Badlands

by Melissa Lenhardt

  “Yes. She’s funding my hospital for indigent women in Buffalo.”

  Langton nodded appreciatively. “Excellent. We need more of those.”

  “Yes, we do,” I said, somewhat surprised at Langton’s comment. Businessmen such as he were usually more interested in increasing profits than in helping the poor. Charity was the purview of their wives. I remembered that George’s mother had died not long after his older brother had been killed in the war, presumably of grief, though I had my doubts. I’d learned firsthand that grief wasn’t fatal, unless you wanted it to be.

  “Would you like a lift somewhere?” Langton asked.

  “Oh, I would hate to impose.”

  “No imposition. Please.” He motioned for me to enter the carriage before him, and I did so, placing my carpetbag on the seat next to me.

  “Grand Central Depot?” Langton asked.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  I knew I had roughly ten minutes to make my case to Langton, but now that I was in the carriage with him, the ideas I’d had on how to start the conversation escaped me. My life was trickling through my hands like grains through an hourglass. I opened my mouth to brazen it out when Langton spoke. “You travel light, I see.” He nodded to my carpetbag. “I tend to do the same, much to my valet’s distress.”

  I placed my hand on the carpetbag. “This isn’t my carpetbag.” Langton nodded politely, thinking we were making boring, polite conversation. For a moment, I pitied him. “It belonged to a woman named Cora Bayle. She was killed, needlessly. One in a long line of senseless murders.”

  Langton looked alarmed. “My word. I hope the police are involved.”

  “They were looking for the wrong person. A woman named Catherine Bennett.”

  Langton’s expression was blank for a moment, before turning a mottled red. “What’s the meaning of this? What do you mean?”

  “You were on the verge of telling me something last night at the dinner party. What was it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t think Catherine Bennett killed your son. Why?”

  “Of course she did. Who else could have done it?”

  “Your son wasn’t having an affair with Dr. Bennett. You and I know it.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  I removed my glasses, folded them, and placed them on the carpetbag. With great care, I peeled the beard and mustache from my face. I ran my fingers through my hair to loosen it from its slicked-back style, though it was still short. Richard Graves had dismissed the possibility of me wearing a wig, which meant I was saddled with short hair for the foreseeable future.

  Langton gasped. “You!”

  He moved to tap on the ceiling with his cane to alert his driver. I pulled my gun from the carpetbag and aimed it at him. “Please don’t. Too many people have died already. Including your son.”

  Langton settled back into his seat, his hands resting on the cane between his legs. “You have five minutes until we get to the depot, at which time I will call the nearest policeman and you will be arrested.”

  “If I thought you believed I killed your son, I would be worried.”

  “If not you, then who?”

  “I have a theory, but it is so far-fetched I have a hard time believing it myself.”

  “Four minutes.”

  “The night George died, we were in his study talking medicine. We did that occasionally. You know he wanted to be a doctor.”

  Langton nodded.

  “That night, I was hoping to get him to intercede on my behalf with the local medical schools. I made a comment about how I would have considered myself a failure if I didn’t try to achieve my dream. It struck a chord with George. I didn’t think anything of it until I learned recently why he didn’t become a doctor.”

  Langton’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t interrupt.

  “Judge Sheridan interrupted us and I left. I went to a resurrection man. Jonasz Golik. Have you heard of him?”

  “Yes.

  “I was there all night. Dissecting a fresh cadaver.” Langton winced. “I’m not proud of it, but being blocked from using the labs in the medical schools pushed me to use Golik. I don’t regret it in the least. Those dissections are the reason I was able to save the life of a man in Texas, whom I fell in love with and married.”

  “That was true?”

  “Yes. I didn’t know of George’s death until James Kline found me early the next morning. He told me I was the suspect and he encouraged me to hide until he could figure out what was going on. I did, and he sent word about the reward and told me to run. So I did.”

  “Why? If you didn’t kill him?”

  “I knew you and Judge Sheridan had the money and power to convict me, regardless of my innocence.”

  Langton looked down at the floor of the carriage.

  “Mr. Langton.” He looked up at me. “I liked your son very much. He respected me. Treated me as someone worth admiring instead of someone worth derision. So many men hate me on sight, for what they believe I am, or out of jealousy or fear—I don’t know. Your son was different.” I laughed softly. “I had too few allies such as him to go around killing them.”

  The carriage stopped. Through the window I saw the entrance for Grand Central Depot. “There’s a policeman,” I said. “If you think I killed your son, call him over. Please. For the last year, I’ve lived in fear of being found out. I’ve had people use the bounty against me, manipulate me into doing their bidding under threat of arrest. Innocent people have died, as have the guilty. My husband lost an eye because someone decided blaming me for George’s death was a better option than being discovered as a murderer.” I took a deep breath. “I’m tired of running, of lying, of death. I want it to end. If that means I have to swing, then so be it.”

  Bertram Langton studied me for so long, I wondered if he’d heard me at all.

  “Do you know who killed my son?”

  “I have my suspicions, but I need your help to discover the truth. Will you help me?”

  Langton turned his head and looked out the window at the policeman. I held my breath, sure this was the end of me. That all of this had been for naught. The policeman noticed our carriage and started walking toward us. Langton tapped on the ceiling. The driver opened the trapdoor. “Sir?”

  “Drive on.”

  CHAPTER

  32

  My God. What happened to your hair?”

  Camille King was beautiful. Brilliant. My relief at hearing her sarcastic comment, seeing that perfectly plucked eyebrow rise in amusement at my expense, was the closest to home I’d felt since I’d stepped off the train at Grand Central Depot. I fell into her arms and hugged her so tightly she coughed.

  She returned my embrace. “I missed you, too, Katie,” she whispered. “Who is this?”

  I could tell from the timbre of her voice she’d seen Kindle. I held her at arm’s length. “Behave. He’s my husband.” Camille looked Kindle up and down with clear appreciation, which thrilled me. I would never admit it to Kindle, but I loved to see admiration in other women’s eyes when they saw him. “Stop staring or his ego will grow to alarming proportions.”

  Kindle’s expression was stoic, but I knew he was reveling in Camille’s attention. I pointed at him. “Stop it.”

  He raised his hands. “I’m merely standing here.”

  Camille put her hand through my arm and led me upstairs. She leaned in and said, “I suppose your flight wasn’t all bad.”

  “He’s the only good thing to come of it.” I squeezed her arm. “I have so much to tell you.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  She led everyone into her drawing room, ordered coffee from a servant girl, and closed the door behind her. Hazel Dockery’s head was on a swivel, her eyes as wide as saucers. “So this is what a brothel looks like? I’ve always wondered.”

  Who is this? Camille’s expression said.

  “Hazel Dockery, Cam
ille King.”

  Hazel held out her hand. “Thank you so much for facilitating this.”

  “Are you sure this is going to work?” Camille asked me.

  “It has to.”

  There were footsteps on the stairs and Bertram Langton walked into the room. He didn’t look nearly as surprised by the inside of a brothel as Hazel had. “Camille, this is Bertram Langton. George’s father.”

  She held out her hand. “Pleasure to meet you.” The clock on the wall chimed. “This way. Kline will be here soon.”

  She led me and Langton out of the room. We passed Henry at the door. “Party’s in there,” Camille said. “Be a dear and make me a drink.”

  Henry ran his hat through his fingers and nodded. “Will do.”

  We went up two more flights of stairs until we were in the attics. She opened the door to a sloped roof room with a dormer in the middle of the back wall. Two single brass beds with white blankets were shoved against the wall, with a bedside table between them beneath the dormer. “The maids’ room,” Camille said. “Didn’t want to give James the wrong idea.” She opened the closet door and said to Kindle and Langton, “There’s only room for one of you in the closet.”

  “Mr. Langton,” I said.

  Kindle looked as if he wanted to object, but he didn’t. He knew the only way for this to work was for Bertram Langton to be the witness. Kindle kissed me on the cheek, whispered, “I love you. Good luck,” in my ear, and left.

  When Kindle was gone, Camille said, “When this is over, we’re going to have a long talk over multiple bottles of wine.”

  I nodded. “It’s a date.”

  Camille glanced from me to Bertram Langton and left. Langton opened the closet door wider and placed his cane and hat inside. The room was plain, lending nothing interesting to note for polite conversation. I set my carpetbag on the bed, placed my hand over my stomach, and took a few deep breaths.

  “I almost feel I should reintroduce myself,” Langton said. “You look quite different as a woman.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “As it was intended. Your indigent hospital was part of your masquerade?”

  “Yes.”

  He studied me as if trying to make his mind up. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be.” He stepped forward. “I realize now that I failed George. Trying to make him into someone he wasn’t.” Langton inhaled. “I can’t change what happened, but maybe I can do something good in his name. Something he would have done if he lived.”

  “I think that would be a lovely tribute to him.”

  Langton nodded and looked away.

  There was a knock on the door and Camille’s maid poked her head in and said, “He’s here.” She closed the door and Langton moved to the closet.

  “There isn’t a handle on the inside,” he said, panic filling his eyes.

  “We will leave it slightly ajar.”

  He nodded and stepped back into the shadows of the closet. I made sure the closet door didn’t click and sat on one of the beds. I took my gun out of Cora Bayle’s carpetbag and slid it beneath the pillow. My heart raced as I wiped my damp palms on the blanket.

  The door opened, banging against the closet. Everything about James’s appearance said he was a man in control—his clothes were impeccable, his shoes highly polished, not a hair out of place, his sideburns expertly groomed—except his eyes, wild with astonishment and something else. Desperation?

  I stood, my legs wobbling beneath me.

  “Katie?” It was the voice of my friend, the man who’d loved me, wanted to spend his life with me. The man who had my best interests at heart when he encouraged me to leave town. But his eyes gave him away.

  I opened my arms. “James.” My voice cracked, thick with anger. James saw in it what he wanted and rushed to me. He took me in his arms.

  “Oh, Katie, I’m so glad you’re safe. I’ve heard so many outlandish stories.” He held me at arm’s length. “You look … well.”

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  He touched my hair. “What’s the matter with your hair?”

  “I’ve had to dress as a man.” An expression of distaste crossed James’s features. “I had little choice, James. It was either that or live my life in constant fear of being found out.”

  “Why did you come back? It’s not safe for you here.”

  “It’s not safe for me anywhere. You must have heard what I’ve been through.”

  “The lies that hack Pope has been peddling?”

  “They aren’t lies, James.”

  James’s head jerked back as if he’d been struck.

  “I came back to clear my name. I need your help.”

  “Where is your husband? Was that one of Pope’s fabrications or the truth?”

  “I’m married.”

  “Where is he? Why can’t he help you?”

  “He’s doing what he can, but we don’t have access to the people involved in George’s murder. You do.”

  “The people involved in George’s …? You’re the—”

  “I’m the what? Killer? You know I didn’t do it.”

  James walked around me and looked out the dormer. He placed his hat on the pillow hiding my gun. “Yes, but if not you, then who?”

  “That’s what I need you to help me find out. You have intimate access to the Langtons, or so I hear. Congratulations.”

  James turned to me, his face reddening. “Thank you.” He tried to cover the stammer in his voice with a laugh. “I’m as surprised by it as you are.”

  “You seem to have done well for yourself since I’ve been gone. Partner at the firm? Engagement to Beatrice Langton. And to think, you were delivering legal papers to George in the middle of the night a mere year ago. Astonishing, really.”

  James’s shoulders straightened and his expression hardened. “Of course you would think so. You never appreciated my talents.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  “It was hard to tell. You were so wrapped up in your own.”

  I walked to the window, forcing James to move out of the way. “Is that why you didn’t bother to defend me to the newspapers?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve read everything written about me in the New York newspapers and you, my oldest and best friend, the one person I was sure would defend me, are only mentioned as a spokesperson for the Langtons, if you’re mentioned at all.”

  “I couldn’t very well … I identified a dead woman as you to give you the freedom you needed. Then you had to go and ruin it.”

  “Yes, orchestrating my wagon train massacre was a mistake, I admit.”

  “You didn’t have to save that man, turn yourself into some sort of heroine. Of course people would find out who you are if you’re performing surgery with General Sherman holding the Goddamn lantern.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “It was in that ridiculous book.”

  “So Pope isn’t a hack?”

  “I’m sure he is, but when I read that I knew it was outlandish enough to be true.”

  My shoulders slumped as the last flicker of hope that we were wrong about James’s role in Langton’s death dissipated. “I didn’t believe them, but they were right: you really do hate me,” I said, with astonishment.

  “What? Why would you say that?”

  “Why else would you frame me for Langton’s murder? Why did you kill him, James?”

  “Me? I didn’t kill him.”

  “Were you and Beatrice having an affair and you needed to get him out of the way?”

  “No! Beatrice would never do that. She has no idea—”

  “You killed her husband?”

  “I didn’t kill him.”

  “I left George in the library, alive and well. Were you watching, waiting for George to be alone so you could confront him about your relationship with Beatrice?”

  “No—”

  “Or did Beatrice kill him? Are you covering for your lover?”

 
“No!” James said, panicking. “She has no idea what happened.”

  “But you do. And instead of telling the truth you decided to frame your oldest friend for the murder, knowing full well I would be railroaded by the system. You wanted me to be railroaded.”

  “I saved you! You ruined it all!” James moved toward me. I inched toward the bed, leaning away from him, sliding my hand beneath the pillow. “Now you’re back and going to ruin everything I’ve worked for.”

  “Everything you’ve been given for covering up who murdered George Langton.”

  “Yes. And I’d do it all again.”

  I pulled the gun from beneath the pillow, pulled back the hammer, and placed it in the middle of James’s forehead in one smooth, quick motion.

  “Catherine,” James choked.

  I pressed the barrel of the gun hard against his head, forcing him to retreat until his legs met the other bed and he fell backward. I kept the gun firm to stabilize my trembling arm. “Do you realize what you’ve done, James? Maureen is dead because you convinced me to run.”

  “I’m sorry that happened—”

  “Oh, you’re sorry? That makes it all better.” I grimaced and pushed the gun against his head again. “When you’re in your marriage bed making love to the wife you were given as a reward, I want you to think about me on the banks of the Canadian River being raped for hours by seven Indians. Every time you thrust into your loving, compliant wife, think of the Indian who raped me with my own gun, cocked and loaded.”

  James closed his eyes, as if that would stem the tide of my words. Tears streamed out of his eyes. “No.”

  “No? When you’re standing up in court, giving what I’m sure will be a brilliant argument, think of the frontier justice that lost my husband his eye.”

  “You can’t blame me for that.”

  “I blame you for everything,” I shouted. “Your decision was like a pebble being thrown in a pond; it rippled out and affected dozens and dozens of people. You ruined lives, and for what? A partnership in a law firm?”

  “I had no idea.”

  “Who killed George Langton?”

  “No …”

  “Tell me who killed him or I will pull the trigger. What will I have to lose? If I let you leave, you’ll turn me in and I’ll swing. If I’m going to be hanged, I want it to be for a murder I committed.”