Page 37 of Written in Secret (The Art of Love and Danger)

C HAPTER 37

T IME WAS GROWING SHORT . L YDIA could tell by Lawson’s agitated pacing behind her.

She’d stalled for four hours reading and commenting on his manuscript and another thirty minutes in brainstorming a list of poetic methods of justice to inflict upon Mr. Ingram. If she managed to stay Lawson’s hand for another half hour, she’d consider it a miracle.

Nothing was going according to plan. The coffee idea had been futile. He kept the pot and only put enough in her cup for one or two sips at a time. And all that time he’d spent away preparing it, she’d not managed to find one suitable piece of anything that could be used to free Mr. Ingram or stop Lawson from overpowering an escape attempt.

Not that she wanted to free Mr. Ingram anymore. She’d removed the gag so they could form a plan, and less than a minute later, she’d stuffed it back in his mouth. Nothing but profanities and threats toward Detective Lawson and her had spewed from his mouth. She was the villain, and he intended to get revenge. Given the man had been convicted of murder, she was willing to take him at his word on that particular threat. Especially now that he’d heard her help Lawson cultivate ideas that made her nauseated to even think about.

“You have thirty ideas written on that sheet.” Lawson jabbed a finger toward the page in front of her. “One of them has to be grand enough to prove to the world that justice should be upheld and not twisted for personal gain.”

“I’m so tired, I can’t even tell anymore.” It was an excuse but not a pretend one. Her head still ached from his yanking her hair, and her eyes felt like they were crossed. “Maybe we should sleep on it for a few hours and then pick one.”

“The sun will be up soon. Patrick is an early riser. He’ll show up not long after that to stock the shelves.”

All the better, in her opinion. Then she could scream for help.

Somewhere outside, a gunshot cracked.

Had the police arrived? Or was the Deer Creek Gang creating mischief outside the building?

Muffled shouting arose, like a riot had broken out in the street.

Lydia jumped from her chair and skirted around Mr. Ingram to yank open the only window. The shouting grew louder, but she couldn’t tell what was transpiring. Another building blocked the view of whatever was happening on the main road. What little she could see of the alley below was empty. With a deep breath to overcome her fear of heights and falling, she leaned out and peered to her left. A crowd of men pressed forward, jumping, yelling, and waving money in the air.

It didn’t look like a riot. But it didn’t look like the police either.

Lawson yanked her back and took her place.

The thought to grab his legs and shove him out the window flitted through her mind, but he straightened and slammed it shut before she could act.

“I’ll find out what’s going on.” He pulled a set of handcuffs from his waist. “You stay put. I can’t risk your trying to get their attention.” He locked one bracelet around her wrist, then forced her to the foot of the brass bed, where he locked the other around a pole. “If you manage to get free, don’t forget that gun will fire at you if you open the door.”

He strode from the room. The handle jostled, proving his warning wasn’t an idle threat. The cord waited to thwart any escape attempt.

Well, if she couldn’t escape, she could at least block the man’s return.

She adjusted the bracelet lower on the pole and gripped the bottom of the bed. With much grunting, huffing, and sweating, she managed to shift the bed so that it stretched the width of the room and blocked the door. The only problem was that left her wedged between the bed and the wall. It was a precarious position to be in should the gun go off, but Lord willing, Abraham would come along and dismantle the thing before that ever happened.

Only Officer Yount made it to the building before spectators gathered for the fight. Eager to prove himself, Yount volunteered to stand guard at the front entrance stairs despite being surrounded by Deer Creek Gang members. He tucked his coat and hat behind some crates and ruffled his hair to blend in with the other spectators. Nothing could be done to conceal his uniform pants, but hopefully the fight’s patrons would be too engrossed in the boxing match to notice.

That left Abraham to enter through the back and face Lawson alone—at least until other officers arrived.

He should wait, but Clemens was already working the growing crowd into a lather. The man was more worried about garnering bets than tempering the crowd until Abraham could reach the access stairs undetected.

As groups of men arrived and formed a human fighting ring, Abraham crept as close to the wall as possible down the alley. Just as he reached the cover of the porch, a gunshot rang out from the front.

The fight had begun, and time was against him.

Abraham slipped up the stairs. Keeping his weapon ready, he gritted his teeth against the pain as he used his burned hand to unlock the door and gently push it open. The darkened vestibule led to another door, where light shone beneath.

Confirmation that someone, hopefully Lawson, was here.

He lifted a prayer, then gently pushed on the second door. It swung partially open without squeaking. Footsteps moved at a quick pace, growing fainter as they neared the building’s front. Everything else was quiet.

He slid through the half-open door into an unfinished room coated in sawdust and stacked with construction supplies.

If he’d had any doubts as to Lawson’s purpose in hiding here, they were gone the moment he spotted the propped-up, single-barrel shotgun, ready to fire. At least he knew where Lydia and Ingram were.

Now the question was, did he take Lawson by surprise or free Lydia and Ingram so they could escape the building before Lawson returned?

Scraping sounds came from the room, like someone was dragging a piece of furniture across the floor.

With the noise going on inside there, Lawson was bound to hurry back.

Abraham pressed himself against the wall next to the door leading to the front.

By the time the scraping stopped, Lawson’s footfalls announced his return.

Abraham held perfectly still, his weapon ready to press against Lawson’s head the moment he stepped into the room.

The footsteps slowed, then stopped.

A moment too late, Abraham realized the lantern cast his shadow across the open doorway.

Lawson came through the door low and jammed the muzzle of his gun into Abraham’s gut.

Abraham dropped the muzzle of his own gun to Lawson’s temple, careful to keep his finger away from the trigger. He wanted Lawson alive. “You fire, and you’re a dead man.”

“So are you, only my death will be quick, and yours will be a lingering, suffering one.” Lawson slowly stood his full height, keeping his muzzle pressed into Abraham’s belly. “I always knew you’d make a great detective. You just weren’t supposed to become one so quickly.”

Abraham supposed he should take that as a compliment, but at the moment it felt like an insult. The man he’d admired and hoped to learn from had betrayed all who knew him—betrayed the oath they took. “How could you turn your back on everything you’ve stood for?”

“I didn’t turn my back. The courts did that disgrace. We risk our lives every day to bring in these swine, but when we catch them and turn them in with an undeniable bounty of evidence, they walk free. What’s the point of our jobs if we can’t fulfill our oaths to serve and protect? The only honorable thing left is to mete out justice ourselves.”

“And what is the honorable thing here? You’ve committed at least five counts of murder—six, if Mr. Ingram’s dead.”

“Not yet, but Lydia and I have settled on a plan.”

The inclusion of Lydia relieved Abraham more than the knowledge that Ingram lived. “Even so, by all rights, you deserve to face the noose as much as your victims did.”

“An executioner is not guilty of murder.”

“You are no court-appointed executioner.”

Lawson’s mouth twisted. “No. I’m God’s, and I’ll not be condemned for it. It’s an honor to serve Him as His right hand of justice.”

Only Jesus could rightfully claim that honor, but there would be no reasoning with Lawson. That insanity ruling might genuinely be needed. Abraham’s partner was even more delusional than he had thought. If he didn’t choose his words carefully, they’d both die.

“I’ve committed no crimes, Lawson, and we’re friends. Would God count it as justice if you kill me?”

Indecision flickered over the man’s countenance. “I don’t want to kill you, but if you force my hand, God will allow it.”

“Then I guess we’ll stand here in a stalemate until one of us passes out from exhaustion. The only way you’re leaving here is in iron bracelets or a casket.”

Lawson’s gaze slid to the gun pressed against his head.

Victory sparked in his eyes as he pulled his gun back and then rammed it back into Abraham’s midsection. His free arm swept up and bashed Abraham’s arms against the doorframe.

The calculated risk worked. Abraham tried to keep hold of his gun, but with his burns making gripping difficult, the weapon flew from his hands and skidded somewhere into the dark room beyond. Abraham might have lost his gun, but Lawson’s momentum allowed Abraham to twist away from the muzzle at his gut and shove Lawson to the floor.

As soon as Lawson hit the ground, Abraham stomped on his wrist and dropped a knee to his chest. He pounded on the man’s hand until he released the gun. When Abraham reached for it, however, Lawson rolled, bringing with him a punch that landed solidly against Abraham’s jaw. Light shot across his vision, and ringing shrilled in his ears.

Using his advantage, Lawson maneuvered to the upper position. His hands wrapped around Abraham’s throat and squeezed.

The rough material of bandaged hands told Abraham exactly where to retaliate. He pried his fingers beneath the man’s grip and curved them into a claw as he pulled Lawson’s hands away.

Lawson roared and reared back in pain.

Abraham shoved him off and scrambled to his feet. He wasn’t interested in a fight to the death, but he would fight for his life.

Lawson was standing before Abraham could pin and handcuff him. Head down and arms out like bull horns, he charged forward and tackled Abraham’s midsection.

They flew across the room and crashed into the table.

It cracked along the middle and collapsed to the floor with Abraham caught in the V of the two halves and Lawson on top of him. At the same time, the shotgun fired, someone screamed, and glass shattered.

The room plunged into darkness, only to reignite as flaming kerosene spread across the floor from the broken lantern.

Lawson’s eyes illuminated wild and crazed as he raised his arm for a lights-out punch.

Still pinned in by the broken table and Lawson’s body, Abraham could only move his head and arms, but the shotgun had landed near his head in the fall. He wrapped his hand around the barrel and swung it with all the force he could muster. The cord attached to it jerked with resistance about halfway through the swing, but then released with a cracking sound. The stock of the gun connected with Lawson’s head and was followed by something heavy from above.

Lawson’s deadweight tumbled backward off Abraham and landed on the floor. Abraham scrambled to his feet. In the light from the flames, he identified the pulley that had probably saved his life lying next to Lawson’s head. Unwilling to chance the older man’s coming around, Abraham slapped handcuffs on him, then tossed his coat over the flames and stomped them out.

With the fire out and Lawson either unconscious or dead—Abraham really didn’t want to know which for sure—Abraham took stock of himself and his surroundings.

Early morning light was just beginning to brighten the room. His burned hand stung like it was on fire again, and his entire body hurt but probably not as bad as it would later. He was alive, and that was a miracle considering the gun he’d had jammed in his gut less than five minutes ago. A glance at Lawson confirmed that he’d be no trouble, even if he roused. It was safe to go in and retrieve Lydia and Ingram.

He approached the door, then froze. A dozen holes tightly peppered the lower half corner of the door and wall. Soft whimpers came from the other side. Had Lydia been shot?

He turned the knob and pushed, but something solid blocked the door from opening.

“Lydia!” He rammed against the door, and whatever was on the other side scraped against the floor.

She yelped. “Stop. That hurt.”

Her voice came from the side where the buckshot had hit the wall.

His chest constricted, and his attempt at a calm voice failed. “Have you been shot?”

“Yes.” Her whimpers tore at him.

“Where and how badly?”

“Arm. Don’t know.”

Depending on which arm and where, it could be a fatal wound. His heart raced as fast as his mind. He needed to get her out and now.

“I can’t open the door. What’s in the way? Can you move it?”

“The bed. I can’t.”

Great. She could be bleeding to death, and he couldn’t even get to her. That store had to have something of use in it, and Yount could run for the doctor.

“Don’t move. I’m going to find something to break down the door.”