Free Land of a Thousand Dreams by BJ Hoff Page B

his soul. Sometimes I feel he’s being driven straight down the road of destruction.”
    Remembering Michael’s taut face, his tortured words, a cold shadow passed over Sara’s own spirit. The truth was that, even in her few brief encounters with Michael’s son, she had sensed the same darkness, the same portent of some awful destiny.
    It was more than an awareness of Tierney’s resentment of her, although he made no attempt whatsoever to hide his animosity. What she felt in him was a kind of compressed heat, a strain of savageness that, even controlled, burned through him, searing everything he did—everything he was—with the same wildness that gave a panther its fury and made it deadly.
    Sitting there, staring into the mirror without really seeing herself, Sara was suddenly gripped by the conviction that her father was right: She should marry Michael as soon as he would have her, not put things off in hopes Tierney would change.
    Michael needed her now…would need her later…as his wife, as his friend. He needed her by his side—in case Tierney didn’t change.

    It was another half hour before Tierney spied Ferguson and Bailey. They were nearly impossible to miss. Sweet Bailey’s youthful, choirboy face would have charmed a nun, while Ferguson’s ugly mug looked like a doughy, half-baked loaf of bread. They were a fine pair, those two.
    Leaning against the wall of an abandoned warehouse, Tierney watched the two runners lead a dozen or more immigrant families off the ship. He knew right away something was amiss, for had they been doing their job for Walsh, they’d be herding a far greater number down the gangplank.
    Pushing himself away from the wall, Tierney started off behind them, being careful to keep his distance so he wouldn’t be seen. Two or three rods back of the runners and their entourage, he slotted himself in with some rowdy dock workers. Following at this distance, he was able to catch bits of the runners’ conversation.
    â€œSure, and don’t we do what we do as a service for Irish families?” Sweet Bailey was saying as he shepherded his charges away from the docks. “Us being Irish ourselves, we take it as a serious matter entirely, finding respectable lodgings for fine families from the ould sod.”
    â€œNow that is the truth,” offered Ferguson. “’Tis lucky we thought to check the manifest of your ship as we did. There are some, don’t you know,” he went on with an exaggerated shudder, “what would take advantage of good, trusting people like yourselves. Swindlers and thieves, the lot of them!”
    Tierney ground his teeth together, wanting nothing more than to throw a punch at the swine’s lumpy face.
    Most of the dock workers had broken up by now, starting for Front Street. The runners and their victims were almost in the clear on Maiden Lane, and Tierney had to fall back, slowing his pace so he wouldn’t be noticed.
    â€œSure, and you’ll be liking the Porter’s Inn just fine,” Bailey was saying. “’Tis a decent dwelling, with water-closet facilities and lockers where you can store your belongings. We’ll be there in a shake, it’s that close by.”
    Tierney’s eyes narrowed. Porter’s Inn wasn’t one of Patrick Walsh’s boardinghouses. It was owned by Chance Porter, a minor thug who ran several rackets on the docks.
    So Walsh’s suspicions about the two runners had been sound. More than likely they were plying their trade with both Walsh and Porter, reasoning that they could easily cut a few families from Walsh’s list without him ever being the wiser. All prearranged with Porter, of course.
    An anxious father must have inquired about expenses, for Bailey was quick to reassure him. “Oh, you’ll be treated more than fairly, don’t you worry a’tall, a’tall! Doesn’t Mister Porter allow special rates