Searching for Home (Spies of Chicago Book 1)

by Jessica Keller

  “Give me a chance to explain myself.”

  “I can’t believe this.” She covered her face as she paced. “When I ran into Moody Church crying, you stood up for Lewis! No wonder. You two are birds of a feather—both backstabbing liars.” She stopped and jutted her finger at him. “This is why your girlfriend left you, isn’t it?”

  He nodded.

  “And you had the audacity to make her sound like the bad person. She left me when I was going through a hard time.” Whitney mimicked Nate’s voice.

  “I never meant to lie to you. It just hadn’t come up yet.” Looking down, he toed the pavement. “The more I got to know you, the more I didn’t want to lose you. I was afraid you’d walk away, too, when you found out.”

  She slammed her hands onto her hips. “What did you even do?”

  “It’s a long story.” He looped his hand on the back of his neck.

  “See, you won’t even tell me.”

  Nate grabbed her by the shoulders, his eyes wide. “I will. I’ll tell you everything. I just can’t right now. I have to go in there and finish up with Beth. She has other people to check in on today.”

  “You mean other felons.” Whitney shrugged away from his hold. “What were your charges?”

  He sighed and put his hands out in surrender. “There are three. One for contributing to the delinquency of a juvenile, another for having a large amount of marijuana near a school, and the last was for having other controlled drugs in my possession at the time.”

  “You were selling drugs to kids? That’s … don’t talk.” she froze Nate with a glare when he opened his mouth. “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say and I want nothing to do with you. I can’t even stand to be here with you right now.”

  When Whitney climbed into the car she couldn’t get the key in the ignition because her hands were shaking too hard. Cradling the wheel in her arms, she slumped and let sobs rock through her body. Would she ever be more than the perpetuator of her ancestors’ mistakes? Blessedly, Nate had gone back into the building, but she didn’t want to stay in the lot too much longer for fear he’d come out for a repeat performance.

  Wiping her nose on her sleeve, she sat up.

  She’d tried so hard not to be like Mom. That’s why keeping Owen had seemed so important until last night. But after everything, she’d still fallen for a man with a terrible past. A felon? Even Mom didn’t usually stoop that low.

  A glance at the clock told her Gran wouldn’t be home from her senior walking group yet, and Whitney didn’t want to go home. She’d already told work she wouldn’t be in until Monday, and going to Owen was out of the question.

  Only Ellen and James could help her mood. She pawed through the papers in her backpack. A week ago, Nate jotted down the address for the History Speaks museum in Wheaton. They had planned to travel to Wheaton and look through the Ingram stuff together tomorrow, but that wouldn’t be happening.

  With a stroke of success she found the napkin with the information. She punched the address into the GPS and glanced at the name Gloria.

  Forty-five minutes later, she pulled onto Main Street in Wheaton. The SUV’s wheels made a thumping sound as she crossed over the bricked downtown portion of the quaint town. She turned the car left when the GPS prompted her, and then parallel parked in front of a Victorian-style home. With one last peek at her puffy cheeks in the mirror, she left the Pilot.

  Mums lined the walkway to the old house. After she climbed the creaky steps to the wraparound porch, she pressed through the front door. The tiny bell sang out a greeting, and musty air engulfed her.

  A dark-haired woman rose from her desk. “Good afternoon. Welcome to History Speaks. My name is Gloria, please let me know if there’s some way I can help you.”

  “Hi. Um, my name is Whitney Dean. I believe a friend of mine called here and had you set aside items dealing with a family by the name of Ingram.” Whitney glanced at the photos of a capsized boat on the wall. A banner proclaimed the horrors of the Eastland Tragedy, the greatest maritime disaster in Chicago history.

  Gloria tapped her desk. “Yes. A nice boy named Nate Holland. Follow me.”

  Whitney wanted to tell Gloria that Nate was not a nice boy—‘cause a felon couldn’t be categorized that way. But she bit her tongue.

  Gloria led her to a small private room. One paper box sat on the table. Whitney ripped off the sticky note on the box that had Nate’s name written on it.

  “If you need anything else, just let me know.” Gloria smiled as she backed out of the room.

  “Thank you.” Whitney sank into a chair and pulled off the box top.

  A stack of photos fanned over the top of a pile of papers. She gathered the pictures into a pile and flipped through them slowly. They weren’t the normal straight-faced, old-fashioned photos one sees in history books. The first one showed Lewis and Ellen as children, beaming ear to ear with a baby lying across their laps—Grace? The next had two boys with their arms thrown across each other’s shoulders and their heads tipped back in laugher. It could only have been James and Lewis. She found one of James and Ellen. Both must have been teenagers when the picture was taken. Ellen had a look of pure murder on her face and James wore a half-smile. Whitney imagined he’d just teased her about something. Or called her half-pint.

  What happened to them?

  Her hand brushed against a frame. The metal prickled her fingers as she tugged it out of the box. It was a sweet shot of Ellen, James, and Lewis all sitting on a fallen log together. Lewis sat in the middle, his arms around his sister and best friend.

  If she could have, Whitney would have reached through time and strangled him.

  Instead, she shook the frame violently. “Did you kill them? What did you do?”

  A loud cracking sound brought her to her senses. Goodness, she’d gone off the deep end. Snapped and started yelling at a dead man. What a long, rough week she’d had.

  Whitney glanced into the hallway, hoping Gloria hadn’t heard. When she released the frame the back fell off and a piece of paper fluttered to the ground. She scooped the page up and unfolded it with great care.

  The words could have only been written by Lewis.

  Dear sister, forgive me.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Chicago, May 3, 1886

  James trudged up the steps to Grief’s Hall with a bulletin crinkled in his hand. The chill evening air bit clear to his bones.

  In the main meeting area, dim light puddled around four lanterns set on a table at the front of the room. Wide-eyed men shuffled in after him. James moved to the far wall to leave room for the rest.

  He pulled his straw hat down to shadow his face. Not likely anyone would recognize him here. But with murder and mayhem pumping through the laborers’ veins, he wouldn’t take the chance.

  Unfolding the leaflet, he squinted to read the horrible message again.

  Revenge! Workingmen to Arms!

  The grand scale meeting was scheduled for tomorrow—May 4—Haymarket Square, but operatives with the Cygnus Brotherhood had heard whispers of the gathering of dedicated anarchists amassing at Grief’s Hall.

  James shook his head. Fools. The death of six men at the strike on McCormick’s earlier in the evening had served to inspire them to fight harder. One of the anarchists must have rushed straight from the firefight to the printing presses. Resurrecting Paul Revere’s ride, an unknown man took to horseback. He pounded through the streets of the working district, leaving flyers strewn in his wake.

  Hugh appeared beside James, wearing his old man disguise. The ear trumpet seemed a bit much.

  The Englishman lowered one brow. “Have you noted anything suspicious so far?”

  James shook his head. “They’re scared. Some of their friends have been killed today. How do you expect them to react?”

  “Yes. I’ve always said fear was one of the two greatest motivators. Who knows what they will do now.” Hugh tangled his fingers into his faux beard.

 
“And you said love was the other? Motivator, I mean.”

  Hugh’s gaze raked across the room. “Of course. You should know that one well enough.”

  James crossed his arms. “And you? What do you know of love?”

  “We’ve been through this. Don’t make me repeated myself. I can still toss you out of the Brotherhood.”

  A futile threat.

  James would leave on his own accord once his personal mission ended. “It’s just … I believed you at first, but when you’re working—it’s not love that seems to push you. Not fear either.”

  “Shh. The speeches are starting.”

  He glanced around, always in search for Lewis’s profile.

  The room grew muggy. People crammed elbow-to-elbow within the four walls. Body odor and the smell of alcohol hung thick in the air. If he could have taken off his hat and fanned himself, James would have. But he’d forgotten to tact on an incognito beard or mustache before dashing from the house.

  Attempting to pay attention to the meeting, James leaned against the back wall, but the man in front pawned more of the same tired rhetoric.

  James slipped his hand into his coat pocket and rested his fingers against the letter that had been forwarded to Hugh’s residence earlier that afternoon.

  How had his father so eloquently stated it? We demand that you cease your cavorting and return home at once.

  How could his father consider accompanying a family friend to Chicago cavorting when his parents had only just returned from a two-month excursion in Europe? But it would be best not to take that line of argument against his father.

  James crumpled the letter.

  Leaving the city without insuring Ellen’s protection was out of the question. His little half-pint had experienced one too many brushes with death in the past week. If only he could find a way to stay in Chicago until she boarded the train home to Wheaton. He’d gag her and haul her over his shoulder caveman-style if necessary. Actually, that plan had merit….

  How long would Ellen’s mother permit her to stay? Ellen could have another month in the city for all he knew.

  James cupped his forehead, pressing his thumb and pointer finger against his temples.

  His father wanted him at the bank as of next Monday. Did the whole honor thy father commandment still hold sway over a twenty-three year old man who could be living in his own house, with his own family if he so wished?

  But James didn’t have his own residence. And the job at the bank—his father’s bank—supplied his income.

  Hugh nudged him. “Do you see that man?” He gestured to the person standing in front of them.

  “Since I’ve yet to go blind, of course I see him.” He smelled him, too. Like the man had bathed in fried livers and onions, and added a dab of rotten egg scent behind his ears as well.

  With a pointed look, Hugh continued. “Did you note the bottom of his trousers?”

  James rolled his eyes. “I’m not in the habit of appraising other men from toe to noggin.”

  “In our line of work, you should.”

  “You mean your work. I’m just a lackey.” But James looked then.

  The bottom third of the man’s tattered brown trousers were covered in a red liquid. What appeared to be a poor excuse for shoes were also slicked with a deep burgundy color that shimmered with wetness.

  Something clicked in James’s mind. “Blood? Do you think he—”

  “No. He didn’t kill any humans today. But I would guess he works on the slaughter house floors. They say the place is the closest experience to hell in our finite world.”

  “The plants near the stockyards?”

  Hugh nodded. “Not to mention the filth they dispose of in the river. I’ve never been into the factory. I don’t think I ever want to. They say the killing floors are plastered with layer upon layer of dried blood.”

  Imagining the factory brought a wave of queasiness to James’s gut. “That’s disgusting.”

  “That’s the life some of these people lead. Can you imagine ten hours a day listening to the piercing shrieks of livestock being butchered alive?”

  “And yet—”

  “Keep your voice down,” Hugh warned.

  “And yet you’re against their cause to better their lives?”

  “No.” Hugh worked his jaw back and forth. “It’s not the cause that I oppose. It’s the means of a select few.”

  Hugh jutted his chin toward the speaker who blasted his fist into the podium at the front of the room.

  The man’s voice rose. “—we will then bring down the telegraph lines. Without the means to send word to the Governor or to summon the Illinois militia, Chicago will fall to us easily. Think, friends, if we can grasp control of this city, we’ll hold the power of the Nation’s food distribution in our hands. Where is every train in the country routed to?”

  “Chicago!” the crowd hollered.

  “Who butchers the meat for the rest of the United States of America?”

  “We do!” the voices lifted.

  “And where is every ounce of grain sorted?”

  “Here!”

  “With the city in our command, we’ll show the tyrants living in their mansions on Prairie Avenue what fair treatment really means.”

  Hugh cleared his throat and lifted his voice to address the crowd. “And how do you believe we go about such an undertaking?” He had dropped his pitch a few levels, his old-man voice flawless.

  Although, James would have to remind Hugh not to use words like undertaking. Too English. Too Prairie Avenue. People might catch on.

  A few of the men gathered must have thought that, too. They tossed hardened looks over their shoulders as they grumbled about how idiotic the elderly could be.

  The interruption hadn’t fazed the speaker. “We’ll storm the police stations and raid their arsenals. If we can’t get in, we’ll bomb the buildings. And when they strike out against us—we’ll shoot them.”

  ***

  Ellen peeked into Uncle Garret’s office. The smell of fresh ink and a lingering trace of pipe smoke greeted her. Waning afternoon light splashed onto the Persian carpet. He lounged behind his newspaper.

  “Excuse me, Uncle.” Ellen smiled, even though she knew he wouldn’t look her way.

  “Do you need something?”

  She knit her fingers together. “Mayor Harrison and his wife are here to see you.”

  The pages rustled as Uncle Garret flipped over a section of articles. “Yes. Some sort of dinner function. Wish we didn’t have to accompany them.”

  “I would think arriving in the Mayor’s carriage would be considered an honor.”

  “Yes, yes.” He slapped the paper onto his desk and stood. “But with the madness in the streets the past few days I’m not altogether comfortable with the idea of traveling beside the man they’d all like to oust from office.”

  Trying to catch a glimpse of the news articles, Ellen drew forward. “Are you speaking of the strikers?”

  He looked her in the eyes. “What do you know about strikers?”

  Not wanting to lie to his face, she breezed over to the rows of books on the wall. “Well, the papers have been covering some of the uprisings.”

  “Have you been reading the newspaper after me?”

  No. Sometimes she snuck downstairs early and read it before him. “I figured if you’re not reading it, then I’m able to. I believe it’s good to be knowledgeable on current affairs.”

  “You figured wrong.” Her uncle trooped across the room and held the door open for her. She brushed past him on the way into the hall. His voice softened. “A lady your age has no need to fill her head with dangers and stories that might feed your imagination.”

  “Shouldn’t I be informed?”

  “That’s what husbands, fathers, and uncles are for. It’s pointless to worry about situations that will never touch you. A woman of good breeding doesn’t need to fret about things like rioting and striking. No man of good breeding will want to di
scuss any of these matters with you.”

  They entered the front room. Mrs. Harrison and Aunt Louisa were engrossed in conversation on the velveteen cherry-wood sofa. Their tittering didn’t leave an opening for an interruption.

  Mayor Harrison shook Uncle Garret’s hand. “What took you two so long?”

  “We were speaking about the local events that have occurred this week,” Ellen piped up.

  Uncle Garret’s eyebrows bunched together as he shot her a murderous look. “Not that we understand the complexities of what’s occurring, Mayor. We’ll leave that to the government officials.”

  “It is what you elect me to handle.” The mayor inclined his head to Ellen. “What a shame at McCormick’s yesterday.”

  “What happened?” Ellen chose to look at the mayor instead of her uncle—who appeared to be turning a blotchy shade of red.

  He summed up the information Ellen already knew from firsthand experience. Hearing his side was interesting. “The police had to use force against them. Who knows what the strikers would have done to the non-union workers if they hadn’t? But I’m not happy about the loss of six lives. Those poor souls.”

  Her blood turned cold. “People died?”

  “Yes.” Mayor Harrison popped his hat back onto his head and adjusted it in the mirror. “I’m fearful that more will be killed tonight as well.”

  Ellen laid a hand on his arm. “What’s happening tonight?”

  “One of my police inspectors reported to my office this morning. It seems the strikers didn’t experience enough discouragement yesterday. They plan to meet at Haymarket Square tonight.” He leaned closer. “Between us, I’m worried it’ll turn violent.”

  Uncle Garret cleared his throat. “Which is exactly the reason my niece won’t be accompanying us on our outing.”

  Mrs. Harrison burst to her feet. “Miss Ingram’s not joining us? But they said people won’t start amassing until after seven this evening. Surely we’ll be safe inside by then.”