Garden of Lies(72)

Her knees lifted and her fingers clenched even more tightly in his hair. When her release shuddered through her, she gave a breathless cry.

He moved up her body, thrusting into her before the small tremors had ceased. He caught the waves and rode them to his own crashing climax.

Somewhere in the darkness of the City of Tombs, a man gave an exultant roar that echoed off ancient stone walls. And then he climbed the staircase out of darkness into the sunlight.





FORTY




Hubbard stumbled out of the hansom. He was exhausted and panicky and in great pain. He was certain that his wrist was broken.

He had concluded early on that he did not like London but tonight he had come to truly loathe the hellish place. His mad flight into hiding in the wake of the failed commission had proven disastrous. It had taken him into a dark maze of terrifying lanes and alleys. One narrow passage, in particular, had nearly been the end of him. Two men armed with knives had cornered him in a dark doorway. He had feared for his life.

He had been saved by the miraculous arrival of a hansom that had disgorged two very drunk gentlemen bound for a nearby brothel. The would-be thieves had disappeared into an alley. Hubbard had leaped into the hansom.

When the driver inquired about a destination he had to stop and think for a moment. He dared not go back to the hotel. Cobb would be furious. Roxton and his companion had both gotten a good look at him. Without a doubt they had recognized his accent. Worst of all, Roxton had managed to seize the stiletto walking stick. The staff at the hotel would most assuredly remember it if questioned.

There was only one safe place for him at that moment—the warehouse. He needed to rest and collect his nerve, and then he needed to find a doctor.

He needed Cobb’s assistance.

He paused beneath a streetlamp and tried to get his bearings. It was nearly hopeless. In the moon-infused fog all of the warehouses looked alike. He had been in the vicinity on only one other occasion—the night that he and Cobb had brought the perfume maker here.

Cobb had pointed out the warehouse at the end of the street and given him precise instructions and a key. “Make a note of the address. If problems arise that make it dangerous for us to meet at the hotel, you are to let yourself into that building and wait for me. If I conclude that something has gone wrong I will know to look for you there.”

Hubbard left the eerie glow cast by the single streetlamp on the corner and trudged nervously along the pavement. Abandoned warehouses loomed on either side. He listened for the smallest sounds in the mist, terrified that he would hear footsteps coming up behind him.

He knew that at least some of his victims had sensed him in the instant before the kill. He had seen the unnatural stillness that had come over them just before he drove the stiletto into their necks. A few had even glanced over their shoulders as he approached—only to dismiss him immediately. The relief he had glimpsed in their eyes had always amused him. His stock-in-trade was the fact that he did not appear the least bit threatening. Indeed, most people looked straight through him, as if he did not exist. That had been the case with the brothel madam.

But tonight the target had heard him or sensed him in some primal way. Roxton had not only registered the threat immediately, he had acted.

In that brief encounter, Hubbard had glimpsed the icy awareness in the other man’s eyes and known that Roxton was not just another commission.

Hubbard had known true fear for the first time in a very long while. The panic and terror had only grown stronger during the time it had taken him to find his way to the warehouse. He told himself that his shattered nerves would recover once he got home to New York. In time his wrist would heal, provided he could get it properly set by a doctor. He would survive.

Not much longer now, according to Cobb. Soon they would both be free of this nightmarish city.

He had to strike a light to locate the door of the warehouse. It took two or three attempts to get the key into the lock and for a few seconds he almost despaired. But in the end he got the door open.

He sucked in a shaky gasp of relief when he saw the shielded lantern that someone had left on top of an empty crate. He got the device lit and held it aloft to survey his surroundings.

At first glance the warehouse appeared to have been abandoned. There were a number of empty crates and barrels scattered about. Frayed hoisting ropes dangled from the loft. Bits of moldy straw covered much of the floor.

When he looked more closely, however, he saw a trail of muddled footsteps. Rosemont’s, he concluded. The perfumer must have come here frequently during the past several months delivering the crates filled with the drug and preparing them for shipment to New York.

He followed the prints to the crates. When he reached them he stumbled to a halt and sank down onto one of the wooden containers. He took off his coat, folded it neatly and set it aside. His tie seemed to be restricting his breathing so he removed it and loosened the collar of his shirt. Gingerly he examined his aching wrist.

It was, he reflected, going to be a very long night.

But in the end, the night proved remarkably short.

Hubbard was stretched out on top of the crate, trying in vain to rest, when he heard the door open. A sharp jolt of panic stabbed through him. His heart pounded. He sat up abruptly and fumbled with the lantern.

“Who’s there?” he called out. “Show yourself.”

The newcomer held his own shielded lantern aloft.