The Captive Within (A Prairie Heritage, Book 4)

by Vikki Kestell

O’Dell chuckled aloud at the irony. It was a good thing Judd was still behind bars, because it would be a while before O’Dell would be fit for another fight.

  His last exchanges with Liáng, Bao, and Miss Greenbow back in Seattle stayed uppermost in his thoughts. He and Liáng had talked long into that night and they had prayed together before O’Dell fell into an exhausted sleep.

  Before he left Seattle late the next day, O’Dell had asked Bao to forgive him. The man had shaken his head and muttered, “There is nothing to forgive.” O’Dell knew how the young man’s own guilt weighed him down. Bao was seeking . . . as was he.

  Miss Greenbow had searched his face and asked him if he would be returning to Seattle. Asked if he would write to her.

  O’Dell thought about the folded paper tucked into his breast pocket. Darla Greenbow. Her name was Darla. He understood what writing to her would imply.

  Perhaps it was time to stop living in regret.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 43

  O’Dell dropped his bag at the hotel and immediately took a cab to Pounder’s office. He didn’t know why, but he sensed that urgency was needed.

  “I’m sorry, O’Dell.” Pounder truly did sound sorry. “We have found no trace of a Regis St. John or Saint John on any Denver County property record.”

  O’Dell was stunned. He had arrived in Denver with such confidence and hope! Now he had nothing—no other plan, no other lead. Nothing.

  The fear that he had failed Mei-Xing, always lurking in the back of his mind, pounced. He could not escape its crushing weight.

  O God, help me! Save me!

  When had that plea become his daily bread? And yet . . . he took a cleansing breath as fear retreated and peace descended on him.

  You are the Most High God! With you, nothing is impossible. He shook his head. He was quickly becoming dependent on those words. He laid his hand over his eyes, absorbing Pounder’s information, letting the peace guard his mind. Still, he still felt that sense of urgency propelling him.

  “Marshal?” O’Dell scarcely took notice as a stranger stood in the doorway of Pounder’s office.

  “Chief Groves. What brings you here?” The head U.S. marshal and the Denver police chief shook hands.

  “I was in the neighborhood. Wanted to be sociable.” Groves was accompanied by a uniformed policeman who kept back a respectful distance.

  Groves was new as chief. The honest Denver citizenry was again attempting to combat corruption in the police ranks and city government. They’d elected Groves, a cop with an unimpeachable reputation, to help clean out the department. Pounder did not envy Groves his difficult job.

  Groves noticed O’Dell and put out his hand. “Chief Groves.”

  “O’Dell. Edmund O’Dell,” he automatically replied, rising stiffly and taking the chief’s hand.

  “Pinkerton, right?” Groves eyed O’Dell’s slow response and battered face speculatively. “I’ve heard good things about you.”

  He turned back to Pounder. “Wanted to pass on some information to you, just in case your men are out and about and see something suspicious. It’s a city problem, but, well, we’d welcome your look-out.”

  Pounder responded congenially. “Be our pleasure, Chief.” He recognized that the new chief was trying to promote a cordial relationship between the two law entities.

  “We’ve had a series of break-ins of a most curious nature over the last half year.”

  “Oh?”

  “They occur on a fairly regular basis, every five to seven days. The burglars target stores and homes but don’t take the usually burgled property, like jewelry or money. When the owners report the break-ins, they often cannot say what is missing, only that a window is broken, a door jimmied. A few have reported food stuffs taken and one reported the theft of clothing. Lately, alcohol has been stolen along with food.”

  “What kind of clothing?” O’Dell snapped out of his stupor.

  Groves thought about it. “Women’s clothing, some dresses and such. But that was back in November.”

  “November?”

  Groves consulted the uniformed officer with him. “Booker. Was the clothing reported missing in November?”

  The officer shifted on his feet. “Yessir. Women’s dresses and personal items.”

  O’Dell’s heart began to hammer. “Are these break-ins scattered throughout the city or localized?”

  Groves looked to Pounder who nodded his go-ahead. “Actually, all within a mile radius of this area—” he strode to a city map “right here.” His finger scribed a circle near the center of town.

  O’Dell stared at Groves. “Dean Morgan and Su-Chong Chen escaped the county jail in November. They have not been recaptured. I have good reason to believe that Morgan is clean away from Denver, but his bodyguard, Su-Chong Chen, may still be here. Holed up.”

  “After seven months?” Groves looked skeptical.

  O’Dell glanced from Groves to Pounder and back. “Mei-Xing Li disappeared in November. November 20. We now know she was once engaged to Su-Chong Chen.”

  Groves frowned, his mind working quickly. “What I hadn’t mentioned yet is that a little more than a week ago a man named Curtis Shupe reported that he winged an intruder. He described the man as small but light on his feet, very fit. Black hair.”

  O’Dell nodded emphatically. “That is a good description of Su-Chong Chen. Does the owner know how badly he was wounded?”

  “No, but he left a good trail of blood. We got dogs out the next day, but by then it was pouring rain. We lost the trail. Just bad luck.”

  Pounder looked at Groves and O’Dell then drew with his finger on the city map. “So somewhere within this circle.”

  O’Dell didn’t know where the command came from, only that he gave it a voice. “Hurry. We must hurry.”

  Two marshals and two Pinkerton men accompanied O’Dell to the county courthouse. O’Dell carried the rolled-up city map from Pounder’s wall under his arm. He’d demanded and received the undivided assistance of the county clerk.

  “We’ll do it differently this time,” O’Dell stated flatly. He’d rolled out the map on a table and weighted its edges with books. “We only want to see the records for this area,” he pointed to a chalked circle on the map.

  “What name this time?” The two marshals and two Pinkerton men had already searched the county records twice, the first time for every known alias of Shelby Franklin/Dean Morgan; the second time for Regis St. John.

  O’Dell leaned over the map, intent on the area within the circle. “Read the owners of each property aloud.”

  He raised his face from the map to the four men and the clerk. “I’ll know it when I hear it.” His look defied the others to say differently.

  The marshals and Pinkerton agents exchanged dubious looks but, at the clerk’s direction, began pulling the records that conformed to the circled area. After a few minutes, one of the marshals began reading names.

  “Bigalow, Eugenia B.”

  “Porter, Afron M.”

  “McGuffin, Edna Mae.”

  “Cromwell, George Carson.”

  O’Dell focused on each name, willing himself to stay alert and fully engaged.

  “Sayer, David L.”

  “Sayer, Martha G.”

  “Pearsall, Bonna Beulow.”

  “Garrett, Delanie W.”

  The names droned on. O’Dell began to whisper under his breath, O God, help us. Please help Mei-Xing. Don’t let us be too late.

  “Van Buren, Robert L.”

  “Van Buren, Peter M.”

  “Goldblum, Hymie Joseph.”

  An hour passed. The fear began to push and nag at O’Dell. He refused to listen to it.

  “Pringle, James C.”

  “Fetch, Margaret L.”

  “Yeardly, Carroll G.”

  “What? Stop.” O’Dell awkwardly got up. “Read the last one again.”

  “Yeardly, Carroll G.”

  “No!” he shouted. “The one before
that!”

  The marshal scrabbled with the papers. “Fetch, Margaret L.”

  “Fetch.” O’Dell grabbed the record from the marshal. “Margaret Fetch.”

  Maggie Fetch.

  “This is it.”

  U.S. marshals and Denver policemen surrounded the brick building. At Pounder and Groves’ direction, the men kept themselves hidden from the building’s many windows.

  Pounder shared new information with O’Dell. “This building is managed by an attorney. He collects the rents and pays all the utilities. And has never met the owner.”

  O’Dell, the butt of a cigar clamped between his teeth, studied the building. He walked his eyes from window to window, up the four stories. Nothing.

  He and Pounder worked their way around to another side, keeping well out of sight, O’Dell sweeping his eyes over the windows—

  He nudged Pounder. “Fourth floor, left.”

  Pounder squinted, saw what O’Dell had. “Those windows bricked in?”

  “That’s what I see.”

  Pounder glanced at O’Dell. “That floor is supposedly vacant.”

  “I’ll bet you a box of cigars it isn’t.”

  “That,” Pounder answered, “is a bet I won’t take.”

  They circled back to Groves and his men and Pounder reported, “Top floor, northeast corner. Windows are bricked in.”

  “Two sets of stairs, sir,” one of Groves’ men reported. “On opposite corners of the building.” Quickly Groves separated his men into two groups.

  “I want to go first,” O’Dell suddenly insisted. “It will take me a while to get up four flights. Let me go first and reconnoiter.” He laughed harshly, pointing to his cane. “One man gimping up the stairs will allay suspicion.”

  Groves studied O’Dell. “I give you five minutes to get up the stairs. Wait for us at the top. Got it?”

  O’Dell tipped his head. “Thank you.” He tossed his derby to a uniformed man. “Hold on to that for me.”

  By the time O’Dell reached the last flight, his hip ached abominably, but he had seen nothing of Su-Chong, nothing suspicious. Far below he heard the faint shuffling of many feet beginning their rush up the stairs.

  O’Dell pressed forward, reaching the fourth floor and easing his head around the corner. The hall was unlit. Quiet. He left his cane at the top of the stairs and moved cautiously until he reached the door he believed to belong to the bricked-in windows.

  Creeping up to the door, he placed his ear against it and listened. He heard nothing. In fact, the silence was ominous.

  Revolver drawn, he waited to the side of the door. If Su-Chong heard the approaching policemen and opened the door, O’Dell was ready for him.

  Within seconds uniformed officers appeared carrying a two-man battering ram. The door splintered open and policemen, guns at the ready, swarmed into the room. O’Dell followed and stopped.

  The stench of death filled the apartment. Dried blood spattered the floor. O’Dell drew a handkerchief and covered his mouth; some of the less-seasoned officers gagged and retreated into the hall.

  O’Dell’s own blood turned to ice in his veins even as his heart cried out, Oh God! With you nothing is impossible! Nothing!

  “Mr. O’Dell!” Groves’ sergeant called him from beyond the sitting room.

  On wooden legs, O’Dell followed the sound of his voice. The smell of death grew stronger. Then he was standing next to a bed, looking down at the blackened body of Su-Chong Chen.

  “Sir! We have a locked door!”

  O’Dell wheeled about, nearly falling as his hip clenched. Someone was battering the lock on the door just down the short hall. O’Dell shouldered men aside to reach the doorway.

  The room was warm, almost unbearably so. A tiny, prone figure lay on the floor. O’Dell shoved aside another officer and dropped to the floor beside her, lifting her up in his arms.

  “Mei-Xing!”

  Her eyes were closed and sunken; her cracked lips were barely open, and he could sense no breath in her. But her skin, while cool, was not cold.

  “Water! Get me water!” he shouted.

  Pounder himself took the glass a young officer brought and grabbed a piece of gauze lying on the nearby table. O’Dell dipped the gauze and wiped it across Mei-Xing’s lips, squeezing drops between them. He squeezed more and then wiped the gauze across her eyes, her face.

  He saturated the gauze and squeezed more water into her mouth. “Come on! Mei-Xing! Swallow! Swallow the blasted water!”

  Her eyes fluttered. He dribbled more water into her mouth, willing her to swallow the life-giving liquid.

  And then she did.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 44

  May 6, 1910

  The city of Denver had received days of unusually warm spring weather, but Denverites knew better than to trust in fickle spring. In Palmer House, they saw the ominous thunderheads building in the distance, felt the storm’s approach, and ran throughout the house to close and latch windows.

  Breona stared out her bedroom window, eyeing flashes of lightning as the storm marched toward them. As the clouds built, the daylight grew dull and dim.

  She sighed. Almost a year ago she had run up the front steps of this house, filled with hope and energy. Today she found herself asking if she could bear to stay at Palmer House. She had lost so much.

  She shook herself sternly. Ye have a home here, Breona Byrne, a family. Ye have those as is lovin’ and carin’ fer ye. And she loved them so much in return! Rose, Joy, Grant, Marit, Billy, Little Will, Mr. Wheatley, the girls . . .

  For the first time in her life, she loved and was loved so much. She just hadn’t known that in such love dwell both joys and sorrows. She was learning how deeply those sorrows could wound.

  Ye canna be mournin’ forever what is goon, she told herself. But one look at the tidy little bed on the other side of the room from hers, and the ache for her friend Mei-Xing returned. Would they ever know what had become of her?

  It wasn’t like Breona to stand about idly—it just wasn’t in her nature. So she chided herself. ’Tis bein’ th’ coomin’ storm, was the weak excuse she offered, but she knew it was her heavy heart that weighed down her hands and feet.

  She decided to watch the play of lightning just a few more minutes. And then, no more excuses.

  A motorcar stopped down the street. A man wearing a bowler slowly emerged and turned to help another passenger out. Through the trees, Breona caught a glimpse of a slight, dark-haired woman. Her over-large dress billowed about her as the storm edged closer.

  The man, carefully supporting the woman, walked her along the edge of the street until they paused not far from the gate to Palmer House. They appeared to be talking, or at least the man was. He removed his hat and bent toward her in a solicitous manner while the woman leaned on his arm.

  Breona watched them idly for a moment and then her gaze shifted as the wind bowed the tops of the Ponderosa pines clustered out in the yard. It was high time she got back to her work.

  She hesitated and glanced back. The woman, really just a young girl, stood staring at the front door of the house, while the man ran a hand through his dark hair, something of frustration in his gesture, something familiar . . .

  Breona opened her window and leaned out, the curtains blowing wildly about her. The movement caught the eye of the woman standing far below at the gate. She gazed up and into Breona’s face; the girl’s hand slowly lifted to acknowledge her.

  Breona began to tremble. The girl’s hand dropped to her side. She bowed her head and turned away. Breona could see the man remonstrating with the woman as she brushed off his arm and slowly began making her way toward the parked car.

  “Nay,” Breona whispered. “Nay, dinna ye go . . .”

  She slammed the window shut and flew down the stairs into the entry hall, her leather-soled shoes slapping and clattering on the steps and on the parquet floor. She fumbled with the locked door, threw it open wide, and ran across the porc
h and down the stairs.

  Rose, at work in the great room, leapt to her feet. Wind howled through the front door and into the house. “What is it?” she cried anxiously.

  Breona could not see the woman anymore! “Wait! Wait! Mei-Xing!” she called into the roaring wind.

  She screamed again, “Mei-Xing! Mei-Xing!” as she was running to the gate. Swinging it wide and heedless of traffic, she ran out into the street, ran past the man . . . O’Dell?

  She disregarded him and ran on. Thunder boomed over them. There. She was not far away, not moving quickly. Breona hastened to her. It was Mei-Xing. It was her friend! Her sister! She was . . .

  “Mei-Xing!”

  Mei-Xing weaved unsteadily on her feet, the wind pulling at her. “Breona.” The single word was flat, emotionless. Her lips were cracked and crusted, her face pinched, drawn.

  Breona placed an arm about her to steady her. She leaned close to her ear. “Aye, m’ sweet lass.” She turned Mei-Xing about and began to slowly lead her back toward the house.

  “I can’t . . .” Mei-Xing protested weakly. But she had no strength to resist.

  “Aye, ye can. ’Tis home ye air!”

  Rose and Marit saw them from the gate. They began to weep. As Breona and Mei-Xing drew near, Marit gasped and Rose gripped her arm. “Shush now,” she whispered.

  Mei-Xing saw Rose and her face crumpled. Then she was in Rose’s arms, sobbing, and Rose was holding her with all the love she had in her heart.

  “You are safe, little one. You are home. We will never let go of you,” Rose whispered again and again. Breona and Marit simply wrapped their arms about both Rose and Mei-Xing, holding them close.

  Over them the storm broke. Lightning and thunder cracked and sizzled. It did not move them.

  O’Dell stood aside, his face turned away, trying to school the tide of emotions sweeping him away. Rain fell, pounding the ground, and drops streamed their way down his face. He automatically pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and, as he brought it up to his mouth, surreptitiously swiped the moisture away.

  It took O’Dell a few minutes to navigate the steps up the front porch. He was tired and sore, having used his injured hip more in the last two days than the last two months.