Fortune is a Woman (26 page)

He sat drinking the whiskey, watching his friend and wishing he could turn back the clock.

"I'd put it right back, Josh," he said thickly after a while. "All the way back to when we were still lads at school. Them was the best times, Josh, weren't they? Just you and me, havin' a good time together?" He sipped the whiskey reflectively. "Aye," he added quietly, "I'd put the clock right back to before the day at the river when Murphy drowned." He sighed deeply. "I didn't mean to do it, you know, Josh, but it was like a rage took over my heart." He thumped his fist to his chest, tears stinging his eyes at the memory. "I just looked at you standing up there on that rock and I knew I loved you. And you were making such a fuss over Murphy, having such a good time together and ignoring me. 7
felt like nothing.
Nobody even knew if I was there or not, and nobody cared. Least of all you. I couldn't let that happen, Josh, not after all we had been to each other all those years, swearing friendship and loyalty in blood and all. It wasn't hard to do what I did. It just seemed natural. I never knew if you realized. Nobody else did."

He stared silently at Josh, half-expecting an answer, but Josh's face was blank. He poured more whiskey into his slack mouth, brushing away the dribble with his fingers, then he sat back again. "Are you warmer now, lad?" he asked, anxiously checking the fire. "I know it'll never be real warm in here, but the whiskey'll help. I hope it takes away your pain, Josh, because it sure as hell will never take away mine. After all I've done for you, and now look at you." His eyes filled with tears again as he stared at him and he shook his head slowly from side to side.

"Y'see Josh, if you'd never looked at those girls, I'd never have had to kill 'em. I couldn't bear to think of you touching them, kissing 'em... it made me sick to my stomach, y'know that? And I had that old burning feeling in my heart again. But after Murphy, I knew what to do about it. I slipped up that last time though. I knew you suspected me, but even so, you came through for me when I pleaded with you to help me. 'They'll hang me, Josh,' I said to you. 'The judge will put on his black cap and they'll hang me by the neck until I'm dead. I didn't do it,' I said, 'You can't let them hang me, can you?' Remember how I told you all I needed was a chance? And you agreed, you sent me to Annie to get the money while you tried to divert the police. But I made sure it was
your
muffler they found on the body, and I made sure to tell my mam it was
you
who'd done those murders, Josh, and as your good true friend I was helping
you.
That way I knew you would have to run away with me. I knew you could never go home again because it would be
you
they would hang. I had you all to myself then. Oh yes, I had you all right. Until you met Miss Francesca Harrison, that is."

He got up and walked drunkenly toward Josh. He knelt and peered into his sightless eyes. "Can you hear what I'm telling you, Josh? I'm tellin' you the truth, my friend. The whole truth and nothing but the truth. And Francie Harrison would have been next if I hadn't lost her. I wanted her to
suffer
first, you see, Josh.
Suffer like you have:
I thought it only fair."

He glanced at the empty bottle in his hand and then hurled it viciously at the wall, flinching as it shattered noisily into a thousand pieces. "If it weren't for her you wouldn't be lying here like this, Josh Aysgarth," he shouted, staring despairingly at him. "It's
Francie
who crippled you.
Francie
who blinded you. It's Francie who took your mind away and made you dumb. It's her who's put you through all these weeks of hell."

He slumped to the floor, his head in his hands. Tears cascaded down his cheeks as he sobbed. "I'll never forget when I came to look for you. The flames were burning all around but I
knew
you were there. I found you and carried you in my arms to the hospital all bloodied and broken. I watched over you while they did what they could. I stayed beside you all those weeks and when I knew you would live and there was nothing more they could do for you, I brought you home. Where you belong, Josh, lad. With me."

He reached for the second bottle of whiskey and unscrewed the lid with trembling hands. "You're mine all right now, Josh," he said, a touch of triumph in his voice, "and I'll never let you go again." Tipping back his head he drank deeply, coughing as the spirit hit his throat. "Aye," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "and when the moment is right the woman who caused you all this pain will join the rest of 'em. In her grave."

***

Jimmy's Bar on Washington had been quickly patched up. It was back in business and doing a roaring trade and whenever Sammy couldn't stand Josh's silence another minute he took himself off there to drown his sorrows in his favorite Irish whiskey, sitting at the scarred wooden bar, staring into his glass, thinking about Josh.

Josh's silence filled their terrible derelict little room with menace. It was as though there were words locked inside him, things he wanted to say that he was struggling with all his might to express. And yet every time Sammy looked at him his eyes had that same vacant stare. Many a time Sammy had stood angrily over him after a few drinks and shouted, "Talk for God's sake, Josh. Come on, if you've got summat to say, then say it."

Tonight his anger had risen to boiling point. He'd picked him up by the collar and shaken him like a dog, screaming at him to speak, to walk, to act like he used to. "Even if you want to tell me you hate me, then say it, for God's sake." But Josh's head just lolled to one side and his horrifying ever-open eyes had stared sightlessly into his like a vision from a nightmare.

Sammy had dropped him back onto the pallet and covered him quickly with the blankets. The room was cold, but he was soaked with sweat. Fear crawled over his skin and he'd run from the derelict house back to the bar. But he couldn't stay away for long—Josh's silent, sinister presence drew him back like a magnet.

He tossed back his drink and ordered another. Josh was neither alive nor dead. It was getting so Sammy was afraid to go back, afraid to see him lying on the filthy pallet, afraid of his own futile anger because Josh never moved and never spoke. He knew he couldn't take it much longer. He would have to do something about him even though it would break his heart. He slid his hand into his pocket and felt the cold steel of the bowie knife. It was waiting there for Josh. One day soon.

It was late when he finally stumbled from the bar. The night sky was black and the clouds so low they seemed to be sitting on the rooftops, but Sammy didn't need a moon to light his way, he knew the route like a homing pigeon. The knife clanked against the bottle of whiskey in his pocket at every step, but he was so lost in his thoughts he didn't even notice. It couldn't be tonight, he told himself. He would spare Josh one more night at least, give him a last chance. He'd pour some more whiskey down him to deaden his pain, though there was no way to even know whether Josh even felt any pain.

He stopped outside the entry, glancing automatically around, but it was too dark to see anything and he stepped inside and groped his way through to the back. The stove had gone out again and the room was in darkness. Grumbling, he stumbled across and put a match to it. Then he lit the candle on the floor and turned to look at Josh.
He wasn't there.

Sammy blinked and looked again. Nothing. He held the candle aloft disbelievingly, but the blanket was tossed onto the floor and the pallet was empty. His spine crawled with fear as he tried desperately to clear his whiskey-fuddled head. Josh had gone, he had gotten up and walked away.
He had left him.
He dropped the candle and spun around, roaring like an enraged animal, but his roar turned into a terrified scream as two men leapt at him from the shadows. They threw him to the ground, twisting his arms behind him, forcing them back and up until he thought he would explode with pain.

"Let him go," a calm voice said. His arms were dropped, his captors stepped back and Sammy peered at them, breathing heavily and groaning with pain. They were Chinese and they had small, lethally sharp hatchets tucked into red sashes at their waists. They had just proven their strength and he knew he was no match for them.

"Sit down," the calm voice ordered, and Sammy quickly obeyed, peering nervously into the shadows behind them.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "What do the Chinese want with me?"

Lai Tsin stepped forward, holding up a lantern. His words were icy. "A confession, Mr. Morris," he replied.

Sammy stared at him, frightened. He looked familiar, but he could have been any one of a thousand faces he saw every day in Chinatown. "What have you done with Josh?" he growled.

"You will never see him again," the man told him in his light singsong voice.

A red rage filled Sammy's brain. It was the kind of rage that made him lose control... they had taken Josh from him, they had hurt him... they had killed him. Snatching the knife from his pocket he suddenly hurled himself at the Chinese man.

Lai Tsin saw the flash of steel in the lamplight, he felt its sharpness split his cheek and then the warm trickle of blood. He stood unmoved as the two hired tongs grappled Sammy to the ground. Then he bent and picked up the knife. He said calmly, "And now you will do as I tell you."

Sammy was on his knees. One of the Chinese held his arms and the other had him by the neck, his hatchet at the ready. Lai Tsin put writing paper, pen, and ink on the floor in front of him. He said, "Pick up the pen and write what I say."

Sammy peered bewilderingly at him and then down at the pen. The man holding his neck jammed his knee painfully into his back and he quickly picked it up, waiting for what came next.

"Let him go," Lai Tsin ordered, and the man released him. He stood behind him and the other stood in front, and Sammy glanced fearfully at them. He shook his head. This was all wrong, it was a nightmare. What did they want from him?
A confession,
the Chinese had said....

He looked up. Lai Tsin's eyes met his and he said, "You will write, 'I, Sammy Morris, confess to the murder of five innocent people.'"

"No," Sammy roared, throwing his pen to the ground. "You'll never get me to write that."

Lai Tsin nodded to the men and they grabbed him again. And this time Sammy felt cold steel against his own neck, sharp as a whisper against his flesh and the sudden warm ooze of his own blood.

"Now you know how your victims felt," Lai Tsin said. "You know their terror and their helplessness. Pick up the pen and write."

Trembling, Sammy did as he was told. "I confess to the murder of my schoolfriend, Murphy," Lai Tsin continued.

Sammy's head shot up and he looked around, panicked. Nobody knew about that, nobody—except Josh. He had confessed it all to blind, silent Josh... he was the only one who could possibly know about Murphy.

"Write!" Lai Tsin commanded. The knife touched his neck again and Sammy quickly scrawled the words, "I confess to the murder of the three women that my friend, Josh Aysgarth, was blamed for."

His breath came in short, frightened gasps. Josh must have been faking, he had heard all the time, he had told on him....

Terrified, he stared at Lai Tsin. His jaw hung slackly and a strangled groan came from his throat.
Now
he knew who this man was. He was the Chinese who had befriended Francie Harrison. It was
she
who had told him all this,
she
who had sent them to make him confess,
she who had taken Josh away from him again.

"Write," Lai Tsin commanded. His voice was cold. Terrified, Sammy bent over the paper and wrote what he said. "Sign it," Lai Tsin ordered.

"Where is Josh? What have you done with him?" Sammy screamed. "You can't take him away from me, we're brothers, we love each other.... I saved him, I looked after him, I always have—"

"Sign," Lai Tsin repeated stonily.

Sammy's hand trembled so much he could barely hold the pen and his signature scrawled unsteadily across the page.

"Sign again," Lai Tsin ordered, "so that we can read it." Sammy felt the hatchet blade threateningly on his neck as he wrote his name again.

Lai Tsin nodded to the men and they grabbed Sammy's arms, wrenching them behind him until he screamed with pain.

Lai Tsin calmly picked up the paper and read it. He nodded, satisfied. He stepped closer to Sammy and looked into his burning eyes for a long moment. They were the eyes of a murderer, a madman who killed without compunction. A man who would kill Francie if he could. "You know what to do with him," he told the two men, turning away.

"No!" Sammy screamed, lurching after him. "No." But Lai Tsin had already disappeared. And then Sammy felt a stinging blow on the back of his head and knew no more.

Later that night, when the darkness was the deepest, the men from the tong carried Sammy Morris in a covered dray to the waterfront and onto a China-bound vessel. The captain pocketed his fee and the crew looked the other way as they thrust him down the ladder into the hold. He was still alive, as Lai Tsin had commanded. But before they left they cut off his manhood.

CHAPTER 21

Six Months Later

It was midnight and Lai Tsin was in his warehouse, checking his stock and making notes for his new orders. Francie had taught him all the words for the goods he sold and he wrote them slowly and precisely.

He shook his head as he put away his notebook. He had been alone all his life—he was used to it and he had never expected more. But there was an emptiness without Francie. Everything had changed when he met her. He had become a person of respect in his own eyes as well as in others. And in return he wanted to take all her burdens onto his own shoulders; he wanted to give her back her youth and beauty; he wanted to give her the world. But first he had to earn it.

He locked the door of his warehouse and walked slowly homeward through San Francisco's dark, quiet streets, thinking about his life. He had never expected to have a future, there was only the present and that needed no planning. Now he knew if he was to achieve his goals he must look further than his shops and warehouses. He had to be more than a mere merchant. He had to become an entrepreneur. He must progress beyond San Francisco, to Hong Kong and China, to Hawaii, India, Russia, and the Orient.