Chapter 9 - The Intruder’s Ghost
Nora walked across the cold floor until she stood directly in front of the chair.
She didn't scream. She didn't cry. The terror that had haunted her for eighteen months—the midnight phone calls, the broken promises, the endless pounding on doors by men with broken noses and baseball bats—seemed to dry up under the cold fluorescent light.
"You look small, Greg," she said quietly.
"Nora, please," he sobbed. "They're gonna kill me. Valenti's guys are everywhere. If Calder lets me go, I'm a dead man. If he keeps me here, I'm a dead man!"
"You died two years ago," Nora replied, her eyes steady. "When you sold Lucy's college fund to buy horse. When you left a three-month-old baby in a freezing crib because you had to meet a dealer on Cicero Avenue. That's when you died."
"She’s my blood!"
"She doesn't even know your name," Nora said, the words falling like lead sinkers into deep water. "She calls a stuffed rabbit Captain Carrot. She thinks Bishop is her best friend. And she thinks Vincent Calder is the man who fixes things when they break."
Behind her, Vincent’s jaw tightened. He didn't move an inch, but his eyes locked onto Nora's back with an intensity that burned through the damp chill of the room.
"You're not leaving here with her, Greg," Nora whispered. "You're never going to see her again. If you ever come within ten miles of my daughter, I won't need Mr. Calder's men to protect her. I will put you in the ground myself."
Greg stared at her, stunned into silence by the cold, venomous certainty in the eyes of the woman he used to bully for pocket cash.
Nora turned her back on him. She looked at Vincent.
"Do whatever you have to do," she said softly. "Just keep him away from her."
"He leaves Chicago tonight," Vincent said, his voice quiet, addressing only her. "On a cargo freighter heading through the St. Lawrence Seaway to Nova Scotia. He works the boiler room for two years. If he jumps ship, Jimmy Vane’s friends in Montreal will find him. If he finishes the contract, he stays in Canada and never sets foot across the 49th parallel again."
Nora’s breath hitched. She looked at Greg, then back at Vincent. "You're... you're letting him live?"
"A dead junkie is a mess that attracts police," Vincent said coldly. "A deckhand on an ore barge is invisible. Frank, get him into the van. Use the south service road."
"Right away, boss," Frank said, stepping forward with a roll of heavy duct tape.
Vincent took Nora by the elbow. His touch was firm, guiding her gently away from the weeping man and up the concrete steps into the warmth of the manor.
As they reached the top landing, the heavy steel door slammed shut behind them, sealing off the cellar for good.
The hallway was dimly lit by amber wall sconces. The rain outside lashed against the stained glass window of the entryway, filling the house with a low, oceanic roar.
Nora stopped. The adrenaline that had carried her through the confrontation suddenly drained from her system, leaving her knees weak. She swayed slightly.
Vincent’s arms caught her before she could fall.
He pulled her against his chest, one large hand splaying across the small of her back, holding her upright. She could feel the steady, thunderous beat of his heart through his wet shirt, the heat radiating off him like a furnace.
"Breathe, Nora," he commanded softly against her hair. "It's done."
"It's not done," she whispered, her hands gripping his lapels, burying her face into the curve of his throat. "Valenti is still out there. You burned his letter. He knows Greg failed."
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"Let him come," Vincent whispered back, his chin resting against the crown of her head. "This house has seven-foot limestone foundations and three inches of steel in every frame. But more than that... it has me."
***
