform the authorities of the shooting trouble at Riverlea, he had stopped by Carlisle's and there run
into Jesse who was working on Philip's background himself. Certain facts had been interesting, though hardly incriminating. At about the time of the massacre, Stanhope had fallen upon hard times— economically. For reasons difficult to determine thus far, Philip's name had almost fallen to ruin in the community, where he had been a merchant and not yet a banker or landowner. Huge amounts were owed and when the notes were presented, could not be met, although ultimately Stanhope had managed to satisfy his creditors. Whence he came by the money, no one was sure, but he had immediately thereafter given up merchant and trading pursuits an gone to work for the bank.

All of this tumbled about in Garrett's head as he made for the guest chambers. Once there, he needed only seconds to confirm the realization of his worst fears. Christie was gone! Lula and his son, too! Struggling to remain rational, he tried to think where to look. Then he remembered Philip's instructions to bring Beau to his study. Shaking off the thought he might be walking into a trap, he headed for that place. As he sped through the darkened house, the strains of music drifting up to him from the ballroom, he willed his mind not to wander into the dangerous realms it might take if allowed to speculate on what might be happening to Christie and the child, and Lula, at that moment. He forced himself to believe them unharmed, saying to himself, over and over, "He needs them to get to me—he needs them alive and well to get to me!" Reaching the study, he entered carefully and after satisfying himself it was unoccupied, spied the note.

He opened it and read.

Randall

Come, unarmed and secretly, to the Setting Sun—

P—

Unarmed! Ruefully he threw the room a spasm of hollow laughter. How he wished he had an inconspicuous firearm! He'd hardly get past Lucille's door carrying the piece he'd used to escort their carriage on the trip to Charleston. Quickly his eyes flicked over the room. In a second he was opening the glass-topped case which held the dueling pistols Philip prized as trophies. Checking them as well as he could in the dim light, he found they were still operational. But there was one problem; he had only the one ball, also encased here, to shoot. "One shot, and I had better make it count," he thought grimly. Then, after pocketing the note and concealing the one pistol he'd chosen, he extinguished the solitary candle burning in the room and hurried out.

When he reached the drive, an apologetic black groom informed him Thunder had been taken from his stall earlier in the evening and Garrett elected to drive the carriage and team of bays he had brought from Riverlea which the groom had taken the liberty of making ready "jus' in case."

Then he drove, hard and urgently, toward the Setting Sun, wondering what significance might be attached to that ignominious establishment's being chosen by Philip as a place to meet. At least he hoped it would be a meeting, and he shuddered as he
realized Philip could well be sending him on a wild-goose chase for the purpose of gaining additional time in which to spirit his captives farther away, making it more difficult for him to follow and reach them in time. Here Garrett set his already clenched teeth and rigid jaw even more firmly as he made a promise to himself, realizing bitterly it would be the second such oath he had sworn with regard to the treacherous dealings of that piece of slime named Philip Stanhope. "I swear, if it takes the last breath I have in me, I'll find them. If I need search the earth's limits, no matter. He'll not get away with his evil this time! I'll find them, and I'll find him, too, and I promise heaven, he'll not live to injure me and my own again!"

He heard the crier tell eleven as he drove into sight of the brothel. Leaving his carriage and team with a waiting attendant who gave him a familiar greeting, he hastened inside.

Lucille's place appeared much like any other of the town houses lining the quiet street. From the outside it was a two-story Georgian brick dwelling with neatly tended lawns rolling off to one side. But once one opened the door, after having been given leave by the large "footman" who waited inconspicuously in the shadows to one side of the entrance, the interior which greeted the visitor ceased to impress as anything typical.

Lucille loved opulence, and she had spared no expense in decorating the interior of her place of business. Burnished brass candelabra, sconces, and chandeliers held hundreds of candles to shine nightly on the richness of the house's furnishings. Heavy
oriental carpets welcomed the feet as they lay quietly on well-oiled floors. Highly polished furniture made of the best woods stood everywhere, all carefully chosen with an accent on comfort. Damasked sofas and love seats in soft pastel colors held the guests who filled the lower chambers. The gentlemen were all richly attired, and the "ladies" were expensively garbed too, though the apparel they wore was uniformly of that sort which one might expect to see in the boudoir rather than the parlor.

Garrett was recognized by a long-legged octaroon in a red dressing gown, and he nodded as she smiled a greeting to him over her "escort's" shoulder. As he made his way toward the staircase leading to the upper chambers, a willowy brunette with slanting black eyes approached him.