“Once again, Mei-Xing, you will help me.” He laughed again, more quietly. “I seem to have dropped some things.”
Grabbing the skirt of her shift, he nodded to the items strewn at his feet. “Pick them up.” Mei-Xing obeyed, piling the items into the basin.
“Set them on the table. Then help me to sit.”
She did as he demanded. When she was ready to move him, he grasped the neck of her nightdress again and closed the door behind them. He handed her the key. “Lock it.”
Mei-Xing fumbled with the key, feeling his grip on her gown tighten, pulling her to him. When the lock clicked over, Su-Chong gestured. “Put it over my head.”
Mei-Xing lifted the chain over his head, watched her freedom dangle about his neck, so close but still so far away.
When he was seated, she tried to help him remove his shirt, but it was too painful and difficult. “Cut it off,” he ordered through gritted teeth.
A few moments later she stared at the damage with dread. A bullet had penetrated Su-Chong’s chest below his left collarbone. They both stared at the ragged entrance wound. It was draining blood heavily.
“So,” he whispered.
He knows I will never be able to get it out! Mei-Xing automatically grabbed a clean hand towel, folded it twice, and pressed it against the bleeding hole. He flinched. “Hold this tightly,” she said softly.
She opened a bottle of alcohol and prepared some heavy gauze pads. Holding the bottle over the wound she looked Su-Chong in the face. “This will hurt.”
He nodded. Mei-Xing quickly peeled back the folded towel, holding it below the wound, and poured the alcohol. Su-Chong gasped and cried out. Just as quickly she pressed the towel back into place. The blood had already soaked through.
They stared at each other. Finally she whispered, “I . . . I could get help for you.”
As he looked away for a long moment Mei-Xing prayed, O God, I am calling on you!
When Su-Chong turned his eyes back to her, she knew what his answer would be.
“No, Mei-Xing.” He shook his head slowly. “Do what you can to stop the bleeding.”
Not “remove the bullet,” not “fix me up.” Only “do what you can.” Resigned words uttered with deadly finality.
She licked her lips and looked over the supplies. She folded the other clean towel and wadded two small gauze pads tightly. When she was ready, she pulled off the drenched towel and packed a wadded pad into the hole. Over it she placed another, holding it as firmly as she could.
On top of the pads she placed the clean, folded towel and held all in place with the heel of her hand, leaning her weight on it. With great difficulty she maintained the pressure while wrapping long bandages about Su-Chong’s neck and muscular chest. She used her teeth to tighten the final knots.
“You must lie down and, and keep pressure on it,” Mei-Xing murmured. She gestured to her bed.
Through her ministrations, Su-Chong had said nothing. He had stared straight ahead at the wall. Still staring, he spoke, and Mei-Xing could scarcely hear him. “No. I will go to my own bed.”
“But, but you must not move about and, and I will have to change the bandages when they soak through,” Mei-Xing protested.
He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Help me up.” He stumbled to the door. “Unlock it for me.”
Slowly, Mei-Xing did as he asked. He pushed the door open. She tried to press past him, but he blocked her, pushed her back. Blood was already seeping from the towel, dripping onto the floor. “Give me the key.”
“No, Su-Chong! No!” Mei-Xing was crying now, begging him. “Please, do not leave me in here!”
Her voice rose to a keening cry as the door closed and he fumbled determinedly to re-lock it. She leaned against the barrier between them, calling out in anguish as Su-Chong dragged himself into his room.
Eventually she calmed and took stock. Two jars sat on the table. One was full, the other half empty. Trembling, her hands and nightgown sticky with Su-Chong’s blood, Mei-Xing crumpled to the floor.
O Jesus, I need you . . .
—
As Liáng drove through the darkness, O’Dell sipped on a bottle of cheap wine. He shuddered. “Nasty stuff.” He spit a mouthful into his hand, and rubbed it in his hair, dabbed more on his coat.
They didn’t talk. Liáng let him off down a particularly dark alleyway after giving O’Dell the directions the sister at the thrift store had provided him.
“God go with you,” he said, his voice raw.
O’Dell nodded and got out. Liáng drove off, and O’Dell sauntered over to the alley wall, leaning against it, letting his eyes adjust, steeling himself for the walk ahead. He rubbed his back against the rank-smelling bricks.
“Just for good measure, my dear Miss Greenbow,” he whispered.
He wandered toward the bar, taking his time, stopping to swill a little of the wine. A dark figure detached itself from the shadows and approached him. O’Dell stiffened.
“Give a brother a taste, man?”
O’Dell handed over the bottle. A filthy hand reached for it eagerly, lifting the lip of the bottle to a grizzled face.
“Than’s, man. Say, you got any spare change?”
O’Dell knew better than to show money. “Sorry.”
“Tha’s all righ’.” He disappeared into the shadows again.
O’Dell kept meandering through the streets, some stinking of rotting garbage, all moist with mold and decay. He knew he was near the water when the tang of salt and flotsam overpowered the other smells.
Bogg’s was tacked onto the side of a decaying warehouse abutting a listing dock. In the dim light O’Dell picked out knots of longshoremen, some obviously fallen on hard times, standing about or sitting with their backs against the warehouse. He ignored them and sauntered toward the bar.
Inside, he made his way to an open seat about half-way down the bar. “Gimme a beer,” he muttered, slapping down a nickel. He stared down at the bar, looking neither left nor right, letting his ears acclimate. When his beer arrived, he gulped at it, and set it sloshing back on the counter.
He ignored the men around him. He knew he was being scrutinized, but he focused only on the mug he gripped with both hands.
“’Nuther,” he muttered when he’d downed the last of the first one. This one he nursed slowly. Still he kept his eyes and nose pointed down, minding his own business. Listening.
He slowly finished his beer and laid out another nickel. A fresh beer landed on the bar and the nickel disappeared.
The men around him had resumed their whispered conversations. O’Dell wondered how many beers he would have to drink before he could look around for Freddie Fetch.
He shifted on the stool, belched loudly, and pushed off from the bar. His head swum and he grabbed the counter.
“Steady, mate.” The man next to him growled, not turning.
“Right,” O’Dell said to himself. He belched again and stole a glance deeper into the room.
Down at the end of the bar he spotted an old man studying him with thirsty, conniving eyes. O’Dell lurched in that direction. His painful hip aided in exaggerating his state of inebriation. He’d seen an empty seat next to the old guy.
When he reached the seat, he more or less fell onto it. Then he signaled the bartender and laid out a dime on the bar.
“Buy an old man a beer, mister?”
O’Dell slowly looked up. “Sure. Why not.” He signaled the bartender again and pointed at the old man. Two beers, the foaming heads dripping from the mugs, slid their way.
“Cheers,” the old man said, grinning. O’Dell did not miss the way the old man was sizing him up.
“Likewise,” O’Dell answered. They drank in silence until the old man wiped his mouth.
“Name’s Freddie. Yours?”
O’Dell nearly choked. He wiped his mouth slowly. “Jones.”
“Buy ’nother round?” Freddie wasn’t shy.
“Depends.”
“Oh? On what?” The
cunning look was more pronounced.
Because of the beer, O’Dell’s judgment was not as sharp as it should have been, but he figured it would only worsen as the evening dragged on. He took the plunge. “You have a nephew named Reggie?”
“Whadda you want t’ know fer?”
O’Dell heard anger in the old man’s words, and gambled that Freddie would be happy to rat on Reggie. “I might have a bone to pick with him.”
Freddie studied O’Dell for a long minute.
“Worthless piece o’—” He cursed his nephew in colorful language that even O’Dell had never heard before.
“No love lost between you, I take it.”
For the next ten minutes Freddie, plied with two more beers, told O’Dell everything he’d ever need or want to know about Reggie—everything but his last name.
“M’ sister Maggie got ’erself knocked up. Th’ skunk niver married ’er. Well, I give ’er an’ ’er son a place t’ live, roof over they’s head after ’is ol’ man run out on ’em,” Freddie snarled. “But was ’e ever grateful? Not that ’un. Actin’ like ’e was above everybody.”
He nodded at O’Dell. “Oh, yes! Smarter an’ better, ’e was! Always with ’is nose in a derned book an’ correctin’ ’is elders. Oh, ’e hated it when ’is ma called ’im Reggie like sh’ did when ’e’s a tot.”
Freddie’s snicker was downright malicious. “Hated it bad when we called ’im tha’, ’e did. An’ tha’s why we did it.”
All I need is his last name. O’Dell struggled to contain his temper.
“Near t’ got ’imself kilt when ’e took up with them Chinese.” Freddie sniggered. “Woulda served ’im too right. They don’t tolerate no high-an’-mighty guff.”
“You don’t want to mess with them,” O’Dell agreed.
“Nosirree, Bob,” Freddie cackled.
“Heard Reggie left town again,” O’Dell managed to say casually.
“Tha’s what I heered, too.”
O’Dell had reached the end of his patience. “Well, I need to go, Freddie. Thanks for the conversation.”
“I thank ya fer th’ brews,” Freddie smiled.
“Say, what was Reggie’s last name again? It’s on the tip of my tongue,” It was O’Dell’s best shot.
“Saint John,” Freddie spat. “Reggie bloomin’ Saint John. Like ’e’s anythin’ near a saint!”
“That’s right.” O’Dell dropped two quarters in front of the old man. “Save some for tomorrow, Freddie.” He slid off his stool and steadied himself and his aching hip.
“Yer a good man, Jones,” Freddie replied. His eyes narrowed. Behind O’Dell’s back, Freddie’s chin jerked in his direction. Three men slowly unfolded from a booth.
O’Dell stumbled toward the front of the bar and out the door, relieved to be breathing the cool air, rank as it was, rather than the foul, sweltering fog of the bar.
He’d swallowed five beers in the course of the evening, and they’d caught up to him, but only his brain felt numb: His hip ached incessantly and his stiff shoulder throbbed. Sharp twinges reminded him that his hand was still mending.
He straightened and began to amble away from the docks. He was to meet Liáng at a predetermined intersection. Reggie bloomin’ Saint John.
He’d leave for Denver as soon as he could make the arrangements. Send ahead and have Pounder’s men search for property records under the name of Regis St. John.
He was a block from the bar when two men stepped out of the shadows several yards ahead of him. Their expressions were hard, merciless. He heard a third set of feet shuffle behind him and off to the right.
“I don’t want any trouble,” he said quietly.
“Shouldn’t ask so many questions if you don’t want trouble.” The man off to O’Dell’s right cracked his knuckles.
“Empty your pockets now. By the way, Freddie thanks you for the beers.”
O’Dell remembered the words Liáng had used to describe Bogg’s: The lowest sort of bar on the wharves for the lowest sort of people. He dumped a handful of coins onto the street and then turned his trouser pockets inside out, letting the men see them.
O’Dell knew it was only prelude. The men slowly advanced on him, one of them brandishing a length of pipe.
His body broke into a cold sweat, and the weeks of agony crashed through his mind—he had no defense, no reserves left. He could save himself no longer.
O God, I can’t do this again! Help me—save me!
~~**~~
Chapter 42
The room grew hot, the air stale. On the other side of the brick-filled windows Mei-Xing knew there would be a sweet, refreshing breeze. She leaned against the cool bricks, but could find not a wisp of fresh air to relieve her.
She had not heard Su-Chong move for two days. In her heart she knew . . . he was dead.
The last jar on the table, a quarter full, mocked her. She had carefully rationed the water but the room was so warm and she was so thirsty. The little water remaining would soon be gone. There would be no more.
“Lord, no one knows I am here but you,” she whispered. “No one will find me until it is too late. I do not care so much for myself, but—”
Come to me all you who are weary, worn, and heavy-burdened. Come to me, and I will give you rest for your souls.
She bowed her head and prayed. “You have given me such peace and rest, Jesus. I am so glad I have you. I will die in this room, but I will die with a free soul . . . and then I will truly see you, touch you! I love you so.”
A sob caught in her dry throat. “Lord, please help me not to be afraid to die this way . . .”
—
The thugs charged O’Dell, landing blows on his head, shoulders, and sides. Lights exploded behind his eyes.
And then nothing.
He was on his knees, wiping fresh blood from his nose, his temple. His attackers were backing up, backing away. Their eyes were focused somewhere behind O’Dell.
“There you are, Mr. Jones.”
O’Dell thought he recognized the voice. He could not yet get up.
“We’ve been looking for you—it is time to leave and you promised to help us load our carts into the truck.”
The thugs melted into the shadows. O’Dell tried to get to his feet and failed. Strong arms came to his aid.
Through a bloody haze he saw a white wimple dance before his eyes and a silver cross float below it. Within the headdress two worry lines deepened.
“We should go,” she said firmly. Another set of arms helped her guide O’Dell to a hand cart. They dropped him into the cart and, together, the two sisters pushed the cart with him in it, to where, O’Dell did not know.
Eventually they stopped next to a rusty truck. Strong hands again helped O’Dell to his feet. He finally looked the sister in the face.
“I’ve only seen you in all white,” he muttered incoherently.
Five nuns scurried around him, loading the hand carts into the truck. He only had eyes for the sixth as she steadied him. Her habit, like the other sisters, was all black with the exception of the stiff, rounded, white headdress. Under cover of night their black habits were invisible, so only their heads, faces, hands, and the large crosses dangling from their necks were readily evident.
“I come down here once or twice a month,” Sister Mary James answered, wiping the blood from his eyes, “to work among the poor. It helps me keep my heart and priorities right. When I do, I exchange my white nursing habit for a regular one so I don’t stand out.”
O’Dell’s mind still echoed the words, O God, I can’t do this again! Help me—save me!
“But how did you find me?” he whispered.
“We were passing out blankets and simply saw you from a distance as you came toward us. I recognized you . . . even in your, um, getup.”
O God! Help me! Save me!
“But why did they run?”
“Those men? They leave us strictly alone. Even they know who we are and who protects us.” Sh
e helped O’Dell into the cab of the truck. The nuns, with the exception of the driver and Sister Mary James, climbed into the back with the hand carts.
“Has anyone ever called you an angel?” O’Dell wondered aloud. “She prayed for angels to keep me safe.”
“Did she?” Sister Mary James knew he was rambling in shock. “The Bible says angels are God’s ministering spirits, sent to watch over those who inherit salvation.” O’Dell heard the peaceful smile in her voice.
Miss Greenbow’s prayer and his own frantic cry for help were indelibly branded into his soul. Father in heaven, I am asking for your ministering angels . . . that they watch over him and safeguard his steps . . .
O God, I can’t do this again! Help me! Save me!
You are the Most High God—and with you, Lord, nothing is impossible.
—
Edmund O’Dell breathed in the sights and sounds of Denver as he pressed through the crush of people on the platform. His face bore fresh bruises and a neat line of stitches across an eyebrow. He carried a cane, but used it mostly when walking up and down steps.
O’Dell had telephoned the Denver Pinkerton office the morning after he’d learned Morgan’s real, full name. Pinkerton men, aided by Pounder’s marshals, were, at this moment, again combing through Denver County property files.
O’Dell had insisted that they hurry. It was tedious work since the files were organized by property number and legal description, not by date or owner, but O’Dell had felt compelled to push them.
Over the long distance call, Jackson, the new head of the Denver office, reported that Cal Judd had been tried, convicted, and sentenced to a year in prison. Everyone involved in the trial, perhaps excepting Judd, had been astounded at the light sentence.
The defense had pressed prosecution witnesses on these points: Yes, Marshal Tyndell was recovering; yes, Esther and the other girls had been voluntarily practicing their, er, trade before meeting Judd; no, the marshal had not obtained a warrant before raiding the brothel.
Only the fact that Judd had fired first saved the trial. Nevertheless, money had more than likely changed hands, and Judd’s one-year sentence was nearly half served. Such was “justice” in Denver.
The Captive Within (A Prairie Heritage, Book 4) Page 28
