The Dark Farewell (5 page)
25
Josh Lanyon
guards and hoodlum strikebreakers from Chicago. Pride goeth before a fall. That’s what the Good Book says. If anyone should have reaped what he sowed, it was that bastard. But he walked away scot-free like the rich always do.”
“The coroner had it right when he said the real criminals were the officials of the Southern Illinois Coal Company.”
There was a muttered chorus of agreement.
Monty said, “The miners stood their trial and they were acquitted fair and square, but you’d never
know it to hear these bastards talk. Look at that union-hating jackass Harding and his baloney about ‘free Americans have the right to work without anyone’s leave.’ He and the big-shot mine owners figure if they can bust the UMWA in Illinois then they can bust any union in the country. Or that other bastard Pershing and his bullshit about ‘inoffensive people having the right to earn a livelihood.’ Inoffensive, my ass! It’s easy to stand in judgment when you’ve never been hungry or had to see your kids go hungry.”
Flynn was silent. He had a lot of respect for Black Jack Pershing, but he’d covered a mine disaster in his time. And he remembered hearing Gulling talk about the mine conditions before the unions: working in water up to your hips, gas-filled rooms, cave-ins, and all that for a buck fifty a day—a buck fifty if you were lucky.
Rough justice. That was the consensus of Milo’s pool hall and soft drink parlor and a couple of hours of talk and drink didn’t sway them an iota. They were resentful but not remorseful. And there was still a lot of bitterness and hatred boiling not far below the polite surface.
When he figured he’d learned all that there was to learn at Milo’s, Flynn got in the Model T and drove out to Moake Crossing, about half a mile from where on June 21st the previous summer, the miners and a mob of about five hundred—and growing—had finally forced W.J. Lester’s mine to shut and the workers
to surrender.
This was the road the miners had marched their prisoners down after their surrender. This was the
place where McDowell, the mine boss, had been taken off the road and shot to death.
It was a harmless-looking place on a sunny July afternoon. Nothing but farm fields and forest. It
seemed a long way from town. The sky was cloudless and the air so still you could hear the hum of every insect.
Flynn put the flivver in gear and continued on. He had read the accounts many times. The prisoners
were walked along the railroad tracks, their arms in the air until they came to the powerhouse. Then, the story went, the Union President Hugh Willis supposedly drove up and warned the miners not to kill their prisoners on an open road where women and children might see.
Maybe that part of the story was the fantasy Willis and others claimed. Certainly nothing had been
proven against Willis. But it was no fantasy that the strikebreakers and guards had been herded north of the powerhouse, across the tracks to a narrow strip of wood and brush. The mob pushed their captives into the 26
The Dark Farewell
trees, and about a hundred yards from the treeline they came to a fence with four strands of barbed wire. A big bearded man in overalls yelled out, “Here’s where you scab bastards run the gauntlet. Let’s see how fast you gutter-bums can run all the way back to Chicago.”
And then the mob had opened fire.
When Flynn came to the spot, he pulled to the side of the road and got out, walking across to the
dense woods and green brush. The pound of his shoe soles on the dry ground sounded unnaturally loud in the unfriendly silence. He was not a superstitious man, but the place had a queer, haunted feel. The barbed wire glinted barbarous and cruel in the unforgiving sunlight. It reminded him of other barbed wire and other blood-drenched ground.
The undergrowth crackled, but when he glanced around, nothing was there.
High overhead on a tree branch, a black crow called out in its harsh, raucous voice.
27
Chapter Four
On the way back to the boarding house, Flynn stopped and bought an electric fan at the hardware
store. He parked the Model T in the garage and carried the fan inside the house. In the parlor he could hear Mrs. Hoyt complaining; he didn’t catch the words, but he knew the tone. Her daughter’s voice murmured in acquiescence.
Farther down the hall, in the study where Gus had typed his Pulitzer prize-winning series of articles on the national coal strike in 1919, he could hear Dr. Pearson and Mr. Devereux bickering, but it sounded mostly amiable.
“David,” Amy called.
Flynn glanced around. Amy was coming his way, a fair-haired, broad-shouldered man in tow. The
man carried a suitcase in each hand. For one shocked instant, Flynn thought the man was Paul. Then reality reasserted itself. Aside from the light hair and the broad shoulders, the man didn’t resemble Paul at all.
“David, this is Mr. Lee. He works for the Queen of Egypt Medical Supply Company and stays with us
regularly.” To Mr. Lee, she said, “Mr. Flynn is an old family friend.”
Mr. Lee’s tilted green eyes met Flynn’s briefly. He looked away then his gaze returned and locked.
He shifted his samples bag and offered his hand and a smile. David shifted the fan he was carrying and shook hands. He smiled back. Mr. Lee was blond and boyishly handsome.
“Casey.”
“David.”
“Well now, I’ll leave you two to get acquainted. Mrs. Greer helps me out in the kitchen, but her
daughter is ill and she had to leave this morning.” Amy was already turning. “I need to get back to work.”
She hurried away, and Flynn and Casey Lee were left to climb the stairs to the second level on their own.
“Medical supplies?” Flynn asked. He thought he recognized a fellow veteran. It was the way Casey
held himself and the quick, no-nonsense way he’d sized Flynn up. During the war there hadn’t been time to waste.
Casey laughed. “Yep. I’m the original snake oil salesman. We sell everything from elixirs to remedies for warts and asthma.” He gave Flynn a sideways smile.
“You must travel around quite a bit.”
“I’m on the road pretty much all the time these days. I was in Marion yesterday.” He grimaced. “Day
before that I was in Murphysboro.”
The Dark Farewell
“Yes?”
“The whole of Jackson County is talking about those murders. People are pretty worked up.”
“I bet.”
They reached the second level. Casey said, “Amy lays a mighty fine table. I always eat too much. I
was thinking of going out for a walk after supper.”
“I have the same problem,” Flynn said. “Maybe I’ll join you.”
Casey smiled. He turned left to go down the hall to his room and Flynn turned right.
He was still smiling as he opened the door to his room. The smile vanished at the sight of Julian
Devereux lying on his bed.
Julian wore a sumptuous plum-colored dressing gown. At the squeak of the door hinges, he turned his
head and looked up under his lashes, smiling with deliberate seduction. “I knew you were back.”
Flynn closed the door and leaned back against it. “What the hell are you doing in here?” he asked,
keeping his voice down.
“Waiting for you.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“It’s my time to waste.” Julian sat up, the purple robe falling open to reveal a sleek, honey-colored body. “Although I shouldn’t want to waste much more of it.”
Flynn shook his head in disbelief. “You must be insane.” He truly didn’t know what to make of this
young maniac. He had neither scruples nor morals. Worse, he didn’t appear to have any commonsense. He added deliberately, “Or stupid.”
As it slowly sunk in on him that Flynn was serious, Julian’s smile faded, lost its confident curve. His bold gaze darkened with something like hurt. “Why would you say that? The moment I saw you I saw that you were just like me. That you wanted this too.”
“I’m
nothing
like you,” Flynn said with quiet intensity. “Now get out of my room.”
Julian continued to stare at him with those wide, dark eyes. “I’m not wrong.” He spoke with a
stubborn sort of dignity. It was almost disarming.
Flynn, however, had no intention of being disarmed. “You damned fool. You’re going to get us both
arrested. Or killed.”
Julian shook his head. “People don’t notice unless you bring attention to yourself. They see what they expect to see.”
He said it quite seriously, and Flynn had to laugh. “
The Magnificent Belloc
? I hate to break it to you, Devereux, but you have a way of bringing attention to yourself.” He tipped his head toward the doorway.
“Get the hell out. I won’t ask you nicely again.”
29
Josh Lanyon
“Fisticuffs would draw the attention you’re trying to avoid,” Julian pointed out, but he rose from the bed, straightening his dressing gown without haste. Flynn had to hand it to him; he wore his own skin with a panache most men only managed when fully and expensively clothed.
Flynn stepped away from the door, intending to open it. Instead, he found his arms full of Julian. He pressed his slender, taut body to Flynn’s and wound his arms around Flynn’s neck. Flynn could feel the other man’s sizable erection poking through the silk of his dressing gown, and his own body automatically responded.
That was biology. It was pointless to argue with it. He tried, though, opening his mouth to blast Julian.
The sound that escaped him was surprisingly without force, and then Julian’s lips, soft and honey-sweet, touched Flynn’s. It was a delicate kiss, skilful but subtle. The body in Flynn’s arms felt slight and almost feminine, but the aggression, the hunger, was all male.
Flynn’s own body tingled with uncomfortable awareness. It was all he could do not to respond to that kiss with a blaze of hunger. Instead, he grabbed Julian’s wrists, forced his arms from about his neck, and thrust him away none too gently.
Julian staggered, but caught himself. He glared at Flynn. His chiseled nostrils actually flared.
“I don’t understand you, David.”
“I’m making it as clear as I can. I’m not interested.”
“No one will know—”
“I’m not interested in
you
,” Flynn cut in. “I don’t even like you.”
Julian considered this, blinking, puzzled. Flynn opened the door, glanced down the empty hallway.
“The coast is clear. Go.”
Face averted, Julian went without another word.
Flynn closed the door. He was tempted to lock it, but that would be ridiculous. He made room for the new fan on the dresser top, plugged it in and waited for the sparks to fly. But the fan came on smooth and quiet, the metal propellers flying fast enough to chop an unwary finger off, and a wonderful breeze washed through the warm room, erasing the faint spicy scent of Julian’s cologne.
~ * ~
The entire household gathered for the simple, hearty supper of navy beans cooked with chunks of
tender ham. There was fresh corn bread and cold, tangy coleslaw. Plenty of everything. David still vividly remembered the deprivations of the war years, and he gave thanks with everyone else at the table. He noticed that even Julian and Mr. Devereux politely murmured along with the mealtime prayer.
As though feeling his gaze, Julian’s lashes lifted and he gave Flynn a long, silent look. Flynn looked away.
“Were you in the war, Mr. Lee?” Mrs. Hoyt inquired.
30
The Dark Farewell
“Yes, ma’am. I was in France with the 5th Marine Regiment.”
“Belleau Wood?” Flynn asked.
Casey met his eyes and nodded.
“My son fell at the Battle of the Argonne.”
“Sorry to hear it, ma’am.”
“My son won the Medal of Honor.”
“I’m sure he was a very brave man.”
Mr. Devereux cleared his throat noisily. “Even if Julian’s health had permitted, we are firm believers in nonviolence.”
Casey raised his brows. “Well, Julian’s only a kid,” he said politely.
Flynn glanced at Julian. He was very quiet, his face expressionless as he replied, “I’m twenty-six.”
“That so?” Casey said, showing the surprise Flynn felt. “No offense intended.”
Julian did not respond, his attention focused on his plate. Flynn felt an unexpected stab of sympathy for him.
“Lordy, I know what it is to suffer from ill health,” Mrs. Hoyt said, and she proceeded to describe in detail her many physical woes.
Joan sank lower in her chair, and Julian had apparently removed himself to the astral plane, but Amy listened politely and made sympathetic comments although she had surely heard all this a hundred times.
Dr. Pearson contributed with his own occasional acerbic advice, and Casey cheerfully recommended
several Queen of Egypt products with miraculous healing properties.
He was personable and quite a talker; Flynn bet he was a great success in his line of work.
When Mrs. Hoyt had worn out the topic of her own ill health, she asked about the news around the
county, and Casey admitted he had been in Murphysboro two days earlier.
“Why that was right around the time of those brutal murders,” Mrs. Hoyt exclaimed. Joan brightened
and the rest of the table eyed Casey expectantly—except for Julian who continued to stare at his plate as though he could foretell the future in the navy beans.
“Well, I was only there when they found the last girl, Millie Hesse,” Casey hastened to say.
“Although the whole county’s been talking about it ever since the first murder.”
“Anna Spiegel,” Joan said eagerly. “She was the first. Then Maria Campanella, then Millie Hesse.”
“I knew Anna,” Casey said. “That is to say, she was a regular customer of mine.”
“Was she in ill health?” Mrs. Hoyt asked with interest.
“No. Not that I know of. Anna used our beauty products. Our lip salves and rouge papers and kohl
