The Captive Within (A Prairie Heritage, Book 4) (27 page)

The room grew hot, the air stale. On the other side of the
brick-filled windows Mei-Xing knew there would be a sweet, refreshing breeze.
She leaned against the cool bricks, but could find not a wisp of fresh air to
relieve her.

She had not heard Su-Chong move for two days. In her heart
she knew . . . he was dead.

The last jar on the table, a quarter full, mocked her. She
had carefully rationed the water but the room was so warm and she was so
thirsty. The little water remaining would soon be gone. There would be no more.

“Lord, no one knows I am here but you,” she whispered. “No
one will find me until it is too late. I do not care so much for myself, but—”

Come to me all you who are weary, worn, and
heavy-burdened. Come to me, and I will give you rest for your souls
.

She bowed her head and prayed. “You have given me such peace
and rest, Jesus. I am so glad I have you. I will die in this room, but I will
die with a free soul . . . and then I will truly see you, touch
you! I love you so.”

A sob caught in her dry throat. “Lord, please help me not to
be afraid to die this way . . .”

—

The thugs charged O’Dell, landing blows on his head,
shoulders, and sides. Lights exploded behind his eyes.

And then nothing.

He was on his knees, wiping fresh blood from his nose, his
temple. His attackers were backing up, backing away. Their eyes were focused
somewhere behind O’Dell.

“There you are, Mr. Jones.”

O’Dell thought he recognized the voice. He could not yet get
up.

“We’ve been looking for you—it is time to leave and you
promised to help us load our carts into the truck.”

The thugs melted into the shadows. O’Dell tried to get to
his feet and failed. Strong arms came to his aid.

Through a bloody haze he saw a white wimple dance before his
eyes and a silver cross float below it. Within the headdress two worry lines
deepened.

“We should go,” she said firmly. Another set of arms helped
her guide O’Dell to a hand cart. They dropped him into the cart and, together,
the two sisters pushed the cart with him in it, to where, O’Dell did not know.

Eventually they stopped next to a rusty truck. Strong hands
again helped O’Dell to his feet. He finally looked the sister in the face.

“I’ve only seen you in all white,” he muttered incoherently.

Five nuns scurried around him, loading the hand carts into
the truck. He only had eyes for the sixth as she steadied him. Her habit, like
the other sisters, was all black with the exception of the stiff, rounded,
white headdress. Under cover of night their black habits were invisible, so
only their heads, faces, hands, and the large crosses dangling from their necks
were readily evident.

“I come down here once or twice a month,” Sister Mary James
answered, wiping the blood from his eyes, “to work among the poor. It helps me
keep my heart and priorities right. When I do, I exchange my white nursing
habit for a regular one so I don’t stand out.”

O’Dell’s mind still echoed the words,
O God, I can’t do
this again! Help me—save me!

“But how did you find me?” he whispered.

“We were passing out blankets and simply saw you from a
distance as you came toward us. I recognized you . . . even in
your, um, getup.”

O God! Help me! Save me!

“But why did they run?”

“Those men? They leave us strictly alone. Even
they
know
who we are and who protects us.” She helped O’Dell into the cab of the truck.
The nuns, with the exception of the driver and Sister Mary James, climbed into
the back with the hand carts.

“Has anyone ever called you an angel?” O’Dell wondered
aloud. “She prayed for angels to keep me safe.”

“Did she?” Sister Mary James knew he was rambling in shock.
“The Bible says angels are God’s ministering spirits, sent to watch over those
who inherit salvation.” O’Dell heard the peaceful smile in her voice.

Miss Greenbow’s prayer and his own frantic cry for help were
indelibly branded into his soul.
Father in heaven, I am asking for your
ministering angels . . . that they watch over him and safeguard
his steps . . .

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

You are the Most High God—and with you, Lord, nothing is impossible.

—

Edmund O’Dell breathed in the sights and sounds of Denver
as he pressed through the crush of people on the platform. His face bore fresh
bruises and a neat line of stitches across an eyebrow. He carried a cane, but
used it mostly when walking up and down steps.

O’Dell had telephoned the Denver Pinkerton office the
morning after he’d learned Morgan’s real, full name. Pinkerton men, aided by
Pounder’s marshals, were, at this moment, again combing through Denver
County property files.

O’Dell had insisted that they hurry. It was tedious work
since the files were organized by property number and legal description, not by
date or owner, but O’Dell had felt compelled to push them.

Over the long distance call, Jackson, the new head of the Denver
office, reported that Cal Judd had been tried, convicted, and sentenced to a
year in prison. Everyone involved in the trial, perhaps excepting Judd, had
been astounded at the light sentence.

The defense had pressed prosecution witnesses on these
points: Yes, Marshal Tyndell was recovering; yes, Esther and the other girls
had been voluntarily practicing their, er, trade before meeting Judd; no, the
marshal had not obtained a warrant before raiding the brothel.

Only the fact that
Judd had fired first
saved the
trial. Nevertheless, money had more than likely changed hands, and Judd’s
one-year sentence was nearly half served. Such was “justice” in Denver.

O’Dell chuckled aloud at the irony. It was a good thing Judd
was still behind bars, because it would be a while before O’Dell would be fit
for another fight.

His last exchanges with Liáng, Bao, and Miss Greenbow back
in Seattle stayed uppermost in his thoughts. He and Liáng had talked long into
that night and they had prayed together before O’Dell fell into an exhausted
sleep.

Before he left Seattle late the next day, O’Dell had asked
Bao to forgive him. The man had shaken his head and muttered, “There is nothing
to forgive.” O’Dell knew how the young man’s own guilt weighed him down. Bao
was seeking . . . as was he.

Miss Greenbow had searched his face and asked him if he
would be returning to Seattle. Asked if he would write to her.

O’Dell thought about the folded paper tucked into his breast
pocket.
Darla Greenbow
. Her name was
Darla
. He understood what
writing to her would imply.

Perhaps it was time to stop living in regret.

~~**~~

O’Dell dropped his bag at the hotel and immediately took a
cab to Pounder’s office. He didn’t know why, but he sensed that urgency was
needed.

“I’m sorry, O’Dell.” Pounder truly did sound sorry. “We have
found no trace of a Regis St. John or Saint John on any Denver County
property record.”

O’Dell was stunned. He had arrived in Denver with such
confidence and hope! Now he had nothing—no other plan, no other lead.
Nothing
.

The fear that he had failed Mei-Xing, always lurking in the
back of his mind, pounced. He could not escape its crushing weight.

O God, help me
!
Save me
!

When had that plea become his daily bread? And
yet . . . he took a cleansing breath as fear retreated and peace
descended on him.

You are the Most High God! With you, nothing is
impossible.
He shook his head. He was quickly becoming dependent on those
words. He laid his hand over his eyes, absorbing Pounder’s information, letting
the peace guard his mind. Still, he still felt that sense of urgency propelling
him.

“Marshal?” O’Dell scarcely took notice as a stranger stood
in the doorway of Pounder’s office.

“Chief Groves. What brings you here?” The head U.S. marshal and the Denver police chief shook hands.

“I was in the neighborhood. Wanted to be sociable.” Groves
was accompanied by a uniformed policeman who kept back a respectful distance.

Groves was new as chief. The honest Denver citizenry was
again attempting to combat corruption in the police ranks and city government.
They’d elected Groves, a cop with an unimpeachable reputation, to help clean
out the department. Pounder did not envy Groves
his
difficult job.

Groves noticed O’Dell and put out his hand. “Chief Groves.”

“O’Dell. Edmund O’Dell,” he automatically replied, rising
stiffly and taking the chief’s hand.

“Pinkerton, right?” Groves eyed O’Dell’s slow response and
battered face speculatively. “I’ve heard good things about you.”

He turned back to Pounder. “Wanted to pass on some
information to you, just in case your men are out and about and see something
suspicious. It’s a city problem, but, well, we’d welcome your look-out.”

Pounder responded congenially. “Be our pleasure, Chief.” He
recognized that the new chief was trying to promote a cordial relationship
between the two law entities.

“We’ve had a series of break-ins of a most curious nature
over the last half year.”

“Oh?”

“They occur on a fairly regular basis, every five to seven
days. The burglars target stores and homes but don’t take the usually burgled
property, like jewelry or money. When the owners report the break-ins, they
often cannot say what is missing, only that a window is broken, a door jimmied.
A few have reported food stuffs taken and one reported the theft of clothing.
Lately, alcohol has been stolen along with food.”

“What kind of clothing?” O’Dell snapped out of his stupor.

Groves thought about it. “Women’s clothing, some dresses and
such. But that was back in November.”

“November?”

Groves consulted the uniformed officer with him. “Booker.
Was the clothing reported missing in November?”

The officer shifted on his feet. “Yessir. Women’s dresses
and personal items.”

O’Dell’s heart began to hammer. “Are these break-ins
scattered throughout the city or localized?”

Groves looked to Pounder who nodded his go-ahead. “Actually,
all within a mile radius of this area—” he strode to a city map “right here.”
His finger scribed a circle near the center of town.

O’Dell stared at Groves. “Dean Morgan and Su-Chong Chen
escaped the county jail in November. They have not been recaptured. I have good
reason to believe that Morgan is clean away from Denver, but his bodyguard,
Su-Chong Chen, may still be here. Holed up.”

“After seven months?” Groves looked skeptical.

O’Dell glanced from Groves to Pounder and back. “Mei-Xing Li
disappeared in November.
November 20
. We now know she was once engaged
to Su-Chong Chen.”

Groves frowned, his mind working quickly. “What I hadn’t
mentioned yet is that a little more than a week ago a man named Curtis Shupe
reported that he winged an intruder. He described the man as small but light on
his feet, very fit. Black hair.”

O’Dell nodded emphatically. “That is a good description of
Su-Chong Chen. Does the owner know how badly he was wounded?”

“No, but he left a good trail of blood. We got dogs out the
next day, but by then it was pouring rain. We lost the trail. Just bad luck.”

Pounder looked at Groves and O’Dell then drew with his
finger on the city map. “So somewhere within this circle.”

O’Dell didn’t know where the command came from, only that he
gave it a voice. “Hurry. We must hurry.”

Two marshals and two Pinkerton men accompanied O’Dell to the
county courthouse. O’Dell carried the rolled-up city map from Pounder’s wall
under his arm. He’d demanded and received the undivided assistance of the
county clerk.

“We’ll do it differently this time,” O’Dell stated flatly.
He’d rolled out the map on a table and weighted its edges with books. “We only
want to see the records for this area,” he pointed to a chalked circle on the
map.

“What name this time?” The two marshals and two Pinkerton
men had already searched the county records twice, the first time for every
known alias of Shelby Franklin/Dean Morgan; the second time for Regis St. John.

O’Dell leaned over the map, intent on the area within the
circle. “Read the owners of each property aloud.”

He raised his face from the map to the four men and the
clerk. “I’ll know it when I hear it.” His look defied the others to say
differently.

The marshals and Pinkerton agents exchanged dubious looks
but, at the clerk’s direction, began pulling the records that conformed to the
circled area. After a few minutes, one of the marshals began reading names.

“Bigalow, Eugenia B.”

“Porter, Afron M.”

“McGuffin, Edna Mae.”

“Cromwell, George Carson.”

O’Dell focused on each name, willing himself to stay alert
and fully engaged.

“Sayer, David L.”

“Sayer, Martha G.”

“Pearsall, Bonna Beulow.”

“Garrett, Delanie W.”

The names droned on. O’Dell began to whisper under his
breath,
O God, help us. Please help Mei-Xing. Don’t let us be too late
.

“Van Buren, Robert L.”

“Van Buren, Peter M.”

“Goldblum, Hymie Joseph.”

An hour passed. The fear began to push and nag at O’Dell. He
refused to listen to it.

“Pringle, James C.”

“Fetch, Margaret L.”

“Yeardly, Carroll G.”

“What? Stop.” O’Dell awkwardly got up. “Read the last one
again.”

“Yeardly, Carroll G.”

“No!” he shouted. “The one before that!”

The marshal scrabbled with the papers. “Fetch, Margaret L.”

“Fetch.” O’Dell grabbed the record from the marshal.
“Margaret Fetch.”

Maggie Fetch
.

“This is it.”

U.S. marshals and Denver policemen surrounded the brick
building. At Pounder and Groves’ direction, the men kept themselves hidden from
the building’s many windows.

Pounder shared new information with O’Dell. “This building
is managed by an attorney. He collects the rents and pays all the utilities.
And has never met the owner.”

O’Dell, the butt of a cigar clamped between his teeth,
studied the building. He walked his eyes from window to window, up the four
stories. Nothing.

He and Pounder worked their way around to another side,
keeping well out of sight, O’Dell sweeping his eyes over the windows—

He nudged Pounder. “Fourth floor, left.”

Pounder squinted, saw what O’Dell had. “Those windows
bricked in?”

“That’s what I see.”

Pounder glanced at O’Dell. “That floor is supposedly
vacant.”

“I’ll bet you a box of cigars it isn’t.”

“That,” Pounder answered, “is a bet I won’t take.”

They circled back to Groves and his men and Pounder
reported, “Top floor, northeast corner. Windows are bricked in.”

“Two sets of stairs, sir,” one of Groves’ men reported. “On
opposite corners of the building.” Quickly Groves separated his men into two
groups.

“I want to go first,” O’Dell suddenly insisted. “It will
take me a while to get up four flights. Let me go first and reconnoiter.” He
laughed harshly, pointing to his cane. “One man gimping up the stairs will
allay suspicion.”

Groves studied O’Dell. “I give you five minutes to get up
the stairs. Wait for us at the top. Got it?”

O’Dell tipped his head. “Thank you.” He tossed his derby to
a uniformed man. “Hold on to that for me.”

By the time O’Dell reached the last flight, his hip ached
abominably, but he had seen nothing of Su-Chong, nothing suspicious. Far below
he heard the faint shuffling of many feet beginning their rush up the stairs.

O’Dell pressed forward, reaching the fourth floor and easing
his head around the corner. The hall was unlit. Quiet. He left his cane at the
top of the stairs and moved cautiously until he reached the door he believed to
belong to the bricked-in windows.

Creeping up to the door, he placed his ear against it and
listened. He heard nothing. In fact, the silence was ominous.

Revolver drawn, he waited to the side of the door. If
Su-Chong heard the approaching policemen and opened the door, O’Dell was ready
for him.

Within seconds uniformed officers appeared carrying a
two-man battering ram. The door splintered open and policemen, guns at the
ready, swarmed into the room. O’Dell followed and stopped.

The stench of death filled the apartment. Dried blood
spattered the floor. O’Dell drew a handkerchief and covered his mouth; some of
the less-seasoned officers gagged and retreated into the hall.

O’Dell’s own blood turned to ice in his veins even as his heart
cried out,
Oh God! With you nothing is impossible
!
Nothing
!

“Mr. O’Dell!” Groves’ sergeant called him from beyond the
sitting room.

On wooden legs, O’Dell followed the sound of his voice. The
smell of death grew stronger. Then he was standing next to a bed, looking down
at the blackened body of Su-Chong Chen.

“Sir! We have a locked door!”

O’Dell wheeled about, nearly falling as his hip clenched.
Someone was battering the lock on the door just down the short hall. O’Dell
shouldered men aside to reach the doorway.

The room was warm, almost unbearably so. A tiny, prone
figure lay on the floor. O’Dell shoved aside another officer and dropped to the
floor beside her, lifting her up in his arms.

“Mei-Xing!”

Her eyes were closed and sunken; her cracked lips were
barely open, and he could sense no breath in her. But her skin, while cool, was
not cold.

“Water! Get me water!” he shouted.

Pounder himself took the glass a young officer brought and
grabbed a piece of gauze lying on the nearby table. O’Dell dipped the gauze and
wiped it across Mei-Xing’s lips, squeezing drops between them. He squeezed more
and then wiped the gauze across her eyes, her face.

He saturated the gauze and squeezed more water into her
mouth. “Come on! Mei-Xing! Swallow! Swallow the blasted water!”

Her eyes fluttered. He dribbled more water into her mouth,
willing her to swallow the life-giving liquid.

And then she did.

~~**~~