Second Chance (The Deadman Series Book 5) Read online

  Second Chance

  By

  Linell Jeppsen

  Second Chance

  Book 5 of the Deadman Series

  By

  Linell Jeppsen

  Copyright © 2015 Linell Jeppsen (as revised)

  Wolfpack Publishing

  48 Rock Creek Road

  Clinton, Montana 59825

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.

  ISBN: 978-1-62918-886-7

  Table of Contents

  Forward

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  A Sample Chapter from Heart Of Ice, the next book in The Deadman Series

  About the Author

  Forward

  The Trinity, 1907

  Three old men sat in an opulent parlor drinking brandy, smoking expensive cigars and discussing the merits of murder in commerce. They were all quite wealthy, born into an unbelievably lavish lifestyle, courtesy of their forefathers.

  Edward Branson, a widower and the oldest of the three, was the son and principal heir of the Branson Bank of Boston family. He was and had always been decadent, cruel and entirely without conscience when it came to the acquisition of money—which was why, at the age of seventy, he was one of the richest men in the world.

  He was also one of the greediest men on the planet. Having been born into “Old Money” with all of its shabby elegance, he yearned for disposable capitol like a thirsty man craves water. Nothing he owned, however, gave him pleasure…the minute he acquired what he wanted, its worth diminished, exponentially.

  The second man in the room, sixty-eight-year-old Timothy Farnsworth, was the only son of a railroad tycoon. He had been groomed to take over the reins of his family’s railway, but showed no interest or aptitude for business. At eighteen he was sent to Harvard University where he met his friend and mentor, Edward Branson.

  From the moment Branson met Farnsworth he knew he’d found his right-hand man. Edward had never been a big man, or strong, and he knew that if he were to achieve his dreams of wealth beyond imagining, he would need a strong arm.

  Timothy fit the bill, exactly. He was tall and built like a lumberjack. He was not intellectual, cared little for money, women or possessions but, like a faithful hound, he lived to serve. And serve Edward he had, for over forty years. He had only one weakness…his love (and hidden passion) for the third man in the room…Stephen Castle.

  Castle was the youngest of the three at sixty-five. Although age was finally taking its toll, he was still tall and handsome, with wide gray eyes and a long, aristocratic nose. He came from the acclaimed Castle family, Attorneys at Law… a long line of august men (and women) who had defended presidents and kings alike for over a century. He knew the law, in all its myriad forms, like the back of his hand. He also knew how to stretch and bend the law like the sweetest saltwater taffy.

  He was happily married to his wife of thirty-seven years (which spoke to some soft part of a heart which had long ago hardened against the rest of mankind), although the couple lived in separate abodes and had not shared a bed in over twenty years.

  Stephen knew of Timothy’s affections, and although he did not reciprocate in any way, he felt a certain sympathy for the man, and tried to shield him from Edward’s more violent and nefarious schemes. Too often over the years, for autonomy’s sake, Edward had demanded that Timothy do some of their bloodiest deeds by himself—with no back-up or protection.

  These men stopped at nothing—ever—to get what they wanted. In spite of all Stephen’s legal machinations, some things—like murder, blackmail and treason—were not to be tolerated by the law. That’s where Timothy came in, and for all his loyalty, the man had suffered.

  He had been shot—twice, and stabbed. He had served time in prison and had lost two young male lovers to retribution and revenge meted out by Edward’s enemies. Still, Timothy knew no other authority in the world than the man he had sworn fealty to in his early twenties.

  He was old now, though, and used up. Stephen knew that Timothy’s usefulness was coming to an end and he secretly seethed at the man who sat across from him. More and more, he sensed the menace behind Branson’s veiled glances, his knowing smirks.

  It didn’t seem to matter to Edward that Stephen and Timothy held as much dirt on him as he did on them. Both of them knew that despite a lifetime of loyal friendship and service, Edward would have them killed in a thrice, if they dared to defy his every wish.

  They listened as he spoke into the twilight gloom. “I want that mine, goddammit!” Looking up, he stared at Stephen. “For all your fancy-pants lawyers, I’m still not seeing any progress on declaring Wallace’s purchase illegal!”

  Stephen gazed out the large, multi-paned windows running with sheets of rain, to the moss-covered gargoyles spewing green-tinged runoff from the mansion’s eaves. Queen Anne Hill was one of the tonier neighborhoods in Seattle, Washington, but it was not immune to bleary blankets of fog that crouched over the region like a smelly gray dog, or the buckets of mud that came with the rainy weather.

  He was heartily sick of Branson’s assumption that the law firm of Castle and Castle was at his beck and call. Over the years, he had pulled off some staggering legal maneuverings that would not only have landed him in prison, but would have been the envy of his peers—had they but known.

  Still, one lawyer, even one as talented as he was, could only do so much when the US government was involved. He sighed. “Edward, I already told you that Castle and Castle has formally filed charges against Wallace for using Sioux script to purchase the Oreornogo mine…it’s in litigation as we speak! What more can I do?”

  Branson snorted with disgust and then farted. Ignoring the noisome gust, he turned to Farnsworth. “And what have you been doing lately?”

  Timothy blushed. “I sent my men into the Wallace area. So far they’ve cleared out almost a half a dozen claims…”

  Branson blew a raspberry and frowned at the younger man. “That’s not enough, goddammit! Until we can purchase the whole kit and caboodle, we need to get our hands on every single acre of land surrounding that mine. Then it will be easy peasy to move in—once that bastard Wallace is gone.”

  Trying to diffuse the situation somewhat, Stephen asked, “How long have your men been there, Timmy?”

  Looking relieved at the change of topic, Timothy replied, “Over six months now. I was going to say,
it’s probably time to rotate them out of there before the local law starts putting faces to the deeds.”

  Branson glared but couldn’t think of a retort. They had decided, long ago, to keep their operation as clandestine as possible—and that meant keeping their hired thugs from #1—getting arrested and #2—being recognized.

  Turning to face Castle, he asked, “Whose turn is it, Stephen?”

  Stephen said, “It’s your turn to bring in a crew now, Edward.”

  Branson made a moue of disgust and contemplated the flames that flickered and hissed against errant drops of rain finding its way down the chimney.

  The other men watched as he muttered under his breath. Then he said, “I…we have invested too much to give up now. I want the deeds and mineral rights on every inch of land within an eighty mile radius of Hecla. Do whatever it takes, gentlemen. Kill every person who gets in the way or refuses to move from the area… I don’t care!”

  Looking away from the fitful fire, he added, “I…WE will own that mine…if it’s the last thing I ever do!”

  Chapter One

  1908

  Two months had passed since the Wilcox and Son Detective Agency pulled off the successful sting operation against the Chowder brother’s dirty boxing scheme. Now Matthew was sitting in his home office finishing up some paperwork. He and Chance were between jobs at the moment but he thought a couple of cases were imminent. Meanwhile, he was itching to go outside and watch Samuel and Abner put their new stallion through his paces.

  Matthew’s big gelding, Lincoln, was in the pen with a new two-year-old colt, and Matthew could see that the younger horse was both calmed by and interested in the older horse’s movements. He saw Chance sitting on the fence rails watching the show as well. His son had healed quickly enough from the Swedish boxer’s assault, but his shoulder still ached sometimes and he tired quickly when he tried to do too much with his right arm.

  Matthew studied the documents on his desk one last time, finding one uncrossed “t” and a missing comma. Then, satisfied, he gathered the papers together and put them in an envelope. He was just standing up to walk outside when he almost jumped out of his boots.

  The telephone was ringing! He had finally had the modern device installed in his home office. Most of the time it lurked silently on the wall, but once in a while it shrilled out in alarm. It was loud (too loud) and Matthew noticed both horses standing still with their ears pricked toward the house. Chance was crawling down off the fence, eager to see who was on the line.

  He picked up the earpiece and, feeling like a fool, said, “Hello?”

  A male voice sounded in his ear. “Hello! Is this the Wilcox and Son Detective Agency?”

  Matthew cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. How can I help you today?”

  Suddenly, the man was weeping into Matthew’s ear. “Sir, my daughter, Annie Thurston, asked me to call you. She was severely beaten last night and is in the hospital!”

  Matthew’s heart sank. He had gone out on a couple of dates with the beautiful lady reporter and their relationship was, just now, starting to blossom into something blessedly real and possibly permanent. She had recently asked if she could introduce him to her father and now, here was the man himself, calling with the worst news possible.

  For a moment, Matthew’s vision darkened with rage and fear. Why did almost everything he touch get hurt…or die…or leave him behind? His heart thudding with anxiety, he took a deep breath to calm his nerves. “Mr. Thurston, will she be alright?”

  Thurston struggled to keep his words calm and Matthew could hear the man take a couple of deep breaths of his own. Then he replied, “Yes, sir. She will be fine, I think. But she has a story to share with you…you and your son. Will you come?”

  Matthew answered, “Of course! Chance and I will meet you at your office in about two hours. See you then,” he said and hung up the earpiece.

  Matthew turned to face his boy, who had just walked in the front door. “Pack for a trip, Chance. We’re heading into Spokane.”

  Although the weather was fairly mild for March, enough snow had fallen in the last few weeks to turn the road from Granville to Spokane into a series of icy rivulets and crevasse-sized pot holes. Accordingly, Matthew and Chance decided to hop on the train. They would arrive later than expected but, at least they would arrive—rather than be stuck in the mud.

  The train pulled to a stop in Spokane at 4:35 and they were met at the station by Clyde Thurston himself. He was a short and rather rotund sixty-two year-old man. Although Matthew gathered that he was from a wealthy family, Thurston had an open, almost childlike face with round blue eyes and a guileless expression.

  As the train screeched to a stop, Matthew saw the older gentleman standing by himself next to a beautiful black automobile. As soon as he and Chance stepped down to the platform, Thurston ran up to them with his right hand extended in welcome. “Hello! I’m so happy you came. Please…follow me and, if you don’t mind, we’ll head to the hospital directly!”

  He stopped talking and gazed up at the two taller men in consternation. He blushed and shook his head as though he was just now remembering his manners. “Excuse me…you must be weary! I booked two rooms for you at the Davenport Hotel…it’s quite grand! Perhaps you would like to rest first and go to the hospital to talk to my Annie in the morning?”

  Matthew shook his head, touched by the old man’s obvious concern for his beloved daughter. “No! Please, let’s get to the hospital as quickly as possible.”

  Thurston smiled and said, “Thank you, yes…the car is over here.”

  The three men piled into the fancy four-seater and they took off with a lurch. During the seven mile trip to Deaconess Hospital, Thurston filled them in on the case Annie had been working on.

  He said, “A prostitute named Chloe Brazil came to the office about three months ago. According to Annie, this woman looked and acted like no other prostitute she had ever talked to or written about. She was rather old, for one thing—probably in her mid-thirties. She was educated too, and dressed like a proper lady.”

  He cleared his throat, and glanced over at Matthew. “Pardon me, but my daughter and I are rather progressive…I hope you don’t disapprove of prostitutes, overmuch?”

  Matthew smiled. “No sir. One of my oldest and dearest friends was once a Lady of the Night. She still runs a halfway house for young women.”

  Thurston grinned. “Now I understand why my Annie likes you so much. She says you are a fair-minded man, who won’t hold our idiosyncrasies against us.”

  Matthew squirmed slightly, wondering just how much Annie had told her father about a certain Matthew Wilcox. Feeling at a distinct disadvantage, he murmured, “Please, tell us what happened.”

  Sobering, Thurston continued. “Anyway, Mrs. Brazil told Annie that she was forced into prostitution when claim-jumpers murdered her husband Ben, and her only son, Billy, last summer. The Brazils had scrimped and saved and finally purchased a twenty-five acre parcel of land just north of the Hecla mine in Wallace, Idaho last spring.

  At first they were a little worried. There was very little pasture land for crops or livestock… just a lot of granite outcroppings and plenty of small streams. They knew this going in, though, and had purchased the land for the mineral rights. Still, Ben saw no sign of gold or silver until about June—when he panned up a few good-sized gold pebbles.”

  Thurston shook his head. “As you can imagine, he was thrilled. He took the gold into Wallace and came away with enough cash to order in the parts for two large sluices and all the equipment he needed to start a small mining operation. He even put up help-wanted posters around town. He was looking for two experienced miners to help out in his new claim.”

  “A couple of weeks later, three men came on to the property asking for Ben. Unfortunately, Chloe thought they were potential new hires and sent them down to the creek to meet with her husband. It wasn’t until almost four hours had passed that she started to fear something was amiss.�
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  Suddenly the name Chloe rang a bell in Matthew’s mind. He and Annie had gone out to luncheon once and he distinctly recalled a tall, blonde woman stopping by their table with a sheath of papers in her hand. She seemed genuinely embarrassed by her intrusion into their privacy, but Annie was having none of it.

  She had grasped Chloe’s hand in hers and introduced her to Matthew as her good friend, Chloe Brazil. He had smiled at the woman’s blush of pleasure and taken her hand in friendship. Now he said, “Sir, I think I might have met the lady, but I certainly didn’t think she was a prostitute!”

  Thurston shook his head, “No, you wouldn’t have thought so, for sure.”

  The old man drove silently for a few moments and then he continued. “Chloe told Annie that Ben and Billy had gone to the creek to fish and should have been back by now, especially since it was past suppertime and she had seen the visitors leave a couple of hours earlier. So she grabbed her coat and headed down to the riverbank to fetch her tardy husband and son home… only to find their slaughtered bodies floating in shallow water.”

  Thurston sighed. “The poor woman’s memories were a bit muddled after that, understandably, but she did remember one thing very clearly…”

  They were approaching Deaconess Hospital, which rose up into the murky skyline like a castle on a high hill. Driving the car into a gravel parking area, Thurston turned the engine off and said, “Apparently, Mrs. Brazil owned a beautiful, cherry-wood Highboy. It’s where she and her husband kept all their cash and important papers, like deeds of sale—both for their land and their mineral rights.”