“Maybe this way the sheriffs can find some of the girls and return them to their homes and families. And that will give credence to the story I have to tell because, surely, they will have some questions for me to answer.” He shrugged. “And who knows? Maybe we’ll catch them with their guard down. Pray to God I’m wrong and we find Amelia in the morning.”
He looked very tired and Iris patted the mattress. “Come to bed and sleep. It’s late and we’re both weary. Hopefully by tomorrow afternoon, Roy will be back and then we can all sit down together and make some plans. You did say that the auction is taking place two days from now?”
“Last I heard, yes. That’s only if they don’t get scared off, though,” he said as he climbed into bed next to her.
They kissed and, within seconds, Matthew was snoring while Iris stared up at the ceiling and wondered if her meddling hadn’t just cost her and her family Amelia’s life.
~
Early the next afternoon, two young street urchins darted down an alleyway in Chinatown. They both wore rags and watch caps, although one set of clothes was cleaner than the other. Dicky, who had always tried to dress well, felt daring and liberated…something needed for his diminutive size rather than being overlooked and smirked at.
He was on a mission assigned to him by his boss, Matthew Wilcox: Hang around by the purported auction house and gather as much intelligence as possible; hover close to the door with the dragon insignia and see if the Donnelly’s or their henchmen showed up; watch and see if the King County lawmen raided the place; and report back immediately with any new information.
Although it wasn’t stated, Dicky knew the wound on Matthew’s thigh was paining him something awful. This was simply a way to keep an eye on the crooks and their nefarious endeavors while the sheriff recovered from being shot. The auction wasn’t supposed to take place until tomorrow night, after all, and this bought a little recovery time.
The boy Dicky ran with really was a street urchin, although young Peter Elliot was a canny customer who preferred honest employment to a life of crime and had managed to find work with Mr. Winters’ theater performers. He did many things, like handing out flyers, running sundry errands, fetching fresh fruit and fish from the market, and taking the actors’ costumes back and forth to the Chinese laundry twice a week.
He had also worked out a lucrative deal with the flower-seller down the street. Sometimes, especially during a grand opening, Mr. Winters ordered dozens of roses delivered to the actors. Everyone in the troupe knew it was only a ruse but the patrons would watch the expensive bouquets being delivered backstage and become convinced that the play was being well-received and the players were earning high accolades. Peter earned a two-bit tip every time he delivered the roses—both from the florist and Mr. Winters.
Dicky had to give the teenager credit. Peter was smart as a whip, fleet as a deer and possessed of a sunny, affable nature despite being alone in the world and as poor as a church mouse. Although he had been born in less than fortunate circumstances, the thirteen-year-old boy did not seem inclined to let his station in life dictate what he might become.
The two young men darted here and there like wraiths, avoiding the crowds of people who sold their wares or those shopping. They dodged the farms carts and fancy broughams that filled the narrow lanes and finally emerged close to the door with the dragon emblem painted on its surface.
“Hold up here,” Peter hissed and ducked down behind a pile of rubbish that nearly filled the mouth of the alleyway. Dicky ducked in next to the youngster and followed Peter’s pointing finger with his eyes. They were about three blocks away from Chinatown and closer to the briny inland waters of Puget Sound where businesses were giving way to large warehouses and distributing outfits.
The air was thick with the odors of fish, hops, tar, horse and cattle manure, flowers, and rubbish. A thin, sweet fragrance wafted through it all—one Dicky’s nose couldn’t identify.
Leaning close to Peter, he whispered, “What’s that smell?”
The teen grinned. “Incense. A couple of old Chinese men run a shop here. They sell all sorts of herbs and medicines and they make the joss sticks the Chinks like so much.”
Dicky stared through the fog and saw a bright red lacquered door incongruously nestled in the front façade of a weathered building that looked as if the slightest wind might blow it down. Even as he watched, an elderly Oriental man with a long, white pigtail stepped out the door with a broom in his hand and started sweeping the front stoop.
Then Dicky saw something out of the corner of his eye. Three men were loitering outside of a saloon across the street about a hundred feet away from where he and Peter crouched. Two of the men were unfamiliar but the third man was none other than Fred Marston, one of Donnelly’s henchmen.
All three were watching the surrounding area closely and Dicky was glad Matthew’s wife had suggested dressing in disguise. With his penny-red hair and short stature, Dicky stood out like a sore thumb and he knew if he had strolled down the street in his usual garb, Fred would have recognized him immediately. He shuddered, knowing that he would probably be gasping his last breath while his bullet-riddled body bled out on these muddy city streets if not for Iris’s timely advice.
Squatting even lower on his heels, Dicky moved forward a little and searched the area again. Sure enough, he spied two more “lookouts”, one perched on the roof of a warehouse about fifty feet away and another standing behind an ivy-covered lattice screen very close to where he and Peter hid.
Settling down on his heels to wait and watch, Dicky hoped he would be able to bring good news to his boss and an expedient end to this whole sorry affair.
~
Dan O’Reilly grinned. He had been patrolling the perimeter as ordered and look what he found. It was that little bastard Dicky McNulty in the flesh. He might not have noticed at all, if it were not for the fact the deputy doffed his watch cap and swiped one spindly arm over his forehead, exposing that carrot-top for all the world to see.
Dan ducked out of sight around the edge of the alley and removed his boots. After checking to see if either of the men were glancing over their shoulders, he ran swiftly and silently down the cobblestones and gravel. He had a six-inch-long Bowie knife in one hand and a sap in the other.
Dicky had moved ahead a couple of feet, leaving the other man alone and in line for attack. Hoping it was Matthew Wilcox, Dan stepped up close, put one hand over the man’s mouth and pulled his head back, exposing his throat. Then he drew his blade across the soft, white skin and moved away as a spray of dark blood flew into the air.
Staring at his victim’s face, O’Reilly’s victory turned sour as he saw that he had not just killed a sworn enemy but a young teenager. He heard a voice say, “You bastard! Why did you have to kill that kid?”
Although the deed had been done in almost perfect silence, Dicky had heard something—a scuffle perhaps or a sigh—and he now stood with a gun that was almost bigger than the hand that held it, pointing at Dan’s face.
Dicky was filled with anger and remorse but his aim was steady, his brown eyes cold. But Dan had been in tighter places than this; he feinted to the right with his knife hand and, at the same time, chopped down with the cudgel hitting Dicky a glancing blow across the right temple.
O’Reilly grinned as he saw Dicky’s eyes grow unfocused and seized the opportunity to end things once and for all time. Lunging forward, he sunk the blade into the little man’s left shoulder. The blade was so slick, though, the point of it sunk into the tough muscles of Dicky’s upper back rather than the tender arteries of his neck or the nerves in his spine.
Still, Dicky’s face turned white and he started swaying on his feet. He could hear some sort of strange music in the distance and wondered if he was hearing an angelic choir. He hoped not, for this music was beyond his reckoning—eerie with wild piping and short staccato drumbeats. He grimaced, thinking he didn’t much like the sounds these particular angels made. Besides, he
wasn’t ready to listen to their songs quite yet…he had work to do.
Clapping his left hand over the blade sticking out of his shoulder, Dicky lifted his pistol and again pointed it at O’Reilly who was watching him with a smile on his smug face, a smile that began to fade as the diminutive deputy cocked the hammer.
Before Dan could turn and run away, Dicky stuttered, “You are a bbbad, bbbad man.” A roar filled the alley as he shot O’Reilly right between the eyes.
Dicky then glanced at the bright, beautiful boy who had tried so hard to succeed in life but now lay still and wide-eyed in death. Wincing in pain, he closed Peter’s eyes and whispered, “I’m sorry, kid…so very sorry.”
Then he ran for his life as he heard bullets fired behind him.
“Hey! Is that you, McNulty? Come back here, you little prick!”
Dicky recognized Fred’s voice…a deep, raspy rumble filled with rage and surprise. There was more gunfire and he felt a tug at his shirtsleeve. Knowing he’d almost been hit, he ran even faster and gasped as a large crowd turned a corner.
They all wore bright, exotic costumes and a huge, multi-colored paper dragon danced in their midst. Many of the people played flutes, beat on drums, then screamed as Dicky staggered into their midst.
The sounds rang in his ears and buffeted his soul as tiny pinpricks of light floated around the corners of his eyes. He saw the Oriental people’s heavily made-up faces and watched as their eyes stared, their fingers pointing at the long blade that stuck out from his left shoulder. Then the parade was behind him and he stumbled up the street toward the little playhouse.
His legs growing weaker, Dicky could only hope and pray that he would find Matthew—and sanctuary—before it was too late.
Chapter 25
The Gauntlet Is Down
Matthew paced the floor in frustration. He had awoken earlier feeling rested for the first time in days. His leg felt better as well. Iris’s brother had used some sort of soothing unguent on the torn skin and wrapped his upper thigh in soft bandages. While Lewis administered his services, one of the troupe’s tailors let out the seams on Matthew’s jeans so, for the first time since sustaining the bullet wound, the stiff material didn’t chafe.
The King County sheriff and his men had just left. Matthew grimaced with disgust, and a vague sense of rage. It seemed that these officers were picking the battles they thought they could win rather than doing the right thing. Although Matthew had known that selling their case might be a tough proposition, he still gritted his teeth in anger at how dismissive the local constabulary had been.
The only girl they took the slightest interest in was Amelia. But that was because Dr. Winters had some influence in the community and, better yet, money to put up for a reward. The rest of the girls would be shrugged off as a loss. Although Sheriff Adams had seemed interested, his desire for warrant money was not enough to convince him to send his men to investigate.
Matthew had not wanted to call the authorities in at all but, when confronted with their willful ignorance and greed, he lost his temper.
“I know prostitution isn’t illegal, you imbecile!” he raged. “But Amelia is only a young woman who was going to train to be a doctor’s assistant. She is NOT a whore!”
This invective was directed at one of the police commissioners, a sour-faced little man with a too-large hat by the name of Marty LeVesque. He had strutted about the parlor as if Matthew was a criminal somehow responsible for the death of the Gold Bar sheriff. It seemed to Matthew that the King County sheriff and his deputies were not overly fond of the commissioner either but when Matthew called the weasel an imbecile, Sheriff Adams had called a halt to the meeting.
“I am sorry, Sheriff Wilcox,” he grumbled. “However, we have enough work on our hands right now, what with the striking union workers trying to shut down streetcar service and the heavy drug trafficking going on in this town.” He clapped his derby hat on his head. “We simply don’t have the manpower to chase down a bunch of missing girls…especially without any proof.”
He went on to add, “Again, I am sorry for your loss. So go ahead and see what you can find. If you come up with something valid, send word and maybe I can muster a man or two to help out. Until then though, don’t do anything illegal in your search or I’ll be forced to apprehend you and your deputies.”
Adams and his cohorts made ready to leave even as the commissioner sneered. “I will be keeping an eye on you and your activities while you are in my town, Sheriff Wilcox,” he snapped. “Furthermore, you can expect a full inquiry into the death of Sheriff Duncan.”
Matthew watched the men file out of the room and sighed. Dammit, I could have probably used their help but my big mouth just put an end to that notion, he silently swore.
Iris’s father and brother had been present during the interview; Lewis had turned to Matthew after the lawmen left with wide, angry eyes but his father-in-law smiled. “Well, we didn’t really want their help anyway. Did we, son?”
“I don’t care what he wants, Father! This is my daughter we’re talking about and Matthew just chased off what little help we had!” The normally placid man was quivering with wrath and Matthew bowed his head in acknowledgment.
“I apologize for losing my temper, Lewis,” he said. “But they weren’t really interested in this case. Please, though, don’t think we are giving up!”
In answer, Lewis stormed out of the room, slamming the oak door as he left.
Matthew felt a wave of weariness rise up in his chest and then he threw his shoulders back, turned to his father-in-law and said, “Sir, we will do better on our own. I have always felt that if the people who run these kinds of auctions sense the law on their tails, they will rabbit. Now we have a chance to catch them in the act and maybe save all the girls in the process.”
Pulling his pocket watch out of his vest, he looked at the time and frowned. “Sir, when did my deputy leave?”
The old man replied, “We dressed up Dicky as a ragamuffin so he would blend in better with Peter and that took a little time. But I think it was about three hours ago. Why? Did you expect him back by now?”
Matthew had set no time limit on Dicky’s reconnaissance mission but something was bothering him…some sixth sense that had always alerted him in the past when things were going wrong. He shook his head. “No, but I think something has happened. When you see Iris, please tell her I walked down to the wharves to check up on things. Okay?”
Because Peter was going to be otherwise occupied, Iris had left earlier with Muriel to fetch some of the actors’ costumes and to pick up some fresh fish for today’s supper. Matthew was sure his wife would be unhappy with him for leaving after he had promised to stay in and rest but that “feeling”—that awful crawling sensation of alarm—was growing stronger by the minute.
He knew that Roy would be arriving around 8:00 that evening. The deputy’s telegraph had expressed frustration at the delay but comforting words as well: Abner was safe and sound by all accounts and Sarah was well, too, although she had chosen to accompany Abner back home to Granville rather than proceed to Walla Walla.
Still, Matthew realized he wasn’t at his finest right now and wished for Roy’s steady hand. Sometimes he acted quickly when his boss had one of his feelings; other times, he would just shrug and tell him to calm down. Either way, the sheriff wanted his best deputy and closest friend by his side.
Iris’s father frowned and asked, “Didn’t you tell her you’d wait for Roy to arrive?”
Matthew sighed. “Yes, I did. And I won’t go far or get into any trouble, I promise. Really, I just need some air,” he lied.
Moving swiftly down the stairs, he peered through the door window and saw that the heavy morning fog was starting to dissipate, long lines of golden sunlight gleaming through the low clouds. He grabbed his jacket and stepped outside just in time to hear the low-pitched rumble of a large crowd coming his way. Walking toward the street, Matthew stared to his left at a strange and omino
us parade; they were obviously Orientals and most seemed to be dressed in their finest, most colorful clothes.
The group was very quiet except for a steady stream of gasps and whispers. They were also moving quite slowly and Matthew strained to see what was going on at the front of the solemn procession. Is it a funeral rite? he wondered and then noticed a small but tough-looking Chinese man carrying something in his arms.
It looked like a bundle of rags until Matthew saw a shock of bright, red hair and he took off running despite the pain it caused him. The approaching crowd slowed and stopped as he reached them.
The Chinese man paused and looked down at his burden. “Is this him?” he asked in heavily-accented English.
Dicky opened his eyes and smiled. “Yes, this is my boss. Th,th,thank y-y-you!”
Bowing, he promptly deposited the deputy’s body into Matthew’s arms and said, “He stabbed, better help. Quick, quick!”
Matthew barely had a chance to express his gratitude before the man turned around, growled something unintelligible in his own tongue, and led his people back down the street from whence they came. Glancing at Dicky, his heart sank.
The young man’s face was so white that his freckles stood out like splatters of orange paint and both of his eyes were ringed with purple bruises. A grimy, leather knife grip stuck out from his shoulder and seemed to be wedged into the flesh so tightly that it served as a cork against the blood of the injury.
Dicky didn’t weigh much more than a hundred and twenty-five pounds but Matthew’s arms trembled.
“I thought I told you to stay out of trouble!” was the only thing Matthew could think of to say and the deputy grinned.
“I tried to, boss, but they got me anyway. Sir…the boy. Little Peter, he’s dead!” Tears welled in Dicky’s eyes and Matthew gave him a gentle squeeze.
“Don’t worry about that right now. Let’s get you inside first, okay? My wife’s brother is a helluva doc!”
Deadman's Fury (The Deadman Series Book 2) Page 16
