Second Chance (The Deadman Series Book 5)

by Linell Jeppsen

  Shaking the blonde-haired strumpet awake, he gave her a few bills and ordered her to leave. He was splashing cold water on his face and trying to deal with the pain of losing his oldest friend to suicide when there came a knock on the door.

  Thinking the prostitute had returned for more money he stormed to door and flung it open. “What do you want, now?” he demanded.

  A bellhop stood in the hallway and the young man took two steps backward in alarm at Castle’s disheveled appearance and fearsome visage. “I…there is a long-distance phone call for you, sir, in the concierge’s private office!” he stammered.

  Stephen growled in exasperation but disappeared into his room—emerging a couple of minutes later with his hair combed and a light suit jacket on. Following the bellhop downstairs, he entered a small office behind the checkin desk, closed the door and picked up the phone receiver. “Hello?” he said.

  “Hello, Stephen,” Branson answered.

  Castle sat down in a chair next to the desk. His knees had grown weak with shock. He was already hung-over and trying to get his bearings…how had Edward tracked him here…and what did the old bastard want?

  “Hello, Edward? How did you find me?” Castle asked.

  “Tsk, tsk. Honestly, Stephen, do you actually think that I don’t know where my friends are and how to reach them if need be?”

  Stephen shook his head. “I always suspected you had me and Timmy followed—great friend you turned out to be,” he snapped.

  “Now, now…” Branson murmured, “This is not the time for you and I to quarrel, is it? You have probably heard, by now, that our mutual friend is dead?”

  Stephen’s throat closed with grief for a moment and then he replied, “Yes, Edward, although, I must say, you don’t sound too broken up over it!”

  “Of course I am, you fool! Just because I don’t beat by breast and wail out loud doesn’t mean I didn’t care for Timmy!” he thundered.

  Sighing, Stephen answered, “Why did you call, Edward?”

  There was a silence on the other end of the phone line for a moment or two and then Stephen heard the words that would change his life forever.

  “The official story is that Timmy blew his brains out in your wife’s parlor, Stephen,” Branson said softly. “But, I know what really happened…Are you interested?”

  Stephen had been imagining the look on Fanny’s face when Timothy shot himself. The image was so clear he almost missed Branson’s query. “What did you say?”

  Branson snarled, “I said…are you interested in what really happened to our mutual friend, or not?”

  Stephen sat up straight. “Well, of course I am! Tell me…”

  “Okay, then.” Castle could almost hear the satisfaction in Edward’s voice. “One of my men was watching over your dear wife, Stephen. He told me he saw Mr. Matthew Wilcox, along with two other people, knock on your wife’s door. For some reason, she let them inside. A little while later, according to my witness, Timothy came to call as well. That was when shots rang out.”

  Stephen’s heart was pounding hard by now. “Are you saying that Wilcox shot Timothy in cold blood?” he gasped.

  Branson’s voice was smooth, too smooth maybe, but he seemed to be sincere in his beliefs. “I wasn’t there, Stephen, so I can’t say for sure. All I know is what my man heard from his source after the police came.”

  There was a slight pause, and Branson said, “I just didn’t want you to be misled by what you might have read in the paper. Timothy’s death was no suicide, my friend. It was homicide, plain and simple. Now…when are you coming back home to finish what Timmy started?”

  Stephen had ended his phone call with Branson and made his way to his room, where he sat now, brooding over his own poor decisions. He had misjudged Matthew Wilcox. He had thought the private detective a man of honor, and Timmy had paid the ultimate price for his own foolish trust!

  Taking the last swallow of brandy in the bottle, Stephen wiped his mouth and glared at his image in a fine mirror on the far wall. I offered Branson up to Wilcox on a silver platter, he thought. The only thing I asked is that Timmy not be harmed. Instead, the first thing Wilcox did was set a trap for Timothy…in my own house!

  “Bah…” he shouted, throwing the empty brandy bottle at his own reflection. He was only half-aware that the mirror had shattered into a thousand pieces…and that some of those broken shards reflected his own tortured image as he plotted revenge against the man who had murdered his oldest and dearest friend.

  First thing first, he thought. I need to call my men in Seattle and arrange to have Wilcox and his son put down…permanently!

  Branson hung up the phone and grinned. Sometimes, he thought, I am too clever, by half!

  Edward had also been shocked to hear of Farnsworth death. He was not grief-stricken, however. He was actually appalled and disgusted that Timothy would take his own life rather than kill Stephen. Nothing but a weak-willed fool! Branson had thought, savagely, when he first heard the news. Still, he knew that with some quick thinking, he might be able to turn this unfortunate incident to his own advantage.

  It took some doing but he had tracked Stephen down in Portland, Oregon. It was easy enough to twist the truth…if Stephen had been canny enough to question the facts in the newspaper, Branson only need remind Castle that Wilcox and Thurston, the newspaper man, were working hand in hand.

  Stephen hadn’t asked though, which made things even easier. Knowing Castle, Branson figured that Stephen’s small army of men were already on the move against the Wilcoxes. All he needed to do now was sit back and wait, like a spider in its web, for events to unfold to his satisfaction.

  He glanced down at the formal letter on the table. Picking it up, Branson studied it again. His men had told him, a few days ago, that Judge McKinley might have been compromised…that Matthew had met with the man at the Hunt Club, and that the judge had set up a meeting with Thurston the very next day.

  This was definitely worrisome. If Judge McKinley set his formidable resources against him, Branson and the Trinity might go down in flames…not to mention the fact that his hard-earned levels and his good standing in the Masonic Lodge would be compromised for good. He had acted fast.

  Branson had no idea what Wilcox, Thurston and McKinley had discussed, but now he didn’t care either. He had made a snap-decision and now McKinley—and whatever knowledge he possessed—was silenced forever!

  What Edward hadn’t counted on was his sudden promotion to acting Grand Master of the Seattle Masonic Temple. The formal notice and invitation read,

  Dear Mr. Branson,

  Due to the unfortunate demise of the dearly departed…the right-Honorable Ashley McKinley, and due to unexpected health-related issues concerning the reigning incumbent, Frederick Thompson (who has resigned his seat), you—Edward Branson—have been unanimously voted in as Grand Master of the Seattle Chapter Masonic Temple.

  In accordance to tradition, a masked ball will be held in your honor at the Mason’s Lodge, basement level, in one week’s time, May 18th at eight o’clock in the evening. Black-tie, please.

  Sincerely, your brothers in perpetuity~~~

  Secretary, Ian Revell

  Seattle Chapter, Masonic Temple Lodge

  Folding the letter in half, Branson smiled again. His star was finally rising, as he always knew it would. It took a firm and steady hand, sometimes, to grab what one wanted in life and a stout, fearless heart.

  But, once Stephen had done the dirty work for him by getting rid of the Wilcoxes and those pesky Thurstons and, subsequently, found himself in an early grave, Edward Branson knew that he would be nothing less than a king!

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Castle’s Retaliation

  Three days after Farnsworth’s suicide and McKinley’s murder, Matthew, Chance and one of Clyde’s security guards climbed onto a large freight wagon in order to accompany the cook’s assistant to the public market. Normally, the cook and her young assistant went shopping two ti
mes a week for fresh produce, fish and meat but there was nothing normal about the Thurston’s household now.

  For one thing, their number had expanded from four to over fifteen people—from Clyde and Annie Thurston to their many guests and now, the men in the security detail stationed about the premises. The normally abundant stores were depleted to the point of having nothing to serve but porridge, red beans, salt crackers and last year’s wizened apples.

  For another, the houseguests were in danger and no one was allowed to leave without permission and/or in the company of one of the security guards. Although the cook usually liked to do her own shopping, she had reluctantly conceded to Matthew’s orders and sent her assistant to do the deed.

  She had warned Matthew to keep an eye on her young helper, “who has more of an eye for the lasses than on the shopping list!” and added, with a glint in her eye, “and this list is important since there’s more’s a’coming, everyday!” He had meant to ask what she meant by that, but she was carried off by her own duties.

  Sitting in the back of the wagon with Chance, Matthew studied the list now and sighed. He had offered to pay for the supplies but Clyde refused, saying it was the least he could do in repayment for all Matthew, Chance and the security detail had done (and were still doing) to keep him, Annie and the others safe from harm.

  Still, he thought, this list of foodstuff is going to cost a small fortune. I will pay for it, whether Clyde likes it or not!

  Pulling his leather pocket book from his coat jacket and studying its contents, Matthew noticed that Chance was also counting the bills and coin in his wallet. “Do you need to pick something up, Chance? I can make sure the wagon drops you off before we reach the market, as long as the guard goes with you.”

  Chance shook his head, smiling. “No, Pa. I can pick up a trinket at the market. Just a little something, you know…”

  Matthew grinned. “You got it bad, don’t you?”

  Chance shrugged. “She is beautiful, don’t you think? And smart and funny…she’s brave, too, Pa!” He studied Matthew’s face. “You don’t mind, do you, if I ask Hannah to step out with me? I know her people aren’t real high and mighty…”

  Offended, Matthew sat up straight and said, “When did I ever aspire to high society, son? I just want you to be happy. I have had a chance to talk to Jacob Lindsay and his family and they seem like fine people. Money does not make character, Chance. Actions do…and so far as I can tell, the Lindsays are the best sort of folks.”

  Chance placed his hand on Matthew’s sleeve for a moment. “I knew you wouldn’t mind, Pa. I just thought I would let you know my intentions, that’s all.”

  Matthew said, “Just get to know Hannah before you make your intentions clear, alright? Sometimes life events make strange bedfellows. Times of trouble and shared disasters bring people together who ought not to be together, you see?”

  Seeing the look of dismay on his son’s face, Matthew said, “On the other hand, fortune sometimes smiles on the unwary—and the willing!” He added gently, “Just be careful, with your own heart as well as Hannah’s, okay?”

  “Will do, Pa,” Chance replied and stared ahead at the giant outdoor market located on one of the city’s piers. The smell of saltwater taffy, fish, peanut-oil and the murmur of the large shopping crowds drifted toward them. It was a sunny morning and promised to be a warm day. For a moment, Matthew felt a swell of contentment settle over him.

  It was beginning to look like they might just have a handle on Branson and his Trinity. Ian Revell had promised to bring action against his uncle’s murderer. Matthew assumed the young man’s revenge involved the Freemasons, but he knew better than to ask.

  The dangerous Mr. Farnsworth had taken himself out of the picture for good, and Mr. Castle was probably long gone…he had promised to return, if necessary, but only after Branson was neutralized.

  Matthew had been concerned when Farnsworth ended his own life—he had, after all, vowed to keep Farnsworth safe when he struck his deal with Castle, but Clyde had put an end to that by ensuring the suicide notice went to print two days earlier than usual. If Castle read the paper, and Matthew was sure he did, he would know that Matthew had not broken their agreement.

  In addition, a series of articles had hit both the PI and the Seattle Times over the last few days. Clyde was practically rubbing his chubby hands together in glee with the sheer volume of op-eds and letters to the Editor both papers were receiving from the veiled accusations. “It’s democracy at work, my boy!” he had crowed just this morning.

  Matthew couldn’t help but smile—between Clyde’s smear campaign and Revell’s planned denunciation, Branson was in for a few uncomfortable moments…and that was before he was marched off to jail for murder, conspiracy, and whatever other crimes the man had committed in his life.

  Suddenly, the big draft horse pulling their wagon whinnied in panic and bolted. A second later, a loud percussion filled the air. Startled out of his reverie, Matthew pulled his son down into a crouch and stared about in shock as Eric, the cook’s assistant, and the driver shouted out in fear.

  The carriage careened dangerously through the crowded streets and Matthew could hear men and women shouting in alarm. Then the horse stopped screaming and came to a stop, shaking in its traces.

  “That horse is shot, Pa!” Chance yelled.

  Looking at the horse’s hindquarters, Matthew saw that his son was correct. Blood was streaming steadily from a number of buckshot wounds. No sooner did Matthew realize that he and his company were under attack, another volley of gunshots filled the air.

  Young Eric howled in pain and fell off the front bench to the street below. Matthew pulled his pistol out and crawled on his belly to the sideboards of the wagon. Peering over the top rail, he ducked just as quickly when his brand new hat sailed off his head and flew to the opposite side of the street.

  “Chance! Stay down!” Matthew shouted and heard the guard on the front bench curse. “They are coming up the street from the east! I can see ’em!” he cried.

  Thinking quickly, Matthew realized that that the west side of the street was probably clear. If they could use the wagon as cover and make it to that building… “Chance, slither down out of this wagon and run over to that doorway! Hurry, and for God’s sake, stay low!”

  Chance nodded and disappeared from sight. Matthew scooted backwards and saw the boards he had been hiding behind shatter from the repeated gunfire. A couple of splinters broke away and imbedded themselves in his forehead and left cheek.

  He heard another pain filled shout, and saw the guard slump forward on the bench. The man’s body fell and he died with his head and arms draped across the rein stays. The old, wounded horse made to take off again, but Mathew tried to settle its panic. “Whoa, horse. Steady now…” he crooned.

  The gunfire had ceased for the moment, and the horse seemed to take comfort from Matthew’s words. It stood still, ears pinned back, while Matthew tried to climb off the wagon but fell instead onto the cobblestones. He grunted as his right wrist bent backward under his body’s weight and then tried to shake the pain off as he saw Chance gesture to him from the building’s doorway. He struggled to his feet and took two steps toward his son when the world blew up behind him.

  Matthew was propelled six feet forward by the force of the blast. Ears ringing, he turned around and saw the conveyance lying on its side, most of it in flames. Someone had apparently thrown a stick or two of dynamite into the back of the wagon.

  For the second time in four days, Matthew could smell the odor of burning horseflesh and he turned around, retching, as the dying horse fell down on the street with a crash. Gunshots filled the air again, and Matthew tried to run toward the building where his son hid but he was disoriented.

  Realizing that he wasn’t sure which way to go and that the moisture trickling from his nose and ears was his own blood, he peered through the smoke, looking for Chance.

  Suddenly, a small hand grasped his left arm an
d he heard a boy say, “Come on, Boss. Me and Chen Li found a sewer we can hide in…”

  “Tom…Tommy? What are you doing here?” Matthew stammered.

  “Never mind that now, sir,” Matthew’s newest hire, Tommy O’Roarke, said, “We get to get going a’fore we’re all gunned down!”

  Chapter Thirty

  Underground

  Matthew’s eyes watered, his ears rang and the back of his head and neck tingled painfully. He felt nearly deaf and blind, and his heart pounded anxiously at being so vulnerable during this latest attack. “Chance? Are you there?” he called out.

  “I’m here, Pa,” Chance said, close to his ear. “I’m with Chen Li. Take my hand, we’re heading to an underground tunnel…”

  Matthew’s hand was seized and he followed along blindly, hoping the boys knew what they were doing. Tommy said, “It’s just over here, we think.”

  They came to a stop and Chen Li said, “Mr. Chance, could you lend me a hand?”

  Matthew heard a scrape of metal and Tommy whispered, “These are underground steam tunnels, boss. Just like what we got in Spokane. Some say these here are also Shanghai tunnels, although I don’t know about that. Seems like too good of a neighborhood to me…”

  “Come on, Pa,” Chance murmured. “There’s a ladder leading down…looks like we might be getting wet, though.”

  Matthew blinked fiercely, trying to clear his vision, but the blood and soot, smoke and shock of the blast still blinded him. Stepping forward, with Chance holding on to his right arm, Chen Li grabbed his left hand and said, “Turn around, sir, and step down. I’ll hold on to you ’til you get your bearings, okay? There are…five rungs on the ladder. Tommy is going first—he’ll be there to meet you when you step down.”

  Matthew did as ordered, feeling around with his right boot until he found standing room on the topmost rung. Then, with help from both Chance and Chen Li he moved as quickly as possible (for a blind man) down the ladder until he felt Tommy grab his left arm. The boy pulled him to the side of the ladder as Chance descended, joining them on a metal catwalk.