Dawn of the Golden Promise (45 page)

“Do you understand now, Sara?” His voice was muffled against her warmth. “Do you?”

“Oh, Michael, yes! Yes, I do! You don't have to defend yourself to me. This morning…this morning, I was foolish. I was only trying to help you—and instead I ended up accusing you. I'm so sorry.”

He put a finger to her lips to hush her. “Don't you dare be sorry,
ma girsha.
Don't you dare. I've been a bear to live with, I know, and you have every right to call me to account. I'm the one who's sorry, and I will try to change my ways, I promise you.”

They remained as they were for a long time, locked closely together, rocking slowly forward and back, comforting each other.

At last she eased back just enough to search his face. “Michael? Would it surprise you to know I've had some of the same feelings you have, about Patrick Walsh?”

He frowned at her in disbelief.

“Truly, Michael, I have. I even talked with Jess Dalton about them. I was angry, too, Michael, like you.”

“You never told me. Why wouldn't you tell me, Sara?”

“I'm not sure. I knew you were hurting even more, and I suppose I was afraid my anger might only make things worse for you. I wanted to give you the time…and the freedom…to work through your feelings in your own way.”

He pulled her head down and brushed his lips over her forehead.

“Do you want to know what Jess Dalton told me, Michael?”

He smiled to himself. “Of course, sweetheart.” She would tell him in any event.

“Well…you know how he is. He seems to understand how you feel, even if he doesn't agree. After I'd bared my soul, he leaned back in that dilapidated old chair of his—I'm always afraid it's going to collapse beneath him—and smiled at me. Then he said something very strange, or at least I thought it strange at the time. He said that if we really understood what we were asking for when we demanded justice, we wouldn't be so quick to ask.”

Michael went on stroking her hair, waiting for her to explain.

“When I asked him what he meant, he got the most peculiar look in his eyes. ‘Sara,' he said, ‘two thousand years ago, if God had given us justice instead of a cross, where do you think we'd all be today?'”

Michael stopped rocking, although he continued to hold her even more tightly. He could almost hear Jess Dalton's deep, gentle voice as Sara went on.

“He talked about the fact that while we all
deserve
God's justice, He gave us mercy instead. For which we can be eternally thankful, of course,” she added quietly.

Michael swallowed, his mind scrambling to grasp the significance of her words—Jess Dalton's words.

“And then he said something else, Michael, something that really made me think. Of course, Jess Dalton has a way of doing that, doesn't he? Saying things that make you think, even when you would really rather not. He said, ‘As to punishment for Patrick Walsh, I won't presume to speculate on what awaits a man like that on the other side. But I do believe with all my heart that the loss of heaven is the most grievous punishment of all. To lose all hope of eternity with our Lord is surely a most terrible, terrible judgment. And I daily thank my Savior that He has granted me His mercy, rather than the justice I deserve.'”

Michael wrapped his arms around her and again tried not to weep. The words she had spoken seemed to linger, echoing throughout the room, in his mind, in his soul. And in that moment, in the stillness of their bedroom with his wife's love draped all about him like a curtain shutting out the world, he felt something stir deep inside him, felt the beginnings of a healing and a peace that he knew could only have come from the Father of Mercy.

Anxious to be home out of the rain, Denny Price had run most of the distance from Mike's house when he met up with Pauley Runyan—the “Strong Man” from Brewster's dime museum in the Bowery.

This was not the sort of neighborhood where a boy from a dime museum might ordinarily be found. Indeed, Denny thought he probably wouldn't have recognized Pauley at all, had the lad not stopped him in his tracks.

Pauley was wearing the sort of open-throated shirt and dark work trousers common to any of the factory workers throughout the city, rather than the abbreviated stage costume that showed off his enormous size and muscles. He looked, Denny decided as he studied him, surprisingly ordinary.

“Well, Pauley, what are you doing up here—and in such a hurry at that?”

The lad was puffing as if he, too, had run most of the way. “Sergeant,” he said after catching his breath, “I've been sent to fetch Captain Burke. I went to the station first, and Officer Ryan said the captain would be at home.”

“He is. I've only just left him. Something wrong, Pauley?”

The youth took off his wet cap and ran a hand through his hair, a riot of dark brown curls. “Bhima said to ask the captain to come to the museum at once! Said it concerns the little girl taken in by the preacher.”

Denny's interest quickened. “Pastor Dalton's little lass, do you mean?”

“That's the one, sir. Stump went to fetch the preacher from the mission while I was sent for Captain Burke.” He caught a breath, then went on. “Bhima said I should ask the captain to come as quickly as possible.”

Denny considered the boy's explanation for only an instant. “You know the captain's house, do you?”

Pauley shook his head. “No, sir, but I'll find it. On West Thirty-fourth, Bhima said.”

Denny nodded, thinking. “I'll fetch the captain. You go on back to the museum. If there's trouble, Bhima may need you.”

The boy hesitated only a moment. “All right, sir. But will you tell the captain, Bhima says it's urgent?”

“I will. Go on now.”

Denny stood watching Pauley's muscular back for another second or two, then turned and took off at a run in the opposite direction.

33

For who can say by what strange way
Christ brings His will to light…

OSCAR WILDE (1854–1900)

T
he steadily increasing rain brought an early darkness to the day. In Bhima's small room at the back of the dime museum, the oil lamp gave just enough light to reveal the men huddled close to one another in the shadows.

Their faces were intense, troubled, lined with varying degrees of anger and speculation. As the discussion among them grew more heated, their expressions grew even more strained.

“Surely we would have evidence enough,” said Jess Dalton, his usually genial voice now edged with worry, “without resorting to such measures.”

Captain Burke shook his head. “I fear not, Pastor.” He darted a glance to the sergeant.

Sergeant Price, his red hair still slicked to his head, his shirt wet and clinging, looked from the captain to the preacher, giving a nod to indicate his agreement.

“It seems so extreme,” Jess Dalton persisted. “And dangerous.”

Bhima looked at him. “I say this with all respect, Pastor, but the real danger is to your little girl unless we act immediately.”

For a fleeting moment Bhima saw a look of utter panic fill the pastor's eyes—the expression of a drowning man going down for the last time and finding not so much as a scrap of driftwood to cling to. “But do we have to bring her
here
?” he asked. “Couldn't we…isn't there some way…?”

Captain Burke turned a look of understanding on the anxious preacher. “We'll do whatever it takes to keep her safe, Pastor,” he said quietly. “We'll try to bluff him, but if Winston calls our hand, we may have to produce the lass. Still, we'll protect her with our lives, if it comes to that.”

The big preacher frowned and ran a hand through his dark curly hair. “All right. We'll do whatever you say, Michael.” His voice was resigned. “But it still doesn't make sense to me. Why can't you just arrest Winston on the strength of his proposition? Surely he's incriminated himself simply by approaching Fritz with such a scheme.”

The captain's gaze traveled from the pastor to Fritz, then came to rest on Bhima for a second or two. Bhima sensed the policeman's dilemma and moved to rescue him. “I expect what Captain Burke is trying to avoid saying, Pastor, is that no court would be likely to accept the word of people such as us. You might say we have no real, ah,
credibility
, with the law. It would be the word of a man of English gentry against…us.”

Captain Burke shot him a look that was both embarrassed and grateful. Jess Dalton studied Bhima for a moment, a look of understanding dawning in his eyes.

“If you will allow my opinion, Pastor,” Bhima said quietly, “I believe Captain Burke's way is best.”

“He's right, Pastor,” Sergeant Price put in, turning toward the captain at his side. “The court can hardly ignore firsthand evidence from two city policemen. And it's for me to do the job.”

A good man, the sergeant
, thought Bhima. Decent and sturdy, a man who respected all the right things, such as truth and justice and the law. In that regard, he bore a close similarity to Captain Burke, who now stood glaring at the man beside him.

“It is
not
for you,” declared the captain. “You will stay here with the pastor and back me up when I return.”

“No, Mike—er, Captain. Begging your pardon, but you don't have the looks for such a nasty business, don't you see?”

The captain's eyes narrowed, but before he could make a rebuttal the sergeant hurried on. “Ah, Mike, no offense, but you're just a shade too civilized-looking for such a job.” With a good-natured grin, he crossed his arms over his chest. “This kind of ugly business calls for a mean mug like my own, don't you see? Why, there's little effort it will take for me to play the outlaw, and that's the truth!”

Bhima found the sergeant's appraisal of himself altogether too harsh, but his observation about the captain's “civilized” appearance was incisive. He doubted that Captain Burke had it in him to make a very convincing hoodlum.

The friendship between the two policemen was evident as they stood searching each other's eyes, just as the conflict taking place inside the captain was unmistakable. “No doubt you'll make a more believable felon than I,” he said dryly. “But I still outrank you, Sergeant, and you will remember that.”

Sergeant Price, still grinning, merely shrugged.

The captain regarded him for another moment, then gave a gesture of concession with his hand. “All right, then. You'll do the job.”

He turned to Fritz Cochran. “When Winston returns for your answer, set the deed for later tonight. Tell him it's absolutely no deal unless he hands the money over himself when the lass is—delivered.” He paused. “You have to demand this very thing, mind: he must bring the money tonight, and bring it
here.
No later than ten o'clock. No exceptions.”

Fritz nodded. “Ten o'clock,” he said solemnly.

“Pastor—” The captain turned to Pastor Dalton. “Will your wife cooperate? We'll need her agreement to pull this off.”

The preacher didn't answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was none too confident. “I'll have to convince her. Kerry has been terribly distraught about Amanda. But once she realizes…yes, I think she'll consent.”