Deadman's Fury (The Deadman Series Book 2)

by Linell Jeppsen

  Matthew kept his face schooled into a haughty frown. “Yes, and we do not like to be kept waiting!” he snapped.

  The man almost touched his nose to the floor in humility, then sprang upright and said, “Prease, come with me.”

  He moved swiftly through a doorway and down a dim, cluttered hall to a set of stairs. As soon as Matthew entered the hallway, he heard a tide of voices ebb and flow like the briny seas only a few blocks away. There were other, stranger sounds as well; high-pitched warbling flutes, explosive laughter and the percussive rhythm of exotic drumbeats.

  They followed the Chinese man downstairs and waited while he opened a set of double doors into a vast chamber. As soon as the doors opened, Matthew tried to hide his shock at the bizarre spectacle that met his eyes. Gerald gripped his son-in-law’s arm and murmured, “Well, well. It seems that Muhammad has moved his mountain…here.”

  Indeed, Matthew silently agreed. He had no way of knowing whether the Chinese who sponsored this affair were catering to the sheik’s desires or if the sheik himself had brought the Mideastern bazaar to Seattle’s wharf for the occasion. But he felt as though he and his friends had just been transported to the Arabian sands.

  Staring through the haze of smoke from coppery braziers, large hookahs, smoldering cheroots, and tobacco pipes, Matthew saw that at least a hundred men and women had come for the auction. There were dusky-skinned Asians in attendance as well as Americans, Englishmen, haughty Spaniards and foppish Frenchmen. A group of Native Americans stood apart from the others—buckskins, elaborate chest-plates and feathered braids announced their intention to either buy or sell.

  A group of fur-clad mountain men clustered around a small, fenced enclosure, shouting encouragement to those betting on the fighting dogs locked in mortal battle within. Even as he watched, Matthew heard a high-pitched, agonized howl when one of the dogs locked its jaws on the other’s throat. Human cries of delight and growls of dismay rose into the air as the vanquished animal bled to death on the floor at their feet. Matthew saw men dismantling the makeshift cage and noticed a teenaged boy lifting the dead dog—a thin but lovely German shepherd—into his arms as tears streamed down his cheeks.

  The sheriff turned away in disgust. He knew that if he were so inclined, he could arrest at least twenty people on the spot but, for now, he must play his part in this sham. Although many of the people in attendance today were obviously rich, they were spoiled and rotten from self-indulgence and a clear disregard for the law or societal morality.

  Most of them were already drunk on whiskey or sucking on little green-tinged sugar cubes. Dancers wove their way through the crowds, jerking their lithe bellies in parodies of passion and ringing tiny finger chimes in paying customers’ ears. One of those dancers saw Matthew and sidled up to him. Smoldering, kohl-ringed eyes gazed into his and her sinuous form almost, but not quite, touched his in eager invitation.

  He gulped and waved his hand dismissively. The dancer paused and melted away into the seething crowd. Their Chinese escort raised his voice slightly in order to be heard over the noise. “Come this way, prease. The auction starts soon.”

  Matthew and his companions followed to a section of high-backed, padded chairs and small, round tables—a concession to the wealthier patrons—and many more people were finding seats, benches and stools to sit on.

  He gazed to his left and saw another grouping of chairs and tables. Many foreigners were gathered together along with another whose face looked quite familiar and he growled under his breath. It was that weasel of a police commissioner, LeVesque! No wonder the pseudo-lawman had objected so fervently against any action regarding this farce; he not only didn’t care about the fate of the girls who were about to be auctioned off like prize cattle but chances were he was lining his pockets with every sale made.

  Matthew looked away quickly when LeVesque and two others glanced his way, then remembered he and his men were in disguise; maybe their showy entrance had caught the attention of the sheik and his minions. Probably worried we have more money than they do, he thought and prayed that was the case.

  He continued to search for the Donnellys but there were so many people in attendance he couldn’t tell if they were there or not. Roy was searching the crowd as well and he leaned in and whispered, “I saw the Donnelly woman, boss…she’s behind us. But I haven’t seen Patrick.”

  Spotlights suddenly illuminated the area and the gaslights around the room sputtered and dimmed. There was a lull in the action, then a middle-aged Chinese man led a teenaged girl through a back door and onto the stage.

  The young woman was wearing a knee-length silk robe and her long black hair gleamed with blue points of light, her small face sweet with dark eyes and a rosebud mouth; Matthew judged her to be an Indian of no more than thirteen or fourteen years. Her expression was both terror-stricken and dazed, and he realized that she was doped up on something as the poor little thing stared out at the excited audience as if she were lost in some outlandish and hideous nightmare.

  The lights on stage were strategically placed and although the robe covered most of her body, it was so sheer that nothing was left to the imagination as she stood trembling under the spotlight. The Chinese man smiled out at the crowd, winked, and stepped up behind her. Then he grasped the robe with a flourish and yanked it away from the girl’s grasping fingers.

  Although she tried to hide her nakedness behind her hands, two more men stepped up and pulled her hands behind her back so her nudity was displayed to the lascivious eyes of the bidding crowd. Matthew heard gasps and excited titters ripple around him as the young girl’s breasts were revealed as well as the soft, black patch of hair between her thighs.

  Matthew saw the group of Indians gesture in angry excitement and one of them—an older fellow with an elaborate chest-plate—waved his money in the air. In stilted English, he yelled, “We buy! We got cash! We buy that one!”

  Matthew couldn’t help but wonder if the natives were doing the same thing he was…attempting to buy back what had been stolen; a daughter, perhaps, or a wife. However, the sheaf of dollars clutched in the man’s hand was pitifully thin and, after one of the auctioneers inspected the cash offering, the real bidding began.

  The Indian slumped in misery and his companions led him away as the bids grew higher and higher. Finally, cheers and jeers rolled across the room as the sheik raised one finger, buying the girl for one thousand dollars cash.

  Another young woman was led to the stage; this one as fair as the other was dark. Long blonde hair fell in ripples down her back and, although her breasts were small, her hips were shapely and her long legs made every man in the room squirm with desire. Another flurry of activity ensued and, again, the sheik prevailed. One thousand dollars changed hands and the blonde was led off stage, her head held high and her eyes as clear and cold as an artic wind. Three more girls were offered but the sheik took a rest, allowing others in the room to barter and buy.

  Drinks circulated and food was brought to the more elite patrons. When a tray of seafood landed on their table, Matthew turned away in disgust but Gerald picked up a shrimp and bit into it with gusto.

  “Cheer up, son. The high mark on these bids seems to be one thousand dollars and we can match that handily.”

  Matthew thought the show was just warming up but he was loath to scare his father-in-law. Nodding, he replied, “I’m just not hungry, sir.”

  “Suit yourself then,” Gerald said and bit into another shrimp.

  A few minutes later, the Chinese man walked back onto the stage. The lights dimmed again and he said, “Now, for our better stock. Bidding starts at one thousand dorrars!”

  A thrill of excitement and anxiety rippled through the crowd as another girl stumbled onto the stage. This one was obviously Chinese with black hair rippling to the floor and tiny bound feet. Her face was doll-like with white pancake make-up and she had huge, black eyes. Standing as still as a statue, her silk kimono fluttered to the ground.

&nbs
p; There was a collective sigh as her body was revealed. She was so slender she looked almost boyish but her skin was as pale and luminescent as the finest pearl and her nether region had been plucked of all hair. Matthew felt his cheeks heat up and heard Roy mutter, “Holy Moses…”

  Then the bidding started in earnest. One thousand dollars quickly turned into two, three and four until she was sold to the sheik for four thousand, six hundred and fifty dollars.

  Five more young women came and went; they were different colors, shapes and sizes but they were all beautiful. Thousands of dollars changed hands as the girls were auctioned off to the highest bidder. Any sensual desire Matthew might have felt at their erotic beauty faded to pity as he saw the looks of fear, shame and loss in the girls’ faces. Each and every one of them knew that their lives had just been reduced to nothing more than sexual bondage.

  Finally, an hour or so later, Amelia Winters was brought on stage. Matthew couldn’t help but grin as he saw her jerk away from the much smaller Chinese man who held her arm; for a moment, she looked just like Iris. Then her long robe was stripped from her body and what bravado she possessed fled. Standing naked in front of the audience, her cheeks blazed in shame.

  Amelia was tall with large round breasts, a waspishly thin waist and wide, flaring hips. Her red hair fell in abundant curls to the small of her back and her many freckles gleamed under the spotlights. Her brown eyes stared over the top of the crowd and Matthew’s heart clenched as he realized she was reciting the “Lord’s Prayer” under her breath.

  The crowd reacted with feverish intensity. Men, as well as women, were standing up and waving cash in the air. Matthew saw one of the fur-traders reach under his bearskin and fondle himself for all the world to see. Glancing to his left, he noticed the sheik sitting straight up in his chair and whispering into his agent’s ear. Knowing that the bidding would quickly get out of hand, he said, “Now, Gerald!”

  Amelia’s grandfather rose to his feet and shouted, “Ten thousand dollars!”

  Gerald was—first and foremost—a consummate actor and his guttural, Mideastern accent fell over the crowd like a dash of cold water. A groan rose up from the spectators and the sheik stared over at them with malicious eyes. Amelia was staring as well and, for a moment, Matthew thought she might have recognized her grandpapa but her expression was bleak.

  The sheik whispered into his agent’s ear again and, looking as though he might have an apoplectic fit, LeVesque cried out, “Eleven thousand!”

  Back and forth the bidding went until beads of nervous sweat dotted Matthew’s forehead. Iris was a fairly, rich woman but how much was too much? Yet he had not come this far to quibble over the outrageous price. Nudging his father-in-law’s elbow again, the old man shouted, “Eighteen thousand dollars!”

  A stunned silence fell over the crowd and Amelia turned to face their table. In his nervous anxiety, Gerald had almost forgotten to use his Arabian accent and Matthew could see the sudden hope blooming in the girl’s eyes. She was smart enough, though, to keep her suspicions to herself and she let her gaze drop to the floor.

  The auctioneer said, “The bid is eighteen thousand dollars! Do I have a counter?”

  The crowd held its collective breath and stared as the sheik consulted with his agent.

  Once again, the auctioneer cried, “The bid is eighteen thousand dollars for this red-haired beauty…do I have a counter?”

  The sheik shook his head and the auctioneer shouted, “Sold to the gentleman for eighteen thousand dollars!”

  Chapter 28

  Check

  When Dicky was a small boy, he used to go fishing with his pa on Icicle Creek. They’d board a tiny rowboat and float close to shore, keeping far away from the rapid currents and eddies that muscled their way through the high gorge on either side of the water. They caught trout, sturgeon and even the occasional red-fleshed silver salmon that had traveled far inland from the Pacific Ocean to spawn.

  In Dicky’s mind, those occasional days of recreation with his pa counted as some of the best times of his life. Whenever he felt low—or frightened or confused—he would close his eyes and remember those days of instruction, laughter and love and knew he’d been blessed.

  Those recollections filled the young man’s mind now, but they were warped and horrifying. He found himself in that tiny skiff again, facing the seething rapids in the middle of blood-red rushing waters. Heat beat down from the searing sun overhead and he saw that the boat had drifted far from shore and was quickly being sucked into the raging currents.

  His pa sat behind him in the boat, shouting frantic orders but his words were garbled, lost in the echoing roar of the water’s swift passage. Trying to turn around, Dicky found himself strangely rooted into place. Forced to stare straight ahead at the jagged, toothy rocks jutting up from the water, he yelled, “Pa! What should I do?”

  Dicky heard his father’s panicked screams but he was stuck like glue, unable to turn around or pick up an oar or do anything at all. Then he saw a sight that turned his heart to ice. A huge tree was toppling over the river—a fork-shaped jack pine with blackened, gnarled branches… the same tree that had killed his father so many years before.

  “No!” he groaned, shaking his head back and forth in an attempt to stave off the nightmare. His eyelids fluttered and he sucked in a great breath of air as consciousness returned to his mind. The back of his neck and the top of his left shoulder throbbed in agony. He knew something terrible had happened, then remembered he had been stabbed.

  Gagging at the pain that pulsed through his system, Dicky knew he was quite ill. The frightful dream must have been brought on by the fever that raged through his blood. Vaguely surprised he was even alive, the young man swallowed painfully. His throat was parched and his right hand fumbled at the bedside table for a glass of water. Then he heard another scream.

  Thinking for a moment that he was re-entering that awful dream, he opened his eyes wide as he realized the screams were actually happening. Dicky heard the sound of an orchestra coming from downstairs; fiddles sawed, French horns bleated, and muffled laughter greeted the actors in Gerald’s troupe. One of their shows was in full swing.

  Although his eyes felt as if someone had put glue in them, Dicky gazed about the darkened bedroom, trying to see what had awoken him. The door was ajar, casting a wedge of light across the floor, and he saw somebody there—a tall, lean figure of a man with a grizzled beard and a white coat…Dr. Winters!

  Then he glanced to his left, where he could hear the grunts of a struggle. Dicky peered into the shadows and saw Iris heaving against the arms of Freddie Marston who held one hand over her mouth, a blade against her throat. He had already drawn blood despite the fact Iris was kicking like an angry mule, making her captor wince with pain as her heels connected with his shins.

  “Let her g-g-go!” Dicky cried and struggled to sit up, but he fell back in a woozy daze. The room swam about his head, much like the one time his pa had let him drink a few shots of good whiskey, and his stomach lurched as his eyes spotted another form on the floor by his bed. The light from the hallway illuminated her face and Dicky saw that the doctor’s wife Muriel lay in a pool of her own blood, leaking from the ear-to-ear slash in her throat.

  Dicky had thought the woman a sweet saint a couple of times over the last few hours. Whenever he opened his eyes she was there, whispering words of encouragement in her soft, Southern drawl. Now she was gone and Dicky knew Marston had done the horrible deed.

  A dark form materialized in the doorway and he heard an unfamiliar voice say, “Hurry up! The show’s almost over!”

  Dicky closed his eyes, hoping the intruders would think he was dead or at least too far gone to hinder their plans. His heart ached as there was no way he could help Matthew’s wife; he couldn’t even sit up without the whole world turning upside down. Still, he hoped against hope that he would survive long enough to tell Mr. Wilcox what had happened and who had taken his dear Iris.

  Sen
sing a presence by the side of the bed, he held his breath. Now was the moment, he knew, that his life truly hung in the balance and Dicky waited for his fate to be sealed. He heard the man step away and say, “I think the show’s over, Freddie. Get a hold of that bitch now and we’ll take her to Potter’s Field like we promised.”

  Dicky heard more struggling and then the harsh sound of flesh hitting flesh. “There!” the man hissed. “That’s how you take care of women who fight back!”

  He lay as still as death as heavy shuffling footsteps exited the room. Then all was silent and he succumbed to his fever, surrounded by the lifeless bodies of the people who had tried so desperately to save his own.

  ~

  A few blocks away, Matthew, Gerald and Roy stood in a room behind the auction stage. Men and women milled about and cash flew from hand to hand as the evening’s business transactions concluded. Fresh stage make-up had been re-applied since Gerald had sweated off most of his during the bidding war.

  The three men stood to the side as one girl after another was marched out of the room; some easily enough, others kicking and screaming. Finally, Matthew spoke out with all the haughty disdain he could muster.

  “We are in a hurry and do not countenance being made to wait! Fetch our girl here now!”

  A Chinese woman dipped her head and scurried away toward the back. A few moments later, she returned clutching Amelia’s arm. The girl looked both hopeful and terrified. She had only met her scandalous grandpapa a few times over the years as her parents did not want their only daughter exposed to the seedier side of entertainment. However, despite the not-so-proper road Gerald had chosen in his life, he seemed to adore his grandchildren and neither Lewis nor Muriel wanted to deprive the old man of their affections.

  So when the Mideastern man had stood up and squawked, “Eighteen thousand dollars!”, his voice had tickled her memory. Amelia remembered when her parents had taken her and her brother to see the play Othello by William Shakespeare; Gerald had starred and his voice almost exactly matched that of the caftan-wearing man who bid for her.