Craig had a pointy chin and a narrow mouth that made his face resemble a rat’s, and his choice of moustache—a tidy black chevron—wasn’t helping. He carried himself with confidence though, like a man who had done his job well and knew it.
“Why the wait?” one of the officers asked as the three of them walked down the steps, ever closer to Cole. “We know he’ll hang anyway.”
“Do they want to try that shock chair I’m hearing about on him? Because of his fame?” the other wondered, sending a hot jolt of nausea all the way down Cole’s throat, as if it were a hand trying to make him expel the contents of his stomach. He had no grudge against any of those men, but the casual way they discussed Ned’s death made his vision blur with fury. He didn’t let his feelings show, and lowered his head, pretending to offer Craig a polite nod.
The marshal walked right past him, leaving behind the sharp scent of cologne. “That’s for the law to decide. As for the chair, it’s only a concept now. And even if they were to use it for executions, I wouldn’t count on seeing one in our humble city.”
Cole didn’t notice that he’d stopped breathing until the marshal and his companions walked off, but as their voices drowned in the commotion of people, horses, and vehicles, it became clear that the greatest obstacle to Cole’s plans had just left the building.
His timing was perfect.
He squared his shoulders, raised his chin, and strolled past the open doors as if he’d earned his star-shaped badge with honesty and hard work. The small hall where citizens came with any grievances was dark enough to hide the shade of Cole’s skin, but he still lowered the helmet upon entry. The officer seated behind a large desk by a wall separating the interior from the next room barely looked up from his notebook, too busy writing down an elderly woman’s testimony, so Cole walked past him, straight toward a wallpaper of wanted posters.
Only the sight of gallows could have frozen him more efficiently than the image of his own face in the very middle of the display. The crude drawing was a decent likeness of him, and while he now had a short beard and a moustache to hide his true identity, his back tickled, as if he’d already roused suspicion.
But no, the officer was still urging the woman to calm down after whatever ordeal she’d been through.
Cole shut his eyes, trying to ignore the unsteady sensation in his knees with sheer willpower. The instinct that had kept him alive for the past seven years told him to turn back. To flee and leave Ned to the buzzards, if he’d come here freely, but Cole’s heart burned too hot to be ignored. Back in the mad days with the Gotham Boys, there hadn’t been any risks he wouldn’t have taken for Ned.
He might have changed, but his need to protect Ned burned as hot as ever, so he shook off the sense of unease and entered a tall room with a floor covered with white tiles. Freestanding cells reminiscent of oversized bird cages had been erected in three rows, but before he could have tried to see which one held Ned, a raspy voice drew his attention to a police officer.
“Yes?”
Seated behind a large desk, the man hid a thick book in his lap and offered Cole an impatient glare. It had to be some story, if he couldn’t put it down while on duty. Then again, the lawman’s preoccupation with his novel might play in Cole’s favor.
“I’m looking for O’Leary,” Cole said, and the grim features brightened.
“You’re the new blood from the East station, aren’t you? Everyone else wanted to have a look at the Wolfman of the Rockies, so I can’t blame you. He ain’t nothing special. I was disappointed really. Downstairs.” He pointed to a narrow staircase farther on and put the hand down, surely as ready to go back to reading as Cole was to disappear from his sight.
Cole nodded and gave a chuckle of his own before heading past the cages, to the narrow passage leading straight underground. Bloodshot eyes of men locked up like circus animals, with no chance for even the basic privacy offered by walls, trailed after him, but they were no concern of Cole’s. His goal, the one he was willing to risk his life for, was somewhere below the white floor.
The cellar blew its damp breath straight into his face, but he didn’t hesitate and descended the stairs, acutely aware of the wall tiles distorting his reflection to expose the predator hiding behind the tidy uniform.
He’d found his face on the wall of portraits, among other most wanted in the state, and the only way he belonged in this building was behind bars. Yet here he was, walking ever farther from the safety of the outside world to save the one man who mattered. His Neddie. His stupid, kind-hearted Neddie who carried guilt he shouldn’t have to bear on his own.
Cole didn’t know what horrors he expected in the cellar, but the young man who looked at him from across a corridor leading up to twin doors made of steel offered him a relieved smile. He was a redhead, like Ned, but much younger—so young that the police uniform seemed to oppress him with its somber cut. He reminded Cole of Ned’s cousin, the deputy in Beaver Springs, but the O’Leary nose was a feature reserved for only one family.
“Finally. Are you my replacement? They really give the most boring jobs to us greenhorns,” the officer said, walking toward Cole with the energy of someone about to go home. He reached into the vast pocket of the woolen coat and pulled out a jingling bundle of keys just as Cole hurried to meet him halfway.
Cole struck the moment innocent blue eyes met his.
He’d done it so many times it was second nature. A punch to the face to confuse his opponent, then another one—to the back of the head. He’d have to choke the young policeman until he fainted if that wasn’t enough, but the boy-lawman sprawled on the floor like a discarded puppet.
The poor bastard wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon, so Cole picked up the fallen keys and ran straight to the doors ahead. There was a little barred window in each, and when the first revealed a small, empty room, Cole didn’t bother to peek into the other and unlocked it before yanking back the door with the thud in his ears playing a triumphant march.
He could finally breathe.
Ned sat on a cot with the serene expression of a man who’d accepted his fate, but his eyes grew wide the moment Cole’s presence sank in.
“You. What in all hells? Get out of here!” Ned snarled and jumped to his feet. This was not the joyful reunion Cole had imagined, but Ned had reasons to be angry.
“You’re wearing the jacket,” Cole uttered, his gaze lingering on the ugly bit of stitching where the left arm met the garment’s shoulder. He should have redone that bit a long time ago.
Ned frowned, backed into the corner. “What else was I gonna wear to meet my maker?”
The low, aggressive tone felt like a slap, but Cole wouldn’t let it affect him when Ned had every right to loathe him for the things he’d done. “Neddie. I’m getting you out of here.”
Ned’s scowl only deepened, and he shoved Cole back so hard he stumbled into the corridor. “Don’t you dare call me ‘Neddie’! Get out. I mean it. Get out before someone fucking recognizes you.”
Cole shut his mouth, but his throat tightened so hard he massaged it before speaking up. “I’m not going anywhere without you. What were you thinking? They’ll hang you!” he said, dashing right back inside, before Ned could have shut the steel door in his face.