The Captive Within (A Prairie Heritage, Book 4) (26 page)

Liáng deflated. He stared at the table, wondering what to do
next.
What would O’Dell do
?
What would he ask this lady
?

“I believe he has an uncle still living. He raised him, his
sister’s son.”

Liáng’s mouth dropped open. “Where . . . how
do I find him?”

Madam Wong took the note Bao had sent her and scribbled
something on the back. “You will find him here.”

Liáng grabbed the scrap of paper and read it.
Freddie
Fetch. Bogg’s
.

“What is this ‘Bogg’s’?”

She snorted. “The lowest sort of bar on the wharves for the
lowest sort of people. You be careful. It is not for Chinese.”

She put her hand on his arm. “And that man Freddie is not to
be trusted.” She made a small gesture, her finger drawn across her throat.
Liáng swallowed. He understood. Perfectly.

He nodded. “Thank you.”

“You had better go. Tell B—” she stopped herself. “Tell our
friend we hope for the best for him.”

When Liáng arrived back at the bungalow, he found O’Dell,
Bao, and Miss Greenbow waiting up. He quickly conveyed his conversation with
Bao’s distant cousin-in-law and showed them the scribbled words.

“Freddie Fetch,” O’Dell repeated. “Would that make Morgan’s
name Regis Fetch?”

“Not likely. He was Freddie’s sister’s son.” Liáng
hesitated. “This ‘Bogg’s’ is a white man’s bar. She warned of the place, said
Freddie could not be trusted, warned me not to go there.”

O’Dell nodded. “Then I guess I will have to.”

Miss Greenbow opened her mouth to object. At a look from
O’Dell she closed it.

~~**~~

Two very notable events have occurred here at Palmer
House, and I thank you for both of them, dear Lord. First, Tory has come with
the backing of her wealthy patrons to establish a design and sewing house. O
Lord, your provision is always so much more than we expect!

The second is the addition of a new girl. Her name is
Jenny. She is a funny little thing, just as plain and sweet as a prairie girl
from back home. I already love her.

Joy and I described our expectations to her and, I
confess, Jenny’s eyes became as large as saucers. “Lor’, Miss Rose! I’ve never
had no religion!” she said. Joy and I chuckled and Joy, always so practical,
told Jenny, “We hope you never ‘get religion,’ Jenny. We just hope you will
come to know God and his Son Jesus.”

In closing, Joy has convinced Grant to see Doctor Murphy.
They have an appointment this week. We trust you, Lord. In all things, we trust
you.

—

O’Dell stared at himself in a mirror. He hadn’t had a proper
haircut since he’d arrived in Seattle. His black hair crept over his ears and
down his neck. He hadn’t shaved or bathed since Liáng returned with the words
Freddie
Fetch. Bogg’s
. Now his face sprouted two days’ worth of thick, black
whiskers.

Liáng had brought the clothing O’Dell asked for, purchased
from the Sisters of Providence’s second-hand store. He also brought
information, garnered from the nuns, of the notorious bar,
Bogg’s
.

“The sisters don’t go in the bar, but they know—and are
known in—the area. It’s notorious for cutthroats, thieves, and homeless
drunkards. Only the opium dens are said to be more dangerous. The sisters
distribute sandwiches, coffee, and blankets to those they find on the streets
and in the alleys. They often find men who have been set upon.”

“And this is the place Freddie Fetch frequents.” O’Dell
thought about that. “Morgan is brilliant and fastidious; quite the contrast, I
should think.”

He donned the worn trousers, shirt, pea coat, and
midnight-blue watch cap. “Do I fit the part?”

“Too neat and clean,” Miss Greenbow answered. Her mouth was
pinched, and O’Dell could feel the worry radiating from her.

He took off the coat, grabbed a sharp knife from the
kitchen, and sawed a ragged hole around a pocket flap. With a few nicks he
removed a button, popped the stitches around a shoulder, and pulled on the
sleeve.

“Better?”

She nodded. “Still too clean.”

O’Dell hobbled into the back yard and dragged the coat
across the steps and yard, grinding in dirt and grass stains. He was breathless
when he finished. Miss Greenbow appeared at his side with a mug of coffee. She
dumped it across the breast and one sleeve.

“Let that soak in a bit, then wipe some of it off.”

Bao and Liáng watched silently, concern etched on their
faces.

An hour later it was dark. Liáng would drive O’Dell into
town and drop him near the wharves. With a well-chewed cigar butt in his mouth,
O’Dell finally looked the part. He nodded and opened the door.

“Not yet,” Miss Greenbow said softly. “We must pray.”

For once, O’Dell thought prayer was a good idea. They
huddled together in the sitting room, O’Dell and Bao awkward and unsure. Liáng
simply laid his hand upon O’Dell’s shoulder and prayed. When he finished, Miss
Greenbow added her petition:

“Father in heaven, I am asking for your ministering angels
to follow Mr. O’Dell everywhere he goes this night. We ask that they watch over
him and safeguard his steps, Lord, and we ask that you lead Mr. O’Dell to the
information we need to find Mei-Xing.”

She paused, her voice rough with emotion. “You are the Most
High God—and with you, Lord, nothing is impossible.”

And with you, Lord, nothing is impossible
. O’Dell
trembled at the power those few words had over him.

With you, Lord, nothing is impossible
.

—

 “Well now, let’s take a listen, shall we?” Doctor Murphy
smiled professionally and placed a stethoscope on Grant’s chest. He listened
for a few moments then moved the instrument and listened again.

Joy watched him carefully and, although it was barely
perceptible, she saw his brows twitch and draw together ever-so-briefly. He
listened to Grant’s lungs as he drew deep breaths. Then he listened to Grant’s
heart again.

Noncommittally, he said, “Mr. Michaels, my office is on the
second floor of this building, which has two stories above us. I would like you
to walk to the first floor and then run the flights to the top floor and then
run back to me. Are you able to do that?”

“Yes, Doctor.” But Joy saw Grant glance away. Even as he
excused himself, he would not meet Joy’s eyes. Her breath caught and she turned
to the physician.

The doctor studied her in return. “Do not alarm yourself,
Mrs. Michaels. It may be nothing.”

They waited for Grant. When the doctor looked at his pocket
watch the second time, Joy jumped to her feet and sprinted from his office. She
stared down the stairwell and saw nothing.

Taking the stairs two at a time, she ran up to the third
floor. There, on the landing, his head between his legs, sat Grant. He was
breathing hard. His face was white, tinged in blue.

“Oh, my darling!” Joy exclaimed. “Why did you not tell the
doctor you could not do it? Why do harm to yourself?”

Grant shook his head. He still could not answer. It was
minutes before his color began to return and Joy heard other steps in the
stairwell. The doctor, his nurse with him, soon reached them. With their help
Grant returned to the doctor’s office.

“I am sorry I asked this exercise of you, Mr. Michaels. You
made out that you are fine, but you have not been forthcoming, eh?” The doctor,
his face solemn, forced Grant to admit to the truth.

“Ever since the influenza, I have felt weak. I had hoped
that with time and proper rest, I would recover,” he confessed. “But rather
than improving, I am more winded and easily fatigued each day.”

Joy felt as though she had been punched in her stomach. She
gripped Grant’s arm and held it tightly. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she
whispered.

His chin dropped to his chest. “I’m sorry. I-I did not want
to worry you. Again.”

The doctor nodded, watching them. Pursing his lips he said,
“I would like you to see a colleague of mine, a specialist.”

“Certainly, if you feel it necessary,” Grant replied
uneasily. “What kind of specialist?”

“A cardiologist,” the doctor replied. He wrote the
specialist’s information on a card and handed it to Grant.

“I will call for an appointment,” Grant said weakly, taking
the card.

“No need. My nurse has already called. He will see you in 30
minutes.”

Joy’s head began to spin. This could not be happening!
Lord
Jesus! Please help us!

Dr. Peabody listened to Grant’s heart and lungs in the same
manner the other physician had and questioned Grant about his symptoms. Finally
he sat back in his chair.

“I have an idea of what is going on,” he began, “But I would
like my associate to confer with me. Do you have any objections to my asking
him to join us?”

A few minutes later, Dr. Peabody’s young assistant joined
them. He, too, listened. And frowned. The look he exchanged with Dr. Peabody
pierced Joy’s heart. After a short whispered consultation, Dr. Peabody’s
associate excused himself.

“Mr. and Mrs. Michaels, I’m afraid I have some difficult
news.”

That evening the household gathered in the great room to
hear what Grant and Joy had to tell them. “I have been feeling more and more
tired as of late,” Grant began calmly. “Today Joy and I saw several doctors.”

He looked around at the shocked expressions on the dear
faces around them. How he hated to pain them further!

Joy held his arm as if afraid to let go. It was the pinched
expression on her face that hurt him the most. Her mother, who already knew
what he was about to say, sat calmly with her head bowed.

“The doctors say that in most cases, the effects of
influenza are temporary,” Grant continued slowly. “However, in a very few
cases, the virus may attack the heart. The symptoms are increasing fatigue and
chest palpitations.”

He looked down. “They tell me that the left side of my heart
is damaged, likely by the virus. This is why I have been so tired.”

He remained silent until Tabitha exploded, demanding what
everyone else was afraid to ask. “But what does that mean?”

Grant remained silent several more minutes. Beside him,
Joy’s soundless tears dropped onto their joined hands.

“There is nothing they can do to reverse the damage,” he
said quietly. “It means my heart is failing.”

That night after they climbed into bed, Grant and Joy
reached for each other. They said nothing, but held on to each other. Joy
sought and found Grant’s lips, kissing them desperately. He responded with a
fierceness that stunned her and enflamed them both until the intensity of their
passion took them both to that place of release.

~~**~~

Mei-Xing awakened abruptly. The door to the apartment had
just slammed shut. Su-Chong was stumbling about the sitting room. Had he been
drinking again? He had not forced himself on her for weeks—would he do so this
night?

She sat up, trembling, but no longer in fear.
O God, I
will be afraid no longer. Whatever comes, I choose to be
free . . . in you
.

She listened, following his movements to the little washroom
and then into the other bedroom, hearing cupboards and drawers opening and
slamming, contents being tossed against the wall.
What is he doing?

He is coming
.

The light above her head came on and Su-Chong fumbled to fit
the key into the lock. Objects clattered to the floor on his side of the door
and still he struggled to unlock the door.

Mei-Xing steeled herself.
If he is that
drunk . . .

The door swung open. He sagged against it, breathing
heavily. “Come. Here.”

Mei-Xing crept to the door, saw the large basin lying beside
Su-Chong’s feet, towels, bandages, scissors, and alcohol scattered near it.
Then she saw the blood. So much blood.

Su-Chong grabbed the neck of her nightdress. His hand
dripped blood, splattering her face and gown. Mei-Xing shrieked and tried to
pull away, but he only pulled her closer. And laughed.

He is hysterical, insane
, Mei-Xing’s mind shouted.

“Once again, Mei-Xing, you will help me.” He laughed again,
more quietly. “I seem to have dropped some things.”

Grabbing the skirt of her shift, he nodded to the items
strewn at his feet. “Pick them up.” Mei-Xing obeyed, piling the items into the
basin.

“Set them on the table. Then help me to sit.”

She did as he demanded. When she was ready to move him, he
grasped the neck of her nightdress again and closed the door behind them. He
handed her the key. “Lock it.”

Mei-Xing fumbled with the key, feeling his grip on her gown
tighten, pulling her to him. When the lock clicked over, Su-Chong gestured.
“Put it over my head.”

Mei-Xing lifted the chain over his head, watched her freedom
dangle about his neck, so close but still so far away.

When he was seated, she tried to help him remove his shirt,
but it was too painful and difficult. “Cut it off,” he ordered through gritted
teeth.

A few moments later she stared at the damage with dread. A
bullet had penetrated Su-Chong’s chest below his left collarbone. They both
stared at the ragged entrance wound. It was draining blood heavily.

“So,” he whispered.

He knows I will never be able to get it out
! Mei-Xing
automatically grabbed a clean hand towel, folded it twice, and pressed it
against the bleeding hole. He flinched. “Hold this tightly,” she said softly.

She opened a bottle of alcohol and prepared some heavy gauze
pads. Holding the bottle over the wound she looked Su-Chong in the face. “This
will hurt.”

He nodded. Mei-Xing quickly peeled back the folded towel,
holding it below the wound, and poured the alcohol. Su-Chong gasped and cried
out. Just as quickly she pressed the towel back into place. The blood had
already soaked through.

They stared at each other. Finally she whispered,
“I . . . I could get help for you.”

As he looked away for a long moment Mei-Xing prayed,
O
God, I am calling on you
!

When Su-Chong turned his eyes back to her, she knew what his
answer would be.

“No, Mei-Xing.” He shook his head slowly. “Do what you can
to stop the bleeding.”

Not “remove the bullet,” not “fix me up.” Only “do what you
can.” Resigned words uttered with deadly finality.

She licked her lips and looked over the supplies. She folded
the other clean towel and wadded two small gauze pads tightly. When she was
ready, she pulled off the drenched towel and packed a wadded pad into the hole.
Over it she placed another, holding it as firmly as she could.

On top of the pads she placed the clean, folded towel and
held all in place with the heel of her hand, leaning her weight on it. With
great difficulty she maintained the pressure while wrapping long bandages about
Su-Chong’s neck and muscular chest. She used her teeth to tighten the final
knots.

“You must lie down and, and keep pressure on it,” Mei-Xing
murmured. She gestured to her bed.

Through her ministrations, Su-Chong had said nothing. He had
stared straight ahead at the wall. Still staring, he spoke, and Mei-Xing could
scarcely hear him. “No. I will go to my own bed.”

“But, but you must not move about and, and I will have to
change the bandages when they soak through,” Mei-Xing protested.

He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Help me up.” He
stumbled to the door. “Unlock it for me.”

Slowly, Mei-Xing did as he asked. He pushed the door open.
She tried to press past him, but he blocked her, pushed her back. Blood was
already seeping from the towel, dripping onto the floor. “Give me the key.”

“No, Su-Chong! No!” Mei-Xing was crying now, begging him.
“Please, do not leave me in here!”

Her voice rose to a keening cry as the door closed and he
fumbled determinedly to re-lock it. She leaned against the barrier between
them, calling out in anguish as Su-Chong dragged himself into his room.

Eventually she calmed and took stock. Two jars sat on the
table. One was full, the other half empty. Trembling, her hands and nightgown
sticky with Su-Chong’s blood, Mei-Xing crumpled to the floor.

O Jesus, I need you . . .

—

As Liáng drove through the darkness, O’Dell sipped on a
bottle of cheap wine. He shuddered. “Nasty stuff.” He spit a mouthful into his
hand, and rubbed it in his hair, dabbed more on his coat.

They didn’t talk. Liáng let him off down a particularly dark
alleyway after giving O’Dell the directions the sister at the thrift store had
provided him.

“God go with you,” he said, his voice raw.

O’Dell nodded and got out. Liáng drove off, and O’Dell
sauntered over to the alley wall, leaning against it, letting his eyes adjust,
steeling himself for the walk ahead. He rubbed his back against the
rank-smelling bricks.

“Just for good measure, my dear Miss Greenbow,” he
whispered.

He wandered toward the bar, taking his time, stopping to
swill a little of the wine. A dark figure detached itself from the shadows and
approached him. O’Dell stiffened.

“Give a brother a taste, man?”

O’Dell handed over the bottle. A filthy hand reached for it
eagerly, lifting the lip of the bottle to a grizzled face.

“Than’s, man. Say, you got any spare change?”

O’Dell knew better than to show money. “Sorry.”

“Tha’s all righ’.” He disappeared into the shadows again.

O’Dell kept meandering through the streets, some stinking of
rotting garbage, all moist with mold and decay. He knew he was near the water
when the tang of salt and flotsam overpowered the other smells.

Bogg’s
was tacked onto the side of a decaying
warehouse abutting a listing dock. In the dim light O’Dell picked out knots of
longshoremen, some obviously fallen on hard times, standing about or sitting
with their backs against the warehouse. He ignored them and sauntered toward
the bar.

Inside, he made his way to an open seat about half-way down
the bar. “Gimme a beer,” he muttered, slapping down a nickel. He stared down at
the bar, looking neither left nor right, letting his ears acclimate. When his
beer arrived, he gulped at it, and set it sloshing back on the counter.

He ignored the men around him. He knew he was being
scrutinized, but he focused only on the mug he gripped with both hands.

“’Nuther,” he muttered when he’d downed the last of the
first one. This one he nursed slowly. Still he kept his eyes and nose pointed
down, minding his own business. Listening.

He slowly finished his beer and laid out another nickel. A
fresh beer landed on the bar and the nickel disappeared.

The men around him had resumed their whispered
conversations. O’Dell wondered how many beers he would have to drink before he
could look around for Freddie Fetch.

He shifted on the stool, belched loudly, and pushed off from
the bar. His head swum and he grabbed the counter.

“Steady, mate.” The man next to him growled, not turning.

“Right,” O’Dell said to himself. He belched again and stole
a glance deeper into the room.

Down at the end of the bar he spotted an old man studying
him with thirsty, conniving eyes. O’Dell lurched in that direction. His painful
hip aided in exaggerating his state of inebriation. He’d seen an empty seat
next to the old guy.

When he reached the seat, he more or less fell onto it. Then
he signaled the bartender and laid out a dime on the bar.

“Buy an old man a beer, mister?”

O’Dell slowly looked up. “Sure. Why not.” He signaled the
bartender again and pointed at the old man. Two beers, the foaming heads
dripping from the mugs, slid their way.

“Cheers,” the old man said, grinning. O’Dell did not miss
the way the old man was sizing him up.

“Likewise,” O’Dell answered. They drank in silence until the
old man wiped his mouth.

“Name’s Freddie. Yours?”

O’Dell nearly choked. He wiped his mouth slowly. “Jones.”

“Buy ’nother round?” Freddie wasn’t shy.

“Depends.”

“Oh? On what?” The cunning look was more pronounced.

Because of the beer, O’Dell’s judgment was not as sharp as
it should have been, but he figured it would only worsen as the evening dragged
on. He took the plunge. “You have a nephew named Reggie?”

“Whadda you want t’ know fer?”

O’Dell heard anger in the old man’s words, and gambled that
Freddie would be happy to rat on Reggie. “I might have a bone to pick with
him.”

Freddie studied O’Dell for a long minute.

“Worthless piece o’—” He cursed his nephew in colorful
language that even O’Dell had never heard before.

“No love lost between you, I take it.”

For the next ten minutes Freddie, plied with two more beers,
told O’Dell everything he’d ever need or want to know about Reggie—everything
but his last name.

“M’ sister Maggie got ’erself knocked up. Th’ skunk niver
married ’er. Well, I give ’er an’ ’er son a place t’ live, roof over they’s
head after ’is ol’ man run out on ’em,” Freddie snarled. “But was ’e ever
grateful? Not that ’un. Actin’ like ’e was above everybody.”

He nodded at O’Dell. “Oh, yes! Smarter an’ better, ’e was!
Always with ’is nose in a derned book an’ correctin’ ’is elders. Oh, ’e hated
it when ’is ma called ’im
Reggie
like sh’ did when ’e’s a tot.”

Freddie’s snicker was downright malicious. “Hated it bad
when we called ’im tha’, ’e did. An’ tha’s why we did it.”

All I need is his last name.
O’Dell struggled to
contain his temper.

“Near t’ got ’imself kilt when ’e took up with them
Chinese.” Freddie sniggered. “Woulda served ’im too right. They don’t tolerate
no high-an’-mighty guff.”

“You don’t want to mess with them,” O’Dell agreed.

“Nosirree, Bob,” Freddie cackled.

“Heard Reggie left town again,” O’Dell managed to say
casually.

“Tha’s what I heered, too.”

O’Dell had reached the end of his patience. “Well, I need to
go, Freddie. Thanks for the conversation.”

“I thank ya fer th’ brews,” Freddie smiled.

“Say, what was Reggie’s last name again? It’s on the tip of
my tongue,” It was O’Dell’s best shot.

“Saint John,” Freddie spat. “
Reggie bloomin’ Saint
John.
Like ’e’s anythin’ near a saint!”

“That’s right.” O’Dell dropped two quarters in front of the
old man. “Save some for tomorrow, Freddie.” He slid off his stool and steadied
himself and his aching hip.

“Yer a good man, Jones,” Freddie replied. His eyes narrowed.
Behind O’Dell’s back, Freddie’s chin jerked in his direction. Three men slowly
unfolded from a booth.

O’Dell stumbled toward the front of the bar and out the
door, relieved to be breathing the cool air, rank as it was, rather than the
foul, sweltering fog of the bar.

He’d swallowed five beers in the course of the evening, and
they’d caught up to him, but only his brain felt numb: His hip ached
incessantly and his stiff shoulder throbbed. Sharp twinges reminded him that
his hand was still mending.

He straightened and began to amble away from the docks. He
was to meet Liáng at a predetermined intersection.
Reggie bloomin’ Saint
John
.

He’d leave for Denver as soon as he could make the
arrangements. Send ahead and have Pounder’s men search for property records
under the name of
Regis St. John
.

He was a block from the bar when two men stepped out of the
shadows several yards ahead of him. Their expressions were hard, merciless. He
heard a third set of feet shuffle behind him and off to the right.

“I don’t want any trouble,” he said quietly.

“Shouldn’t ask so many questions if you don’t want trouble.”
The man off to O’Dell’s right cracked his knuckles.

“Empty your pockets now. By the way, Freddie thanks you for
the beers.”

O’Dell remembered the words Liáng had used to describe
Bogg’s:
The lowest sort of bar on the wharves for the lowest sort of people
.
He dumped a handful of coins onto the street and then turned his trouser
pockets inside out, letting the men see them.

O’Dell knew it was only prelude. The men slowly advanced on
him, one of them brandishing a length of pipe.

His body broke into a cold sweat, and the weeks of agony
crashed through his mind—he had no defense, no reserves left. He could save
himself no longer.

O God, I can’t do this again! Help me—save me!

~~**~~