Forty-Five
The first wave of rumors rippled through the Red Dog Tavern shortly after midnight. Joshua was alone in a booth at the back. He was dressed like the other patrons, in the rough clothes and heavy boots typical of a man who made his living in dark and dangerous ways. The scar had proven to be an asset in places like the Red Dog and the other establishments he had visited that evening.
He caught some of the low voices in the next booth and was certain he heard Weaver’s name but he could not hear the details. The crime lord’s name was always spoken in a whisper.
He had made the rounds of the gaming hells and taverns near the docks, setting the stage for the trap. There was some gossip about the killer called the Bone Man, but no hard facts. No one seemed to know the identity of his current employer, but there was speculation that he was working for an up-and-coming crime lord who intended to challenge Weaver and the others in the old guard who controlled the criminal underworld.
When the barmaid, an attractive, hard-eyed blonde, approached with his ale, Joshua took out a few extra coins and set them on the table. The woman glanced at the money, interested but wary.
“What do I have to do to earn that much money?” she asked.
“Tell me the news about Weaver.”
She glanced around uneasily and then leaned down to set the ale on the table. She lowered her voice. “No one knows for certain yet but there is word on the street that he’s dead.”
Joshua went cold. “Someone killed him?”
“No, that’s the odd part. They’re saying his heart failed him.”
Joshua thought about what Beatrice had said that afternoon. He is dying.
“Do the rumors say when he died?” Joshua asked.
“It’s very strange. According to the story, he went out to meet someone earlier in the day. When he returned to his office his footman opened the door to his carriage and found him slumped over, dead as you please. Word is his enforcers kept it quiet as long as possible so that they could make one last visit to all of his businesses tonight to collect their protection fees.”
“Which the enforcers will now keep for themselves.” Joshua pushed himself to his feet and grabbed his cane.
He had wasted an entire evening. Weaver had not lived long enough to set the trap.
“What about your ale, sir?” the barmaid called.
Joshua did not respond. He made his way through the crowded room, desperate to get to the door. His hand was a fist around the hilt of the cane. He had to fight the frustration and cold anger that spilled through him. He was vaguely aware that people scrambled to move out of his path but he paid no attention, intent only on getting outside.
He knew that Lancing’s tentacles were closing around Beatrice at that very moment. So much time lost.
Hazelton will protect her, he thought. But even as he tried to reassure himself, he knew that he could no longer be certain of anything. He had been wrong too often in this case, and Beatrice would pay the price.
He finally made it outside onto the street. The chilly night air and the stench of the river helped him focus. He forced himself to control his breathing, slowing it down, reining in his emotions. He could not think clearly when his brain was consumed by thoughts conjured up by his feverish imagination.
There was no point dwelling on the hours that had been lost. His original strategy lay in ruins. He had to craft a new one immediately or there was no hope. Everything inside him was shouting that time had at last truly run out.
He made his way down the street, heading toward the corner where Henry waited with the carriage. The soft thud of his cane and the echo of the hitch in his stride were the loudest sounds in the night.
He was so intent on formulating a new plan that he did not sense the presence of the killer until the skull-faced man lunged toward him from the alley.
It should have been a killing blow—it would have been a killing blow—but at the last instant he heard the assassin’s sharp intake of breath.
Old habits and long training took over. Instinctively, Joshua whirled to confront the attacker. The action sent him spinning off balance. His bad leg gave way beneath him and he tumbled to the ground—and accidentally saved his own life in the process.
The sudden change in the position of his intended victim threw the assassin off his mark. Carried forward by his own momentum, he stumbled a few steps past Joshua, caught himself and swung around to make another attempt.
Joshua struggled to get to his knees. He realized he was still gripping the hilt of his cane. He swung the stick in a slashing arc to fend off the killer.
The Bone Man was ready for the move. He lashed out with one booted foot and connected with the cane.
The bone-jarring blow sent the steel-and-ebony stick flying from Joshua’s hand. It clattered on the pavement.
The killer glided forward in a low rush. His eyes were pools of empty night. The blade in his hand glittered darkly in the light of the nearby gas lamp.
He did not notice the small throwing knife that Joshua had drawn from the cane until the blade sank straight into his throat.
He grunted and stumbled to a halt. Blood boiled in his mouth. He looked at Joshua in disbelief.
He sank to his knees, toppled onto his side and collapsed faceup.
An acute silence filled the street. Joshua gathered himself and got to his feet. He limped to where the cane lay on the paving stones. Stooping low, he picked up the stick.
He made his way to the body and used the cane to send the Bone Man’s blade skidding away from the limp hand. There was no such thing as too many precautions.
Bracing himself with the cane, he leaned down and pulled the small throwing knife from the dead man’s throat. He wiped the blade clean on the Bone Man’s clothes and slid the weapon back into the top of the cane.
He went toward the small, fast carriage on the corner, thinking about one of the maxims he had learned from Victor. Everyone has a blind spot.
“You were mine, Victor.”