Death Train to Boston (28 page)

I smiled. Tom and Feather were kind, and he was right. Feather had a real gift for healing, and as far as I could tell she was helping me. Not causing any harm. I
was content here; Michael and Meiling were on their way; eventually they would find Hiram, and me; and I had a new book
to
read from the circulation rental library.

I had nothing to worry about, nothing at all.

MICHAEL REFLECTED that his recent physical exertions, of one sort and another, had certainly aggravated his injury. The pain now ran all the way down into his arm, but he welcomed it as an aid to staying awake. Truth to tell, what with the pain and temperatures colder than he was accustomed to after so many years of living in San Francisco, he was damn uncomfortable. As cold as it had been all day, when the sun went down the temperature had plummeted with it. Now he could see his own exhalations like smoke in the dark night air.

Smoke: He might as well light a pipe, it would help to keep him awake. With his good hand, grimacing unconsciously when even these simple movements pained him, Michael rooted through his pockets. Maybe he should switch to cigarettes—they were unpopular with gentlemen, but a hell of a lot more convenient.

The day had been overcast, with a thin layer of high pale gray clouds; now the night was both moonless and starless, black as pitch outside the small area of illumination cast by two kerosene lanterns that hung by wire handles from either side of the driver's bench at the front of the wagon. It was this near-total darkness that had finally forced him to stop for the night, but only because the road was so poor it didn't deserve the dignity of being called a road. It was more of a track, impossible to follow when beyond the lamplight all was so dark that he could barely make out the ears on the horses' heads.

He hadn't wanted to stop; Meiling had nagged him until finally he had to admit she was right—if they lost the track, they'd be delayed yet further. The last information they'd had from a traveler going in the opposite direction was encouraging—the man had spent the night before in a town he thought was called Hiram. They had only to continue the way they were going, they were bound to come to it, the man said.

So Michael had hoped he could reach Hiram before nightfall, but that hope had been in vain, even though he'd pushed the horses to their limit—and pushed Meiling's patience beyond its limit. She had been quiet for some time now, lying bundled up in the back of the wagon while Michael sat on the ground with a blanket beneath him and his back against the wagon wheel. He hoped she was asleep. All the damn day long she'd pestered him with her premonitions; God knew, he could use a few hours of silence.

The horses, which he'd reluctantly released from the wagon's traces and tethered behind it, snorted softly; the leather of their halters and reins creaked as the animals shuffled, probably seeking closer contact with one another for the sake of warmth. Michael pulled at his pipe, drew some comfort from smoking. Precious little, but any comfort was welcome. The pipe between his teeth, he took his revolver out of his pocket and put it in his lap at the ready, a concession to Meiling and her fears. Then he curled his one good hand once more
around the bowl of the pipe, appreciating that small warmth against his palm.

She had wanted to stop much sooner. Stop, hell— she'd wanted to set up an ambush in broad daylight for "the big man," as she called him. The one who might or might not be, but probably was, Braxton Furnival. Meiling was convinced he was close on their heels, and dangerous.

Now it was Michael's turn to snort. He'd known Braxton Furnival fairly well over a period of about a year, during a time when they'd both lived down around Monterey—and while Furnival had certainly proved himself dishonest during that time, Michael couldn't believe the man would ever be truly dangerous. He was a consummate coward and a bumbler to boot, the type who hired others to do his dirty work and even then managed to go wrong in the planning of it.

Michael frowned, pulling on his pipe. He'd just remembered that Fremont had known Furnival too during that same time period, and her opinion of him had been much harsher than Michael's. If Fremont was right, then Braxton Furnival had committed murder. That murder had never been pinned on anyone; the police had long since abandoned the case; Furnival had disappeared. Furnival a murderer? Michael doubted it.

Nursing the pipe along, unaware that his head was dropping lower and lower on his chest, Michael talked himself out of the few fears Meiling had managed to stir in him. He didn't believe desperation had made Braxton Furnival as dangerous as Meiling insisted. Besides, the man was unarmed because she'd taken his gun. No gun, no hireling to help him . . .

Michael removed the pipe from his mouth as he let out a long, heavy sigh. His chin rested on his breastbone, and stayed there. His eyelids flickered, and closed. . . .

Something cold and hard bored into his temple as a harsh whisper cut through the stupor of exhausted sleep: "Don't move, Kossoff!"

Michael's eyes snapped open; simultaneously his fingers let go of the pipe they'd cradled in his lap and fumbled instead for the gun. It wasn't there. He knew he'd put it there, but the gun was gone! His eyes opened wider.

Again the harsh whisper: "If that Chinese demon woman is still with you, call her out here. Say you need her, nothing else; if you try to warn her in any way I'll shoot you dead!"

Slowly, deliberately, Michael turned his head until the gun—which perhaps was his own, he could not yet tell—was no longer at his temple but instead grazed his eyebrows like a cold, slow kiss and came to rest dead center between his eyes. As he had hoped, his captor reflexively took a few steps back. Now Michael could see his face.

So, Meiling had been right all along. Right on more than one count. In the dim, wavering lamplight, Braxton Furnival was not just big but a threatening tower of a man. No longer the dapper dresser Michael remembered from Carmel and the Del Monte Forest: His tattered clothes and beard-stubbled face showed no vestige of the respectability the old Furnival had been accustomed to hide behind.

"Get that woman out here!" he insisted, still in a whisper, so harsh that this time his voice cracked.

But Meiling had already heard or sensed something amiss; through his back against the wheel Michael could feel the small vibrations of her movement inside the wagon. And suddenly Michael's mind was hyper-alert, thoughts and instincts and words coming together like clockwork.

"Meiling!" he roared in defiance of Furnival's warning. "Run, get away, go NOW!"

As he yelled the wagon lurched, and in that same moment Michael lashed out with both feet. Furnival toppled. They fell on each other like snarling wolves.

I named my kitten Hiram, which the people in the hotel found amusing, but I knew in years to come the cat's name would remind me of this very special time in my life. I was as happy here as I could possibly be under the circumstances, and grateful for it. This memory would be a good one.

Of course some things could be better, such as: I would have felt much relieved if I'd heard from Father, but I had not, which was of considerable concern to me. Waiting for Michael and Meiling to appear was also rather tedious—four days had passed since my receipt of their telegram. I was confident they would come soon, especially as everyone said it shouldn't take much longer for even the least experienced travelers to find us. Nevertheless, it was a vastly annoying practice of the Mormons to leave whole towns off the map of Utah just because the inhabitants didn't follow Mormonism. Whatever had happened here to the separation of church and state?

For a welcome distraction I had the care and feeding of my little feline, who had been declared by Feather to be a male of its species. Care was easy: In grooming, Hiram required no assistance, as he was naturally fastidious, with much licking of paws and fur and polishing of ears. Also in other essential habits of hygiene the cat took care of himself, coming in and going out the window as needed. Where he did his business was apparently nobody's business but his own.

Feeding, however, was a matter in which Hiram proceeded to educate me. Fascinating! I quickly learned that if I did not want my cat to bring disreputable dead creatures through the window and deposit them at my
feet like some sort of macabre gift, I had best provide him with food that was to his liking. Otherwise he'd bring one of these gifts which, after having allowed me time for a proper inspection, he would take back and bat around a few times with his paws in a kind of feral pleasure. Then he would settle down to eat it, which was rather disgusting, although better than starving I am sure. What Hiram liked to eat was meat and fish. Period. If I gave him anything else, we were back to the macabre. To drink he liked water, which I kept always in a small bowl on the floor by the dressing table. His food I saved for him from my own meals. Once I tried to beg cream from the kitchen for a special kitty treat, but the cook would not give it to me.

"You shall have all the cream you like when we get back to San Francisco," I said to Hiram, who lay languidly asleep in my lap, not curled up but sprawled in abandon. A cat makes a gentle weight.

Of course there was no question of my leaving him behind—Hiram was a part of my life now. If Michael didn't like cats, well . . . Michael would just have to reconsider.

The sun had gone down some time before, and the night was so cold that I had closed the window. If Hiram wanted to go out, he had ways of letting me know; in the daytime a meow, at night a cool paw on my nose, in the dark. It was quiet too, in part because it was a weeknight, and in part because Hiram—the town, not the cat—although God-less as far as the Mormons were concerned, was a law-abiding place. During the week most folks went to sleep at sundown, even in winter, when the nights were long.

I generally stayed up for a few hours, though. I hadn't lost my city habits, even if I'd become so accustomed to reading by lantern light that I no longer paid attention to a certain amount of flickering. They used lamps or lanterns exclusively in this place.

The book I'd been reading no longer held my interest, and so I put it aside and wrote a few notes
to
myself. It was time I began a list of things to do upon my return to San Francisco. Surely it would not be defying Fate to do so at this point? Surely I was merely being prudent?

Number one on my list: Find an intermediary to deal with Pratt matters so that I could do certain things without revealing my whereabouts. Not that I really thought there was any danger of Melancthon Pratt coming after me, but better to be safe than sorry. An officer of my bank would be an ideal intermediary. First, I would instruct him to open an account in Provo in Norma Pratt's name and place on deposit the money I had promised her. Then I wanted to find a way to get a letter to Selene. I wanted her to know she could write to me if she wished, and I would reply, provided we could be sure that Father would not intercept either her letters or mine.

I frowned, wondering how this might be accomplished. The first letter should go in a package or pouch, as in it I would want to enclose the five-dollar gold piece Selene had insisted on giving me. I had not spent
it;
I thought perhaps I might even have chosen
to
die rather than spend it, her kindness had meant that much to me. Perhaps I might keep this gold piece as a memento, replacing it with another of even larger denomination?

But no . . . because Selene had won this gold piece in a contest. She had kept it not for its monetary value but because it was her prize.

"She shall have back her prize," I muttered, making note of it, although I was hardly likely to forget. Then I wrote:
Selene
—
college?
That was my dream, that I might somehow be allowed to send this bright and talented young woman to college, where she would see and learn about a wider world than she had available in
the whole state of Utah. Would she want that as much as I wanted it for her?

I leaned back against the bed pillows and mused upon this question, to which I had no answer. In all likelihood I never would, because for the life of me I couldn't think of a way to contact Selene without Melancthon Pratt's knowledge. Eventually the musing over this problem meandered into a reverie, in which at last I allowed all sorts of feelings about and memories of the Pratt wives to wash over me; and from that I drifted into a restless, fitful sleep.

I did not sleep well, not even after I had roused myself to don my nightgown, get under the covers, and blow out the lamp. Countless times I opened my eyes to darkness and lay wishing for morning to come. Thoughts of Michael plagued me, to the point where I was so unable to get him out of my mind that when I did sleep, I dreamed of him. Not pleasant dreams either —I dreamed that he was in some kind of trouble, some sort of danger.

Finally, coming out of one of these bad dreams I opened my eyes to the gray light that precedes sunrise. Such a foreboding was upon me that I felt physically ill, weak, and nauseous.

I had just gathered together the energy to say aloud, "Nonsense!" when I heard a commotion outside my room. My heart rose into my throat as I recognized the source of the noise: Someone was knocking, hard, on the hotel's front door, which had been closed and locked for the night.

I was in a flannel nightgown and had no robe. Yet I did not hesitate, nor was there any question of taking time to get dressed. I grabbed my crutches, flung open my own door, and crossed the hotel lobby as fast as I could possibly move.