And Father? Please, God, don’t let my father be—
Weak from her own ordeal and dismayed by everything in view, Amelia cast one last frightened glance around the shattered room and saw no other signs of life. Maybe her father had the sense to call it a night before the quake struck. Perhaps, for once, Henry Bradshaw had done the sensible thing and joined the chaotic throng jockeying to board the first boat to Oakland, even beating Ezra Kemp in his ignoble retreat.
By now, huge clouds of black smoke downtown tarred the sky, tendrils belching a mile high.
Could an entire city burn to the ground,
Amelia wondered.
Just then, a ragged voice called out, weak and rasping.
“Help…
Please
help.”
She gazed down into the club’s devastation from the street’s higher elevation, barely able to make out the shadowy figure of a man slumped against a doorjamb with a small dog curled up at his side. It was difficult to determine that the man’s hair, sprinkled with plaster dust, was nearly as dark as his fashionable evening clothes. Dried blood crusted his battered face.
Amelia immediately recognized her grandfather’s dog, Barbary, who normally slept in the basement and had somehow survived the cataclysmic events upstairs. Then she saw that J.D. Thayer was painfully pulling himself to a standing position. He clung to the threshold with one arm and stretched the other toward her in a gesture of abject supplication. His face contorted in agony and he paused as if he were gathering his very last ounce of strength.
“Please… I beg of you. Help us! The roof’s caved in on—”
Thayer’s voice broke as he gazed toward the couch where the woman’s arm, partially cloaked in red Chinese silk, protruded from a pile of debris. He pulled his eyes from the corpse and turned his head to stare at Amelia through the gloom, recognition dawning.
“Please… I know I have no right… but in God’s name… can you
help
me?”
Chapter 6
Amelia gazed past the ruins at the new owner of the Bay View Hotel, now a pathetic-looking creature huddling less than fifteen feet away, his gaze pleading. The cuts on his head looked deep and his voice sounded reedy. How could she ignore the suffering of a fellow human at a time like this, even if he’d wreaked havoc on her life? But who could come to his aid?
“Of course I’ll try to help you, Mr. Thayer,” she assured him across the wreckage, “but you must tell me whom I can summon for you here.”
Thayer looked at her strangely as if some discomforting thought just occurred to him. “Oh God…” he said and then fell silent.
Amelia, the last person he’d expected as a potential rescuer, stood at the edge of the broken wall that overlooked the devastation below. It was impossible to envision how posh this establishment had appeared only a few hours earlier. The
San Francisco Call
had been rhapsodic in its description of the club’s elegant gaming tables, expensive mahogany paneling, rich Persian carpets, and discreet nooks where all manner of business was transacted. What wasn’t reported was the inadequate foundations or the private rooms in the adjacent hotel reserved for romantic assignations—or so went the rumors.
As of five fifteen that morning, the entire place looked as if a barrage of cannon fire ripped through all four walls and pummeled the occupants, including Thayer. Amelia found her gaze once more drifting toward the pale arm of a woman buried beneath a pile of plaster and bricks. She quickly looked away, remembering her own near brush with death.
“Don’t risk coming down here,” Thayer called out, wincing at his effort to speak. “Just send help. The rest of the roof may cave in. I can barely breathe. I think I’ve broken my ribs. Ling Lee… has been crushed.”
“Oh
no
! That’s your… friend? I’m so terribly sorry.”
Thayer, having spoken the woman’s name, closed his eyes and fell silent, as if incapable of saying more. He slipped to his knees once again, head bowed as Barbary pressed closer to him. The only other man Amelia had ever witnessed weep was her drunken father, begging to gain admittance at the door of the Hunter Family suite after a particularly extended binge of drinking when she was nine years old.
Unlike Henry Bradshaw’s harsh sobs, Thayer made no sound now, but remained mute, shoulders heaving. His former air of confidence and command had vanished, and in its place was the raw vulnerability of a man who had faced forces he could not possibly control. Like she, he’d been laid waste by the earthquake’s stark, vicious impartiality and Amelia felt a sudden, irrational kinship with a fellow survivor.
Despite Thayer’s warnings, she cautiously made her way deeper into the pit of rubble and knelt by his side, lightly placing a hand on his dust-covered shoulder, her fingertips leaving an impression where she touched his dark dinner jacket. Barbary gazed up at her, his terrier tail giving a few, desultory wags. The animal appeared to have transferred his allegiance to the hotel’s new owner, for he licked Thayer’s dust covered hand and then rested his furry head on his thigh.
“Hello, Barbary,” she murmured, and then turned her attention to Thayer. “We must get you medical attention right away.”
“You shouldn’t be down here,” he muttered. “It’s too dangerous.” He raised one arm across his chest and encased her hand that was resting on his shoulder with his own, a joining of two wounded souls. His palm felt cold and Amelia guessed that by now, he was probably suffering from shock.
“You’re very kind,” he murmured, closing his eyes. “More than I deserve. I can hardly move and—”
“Then you must rest here awhile and I’ll see if I can find someone to help. Things are rather desperate downtown,” she confessed reluctantly. She peered past a shattered wall in the direction of the street, wondering if any hotel guests were wandering about that could lend a hand. “The fires appear to be spreading downtown something fierce. Perhaps someone on Taylor Street could—”
Thayer’s lids fluttered open and he stared at her. His brows suddenly knit together and then he murmured, “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”
To Amelia, the man again seemed amazingly close to tears. Thayer’s chin sank to his chest and he shook his head in little motions of despair. “I think… he’s over there,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Near Ling Lee.”
A stab of dread, sudden and real, clutched at her. “Who?”
“Your father.”
“
What?
Where?” She scanned the wreckage in disbelief that anyone else could have survived the collapse of the building.
Thayer nodded in the direction of a gaming table that was minus its legs.
“The table and chandelier fell on him… right after he dove for cover.”
A gigantic brass gasolier that once hung overhead had made a bull’s-eye landing on the top of its green baize surface.
“Dear God!” Amelia searched for a path to make her way across the shattered room where the city’s high rollers had entertained themselves, and where her father apparently lay entombed.
“Don’t go over there!” Thayer grimaced each time he spoke. “There’s nothing you can do… on your own.”
Amelia ignored his directive and, instead, worked her way on all fours until she reached the middle of what was left of the room.
“This table?”
Battling panic, she didn’t hear Thayer’s response for she had caught sight of a gentleman’s dress shoe and spats covered with a layer of white powder.
“Father! Oh my
God
…”
How in the world had Ezra Kemp been sitting in the same spot and walked away from this disaster? She had no idea where she found the strength to yank the brass gasolier to one side and push the heavy wooden table off her father’s body. Henry Bradshaw lay face down in the wreckage. His left cheek was black and blue and blood had congealed over nearly every inch of visible skin.
“Is he breathing?” Thayer called out hoarsely.
“I don’t know,” Amelia mumbled. “I can’t tell.” She moved several chunks of plaster to kneel by her father’s side. “He’s badly injured. His face—”
A low moan interrupted this exchange.
“He’s alive!
Father!
” She bent close to his ear. “It’s me, Amelia. I’m here. Please, Father—”
“I… need… a whissss-key,” slurred the injured man.
Amelia raised her head and stared across the expanse of debris at Thayer.
“Your father was… shall we say… in his cups at five a.m. Perhaps he’s—”
“Still drunk!” she finished, pulling more debris off her father’s back.
Just then, Henry’s eyes opened wide. “Whiss-key! A cele-bray-shun izin order!”
Amelia’s relief turned to despair, then to anger. “Oh, Father!”
“Pour me a glass, daughter,” he growled, “and be quick about it!” Then, he slipped back into unconsciousness.
Amelia closed her eyes. Her father had survived after all. But as always, Henry Bradshaw—when intoxicated—had turned belligerent. He was a regular Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Everybody said so. Where was the laughing young man who had built castles in the sand at the rim of San Francisco Bay and joyfully lifted his little daughter high in the air? After everything that had happened, here he was, behaving appallingly, even after the world had collapsed on top of him.
Amelia sank deeper among the debris, wrapped her arms around her knees, pressed her forehead into the folds of her filthy skirt, and, like J.D. Thayer had a few moments earlier, began silently to weep.
***
J.D. never knew how he managed to push away from the doorjamb and stumble toward the two figures in the center of the little that remained of the club, but when he got there, he placed a hand gently on top of Amelia’s head, brunette wisps of her upswept hairstyle cascading about her shoulders.
“Who can judge why bricks fall on some heads and not others?” he said.
Barbary had managed to follow him and stood between them, as if he were waiting to hear their next plan of action. Amelia raised her head from her knees. “I’ve taken my father home from scores of saloons, but this…
this
…” Her words drifted off.
“This isn’t like anything we’ve ever known.”
“No, it’s not.” She nodded toward her father’s prone figure. “Perhaps it’s just as well he passed out again.”
She made no protest when J.D. gingerly knelt beside her and wrapped his right arm around her shoulders, but she soon pulled away. He winced and put the palm of his hand against his rib cage. For a moment, he thought he might faint with pain.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” she said in a rush, “but my father wouldn’t even
be
in the Bay View Gentlemen’s Gambling Club right now if you and Kemp hadn’t goaded him into wagering—again!”
Yes and no
, J.D. thought, too weary and sick at heart to explain the origins of the previous night’s insane contest. Or its outcome.
Amelia leaned toward her injured parent. “Father, I’m going to try to find someone to help us. Do you hear me? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Henry’s eyes suddenly opened wide.
“Can’t move…” he mumbled. “Can’t… move… anything…”
“Not
anything
?” she asked. “Not even your fingers?”
“It’s likely he’s broken his back,” J.D. said under his breath, each word sending a stab of pain through his chest. “The Winton is garaged on the Taylor Street side of the hotel. I know an army doctor. A friend who lives at the Presidio. If we can get to it and the engine will start, can you drive?”
“No.” She stared down at her father for a long moment. “But I’ll try.”
They could hear the persistent clanging of fire bells coming from many directions. J.D. felt sweat beading his forehead and feared he might keel over before they’d even taken a step. “Allow me to lean on you and we’ll see if I can get the motorcar running,” he said.
Just then a slight tremor shook the room, followed by a crash of plaster somewhere in the hotel itself. Barbary gave a yelp while Amelia crouched near her father’s prone figure, her arms held over both their heads for protection.
After several seconds of quiet, she pulled herself to a standing position beside J.D., who hadn’t had the strength to move an inch. “I can’t
stand
these aftershocks,” she confessed on a shaky breath. “Put your arm around my shoulder and let’s try to get the Winton started. You’ll have to tell me every single thing to do, but we must hurry. The fires look as if they’re spreading rapidly.”
J.D. could barely make the effort to nod in agreement. “We’ll bring Dr. McClure here,” he murmured.
He could tell that she was loath to leave her father alone with the neighborhood ablaze, but what choice did either of them have? He was forced to lean heavily on her for support while they struggled out of the club’s wreckage and up the steep Jackson Street slope with Barbary following along behind. When they turned the corner, they discovered to their surprise that, with the exception of its collapsed chimneys, the Taylor Street section of the building was relatively undamaged.
Likewise, the enormous six-seater Winton, parked in the subterranean former stable at the north end of the old hotel, had come through the earthquake amazingly unscathed. J.D. marveled at the good condition of its polished, midnight blue fenders, tufted black leather upholstered seats, and steering wheel so formidable it threatened to impinge on his damaged chest. Amelia located the crank under the driver’s seat while Barbary jumped into the back seat in the normal fashion he’d adopted as J.D.’s shadow since Charlie Hunter’s death. It was strange that the dog had taken such a liking to him, considering how J.D. had succeeded his original master at the Bay View.
“If you can… get the crank to turn,” he proposed to Amelia, each breath an effort, “ I think I’ll… be able to… drive.”
Appearing vastly relieved to hear this, Amelia followed his step-by-step instructions and started the automobile’s engine after only a few rotations of the crank. A small crowd of hotel guests gathered as J.D. backed the touring car onto the street. A number of injured scrambled for seats when Amelia revealed that they were off to find a doctor.
“Get in! Get in!” he called to her urgently as nearly all the places were quickly claimed.
Amelia remained where she was, apparently torn by indecision. “I can’t leave Father alone. I just can’t! What if he should die while I’m gone?”
J.D. glanced at the smoke from downtown that billowed in their direction. The odds that Nob Hill would be next to burn were fast increasing. The sooner he left, the sooner he or McClure could come back for her and her father.
“Then I’ll return as fast as I can.” He was wheezing now and had difficulty putting the car in gear. The effort to extricate himself from the basement annex and climb into the car had only aggravated his rib injury. Pain pulsed throughout his rib cage, making it hard to focus his thoughts. “Blankets are… in the hotel…” he directed hoarsely.
“I know,” she said. “In the housekeeper’s pantry.”
Of course she’d know, he reminded himself. She grew up there.