Frail Blood (27 page)

"Where did Emma say she was going?" Malachi asked.

"To work at that newspaper office," Mr. Knight
answered.

But Malachi and Stephen had already checked there after
Sarah Ralston told them the same thing. Thomas Gant hadn't seen Emma Knight all
day.

Where the hell had Emma gone and what trouble was she in
now?

Chapter 28

"to take arms against a sea of troubles and by
opposing end them" –
Hamlet

Emma heard voices and the random clunking of heavy footsteps
on the floors above her, but she could not make out the words. She thought
there were two of them, a man and a woman from the tone and pitch, and they
sounded furious. That much she could discern from the rise and fall of their
voices through the muffled barrier above her head.

A short time after the jangling of keys subsided, she dared
to creep up the stairs and listen intently at the door for long minutes. She
heard nothing. No breathing. No shuffling of feet. No muffled sounds of
everyday movements. She bit back an hysterical sob. Had her ears begun to
deceive her?

After gingerly descending the steps to where she'd left the
trunk at the bottom, she began to explore the contents, but the lid gaped open
on nothing more than stale clothing and musty blankets. She pulled out several
items. She estimated night had fallen and the extra padding would afford warmth
as the temperature dropped in the dank basement.

She couldn't be certain, of course, but she believed that
her attacker had taken her inert body to another place from the Machado house. If
she were still there, she believed the normal noises of household living and
the comings and goings of workers would alert her to that fact.

But here in her imprisoned place, the silence was as heavy
and empty as a sanctuary. Surely she was hidden away in some abandoned building.

She fetched one of the blankets to wrap around her. Then she
stepped around the stairs to huddle at the alcove entrance where the giant
trunk lay. She sat down, leaned against it, and rested there.

If someone came down after her, hopefully he – or she –
would trip over the trunk at the bottom of the stairs and break his neck. She
could only hope for such good fortune, she thought wryly.

An hour later, or perhaps longer, the faint sound of
quarrelling in the distance roused her. At first she imagined she was dreaming
and the voices in her head were she and Malachi engaged in another of their
endless arguments about women's rights.

But the chilling dampness seeped through her skirts, and her
legs' stiffness reminded her she was not caught in a dream. She stretched her
cramped limbs and listened to the sounds from above.

"— you done?" A light voice, likely a woman's.

"Had to – can't – see?" A deeper-pitched one.

Shrillness, tinged with hysteria. "Did you – why her?"

Loud, every word clear as a screech in a graveyard. "She
would've told, you silly girl!"

Soft whimpering. "Never loved – anyway, not – me."

A long silence. Scuffing of feet and muffled sounds that
Emma couldn't determine the meaning of.

A man and a woman. Aaron and Phoebe Machado? Or Aaron and
his mother? Why would Aaron come back here after the broken-hearted state she'd
left him in just yesterday?

Perhaps he meant to confess his sins and tell the
authorities what had happened between him and his mother all those years ago. But
to what end? Joseph was dead and Aaron's confession would not lead to his
killer.

Only – perhaps it would.

What if Aaron's confession forced the killer to an admission
of guilt? The mother, then, the killer must be the mother. She feared her
filthy secret would come out. Did Frances Machado kill her own son to remove
the evidence of her guilt?

Emma had heard of the newest developments in the science of
pathology, that investigators could now determine if a certain person had
touched an object. A Scottish physician had developed a system of identifying
handprints and fingerprints. Using his methods, could they not identify who held
the murder weapon in addition to Alma Bentley?

Her heart beat faster with the excitement of possibility. Surely
Malachi knew of such new techniques. Had he already contemplated finger and
palm printing and subsequently discarded the idea?

Perhaps there were too many prints on the pistol or they
were smudged and unidentifiable for comparison to someone else's. On the other
hand, wasn't it likely that no one else had even considered the possibility
that anyone other than Alma handled the weapon.

Aaron said he'd confessed everything to Joseph. He didn't
speak of Joe's reaction to this news, but Emma could well imagine the trauma
and shock the younger brother would've experienced. Aaron was the third member
of this unholy triumvirate along with Frances and Phoebe. The two women must
have known what Aaron intended to confess.

Had they tried to dissuade him? Would they have done
anything to keep the secret? Phoebe loved Joseph as if he were her own son. She
would protect him to the death. Mrs. Machado had no such motherly affections. Would
she have quailed at the idea of murdering her own son?

And what of Mr. Machado? What, if anything, did he know of
those long-ago events? Did he know Joseph was not his natural son? Did he know
of his wife's perfidy? And if he did, what action might he have taken for
revenge or to protect such a heinous secret?

Emma's head spun with the possibilities, but she realized
such rumination was fruitless. As soon as the people who stood several feet
above her decided her fate, she'd know soon enough who the culprits were in
this Greek tragedy of degradation and perversion.

She pushed away from the large trunk she'd leaned against
and contemplated trying to open it again. She'd made several trips to the wine
casket to quench her thirst, necessitating another sojourn to her makeshift
privy, but hunger gnawed steadily at her stomach. She hardly thought she'd find
food stored in a trunk, but she began to pry at the rusted brass fastenings
anyway.

Perhaps ten or fifteen minutes later, she'd loosed one
corner and started to work on the other. Her nails were bruised and bloody from
the task and beginning to sting from the pressure she exerted, but she wouldn't
give up. The second fastening worked loose easier than the first and at last Emma
swung the lid open with some effort and leaned it against the beam of the
alcove.

A immediate stench rose from the contents, something she
couldn't quite place – a heavy perfume – yes, but beneath that the fecund odor
of bodily flesh and fluids. Carefully, she reached into the opening and touched
upon smooth fabric, silk perhaps and beneath the material, the soft, squishy
give of human flesh.

She jerked back her hand. A person lay doubled over in the
interior of the trunk, knees and head nearly meeting. Hands shaking, Emma
forced herself to examine the body again and worked her fingertips upward until
she reached the fleshy face and long, unloosened hair of what was surely a
woman.

Her fingers touched something moist and damp and she pulled
them away to hold them beneath her nose. A distinct coppery smell assailed her
nostrils.

God, a dead body! And unless she was seriously mistaken, a
great deal of blood covered the woman's face and neck.

#

The Ralstons spun the same tale as the Knights, although with
much more concern for Emma's well-being. She'd left her house during the late
afternoon, saying she was going to
The Gazette
office. But, of course,
Thomas Gant confirmed that he'd neither seen nor heard from her this day.

He and Stephen had finally returned to the newspaper in the
hopes that Emma would show up later or that they'd learn something new. But
nothing.

Malachi stared at Stephen and Thomas gathered around Emma's
desk, a sense of panicky guilt gripping him so hard he couldn't maintain reasonable
thought. If he had allowed her to go with them to Bakersfield, she'd be safe
now. Instead, he'd left her behind and now had no idea where she was. Fear for
her safety nearly paralyzed him.

The worried looks on their faces mirrored Malachi's sinking
feeling that Emma might be in grave danger again. Danger that he'd seriously
miscalculated.

"We must trace her steps," Stephen insisted,
shifting uneasily in the hard-backed chair he'd sunk down on.

Malachi could not cease his pacing. He'd walked the length
of the back office a dozen times now, each stride increasing his frustration
and fear. Here were the three men to whom Emma meant the world and none of them
had an inkling as to her whereabouts.

He bottled his worry and thought furiously. It stood to reason
that she might return to the source where she'd gotten the most information. He
turned to Thomas. "Would she go to Mrs. Henderson again?"

Thomas muttered sheepishly, his aged face a mass of worry. "I
already checked with her." He shook his gray head. "Nothing."

"Where would she go for information similar to Mrs.
Henderson's?" Stephen asked.

Thomas scratched his chin and pursed his lips. "Don't
rightly know, Mr. Knight. All those years ago, Mrs. Machado was one of the hens
who liked to stir up the rumors. She didn't get the attention she wanted from
her husband's money. But then after Joseph was born, she sorta dropped outta
the limelight."

Stephen passed Malachi a fearful look. "Mrs. Machado? Would
Emma have gone to that house?" Emma's uncle looked horrified at the
possibility.

"She doesn't know about Aaron's death," Malachi
murmured.

"God," Stephen whispered.

"She went once already to interview the sister Phoebe,"
Malachi said, "and was safe enough."

"Everything's changed now," Stephen said. "What
if – "

"What if one of the family is guilty of something, like
the murder of Aaron Machado?" Malachi interrupted.

He cursed himself silently. He'd been so bent on proving
that Aaron Machado was the culprit, if indeed someone other than Alma Bentley were
responsible for Joseph's death, that he'd almost forgotten the multiple motives
the entire Machado clan had to do grave harm to anyone threatening to make
their secrets public.

"You know something," Stephen said.

"Maybe," Malachi answered hooking his jacket from
the chair back and stuffing his arms inside the sleeves, "but let's get
over to the Machado house now. I'll tell you on the way."

"Yes," Stephen agreed. "Thomas, remain here
should Emma return."

But in their hearts they knew she would not.

By the time they arrived at the Machado property, Malachi
had recounted everything that he knew about the family, all that he'd
previously held back, as well as Emma's suspicions surrounding the birth of
Joseph.

Stephen drove the roadster right up to the first outbuilding
sitting back a ways from the road and right of the house proper. Several horses
chomped idly on grass in the corral while a young man raked up muck at the open
stable door. He looked longingly at the Olds before nodding respectfully and returning
to his work.

Malachi approached the young worker first. "Is Mr.
Machado home?"

The boy removed his hat and scratched his face before
looking straight at Malachi's chin. "Uh, dunno, sir."

Malachi took in the wide vacant eyes of a slow-witted boy
and feared he'd get little useful information from him. "What about Mrs.
Machado or Miss Phoebe?"

A wide grin split the boy's face at the mention of Phoebe
and he gestured toward the back of the big house. "There."

Instead of knocking at the front entrance, the two men
walked around to the back, noting the disarray the grounds had fallen into,
even as another worker, an older Mexican man, pulled weeds in the large garden
area.

"What do you think, Stephen?" Malachi asked.

"I haven't been out here in years. I'm surprised to see
how poorly kept the property is."

"I didn't know the family before the trial." Malachi
paused and raised his hand to the back door. "Are the family quite wealthy
then?"

"Ah, yes, richest people in the county, besides my
brother, of course." Stephen snorted. "Not that their money made any
difference in Bigler County."

"How so?"

"No one really accepted them. Money can only open so
many doors, m'boy. After that, it's pedigree." He pierced Malachi with a
knowing look. "You should know that better than anyone."

Malachi nodded shortly. "But is it enough to kill for?"

"Men have done far worse for less compelling reasons."

They stood side by side on the back landing, a rectangular
cemented area that ended in dirt and weeds. The worker in the garden paid them
no heed, but steadily pulled weeds and placed them in a rusty wheelbarrow.

"I wonder why the boy said Phoebe was out here?" Stephen
pounded on the back door at some length, rousing neither the worker nor anyone
in the house.

"No one's here. That's odd, don't you think?"
Malachi said, staring out toward the endless expanse of fruit trees behind the
Machado property.

Stephen shrugged. "This orchard is small compared to
the crop Machado owns. Maybe they're all at one of his larger properties."

"All three of them?" Malachi scoffed. "The
mother, daughter, and father? Not likely I'd say."

"Unless the three of them have business away from their
residence."

"Together, the three of them?"

Stephen nodded. "Business they want to keep private."

Malachi extrapolated in an instant. Emma had approached one
of the three remaining Machados – here in their home – and, foolish girl that
she was – she'd accused someone. "Christ, Stephen, she's in danger again. Do
you know where Machado's other property is?"

"No, but it should be easy to find out. Do you think
Emma's there?"

Malachi's mouth tightened in a hard, determined line. "Yes,
and I imagine she's in a world of trouble."

#

Emma jerked back her hand as though she'd touched a writhing
mass of maggots. In truth, the person in the trunk hadn't been dead very long,
for although the body was cool, some slight warmth emanated through the
shoulders and chest. She madly searched her mind for answers.