He pulled back onto the highway an hour after he’d stopped, but his eyes continued to well and his chest continued to ache. By the time he reached Molly’s house in Chicago, his head was pounding, and his legs shook as he took his valise from the car. His other things could wait.
Molly made him breakfast—he’d just missed Sean—and bustled around him, cleaning and chatting and needling him for news about the Butcher. If she noticed his battered countenance and exhausted reticence, she didn’t say, and Molly would have said. Having the face of a hound dog had its advantages.
He was weary enough that rising from the table was too much work, and he sat with his hands clasped and his head bowed, knowing he needed to call Dani. He’d said he would. But he didn’t think he could. Not today.
“You know I never pry in your work, but do you think you’ve caught him?” Molly asked, sitting down across from him with a pot of tea. “Is that why you’ve left Cleveland?”
“Caught who, Molly?”
“The Butcher!”
“Now why would you think I had anything to do with that?”
“Eliot Ness was here, brother. He was here for an hour, and he gave you a box of files. Eliot Ness is in Cleveland now. He has some job as a bigwig police commissioner or some such thing. And why else, in God’s name, would you have gone to Cleveland?”
“Why indeed?” he muttered.
“So . . . have you caught him?”
“In a way,” he sighed, deciding it did no good to deny his involvement when Molly had it all figured out.
She frowned. “What way is that?”
“The case is . . . closed. For me, it is closed. I have another assignment.”
“Another assignment here? That surprises me,” she said, concern furrowing her brow. “I thought Chicago wasn’t safe for you.”
“The anniversary of the massacre is in a couple of weeks.” That wasn’t anything Molly wouldn’t know. Ten people had been killed and a number seriously injured on Memorial Day in Chicago last year when hundreds of sympathizers at a steelworkers’ strike clashed with police. “Roosevelt is worried about the steel industry with war coming. He’s been giving the union what it wants, but I’m guessing the Treasury Department wants to make sure the money is going where it’s supposed to be going.”
“Do you really think war is coming?” Molly said.
“Whether the US gets involved with the fighting or not, we’ll still be supplying weapons, ships, and planes. War is big business, and America wants its cut.”
“You’re quite the cynic, Michael Francis Malone.”
“Yes. I am. But I’m also right.” He heaved himself up from the table. “Can I stay here for a few days? Until I know what’s what?”
“Of course you can. Sean and I are bored out of our minds. At least your gloom is new.”
“Ha.” He paused by the telephone in the hallway and looked down at it, thinking of Dani. Molly was still watching him.
“Are you all right, little brother?” Molly asked softly. So she had noticed.
“I’m the same as I ever was, Molly girl,” he responded and turned away from the telephone. He would call tomorrow.
“Hmm. That’s what I was afraid of,” Molly muttered. He didn’t acknowledge her teasing but proceeded toward the bottom of the stairs where his bag sat waiting.
27
Neither of them were equipped to handle a prolonged goodbye. But whether from kindness or cowardice, in the days that followed, Dani bounced between anger and disappointment like a yo-yo on a string. There was work to do, always work to do, and she was grateful for the demands that kept her from curling up like Charlie and refusing to move.
The grief was not unlike the grief she’d felt when her parents died, and that surprised her. She’d been left behind then too, though not by choice.
Malone had left her by choice.
She wasn’t sure what that said about her or him. Maybe it said nothing at all, and maybe it said everything. He loved her. Surprisingly, she did not doubt that. He loved her as greedily and obsessively as she loved him. His mouth, his hands, his eyes, his attention had all matched hers, and she’d felt the truth of it in his clothes. What Michael did not have was courage.
Her anger would always flare with that thought, but then her compassion would drag it down again. “Courage” was not the right word.
Michael was not a man of weak character or selfish intentions, and a man who worked undercover in Al Capone’s circle for eighteen months was not short on mettle. It was not courage he lacked. She suspected it was confidence. He’d never recovered the faith to love again, with all that love demanded. That he’d fallen for her at all was miraculous. That he’d admitted it was yet another wonder.