Something hard and cold touched his palm. She brought up her other hand to curl his fingers around it, her touch as frigid as her gaze. Then she turned her back on him and moved across the floor to resume her vigil beside her brothers. Luke opened his hand to stare down at what she’d given him.
Her wedding ring rested against his palm, glittering and cold.
Luke left Doctor Mosley’s and headed for the Golden Slipper, his legs numb, his chest hollow. As he shoved open the bat-wing doors of the saloon and stepped inside, he froze for a moment to stare. At the people. At their hopeless faces. The sounds reverberated against his eardrums: harsh, almost desperate laughter; tinkling piano music that seemed to have no tune. The rancid smells of perfume, liquor, and humanity at its worst closed in around him.
His shoes felt stuck to the floor where men had spit phlegm and wads of tobacco gone slimy with saliva. His birthplace, he thought vaguely. This was the kind of filth from which he’d sprung, the spawn of some unknown, foul-mouthed drunkard who’d spilled his seed between a woman’s thighs, then walked away, never looking back. And why should he have? The night of Luke’s conception, his mother had undoubtedly serviced a long line of men, and knowing her, she probably hadn’t even bothered to wash up between customers.
When Khristos Zerek grew up, he’d think of sweet things when he recalled his sister’s affectionate hugs. Love and laughter, a caring touch. All Luke remembered when he thought of his mother was the rank odor of a woman in need of a bath. That and the feel of her hand striking his cheek.
This was Luke’s heritage, a place like the Golden Slipper, where men came to satisfy their perverted lusts, and women were paid coin to satisfy them. He’d suckled as a babe at a whore’s breast and was still suckling at the breasts of whores as a man. There was no way out and never would be. His blood ran thick with the taint.
“Listen up!” Luke yelled.
The piano player froze and glanced back over his shoulder. Men at the gaming tables lowered their cards to stare. The kohl-lined eyes of whores Luke had once romped in bed with became fixed on him. The rich and powerful Luke Taggart was about to speak, and woe to the poor devil, male or female, who didn’t pay attention. As a kid, Luke had hungered for respect, for just one person to look at him as if he were somebody. Well, now they were looking, and he felt nothing—certainly no sense of pride or accomplishment.
“Today,” Luke said loudly, “Milo Zerek was shot down in the street only a few paces away from this establishment by a drunk who believed Zerek was a claim jumper. The reason everyone believes that is because I lied. I won’t compound the terrible wrong I’ve done Milo Zerek by giving you details about why I wanted him arrested. Let’s just say I’m a conniving bastard, and leave it at that. I hired a man to deceive Milo Zerek and convince him to sign a partnership agreement to dig on one of my claims—a claim that Milo Zerek was led to believe was legally filed upon by the man I hired. A rich claim on the back side of Taggart Mountain, where Milo knew there was probably gold. He fell for the trick, and I escorted the marshal up there to catch Milo red-handed, digging on my land. I wanted Zerek and his son Ambrose arrested so they’d be out of my way.”
The expressions on the faces of Luke’s audience didn’t change. The same reverent attendance, the same respectful homage. It occurred to Luke in that moment that he could tell these people he’d brutally murdered a half dozen people, and they’d still just sit there, fearful of judging him, not even with so much as a look.
“As many of you are aware, I’m sure,” Luke went on, “I married Cassandra Zerek, and from that moment, I came to think of her family as my own. Now that Milo Zerek has been shot because of my actions, I’m sure the Zereks won’t lay claim to me, but I do lay claim to them.” Luke paused to directly meet the gazes of several people. “Put the word out. If anyone in this town harms the Zereks, that person will answer to me. If they ask for credit, they’d better get it. I’ll guarantee payment on their charges. If one of them asks for work, create a job, and it’d better be a damned good one. I’ll cover the wages. In short, if you encounter anyone in the Zerek family, treat them as you would me or be prepared to suffer the consequences.”
The ensuing silence was brittle. Luke stood there for several seconds, looking from one person to the next. Then, before turning to leave, he said, “I’ll remember all your faces, and I’m commissioning each of you to deliver the message to everyone in this town. If one damned thing happens to Cassandra Zerek or any of her family, the people in this room will be the ones to suffer for it. I promise you that.”
After departing from the gambling establishment, Luke headed directly for St. Mary’s. Father Tully answered Luke’s urgent knock on the rectory door. The plump priest, whose black shirt and pants were streaked with flour, wore two white linen towels knotted together and tied about his thick waist to serve as an apron. He wiped his doughy hands on the cloth as he ran a kindly gaze over Luke.
“Milo Zerek has been shot,” Luke blurted out.
Father nodded, his eyes darkening with sadness. “I know, lad. I was called directly after to administer last rites.”
Luke’s eyes burned. He averted his gaze for a moment. “I was surprised not to see you over there when I stopped in.”
“Yes, well, I stayed with ’em fer a bit, then decided me time could be better spent. Forgive me appearance,” the priest said warmly, gesturing down at himself. “Makin’ biscuits, I am, for me dinner. Thought I’d bake up a few extra fer the family.” He chuckled. “Me largest mixin’ bowl has proved to be not quite large enough.”
Of course, Luke thought. How like Father Tully to be making biscuits—probably enough for a regiment—which he would claim were leftovers that would go moldy if the Zereks didn’t help eat them.
After wiping the interior doorknob clean with his makeshift apron, the priest bumped the door farther open with an elbow, which happened to be one of the few clean spots on him. “Come in, Luke. Come in and feel welcome.” When Luke stepped inside, the priest added, “If ye’d shut the door, I’d be grateful. Me hands are a bit of a mess.”
Luke closed the door and leaned against it, his legs feeling oddly weak. “Father, I need to talk.”
Tully motioned with a dough-covered hand for Luke to follow him down a dimly lighted hallway that spilled into a brilliantly white kitchen. White walls, white cupboards, even a white tablecloth over the mahogany table. Oddly enough, instead of seeming stark, the brick-floored room seemed cheery, the monotonous sameness lending it a feeling of spaciousness it might otherwise have lacked. The single wall ornament was a wooden cross. No figure of Christ hung upon it, which Luke appreciated. As firm a believer as he’d recently become, that didn’t necessarily mean he considered himself to be on good terms with the Almighty.
“Talk away,” Father Tully said as he resumed his chore of rolling out biscuit dough on a flour-sprinkled oilcloth. “Ye’ll excuse me if I cut out me biscuits and stick ’em in t’oven. ’Tis hungry they’ll be, whether they realize it or not. Especially the little fellow. I’ve got a weddin’ scheduled fer this evenin’, I do. No rest fer the wicked, as they say.” The priest swung his head toward a cupboard. “Ye’ll find a mug in there. Help yerself to some coffee. ’Tis freshly brewed.”
Luke glanced at the well-scrubbed coffeepot set away from the heat atop the iron cookstove. “No, thank you, Father. I’m having trouble swallowing my own spit right now.”
Tully chuckled. “Ye were havin’ no trouble guzzlin’ earlier today, if ye don’t mind me makin’ the observation. So, what is it ye wish to talk to me about?”
Luke sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “About the Zereks. They won’t accept any help from me, and I know that if any family on earth ever needed it, they do.”
“Yes, well, ye can’t hardly be blamin’ ’em, now can ye?”
“No, Father. All the same, I’d like to help them. I was thinking that—well, if some anonymous person were to make a sizable donation to the church,
and you were to pass on that money to them, a little bit here, and a little bit there, to see them over this rough spot…” Luke’s voice trailed away. “They’d accept help from you, Father, where they won’t from me.”
“Yes,” the priest said thoughtfully, “I reckon they would, at that.”
“Well?”
Tully kept rolling and patting his dough. “What ye’re askin’ me to do is lie to ’em, Luke, about where the money is comin’ from.”
“A white lie, Father.” Luke swallowed and closed his eyes for a second. “They’ve got no money. Not a cent. Cassandra could have sold her wedding ring, but instead she gave it back to me. How will they eat? Or stay warm? Right now, Ambrose is glued to his father’s bedside. He can’t be counted on to provide for them.”
“’Tis a serious situation, to be sure.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
“I did no’ say that, now did I? I can’t be lyin’ to the people, lad. ’Tis another of those little luxuries denied me, the tellin’ of white lies, now that I’m a priest.” He smiled at Luke over his shoulder. “In me experience, ’tis just as well. I’m a terrible liar, ye see. Ne’er did get it down to a fine art, if ye know what I mean.”
“Then what if I just gave you a bunch of money for the church? You could take from that to give to them. Simply tell them the gifts came from church funds.”
Father Tully heaved a weary sigh and punched the dough with his fist. When he turned his back to the counter and fixed his gaze on Luke, his expression was filled with sadness. “Luke, me boy, ye just ne’er learn, do ye? A lie is a lie. Ye can twist it and turn it. Ye can dress it up, or ye can dress it down. But in the end, ’tis still a lie.” He held up a hand. “Understand, please, that I know yer heart is in the right place. ’Tis fair bleeding out of yer eyes right now, fer all to see. Ye adore that wee lass as well, deny it though ye may. But ye’ve got to learn, lad, that yer money is no’ the answer to everythin’ that happens!”
Luke threw up his arms in sheer frustration. “It’s all I’ve got, damn it! How else can I help them, Father? You tell me that, goddammit, and I’ll go do it! You tell me!” He waited, but the priest wasn’t forthcoming with any answers. “I caused this mess. I’ve got to fix it somehow. At least help them a little. The doctor bill alone will be far more than they can pay.”
“Forget yer money,” Father said softly. “That is me advice to ye, lad. Forget ye’ve got it.”
Luke gaped at him. “And?” he asked loudly. “What then? For the sake of argument, let’s pretend for a moment that I haven’t a cent!” Luke held out his hands. “I’m broke. Not a penny to my name. A whore’s bastard. How can I help them? Trust me, I’ve been there, Father, and I couldn’t even help myself.”
Father smiled slightly. “Be on yer way.” He nodded at the doorway. “Go on, lad, and just keep on pretendin’, will ye? That yer a penniless whore’s bastard whose heart is fair breakin’ o’er what ye’ve done.”
“And then what?” Luke asked, so frustrated he wanted to grab the priest and shake him.
“Follow yer nose,” Father Tully said solemnly.
It was nearly dark when Luke left the rectory, and the clouds overhead that had spilled occasional bursts of rain all day had finally opened up to deliver a deluge. He stood on the porch, eyes closed, face lifted to the pummeling raindrops. A penniless whore’s bastard. He tried to clear his mind and fill it with that reality, an easy enough thing to do since he’d lived more than half his life under just those circumstances. Now what?
A rueful smile touched his mouth. Ten years ago, on a rainy night like this, with not a penny in his pocket, he would have headed downtown to pick some poor sot’s pocket. That definitely wasn’t what Father Tully had had in mind, Luke felt sure. Nonetheless, he decided to pick a pocket anyway, this time his own. He wrapped the money in his handkerchief and placed the bundle as close to the rectory door as he could to protect it from the rain. A small anonymous gift.
As Luke walked away into the twilight, his tightly woven jacket repelling rain like the feathers on a duck’s back, he smiled humorlessly. Father Tully would know where the money had come from, of course. Knowing that old fart, Luke imagined the priest would hem and haw, but in the end, he’d give the money to the Zereks, telling them, in all honesty, that he didn’t know for sure who had left it.
There was more than one way to skin a cat, and Luke knew most of them.
He hauled in a deep breath, feeling better, if only marginally so. At least he’d know Cassandra and Khristos weren’t going to go hungry. His money was the only clean thing he had to offer them, for Christ’s sake. He’d come by his original fortune honestly, and he’d invested wisely since. Though shrewd and heartless in his business negotiations, he’d never actually stolen from or lied to anyone to make an advantageous financial deal since he’d struck it rich. It wasn’t how he’d made his money that had been so wrong, but the way he’d chosen to spend a large share of it, mostly on gambling, drink, and women. As wrong as that may have been, it didn’t make the rest of his money dirty, dammit. And since he had so much to spare, why not put it to good use for a change?
His pockets completely empty for the first time in a decade, Luke headed for Mosley’s office. When he arrived, he found Lycodomes curled up in front of the door. The huge dog slapped his soggy tail against the cobblestones, his canine grin the only truly understanding greeting Luke had received all day.
“Hello, Lycodomes,” Luke said softly.
The dog whined and rose up on his forelegs as Luke sat down. The close proximity to Lycodomes’s tongue earned Luke several wet kisses along his jaw. He looped an arm around the animal’s neck and pressed his face against rain-soaked fur. Odd, that. The dog smell seemed pleasant to him now—a comforting familiarity in a world that had turned topsy-turvy.
“At least you’re still my friend,” Luke murmured, ruffling the dog’s ears and scratching his broad head. “Isn’t that a hell of a note? In the beginning, you were the one who saw straight through me and hated my guts.”
Lycodomes nudged Luke’s neck with a cold, wet nose.
“Now, you’re the only one in the whole Zerek bunch who can abide me.”
Luke had the strange feeling that the canine was the only creature on earth who truly understood him. He remembered Cassandra’s saying once that Lycodomes was an excellent judge of character. A burning sensation washed over Luke’s eyes. He guessed she wouldn’t believe that now.
Giving the dog a final pat, Luke leaned his head against the clapboard and closed his eyes, prepared to wait for news of Milo’s condition, even if he had to sit there in the rain all night. The downpour soon soaked his trouser legs where they extended beyond the shelter of the eave, calling to his mind the fact that Lycodomes’s splint was supposed to be kept dry. Luke peeled off his jacket and spread it over the dog.
The canine whined, the sound conveying what sounded to Luke like gratitude. He smiled slightly. “Don’t start thinking I’m a softhearted animal lover,” he warned. “It’s just that you’re the only friend I’ve got left. Don’t you go getting sick on me, you mangy mongrel. Then where the hell will I be?”
TWENTY-FIVE
Cassandra perched woodenly on the waiting room chair between her brothers, her chest aching with pent-up tears and her face numb. For hours, they had sat thus, like studies for a family portrait, missing the most important member. Cassandra guessed it was well after midnight by now. Outside the window of the waiting room, rain pattered steadily against the cobblestones, like the weeping of angels holding vigil on high, shedding tears for her papa.
Father Tully had visited several times, the last a few hours before. He’d brought them a package of biscuits large enough to sustain them for several days and offered yet another heartfelt prayer for her papa’s recovery. Before taking his leave, Father had divulged the welcome news that the drunkard who’d shot their papa had been arrested and was in jail. Though Cassandra knew it wasn’t very charitabl
e, she was glad to know the man would be punished. She only wished another certain individual she knew would get his comeuppance as well.
Weary of sitting, Cassandra longed to leave her chair and pace, yet she remained frozen, locked in a torturous suspense. Each of her brothers held one of her hands, Ambrose clamping down on her fingers with a bone-shattering force that conveyed his agony, Khristos clinging to her with both hands, a frightened little boy who’d already lost his mama long ago and now might lose his papa.
For both their sakes, Cassandra knew she had to be strong, that she couldn’t let herself fall apart, but exhaustion and heartache had taken their toll. Her body ached, her legs and arms felt as if they weighed a thousand pounds, acidic flames licked up from her stomach to burn her throat and send pain dancing along her ribs. One second, she wanted to leap up and scream, her heart hurt so much, and the next second, all she could think to do was pray—disjointed prayers that circled endlessly in her mind, little snatches of the Hail Mary and Our Father and self-composed entreaties. Please, God, please, God.
She tried her best not to think about Luke. When images of his face came into her head, it was all she could do to remain sitting still. Rage. She wanted to walk over to his house, storm through the front door, and scratch his eyes out. If not for Luke Taggart’s lies, her sweet papa wouldn’t be lying inside the surgery, fighting for his life with every breath. For that, Cassandra could never forgive Luke, no matter what Father Tully said. Never, not as long as she lived.
Yet Father Tully was right about one thing. The helpless fury she felt toward Luke was a piercing agony, like a pick being driven straight through her heart. Why? That was the question that bludgeoned her weary brain. Why had Luke done this to them? She had loved him so much, so very much. Still loved him, God help her, which was why thinking of him and picturing his face made her feel as if she were dying inside, inch by torturous inch.