The Furies (57 page)

He pressed the tips of his gloved fingers together.

“You want Kent’s very much, don’t you? I never cared for that idea once I learned of your—ah—democratic philosophies. Now I have an even more compelling reason for keeping the firm out of your hands. I assure you, my dear—it’s never going to be yours.”

“Mr. Stovall, you’re exhausting my patience. You’ve made it clear that you’ve defeated m—”

“But I haven’t! Not completely! You overlooked one additional possibility—”

Her hands pressed against the desk, she whispered, “What possibility?”

“Why—the mortality of human flesh. I am older than you by several years. Suppose I were to be struck by a sudden illness. Suppose I were to die. My estate—to be handled by my future wife and my two cousins who sit on the board—might very well accept any reasonable offer for Kent and Son. But it will never happen now. I intend to issue explicit instructions to Miss Van Bibb—to my cousins—and to my attorneys—that you never be permitted to purchase the company. Never as long as you live. Nor any of your heirs, for that matter. Ah, that hurts, doesn’t it? Well, suffer with it. Till the moment you die, suffer with the knowledge that even tens of millions of dollars will never give your family what you’ve striven so desperately to acquire—”

Amanda absorbed the words almost as if they were physical blows. She knew he meant every one. He’d outpointed her again; she’d never thought of the contingency he’d described—

“That’s what you came to tell me, Mr. Stovall?”

“That and one thing more. I want to learn a little more about you—”

The teasing smile twisted his lips. She was frightened again, trying to decipher his intent.

“That’s correct—I want to know more about your background. Your life in California—and wherever else you’ve been. I plan to dispatch a pair of trusted investigators to the gold fields. I’m sure a woman as—determined as you can’t have survived merely by the exercise of piety and the performance of good works. I’d like to know how checkered your past really is—”

Amanda shook her head, still unable to fathom his purpose. What could he possibly learn that would hurt her? That she’d shot a man? That she’d run a brothel in Bexar? Neither fact would be to her credit if it were made public. But scandal couldn’t prevent her from continuing her business affairs, any more than it had prevented him. And she had no hope of being accepted in the higher echelons of society. Unearthing the past seemed a wholly futile exercise—

Or so she believed until she asked, “Why?”

She turned icy when he said, “You have a son, do you not?”

Oh God, no,
she thought. Of course that was the reason.

“An heir to the name of your pretentious family?”

“I—”

“Come, I know you do! And I’m sure you have high ambitions for him. Commendable. Let’s hope
his
reputation isn’t blackened too terribly by whatever I might discover. Because I’ll make it public, I assure you. Any shame which attaches to you will attach to him. In short, I’ll do everything in my power to make his life difficult—to prevent him from rising in the world—I will smear and stain your name—and his—until any aspirations you may have had for your son achieving respectability will be quite gone. No one attacks me with impunity, my dear woman.” The skull smile widened. “No one.”

“Stovall—” She could barely speak.

“Ah! I’ve touched a genuinely sensitive spot at last!”

“Don’t do anything to harm my boy. This is only between us.”

“Indeed it is not. And I’m encouraged by your reaction. There must be something you don’t care to have aired about—” Abruptly, he seemed nonplussed for the first time. “I fail to understand why you’re smiling.”

It was a smile bordering on tears. “Do you? I’ll tell you. I once had a plan to use much the same strategy on you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your affairs in the Five Points—with a young man and woman named Joseph and Aggie Phelan—”

Stovall’s gloved hands clenched. His cane slid off his knees to the floor.

“I know about them. At one time I thought of informing Van Bibb’s daughter.”

Warily: “But you didn’t—”

“No, I didn’t.”

He breathed loudly, relieved. “Scruples. That, of course, is the difference between us.”

“I didn’t do it, Stovall—and I ask you to be decent enough to act with similar restraint. I don’t care what kind of filth you spread about me. Just don’t hurt my son—”

Almost weeping, she bent across the desk. “Let’s call a truce. You have the company. Isn’t that enough?”

She was desperate now. If his inquiry agents followed the trail of her past from San Francisco to Los Angeles, then back to Texas, every chance Louis had for a respectable life could be wiped out—

His mother murdered a man.

His mother kept a whorehouse.

His mother was
scum—

Humiliated and hating the man smiling at her beside the hearth, she did the hardest thing she’d ever done.

She begged. “
Please,
Stovall! A truce!”

He laughed in a merry way. “A truce?” He raised a glove to the white silk. “With a family who did this—?”

The glove lifted the silk. She pressed her knuckles to her mouth as sour vomit climbed into her throat. She averted her head, squeezed her eyes shut—

When she looked again, he had let the silk fall back into place.

“No, my dear Mrs. Kent, a truce is out of the question.” His voice grew steadily louder. “If it’s humanly possible—and one or two of your inadvertent reactions make me think it is—I’m going to see that your boy is never welcomed in the kind of home where I’m sure you’d wish him welcomed. Let him live with your money. Let him derive what satisfaction he can from that, because he’ll never have the satisfaction of being called a gentleman—nor the satisfaction of owning Kent and So—”

The rest of the sentence was blurred by the explosive sound of shattering glass.

Hamilton Stovall grabbed up his hat and cane, leaped to his feet, spun toward the library doors. Another window broke. The front sitting room—

She heard the scream of a frightened horse, Michael shouting from the kitchen—

Stovall loped toward the doors. He was two steps from them when Louis burst in.

The boy stopped in the doorway, glanced briefly at Stovall, then at his mother. Amanda saw the panic on his face.

“Ma, there are men out front! Twenty or thirty—come from nowhere—”

She heard shouting, cursing, the heavy thud of fists pounding the front door.

Rynders’ thugs. Waiting until dark to strike—

Stovall realized the danger, even though he didn’t understand its source or cause. With a shrill yell—“Get out of the way!”—he bolted for the hall.

Louis didn’t react quickly enough, didn’t step aside. Stovall’s cane slashed wildly. The gold knob struck the boy’s temple.

Louis fell sideways, his head slamming the heavy woodwork of the doorframe. He cried out, tumbled to the carpet as fists beat harder on the front door—

He’s killed him,
Amanda thought, all the hatred bursting loose within her.
HE’S KILLED LOUIS—

Screaming for his carriage driver, Stovall stepped over the still form sprawled in the library entrance. Amanda wasn’t even conscious of tearing open the drawer of her desk, pulling out the old Colt and firing.

A red splotch appeared on the dark fabric of Hamilton Stovall’s coat, between his shoulders. He pitched forward, his hat rolling in one direction, his cane in the other. He fell at the feet of Michael Boyle, who had appeared suddenly from the rear of the hall.

Unable to speak, Michael stared at the woman behind the desk. Her right arm was extended to its full length. The gun in her hand showed no sign of motion. A tiny wisp of smoke curled out of the foot-long barrel.

Abruptly, Amanda came back to life. She ran to the fallen boy, flinging the Colt on the carpet as she knelt between Louis in the doorway and Stovall’s body in the hall. She touched the boy’s lips—

“He’s breathing!”

“What in God’s name did Stovall—?”

“Hit him,” she said. “With his cane—”

“There she is!”
someone outside yelled. “That’s the one who hid the nigger!”

She twisted around, saw white, distorted faces pressed against the narrow windows on either side of the front door.

Another voice: “Where’s Mickey? Mickey has the pistol—”

A third: “Don’t wait for Mickey! Break the goddamn door!”

Mr. Mayor meowed at the noise of shoulders, battering the wood. The door gave off an ominous crack. The cat arched his back and crept away from the shouting, the thudding, the fist that suddenly smashed window glass and reached around for the bolt—

Amanda jumped up. “Take Brigid out the back. Brigid and Louis.”

Michael scowled, pointing at the darkening skin just below the boy’s hairline. “It could be dangerous to move him—”

“It’ll be a lot more dangerous if he stays here! Get him to a doctor!
Now!
”

“I can’t leave you to face—”

“
Michael
,
I’m not going!
You can carry Louis better and faster than I. There are things here I have to protect—”

The front door splintered. Scraps of wood fell inward. The disembodied hand, bloodied by the broken glass, was still groping for the bolt. Michael’s face showed his agony as he tried to decide what to do.

“I’ll be all right!” She held up the revolver, turned the cylinder. “I’ve four more shots—and I’m sure the neighbors have already summoned the police—”

From the portico came another strident yell:
“Shoot the fuckin’ horse
,
Mickey!”

An explosion. A wild scream of animal pain.

“There goes the driver!
Catch him
—!”

With a grind and crash, the carriage was overturned. Michel and Amanda heard the driver’s shrieks—

“Damn you, Michael,
go
!”

The young Irishman rushed to Louis, lifted him in both arms. With one last look at his employer, he hurried toward the dining room. He moved swiftly; yet Amanda was conscious of the extreme care with which he held the still figure of the boy—

Let him get away, she prayed.
Let my son live
—

The red hand found the bolt at last. As she retreated toward the library, the already ruined front door swung inward, wrenched off its top hinge by the force of the men crowding against it. In the drive, the coachman was still screaming.

Just as she started to close the library doors, she glimpsed a lick of flame. The carriage set afire—

Burly, oafish, the men spilled into the long front hall.

One who was faster than the rest leaped at Mr. Mayor. The frightened torn started to run. The thug caught him by the tail.

The white cat yowled, claws slashing. The thug swung him hard. The cat’s head broke open, spattering the wall—

Amanda saw that an instant before she locked the doors. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the wood, listening to the sounds of the carnage: shouts, filthy language, furniture breaking, windows smashing, draperies being ripped down—

She stumbled around behind the desk. She put the Colt on a pile of papers, picked up the display case containing Jared’s medallion. She carried it to the mantel and set it up beside the tea bottle. She retrieved the Colt, returned to the mantel and stood there, waiting—

Bart said it would come to this. Take up the sword
—
perish with the sword.

Perhaps if I hadn’t hated Stovall so much
—
or wanted Kent’s so badly
—
Louis wouldn’t have attacked Kathleen
—

Nor this mob come
—

And Stovall wouldn’t have hit my son
—

If, IF!
—the complexities of cause and effect tormented her as she waited for the first onslaught against the library doors—

Shoulders slammed the outside of the panels. Her heart beat frantically as she positioned herself two steps out from the mantel.

The bolt housing tore loose.

The doors swayed.

Buckled—

“There’s the bitch!”

“Give her what-for—”

“For Kathleen McCreery!”

She had a wild glimpse of half a dozen men milling in the hall. One had his penis in his hand, urinating on the carpet—

The men charged her across the wreckage of the doors. She shot the first one in the chest.

He screamed and slapped his frayed jacket, slammed backwards into the arms of his companions. While she revolved the cylinder, the thugs retreated into the hall again, yelling and cursing as they tried to free themselves from the weight of the dead man. One thug stepped on Stovall’s head.

“Mickey, damn ye, where are ye, boy?”

“Mickey
,
bring your gun
—
!”

The whole house thundered: heavy boots slammed the ceiling; glass crashed and tinkled; great thumps and thuds and splintering sounds built to a deafening din.

The thugs advanced cautiously outside the library doorway, using the walls to hide themselves from Amanda. One bearded face suddenly peered around the splintered frame. She aimed the Colt. The face disappeared. In the distance, bells clanged. Police wagons. Blocks away, but coming fast. Distracted by the sound, she failed to see the hand that snaked around the doorframe clasping a small, shiny-plated pistol. The moment she did see it, the pistol gave off a loud pop.

She started to duck behind Michael’s favorite chair. Something struck her below her left breast. She glanced down, faint all at once. Her dress was stained dark red.

She dropped to her knees, one hand on the chair so she wouldn’t fall. The wound began to hurt.

“You got ’er, Mickey!” a man howled, charging into the room. “Let’s tear the fuckin’ place apar—”

She shot him between the legs. The bullet lifted him off his feet and hurled him on top of the man she’d shot in the chest.

The library was smoky now. She gasped for breath, stood up despite the pain, stretched out her left hand, groping for the mantel—

The pain was constant, hard to bear. But she wouldn’t let them reach her. She wouldn’t let them pull down the sword or the rifle. Wouldn’t let them smash the green bottle or the case with Jared’s medallion—