The Captive Within (A Prairie Heritage, Book 4) (3 page)

“Cal Judd?” O’Dell asked. He was guessing, but something
about the man’s manner told him he was not wrong.

“You got a problem with that?” the man spat back.

O’Dell tipped his head toward the girl. “She’s fifteen. I
have a
big
problem with that.” Keeping his gun trained on Judd, O’Dell
asked again, “You Monika Vogel?”

The girl trembled in fear and cut her eyes to Judd and back.
She did not answer.

“Your brother Ernst sent me to find you,” O’Dell added, his
eyes not leaving Judd. “I’m a Pinkerton man. We’re taking you out of here.”

The girl moaned and looked at Judd. The man stared hard at
her, and O’Dell could feel the fear radiating from the girl.

“Get up. Get some clothes on,” he ordered. When she still
did not move, O’Dell stepped back until she and Judd were both in his view. Her
eyes shifted to him and he snarled, “Get dressed.
Now
!”

She scrambled to obey him. O’Dell backed into the hall and
yelled, “Pounder!” A few seconds later the marshal joined him.

“This her?”

“Yup. And this here’s Cal Judd.”

“I know who he is.” Pounder lifted his shotgun and Judd
flinched. “O’Dell, we don’t have much time.”

The girl had slipped on a faded cotton dress and was lacing
up her boots. O’Dell grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to her feet.
Keeping his gun on Judd, O’Dell rasped, “Move out, Pounder.”

The marshal stuck the barrel of his shotgun into the hallway
and heard bodies hit the floor in panic. He jumped out of the doorway and leveled
the gun down the hall.

“You men throw your guns out on the floor!”

The two men who’d panicked and thrown themselves on the
floor reluctantly complied.

“Get up and back slowly down those stairs. Just four steps,
then stop. If anybody down the stairs starts shooting, you’ll be the first to
die,” Pounder shouted.

He headed down the hallway. O’Dell, who was dragging the
girl, stopped before he left the room and issued Judd a warning. “Open this
door, Judd, and you’ll catch a bullet.”

Judd stared with hatred at O’Dell. “This isn’t over,” he
promised.

The girl shuddered in O’Dell’s grasp but he kept her moving.
A door behind him opened and he swung around. A woman, a frizzled redhead, held
out her hands. “I’m alone! Please! Please take me with you!”

O’Dell cursed. He gestured to the woman to fall in behind
them. Barefoot and clad in nothing more than a diaphanous wrapper, the woman
obeyed.

Seconds later Pounder and O’Dell were on the bottom stairs.
Judd’s two men, their hands up, shielded them from gunfire. The hall had gone
eerily quiet. The two Pinkerton agents they had sent in before them were
standing back-to back, their guns out, covering the guards around the room. As
Pounder, O’Dell, and the two women moved toward the door, the Pinkerton men
retreated with them.

The six of them slammed through the front door and out onto
the street. Pounder’s marshal driving the car pulled up and threw open a door.
And then they were away.

~~**~~

O’Dell, Pounder, and the girls spent an uncomfortable night at
the Pinkerton office. While the girls slept, the men took turns watching the
street until the sun rose in the morning. Grimy and grizzled, Pounder and
O’Dell planned their next steps.

“I’m catching the early train to Chicago,” O’Dell stated. He
nodded at Monika Vogel. “Taking her with me.”

“What do I do with
her
,” Pounder demanded. He pointed
at the other woman. In the stark morning light she looked older than Monika,
street-savvy, and worn.

“What’s your name?” O’Dell asked her.

“I go by Red,” she replied carefully.

O’Dell snorted. “That’s original. Where are you from?”

“Kansas City.”

“You want to go back there?”

“No,” she answered quickly and shivered. She was still
barefoot and wearing the thin wrapper she had left the
Silver Spurs
in,
but O’Dell had given her a coat he’d found hanging in what had been Bickle’s
office.

“Where do you want to go?” he pressed.

She opened her mouth and then closed it. Finally she
answered, “I don’t know. I just don’t want to—I
can’t
—go
back . . . there.”

O’Dell put an unlit cigar in his mouth and rolled it around
for a moment. “Pounder?”

“Yeah?”

“Do me a favor. Take Red here up to Corinth. Make sure she
gets to Rose Thoresen.”

“That I will.”

“Thanks.”

—

Marshal Pounder knocked on the door of the former Corinth
Gentlemen’s Club. It was mid-morning and he could hear bustling activity within
the doors of the house. Beside him, Red, as she called herself, shivered in
uncertainty.

One of the girls from the house opened the door. “Yes? May I
help you?” She was wearing a simple dress and, without the garish makeup so
many of the girls had been wearing the other night, he did not recognize her.
She looked curiously at Red, who stared daggers in return.

“Good morning, miss. I’m Marshal Jake Pounder. Is Mrs.
Thoresen in?”

“Yes sir. Would you come this way, please?” Sarah opened the
door and gestured. She showed them into a small room that looked as if it were
being used as an office.

A few minutes later Rose Thoresen greeted him. “Marshal! It
is a pleasure to see you.” She shook his hand. Somehow, instinctively perhaps,
she knew why he was there.

She extended her hand to Red. “I’m Rose.”

“Red . . .” she mumbled in return.

“I can see why.” Rose replied. “Your hair is a lovely
color.”

Red stared hard at Rose, searching for condescension or
sarcasm. When she didn’t find it, she relaxed a little.

“Have you come to try us out, then?” Rose asked her gently.

Red looked nervous and unsure and cut her eyes at the
marshal. Suddenly he realized he needed to explain why they were there.

“Mr. O’Dell figured, er, suggested, that Miss Red
here . . . uh, he asked me to bring her to you.”

“Mr. O’Dell! Have you seen him then?” Rose asked eagerly.
“He left abruptly and we did not have an opportunity to wish him God Speed.”

“Well, he, uh, found the girl he was looking for,” Marshal
Pounder offered. “Monika Vogel, I think her name was. Three nights back. Took
her off to Chicago next morning.”

Rose clasped her hands together. “What an answer to prayer!
I believe that she and Gretl are the only two girls on his list he found after
all this time.”

She turned to Red. “And did he also find you, my dear?”

Red, as prickly as a cactus and looking for a reason to be
offended, fired back tartly, “I wasn’t lost and I’m not your
dear
.”

Marshal Pounder, standing behind Red, raised his eyebrows to
Rose and shrugged his shoulders.

Rose smiled. “I apologize. It was presumptuous of me. Can
you tell me why you are here?”

Red huffed and pursed her lips. “I just asked that other
man, O’Dell it was, to . . . take me outta that place. I didn’t
ask to be taken to
another
whorehouse.”

Rose nodded sagely. “It still looks that way, doesn’t it? We
are working on that. I can assure you, though, that it is no longer a, er,
whorehouse
.
The marshal here, his men, plus Mr. O’Dell, and others arrested the men who ran
this house. Less than a week ago, in fact. So the girls here are no longer in
that, er, line of work.”

She gestured for them to sit down. “Red, my daughter Joy and
I and a few of our friends plan to secure a house in Denver and move there. We
intend to help the girls who come with us to learn new skills and find honest
employment so that they may become independent.” She looked at Red. “Does that
sound like something that interests you?”

Red frowned. “I can’t be in Denver if it’s gonna be too
close to the
Silver Spurs
.” She threw a worried look at Pounder. “That
Cal Judd holds a grudge, I can tell you. If he finds out I’m in Denver
and where I am, he’ll come for me.”

“Cal Judd?” Rose directed this to the Marshal.

“Man who runs the
Silver Spurs
, Mrs. Thoresen,” he
explained.

Rose nodded and thought. “We will need to be far enough from
that part of town that our girls are not in danger yet close enough that
perhaps others will find their way to us. But you raise a valid point, my d—I
mean, Miss Red. We will need to take precautions such as solid doors with good
locks and not advertising our location.”

She looked at Red again. “If you are interested in staying
with us for a bit, you are welcome. For the time being we can feed you, probably
find you some clothing, and give you a place to stay. If you choose not to move
with us to Denver, we can offer you a train ticket away from the city. That is
about all we have.”

Red stared at Rose a little longer and then answered, “I
reckon I can stay a while.”

“All right then. Marshal, would you care to stay for
dinner?”

Blushing furiously, Marshal Pounder declined. “Thank you,
no. I, uh, will just catch the afternoon train back down the mountain. The
little missus will be expecting me.”

We already have a new girl, or I should say young woman.
She is a little older than the rest, perhaps Joy’s age. She is, as I heard
Breona phrase it, “a wee bit crusty,” which is to say she is touchy and easily
offended.

This morning I asked if she had a given name. She replied
with some heat that “Red” had been given to her—she hadn’t stolen it. I calmly
asked if she had another name she preferred that we use. After a few minutes
she mumbled that her mother had called her Tabitha.

Careful not to step on her toes again, I asked if she
would like us to call her Tabitha or was it too special, since her mother had
given it to her. (Thank you, Lord, for helping me to think on my feet!)
Apparently asking was the right thing. She thought it over and decided we could
call her Tabitha.

I told her it was a good name, one that is found in the
Bible. She was curious about that, so I opened my Bible to the Book of Acts and
read to her about the woman named Tabitha, a woman known for her good works,
and how she sickened and died but the Apostle Peter prayed for her and she came
back to life.

This account impressed our Tabitha. She was actually
quite smitten with the idea that her namesake had been raised from the dead. A
few minutes later she was back asking what Tabitha meant. When I told her it
meant “deer” or “gazelle,” she was highly disappointed, I might even say
disgusted, so I had to chuckle. To myself, of course!

I know she has been deeply hurt in her life, for she
looks for the bad in every situation. It will take time, patience, and love.
And of course,
you
, my Jesus!

—

Two mornings after the raid on the
Silver Spurs
,
O’Dell showed up in his home office in Chicago. He’d taken Monika Vogel to a
hotel not far from the office and paid for her room, a bath, several meals, and
some second-hand clothes. He spent the day writing an extensive report for
Parsons, his boss and the head of the Chicago office, then sent a wire to the
New York Pinkerton office:

Have located M. Vogel. Sending NY with Chicago agent.
Notify brother. Report following.

Parsons spent an hour reading O’Dell’s report. He saw his
boss shaking his head several times. Finally he waved O’Dell into his office.

“You embellished this, right?” The frown lines between
Parsons’ eyes were deep and permanent.

O’Dell shrugged. “What do you think? You can’t make this
stuff up.”

“To be frank, after four months of sitting on your backside
in that little mountain village with no results, Pinkerton was on the verge of
cutting you loose. Nobody here thought you were actually working the case.”

“I get that.”

“But you pulled it off. And to think that
Branch . . . and that Thoresen woman—”

“Michaels. Joy Michaels.”

“—That she was tied into our kidnapping case
and
was
married to Branch?”

“Grant Michaels.”

“Yeah, OK. And this guy, Dean Morgan. He’d burned her out in
Omaha? This gets stranger by the minute. Unbelievable.” Parsons rocked back
in his chair and looked O’Dell over. “So now what?”

O’Dell shrugged. “I’m ready for another case.”

“You know, McParland is looking for a new head of the Denver office. It would mean a promotion for you, a chance to clean up that town.”

“No thanks. Let someone else have it.”

Parsons studied him. “All right. I’ll have someone escort
Miss Vogel to New York. You be back here in the morning. I’ve got a few things
for you.”

We celebrated a wedding this morning, right after Sunday
service! I’m sure Billy and Marit would have liked to have had more time to
prepare, but now that we are all starting “from scratch,” so to speak, it made
no sense to put their wedding off, and they surely did not wish to wait longer.

Our wonderful little church family has already been so
good to us providing clothing, food, and all the ordinary, everyday things we take
for granted. Today they gave Billy and Marit bedding and kitchen items and the
use of a little cabin until we relocate to Denver.

I am so glad for them to have a place of respite where
they can go to learn of each other and just be a family. Will is five months
old now, and he will never know any father other than Billy. How good you are,
Lord!

~~**~~

Rose and Joy studied the list of names on the table before
them. Little Blackie slept curled in a contented heap at Joy’s feet. Nearly
seven weeks had passed since the lodge had burned; almost seven weeks had gone
by since the marshals had arrested Morgan, Banner, Darrow, and the rest.

O’Dell had left Corinth without saying good bye, and Joy
still felt the sting of his abrupt departure. At the same time, she recognized
how awkward it would have been for him to remain.

She was not the only one who felt his absence keenly—those
who had lived at the lodge felt strangely abandoned by the man who had been
steadfastly with them through so many difficulties. One or two remarked how
unlike him it was but most kept their own counsel.

Arnie had remained in Corinth until Joy was on her way to
recovery. He and Grant had spent a great deal of time together. Joy realized
Grant had needed someone to talk to, a male friend and family member who had
known him before, someone other than Joy who could reassure him as he attempted
to stitch together the many blank places in his memories.

Grant. Joy’s heart soared each time she thought of him.
Their reunion was sweet but tentative as they learned each other all over
again. They spent hours talking, rehearsing their courtship, wedding, and
married life. Grant knew nothing of those years but was gaining the particulars
from their conversations.

Occasionally he would experience a moment of clarity, just
as, that night in the plaza, he had recalled his own dog, Blackie, when he had
picked up Joy’s puppy and Arnie had called out reminders to him. Those rare
occurrences assured him that he
was
“home again,” home with Joy, her
family, and their new mission.

When Joy had explained to Grant all the events leading her
to Corinth and he fully understood the cruel depravity the girls had been
subjected to, he embraced their endeavor with grim determination.

“Even with one arm, I’m strong and can do many things. I can
run a business. I can serve customers. Whatever you need me to do, I will do
it,” he’d vowed.

Now, more than six weeks after the climax of events in Corinth, it was time for them to push ahead with their plans. Blackie yawned, circled, and
lay down again while Rose and Joy studied the list before them. Of the original
15 girls that the marshals had liberated from the two houses, nine remained.

Two girls, Dotty and Crystal, had contacted their families
immediately and had left within days. Rose and Joy had not spoken of it much,
but they both wondered how they were doing, wondered how difficult it was
proving to be for the girls, ages 16 and 17, to reenter and adjust to their
former lives. Wondered if they would find help for their wounded souls.

And then ten days ago, four more had unexpectedly announced
their plan to open their own “house” in Denver.

“We are whores and good ones,” Esther, their self-appointed
leader, proclaimed. “We’ll rent our own place, decorate it tastefully, and take
care of each other. We intend to make excellent money and never allow abuse
from our customers. No man will ever mistreat us again. No; this time,
we’ll
be in control.”

Esther was possibly the most beautiful woman either Rose or
Joy had ever seen—they did not wonder why she had been “assigned” to the
Corinth Gentlemen’s Club. She was slender and graceful with exquisite bone
structure, creamy skin, and large, midnight blue eyes framed with thick, inky
lashes. More than that, she possessed a fine mind and a charming, appealing
way.

The girls had produced trunks they had already packed and
politely demanded train tickets to Denver. “We thank you for helping us get
shut of this place, but you promised you would give us tickets to wherever we
wanted to go,” Esther stated matter-of-factly. “We have decided we don’t want
to stay here. It’s not like we have families waiting for us with open arms. No,
we’re going to make our own way.”

“You could wait and go to Denver with us when we buy our
house there,” Rose offered again, silently chiding herself for sounding
desperate. “We can train you to work and give you jobs or help you find
positions. You don’t have to live like . . . that.”

“Like ‘that’?” Esther’s laugh was brittle. “You mean as
‘soiled doves’? Whores? The fact is, we
are
whores. ‘Once a whore,
always a whore,’ like they say. Anyway, I’m not going to slave away waiting
tables or sewing for wealthy society ladies for mere pennies a day.”

She tossed her lovely head and smiled that winsome, ‘come
hither’ look she knew was to her advantage. “This is
our
golden
opportunity. We’re young and well-trained, and we’re going to make a lot of
money. And when I have money then I’ll do whatever
I
want.”

Joy’s mouth had dropped open at Esther’s defiant speech, and
Rose had stared sadly. She wondered how they would finance their endeavor.

Later Breona, always the shrewd, observant one, pointed out
that many of the costly knick-knacks around both houses had quietly disappeared
as well as Roxanne’s jewelry. And Roxanne had been the only woman in the house
to have had near-respectable street clothes. Those were gone, also.

Then the tall brunette, whom Rose and Joy now knew as Sarah,
mentioned that someone had gone through her clothes and taken the best she had.
“Only the best whoring garments,” she added wryly. “But it’s not as though I’d
be wearing them again if I’m not going to be a ‘dove’ anymore.”

Sarah’s cynical smile went straight to Rose’s heart. She
felt as though she spent every free moment praying for these young women—all of
them. The burden she felt for them was barely short of crushing.

Lord
, she grieved,
I am so out of my depth. I
don’t know how to help them. I cannot even relate to their lives! If you don’t
lead and guide, we are lost. I trust you, Lord. I do! Please help me—help
us—today.

Joy prayed in a similar but more practical manner,
O
Lord, please guide us to the house you have for us in Denver—and quickly. Help
us to take these girls down the mountain, away from this place of nightmares,
and begin the process of training them in work that will give them dignity and
self-reliance. And Father God, Grant and I need to find and open our
store . . . yesterday!
She alternately planned and fretted
over both undertakings.

Rose and Joy stared again at the list of names, six crossed
off, nine remaining. At least three more girls would be leaving, going to
distant relatives who had agreed to take them.

It had been difficult work. The three girls were very
young—ages 14 and younger—without known parents and siblings. They were only
vaguely acquainted with these far-away relatives. Nevertheless, all involved,
including the girls, agreed that they would be better off going to their
families and finishing school.

It had taken the exchange of several letters, letters from
Pastor Kalbørg with enclosures from Rose and Joy, to explain in clear terms
what their young niece, grandniece, or second cousin (as the relations turned
out) had gone through, and then to receive assurances from their relations in return.
Those assurances needed to express to David, Rose, and Joy’s satisfaction that
the home each girl would be going to would be safe and nurturing.

When these three girls departed, the list would stand at six
names. Six young women, ages 15 to 18, who had agreed to stay with them, move
to Denver, and be trained to support themselves. Counting Tabitha, who was
older than the others, the number was seven.

Joy looked at her mother. “Seven. Can we manage?”

“We
will
manage,” Rose replied firmly. “We must. I don’t
know precisely how, but I am willing to place my confidence in the Lord to show
us how.”

Emily Van der Pol and her small band of supporters were
scouting the city below Corinth, looking for a house that would suit their
needs. Rose would buy the house with her own money, and Emily’s group of women
had pledged to match her contribution. The women’s group was making progress on
their promise to help furnish the house and get the household on its feet.

In two days Rose and Joy would address them and other women
they had invited to hear about the project. While Joy struggled to list the
many practical aspects of their plans and what she would need to recount to the
ladies, Rose prepared her heart to convey the great spiritual needs they would
be addressing. Together, they prayed the Lord would move on compassionate
hearts to help them.

—

Esther critically appraised the parlor of their new home and
place of business. She and the girls had sold the most expensive knick-knacks
and jewelry they had pilfered from the two houses in Corinth. The money they
gained from the sales had been scarcely enough to rent this house and decorate
it in the manner necessary.

But Esther was shrewd. Yes, she and her girls had sold
nearly all they had,
but not all
. She had kept back a few select pieces,
knowing that certain touches were essential to attracting and retaining the
wealthy clients she desired.

She repositioned the ornate Ansonia mantle clock to display
its floral porcelain box most effectively. Two small Tiffany lamps graced the
end tables, their glow illuminating the brightly colored panes of glass.

They had papered the parlor themselves with expensive ivory
watermarked damask. Their furniture was used but of excellent quality. She and
Ava had spent hours mending flaws in the upholstery and disguising worn spots
with cleverly placed
antimacassars while Molly and Jess rubbed
dark oil into the woods to cover scratches.

With the last of their monies, excepting a small emergency
fund, they had purchased wine and liqueurs. Jess had secreted two empty liqueur
decanters and a dozen crystal tumblers in one of Roxanne’s carpet bags when
they left Corinth.

Esther chuckled. She, herself, had wrapped a heavy silver
tea service in clothing and packed it at the bottom of her trunk. It now graced
a prominent table in the corner of the parlor. A few other costly
items—statuettes, ashtrays, lighters—added to the overall welcoming effect of
the room.

And their calling cards. Esther had visited a printer and
selected a fine quality stock. This morning she and the girls had dressed in
Roxanne’s elegant street clothes, made over to fit themselves, of course.
Bedecked in the finest day styles, their eyes discreetly shaded by plumed and
veiled hats, they were indistinguishable from any other fashionable ladies on
the street.

All day, two-by-two, they had casually traversed the streets
of the upper-class red light district. When they encountered well-dressed
gentlemen, they would politely hand them one of their cards and continue their
walk. The cards read simply

Cultured
Conversation
and Companionship
Monday–Saturday Evenings,
Eight O’clock

In discreet lettering across the bottom of each card was
printed their address. Esther smiled. With luck, they would be receiving their
first clients within the hour.

~~**~~