Roaring Dawn: Macey Book 3 (The Gardella Vampire Hunters 10) Read Online Free PDF

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    “Tie it like you mean it,” Grady said. “Even you could get out of these. They have to be tighter.”
    Detective Jameson Linwood, who was still eternally grateful for the fact that he’d somehow recovered from a near-death attack a few weeks ago, frowned at the insult. Nevertheless, he tugged at the ropes digging into his nephew’s wrists. The daft kid’s fingers were already starting to turn grayish white. “It’s already cutting off your blood, you damned fool.”
    “Be that as it may, but Houdini never complained about that. I tell you, make them tighter.” Grady, who was facing him, lifted his bound wrists impatiently toward Linwood. “Come on. You’re a cop—pretend I’m one of your most dangerous perpetrators and you don’t want me slipping off into the night like an eel.”
    “You’re no damned Houdini, and if you don’t be taking care, you’re gonna get yourself killed, Grady m’boy,” he grumbled. Nonetheless, he did as he’d been told and retied the ropes with every bit of strength he owned, rolling his eyes when the nephew grunted with pain at the new onslaught.
    At least he was here to release the fool when it became necessary.
    “If I can live through the dirty, murderous streets of Dublin, I can live through a few tight ropes. Besides, Harry taught me a lot—and once you learn the techniques and obtain the tools, it’s just practice. A lot of…practice. And…mastery of the…body.” Grady’s words were uneven, due to the pain and discomfort that was surely throbbing in his arms and numbing his hands.
    “So you say. I hope you ain’t planning on taking this act on the road, boyo. Is that tight enough for you, y’foolish mick?”
    “It’ll do,” was the reply.
    “And now you want me to do what?” Linwood asked, looking balefully at the coffin-sized box in the center of Grady’s living room. It had arrived not long after Harry Houdini died—a bequest from the escape artist for his protégé. That, and seven crates of books from Houdini’s personal library.
    “Stuff me in there, tie my ankles the same way—then lock it up.”
    “Next thing, you’ll be wanting me to throw it in the river,” Linwood mumbled, helping his nephew to climb inside. “With you inside.”
    “And then chain it closed with that padlock over there.”
    “What in the bloody hell are you talking about? You’re never going to get out of there.” He examined the box. “Hell. At least you’ve got yourself air holes.”
    “That’ll be the next phase.” Grady grunted as the ropes were yanked tight around his ankles. “Filling those in so I can do it underwater. Once I get—this—down.”
    Muttering curse words alternated with prayers for the improvement of his nephew’s mental capacity, Linwood did as directed. At least he’d be able to relax and have a nice spot of whiskey while his blarney-brained boy thrashed around inside a coffin for a bit.
    Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he didn’t know what was wrong with the kid lately. Well, he wasn’t actually a kid, Linwood admitted as he fit the top over the coffin. Grady was coming on to thirty years of age, and had lived a more harrowing life than even Linwood had done since becoming a cop in gangster-infested Chicago. No doubt about it: the boy was lucky to be alive, no thanks to Linwood’s miserable sister.
    “Remember to time me,” came the muffled voice from inside, followed by a thump. “Use the stopwatch.”
    “Right.” Linwood looked down at his handiwork—at the padlock hanging near the edge of the coffin, of the chains wrapping it like a Christmas present. (That thought brought back to mind the memory of his wife, Camilla, and the way she’d make him use his finger to hold the ribbon in place as she tied them in this very room. Ah, Lord, he missed her.)
    “Did you start the timer?”
    “Yes, yes, I did,” Linwood said. That was a little white lie, for he’d glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel after he set the coffin