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 as hell can wear you down, Dorian Black. Because I owe you. I pay my debts.
And if you can help me find the murderers…
She shook off the unworthy thought and flung her coat over her shoulders. “I’ll go now,” she said. “But if I can do anything for you, anything at all…” She suddenly remembered that her cards were gone, along with her pocketbook, doubtless stolen by the young hooligans. She didn’t even have a nickel for a telephone call.
Well, at least she was alive and fully capable of walking now that the sickness had passed. She could ankle it to the nearest police station and call from there.
She looked at Dorian, struck by a powerful urge to stroke the wayward hair out of his face. He wouldn’t welcome such familiarity. Maybe he was even regretting pulling her out of the river.
“Listen,” she said. “I’d like to come back sometime. Maybe I can’t completely repay what you’ve done for me—”
“I don’t want your charity.”
“Couldn’t you at least accept a haircut? I’m a mean one with the shears.”
His eyes were still clouded, dull with exhaustion and that strange paralysis she’d so often seen in Barry before his death. He didn’t meet her gaze.
“Don’t come back,” he said.
Gwen puffed out her cheeks. Sometimes it doesn’t do any good to argue, Dad had told her more than once. Learn to let it go, Gwen. Learn to be patient. Sometimes patience is what a reporter needs most.
And patience was a virtue she still hadn’t quite mastered. But she was willing to give it the old college try. For Dorian’s sake.
“Okay,” she said. “How do I get out of this place?”
“I’ll show you.”
The voice belonged to the other man she’d heard speaking when she’d woken up. He came out of the shadows, an old gentleman with clothing every bit as worn as Dorian’s. His face was seamed with deep wrinkles, his nose had been broken in several places, and his eyes were filled with that sort of peculiar sweet-tempered innocence that blessed a certain type of inebriate.
“Name’s Walter,” he said, tipping a moth-eaten fedora. “Walter Brenner. We don’t have too many ladies visit us. Wouldn’t want you to think we’re lacking in manners.”
“How do you do, Walter,” Gwen said, offering her hand. “I’m Gwen Murphy.”
“So I heard.” His palm was dry and papery. “Had a bit of a dip in the river, did you?”
“A regular soaking.” She walked with him out of the warehouse. “I’m lucky Mr. Black happened to be there.”
He ducked his head conspiratorially. “Dorian ain’t always like that, you know, so short-tempered and all. It’s just this mood…comes on him regular, every few weeks, like. Best to leave him alone until it passes.”
“I understand. Have you known Dorian long?”
“’Bout as long as he’s been on the waterfront. Three months, I figure.”
“Do you know anything about his past?”
“He’s been through something awful, Miss Gwen. Don’t know what it is. He won’t talk.”
“He’s never mentioned the War?”
“Nope. Could be that’s it, but I worry about him. He don’t go out, except at night. Holes up here during the day like one of our rats. And he hardly eats. He brings stuff
