leave your unfortunate friend inside the Society hall and depart immediately before the police arrive.”
“But Bret will remember,” Hadlee objected, “that we were all here. He’ll tell them.”
Caden exchanged glances with Edward. Caden walked back and stood in front of the three men. “If saving each of you from the ridicule of public scrutiny in the press will help to save his own neck from the rope, I believe Mr. McGowan will remain mute on your presence here. And if he decides to speak . . .”
He pointed back at the corpse. “Then he only calls forth testimony that is sure to lead him to the hangman’s noose.”
Arley pulled open his jacket and hooked his thumbs underneath his suspenders. “How do you know he’ll listen to reason, Caden?”
“Because, my friend, a drowning man will grab onto anything if it will keep his head above water a minute longer.”
The men stared at each other for the longest time. Hadlee spat on the bricks and they glanced back at the corpse.
“There will be time to pay your respects when he is lying in state, gentlemen,” Caden said. “Now, quickly, each of you take hold of him and lift him inside.”
Edward grabbed Bret McGowan’s legs. “There is a room in the cellar, doctor. We can leave him there until the police arrive.”
Edward pulled the creaking, hewn door open on its rusted hinges. Caden strode into the dank cellar and paused, making sure everything was as he had left it. He nodded to Edward and his assistant closed the door behind him.
A single oil lamp burned on top of an ancient, empty fish barrel in the middle of the damp cellar room. The immediate sensation of finally being alone with Bret McGowan was not at all what he expected—so much that he was only aware of his own discomfort rather than relishing his victory over this troublesome rival.
Bret McGowan lay sprawled on an old, moldy straw mattress, his hands and feet tied to the legs of the rusting metal spring frame. The glimmer of the yellow light flickered on his closed eyes. The thick cord of old hangman’s rope around his neck was fastened securely to a hook in the brick pillar behind his head.
How like a McGowan to die like a mad dog tied to a rope. Caden stood over the bound prisoner, examining his face as if looking at a prepared specimen.
Gone was the aggressive sneer of a powerful adversary—the sunken cheeks and sweaty, wan skin already betrayed the corrupting weakness that was surely advancing through Bret’s helpless body, the very smell of his skin revealing the rot from within.
Caden grimaced and took a step back. Which masculine qualities could women have possibly found attractive in this travesty of a man? Another sharp cramp stabbed at his groin.
After pausing to let the discomfort run its course and expire, he finally spoke. “Mr. McGowan . . . Bret, open your eyes. I know you can hear me.”
Bret didn’t move or open his eyes. He continued to lay silent and motionless in his presence.
Caden picked up the glass of water near the pitcher. He splashed the water on his prisoner’s face. Bret coughed and blinked. He shook his head and squinted up at Caden.
“Shrewd men,” Caden continued, “never let the ignorance and mistakes of youth poison their present wisdom and resolve. It is the current circumstances that should interest us. Whatever the past may have been between us, it is meaningless now.”
Bret sprang from the mattress like a mad man, but the rope held him fast to the bed frame. His wild eyes glared at Caden. “Meaningless? You son of a bitch! You and the other bastards raped my mother then—” He spat at him. “You hung my father!”
“And what would you do now, Bret? The war over all these years, all the wasted blood, dried and turned to dust. Another generation of young men destroyed, their promise and potential for greatness discarded by the conflicting whims of a few old men.”
He stepped forward. “Would you kill me? Have your revenge on me now for the sins of my youth? It is not old blood that you should worry about but new, freshly spilled in the alley behind the hall.” Caden waited until the flush of fury settled to a glistening sweat on the man’s pale face.
Bret groaned and closed his eyes. “Something . . . happened to Timothy. I was looking for you, then—”
“Then, you met up with Mr. DeRocha, who was late