Page 35 of Written in Secret (The Art of Love and Danger)

C HAPTER 35

T HE CARRIAGE RUMBLED ALONG S IXTH Street, and Lydia shifted uncomfortably on the bench next to Detective Lawson. He’d assured her where they were going was safe and secluded, but wasn’t this area of town known for Deer Creek Gang attacks? Very few places struck fear in the hearts of the men Papa worked with, but she’d heard them whisper about this place as if it were a living nightmare that might eat them.

Thick humidity made the night sticky and hot, but Lydia tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders. She’d lived enough of a nightmare over the last two weeks. Adding an interaction with the Deer Creek Gang was not something she wanted.

What few gas lamps that existed along the street were either unlit or flickering in fear behind broken glass panels. The two people they’d passed since entering this part of town had scurried along with furtive glances over their shoulders and hands clutched around objects as if prepared to wield them for defense. At one point, Lydia swore she heard gunshots fired in the distance.

Detective Lawson seemed unconcerned as he relaxed into the corner with his arm stretched out along the length of the padded seat back. Perhaps the gang only attacked easy targets who traveled on foot. Being trampled by horse hooves and carriage wheels might be a grim enough prospect that they avoided it. The driver did seem to urge the horses faster through the street now than he had when they’d been in the well-lit part of town.

The carriage slowed to a stop. Detective Lawson opened the door and hopped down before reaching back inside to assist her.

Lydia withdrew. “This is where Abraham agreed for me to hide?”

“He trusted my judgment. Monroe’s partner would never suspect to find you under the protection of the police here.”

It made sense, even if it unnerved her. She accepted his hand and stepped onto the dark street. Detective Lawson paid the driver and waited for him to drive away before guiding her farther down the square and into an alley. Another precaution to hide her location, he assured her. As they cut between several buildings, Lydia’s heart raced. It didn’t help that Detective Lawson walked with his gun out, ready to fire. Didn’t the man know she was an author and dreaming up all sorts of horrible scenarios? He was an officer, for heaven’s sake. The Deer Creek Gang would gut him alive and do unspeakable horrors to her if they caught up to them.

Before a single scenario came to life, Detective Lawson trotted up the steps of a porch at the back of a two-story brick building. Iron bars protected the lone window. Black lettering on the door indicated they were at Napier’s Dry Goods. Napier. Wasn’t that a victim’s name from one of the original cases? Before she could sort through her mental files of research, Lawson gestured for her to precede him up the outdoor stairs to the next level—likely the living quarters for the merchant owner.

“Are we staying with friends of yours?” That would protect her reputation—not that she had much of one since the Dupin debacle.

“No. The living quarters are being renovated before they move in, but he’s allowing me to stay here for a few days.”

She noticed his lack of the word us . “Does he know I’m going to be with you?”

He put his gun away and retrieved keys from inside his coat, ostensibly ignoring her question.

She supposed his friend’s ignorance couldn’t be helped. He had said the fewer people who knew her location, the safer she’d be.

The keys jangled for a moment, and then he ushered her into a dark vestibule before locking the outer door behind them. A faint light glowed under the door leading to the living quarters.

That was odd, considering the urgency with which Detective Lawson had removed her from Nora’s home. Had he come here ahead of time to prepare for her arrival? Or was someone already here? Maybe Abraham?

Detective Lawson guided her into an unfinished kitchen. A single lantern stood on a table with a shotgun propped up so that it aimed at a door on the other side of the room.

What on earth was a booby trap doing facing toward a room?

Her eyes traced the thin cord looped around the trigger backward and up to the ceiling, where it connected to a pulley behind the gun. After passing through the pulley, the line drooped to the door handle and was secured in place. Should anyone from the other room pull the door open, the tension would pull the trigger and fire the gun at them.

But that didn’t make sense.

A booby trap like this should be set up on the inside of the room if the goal was to protect from intruders.

Her stomach dropped. This wasn’t for protection. It was created to imprison.

She glanced at Detective Lawson.

Pride quirked his mouth as he joined her. “Quite ingenious, isn’t it?”

Surely they couldn’t have been that wrong about Billy Poe’s identity.

When she didn’t answer, he slid an arm around her and led her to the door, where he carefully removed the cord from the knob. “This setup made it where I could leave Ingram here alone safely. Not that I expect he’s escaped his restraints.”

Restraints? Ingram?

Good gracious. Detective Talbot Lawson was Billy Poe. How had she not suspected him? She was an author, for heaven’s sake! Twists and unexpected villains were supposed to be her forte.

Detective Lawson turned the handle to reveal her would-be prison.

Enough was enough. She was tired of being the victim of her own stories. This heroine was going to fight, not calmly submit and pray her hero would rescue her.

In a move that would make Nora proud, Lydia twisted to face Detective Lawson, jammed her thumbs into his eyes, and rammed her knee into his groin.

As he yelled and then doubled over, Lydia raced to the vestibule and unlocked the outer door. Lawson’s feet pounded behind her as she flung the door open and ran.

Halfway down the stairs, the man grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked.

Her hands flew to where his fingers sank into her curls, and, not for the first time, she cursed the unruly locks. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t pry his fingers away. When she continued to fight against him, he heaved her backward. Her back slammed into the sharp edge of a step, and she looked up at the reddening face of a man she’d thought one of Cincinnati’s finest.

“That is no way to treat your hero, Lydia.”

For some unfathomable reason, he released her hair.

She scrambled to her feet and pivoted just as a metallic click sounded behind her.

She froze. A person didn’t have to hear that sound more than once to know exactly what it meant. The step above her creaked, then the cool circle of a barrel touched her temple.

“Turn around.”

Would he really shoot her? Supposedly he was in love with her.

Rule number two: never point the muzzle at something you don’t intend to shoot.

Her stomach flipped at the memory of Abraham’s words. Detective Lawson would not make the same mistakes she had. If he had the muzzle directed at her, he intended to shoot.

Slowly she turned. The barrel shifted so that she faced it head-on. So much for the best course of action to never be on the wrong end of a gun. She’d never be able to run for cover, which left only one option. Do whatever he wanted.

“Good. Now take us to our room.”

The use of our stole her breath, but she forced one foot in front of the other as Detective Lawson backed his way up the stairs, maintaining the barrel at eye level. He kept his free, bandaged hand tucked against him and elevated above his heart, a sure sign that it pained him. If she could gouge it with her fingers, his agony might last long enough for her to escape.

If he didn’t pull the trigger and blow her down the stairs first.

That plan wasn’t going to work, at least not right now, but she’d keep it tucked away for the perfect opportunity.

At the entryway, Detective Lawson shifted to walking behind her. She studied the dangling cord. If she yanked it at just the right moment, the shotgun would go off.

Once again, Abraham’s rules stayed her hand.

Always know where you’re pointing and beyond it.

Well, the gun was pointing at Detective Lawson’s back, but she was just beyond him. If the shot passed through him, she might end up shooting herself too. Why couldn’t gun rules be more helpful to her in a situation like this instead of keeping her prisoner to the man’s delusions? It was too much to hope for, but maybe Detective Lawson would forget one and accidentally shoot himself.

They passed through the door into a small room. A man about the size of Marcus Monroe—presumably Mr. Ingram—sat in the corner with shackles around his ankles, hands secured behind his back, and a gag over his mouth. He wriggled and made noises, but nothing discernible. He would be no help in forming an escape plan. And honestly, should she trust a man who had beaten his employer to death? Although “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” had merit.

If writing had taught her anything, it was to keep her mind open to all the possibilities. When she had a better idea of where she stood with Detective Lawson, she could sort through for the most plausible and unexpected option.

There wasn’t much to the room. A narrow bed with a carpetbag at the end took up one wall while a desk with a stack of pages on top sat opposite.

Her manuscript.

She didn’t need to get close enough to read the words to know. The brown-singed edges and soot-smudged top were enough to give it away. What she didn’t recognize was the second stack of written pages next to it. She stepped closer. The red-inked scrawl of Marcus’s editorial marks covered the top sheet. Curiosity was too much. She read the first page and then the second. The words weren’t hers but the amateur work of someone trying to write a crime novel.

“You haven’t reached that part, but Ingram was my choice of victim too.” Detective Lawson spoke at her elbow.

She jammed her hip against the desk in her instinctive attempt to put distance between them, but there was nowhere to go.

His satisfied smirk sent chills coursing down her spine. He toyed with her sleeve, alternating between rubbing the material between his fingertips and drawing flirtatious curved paths up and down the length of her arm. “I wrote this years ago, right after Ingram’s poor excuse for a sentencing. It proves that even before I knew you, we were of the same mind. You and I recognized the need for justice and carried it out when no one else was brave enough to do so. Don’t you see—I’ve waited my whole life for a woman who understood me. We belong together.” He clasped her shoulders with a light touch communicating the possession he claimed over her.

If only she could sink her nails into his burns—but it would only make him angry, and she had nowhere to go. Lydia forced herself to meet his eyes, expecting the deranged gloss of a madman’s. Instead, penetrating clarity stared back at her. He wouldn’t be easily fooled, but maybe if she could balance playing to his delusions and questioning them, she could manipulate him into thinking she supported him. After all, Momma often declared Lydia’s theatrics fit for the stage.

“What about Abraham?”

A muscle along his jaw twitched. “What about him? He’ll never support you or your vision for justice. He’s just a young pup who doesn’t understand the injustice in the world he serves. It’ll be years before he realizes that what we do is the only way to protect and avenge the innocent.”

“He’s a good detective. It won’t be long until he realizes that you are Billy Poe. My Billy Poe.” One word had the power to change the meaning of a sentence and its reception.

As she hoped, claiming him as hers eased his stance. It was disgusting, really, but now more than ever she needed to use the right words from the very first moment she said them. There would be no editing.

“I know. I’d hoped youth would prove his folly, and he’d take my observations and conclusions as his own, but he’s too independent for that. It won’t be long before he realizes Marcus is nothing more than a decoy. We’ll need Ingram’s death staged and us out of the city by morning’s light. Otherwise I might have to kill Hall, and I am loath to do that. But I will.”

Morning light came early in the summer. She checked the watch pinned to her shawl and drew a steadying breath. One o’clock. Roughly five hours until sunrise. She needed to stall Detective Lawson much longer than that. The only tool she had available was writing.

Lord, let it be enough.

“I never finished my manuscript. Ingram doesn’t have an ending.”

The racket from Ingram grew louder as the man fought against his restraints and yelled muffled words at them. Her stomach twisted. It had been alarming enough to be abducted by Mr. Keaton’s family, knowing they wanted to hurt her, but listening to Mr. Clemens talk about the most poetic way for her to die had been a horror she wouldn’t wish on anyone. Not even Mr. Ingram. Nevertheless, if she had to stall for time, she would do it, and hopefully save his life.

She hated to admit it, but Mr. Clemens wasn’t quite the cad she’d thought him to be.

“He does in mine.” Lawson tapped the pages. “I submitted this story to O’Dell last year. Only, Monroe called it ‘lackluster drivel that would better serve as kindling’ and sent it back.”

No wonder he’d had no qualms framing Marcus—he’d experienced at least a partial edit from the man. She well knew how direct and cutting Marcus could be when critiquing a manuscript. But this would provide her the perfect way to stall for time. Editing. The good Lord knew how much she dragged that process out with every manuscript. They could spend days just figuring out the best way to rewrite one scene.

“I’m sure we can work through it together.”

Pleasure at her suggestion eased a bit more of the tension in his stance.

“I’ll need to read your whole manuscript first though. And time to think through the possibilities. The perfect ending is never the first one I write.”

He pulled out the chair and indicated she should sit.

“I’m quite tired. Could you make me a pot of coffee or tea?” If he left, she could rummage through the room and see what was at her disposal for escaping.

Suspicion crinkled his eyes for a moment before a smile re-formed. “Of course. Be warned, if you try to open the door, the shotgun will fire, and a blast of buckshot will go through the wood and plaster. There isn’t a safe place for you.”

It felt as if the blood had drained from her face, but she hoped it didn’t show. She offered a fake smile and picked up Lawson’s manuscript. “Why would I do that? I have reading to do.”

She studied the first page, only half paying attention to the words, and waited until he’d left.

Soon she’d have hot liquid for a weapon. The trick would be coming up with a plan that would save not only herself but Mr. Ingram as well.