M. Donice Byrd - The Warner Saga (2 page)

“Thank you for the newspaper, sir,” Blake said sorry now he’d impulsively opted for the paper instead of the nickel. He might have been able to find a discarded paper if he’d been diligent in searching for one.

“Thank you for helping me with the trunk.”

Blake crossed to the door and stepped out. “Have a nice journey,” he said, closing the door.

Blake quickly returned to the building and his little spot between the wall and the cast-iron potbelly stove. He closed his eyes remembering the warmth of his bed and his mother tucking him in and fussing over him when he was even mildly sick.

“You!” an angry voice shouted.

Blake’s eyes flew open too late. The ticket agent’s ink-stained hands flew at him. The man grabbed handfuls of Blake’s light jacket, lifting him up and threw him across the room toward the front entrance.

“The next time I see you in here, I’m going to throw you on the tracks in front of a train!”

Before he could clamber to his feet, the man was on him again. He kicked him repeatedly with booted feet as the boy scrambled up and bolted out the door into the frigid morning.

Blake Warner didn’t stop running until surrounded by the musty darkness of the crawlspace under the hotel kitchen.

The ticket agent had barely caught his breath when he felt the platform door open again. “That better not be him again,” he said to his coworker as he strained his neck to see the door through the ticket window. As soon as he saw who entered, the man corrected his posture.

The elderly man glanced to the spot where the waif warmed himself earlier and then scanned the room for shadows where he might be hiding when he saw a discarded paper on the floor. The man frowned wondering if the boy dropped the paper he gave him.

“Did a boy come in here?” the man asked the
clerk.

“I took care of it. That piece of gutter trash won’t be coming in here again.”

The gentleman gaped at the clerk. “He was just trying to stay warm. He wasn’t hurting anyone. He wasn’t even taking up room on a bench.”

“Sir, we get his kind in here all the time. If we didn’t kick them out, there would be no place for the passengers to sit.”

“There’s a difference between a drunk sleeping on the pews and a little boy who is cold. If that boy comes back in here…”

“After the beating I just gave him, he
ain’t never coming back here,” he said with a cruel chuckle.

The elderly man’s face became mottled with anger and a pain shot through his cancerous gut. “Otis, you’re fired. Maybe if you spent some time cold and
hungry you might have a little compassion.”

The clerk’s eyes narrowed at the man. “You don’t have the authority to sack me, Mr. Warner. I work for the station not the railroad.”

“Otis, I own twenty percent of that railroad line and the only reason there is a station here is to serve our trains and our customers. Your boss understands that if we don’t come to this godforsaken town, there is no job for him either. Get out.”

With a look of defiance, Otis snagged his coat off a hook in the corner and stalked out the door, slamming it.

William Warner turned on his heel and followed Otis out the front door. He looked up and down the street but the boy was gone. The child had such a sweet face. He reminded him of his daughter, Elizabeth, at that age.

With a curse and a shrug, he gave up his quest
and made his way back to the platform. As he approached his caboose, he found the engineer waiting.

“Good morning, Mr. Warner. We’ll be leaving as soon as we take on water and coal,” the engineer said in a cheerful tone lightly fringed with a Scottish accent, the only remnants of the life he lived before immigrating as a child.

“Very good.”

“Any luck finding your daughter?”

William Warner pulled his cloak tighter, flipping up the collar to protect his ears against the icy wind. “Unfortunately, no. JD felt sure he saw her here although she was some distance away.

“Mariah’s given up hope. She thinks some ruffian assaulted her and killed her. I prefer to think she’s still alive. Of course everyone thinks there’s a man involved but I just can’t believe that.”

“Do you have a theory?” the engineer asked, burying his hands in his armpits, the wind ruffling his hair.

“Before she disappeared, she became involved with a bunch of bluestockings who got together to talk about politics. She actually suggested that women should be able to vote. Can you imagine? They brought politicians in from all around the country to speak to the group. I think she went south to try to bring an end to slavery – she may even be running a safe house for runaway slaves.”

The engineer shuffled uncomfortably, his eyes shifting downward. “If she was spotted here, then I believe your theory is invalid. Have you considered that if people around you are suggesting a man could be involved, maybe they are too polite to tell you they
know
there is a man involved? I’m sure statistically, the odds favor that theory over any other. How long has she been gone?”

“Eleven years.”

“I was speaking to my brother, Allan, and he suggested you should send your investigators into the schools looking for a child. If she’s been gone eleven years she might have a child as old as ten.”

William Warner narrowed his eyes at the man. “There’s just no evidence of her being involved with a man, Ben.”

The engineer wanted to point out no evidence suggested she ran a safe house either but held his tongue. “My brother lives near Chicago, would you mind if he snoops around on your behalf?” he asked.

William Warner’s mouth tightened into a mulish line. “I can’t say no to anyone trying to help me find her but I can’t imagine he’ll have any luck.”

Ben nodded and clapped the older gentleman on the shoulder. “I’ll send word before the train pulls out. Let’s get aboard before we freeze to death.”

William Warner stood on the porch of the two-story townhouse with a stern look on his thin aged face that neither his investigator nor lawyer was unfamiliar with since they informed him of his daughter’s death. His hand pressed against his belly as a pain from the cancer stabbed his gut while they waited for the locksmith to open the door. He had demanded proof when Allan Pinkerton informed him that his sweet Elizabeth died months earlier and he had a ten-year-old grandson somewhere in the world.

It felt wrong that the sun shone so brightly in spring when his task of authenticating his daughter’s death loomed over him and he would soon join her.

“This was their home. Her name is on the title and the house is paid for. As far as we can tell, the house was locked up the day she died and no one has been here since. No one knew what to do with it or its contents. You and the boy are her only relatives, so it’s really up to you.”

A look of irritation crossed William Warner’s usually kind face. “
If
,” he said forcefully. “If this is
my
Elizabeth Warner.”

Allan Pinkerton sighed. How many Elizabeth Ursuline Warners were there? The man lived in complete denial about his daughter.

“It’s open,” the locksmith said as he pushed the door ajar.

The investigator thanked the man and instructed him to present the bill at his office before leading his client and the lawyer inside.

The stench of rotting food assailed them as they entered.

“Criminy!
No one thought to clear out the perishables?”

“Apparently not.”

As they wandered from room to room, William Warner looked for proof. “No one knows what happened to the boy?”

Allan shook his head. “Everyone assumes he’s with his father.”

“
Assumes
,” William said, the word leaving a foul taste in his mouth as he remembered the little boy he met at the train station the last time he was in Springfield. Criminy! That boy could have been his grandson and he had done nothing to help him. He racked his brain trying to remember if he’d asked the boy his name.

Light streaming in through diaphanous curtains of the cozy parlor illuminated the shelves of books and
figurines that flanked the dark fireplace. Furniture was arranged around the hearth with a small desk tucked away in one corner. William sat down in the upholstered chair behind the desk and began rifling through the drawers.

He pulled out a few report cards and thumbed through them. “Blake Warner,” he read aloud as if testing the name despite the fact that Allan Pinkerton had already told him the boy’s name. “Smart kid it looks like.”

He tossed them onto the desktop. The boy would be in the fifth grade now according to the dates on the report cards. “The boy’s not enrolled in any of the schools currently?”

“No, sir.
I even checked the surrounding towns. Nothing. He’s not at the orphanage either.”

He removed a packet of papers and began wading through them. “Property deed,” he murmured. There was
his proof. His daughter’s signature adorned the papers. He lightly touched it as if he touched her for the last time. “It’s her,” he said sounding tired. “Do we know how she died?”

Allan Pinkerton cleared his throat, feeling like a failure. “They sealed the coroner’s report. I’ve been unable to find out. Her man must possess political power to get it sealed like that.”

“You think he murdered her?”

“It would be speculation on my part. I really don’t know why they would seal it.”

William Warner handed the deed to the attorney. “I’ve seen enough. Sell the house and put the money in a trust fund for my grandson. Change my will, remove my daughter’s name and replace it with my grandson’s name.” He turned to Allan Pinkerton. “Keep trying to find him and his father. That man better hope I die before you find him.” The threat went unspoken but everyone in the room knew William Warner had the means to ruin the son-of-a-bitch who led his daughter astray and the anger to kill him. “Go through this house with a fine tooth comb. If you find any likenesses of Elizabeth or her son have them shipped to me.”

1

July 8, 1862

Chicago

Blake Warner entered the plush lobby of the exclusive Regent Arms Hotel through the
Dearborn Street entrance. When he spotted Agnes Donavan standing behind the front desk looking in his direction, he quickly averted his eyes hoping to avoid her.

Agnes folded up her balsa wood and paper fan with a flourish as she slapped it gently against the palm of her hand. She stepped around the desk and crossed the lobby to intercept him. “Oh, Mr. Warner…Mr. Warner, a letter came today,” she said snapping her fingers at the maid behind the desk. “Franny, fetch Mr. Warner’s letter.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Donavan,” he said in a light flirtatious voice that wasn’t reflected in his eyes.

Franny located the thickly stuffed brown envelope and carried it across the lobby to her aunt.  As she handed the letter to Agnes, her eyes were fixed on the tall, handsome man standing on the bottom step of the staircase.  His blue eyes caressed her and his warm friendly smile drew her to him like a cobra mesmerizing its prey before it strikes.

“I don’t believe I’ve met your new girl, Mrs. Donavan.”

Agnes made an unladylike harrumph as she patted her unnaturally red hair. “Well, Mr. Warner, this is Franny and I’m hoping to keep her longer than her predecessors.”

Agnes could see the same placid, mooning look in her niece that she’d seen in the other girls and snapped at Franny to get back to work.

“She seems like a very nice young lady,” he commented pleasantly, undaunted and slightly amused to see Agnes was still annoyed with him.

“She is.  Franny is my niece.  I would hate to see anything happen to her.”

“I see.”

“I hope you do, Mr. Warner.  My workers are not here to serve as your personal…
chambermaids
.”

Blake smirked at the euphemism.  “Now, Mrs. Donavan, why won’t you believe me that I didn’t invite those girls to my room.  I came back to my room to find Ginger in my bed naked but I never touched her. And I have no idea why Opal quit but it wasn’t anything I did. Maybe it was just the fact that I wasn’t interested in her.”

Agnes made a face that showed she didn’t believe him.

“Why would I bed your maids when you’re who I
truly want?” he flirted with his wide politician’s smile. “I’ve heard the naughtiest rumors about women with red hair but I’ve always been afraid to find out for myself if they’re true.”

She shook her head and tapped him with her fan. The man had a way of making her forget her anger. “If I were twenty years younger, Mr. Warner, I might think you were serious.”

A slight blush touched Agnes’s cheeks and her mood lifted as she toyed with the possibility in her mind.

“I believe you said that was my letter,” he said drawing her out of her wayward thoughts.