Dry Rot

by S. L. Stoner

  “Shhh, no time. We’re breaking you out of here,” Sage said, moving toward him. Fong clambered atop the pile of lumber, turning to watch the outside door in the neighboring room. Sage hurriedly cut the ropes binding Chester’s feet and hands.

  “Oh, oh, my feet are yipping ‘pins and needles, pins and needles!’” Chester gasped as he stood upright and tottered.

  Sage grabbed the man’s arm and steered him around the unconscious men and toward the side door opening onto the wharf.“Believe me, I know exactly what you’re feeling. Was there myself, not long ago. There’s no time, we’re leaving here now. Their reinforcements are on the way!”

  “Hurry!” Fong hissed from atop the lumber pile, even as he started slithering down to the floor, “guards coming.”

  The three of them slipped through the door opening onto the wharf and Fong closed it quietly behind them. Outside, the gray waters of the river swept past in silence. There was not a single lumber pile in sight to provide them cover. Fong gestured for them to move further down the wharf, in the same direction as the river flowed. They’d covered no more than seventy-five feet before the mill door slammed open, banging against the building. A shout sounded. Sage glanced back to see the three guards spilling out the door, their leader fumbling in his heavy coat, probably for a gun.

  Fong raced ahead, veering to the right, away from the mill wall and toward the river. He reached the edge of the wharf, grabbed onto two short, upright, posts and swung himself over the edge, dropping out of sight.

  Sage tugged harder on Chester’s elbow, finding he no longer needed to hurry the man along. Chester was hobbling at a fast rate. Bullets kicked splinters from the planks beneath their feet, giving both men more encouragement than needed to further speed their flight. They reached the posts and Chester slung himself over the side and down the wooden ladder with Sage so close behind him that he stepped on Chester’s fingers. The zing of a bullet passing overhead made both men slide the rest of the way to the ladder’s bottom rung. There, two small boats jerked against the ropes holding them to the ladder. Fong guided Chester’s feet into his boat and cast off before the rescued man got fully seated. Rushing water immediately pushed the boat further under the dock. All three men reached and grabbed, using their fingers to steer the boat away downstream among a forest of the creosoted pilings. Sage dropped into the remaining boat, barely managing to grab a cross brace before the boatman released the rope, and he too started pulling the boat along among the pilings, his eyes snicking upward at the thick planks overhead.

  As the two boats bumped their way among the pilings, the thud of running feet sounded overhead like a giant’s thundering steps. Looking back toward the ladder, Sage saw two boots descend. The sight of those boots galvanized him into action and he too started grabbing, pushing and pulling, desperate to increase the number of pilings between their boat and the gun-toting man on the ladder.

  Seconds later, the swift current shot them out from beneath the wharf’s far end to float away fast and free. Sage clutched at the gunwale as the boat began rocking in the roiling water, its thin sides at the mercy of tree limbs and other debris riding the river’s mad dash to the sea.

  He took a deep breath, trying not to think of the boat capsizing, of his winter clothes and heavy boots pulling him down to the bottom. He raised his eyes from that watery threat. To the east, the clouds lifted and a golden dawn limned black mountain edges. Like a hot air balloon, Sage’s spirits lifted at the sight of those distant peaks and of a grinning Chester in the nearby boat. It’s a brighter dawn today than yesterday, Sage crowed to himself before immediately sobering. Recovering Chester was just one problem solved. There was still Leo, the strike and all those rotten bridges.

  TWENTY FOUR

  “I’d sure the heck like to know why we didn’t haul those two scallywags away with us,” Chester grumbled. “We shoulda took ‘em straight to the police. Once I told them how those two kidnapped me and was going to kill me, and Stuart here backed me up, those two’d be locked up in the hoosegow right next to Leo!”

  The three of them sat in Stuart’s new hotel room close by the railroad yards. Stuart had insisted on also moving so he could keep his new friend company. Now Sage was on the receiving end of both checker players’ scowls.

  Sage felt their frustration. He didn’t like seeing those two killers get away with their shenanigans either. Still, it was the best move. “Look, fellas, if they’re arrested right now it does us no good at all,” he told them.“First thing we know, they’d make bail and be out of town so fast all we’d see is their backsides disappearing down the railroad tracks. Besides, they’re just taking orders. We need to identify the man giving those orders. Mr. Fong and Mr. Eich both say there’s a third man. He’s the one we have to find and catch. Otherwise, this isn’t going to stop.”

  “Well, since we up and skedaddled, I’d sure the heck like to know how we’re going to find this mystery man of yours.”

  Chester crossed his arms over his chest, not ready to let go his peevish outrage.

  “Ah, that is where our Mr. Fong and his cousins always prove themselves invaluable. It wasn’t until this morning that we knew exactly where to find those two. So, while we floated away down river, more of Fong’s men stayed in hiding around the lumber mill, waiting for them to come out. Don’t worry, we’ll soon know everywhere those two go and everyone they speak to.”

  s s s

  Fong was waiting when Sage returned. “Time we exercise now. Keep thoughts focused on movement from core of body and thoughts will become still,” he said. Sage obediently changed his clothes and climbed the stairs to the attic. Fong worked Sage hard at the snake and crane, repeating the long version of the fighting exercise two times and engaging Sage in the two person drills Fong called “pushing hands,” until Sage reached the point of no thought, his body moving between action and reaction, his mind freed of the strike, murder, and all of the missing puzzle pieces.

  Nearly two hours later, Sage was wiping the sweat from his brow and slowing his breathing. Fong, however, continued to perform the slow movements, his face as cool and serene as when they had first started. He began speaking, his voice rock steady. “When young boy, I travel with my family to Poyang Lakes, beside palace of Lao Tzu. It was early winter. Great white cranes flew from the north ahead of snows. In early morning, when mist thick on ground,” Fong’s hands paused to sketch a thigh high wave of fog, “my father and I crept through the grasses toward lake. Because cranes’ beaks down among grasses, searching for insects, we able to creep close. Something disturb them, maybe hiss of our breath, maybe snap of grass stalk. Their heads lift up and, from each bird, one black eye stared at us. As one they stretch wings wide, rise into sky, leaving only call floating on wind and bird shadow across the sun. We carried no net. Otherwise, one of them stay behind.”

  Sage waited for more, but Fong remained silent, moving at the same excruciatingly slow pace through the various positions. Sage cleared his throat. His friend stopped moving and met Sage’s gaze.

  “I am thinking,” Fong said,“that sometimes a man searches so hard for one obvious thing, he fails to notice what is close to hand.”

  Sage nodded. This was a message he understood. “You are wondering whether we are so busy finding Chester and chasing after these two men that maybe we are missing something?”

  Fong nodded. “It is just feeling,” he said. “Nothing more.”

  s s s

  Fong’s description of those great white cranes stepping through the morning mist teased at Sage’s thoughts until he entered Mozart’s dining room and spotted Philander Gray. The lawyer sat at his favorite table underneath the musician’s balcony. Behind Gray, at least one plaster wall above the mahogany wainscoting shone with a fresh coat of cream-colored enamel paint. So, Daniel’s paint brush was now laying siege to the dining room proper itself. Sage looked around for the sorrowful painter. Only a faint fresh paint smell remained—Daniel, his ladders, brushes and buckets
were nowhere in sight.

  One look at the lawyer told Sage that Leo’s situation had worsened. For once, Gray was not shoveling in his food. Instead, he was morosely herding a single pea back and forth across his half-full plate.

  “Lockwood’s wife failed to find any neighbor who’d seen someone nosing around Leo’s house while carrying a kerosene can,” Gray said as soon as Sage sat down.

  “What proof is that empty can, anyway?” Sage asked.

  “Pretty damn good proof when the lettering on the bottom identifies it as coming from the Mackey lumber mill.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Leo’s not going to toss evidence like that into his backyard where it’s visible to any passerby. Nobody’s that stupid.”

  “The prosecutor says Leo dumped the can there after the fire, planning to hide it somewhere else but got arrested before he could.”

  “Why take it back to his house at all? That makes no sense.” Gray shook his head. “One thing I’ve learned, and what every police officer knows, is that most criminals don’t exactly plan out the details like you and I might when we imagine doing a particular criminal act. The difficulty is, I’m not finding a scintilla of evidence that’s in Leo’s favor. Not a whit sufficient to cast reasonable doubt. This case is beginning to concern me and, I tell you, that’s a feeling I don’t experience often.”

  An energetic swoosh of the kitchen’s swinging doors drew Sage’s attention. Mae Clemens was heading toward them at a brisk pace. Her hair straggled loose from its coil and her face was pinched with worry. She gave a perfunctory nod in response to the various patrons’ greetings but kept her eyes fixed on Sage. “Mr. Adair, Mr. Gray,” she said when she arrived at the table.

  Sage stood up.“What’s the matter?” he asked, dread a stone in his chest.

  “It’s Herman, he’s fevered and won’t settle down. He says he has to talk to you.”

  Sage nodded at Gray, who waved him on his way, and immediately headed toward the stairs to talk to Fong who was meditating in the attic. When Sage entered, Fong unfolded his legs and stood with a fluid grace that belied his middle age.

  “I must go see Herman, Ma says he’s taken a turn for the worse and needs to see me. I planned to take this around to Merrill, at his bicycle shop,” Sage said, as he pulled from his pocket, Stuart’s list of those trestles Chester found in need of prompt repair. “Will you see that he receives this list of dangerous bridges?”

  Fong took the paper. “I take it myself to Mr. Merrill at bicycle shop.”

  “Thanks,” Sage said and turned toward the stairs. “Take Herman strength!” Fong called after him.

  Mae Clemens was waiting impatiently at the kitchen door, already cloaked and hatted. “We need to hurry. Sage, I’m afraid he’s not going to make it,” she threw back over her shoulder as she hurried down the stairs and rapidly strode down the alley.

  Minutes later the provision shop’s entry bell tinkled softly, summoning Mrs. Fong from the inner room. Lines of worry creased her forehead. “I ask for needle man to help us, because Mr. Eich is so sick,” she told them, in an almost apologetic tone, as she stepped aside to allow their entry.

  Once inside, they froze in the sickroom doorway, both taken aback by the sight before them. Eich lay motionless on the cot. Bending over him was an elderly Chinese man. He wore a long black silk robe and a round silk hat. The tightly braided silver queue trailing down his back jumped a little as he rapidly rolled a long, extremely thin needle back and forth between his palms. Even as they watched, he plunged the warmed needle into the unconscious man’s head.

  Sage started forward, only to have his mother’s fingers grip his forearm. Mrs. Fong saw the movement and stepped toward them, her eyes beseeching as she struggled to explain.

  “We try many herbs. Nothing break fever. Sometimes in China, needle doctor break fever. Ask cousin go for needle doctor. He fix many people very good,” she explained, gesturing at the old man, who was briskly rolling another needle between his palms. This one, he plunged into the back of Eich’s hand.

  Sage hesitated, transfixed by the sight of the Chinese man efficiently inserting one thin needle after another into the ragpicker’s body. Either the needle insertion was painless or Eich was too far gone to feel anything because his body never flinched. Only the sound of his labored breathing, now a gasping wheeze, indicated that he still lived.

  Mae spoke softly,“Sage, Herman is so sick I don’t think he ll be hurt further by those needles. I’m near to my wit’s end. There is nothing more I know to do. I think he has pneumonia from being out in the cold. Unless his fever drops and his lungs open up, we’ll lose him.” She was whispering, her worried eyes fixed on the sick man.

  Sage pulled her close to his side. “What was it that he want to tell me?” he whispered into her ear, trying to distract her from the fear stiffening her body.

  “I can’t rightly say. He was all agitated, frantic to talk to you.” She took a deep shaky breath and continued,“What he said made no sense. He’d say ‘rage is a bellow.’ Or, he’d clutch at my hand and make me promise I’d ‘succor the poor man.’ Or, he’d ask for you,” her voice wavered. He looked at her face. Her chin trembled in an effort not to cry.

  “Oh, Ma,” he said, wrapping both arms around her and resting his cheek against her hair. “He’ll make it,” he said, his assurance coming from hope, not from knowing.

  After a few minutes in that sick room, it seemed clear that Eich would remain unconsciousness for some time to come. Seeing no way his presence could help the situation, Sage departed, leaving his mother and Mrs. Fong to watch over the needle doctor’s peculiar ministrations. Not that he expected the bizarre treatment to make a difference. Despite his reassurances to his mother, Sage felt a weary resignation over the ragpicker’s likely fate settling into his bones. So much so that the thought of returning to play Mozart’s convivial host gave him an itch to head in another direction. So, he did. He changed course and headed west. He’d call on Portland’s bicycle king to find out whether Merrill had shown Mayor Williams their original list of unsound bridges.

  s s s

  Merrill’s exuberant greeting was a disconcerting contrast to the hushed despair Sage had left behind him in the Fong’s provision shop. “Mr. Adair,” Merrill exclaimed, “You are a soothing sight for sore eyes. I received the second list you sent over with your Chinaman. First thing tomorrow, we’ll be taking a look at those bridges too. There’s already some good news for you on that front.” Merrill paused to peer closely at Sage. “So, is something the matter, son? You look like your best friend died.”

  “That’s awfully close to the truth. He’s pretty sick. We’re afraid he’s not going to make it.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” Merrill’s face momentarily sobered before he continued, “Well, let’s sit you down.” Merrill escorted Sage to a chair next to his desk before bellowing, “Abner, fetch us some hot coffee from next door. And buy yourself some hot chocolate while you’re at it.” A boy appeared, a thick dab of black grease on his chin. He took the coins proffered by Merrill and hustled out the door. Within minutes, Sage was watching steam rise from two mugs of coffee sitting on the desk.

  “I wish there was a way to help your friend,” Merrill said, “but sometimes sending up a prayer is all a body can do.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Merrill.” Sage said, touched by the man’s genuine sympathy. After a pause he asked, “So, what’s this good news?”

  Merrill laughed. “Ah, well, like I told you, our new mayor is a little too old to be clambering up and down ravines. Despite that, he’s no dummy. He brought along one of his grandsons and the two of us climbed in and out of that gully to poke rods into the bridge timbers. We confirmed what you said. Dry rot riddles the trestles’ supports but fresh creosote covers it up so that, from a distance, they look brand new. Once Mayor Williams heard that, he trotted directly back to City Hall and wrote a letter firing Horace Bittler, the city engineer. Funny thing, though, when they tried to de
liver it, Bittler was nowhere to be found. One of his neighbors said the whole family decamped at dawn a few days ago, riding in, of all things, the back of a produce van.”

  And here I thought we’d gotten the Bittlers away with no one the wiser. Wonder what Bittler is doing right now? Sage thought to himself and his mind conjured up a pleasurable picture of Bittler in Brother Jonas’s barn, forking hay or shoveling manure. However, all Sage said to Merrill was a disinterested, “Hmm, wonder where Bittler went?”

  “Well, Bittler will learn soon enough that he’s been fired,” Merrill said, eyeing Sage more intently. “Anyway, Williams is in a high dudgeon and swears that, by tomorrow, a new city engineer will be closely inspecting all the rest of the trestle bridges. Your list of the problem bridges is going to give the new engineer a leg up on inventorying the situation. If we’re lucky, he’ll be competent and not appointed just because he’s the mayor s nephew or a political crony’s brother-in-law.” Merrill leaned back in his chair, his face alight with a satisfied smile.