by S. L. Stoner
A minute later they were creeping across the porch. Fong glided soundlessly as if he were moving an inch above the rough boards. Sage struggled to step silently, his boots feeling both heavy and clumsy.
Reaching the door, Sage carefully twisted the doorknob and pushed. It was dark and soundless inside. Even the evilest of doers tended to be asleep at three in the morning. His nose twitched, rebelling against the stale smells of grease, tobacco, dirt, sweat, and mold—poverty’s scent was universal.
Fong followed him into the dark hallway and silently closed the door. They both froze, listening for movement but all remained silent save for the faint sound of distant snoring. They crept up the stairway and down the hallway with Sage hoping that no one would need to use the backyard outhouse. The doorknob to the cabbie’s room didn’t move. The landlady might trust unlocked doors but not so her cabbie tenant.
He and Fong exchanged grimaces of frustration until Sage felt in his pockets for his wallet and found the paper-thin piece of whalebone Franklin had given him. Carefully, he slid the flexible piece of white between the frame and lock. He grinned at Fong when the latch snicked. He eased the door open and peered inside.
It was a small room. Someone lay beneath blankets on a single bed standing against a side wall that contained a second window. The stillness inside contrasted with the snores coming from another room down the hall. He opened the door wider and slipped inside. Fong followed and again closed the door behind them. Enough light came from the curtainless windows that Sage could see that the only other furnishings were a small bureau and a single ladder back chair, both of which stood against the wall opposite the bed.
Sage turned to gesture Fong toward the end of the bed. As he did so, the mound on the bed erupted. Taken by surprise, Sage simply watched as the figure flung the bedside window wide and climbed out. Fong, however, was already in action, pushing Sage aside, jumping onto the bed, and to the window. He started to jump through it but paused as a crash sounded.
No longer immobile, Sage leapt to the window and saw bottles, boards and who knew what else piled below. On top of the mess lay the wooden ladder that the cabbie had knocked down once he’d reached the ground. It was too dangerous to jump.
“We better leave. He make big noise,” Fong observed.
Sure enough, there were sounds of stirring elsewhere in the house and a woman cried out a query. Muffling his voice with his hand, Sage called, “Sorry, dropped something.”
They stood motionless in the cabbie’s room, waiting for the house to settle down. Sage shook his head in disgust and mouthed the word, “sorry,” in Fong’s direction. Fong shrugged in return. “That happen sometimes,” he said.
But never to Fong, Sage thought ruefully. One thing for sure, another Fong lesson is in the works once this is over. What the heck was I thinking—standing there like a stump instead of grabbing him? He answered his own question: Nothing, I was thinking nothing.
“They’re coming!” Glad whispered.
Lucinda quickly lifted the wooden crate and set it in front of the second door, the one she hoped opened into the underground. She sat on the crate and spread her skirt wide. Earlier, she’d tossed all the clothes to one side and flipped the crate to make the seat. Once seated she felt Glad’s small hands on her knees and then he crawled onto her lap. She hugged him close.
The door crashed open and Vera Clark stepped into the room, her big sidekick again holding the lantern high like some perverse Statute of Liberty.
“Oh, how sweet, holding the little kid on your lap while he sleeps. Too bad we don’t have a camera, right Willard?” she said to the big man at her side.
“Shh, you’ll wake him,” Lucinda said quietly, nodding down at the boy who lay with his eyes closed.
Clark shrugged and turned to Willard, “Drop the food bag on the floor, they’ll find it if they get hungry enough.” Turning back to Lucinda she said, “We’ve experienced a bit of a delay. It seems your friends are looking for you. One of our men had to jump out his window and go into hiding. That means you and the kid will be leaving us a bit sooner than planned. I’m closing up shop and moving on.”
Lucinda tried not to show relief at knowing Sage and Fong were getting close, only asking, “Are you’re going to keep us shut up down here? I can understand doing that to an adult, but to a child like him?” When Clark didn’t respond, Lucinda added, “You make me sick.”
“If you’re going to throw up, don’t miss the pot,” Clark said with a ghastly smile.
She turned to Willard. “Come on. It appears Miss Fancy Pants Collins doesn’t care for our company.”
With that, they shut and padlocked the door and the light beneath it rapidly dimmed as they climbed the stairs.
For a moment, Lucinda sat liking the feel of the boy on her lap, all warm, bony and small. But, at the sound of the upstairs door closing, Glad rolled off her and scampered to the stairway door. A moment later he whispered, “They’re gone.” Then he was back beside her, helping to lift the heavy crate to one side. They daren’t leave suspicious tracks by dragging it across the floor.
Lucinda dropped to her hands and knees and groped for the length of pipe she’d been using as a digging tool. Glad was beside her, his fingers searching for the glass jar he was using to toss the dirt she loosened onto the pile they’d hidden beneath the clothes.
Soon they were back at work, her loosening the dirt before the door, him scooping it out with his jar.
She didn’t know if her idea would work but at least it kept them busy and Glad’s spirits seemed to rise with every scoop he tossed. The possibility that the door opened into the underground had given her the idea. What she hoped was that, at some point in the distant past, someone had dug a tunnel from the Clark house’s cellar into the underground beneath the neighboring brick building. Or else that the door simply opened onto a stairway that led outside. Either way, possible escape lay behind it.
If they dug a big enough hole beneath the door, then Glad could slither under it and go for help. They’d never be able to make the hole large enough for her to escape but she hadn’t told him that.
She gave a little squeak of excitement when the pipe slid under the door for the first time. Frantically, she stabbed at the dirt, fury, and hope giving her strength. The gap beneath the door deepened until she was able to thrust the groping fingers of one hand beneath it. She felt more dry dirt. She sat back on her heels.
“It feels dry on the other side. I think that means the door leads into the underground,” she told the invisible boy breathing at her side. “You ever been in the underground, Glad?”
“Nah just heard tales of it. Terry told me to never ever go down into it.”
“Well, I’ve never been in it, either. But Mr. Miner has described it to me.” Lucinda said. “It’s just the open basements of every building on every block. There are tunnels under the street that let you walk from one block to the next. It is very dark, like here. But, Mr. Miner says, you can hear the people above you walking and talking, so it’s not all that scary.”
“With you beside me, I won’t be scared,” came his solemn vow.
She bit her lip but only said, “Come on, we’ve got to hurry. We don’t know when that awful woman will come back.”
Hope invigorated their efforts and soon, the gap beneath the door felt wide and deep enough to Lucinda’s probing fingers. But now the tricky part came, they had to dig far enough out, on both sides of the door so Glad’s body could slip into the hole, beneath the door and wiggle out on the other side. Lucinda lay on her belly gouging out the other side, dust coating her lips and filling her nose. She kept her eyes squeezed shut. She could only imagine what she must look like, a grubby mess of sweat-streaked dirt. She smiled grimly. At least she wasn’t wearing one of her better dresses.
She allowed herself a second smile at the thought o
f how Elvira’s face would look when Lucinda handed her the dress to wash. She could even hear the woman’s voice, “Lawd have mercy, Miss Lucinda. We might as well throw this dress on the burn pile. It will never come clean.”
Lucinda’s eyes stung with a mix of unshed tears and dirt at the thought of her friend’s face. Elmira was brave, loyal and loving. As Mae Clemens once said, “Miss Elvira isn’t afraid to tell anyone and everyone exactly how the cow ate the cabbage but that heart of hers is pure gold.”
And, of course, that thought trail led to Mae Clemens. Most respectable women like her would have nothing to do with a parlor house madam. But Sage’s mother had immediately taken to her, making clear that she thought Lucinda a suitable companion for her son. Sometimes she acted like the mother Lucinda had never had. A few times Lucinda had wondered whether Mae didn’t want her son to . . . No, she wouldn’t think of that. Those kinds of thoughts always sent her to a sad, lonely and despairing place.
Despite her whirling thoughts, Lucinda’s hands and arms kept working as did Glad’s. When she felt she’d loosened enough dirt, he took her place to scoop it out. Finally, she believed they’d cleared enough space for Glad to slip out the other side. Now came the tricky part. They had to make enough space on their side of the door for him to slip under it. She feared that her skirt and the crate wouldn’t be able to hide a hole that big.
“Let’s eat and drink something before we finish the job,” she said to him. They lifted the crate before the door. Glad retrieved the bag Willard had dropped on the floor. It offered bread, cheese and a jar of water. It tasted good although the bread was stale and dry with sawdust, the cheese hard, and the water tainted with dill pickle juice. Lucinda would have felt grateful except she knew Clark’s only motivation was to keep them healthy enough to sell.
They chewed in silence before Lucinda finally said, “This is the dangerous part. You need to stand by the door to the upstairs and listen for any sound of them returning. I’ll dig like crazy.”
She reached out in the dark and felt for his hand. “Glad, you are going to have to go into the underground without me.”
“No, no. I won’t leave you.” Fear and tears thickened his voice.
“Sweetie, I can’t fit under that door. It’s going to be hard for you to get to the other side and you are much smaller.”
“We can dig some more!” Panic edged his words.
“Glad, you know we don’t have time to make that hole big enough before Clark and that Willard fella come back. You have to go for help. You have to rescue me.”
“I don’t know where to go.”
“You’re going to take the pipe we’ve been digging with. Hold it in front of you like a blind man so you don’t run into things. Listen to the sounds of people overhead. Look for light. Mr. Miner says many Chinese live and work in the underground. You’ll see their light through cracks in plank walls and around doors. Knock on one of those doors. If you see men walking with lanterns hide and don’t make a sound. They might be shanghaiers. Only go to Chinese men.”
“Chinese? Why would they help us?”
“They will help because Mr. Miner is friends with them and because I will tell you three words. I want you to repeat them over and over so that when you do find a Chinese person, you will say those words. That’s all you have to do.”
“Are they magic words?” Glad sounded puzzled and hopeful at the same time.
Lucinda laughed. Fong would be tickled at the idea his name was magic. “Yes, Glad, ‘magic words’. Here they are: ‘Fong. Kam. Tong.’. I want you to say them over and over to yourself.”
They lifted the crate away from the door and she began digging. Glad went over to the door and she could hear him softly repeating Mr. Fong’s name. At last, she decided she’d made the hole large enough. “Glad, honey. Come over here and lay on your back. Let’s see if you can scoot under the door, I’ll push from this side.”
He crossed the floor, laid down and began to wiggle into the hole. With her fingers on his chest, he started inching his way under the door, head first. “Ouch, I scraped my nose,” he said.
“Turn your face sideways,” she instructed. She grasped his two thin thighs and said, “Tell me when your head is on the other side and I’ll push you through. Keep your shoulders and arms down.”
Seconds later, his muffled voice sounded from the other side of the door. “Push!”
She pushed until his coat buttons snagged. Carefully she unbuttoned them and spread his coat open. Her fingers told her that his clearance was less than a quarter of an inch. She pushed again. This time his torso slid under so that only his thighs and feet were on her side. They’d done it! Such intense joy filled her that she was surprised it didn’t light up the room. She felt his heels dig in and he gave a mighty ‘oomph’ as they both pushed.
He was out. She leaned down and shoved the pipe through. “Here’s the pipe. Get away, hurry, hurry. Find and go through at least three tunnels before you look for help. Try to go straight out from the door. That’s east. Go straight and find two tunnels heading east. Once you’re through them, you’ll need to turn right and go straight again, through at least three tunnels. One will be very long. That’s Burnside street. Two more tunnels after that, you should find some Chinese people.”
“Okay,” came the small voice. “I’m sorry I’m leaving you.” His flailing hand reached under the door to find her’s. They held on momentarily until his was withdrawn. She heard the sound of footsteps stumbling away, a distant thud and a quiet curse and then no sound at all.
She sat back on her heels. Then she went to work using the jar to rapidly fill the hole. Once she’d filled in enough that the crate could cover it, she started on the pile of clothes. Wadding some dresses into a roll she covered them with more clothes, trying to make it look like a small boy slept beneath them. The longer it took them to realize Glad had escaped, the safer they were. Having done the best she could, she rested, letting her imagination trail the small boy as he stumbled through the darkness, his eyes and ears searching. Lucinda wrapped her arms around her abdomen and bent over, fighting the fear and finally letting loose the tears she’d been holding at bay. Had she sent that child into even greater danger?
Twenty One
“We’re not finding her anywhere!” Sage’s hands shook as he raised the coffee cup to his lips. “And now we’ve lost the cabbie.” He’d told Mae about the cabbie jumping out the window and eluding his Chinese watchers. He’d also confessed to freezing and impeding Fong’s efforts at capture.
“Don’t worry, we’ll find her. Our Lucinda’s resourceful. Wouldn’t surprise me if she escapes all on her own.” Mae’s tone carried only optimism.
“It’s been over a day. I am sure that Clark woman’s involved but Fong’s cousins say everything is normal at her houses. Besides, Fong said they drove Lucinda away in the cab. They didn’t rush her across the street and into the house.”
Mae could think of nothing more encouraging to say because her fear regarding Lucinda’s safety was also growing despite the brave show she was putting on for her distraught son. Maybe they had lost Lucinda for good. Hush those thoughts, she silently chastised herself. Fear wouldn’t help, only doing. So she continued, “Lucinda is strong and she’s survived worse things, far worse things than you or I can imagine. Don’t you dare give up. She never did, even when most folks would have.”
Her words triggered a sharp glance from her son. Lucinda had always been very private about the years before he’d met her. Guess maybe she hadn’t been so private when talking to his mother. For some reason, that realization sent a frisson of jealousy through him.
Mae saw the expression on his face and interpreted it correctly, “There are some things that are easier to tell another woman,” she said softly.
Sage said nothing though his imagination stirred with the image of Lucinda as a child and the possible horrors
others had inflicted on her.
“Fong’s cousins are watching the ships and the trains?” Mae asked, her question a welcome intrusion into his thoughts.
Sage stirred. “Yup, he has men posted on the wharf and at the station looking for any woman being manhandled aboard.”
Mae wanted to stay and comfort him but she couldn’t. “Millie Trumbull came by. She said Carrie Lynne and little Emma Jane are both healthy, no TB.”
“Well, that’s good news. I think Terry Tobias is also okay given how hard he works. I haven’t seen him cough, act sickly, or show a fever,” Sage said.
“Good. I want to take the children to see their mother today. I’d like to take Terry too, but that would mean telling him that you’re involved.”
Sage raised a weary hand to wave away that particular worry. “Doesn’t matter now. I’m not working at Speedy anymore. It’s high time Terry learns that there’s a lot of people looking for his brother. Maybe it’ll raise his spirits. He might even be able to sleep once he knows.”
Terry and Matthew were both in their room at Franklin’s boarding house. Matthew was quietly reading on his bed while Terry had been trying to sleep but he’d mostly been tossing and turning. Both sat up at the sound of people climbing the stairway.
At a soft tapping on the door, Matthew jumped to open it. Mae Clemens stood in the doorway holding Carrie Lynne’s hand. Behind her stood Millie Trumbull, holding baby Emma Jane.
Terry leapt from his bed. Joy and fear raced across his face as he looked from his siblings to the two women. Mae felt a surge of pity and rushed to reassure him. “Don’t worry, Terry. We’re not here to take you back to the Children’s Aid Society. Mrs. Trumbull and I are here to take you children to see your mother in the hospital.”
As the five of them rode the Oregon Water and Power train to the sanatorium, Mae explained how Mr. Miner had met Glad and witnessed his kidnapping. “That’s why Mr. Miner has been working at Speedy Messenger. We figured that you might know something about the kidnapping but were too afraid to talk about it.”