Death Train to Boston (24 page)

Leaving my bag on the sidewalk, for I had no way to carry it, I made my laborious, halting way into Hiram's Finest.

If this was the finest Hiram had to offer, the town was (as Mother used to say) in a peck of trouble. The door hung crookedly on its hinges and so neither opened nor closed properly; the carpet, which had once been a burgundy color, had worn to a rather putrid shade of puce and was threadbare where the traffic had been heaviest; the lighting was dim, and to judge by the unpleasant odor that permeated the lobby, came from kerosene lamps.

The old fellow behind the desk didn't care about any of this, though; he'd tipped his chair onto its back legs so that he could rest his head against the wall, and was asleep. Or drunk.

"Excuse me," I said; then more loudly, "Sir? Excuse me!"

"Whazzat?" He opened one eye, which did not happen to be aimed in my direction. "What's your excuse?"

"Sir!" I said sharply, to get his attention.

"Sir who? Where? Where is he?"

Wham! The old man's chair crashed back down onto all four legs with a jolt that made both his eyes fly open —and probably cleared his sinuses as well.

"I'd like a room," I said, after pausing for the dust to settle, "just for the night."

He looked at me finally, and as some comprehension seemed to register in his eyes I went on: "I had to leave
my small canvas bag out on the sidewalk. As you see, I'm—er—at something of a physical disadvantage."

"You're messed up, that's for certain." He squinted, then fumbled inside the sheepskin-lined jacket he wore until he found a pair of spectacles and put them on. It was cold outside but warm in the hotel—he must have had poor circulation to wear that jacket inside. In just the short time I'd been standing there I'd begun to sweat beneath the old military cape I wore.

"So what happened to you, then?"

"I was injured in that train wreck, the one that happened about a month and a half ago. Please, if you could get my bag before something happens to it, I'd be grateful. Or is there someone you could send?"

He snorted. "Not hardly. No need to fret—what can happen to it? Nobody in this town's gonna be after some woman's little bag o' goods this time of night. Got better things t'do."

"Still, I'd be so grateful. I'd make it worth your while—"

I'd said the magic words, and off he went. He got around well enough once he put his mind to it. Old he might be, but he was much more spry than I.

There was a spindle-back deacon's bench against the wall, a rather nice piece of furniture actually, if you like your furniture plain and uncushioned. After all that time in the buckboard I would have preferred a cushion, but never mind. I sat down and had just propped my crutches against the wall and was removing my cape when the man returned with my pitifully small canvas bag.

"Don't see as how you had much to worry about," he said, dropping the bag by my feet.

Then he noticed my feet, which I had foolishly failed to tuck beneath my long skirts.

"I lost my shoes in the train wreck," I said. I wasn't going to explain to him that I have long, narrow feet, so
much longer than the feet of any of Pratt's wives that shoes were the one item of clothing they could not share with me. Tabitha had crocheted me some slippers that looked a good deal like those booties they make for babies. Only much larger, of course.

"Train wreck. That weren't no wreck, that were an explosion. Somebody blew the blame thing up. What else you lose?" he asked suspiciously.

"Nothing that can't be replaced," I said evenly, looking the old codger straight in the eye, "as soon as I can get in touch with my bank in San Francisco. If there's a telegraph in town, that can be done tomorrow."

More magic words: "bank in San Francisco."

"We got a telegraph. We even got our own bank. This ain't no ghost town, no siree."

"Then I believe we can do business," I said, as if I had been interviewing him as to the suitableness of his establishment, whereas in fact I'd been praying he would register me without asking payment in advance.

"I reckon. You all on your own, then?"

"Yes." I offered no explanation, and wonder of wonders he accepted that.

I signed my real name in the register: C. Fremont Jones. Oh, what a relief it was to have my name back! No more Carrie James!

I felt like celebrating but my joy was short-lived.

My new friend the desk clerk, who'd told me his name was Tom, stood scratching his grizzled head at the bottom of the stairs. He looked at me, sitting on the bench nearby. He had brought the register to me to sign, rather than asking me to walk over to the desk, for which I was grateful.

Now Tom looked from me to the stairs and back again. "What we gonna do about them stairs?" he asked.

What indeed? My heart fell as I saw his point. I said, "Three's my limit. Oh dear."

"Never you mind. Where there's a will there's a way, and I just thoughta one, if'n you're not too fussy."

"I'm not." At least, I didn't think I was, but this was no time for qualifiers.

Tom raised his voice and bellowed, "Sandra! Getcherself out here!"

SANDRA HUNTER'S ROOM smelled of male musk and cheap perfume, but it was paradise to me. Freedom! A roof over my head, and my time was my own to do with as I liked. This was wonderful indeed.

Sandra was Hiram's freelance prostitute; in other words, she worked for herself (a woman after my own heart), whereas the other ladies of the evening were employed by a madam in a house devoted to that purpose up the street. Sandra didn't mind at all taking the room I would be paying for upstairs in the hotel and letting me use hers instead; nor, in fact, did her current customer seem to mind helping her move the clothes and toiletries that were her only possessions. The point of all this was that I could not climb a whole flight of stairs, and her room was the only one besides the dining room, kitchen, and pantry that was located on the ground floor. So she swapped with me.

I thanked Tom profusely for coming up with this suggestion, and Sandra and her friend—er, customer—for their willingness to implement it. Then I closed the door and was truly, completely alone for the first time in a very, very long time.

Alone and on my own, definitely my most preferred state.

That is, if I could not be with Michael.

I sighed. I wasn't ready to think about Michael yet; indeed I was almost afraid to do so. For so many weeks I'd kept a door in my mind firmly shut on that subject, and I wasn't ready to open it yet. I would; I would do it this very evening; but I needed to ease into it.

First, there were bits of housekeeping to do—those routine, seemingly inconsequential little things are what keep one sane—or so I had found since having my whole life turned upside down. I pulled back the colorful quilt, which the obliging Sandra Hunter had quaintly called a counterpane, to make sure the sheets were indeed as clean as she'd claimed; they were.

I opened a window to air out the room. As pleasant a person as Sandra had seemed to be, I did not care overmuch for her choice of scent, nor did I really like smelling any male's musk except Michael's.

Oh dear, there he was again. He kept popping into my mind. I seemed to have left my self-discipline back at Pratt's.

To work: The inside of the chest of drawers also smelled like Sandra's perfume, so instead of putting my few things away immediately, I pulled all the drawers open and left them that way to air. Meanwhile, I spread my few possessions upon the counterpane and thought about when my money would come, how I should go shopping, and what I should buy first. Shoes, most definitely; for though I could not put my weight full upon them yet, my legs were getting stronger day by day. And there was nothing wrong with my feet. Good, sturdy shoes could only aid my progress.

I hung up my cape on a wall peg, hobbled over to the
open window, and breathed deeply of the cool night air. But what was that?

For just a moment I thought I'd seen movement out there in the dark. Awkwardly, with the crutches digging into my underarms, I bent down so that I could see better. It was black as pitch out there, particularly in contrast to the brightly burning oil lamp on top of the chest of drawers. This room, being next to the pantry, most likely overlooked a service alley. In the daytime I'd be able to see, but right now the effort was hopeless.

Still I stood there, crouched, riveted, as if I were once again an investigator on a case. An enormous ache grew heavy in me, a longing for all I had lost, a painful desire to have again all that had been ripped from me in that explosion. And then, an instant later, I straightened up and laughed until tears came to my eyes. A black kitten had jumped up onto my windowsill and stood there arching its back.

"So," I said when I'd regained my ability to speak, "you are the dark disturber!"

The kitten came into the room and watched with interest while I used the basin and pitcher of water from the washstand to wash my face and hands. Too late I realized there were no clean towels, and so I dried them on my skirt. Then leaving the kitten to guard my domain, I ventured out of the room in search of towels, a newspaper, some notepaper, a pen or pencil, and food. I was very, very hungry.

I soon learned why old Tom hadn't hesitated to register me in spite of my inability to pay in advance: I was the only guest. The cook had gone home early for lack of custom in the dining room. But Tom had no objections to going next door to the saloon to get me a sandwich, particularly when I suggested that he tell them to start a tab for me and to put a drink for himself on it while he was waiting for the sandwich to be made.

Oh, how good it felt to be taking care of myself again!

While Tom was next door, I ventured behind his desk and found the other things I needed, including a discarded newspaper in a wastebasket. Immediately I checked the banner at the top of the front page for the date: Tuesday, November 17, 1908. So now I knew the date of my liberation from Melancthon Pratt. A date to be enshrined in my memory, that was for certain.

I trusted I would stay free, that he would never find me here.

At any rate, surely I would not have to remain long in this place—although it did have one great advantage: Hiram was not a Mormon town. That was why the wives had decided Norma should bring me here—it was not a place Pratt or any of his followers ever had reason to go.

If I'd thought about it, I'd have known Hiram wasn't Mormon even without Norma's telling me when we got to the town limits that this was where they'd decided to drop me off, and why. How would I have known? Mormons are opposed
to
drinking strong spirits, including coffee, yet here was a saloon doing a lot of rowdy business right on the main street. Also, I would have been extremely surprised had any Mormon town tolerated a house of ill repute right in the center of it, as Sandra Hunter assured me was the case just down Hiram's main street.

Surely the wives would not tell Pratt where I was. The story they'd all agreed upon in the end, Selene included, was that on this particular day I had simply vanished without a trace. Verla was to tell him: She'd gone to my room when he asked for me, only to find I was not there.

The angel giveth, the angel taketh away.

I felt safe.

A foolish feeling perhaps, but understandable in the circumstances.

Freedom can go to a girl's head; it had happened to me before.

Meiling was looking a good deal less dangerous when they got off the train in Salt Lake City. She was a bit overdressed, perhaps, as befitted her play-acting the role of Michael's concubine, but nobody would have guessed in a million years what she'd done to that unfortunate man in the baggage car. If the fellow could recover enough to father a child in this decade, Michael would be surprised. Not to mention that she'd dislocated his left elbow.

The lovely erstwhile Ninja was nonetheless dissatisfied. Her efforts had not come to much, because she'd brought down a nobody, an impromptu hireling who when questioned confessed he knew nothing about the man who'd hired him except that he was big, gray-haired, had plenty of money and a seat in the coach class.

She was still apologizing; Michael wished she'd stop. "It is my fault," she said for the third or fourth time, he'd lost count. "If I had not hurt him quite so much, he could have gone back to the one who paid him, and we would know now who this man is who lurks outside doors and means you harm."

"Forget it, Meiling."

"He was not even intending to attack you, he was only going to watch. I should not have harmed him."

"My dear Meiling," Michael said, stopping in his tracks, "I am not going to tell you I wish you hadn't done your best to protect me, because it wouldn't be true. I'm going to thank you again: Thank you. Now stop finding fault with yourself and let that be an end to it."

"You don't understand. I did not act
defensively,
I was the
aggressor.
That is against my philosophy!"

"It's the way of the world, Meiling," he said grimly, moving on. "Eat them before they eat you. That's
my
philosophy. It's much more practical."

"Oh, so now you are a cannibal?"

"A cannibal?" Michael raised his dark eyebrows, glanced over at her—he and Meiling were almost of a height—and caught her swift little smile.

"Oh, I see," he said. "It's a joke."

"I very much hope so, yes."

Michael chuckled. "You did make quite an impression on me, you know."

She inclined her head slightly. "Which was also my intent."

"All right, since you've made such an impression on me, there's something else you can do."

"What?" she asked.

Michael placed his fingers under one of Meiling's elbows and gently guided her into the train station's restaurant, which had big glass windows framed by wide arches. He said, "Sit here while I go to find a livery stable where I can hire us a horse and buggy. You know what Hilliard Ramsey looks like?"

Meiling nodded: Yes.

"Watch for him, see if he passes by. I want to know if he gets off the train at this stop. I don't think he saw us leave, and he could not possibly have known ahead of time, but Ramsey's good. As much as I'd like to think we've thrown him off our trail, we probably haven't."

"Very well."

"Oh, and while you're watching, you might as well keep your eyes peeled for this big man with the gray hair."

Meiling nodded and said emphatically, "If I see the big one, I will follow him."

"No, don't do that!"

"Yes. We will want to know where he goes, what is his name, all of these things."

"Meiling, in that dress you're about as unobtrusive as, as—"

"Never mind. I will be careful. I do not like to dress like this anyway; if this man sees me, I will change my appearance at the first opportunity. If you come back here and I am not here, do not worry, Michael, for that will be where I have gone. Stay here and wait for me."

He rolled his eyes but gave up and settled her in the restaurant, in a window seat with a fine view of the railroad promenade. He kissed her cheek, both because he was fond of her and because he was playing the role of jealous lover—a man who would not allow anyone else within whispering distance of his woman, one for whom a woman such as Meiling was private property. Then off he went in search of a livery stable.

Out on the street Michael picked up a newspaper and glanced at the date in passing: November 17, 1908. Tuesday.

I was not a banker's daughter for nothing.

I proved it the next day, Wednesday morning. When the County National Bank of Hiram opened at nine o'clock, I was there. By nine-thirty a telegram was on its way to the Crocker Bank in San Francisco, my bank. The story I'd told the bank manager—a careful mixture of truth and fiction that I'd written out the night before and memorized—had been sufficiently credible that I left with a cash advance of one hundred dollars in my possession.