The foreman nodded, closing his grip around the worker’s injured hand.
Robert lifted a bottle of wine, the contents sloshing about. “Leave it to San Franciscans to salvage bottles of wine while the city’s burning.” Gripping the already-loosened cork with his teeth, he eased it out and spat it aside, fixing his gaze on the injured man’s eyes. “This is going to hurt, so be prepared.”
The man groaned. “Can’t hurt much worse’n it already does.”
As Robert poured the liquid, the man shrieked, his clawed fingers contracting in a sudden spasm. “Couldn’t you just pour it down my throat? It’d do the same, wouldn’t it? Such a waste.”
Setting the bottle on the ground, Robert chuckled. “I’m not using it to deaden the pain, I’m trying to clean the wound.” He gestured to the soldier hovering nearby. “Could you bring the lantern closer? I can’t see what I’m doing here.”
Robert hands were raw and bleeding after hours of lugging bricks, but examining his patient’s crushed fingers, he offered a prayer of thanksgiving he had not been nearby when the rock wall had given way. He cast a glance at the soldier standing across from him. Likely as not, Robert wouldn’t need paperwork to prove his medical status now.
He straightened the injured fingers as best he could in the primitive conditions. Peering closely, he gauged the man’s reactions as he manipulated the bones. The second and third fingers seemed to be the only ones broken, possibly an oblique fracture of the proximal phalanx on one and the middle phalanx on the other, with the rest of the hand scoured with abrasions.
Using strips of cloth, Robert fastened each of the broken fingers to its neighbor, using the good fingers as splints. It was a ragged job at best, but he hoped the bones would heal straight. At least it would hold the man through the night.
The patient grasped the half-empty wine bottle with his good hand and cradled it to his chest. Obviously, he was not beyond self-medicating for pain.
Abby sucked in a quick breath, her voice croaking in the back of her throat.
The man dragged her basket a few feet away and dumped it onto the ground, pawing through the contents. Aunt Mae’s book fluttered down, landing on top of the kitchen knife. He grabbed the meat and bread, shoving it into pockets on his loose, flapping coat. Turning his back he pawed through Abby’s other belongings. The cookies spilled onto the ground at his feet. He scooped them up and added them to his stash.
A blast of heat climbed up Abby’s throat, burning away any sense of caution. How dare this man steal her things? She jerked upright, hissing like an angry cat. “Hey, get away from there. You can’t take those—they’re mine.” Jumping to her feet, Abby lunged for his arm.
The man spun and fastened meaty fingers on her wrists before she could reach into his pockets. Twisting her around, he locked a crushing arm around her middle and wrenched her back against him.
Abby shrieked and kicked backward, her heel smashing against a shinbone.
The man tightened his grip, uttering a few choice words, crushing a hand against her mouth before she could manage another cry. His arm squeezed her like a bellows, shoving the remaining air out of Abby’s lungs. “Be quiet!”
She kicked again, catching his leg a second time.
Cursing, he hoisted Abby off the ground and flung her like a dirty dishrag. She slammed down on her stomach, just a few feet away from Sparrow, their supplies crushing under her body. A jolt of pain surged through her arm where it folded beneath her, her wrist catching the worst of the fall.
Before Abby could gather her wits, the attacker grasped her shoulders and flipped her over. Pinning an arm with his knee, he grabbed for her mouth with both hands.
Heart pounding, Abby arched her back and swung at his face with her free hand. She dug her fingernails into his cheek before he secured her wrist and pinned it down. He succeeded in latching a hand across her mouth.
He sneered, filling her face with sour whiskey breath, “I will take what I want to take, girl.”
Abby twisted, trying to wriggle out of the man’s grip.
He threw himself across her, jamming her into the ground. Releasing her mouth, the man shoved his forearm across her neck. He bent down, a sickly grin crossing his whiskered face.
Abby’s throat closed under the weight, spots forming before her eyes. Clutching at his arm, she kicked her legs, struggling to draw a breath. A knobby protrusion dug into her back as his weight pressed down.
The man leaned in. “You can’t get away. No one can help you.” His hot breath flooded her face.
A sob struggled for release in Abby’s throat. He’s right. I’m in a crowd of people, but no one even knows I am in trouble. She dug her fingers into the dirty arm pushing down against her throat, but couldn’t dislodge it. Starving for air, Abby’s desire to fight ebbed away.
The man snorted a soft laugh into her ear as her movements weakened. “That’s better. You be a good girl, now. Such a pretty little thing like you should be a good girl.”
Abby’s stomach twisted. Smoke rolled into her head, sounds fading as if she listened from deep underwater.
The man leaned back, reducing the pressure on her throat, his voice distant. “You gonna be good? Because if you scream—it won’t be pretty.”
Abby managed to drag in a partial breath and her eyes refocused.
Greasy hair fell into the man’s eyes and a thick moustache rode the upward sneer of his lip. “Answer me, girl,” he hissed. His weight increased.
“Yes,” Abby used the precious puff of air to squeak out the word.
Slowly he lifted his arm from her throat, his body still pinning her to the ground. “I take what I want, you hear?”
Abby tried to nod. A twinge of pain shot through her shoulder, her hand pinned behind her back.
The man sat up, releasing Abby’s throat. She squirmed, grasping for the lump under her back. Her fingers closed around it—a smooth, wooden handle.
“And you don’t go telling nobody. Or I’ll be back.” He bent his grimy face down to her cheek and breathed the words into her ear. “Do you understand what I’m saying?” His breath reeked of whiskey and cigars.
Abby swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “I won’t tell. Take the supplies, just leave me alone.” Sparrow cried, softly mewling in the darkness nearby. Her fingers tightened.
Reaching out a grimy finger, he brushed the side of her face. His eyes traveled downward and he grasped at the chain, drawing the necklace from under her collar. He lifted the ring, hand shaking, his red-rimmed eyes growing large. “And what’s this?”
In one swift motion Abby twisted, pulling her arm free from behind her back and jamming Aunt Mae’s knife into the man’s leg.
His shriek tore the night air and he jerked away, ripping his leg free of the blade.
Abby scrambled to her feet, the bloody knife clutched in her hand. As he writhed on the ground, she scooped a handful of belongings back into the basket and grabbed Sparrow.
A flurry of movement nearby suggested they wouldn’t be alone for long. Abby glanced down at the dripping knife, heart pounding. She clutched Sparrow to her chest and ran like a frightened animal, stumbling over her feet and people’s scattered possessions. Hiding the knife flat against her side, Abby’s thoughts scattered, Sparrow bleating protests as Abby jostled her through the night. Oh, God—what have I done? Where do I go?
She darted into the street and staggered to a halt. Buildings loomed up against the sky, towering above her. Eerie glowing clouds billowed above their dark shapes. A soldier with a bayonet-topped rifle rested against his shoulder stared off into the fiery horizon. Abby wiped the bloody knife on her skirt and stashed it inside the basket.
There was nowhere to run. No place of safety. She shuddered. The man had said, “No one can help you.”
But Aunt Mae’s words also echoed in her heart: “God is our refuge and our hiding place.” Would God help me, even if I’ve turned away?
She stole into the shadows and cre
pt along the quiet street. A man rode by on a horse, the hooves loud on the cobbles. Abby pressed her back against a dark building until the rider disappeared into the night. After a few moments of silence, she rushed down the street in the opposite direction, racing blocks away from the park.
She paused in front of a drugstore, the front window broken and merchandise strewn across the floor. Abby glanced to the left and the right before stepping through the broken window and tiptoeing through the shop. She crunched over scattered pills and leaking bottles of sticky syrups and tonics, making her way to the back corner. She sank down behind a long counter and pressed her back against the wall, her trembling legs stretched before her.
Abby opened the basket. Not much remained—a towel, the journal, one water jug, and the knife. Pulling out the towel, she made a cozy nest on the floor for Sparrow, her arms too shaky to trust. Clutching the knife, Abby drew her knees up to her chest. No one would sneak up on her again.
She stared into the dark shadows, daring them to move. The faint glow from the front window reflected off the gleaming blade.
41
1:35 a.m.
Robert coiled a strip of cloth around his blistered hand as he hurried through the smoke-laced street, head throbbing. He’d finally stumbled back to the hospital, only to find it in disarray, the few remaining staff members loading patients onto army wagons en route to the Presidio. They needed help, but he was far too exhausted, too spent to help anyone. Besides, he had a promise to keep.
No one had seen Gerald since the morning. Perhaps he had escorted his mother across the bay and been unable to come back. There was no other choice but to return to the park. Abby had been so certain her mother would be camped there, it made sense she would retrace their steps after leaving the hospital.
But as he approached the grounds, his heart sank. The shadowed park contained countless huddled shapes, nestled under cloaks and blankets. How could he recognize Abby in these conditions? It had been difficult enough in the daylight—but now? Impossible.
He picked his way through the milieu, his throat aching with weariness. All he wanted was to slump down on the ground and fall asleep. Every muscle, every joint ached. And yet Abby consumed his thoughts. Was she frightened and alone? What about the baby?
Somewhere in the distance, he heard a shriek. He swung around, eyes searching the darkness, heart pounding.
Lord, let her be safe.
In the distance, a cluster of lanterns glowed in a tight circle. Maybe he could ask someone about Abby. Perhaps someone had spotted a young woman with a baby. A moaning wail caught his attention and he picked up his pace toward the lights. Obviously, there had been some sort of trouble. He pushed his way into the circle.
A dark figure writhed on the ground, spouting a string of oaths as another man pressed bandages to a wound on his leg. Robert drew in a deep breath, his legs shaking with exhaustion. Was he the only doctor in the city tonight? After a moment, he pressed forward. “What’s happened?”
“Well, look what the cat dragged in.” Gerald glanced up from his position over the wounded man, a wry grin lighting his face. “I figured you’d collapsed in exhaustion somewhere.”
Robert fell to his knees, clasping an arm around his friend’s shoulder. A wash of emotions swept over him, stealing the breath from his lungs. “And I thought you’d left town!”
“And leave you with all the fun? No, sir.” He pressed a hand on the injured man’s chest. “Look here, sir. I need you to stop struggling and lie still.” He glanced up at Robert. “Do you think you could hold him down for me? I need to get a better look at this wound, but he’s too drunk to listen to sense.”
Robert stepped to the far side and kneeled. Bracing himself, he pressed the man’s arms to the ground. The fragrance of sour whiskey and vomit mingled on the patient’s clothes and his biceps corded under Robert’s grip. “You’d better hurry. He feels pretty strong.”
Gerald waved a few nearby men in to help. He pulled back the bandages and grimaced. “What’s it look like to you, Robert?”
Robert lifted his head, gazing down to where the lantern light illuminated the oozing wound. “Stab wound?”
“Yes. I agree. And look at this.” He gripped the man’s chin and turned it toward the light. Three parallel gouges stretched from his eye to his chin. “We’d better inform the police.” Gerald reached for his medical bag. “We may be seeing a lot of this over the next few days. Desperation and tight quarters.”
A cold sweat broke out over Robert’s skin. And Abby’s out there alone. “Let’s hurry up and get the wound closed. I want to find your cousin and get out of here.”
Gerald’s brow lifted, but he reached for his suture kit and set to work, not bothering with anesthetic. By the smell of the man, he already had enough to deaden the pain.
Robert kept a firm grip on the patient’s arms, though the man seemed only half-conscious. For a few moments, he watched Gerald’s careful stitches, but after a bit he let his gaze wander. The blanket under his knees looked familiar.
Robert’s throat went dry. “Gerald . . .”
His friend glanced up.
“Don’t you have a quilt like this?”
Gerald followed Robert’s gaze. His brows drew down as he dropped the forceps. “Yes.” He reached for the yellow patchwork. “My grandmother sewed it when I was a child.”
Robert’s gaze raked over the patient. A glimmer of gold shone from between his fingers. Releasing the beefy arm, Robert wrenched open the man’s hand. A necklace slid from his grasp, gold locket and ring tumbling out onto the dirt.
Gerald shot to his feet. “Are those—”
“Where did you get this?” Robert lunged forward, shaking the man awake. He waved the necklace in front of the man’s face.
“She done it,” the man coughed, his stinking breath causing Robert to reel backward. “She shtuck me. A girl.” The scratches wrinkled as the man curled his tobacco-stained lips into a sneer.
Robert’s stomach twisted. He grabbed the man’s shirt and jerked him to a sitting position. “Where is she now? What did you do to her?”
“She didn’t have nothin’ I wanted.”
With a shove, Robert returned him to the ground. “Where is she?”
The man’s eyes rolled back before closing.
Springing to his feet, Robert spun in place. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Abby! Abby, are you out there?”
His voice echoed through the park.
Gerald stepped to his side. “Are you sure it’s hers?”
Robert lifted the chain, the gold glimmering in the lantern light. “I gave her the ring myself.”
Gerald’s jaw fell open. “What?”
Closing his fist around it, Robert shoved the chain into his vest pocket. “We’ve got to find her. She could be hurt.”
“We’ll get the police. But we have to finish closing the wound.”
“Why?” Colors flashed in front of Robert’s eyes.
“He was the last one to see Abby.” Gerald’s lips thinned.
Crossing his arms, Robert stood guard while Gerald drew the last bit of thread through the man’s wounded leg. He glanced around at the darkness, his heart too troubled to pray. Now he knew for certain Abby was out there.
And she was in trouble.
42
2:45 a.m.
Abby slept curled in a tight ball behind the counter, taunted by anxious dreams.
She found herself in a Chinatown alley, rows of silk-clad Chinese girls staring down from high fire escapes. Their anguished eyes cried out. Abby reached a hand up toward them and they vanished into the smoke.
Papa’s voice called through the mist. “Abigail! Abigail, my little wanderer, where are you, child?” His thick accent colored the words as they echoed down the dark alley, the buildings closing in from both sides.
“I’m here, Papa!” Abby turned in a circle, unsure of her path.
Cecelia’s song floated on the wisps of smoke. “Pro
ne to wander, Lord I feel it. Prone to wander, prone to wander . . . ”
She pushed toward the sound, jumping effortlessly across broken cobbles and giant cracks in the street. “I’m coming, wait for me!”
The song’s gentle refrain beckoned. Abby ran toward it with every ounce of energy she had left, her breath wrenching from her lungs in wheezing gasps.
A burning building crumbled, sparks spewing across her path. She skidded to a stop as flaming beams of wood fell and splintered on the street. “No!” The wind, pulled by the heat of the flames, sucked through the street with a roar, stealing her breath and plastering her skirt to her legs. Her hair hung loose, locks tangling about her face.
“Come to me, Abigail.” A voice spoke, whispering straight into her heart.
Abby held her breath, still and silent as a stone.
The wind died away, no longer pulling at her clothes and hair, the rushing noise fading into silence. The fire still raged, but the sound, heat, and wind scattered until nonexistent. Abby placed her hands over her cheeks, the sudden lack of sound causing her ears to buzz. The surreal scene unfolded like a silent film at the penny arcade.
Between two burning buildings, an alley stretched into darkness, a trail through the flames. The peaceful shadows beckoned. Following the path, Abby slid her hands along the cool brick walls until she stood at the base of the steps of an old church. Climbing, she pushed aside the heavy oak doors.
The shadowy church enveloped her. Light shone through massive stained glass windows, the colors streaming down into the front of the church. A young woman sat in the front row, golden hair hanging down her back in a single, long glistening braid. She turned, her smile—as always—lighting the room. “Abby . . .”
“Cecelia?” Abby’s voice caught in her throat.
Her sister’s skin and hair shone and her blue eyes sparkled with obvious delight.
“I heard you calling . . .” Abby raced to her side, reaching for her hands.
Cecelia stepped back, out of her sister’s grasp. “I wasn’t the one calling you, Abby.” Her face glowed like the morning sun. “Open your heart and hear Him.”
Out of the Ruins Page 26
