Part 13 (1/2)

Sorcerer, she thought. Demon.

She'd be a fool to let herself fall under his spell again ... but she could not seem to stop herself.

She'd followed him onto the train, not as a reporter but as a woman. She could admit that to herself now. She'd been so angry at him because he'd disappointed her.

She'd already been half in love with him.

She very much feared her fall was now complete.

She awoke the next morning to find him gone, along with his luggage. Frantic, she dressed in as much haste as she could manage and hurried down to the lobby. He was just turning away from the Western Union window when she caught up with him.

”My train leaves in an hour.” His face was the enigmatic mask she was coming to hate. Even that sardonic eyebrow would have been an improvement.

”Did you intend to say good-bye this time?” She tried to sound curious rather than hurt but wasn't sure she succeeded.

”Yes. I'd have come back upstairs to tell you the suite is paid for through the next two nights, if you need it.”

She gaped at him. ”Liar!”

”No. No more lies. I mean to tell you everything ... but not just yet.”

”When?”

”When I return.”

”Where from?”

”I can't tell you that.” When she started to protest, he pressed one finger to her lips. ”I swear, Diana, I will come back to you. Go home to Manhattan and wait for me.”

She gazed at him, shaken by the terrifying knowledge that she'd fallen in love with a man who was going to break her heart.

”Take care of that ankle,” he added. ”You should avoid walking far for at least another day.” With that, he left her standing by the hotel's Western Union office, fists clenched at her sides and tears p.r.i.c.king her eyelids.

The same telegrapher who had been on duty the previous evening was there again this morning. ”Doesn't look like messages for Manhattan will get through anytime soon,” she offered when she recognized Diana. ”The whole city's at a standstill. Mountains of snow.”

Just then a loud rattling demanded the young woman's attention. While she dealt with the steady clatter of incoming messages in Morse Code, Diana stared at the contents of her tiny office, welcoming any distraction. A line wire entered through the wall, connecting a telegraph pole outside to the telegrapher's key, which sat on a table next to a cut-off switch, a steel-pen-and-ink-bottle ensemble, and a supply of message blanks. On the wall between the operator and the half door that kept customers at a distance, were a series of hooks upon which message papers were filed after they'd been sent. The top one was close enough to read.

As the words leapt into focus, Diana's heart began to beat faster. This had to be the telegram Damon Bathory had just sent. She leaned closer, squinting to see the address. Belatedly, reading the destination, she was able to identify the trace of regional accent she'd heard, time and again, in his voice, confirming her conviction that he'd sent it. Not Buffalo. She hadn't expected it would be.

The message, which said only that he was on his way home, was unsigned. That didn't trouble her. What did was the fact that it was addressed to a woman. Mrs. Abraham Northcote.

If Bathory was a pseudonym, as Diana had suspected all along, then his real name could well be Northcote. Abraham Northcote?

If he'd lied about his name and his address, he might also have lied about having a wife. In fact, he probably had. Evan had found it easy enough to deny her existence any time some nubile and star-struck farm girl had wanted to throw herself at him.

What a fool she was! Return to New York and wait? Oh, yes, and he'd take her to the circus, too! She'd had the right idea in the first place -- forget all about this strange, charismatic man who wrote horror stories. She should go back to that plan.

But in her heart, she knew it was already too late. If what she now suspected -- that he was married -- was true, then he deserved to have his real ident.i.ty exposed just for deceiving her.

She drew in a deep breath, then another.

No matter what the truth was, she could not hope to put him out of her mind or her heart until she knew the whole story. Not for the newspaper, but for herself, she had to continue her pursuit of Damon Bathory.

”Good news, miss,” the telegrapher said, interrupting Diana's thoughts. ”My prediction was wrong. I can send to New York City now. Three dollars for ten words.”

Diana seized a message blank, then paused, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. She needed authorization to relay telegrams through a press operator. Foxe would also have to send her a voucher for a cash disburs.e.m.e.nt. She intended to repay every cent ”Damon Bathory” had spent on her.

It took more than ten words, and Diana was very glad of Jerusha's generosity when she paid for them. She used a little more of her friend's money to buy a carpetbag in which to pack her few possessions. She was tempted to throw away the things Bathory had bought for her, but she could not spare any of her clothes. The cameo brooch she buried deep. It hurt too much to remember how hopeful she'd felt when he'd pinned it to her gown.

When she consulted a train schedule, Diana learned that the earliest connection she could get would bring her to her destination at 5:45 in the morning. Better to wait a bit, she decided. Go later and arrive at a reasonable hour. But when she went back to the suite, intending to nap until it was time to depart, she found that memories of the previous night would not let her rest.

She paced.

And fretted.

And did not sleep.

When it was finally late enough to leave the hotel, she felt as if she'd been through a wringer. Jaw set, temper simmering, she limped up to the station master's window at the railroad depot.

”Where to, ma'am?” the agent asked.

”Bangor,” she told him, reciting the city named in the telegram to Mrs. Abraham Northcote. ”Bangor, Maine.”

Chapter Eleven.

Another telegram awaited Ben in Boston. He swore when he read it. The crisis was over. Aaron was no longer missing. There had been no need to rush home, no need to leave Diana so soon.

Better this way, he tried to tell himself. He would go back to New York for her when everything had been resolved. He needed to settle a few things before he could be completely honest with her.

First among his problems was Aaron, who had taken a very long time to get home. According to this latest telegram, he'd told their mother he hadn't been caught in the storm. But neither had he been able to recall much of what had happened to him since he'd left Manhattan a week ago. He'd remembered arriving in Stamford and then, much later, in Boston.

Could he have returned to New York in the interim?

Ben did not like the direction of his thoughts. Surely it was a coincidence that Aaron had been in Philadelphia when that woman had been killed. And even if he hadn't left New York after all, or had gotten off the train, or had returned from the first stop, he'd have had no reason to hurt Diana.

But Ben remembered his brother's concern in the park that they do something about being followed. By the time they'd met in the coffee shop and Ben had put Aaron on the train for home, Aaron had been acting as if he'd forgotten all about Diana. But with Aaron, one never knew.

This is crazy, Ben thought, not without irony. Aaron was no killer. And he certainly could not carry out a series of pre-mediated crimes. Besides, Aaron had never been to San Francisco, where that other woman had been murdered.

Bone-weary, he sc.r.a.ped a hand across his face and took a seat on a straight-backed wooden bench to wait for his train. Briefly, he considered finding a hotel and getting some sleep before he continued on to Bangor. There was no rush now, but neither was there any reason to delay going home.

The moment he rested his elbow on the iron arm rest, new doubts a.s.sailed him. His brother had seemed in perfect command of himself when they'd parted company. Ben had let his guard down. Aaron was smart enough to get himself home on his own, but he was also clever enough -- devious enough -- to have made new plans, especially if he'd believed he had a good reason to.

He'd had a strong reaction to Diana Spaulding. Ben wondered if she affected everyone that way. In spite of his concern about his brother's whereabouts he had himself been unable to get her out of his mind on the train journey from New Haven to Boston. If Aaron had been similarly obsessed, and beset by an irrational dislike of the woman, could he have felt driven to slip back into New York and attack her?

Ben rubbed his pounding temples. Aaron could have been the man in the alley last Sat.u.r.day night, but he could not have been on the train with them. He could not have been responsible for Diana's fall.