Chapter 14
Quinn visited the big slave late the following evening.
“You hungry?”
“Sistah brung me food. I be fine.”
“I brought you a bottle. It might make you feel better, help you while away the time.”
“I be fine. I doan drink duh wiskey, doh.”
Quinn pulled the cork and drank. He reached into the bag and pulled out a crock and two cups and put them on the two crates that stood for tables. Next he set a wedge of cheese out and a round of hoe cake and poured buttermilk. “Let me see that knife.”
The black man put the knife on the crate. Quinn took it and cut pieces of cheese and corn bread and they ate.
“I don’t have a plan without you. I figure we both want the same thing and we can help each other. You know where they live and you know how to get to them.”
“Yes, suh. I kin sho you de house. Dey bot’ lib in de big house. Dere be no goin in dere. Bes be wait til dey lebe an go sommers.”
“How do we do that? We just can’t stand outside the gate and watch. You can’t leave here without risking being caught.” Quinn pulled out a flyer. “This is on trees and it’s in the newspaper. People see you, they know who you are.”
“I doan know. Massah Jeffery nebba go out. Buckrahs come see him when he wan. Massah Elliott go lots out an bout day an night wit frens.”
“Business?”
“Massa Elliott bidness be horsin and whorin roun.”
“Do you know where they go?”
He shook his head. “No suh.”
“Who, then, would know?”
“I doan know, suh. I thin de daddy doan eben know.”
“And you want his daddy. You got business with his daddy.”
“Yessuh, ah do, an his chile, an any otter one in de house.”
“Besides the two of them, who’s in there, in the house? Does he have a wife?”
“No wibe, no chillun cept Massa Elliott. He gots lite cullahed gal dere wit him. Dey know. We my fine out we git de niggahs ta talk.”
“And that’s not likely.”
“We talk to mah Mammy, she talk to dem, maybe fine out some tings. Mabe see mah Mammy out walkin bout. She not ole. She sometime hire out ta otter people and wuk.”
“So we wait to talk to your Mammy. Shit! This ain’t gonna’ work.”
“Wait’n be de onliest way, Massah Quinn.”
“I’m not your Master. Don’t call me that. Don’t call me nothin’, OK? You hear?”
“Yessuh.”
“I can’t wait and do nothing. You got to sit here. I don’t. I’m going out and ask around.”
“Bout Massa Elliott?”
“Both of them.”
“Be wary dat you doan git yerself kilt. Dere news trab’l faser n de tallygraf. Bes you be axin roun bout mah Mammy, an talk ta her. She know. She lis’n an fine out.”
Quinn spent the day and into the evening asking at the inns and stables, and because he had nowhere to go, he ended up knocking at the grated door of the convent. The little nun let him in and told him to wait. Elizabeth came and took him to her room.
“I’m this close to finding him, Elizabeth.” He held his hands inches apart. “I know where he lives and I can’t get to him. Hell, maybe he’s not even in there, I don’t know.” Quinn related his conversation with the slave. “And if I do find Mammy, I’m not sure that she knows or can find out.”
Elizabeth said, “And when you find him, Jamie, then what?”
“I’ll think of something.” Quinn paused. “How about George Todd? You ever think about him?”
“I think about that night, but not him so much anymore. I think about my children and wonder how they are doing.”
“And if you had George Todd under your heel...?”
“I’ll see what I can do about finding Elliott Walker. Check with me tomorrow night. I may have something.”
Quinn went back to the inn and the next day again walked the streets and reported to the convent.
“I got the word out for her,” Elizabeth told him. “Find the ostler at Walker’s stables behind the quarters around midnight. Leave your horse outside the gate and walk to the stables. Tell the man you are looking for a nurse, and he’ll tell you where to go and when. Be patient, Jamie.”
When Quinn showed up at the stables the old black man brought him up the ladder to the loft. The skinny black woman was sitting on a milking stool, leaning over with her elbows on her knees. “Mammy, here he is. Sister’s man is here to talk with you.”
The woman sat straight. “You see mah boy? He ‘live now?” She held out her hands and clasped them. “Oh, bress you, Massa! Bress you!”
Quinn sat at her feet and related what he knew of her son’s plight--how he saw his wife and child on the auction block, how he was struck down and taken captive in Kentucky, and how he was rescued. “He is safe now, staying with Sister at the convent. He would like to see you, but he says it isn’t safe yet. He wants to find Jeffery Walker and his son. I’ve promised to help him, and he told me that you might know how I might find Elliott Walker.”
“Kin you tak me ta see im? I kin cunfert him, I know. I kin go at night outa de quatahs an fine im.”
“He believes you know the best ways to find the Walkers. He wants to find where his family was sold to. He wants his wife and child back.”
“If dey be sole sout, dere be no fin’en dem. I kin ax roun bout where dey go, an I ax bout de Massas, too. You kin fine em out when dey go way fum de big house. I tink, doh, you fine mah Punkinseed an wait, an dey show up. Dey bof be crazy fo her.”
“Who is Punkinseed?”
“She be mah own leely gal I ray be mah chile, doh she cum fum de big house. She be de one Massa Elliott an mah boy kotched an brung back, but I doan know where she be now.”
“Why do the Walkers think she’s so important?”
“She only a slabe, you be tinkin, but you know she be part ob de fambly. She come fum de big house. I done work dere fo de Mistus, fo she birt any chillun, an I be dere when de fust one come. Dat be Massa Elliott. He be a good lil chile but raise up ta be a rapscal boy. I serve de massa, too, Massa Jeffery, in de big house, an I knowed dat he be wit de slabe gal Janie regular in dat house, and de Mistus tho-in fits bout it, but nutin she be doin bout it cept pestify Janie, an she cain’t hep it. Dat po white woman, an dat po gal. She be Massa Jeffery chile, too, an dat da troot. Oh, lawd! What de slabe know dat de mistus doan know. Po Janie be de da’autah outa anotter slabe gal he sen way. Dat gal be name Margirt. An lil Janie git nused by de mammy.
When Janie grow up and she git wit de chile, Mistus sen her outa de house an doan wanna see her no mo, so Massa put her in de quartah wit me ta tak kir uv an hep birt de baby. Dat baby a gal, an Massa say dis here be you da’autuh, an dat de trut. An Janie she nuss da chile, an when her finement be up, Massa sen Janie to de big house to wuk in de kitchen.
An den, when Janie lil gal be jes one ye-ah, de Mistus she be wit chile, an wen de time come, Massa call me ta come hep wit de birt’in, an he be dere, too. An oh, law, she moan an conplain when de time be nigh’um ta lib’bah de chile hout’uh her. She be cratchin de cheets an pray’un ta Gawd an she be racktified tur’rble. De chile come, an Massa gab it fum me an hole him up’n da feet an holla. He be vex n vile wuds tuh de mistus an shake her, an he say he kill her she doan talk. Den Massa tole me tek de chile ta de quatahs an tie up’n mah mouf bout dis niggah chile dat come out de Mistus an say no mo. No mo!
Nex day de people be wailin an moanful cause de Mistus be de’t birtin, and de chile be de’t, too. I keepa de lil un an git a mammy to nuss im an tell all de slabe he be lef wit me an doan know who brung him. He stay wit me lak mah own, an de Massa he say nutin. Now I gots a cole black boy what gro hell’ty strong jes watchin him, an de tit’tuh jes a leely punkinseed. I gibe dem bof mah name and raybe mah chillun, an I wuk in de big house an tak kir a dem an dey do play wit Massa Elliott when he wan to.
Attuh de time an dey all git gr
o an Massa sen mah boy to de feel an Massa Elliott to lan’an, an he be comin’ roun tellin mah Punkinseed dis an dat an see de thins he lak ta do wit de letta and de book, and dey bof doin tins t’get’er. Massa Jeffery one day fine dem an lick her an beat de tar outa de boy an lock mah Punkinseed in de room. Nex day Massa Elliott be away an Punkin be sen to da feel and dat be dat.
An dat be dat fer a wile. When Massa Elliott come home at’tuh fie ye-ah, he be tall wit de hair ta be shabe, an he be axin bout mah Punkinseed an come’n see her when she come in. She be joyful an he be la’gin’ an swonguh wit de sweetmout’ talk an she be eye’in wit um an dey go.
Mah black boy now be de time wukin de feel an huntin de runawayers, an dat be de time he git put in wit de gals. He ax Massa Jeffery if’n one uv dem gal kin be his lawfully lady and dat Massa Jeffery say OK. Massa Elliott wuk in de day wit de slabe an com time at night an be wit mah Punkin. An she be wukin de feel in de day, an night Massa Elliott hep her wit de wuds she rite. She sen de wuds ta de locus pastuh at de chuch, an soon de day come an Massa Jeffery come an sen her way cause de greeb she gib him wit’ de trybunul, an he lox her up. Den de bolitionis men dey come wit de constubble an say let de gal outa dere, an Massa he be vex an cussin, say dis gal be de Walka niggah an blonx ta de Walka fo’evah, an he strike de man, and de tree men hole Massa down an free de gal an dey go.
Massa sen de lawyah ta de jail ta lease Punkin, an de bolitinis men say dey let her go. She be gone, dey say. Massa tell Massa Elliot ta git on de hoss wit Hawk an mah boy an fine her an not be back wit’out her an dey go. Dey tak de time but dey brung mah Punkinseed home, an dis time Massa Jeffery hide Punkin way an tell no’un.
“Mammy. I need to find Master Elliott. And your son wants Master Jeffery.”
“You fine Punkinseed, you fine Massa Elliott. He come roun. You look fo mah Punkinseed. You leabe me now an come back in tree day at night here an we go see mah boy. Den you know.”
Quinn reported to the convent grate and was led back to Elizabeth’s room. He sat and told her Mammy’s story and of the woman’s promise to find a way to deliver up Elliott Walker. “She wants to see her son. I’ve promised to bring her here.”
Elizabeth went to the cupboard and took out a bottle of brandy and two glasses and brought them to the table, sat, and poured. She handed a glass to Quinn.
“I know the Walkers, and they are two very bad men. Nothing you’ve told me surprises me.” She took her glass and drank. “I could tell you stories, I could tell that suffering black man in the tool shed stories, that would justify any terrible thing that you might do to them. The ostler you saw last night? And Jeffery Walker’s butler? They both report to me.” She put her glass on the table and went to the cupboard and brought out a leather folder and waved it. “This is a portion of the file that Will Brown, the man I report to, has on the Walkers. It has enough evidence in it to hang them both for treason, and if there is justice in the world, they will. But when it happens, if it happens, it will be when this war is over and not before.”
She put the folder on the table and sat. “Jamie, I’ve told you about how I came to be here. When I first arrived, I went about my work as a woman from one of the aid societies caring for the sick and the wounded and the imprisoned. I did it to get information. I wanted to be important, and now I am. I don’t have to work to get information anymore. Men come to me and tell me things they believe will help their cause, and sometimes the same men come and tell me things just because I’m a woman, a woman who cannot do anything.
Confederate prisoners come to me to pass along letters with information they think will help their side win the war. And loyalist prisoners, Union men, they come, too. There are many in that prison who are there for no reason other than somebody wanted their farm or their wife. You know the term ‘habeas corpus’? They think I can get them a hearing before a judge so they can tell their story. I nod and say I will see what I can do. They keep coming to me and they pass me notes about what they hear and expect me to do something about it, and I assure them that I will. That I can. I can’t, but they keep coming to me anyway.
When I serve on the hospital side, I do what I can do to make the men feel better. Sometimes that means giving them morphine and watching them die. They think I can do something for them, too, but I can’t. I listen to them or write letters for them, but I can’t make them well. I can’t give them back a limb. I can’t cure their dysentery--all I can do is clean them up and watch them die. Not many men in that hospital walk out, you know. The morgue is upstairs. They built an extra story up there above the rotunda just for the dead and every couple nights Lawrence and his buddy carry the bodies down three flights to the wagon.
When we first met, you asked me about George Todd, and if I would kill him if I had the chance and I said I would if it would further my cause.”
“And what is your cause, Elizabeth?”
“I don’t know any more. I can’t see the end of it—the war. And killing George Todd wouldn’t help. Go ahead and kidnap the Walkers, Jamie. Blind the son and deliver up the father. But to who? Go ahead. Go ahead and do it if it satisfies something in you. And then what will you do? Leave Missouri? You think you’ll leave it all behind? Head west? Wait for it to be over? Then what?”
“I’ll find a place somewhere working for myself.”
“Then go now, Jamie. Leave. And make sure you don’t take any part of Missouri with you.”
“Elizabeth, I’ve got to finish this. And I need your help. I need another packet of morphine.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I’ll do it, Jamie, but you’re wrecking yourself. Come by after you bring Mammy to the shed and I’ll have what you need. And be careful, whatever you do.” She stood. “I’m sorry. I need to go. I’ll tell sister you’re ready.”
Two nights later Quinn brought Mammy to the tool shed and left her there with her son. Before Quinn left them alone she told him that Elliott visited the same whorehouse every Saturday afternoon. “It where mah Punkin be, you know. De slabe dat dribe her dere tole me dat. Massa Elliott see mah Punkin eva Sat’ay. Eva Sat’ay afernoon. An den he goes to de drinkin’.”
Quinn left and padlocked the door. He waited outside, and when he heard no sound, he took the lantern to the grated door and knocked. He heard no footsteps, and he knocked again. The nun who answered was not Sister Claude. He held up the lantern.
“I would like to see Elizabeth Stiles, please. I believe she is expecting me.”
The door swung wide and Quinn turned down the lantern and walked into the hall. “If you wait here,” she said. “I will bring her to you.”
Quinn stood in the hall. The smells of supper overlaid with the faint scent of candles and incense reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in a long time and he hadn’t prayed in forever. When Elizabeth came out of the dark of the hall she was wearing a short veil tied over her forehead and back at the nape.
“Jamie. I’m sorry you had to wait. I thought you’d come later.”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t stay in there with them. Do you have time to sit and talk? Just pass the time?”
“Certainly, Jamie. Come back with me.”
He tried to lighten the mood. “Shouldn’t we wait for an escort?”
“No need. Come.” He followed her and waited until they reached her room before he commented.
“The one who answered. She’s not our little nun.”
“Very good, Quinn. Most people don’t make a distinction between one nun and another.”
“Well, our Sister is really tiny. The one who answered the door tonight…”
“Sister Ermalinde.”
“Was taller.”
“Yes. Is taller.”
“Is our little nun busy or did she lose her door job?”
“Sister Claude is no longer with us, Jamie. She left the convent this morning.”
Quinn searched for a reply and then settled on a question. “Is she OK? I mean, is that an OK thing? To pick up and leave like th
at? Why would she leave?”
“She didn’t share that with me. I’m sure Mother Superior knows, but why people come and go here is only between them and God. She’s fine, I’m sure.”
“And you.” Quinn reached out as if to touch her. “I don’t remember seeing you with a veil.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Well, aren’t you the observant one tonight! I was at Compline with the sisters before bedtime. Sister Ermalinde was there too. Jamie, I wear a veil at the hospital every day. And has it been so long that you’ve been to Holy Mass, Jamie, that you’ve forgotten we cover our heads in chapel?”
Jamie sighed. “No, of course I remember. But if we all can’t get a dispensation from attending Sunday Mass during a war, then I’ll wait until it’s over and then go to confession.”
“Sit, Jamie, and let’s have no more talk of sin and forgiveness.” She laughed and went to the sideboard. She brought back a tray with glasses, a decanter, and a familiar packet. “Here’s your medicine, Jamie. Now sit.” She set the tray on the table and poured the brandy and sat. “And how is your pain?”
Quinn reached back and undid the bottom string on his patch. “The socket is healed, I think.” He dropped his head and slipped the top string over and held the patch. “I don’t see it, but the patch smells OK, and it doesn’t hurt. What do you think?” He leaned toward the lamp and raised his head and looked at her.
Elizabeth had not seen his wound since his second visit with her at the hospital. That was in the daylight, she thought, as she drew in a slow breath and let it out. The light from the lamp cast cruel shadows. She had become accustomed to seeing the patch as part of him and now he seemed naked, as if one side of his face were private and meant to be covered, pink and raw still. Breathe again. Yes, it was healed. She stifled an impulse to reach over and touch it, to pull back what remained of lid that was drawn tight against the socket by the scar. She cocked her head, put her hands on her knees, and bent forward. “May I?”
Quinn nodded and she scooted forward and brought her face up next to his and breathed in again, held it, and moved back to look. She touched his left cheek with the back of her right hand and ran it down to his chin. She sat back. “No heat,” she said. “And no evidence of mortification. If you keep it clean and covered there’s no reason to be concerned. And how is your pain, Jamie?”
“I only use the morphine to sleep, and then not much, I think. More than a little gives me bad dreams and sometimes I’d rather not sleep than to sleep and dream.”
She was quiet with her hands on her knees. She looked at him.
“The packet of morphine isn’t for me, Elizabeth. It’s for Elliott Walker. And I need your help with one more thing.” He told her his plan.
“I need a buggy or a wagon. Can you get me one?”
“And a horse to pull it, I gather?” She laughed.
“Can you get me one?”
“They’re in short supply, Jamie, but I can let you use our ambulance and pony.” She read his reaction and added, “It’s the best I can do. It’s a two-wheel hack and the pony’s big enough to pull it.”
“I guess if I park it out back. Elizabeth, you know I’m going out there pretending to be a horse trader.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something, some story. No shoes for the cobbler’s children, perhaps?”
They spent the rest of the evening exchanging stories. He told of his near drowning and the rescue and how he lost his family. She told him of the deaths of her adopted children’s parents and of the baby that was left on her doorstep and of her work with the Shawnees.
It was well after midnight when Quinn went back to the tool shed. Mammy did not want to leave, but her son promised that soon this would be all over. They both would be free and they would leave Missouri and make a good life together. “Sommers way fum de riber, Mammy, where dere be no slabs an no mo massas.”
Quinn waited outside the whorehouse and kept an eye on Walker’s horse as he left. He followed with the hack and tied up outside the saloon. He walked in and ordered a whiskey at the bar. He drank, then advertised to the room that he had horses to sell or trade. When no one rose to the offer, he ordered a bottle of bourbon with a label on it and, muttering, took it to a table and lit a cigar. When his measure of raw whiskey was gone, he put the bottle on the chair between his legs, pulled the cork, and poured the contents of a vial into it. He put the bottle on the table and poured a measure into his glass and corked the bottle. Then he raised the glass and toasted the room. “Gentlemen! Obair sio rai na capaill dall!” Quinn looked around the room and added, “And to little men on big horses--to Generals Beauregard and Bonaparte!” He saluted the room and drank.
Elliott Walker pulled out the chair next to Quinn and turned it and sat. Walker leaned toward him.
“That kind of talk can get you in trouble, mister. Where you from?”
“Dublin,” Quinn said and grinned. “You wanna buy a horse?”
Elliott sat back and looked at him. “What are you here for? Who are you?”
“Private James Quinn, recently discharged from the Union Army and lookin’ for work.”
“And you want to sell your horse.”
“Horses. I got three. I can only ride one. Are you buyin’?”
“Do you know who I am?”
“I take it…” Quinn saluted him with his glass and drank, “that you are a man without a horse.”
Elliott Walker shook his head, stood, and walked back to his table. Quinn stuffed the cigar in his mouth and followed him with his bottle and glass. “I didn’t mean to insult you. You want a drink? I really need to sell one of my horses. Or two. Can I sit?” He held up the bottle and Walker nodded. Quinn sat.
“What do you have?”
“I got a Morgan, a Saddlebred, and a Thoroughbred. I’ll sell any two of them.”
“The Saddlebred. What color?”
Quinn remembered Tough’s description of the horse the big white man was riding that day. “I got him in a hell of a trade with a little man who talked out of the side of his mouth.” Quinn delivered it as if it were a secret. “He’s out of Virginia. Grey Eagle stock. And I got these here Duke boots in the deal.” He held up one foot.
“How big?”
“I’m a hard size to fit. I’m keepin’ the boots.”
“The horse. What does he weigh?”
“Oh, sure. Eighteen hands and about 1500 pounds. Big as a goddamn plow horse, he is.”
Elliott Walker shook his head. “I’ll drink your whiskey, sir, but I will not accept the details of your description. Perhaps what was sold to you actually is a plow horse. Do you think that is possible?”
Quinn poured from his bottle. “I hope not, or I have been taken. I did not actually weigh or measure the beast, but I do have the papers on him.”
“A stallion.”
“Of course. He got his seeds.”
“He’s 18 hands and you didn’t weigh him. Did you measure his cock?”
Quinn pulled back. Then he relaxed. “I didn’t, but I’ll let you do that free of charge if you want.” Quinn laughed. “You had me goin’ there.”
“Well, sir, if a horse trade is this evening’s entertainment, let’s get to it. Say that your grey, your tall and very fat grey, is a Saddlebred, an American Saddlebred, and that he does have his nuts and the papers match the horse, what would you say is a fair price?”
“My daddy taught me the first man to mention a price loses.”
“What in the hell are you saying, sir? That makes no sense.” Walker took a drink and shook his head. “OK, I’ll name a price. One hundred dollars.”
Quinn smiled and held up his glass in salute. “Now we’re talkin’!” He emptied his glass and poured more and the drinking and the play at bargaining began.
In the course of the bottle Quinn added a description of the Morgan, and Walker championed the Saddlebred. “Traveler’s a Saddlebred, you know, and if your horse can trace his line back to Lee’s horse, he could be worth
some money.”
“Yes! That’s what I’m sayin’. Somebody who could ride him, put him out to stud maybe later. Like I said, I got his papers.”
“But you can’t sell a horse like that in a saloon. You got to get to the horse people. Take him to Kentucky. That’s real horse country. They appreciate horses in Kentucky. You said you had his papers.”
“Ah, yes, I do for sure.” Quinn poured and raised his glass. “To good horses and to the men who ride them.” Walker raised his glass and they drank.
“If you can assure me his papers are good, Mr. Quinn, I can guarantee you no less than a thousand dollars for that horse. Down in Lexington. Delivered. I could do that for you.”
“For a price.”
“I would take no money from you for my service. You see, in the horse business, it’s connections that count. It’s relationships that count. I form a relationship with you and you come to me when you have good horseflesh you want to trade. I have a stable of horses myself that is the envy of all great horse lovers in Kentucky. I breed and I trade, and I train and I ride, and I love my horses. You bring your good horseflesh to me and I see if it’s something I want to breed or to ride and if not…”Walker raised his glass and saluted Quinn. “I will help you get a fair price for your animal sommer else.”
Quinn raised his glass and they drank.
“Now to be quite candid, Mr. Quinn, I was somewhat offended by your, shall I say, ‘lack of manners’ when you came in here, and I didn’t like your toast. You should not mention Beauregard and Bonaparte in the same sentence, despite their both being French. And the other thing. That must have been in the Irish tongue. Am I right?”
“‘Obair sio rai na capaill dall.’ It’s an old Irish toast roughly translated as ‘To blind horses on treadmills.’ I throw that one out to see if there are any kinsmen within hearing. Sometimes I get a drink out of it.”
“And in this case it cost you a drink.”
“That, sir, is a small price for friendship,” Quinn said and raised his glass.
Their enthusiasm for horses and the morphine-laced whiskey worked on both men, and Quinn’s tolerance for the drug gave him legs that Walker did not have. When Walker began to sag, Quinn grabbed the bottle and called for help from the man behind the bar. “Help me, sir. It’s time to get him home.” Another patron and the barkeep loaded Walker into the back of the hack and Quinn got up in the box.
“Master Walker’s horse, sir,” the barkeep reminded.
“Oh, yes. I’m too much myself in my cups,” Quinn said. “Can you hitch him up for me? Be much obliged.”
Trailing the horse, Quinn drove back to the carriage house. He got down and led Walker’s horse into a stall. He brought the pony and the rig in, closed the double door, and lit a lantern. Then he walked to the tool shed. He pulled the padlock and threw open the door. “We’ve got our man,” he announced. “We’ve got our man! He’s in the stable and I need some help gettin’ him in here.”
The big man followed Quinn and peered over the side of the cart as Quinn held the lantern high. “Dat be him. Dat be Massa Elliott. He drunk?”
“Drunk and drugged. And I’m a little tipsy myself, so if you can help me pull him out, I’ll take one arm...”
“Naw! I git him. I lif him. He a scrawny bastud.” Quinn heard the big man chuckle. “He a lil man.” The slave grabbed Elliott Walker’s feet and pulled him to the tail gate. He put his shoulder to the man’s waist and lifted. Quinn led with the lantern and the black man carried his master into the tool shed and laid him gently on the pallet that served as the bed. Then he rolled him on his back. “He look sleep. Er dead.” He laughed again. He stood and toed the body. “You poke de eye out an den what? Den we go fine de daddy, huh?”
Quinn stood and looked at the body on the floor and a panic threatened to enter his thoughts. He walked through the door and looked back. “Yeah, sure.”
“Ya be lak de cat what caught de mouse an ain hungry, huh? Jes wait. He wake up. Den ya know what ya got.”
Quinn shook his head and held on to the doorjamb. It was the drug and the whiskey, he was sure. “You’re right. Can you watch him for a while? I’m goin’ to sleep this off and I’ll come back. You want to tie him up?”
The big man smiled and shook his head. “Naw. I be fine.”
“You want the lantern?”
“I be fine.”
Quinn closed the shed door and walked to the grated door and knocked. A nun led him to the room that he had slept in once before. He lay on the bed until he heard a knock. He sat on the side of the bed, a little dizzy. Then he stood and opened the door.
“Your boots are not outside the door, Mr. Quinn. Would you like breakfast?” It was Elizabeth.
“What time is it?”
“Lauds are just over. It’s after six.”
“Oh, no! I left him out there all night.” Quinn pulled his boots from under the bed and sat. “Oh, God! I hope he didn’t kill him.”
Elizabeth stood over him as he struggled into his boots. “Slow down, Jamie! Slow down. He’s alive. They’ve both had their breakfast. Sister Ermalinde saw to it. Now. Would you like some breakfast? Come on.” Elizabeth went to the door.
Quinn shook his head. “I can’t eat. You go ahead. I’ve got to get out to the shed. You want to come out? Maybe after breakfast?”
Elizabeth turned in the doorway. “What? You want me to come out and...and...meet him? What. Shake his hand? Say, ‘Why hello, Mr. Walker. So nice to meet you. I’ve heard such terrible things about you.’ Oh, God, Jamie! I can’t do this. I have to go to the hospital.”
“I didn’t mean that I wanted you to...”
“I have to go. Come by. Just tell Lawrence. Good-bye, Jamie.” She turned and Quinn heard her rush down the hall.
Quinn stomped down his boots and walked to the grated door.
Quinn's War Page 15
