Deadman's Fury (The Deadman Series Book 2) Read online

  It took some doing and a lot of extra coin but two passengers in one coach squeezed in with the people on the other, leaving one empty. Abner sat on the backbench with his broken leg stretched across it while Roy and Sarah shared the seat facing him.

  Although beads of clammy sweat dotted Abner’s forehead, he insisted on holding a shotgun in case Donnelly’s men tried pulling a fast one and returned to finish what they’d tried to start.

  Roy watched closely as the train pulled out and saw no sign of such subterfuge but he let Abner act as he saw fit—some sort of affirmative action seemed preferable to the young man than just lying around waiting for the other shoe to drop. Roy planned on riding with them as far as Ellensburg, where they would transfer to a train heading into Spokane; he felt they would be safe enough by then to go ahead alone while he doubled back and went after Matthew and Dicky.

  As they took off with a lurch, Roy closed his eyes and tried not to worry about the seemingly impossible task of finding Matthew before Donnelly got to him.

  ~

  The next day, Iris stepped off the train in Gold Bar along with a number of other weary travelers. Hearing the conductor yell that the passengers had a half an hour to eat and relax before they departed for Seattle, she searched the small crowd looking for Roy.

  She knew Mattie and a young fellow by the name of Dicky had gone ahead to the city but, as the departing passengers dispersed, she could not understand where Roy had got off to. She stood still, wondering what to do, when she saw an old lady scurrying in her direction.

  The skinny little woman came to a stop in front of Iris and grinned up at her with a toothless mouth. “Well, I guess the sheriff wasn’t exaggerating when he said you was real purty with copper-colored hair!” she said.

  Self-consciously, Iris fingered her messy hair. Train travel was never the cleanest affair as there were usually too many passengers—and sometimes animals—stuffed into the cars; it was also always too hot and the open windows—the only feasible way to get a breath of fresh air—let in smoke and ash from the stack.

  Iris felt certain that the back of her dress was splattered with baby urp and she suspected her bonnet was sprinkled with tobacco chaff from the kind but incessant pipe smoker who had shared the bench with her. Still, the old lady was nice to compliment her and Iris held out her hand in introduction.

  “If you are referring to Matthew Wilcox, then yes. I’m his wife, Iris, come to take young Abner home, and a girl named Sarah to Walla Walla.

  “My name is Gertie, honey. Here,” she said, fumbling in her apron pocket and pulling out a scrap of paper. “The last thing Roy did before he left with Abner and Sarah yesterday was write you this letter.”

  Iris started to open it but Gertie put a hand out and touched her arm. “Before you read it, let me fill you in on what I know. I think things have changed for your husband and his posse, and NOT for the better. Let’s sit right here. That way, if you decide to head on in to Seattle tonight, you won’t miss the train when it leaves. If’n you decide to go home, you can come and stay with me—I own that boarding house just down the street—and then take the next train back east.”

  The woman guided Iris toward a long bench and she sat down with a plop. Although she knew something was wrong, it wasn’t until Gertie articulated the words that her heart accepted the truth of the matter.

  Early that morning before she boarded the train, Iris had informed Bean Tolson and two Spokane deputies that she wasn’t familiar with that their boss might be in some trouble. Not sure of the circumstances, she had asked them to please get a hold of the county marshal so that he could inform the authorities in King County to keep an eye on Matthew’s whereabouts and spring into action if necessary.

  The two fillins seemed skeptical but Bean, having known Matthew most of his life, looked alarmed and knew Iris would never raise a red flag unless it was absolutely called for. So she hoped he’d somehow gotten word to the marshal and that the King County lawmen were aware one of their sworn officers might be in need of assistance.

  Gertie filled Iris in on what had transpired the last couple of days. She assured the younger woman that Abner and Sarah were safe and, although Matthew had been wounded in the shoot-out, he was in good health; she talked about Matthew’s suspicions and shared what she knew about the Donnellys; and she again offered Iris a place to stay, stating that she might do better going home and taking care of her family while her husband got rid of the crooks.

  Iris shook her head. “I will go on into Seattle, Gertie. It sounds like Roy has things handled with Abner and Sarah, and my place is by my husband’s side. I know the Washington state governor and many state representatives as well.”

  The train whistle blew and, with it, a plume of smoke rose up into the evening sky. The conductor started ringing a bell by the passenger door and Iris bent close to the older woman so Gertie could hear over the sudden racket.

  “The girl Matthew is looking for is my niece,” Iris said. “She was apparently abducted by this Donnelly fellow and his henchmen. Now I hear that she is only one girl out of many and I know that Matthew will not rest until he gets them all back home where they belong.” Iris saw the ongoing travelers approaching the train station and stood up.

  She gave the little old lady a hug and whispered in her ear, “Thank you so much for helping my husband and me, Gertie. If you see Roy, please tell him I’ve gone on. And also tell him…” She paused a moment. “Tell him to go to the opera house in the downtown area. He can’t miss it. Tell him to go around back to the stage entrance. He will either find me there, or people who know me and are willing to help.”

  Then Iris gave Gertie another hug and boarded the westbound train.

  Chapter 22

  Margaret…If Only

  Twenty-nine hours earlier, Margaret Donnelly disembarked the same train in Seattle. It was 7:48 pm according to Da’s old watch and rain fell from the murky sky in sheets, making two of the tall lampposts on the edge of the platform sputter and hiss. Everything sparkled.

  She acknowledged that the tarry ball of opium she had bought from an old Chinese man in Gold Bar might be adding to the carnival gleam. Yet she still enjoyed the vivid colors, allowing herself to revel in the rushing feeling of goodwill that suffused her entire being.

  Margaret peered through the gloom as Patrick barked orders to the men and boys who had come to the station to take them to their warehouse. Grinning in relief, she saw Earl Dickson standing close to one of their black carriages, smoking a cheroot; she had no doubt her brother would shoot the man dead if he knew that Dickson was her main narcotic supplier.

  She felt confident, however, that Patrick didn’t know. As far as he was concerned, Dickson was his sister’s main squeeze and as long as their relationship did not get in the way of business, he didn’t care. Making a mental note to hide her poppy intoxication from the ever-vigilant eyes of her brother, she walked up to Earl with a smile.

  He did not return her grin but stared meaningfully up and down her body. She squirmed under his inspection, knowing that hours on the train had done nothing to improve her appearance. Angry and on the verge of tears, she returned his scornful assessment.

  Dickson might have been handsome once, but years of living dangerously had taken their toll. He was as skinny as a stick, with long ape-like arms and hunched shoulders. His eyes were his best feature—as blue and luminous as a summer sky—but they nestled blearily in darkened wrinkled pouches. He had also lost another tooth since their last encounter.

  Her good mood dissipated. Just a few minutes ago, she had been more than willing to trade sexual favors in lieu of cash for the fine quality opium he supplied. But now the very thought of those dirty hands on her once-beautiful body made her skin crawl with disgust…both for him and herself. Ignoring him, she got into the closed carriage and watched as Patrick gave final orders to his assorted lackeys and then walked up to where she sat.

  He glanced at Earl who had climbed up onto the
driver’s bench and said, “Take her to the warehouse and make sure she doesn’t leave.” Earl nodded.

  Turning to Margaret, Patrick said, “You have the rest of the night off. Do what you want…?” He wiggled his eyebrows lasciviously, cutting his eyes toward Dickson. “But if I hear that you stepped out to…you know…I’ll give you a whipping you’ll never forget. Got it?”

  Margaret nodded and thought, how I used to love this boyo with his bright green eyes and jet-black hair, his skinny arms wrapped around me in fierce but futile protection. But now, whatever good was ever in Patrick was gone, leaving an empty husk of a man whose only care was the acquisition of money no matter the cost to those who once loved him above all others.

  “I have business to take care of tonight, but I’ll be at the warehouse by noon tomorrow. I expect the girls to be dressed and ready for inspection by then,” he said and stepped away.

  Margaret saw his face and felt a chill. Lantern light from above etched his bloated cheeks, leaving his eyes and mouth in shadow; it gave her the vision of a skull floating in the dark. Then he grinned, dispelling the image with his once irresistible charm before the carriage jerked forward.

  She sat back on the plush leather seat and prayed for the time to move forward swiftly. It was about eight miles from the train station to the warehouse. Sometimes the journey could take two or three hours, especially if the market was busy or if there was too much traffic for the narrow, congested streets.

  Hopefully, because it was evening, the trip would only take a little while. Then she would immerse herself in the warm, soft cocoon of opium’s embrace…even as she endured the more carnal embrace of the man who kept her habit alive and well.

  ~

  The next morning, Margaret awoke and sat up in bed with a groan. She felt both light-headed and heavy, her mouth tasted like ashes, and every square inch of her flesh prickled painfully. She had chewed the last of her poppy ball on the way to the warehouse, depending on Dickson to supply her with more once she availed him of her charms. But the cad had tricked her instead.

  He followed her into the Donnelly’s living chambers; a three-room suite in back of the warehouse consisting of a parlor/office and two small bedrooms. Usually they partook of a little brandy and opium before doing the deed but, this time, he had grabbed her shoulder from behind, wrenched her around and took her on the floor.

  Even as he grunted and wheezed in her ear, she told herself it would be over soon and then she could commence to feeling good but it didn’t go the way she had planned. Once Earl finished, he got to his feet, buttoned up his fly and said, “I got word from that dick Freddy Marston that giving you any kind of drug would get me shot so you can forget about getting high.”

  Margaret glared up at him from where she lay in a sweaty, rumpled mess on the floor. “You might have mentioned this before you raped me!”

  Dickson shrugged. “Figured there ain’t no love lost between you and me. Also, I know you can’t do nuthin’ about it since you’d only implicate yerself in the process. So tough titties, Mags.” Then he stepped over her and walked out the door.

  She managed to hit him in the back with a porcelain figurine as he left her bedroom but he didn’t even flinch. Margaret, however, sobbed and sobbed—more from fear of being deprived of her precious medicine than her erstwhile lover’s rejection. In addition, the little keepsake she had thrown was one of the few prized possessions she owned, an item more valued for its sentimental history than its monetary worth.

  Staring down at the powdery shards still left on the floor, she closed her eyes and mourned the wreck her life had become. She remembered the day Patrick had given her the porcelain ballerina.

  She was only a couple of years into her life as a whore and still in good spirits, as fresh and vibrant as a spring daisy. And healthy, despite the odds. In addition, opium had yet to enter her life. Spoiled and decadent, she was lounging in bed when there was a knock on her door.

  “Come,” she called and, to her surprise, Patrick entered her room. She had hardly seen hide nor hair of her brother since she was first sold to the highest bidder downstairs in the auction room, but she had heard that he was doing well and rising rapidly in the ranks of Banyan’s Irish mob.

  She had often wondered if Patrick was disgusted by her now—or angry—but it wasn’t as if she’d had any choice in the matter. Those thoughts filled her mind as Patrick came to stand by the side of her bed. He looked down at the rumpled sheets and she thought she saw him sniff inquisitively. Stung, she said, “For pity’s sake, Patrick! This is my private chamber, not where I work. As you would know if you ever came for a proper visit!”

  He had blushed and mumbled, “Sorry, sis…here.” He pulled a small package from his pocket and thrust it in her face.

  She studied the grimy paper and the limp bow for a moment, then took it from his hand and opened it. The involuntary gasp that escaped her lips made him grin with pride. “Patrick! How did you get this?”

  “Nicked it, o’course. But when I saw it, I thought you should have it.”

  Margaret turned the exquisite piece over and over. The wordsHavilland and Co. Limoges were etched into the bottom of the china figurine of a ballerina with swirling skirts, creamy white skin, emerald chips for eyes, and long black hair; her skirts were many shades of purple and her tiny toe-shoes were a satiny pink. There was such beauty and grace in her attitude, it looked to Margaret as if she was ready to pirouette right off the palm of her hand and dance through the air.

  Gazing up at her brother with tears of gratitude in her eyes, Margaret whispered, “Thank you so much, Patrick. She’s beautiful!” Placing the tiny ballerina carefully on her nightstand, she put her left hand on his arm, adding, “But, please, don’t take such a chance again.” She had no idea how much something like this cost but guessed it was enough to feed them both for a year, if not more.

  Patrick shook his head. “Nay, I won’t. Sister, I…” He stared down at her for a second with wide, frightened eyes. “I’m sorry about what happened to you, okay? I really am and I’m gonna get us out of here as soon as I can.”

  Touched, Margaret nodded and said, “That’s good, Patty. But we’re doing all right, aren’t we? You’re getting ahead and I’m well.” She blushed as her brother’s eyes narrowed. “I’m only saying things could be worse.”

  “Aye, that’s true. But I want you to be ready to go when I say go, you hear me?”

  She had nodded then, thinking why rock the boat now? But that was before she had her first of many rough customers and got hooked on opium.

  Two long years passed before Patrick flew into her room without knocking and said, “Pack your things! We’re leaving now!”

  They got away safely but lived on the run for the next twenty years. Margaret never knew if old man Banyan had died or been killed yet, finally, his henchmen seemed to give up the chase. That was when they settled in Washington state and started living in relative peace. Margaret had a reliable source for dope and, for the most part, she enjoyed working in the flower end of the funeral business. She even appreciated the hunt when Patrick decided it was time to supplement their income by nabbing unsuspecting girls.

  Now, shaking and sweating on her rumpled sheets, she understood her motivations were fueled by her addiction to opium. Although occasionally Patrick sold a girl at an unbelievably high price, they never really made that much money in the kidnapping business…not enough to justify the risks. She suspected that, for Patrick, the thrill of the hunt and his desire to feel all-powerful—along with his subjugation of the weaker sex—prompted his latest career choice.

  If only we had not been born in famine-stricken Ireland, Margaret mourned. If only Da hadn’t died leaving Patrick and me alone in this Godforsaken country. If only we hadn’t fallen into Banyan’s hands. If only…if only I’d never been born at all!

  She wept for a few minutes, hugging her arms to her chest in grief, and then she sighed. The little clock on the highboy dresser
in the corner read 8:30 am and she was supposed to have the girls ready for inspection by noon.

  She needed to stop feeling sorry for herself and find new sources for her dope or things were going to get rough.

  ~

  Amelia heard the bitch enter the warehouse and wished she wasn’t feeling so helpless; she grimaced, wishing she could wrap her fingers around Margaret Donnelly’s throat and squeeze until the woman was dead.

  Instead, she sagged against the back of her chair and tried to keep from vomiting. The girls’ keeper, a dried up old prune who called herself Holms, kept forcing them to drink a foul-tasting green concoction that made them sleepy and too weak to fight back.

  Amelia had tried to refuse a couple of times but whenever she pressed her lips together to keep the potion from going down her throat, one of the two men who watched their every move would simply step in and poke his fingers hard into her cheeks, forcing her teeth apart. By now, Amelia’s face was black and blue with finger-shaped bruises.

  That didn’t stop Holms from painting her cheeks bright red though, or putting some sort of lurid purple paint around her eyes. She was also adorned in a peacock blue dress with a neckline that fell almost to her waist, showing her ample freckled breasts through black lace. Amelia felt like dying from the shame of it.

  She knew by now that she was about to be sold to serve as a prostitute and her dreams of becoming a doctor were fading by the day. She had been so sure that her uncle Matthew would come to save her but she’d lost track of how many days had passed since she was kidnapped and her hopes were fading, too.

  Allowing a tear to escape, she looked around at the girls imprisoned with her and gave herself a mental slap. She, at least, was still fairly healthy but many of the others were obviously quite ill. Some were so doped up they could hardly keep their eyes open or their heads upright; the rest were either stricken with some sort of disease or they had been injured before their arrival here.