Heart of Lies (2 page)

She shrugged. She never talked about her nightmare, never showed any sign of weakness. Cowardice had always been ridiculed. Fears were not to be mentioned aloud, as if silence could wither them in their tracks.

She’d thought of the twins as her brothers for almost as long as she could remember. Impoverished urchins, they had grown up working the streets and back alleys of New Orleans. They knew how to pick pockets, to beg, to create a diversion while the others worked a crowd. They stole anything that wasn’t nailed down. They’d been taught how to bite and scratch and escape the law, and they embraced their lives of thievery even as they matured.

When Terrance finally decided they should move to the bayou, Maddie welcomed the change. There was nothing left for her in the city. Nowhere she called home.

No one cared what she did or where she lived.

Lawrence shifted and turned for his cot. He brushed off a pile of clothes, ignoring them as they fell to the floor. The bed sagged as he sat.

“Where’s Terrance?” She glanced toward the open door.

He shrugged. “Tying up the pirogue. He’ll be along any minute.”

She knew better than to ask where they’d been or what they’d been doing for the past three days. Even if they told her, the less she knew the better.

“Are you hungry?”

“I can hold till mornin'.”

He was looking ready to bed down for the night when they heard Terrance’s footsteps. Maddie turned and watched the second
twin walk in. Equally tall and bulky, he moved stealthily for such a large man.

But he wasn’t alone.

Shock hit her in a mighty wave when she saw the figure cradled in his arms. Two small feet shod in ankle-high black leather shoes dangled from beneath the frayed hem of a gray Confederate Army-issue blanket.

“What have you done?” she whispered, tearing her gaze away from the bundled child to meet Terrance’s eyes.

His eyes, identical to his brothers except that they were cool and emotionless, narrowed in defiance. He silently dared her to criticize him. “I’m lookin’ out for our future, that’s what.” He shot a glance at his brother seated on the edge of his sagging cot. “That’s more than I can say for some around here.”

He carried his burden over to Maddie’s cot and gently laid it down near the wall. As he gave the blanket a slight tug downward, Maddie found herself staring at a beautiful little girl with a head full of coiled black ringlets. She was sound asleep, wearing a fur-lined red cape worth more than everything in the ramshackle cabin put together.

A twinge squeezed Maddie’s heart. Unable to speak, she ached to reach out and touch the child’s porcelain cheek so badly that she had to fist her hands in the folds of her skirt.

“Why?” She turned on Terrance, afraid there was only one explanation for the child’s presence. “You’re not thinking of starting a new tribe —”

Across the room, Lawrence laughed. Maddie and Terrance, locked in a battle of wills, ignored him.

“Those days are over, Terrance. They died with Dexter,” she whispered.

Dexter Grande had been their leader, their father, keeper, mentor, and judge. He was the visionary, the glue who had held their tribe together, the one who “recruited” his band of children, the one who taught them to steal and to survive on the streets.

Two years ago, apoplexy had brought him down at the ripe old age of sixty-five, and without him, what was left of their tribe quickly scattered.

“It worked for Dexter; why not me?” Terrance speculated. “He’s dead but that don’t mean we can’t start a new tribe — not just children, but men too. We can run the same games.”

Maddie turned on him. “Look around. We don’t live in New Orleans anymore.”

She didn’t want to think about moving back to the city. For the most part the twins were never here and she was alone, which suited her just fine. On the bayou there were no reminders of her own losses, only the gentle, healing sound of the water lapping against the dock and the hush of the wind through the lacy cypress.

He was at the table now, lifting the jug. He took a couple of deep draughts, set the jug down, and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“All I need is the chance to make a few connections. For now, I’m thinking bigger than Dexter. I’m thinking we use her for a bankroll.” He nodded at the sleeping child on the cot. “Why should we waste time havin’ her dance for a dollar or two or picking pockets on the street when there’s real money to be had?”

“You tell me,” Lawrence said. It was one of his favorite sayings. Terrance always obliged.

Lit by greed, Terrance’s eyes glittered. “One word:
reward.
Easy money, and lots of it, from the looks of her. We can get any orphan to run the scams, but this one …”

Maddie didn’t know which would be worse: hiding the child until they could collect a reward or the idea that Terrance wanted to start a new tribe. One thing she knew for certain: the girl on the bed was no orphaned street urchin. This child belonged to someone wealthy. This child would be missed.

Her family would leave no stone unturned until she was found.

“What if there is no reward?” A pronounced belch followed
Lawrence’s query. He rolled onto his side and folded his arm beneath his head.

Terrance shrugged and headed toward his own bed. “There will be. If not, we’ll demand a ransom.” He looked at Maddie. “If no one wants her, then I guess our new tribe will start sooner than we thought.” His gaze pinned Maddie with an intensity that belied his twenty-two years. “You still know what to do in that case, don’t you, Mad?”

A shiver ran down her spine. She knew exactly what to do. She’d done it often enough to know it would work and enough to know she never wanted to do it again.

“No.” She raised her chin defiantly.

“What do you mean no?” Terrance took a step closer.

She didn’t back down. “I won’t do it. Not anymore.”

He grabbed her arm and twisted. “You’ll do as I say. I’m in charge now.”

“In charge of what?” She pulled out of his grasp, marched across the cabin to put space between them while Lawrence watched from his cot. “You’re not Dexter. Besides, you’re never here. It’s me that puts food on the table and me that keeps this place going while you two run off to New Orleans to drink and whore and gamble and steal. I’ll not do your dirty work, Terrance. I’ll not do anyone’s dirty work anymore.”

“You’re a big talker, Maddie, but I know you’ll do whatever I say because we’re family. We’re all that’s left of the tribe.” He softened his tone, held out his hand, almost pleading. “Come on, Mad. You took the same oath we did. You pledged your loyalty.”

She knew he was just using the past to try to move her. He was loyal only to himself. She was just a means to an end.

“Those days are gone, Terrance. The tribe I pledged loyalty to has disbanded. All that’s left is the three of us. I won’t be part of that again.”

“Think of how much easier your life would be with some money for a change.”

“Not like this,” she warned. “Not by kidnapping an innocent child.”

“We could all move back to New Orleans, to the old place.”

“I won’t go back. I like it here.”

His expression darkened instantly. He touched the handle of the knife sheathed on his hip, but she refused to back down and met his cold stare.

“You’d hate for anything to happen to her, wouldn’t you, Mad?”

She stared at him in disbelief. Was it an idle threat, or could he possibly be serious? “Even you wouldn’t stoop so low as to murder a child, would you?”

Silent seconds ticked by as they stared at one another across the shadows.

“Don’t test me, Maddie. Just do as I say.”

“Fine,” she said grudgingly. “I’ll look after her.”

Across the room, Lawrence was already snoring like a bear.

“Then turn out the light and get some sleep,” he ordered. “Mornin’ will come sooner than you know. Me and Lawrence will be headin’ back to the city to wait for word. Hopefully her folks will offer a reward soon. The longer we keep the girl hidden, the more likely the amount will go up.”

Maddie glanced at the dark-haired child asleep on her cot. She didn’t mind sharing the narrow bed with a little one. She’d done it often enough with her own, but this time both her heart and soul protested. She’d hoped she was done living on the wrong side of the law. She didn’t want to survive this way anymore.

Especially not like this. Not by stealing a child.

P
inkerton agent Tom Abbott left his rented, sparsely furnished rooms in the French Quarter and made his way across the narrow cobblestone drive in the courtyard below. He passed through the open iron gates and walked along streets filled with noise and motion, the clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestone, ribald shouts, and high-pitched laughter. The occasional gunshot punctuated by strains of music drifted on the night air. New Orleans was a city that never slept, and because of his profession Tom was no stranger to long days and late nights.

He pulled his collar up and his hat down as he made his way toward Royal Street. He had dressed in worn clothing so nondescript as to render him nearly invisible as he moved through the dangerous streets of the city. He pushed back his brown wool jacket out of habit to expose the holstered Colt riding his hip. New Orleans boasted one of the highest murder rates in the country; a wise man took advantage of the law that made it legal to openly carry a gun or a knife.

When he neared Jackson Square, he slowed his pace and paused in the shadows of the imposing St. Louis Cathedral. Across the street from the huge church, a quartet of missionaries had set up an outdoor soup kitchen. There was a piece of pine tacked over the door of an empty storefront with the words
Jesus Is Your Savior
hand
lettered in white paint. Outside the open door, two long planks of wood rested on sawhorses — a makeshift table for the small knot of the city’s destitute who had gathered for a bowl of soup and a crust of bread.

Tom studied the missionaries carefully before he approached them. An elderly woman dressed entirely in somber gray with a matching poke bonnet kept time on a tambourine while the older man beside her read from an open Bible. Nearby, a woman in her early forties ladled soup from a deep pot at one end of the table. She smiled as she handed a full bowl to a prostitute.

Tom let his gaze scan the crowd. They were orderly, thinning out now. When the line finally dwindled, the younger woman began to walk around and collect the empty soup bowls. As Tom approached her, she paused to take in his faded coat and battered hat before her gaze shifted to his gun.

“We’re a peaceable people,” she told him.

He nodded and gave his hat brim a tug. “I understand, ma’am.”

“If it’s soup you’re after, it’s my husband’s turn to serve.” She smiled in the direction of a man who had paused at his task to watch them.

“I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time. I’ve a few questions. It won’t take long.”

“Pastor Bennett would be happy to counsel you.” She turned her gaze toward the older man holding the Bible before continuing on to the table carrying a stack of thick ceramic bowls.

“It’s not counseling I’m after. I’m a Pinkerton detective.” He opened his jacket just far enough to reveal a badge pinned to the inside. He didn’t want to advertise his identity to those lingering nearby.

“A detective?” He saw a flash of panic in her eyes. A second later she calmed. “What is this about?”

“I’m working on a missing person’s case and I was hoping that since you work the streets you might have some information, anything that might help me find the woman I’m searching for.”

“Oh. Well, then, yes. I’d be happy to answer a few questions.”

“Is there somewhere we can sit and talk? Or, if you’d prefer, I can speak to your husband—”

“I don’t mind.” She set down the stack of bowls, walked over to her husband, and spoke to him in a barely audible voice. He looked across the table at Tom and nodded. The woman gestured. “Come inside with me. We’ve not much in the building yet, but there is a bench where we can sit and chat. I can’t be long, though.”

“I understand,” he told her. “It will just take a few minutes.”

Inside, she lit a lamp and carefully replaced the chimney. The room was cast in a warm yellow glow. “We’ve not the funds to set up our ministry office yet. Feeding the hungry takes most of our time and money.”

She indicated a long bench standing against one wall. “My name is Elizabeth Henson. My husband is Pastor Bennett’s nephew. We’ve just returned from five years in Singapore.”

Tom was disappointed to hear they hadn’t been in the city all that long. He doubted she could help, but since he had no solid leads, it was still worth a try.

“Will you sit?”

She sat down on the opposite end of the bench near the light and folded her hands in her lap. Even in the weak glow of candlelight, he saw that they were not the soft white hands of a woman unused to hard work.

She smiled and waited for him to begin.

“I’ve been hired by a woman in Texas to search for her sister,” he began. “The last time she saw her was here in New Orleans, twenty-three years ago. The missing woman was nine then.”

Mrs. Henson’s brow knit. “Are you even certain she’s still here? Or that she’s even alive?”

“Not at all, but this is where she was last seen. I’ve found no records of her having been buried in any of the New Orleans cemeteries.”

“She could be in a pauper’s unmarked grave.”

“She could, but I’ve not given up yet. The Lane girls lost their parents and shortly afterward were taken by their uncle and sold to a bordello somewhere in the French Quarter. They were separated within minutes of their arrival. The older of the two, the woman I represent, grew up there. She has no idea what happened to her sister, only that the girl was carried off by a man and never seen again.”

Tom couldn’t help but notice that Elizabeth Henson had gone very pale.

“Are you all right?” he asked. “I know it’s not a pretty tale.”

“Why are you questioning me, Mr. Abbott? Of all the people in New Orleans?”