Dark of the Moon. Susan Krinard
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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?
“All right,” she said. “I can’t force you.” But I sure