Katherine O’Neal (54 page)

“I don’t know. But I told you of his loyalty
to me.”

“Mace—”

“Listen to me.” He took her hands and
squeezed them urgently. “You just did for me in prison what Lance
did all those years ago. No matter what they did to you, you
refused to turn me in. So you tell me. After all that, could you
turn around and betray me?”

“That’s different. I love you.”

“Are you saying my brother doesn’t? Lance
worships me. He always has. If anything, he worshiped me
too
much.”

“That’s precisely what I’m saying. Over the
years, Lance’s worship of you became twisted. You’re everything he
wants to be. He told me so himself. I don’t think he merely wants
to be
like
you—he wants to
replace
you. Tell me the
truth. Didn’t he find ways to take advantage of your vow to protect
him? Didn’t he push it to the limit time after time?”

He closed his eyes and wearily ran a hand
through his hair.

“He as much as boasts about it! Mace, if he
doesn’t want you dead, he at least wants to destroy everything that
belongs to you. He’s mad. He’ll stop at nothing—”

“Stop it!” he rasped. “Do you know what I
have to do to believe you? I have to face the fact that he went
insane because of me.”

She couldn’t believe she was hearing this.
“That’s not true!”

“Isn’t it? If Lance is deranged, it’s because
of the beating he took for my sake. If I recognize that he’s
evil—that he’s twisted in some way—I have to take the
responsibility. He wouldn’t do the things he does
if not for
me.
”

“Don’t even say that!”

“Do you know what a terrifying prospect that
is?
He's my brother!
”

She threw her arms around him, determined to
keep him from mouthing such atrocities. “It isn’t true, darling.
You’re such a consummate con man, you’ve conned yourself.”

With an effort, he extricated himself from
her grasp and pulled himself together. “It’s Lance we have to flam
now. But I need your help. We don’t have time for anything
else.”

Clearly, he wasn’t going to face this now.
There was work to be done. Gutting McLeod must come above all
else.

“He’ll know it’s me. I shall give myself
away.”

“I don’t believe that. What I believe in is
you.
”

She looked at him for a few moments, shaking
visibly. “Is it true?” she asked softly.

“Is what true?”

“I’ve wondered ever since he said that.
Would
you choose Lance over me?”

Dressed as Madame Zorina, Saranda met with
Lance at midnight on the Chelsea wharf. The night was dark, with
only a gas lamp at the entrance to the wharf lighting the way. She
stood along the dock by the river, concentrating on the current in
an effort not to think. Somewhere in the darkness, Mace hid. It
seemed little comfort at such a time. Unlike Mace, Saranda knew
disaster lurked in the shadows. How she knew, she couldn’t explain.
It was the same feeling that had come over her when reading Mace’s
cards, and again Sander McLeod’s.

The current was unusually swift. Boats
anchored at the dock bumped against one another, causing her
already-jangled nerves to jump. She’d chosen the most secluded spot
she could find, far enough away from the gaslight that she could
see without revealing any details of her face. Still, she trembled.
Perspiration beaded her brow beneath the heavy makeup. Her mouth
was dry, her tongue like sandpaper. She was openly walking into a
trap set by her worst enemy—the man who’d stolen her youth, her
dreams, and everything she’d ever loved until that time. A man who
cared nothing for her—who was threatened by her closeness to the
brother he both loved and hated. A man who would gladly see her
dead.

She heard his step behind her. He stopped so
she was forced to turn toward the light. She did so gradually, with
a squaring of her shoulders and a grand show of dignity. Frightened
she might be, but she wasn’t about to let Mace down.

“So this is the world’s greatest
fortune-teller,” Lance greeted her sarcastically. “I knew a
soothsayer once. Her name was Benita Sherwin. Turned out she was a
sham, however. Palming herself off—don’t mind the pun—to the
aristocracy. Burned to death in a fire. Pity, that. I heard she
screamed and screamed and no one helped. Not even her lovin’
daughter.” He paused to savor an ugly cackle while Saranda fought
her heaving stomach. “A rather tasty daughter, as I recall. Though
the memory’s a bit dim. Wouldn’t mind refreshing me memory, at
that. Tell me, Madame Zorina, since yer so good at predicting. Any
chance of havin’ another whack?”

Her fury was so intense, she had to dig her
nails into her palms to keep from lashing out at him. In the
darkness, his face looked eerily like Mace’s. She steeled herself
and raised her chin a notch. Ignoring his words, she asked
imperiously, “Is this for what you demanded Madame Zorina’s
presence?”

He stepped closer. In the dim light, she saw
two pistols stuck in his belt. She averted her eyes. “I just
thought you could tell me fortune, seein’ as yer so good at it.
Better yet, tell me why I’m here.”

“Ah, but you ask so little of me! You are
here because your petty mind grapples for control. You live your
life in the shadow of one of greatness. This shadow haunts you
always. Your life is lived not for yourself, not for the good of
others, but for the senseless pursuit of besting one who cannot be
bested. Your desires are evil; therefore, your very existence is
tainted. But you do not need an old woman to tell you this. You
know it already.”

“If yer so bloomin’ clever, then, wot do you
see in me future?”

“Death.” She didn’t know why she’d said it.
Suddenly, she was overwhelmed with the feeling of death on the
horizon. And somehow she knew it would be his. “You are about to be
killed.”

He was grinning grotesquely, his bad eye
visible even in the dimness. “And who’s goin’ to kill me?” he
taunted.
“You?”

“Why would an old woman stoop to killing
someone like you?”

Suddenly, he grabbed her, pulling a pistol
from his belt and turning her away from the river. “Come out,
Mace,” he called.

There was no movement. The rushing of the
river and the bumping of the boats were the only sounds. He jerked
her around, searching the darkness for a sign of his brother. As he
did so, she recalled the other gun in his belt. She was a master
pickpocket. She could easily retrieve it without his knowledge. But
could she use it? Mace had refused to bring a weapon. Dear God, if
she had to pull the trigger, could she?

Lance cocked the pistol and put it to her
head. “I’ll kill her, Mace. You know I will.”

After a long moment, Mace walked out. He
moved slowly, cautiously, carefully. “Put the gun away, Lance,” he
said in a patient tone.

“I finally got you, brother. Now you
have
to choose. Yer brother or yer lady. Which’ll it be,
eh?”

“Why give him the choice?” she taunted in her
own voice, loudly enough that Mace could hear. “You never gave him
a choice when you informed on Pilar and had her killed. Or when you
put bullets through the heads of the Van Slykes.”

“Wot’s she babblin’ about, Mace?”

If only she could get him to confess, Mace
could see for himself what sort of man his brother was, see the
face Lance showed everyone but him. He had to see that he had
nothing to do with it. That Lance’s madness went far beyond the
aftereffects of a childhood beating.

“There’s no need for pretense among us. Not
at this late date. Not after all we’ve been through. Mace knows all
about it, and he’s already forgiven you—haven’t you, Mace?”

Mace was coming closer. “Lance, there’s no
need for this.”

“Tell him the truth, Lance. How your jealousy
has eaten you up all these years. How being the runt of the
illustrious Blackwood family made you dependent on Mace’s
talents—even as you hated him for being so good. How you couldn’t
stand the thought of anyone taking him away from you—because then
where would you be?”

He laughed so close to her ear that it hurt
her eardrum. By now she had the gun safely in hand. As he laughed,
she cocked it silently, so he wouldn’t hear.

“You goin’ to believe this fairy tale, Mace?
From some bloody princess-come-lately who wasn’t even there? Who
doesn’t know the love we have fer one another, eh?”

Mace was walking ever so deliberately toward
them. “Put the gun away so we can talk,” he said soothingly. “I’d
say it was about time we talked, wouldn’t you?”

“Talk! All right, brother, let’s have that
chat. We’ll just dispose of the excess baggage first, eh?” He was
growing wilder by the minute, choking Saranda in his fervor. “I
should have killed her long ago!”

“Talk all you want,” Saranda goaded. “Kill me
if you like. It won’t change the fact that you’re the most
pathetically poor con man who ever lived. It wouldn’t have been so
bad, would it, if your own brother hadn’t been the best there was.
Admit it, Lance, you sniveling coward—didn’t you despise him for
it?”

She could feel him shaking with anger.

If Mace heard what she was saying, he gave no
indication. He continued on his steady path forward, talking in a
monotone. “Lance, you’re the only family I have left. I love you.
Let me help you.”

“
Help
me? Help yerself!”

Letting Saranda loose, Lance lifted the gun
and aimed at Mace. Without thinking, she raised her own gun,
pointing it at Lance’s face. “Pull the trigger, and I shall kill
you,” she declared.

He turned back to her, his face showing his
contempt. “Yer goin’ to shoot me, are you? Who are you flamming?
You had yer chance. You couldn’t do it then, and you bleedin’ well
can’t do it now.”

Incensed, she pulled the trigger. The retort
blasted in her ear, sending her backward. In the dim light, she
saw, as in a dream, Lance’s hand slap his forehead. His hand
dropped back down, and she turned away in horror. She’d shot him in
the head. Blood oozed down his face. Staggering backward, he lost
his balance and fell, arms flailing, into the river. The current
was so strong, he was immediately carried away.

The gun dropped from her hand. She saw Mace
racing toward the dock. In her shock, she realized he meant to dive
in after Lance. She ran for him, her heart pounding in her ears.
Grabbing hold of his arm, she tugged with all her might and spun
him around. “You’re not going after him,” she screamed.

He glanced helplessly toward the water and
back again.

“He’s dead,” she told him. “It’s done. I
won’t allow you to kill yourself for nothing.”

She was shaking now, from shock and relief.
Lance was dead. He could never threaten her again. Yet when she saw
Mace’s face, her heart turned to stone. As if she weren’t even
there, he pulled his arm away and walked in a daze to the dock.
There he dropped to his knees and watched the river as it flowed
swiftly by. There was no sign of Lance. By now, his body was on its
way out to sea. Yet Mace stayed as he was, staring out at the
watery grave of his only brother, alone with his grief.

Saranda watched, and something inside her
died.

Their epic con proceeded as planned, but
nothing was the same after that; it was no longer the fun it once
had been. Even when the deal was made for Sander to sell the paper
to the “upstanding Georgian,” she couldn’t summon enough energy to
care. She went through the motions, spoke as before, and listened
to their plans. But her heart was never in it. Her mind was far
away, unable to forget the Chelsea wharf where she’d tried and
failed to convince Mace of his brother’s treachery, and where Mace
had betrayed his true feelings.

Before Lance’s death, she’d worried because
of his assertion that Mace would always choose his side. That night
on the wharf, when Saranda had shot Lance, Mace had made it clear
where his loyalties lay. If she hadn’t stopped him, he’d have tried
to fish his brother’s body out of the river and save him
somehow.

Perhaps if Mace had been forced to make a
clear choice, if he’d saved her life at Lance’s expense, she’d be
sure of the depth of his feelings for her. Now she would never
know.

It shouldn’t matter. Lance was dead, and they
need fear nothing from him ever again. Yet it nagged at her
endlessly. Once more she saw Lance’s face every time she looked at
Mace. She couldn’t gaze at him without wondering. What would he
have done? Had Lance been right about him?

She began to ask herself questions she
thought she’d long ago put to rest. She was a Sherwin; he was a
Blackwood. The feud between the families had persisted for so many
hundreds of years; was it by now in the blood? She’d thought for a
time that they could transcend it with the power of their love,
that they could band together and use their combined forces to
destroy the evil Blackwood influence. She’d thought Mace wanted it
as much as she. But she was haunted by the knowledge that it was
she, a Sherwin, who’d put an end to the Blackwood tyranny, while
Mace had stood by and mourned his brother’s death.

Who would he have chosen, if she hadn’t
pulled the trigger?
Was the Blackwood tie so strong in him that
he’d have sacrificed her in the end for family loyalty?

* * *

Sander McLeod signed over the deed to the
Globe-Journal
in high spirits. “When do you want the next
payment?” the buyer asked.

“Next payment? Hell, take it. I got it cheap.
Truth to tell, it’s a relief just to get it off my hands.”

He could afford to be magnanimous. He was set
to rake in a fortune that would make the newspaper look like small
potatoes. He passed the paper along so the buyer could sign.