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The water closed over her head, and this time there was no reaching the surface.
VOICES WOKE HER. The first thing Gwen noticed was that she was lying on something reasonably soft. She listened for a moment before opening her eyes, recognizing the newly familiar intonation of the enigmatic stranger who called himself Dorian Black. The other voice was older and less steady, slurred with drink and amiably loquacious. The conversation was too soft to be intelligible, and when Gwen opened her eyes she saw only her darkhaired savior, crouching in the light of an old-fashioned gas lamp.
His eyes were gray. They’d seemed colorless in the night, yet she’d thought of steel. She’d guessed correctly. That granite stare gave no quarter and asked for none.
Gwen tried to sit up. Black pushed her back down, his hand spread on her chest with no apparent regard for her anatomy. The feel of his palm on her breasts, her flesh and his separated by only the thin georgette of her blouse, startled her into stillness.
Apparently he’d judged that she would be more comfortable without her jacket or his, but at least he hadn’t relieved her of anything else but her shoes. Her skirt, hose and blouse were nearly dry, hinting at the length of time she’d been under Black’s care.
She hated the very idea that she’d been so helpless.
“Where am I?” she demanded.
He held her gaze with unnerving steadiness. “In a safe place.”
Some answer, Gwen thought, turning her head to examine the space around her. To the left was a solid, windowless wooden wall. To the right Black loomed over her, blocking her view. She couldn’t have seen much beyond the reach of the lamp in any case, but she sensed an open area partitioned off by the stacked crates that created a sort of room just large enough to accommodate her makeshift bed, a stool with one wobbly leg, and a smaller crate spread with a few items, including a mug, a basin and sundry objects she couldn’t quite make out. Hanging from nails hammered into the stacked crates were a pair of stained and threadbare shirts, a patched jacket, and a folded set of frayed trousers. It was evident that Black had made a home for himself in a place most people would consign to spiders and rats.
She’d seen men living under worse conditions, but not often.
“Are we still on the docks?” she asked.
He nodded, apparently considering a verbal reply unnecessary. Gwen pushed herself halfway up on her elbows.
“I guess I fainted,” she said, swallowing her pride.
“You fell unconscious,” Black said.
“You aren’t responsible for me just because you saved my life.”
He arched a brow at her sharp tone, and for a fleeting moment she thought she saw a sort of smile on his lips. “Having saved your life,” he said, “I would not like to see my efforts go to waste.”
“It must be daylight by now. Someone else would have found me.”
He shifted his weight, letting his long, elegant hands fall between his spread knees. “You do not strike me as the sort of woman who would want to be discovered sprawled on the boardwalk in a pool of her own vomit.”
His bluntness took her aback, but she couldn’t fault him for it. She preferred straight talk herself…a characteristic that often flabbergasted her male associates at the Sentinel.
“Well,” she said, “when you put it that way…” She licked her lips. “You wouldn’t happen to have some water, would you?”
He turned away, lifted a cracked pitcher from the table crate and poured a measure of water into the mug. Gwen took it hesitantly, gave a surreptitious sniff and put her lips to the rim. The water was surprisingly fresh.
“Thanks,” she said, handing the mug back to him. She opened her mouth to begin another argument about why he should let her go, but the words died in her throat. She found herself staring at him instead…staring like a girl suddenly confronted in the flesh with her favorite matinee idol. It was the most ridiculous thing in the world. And she couldn’t help herself.
“Who are you?” she said. “I mean, what is this place, and what are you doing here?”
He regarded her for a moment, as if he were considering whether or not it was worth his while to answer. At last he settled back against the crates behind him, stretching his legs across the space between them.
“I’ve told you my name,” he said. “I and a few others live in this abandoned warehouse. We trouble no one.”
She wondered why he’d included that last statement. Did he suspect that she’d detected something dangerous in his eyes?
“Most people wouldn’t live this way by choice,” she said.
His eyes took on a bleakness that hinted of some past tragedy, which came as no surprise to Gwen. “I don’t see what business that is of yours,” he said.
Pride. Even men without homes had it, sometimes more than those who had everything. Gwen knew she should just shut up and leave well enough alone. After all, once she walked out of this place, she would probably never see Dorian Black again.
But she’d spent a lot of time on the streets talking to people who didn’t know what it was like to make a fortune on Wall Street or drive the latest model sedan…who didn’t even know where their next meal was coming from. Telling the stories of the forgotten men and women of New York had been her personal crusade. Until Dad had died, and left her with his own private obsession.
There was something about Dorian Black that just wouldn’t let her leave it alone, something that told her he wasn’t the average unemployed guy with a chip on his shoulder. She would almost have guessed he’d come from a criminal background.
But your typical petty criminal didn’t usually let himself sink into dire poverty. He was either in jail or setting up another job, selecting another mark, planning a new scam. He was by no means the kind who would save someone from drowning. And guys involved with the mobs didn’t generally find themselves on the street. They were either working for a gang or, if for some reason they lost their usefulness, they were disposed of. It was just too dangerous for any mob boss to let one of his former subordinates run loose.
So what in hell was he?
She girded her loins and shaped her voice to a careful neutrality. “You’ve fallen on hard times,” she said.
He shrugged.
“You haven’t been able to find a job,” she persisted.
Something large rustled among the crates, and Gwen thought she glimpsed a long, naked tail. She shuddered. Black ignored the noise and leaned his head back against the crates.
“Why should you think I want employment?” he asked.
Deliberately testing him, she sat up. “You’re young and healthy,” she said. “Obviously intelligent. Educated.”
“So?”
That voice could have stopped a train in its tracks. Gwen held his gaze. “Let’s just say that I’d like to know a little more about the kind of man who’d rescue a total stranger.”
“You doubt the natural gallantry of the stronger sex?”
She stifled a snort. “I’m not a romantic, Mr. Black.”
“Neither am I.”
“Nevertheless, I’d really like to hear how you came to be living here. Are you alone in the city?”
His face was expressionless. “Would you perhaps be planning to write a special-interest story for your paper, Miss Murphy? An essay on the plight of unemployed men who live on the docks?”
Weary cynicism laced his words. She almost felt guilty. “If I did write such a piece, Mr. Black, I wouldn’t use your name. But that isn’t my intention.” She scooted around to lean with her back against the wall, drawing her knees up and pulling her coat over them to preserve her modesty. “Were you in the War, Mr. Black?”
“No.”
If there was one thing Gwen was good at, it was telling when someone was lying. She saw the true answer in Black’s eyes even before he opened his mouth to speak. They clouded over, losing their sharpness. As if he were remembering. As if he feared that another word might send him tumbling back in time to a world he had never quite left.
She swallowed, dodging memories of her own. Black had saved her life, but she didn’t think he would want her hanging around dredging up memories of the past, and there was another subject she wanted to cover before he tossed her out on her ear.
“You must know just about everything that goes on around here,” she said.
He frowned at her sudden change of subject. “Perhaps.”
“Are you familiar with the recent murders?”
Abruptly he rose. His movements were jerky, lacking all their earlier grace. “Is that why you’re here, Miss Murphy? To investigate the murders?”
Gwen was certain then that he not only knew about the bizarre deaths, but that he had some personal interest in them. Perhaps he’d seen something. Perhaps he’d witnessed the attacks, or had an idea who’d committed the crimes. Maybe—
Whoa, girl, Gwen thought. Even if her instincts were generally correct, this wasn’t the time to let them run away with her.
“According to the coroner,” she said cautiously, “the bodies must have been lying on the boardwalk for several hours before the police were called in.”
Black turned his head from side to side as if he were seeking an escape route. “You should leave well enough alone, Miss Murphy,” he said.
“I can’t. You were right, Mr. Black. It’s my job to investigate how such a terrible thing happened and who might have done it.”
“They put a woman in charge of such a task?”
“You’d be surprised how good we are at finding angles men don’t even consider.”
“Such as visiting the docks alone and unarmed?”
“The prospective witness I was supposed to meet didn’t show up.” She studied his face intently. “You don’t happen to know a man who goes by the name of Flat-Nose Jones, do you?”
“No.”
Lying again, though he did it very well indeed. “I figure he either lost his nerve or met with an accident before he could tell his story, whatever it was.”
“Perhaps he should have been more discreet.”
“I can’t blame anyone who keeps his mouth shut under these circumstances. The bodies were obviously left as some kind of message. By someone with a very bad grudge.”
“You would seem to have your suspects already, Miss Murphy.”
“I have a few ideas. Whoever killed those men was obviously deranged.”
Black said nothing. He paced across the small space, fists clenched. “Are you certain the roughnecks who assaulted you were not attempting to silence your inquiry?”
“Those kids? They were amateurs. They might dump a troublesome mark in the river, but they wouldn’t think to drain all the blood out of one of their victims. The corpses were completely…”
Her words trailed off as Black came to a sudden halt. His face flushed and then went pale. His pupils shrank to pinpoints, though the makeshift room remained as dark as ever. His fingers opened and closed, opened and closed, in a sharp, disturbing rhythm.
“Mr. Black?”
His breathing became labored. “No,” he muttered between clenched teeth. “I wasn’t…”
Gwen began to rise. “Dorian, are you all—”
He swung on her, teeth bared. Cruelty and rage replaced pain and bewilderment. The tendons stood out in his neck, his pulse throbbing visibly at the base of his throat. Muscle bulged beneath his shirt. His fingers arced like claws.
There was nothing human in his face. Nothing that regarded her as anything but an enemy.
Or prey.
CHAPTER TWO
GWEN PUSHED UPWARD against the wall, letting her coat puddle at her feet. Maybe it would have been better to remain still, but she intended to be prepared if he attacked. Even if she didn’t stand a chance against him.
“Mr. Black,” she said. “Dorian. It’s me, Gwen.”
His lips curled, and she saw that his incisors were ever so slightly pointed. Like a wolf, she thought. Or a stalking tiger just before it tore out the throat of a hapless deer in some Far Eastern jungle.
For an instant she considered the possibility that she’d been looking for the killers in all the wrong places. Maybe the murders weren’t the work of a group of lunatics. Maybe one man—a man sufficiently strong and clever and crazy—was responsible for the bloodbath.
But then she remembered the gentle arms around her, the face so full of remembered pain, and she knew her suspicions were worse than insane.
Dorian Black had been crippled by a terrible experience. He was troubled and sick, but he was no murderer.
“You don’t want to hurt me, Dorian,” she said, touching the cross at her throat. “You’re a good man. I want to help you.”
A sound came out of his throat, fury and despair intermingled. He whirled about and slammed his hands against the crates, toppling them like a child’s blocks. When he turned back, his face was slack, like that of a man sinking into sleep.
“Go,” he said hoarsely. “Get out of here.”
“I’m not leaving you like this.”
Slowly he raised his head. He might as well have been blind. “Please.”
That pride again. Pride and dread and horror. Here was a man who had suffered, who had lost control, who hated himself for his weakness. Gwen had seen it all before. Barry had sacrificed everything to the War. He’d come home so badly shell-shocked that marriage had been out of the question. Even his family couldn’t take care of him. He’d been at the asylum for two years before he shot himself.
Men who seemed to have no visible wounds from the War were sometimes the most damaged of all. Barry used to scream at the slightest glimpse of blood.
You thought you were safe here, Mr. Black, Gwen thought. Away from people, hovering on the edge of life. But you couldn’t escape, could you?
“It’s all right,” she said aloud. “I’m not afraid.”
“You should be.”
“You wouldn’t do me any harm, Dorian. I’m sure of that.”
He passed his hand across his face, pushing his dark hair into disorder. “Naive,” he said. “Naive, foolish…”
“Not as naive as you think. You need a doctor, Dorian. Someone to talk to.”
“No doctor can help me.”
How could she hope to convince him, when all the best doctors in New York hadn’t been able to cure Barry?
