O’Dell drew near to hear what Jinhai was saying.
“Why, what do you mean?” Wolsey was indignant. Gresham frowned but said nothing.
The crease between Bao’s eyes also came together as he pondered Jinhai’s enigmatic words. “Mr. Li, what do you think Wei Lin will do? He cannot hope to prevent Fang-Hua from going to trial or keep the trial from the public eye. The newspapers will sensationalize her crimes. It will destroy the Chen family name. I cannot see how Wei Lin will deal with the shame.”
“Bao, I ask you to think as Wei Lin. He has an option left that will spare his family all you describe.”
Wolsey looked from Jinhai to Bao and, finally, to O’Dell. “I don’t get it. What is he saying?”
The glimmer of an idea crept into O’Dell’s mind, a thought terrible in its cold-blooded practicality. “Jinhai. We must do something!”
But Jinhai shrugged. “And what would you have us do, Mr. O’Dell?” It was as though Jinhai’s eyes shuttered and closed as they watched, leaving his face expressionless.
Gresham and Wolsey were still searching, trying to understand. Bao blinked with uncertainty as his mind reached the same conclusion O’Dell had come to.
“Mr. Li! Will he—”
“Let us speak no more of it, my son,” Jinhai interjected. He placed an arm around Bao’s shoulders. “I assure you, we can do nothing to change what will happen.”
A servant interrupted them. “Begging your pardon, sir. There is a telephone call for Mr. O’Dell.”
“Who is it, please?”
“A Mrs. Thoresen, sir.”
O’Dell’s heart twisted. “I’m coming.”
He excused himself and found the call waiting for him in Jinhai’s library. “Hello?”
“Mr. O’Dell.”
He could hear the pain and stress in those two words. “I’m here, Mrs. Thoresen! Is it Grant?”
“Yes.” She sobbed once and then caught herself. “Please bring Joy home. He is asking for her. There isn’t much time.”
O’Dell thought of Joy, upstairs in an exhausted sleep. “We will take the next available train.”
“Thank you. Oh, Mr. O’Dell! Is there any news of Edmund? I so want to be able to tell Grant . . .”
O’Dell bowed his head. “I’m sorry, no. Fang-Hua has been arrested, but . . . but she does not know where Edmund is.”
The silence on the other end of the line lingered until O’Dell broke it. “Please tell Grant I am bringing Joy to him. Tell him he must hold on.”
Gresham’s man, Jeffers, was waiting for them outside Union Station when O’Dell, Joy, and Breona returned to Denver. The doctor had given O’Dell a few more sleeping pills, and he had insisted Joy take one after boarding the train in Seattle.
“Sleep, Joy,” O’Dell whispered. “So that you are stronger when we reach Denver.”
And she had slept. The wheels of the train had hummed over the rails, the hours had ticked by, and Joy had slept on in the seat across from O’Dell, curled upon the hard bench, her head cradled in Breona’s lap.
When she finally awoke, O’Dell could see her gather herself for what was ahead. Before they reached the station, the three of them put their heads close together and prayed.
O’Dell asked Jeffers only one thing before they slipped into the motorcar. “He is holding on, Mr. O’Dell,” Jeffers replied, but he wasted no time sliding behind the car’s wheel.
Morrow, standing on the front porch, opened the door for them. “Please go straight back, Mrs. Michaels,” he directed.
O’Dell took Joy by the arm and walked her through the house, out the back, and to the cottage she shared with Grant. She was trembling as they reached the door.
“Courage,” he whispered.
She nodded. He opened the door for her.
He followed her inside, hoping for a word with Grant, hoping it was not as bad as Rose had intimated, hoping there was still time. Rose looked up and saw them; she sprang forward and embraced Joy.
O’Dell stayed in the cottage’s tiny vestibule where he could see the corner of the bed as he had after Joy had given birth. Down at the end of the bed, O’Dell observed Tabitha. She was worn, but still strong. She nodded to him and then looked away.
Joy sank to her knees next to the bed, and O’Dell could only see her feet and the skirt of her dress from where he waited. He could hear the breathing machine. He could also hear—and it broke his heart—Grant’s loud, labored gasps.
Rose came toward him. He opened his arms to her and she sank into them, clinging to him, sobbing. He held her tight and found himself stroking the back of her head, his own tears streaming down his face.
The better part of an hour elapsed. Rose remained in O’Dell’s comforting arms. They waited.
Then the machine went silent. O’Dell could no longer hear Grant’s gasping. The room was filled with only a very loud silence.
Tabitha’s hand crept to her face and she covered her eyes.
Rose straightened and squared her shoulders. “I must go to Joy now, Mr. O’Dell.”
“Yes.”
Oh, Grant! O’Dell mourned. I wanted to say goodbye.
“Thank you,” Rose murmured. She left the shelter of his arms and went to her daughter.
O’Dell returned to his hotel that afternoon and put through a trunk call to Chicago. When the operator rang him back, he heard the voice of his boss over the line.
“O’Dell?”
“I’m here.” O’Dell paused only a moment. He was taking a step that would forever alter his life, but he had promises to keep.
“Parsons, is the offer to head the Denver office still on the table?”
~~**~~
Chapter 30
The cell door clanged shut and Fang-Hua took stock of the squalid surroundings. She had sat for days in a Seattle jail before being transferred to this women’s facility to await trial. She had yet to see her lawyer—a delay that enraged her.
It is Wei Lin’s doing, she fumed. He thinks to frustrate me by keeping my attorney from me? You cannot do so forever, my husband!
While she was being moved, she had received notice that her attorney would visit the next day. Now she stood in the middle of a cell whose stone walls seeped moisture and reeked of mildew.
I will not allow this hellhole to degrade me, she swore. And I will not be here long. My lawyer will come tomorrow and he will see that I am released.
She knew, however, that she would not be returning to her husband’s house. In her vain, racing thoughts she mocked Wei Lin. I have plenty of money, dear husband—more than you know, you fool! I will build a new life—and an empire that will rival yours.
But when her thoughts turned toward Dean Morgan, her blood boiled. I will spend my entire fortune, if needed, to hunt you down and watch you die, she vowed. I rue the day I trusted you to bring my grandson to me.
It occurred to her again that she had no grandson—only a worthless granddaughter—and it surprised her to find that she still wanted the child, the only tangible piece of her son remaining on earth.
So! What need have I of a husband or a grandson? I will find a way to procure my granddaughter, Fang-Hua plotted, and I will raise her as my own; I will rear her and mold her into my image. She will assume control of my empire when I am gone.
The novel idea pleased her and she began to think on it and how she would use her fortune to first crush the Chen family and then take control of all Wei Lin’s interests.
The day drew on toward dinner time. The barred door at the end of the cellblock opened. The women in the other cells stood to attention.
Fang-Hua sneered. They cannot force me to follow such lock-step rules that mark prisoners as less than human. I am above such things.
One by one, the guards opened cell doors up and down the line—all except Fang-Hua’s cell door. The women prisoners stepped out of their cells and filed down the hallway and out the end of the cellblock. The door at the end clanged shut after them.
Fang-Hua had paid scant attention to what the guards were doing other than to observe to herself, Surely the warden knows that I am not to associate with such trash or eat their common food!
She was now alone in the cellblock yet no one arrived to deliver a meal to her. Fine, she fumed, and again began plotting her next steps once her lawyer achieved her release.
When the door at the end of the cellblock opened again, Fang-Hua heard two sets of footsteps pad toward her cell. Good! They are bringing my dinner. Or perhaps my lawyer is finally here, she rejoiced.
Instead, two burly guards stood in front of her cell, one medium height, the other tall.
Fang-Hua glanced at them and then at their faces—their hard, implacable faces. They each held a short club.
“Hey, there, Madam Chen. I’m Bob. This here’s Charley,” the tall one said, smiling. “Wei Lin Chen sends his greetings.” His glittering eyes and cruelly twisted mouth were not lost on Fang-Hua, who sputtered into an uncertain silence.
The guard fitted a key into her cell door and turned it. A moment later both guards were inside her cell. Fang-Hua backed up against the cell’s wall.
She had nowhere else to go.
The shorter guard thumped his truncheon on his open palm. “Wei Lin asked us to deliver a message. He was very specific, your husband was,” he grinned. “He said to tell you that he would no longer allow your behavior to sully his family’s honor.”
The man screwed up his face and, in a mocking imitation of Wei Lin, quoted, “My dear Fang-Hua, a trial, no matter the outcome, can only serve to sully the Chen name. I will not permit this dishonor to touch my family.” The man laughed. “He said you would understand.”
“Yep. So his instructions to us were very specific,” the tall one repeated. “He said we were to, what, Charley?”
“Make our little session very long, Bob,” Charley giggled, anxious to begin.
“That’s right! And make it very painful?” Bob snickered.
“Oh, Bob! You’re a card! Yes, very painful. But don’t forget—it is also to be very permanent.”
“Why, Charley! I would never forget that!”
Fang-Hua opened her mouth to protest when the first blows landed on her. Her shrieks and screams for help echoed without answer against the damp stone walls of her cell.
~~**~~
Chapter 31
The trees above their heads rustled in a warm breeze; new-green leaves and a scattering of clouds shaded the mourners gathered near the freshly dug grave. Next to the grave, a simple coffin rested upon a stanchion. Joy stood before the mourners, as tall and with as much decorum as she could muster.
“My husband, Grant Michaels, faithfully served his Savior all the years that I knew him. I don’t believe I have ever known a man as devoted to the Lord and his family as he was, unless it was my father, Jan Thoresen.
“To lose Grant . . . again, will pain me the rest of my days on this earth, but . . . but you may be surprised to hear that it will not pain me as much as it did four years ago when his ship went down at sea.
“I confess to you that the woman I was when I lost Grant the first time is not the woman I am today. My faith in my heavenly Father has changed in these last years. Grant and I both grew in our faith and, although our love for each other was deep and abiding, our love for our God was greater, as it should be.”
She paused and looked off in the distance as though remembering something. “I should say, too, that I have had a good example of how to deal with loss and suffering. I have watched my mother bear with dignity her own grief and loneliness. She has set her heart to live a life of service to the Lord and to others. How can I not but follow her example?”
Joy swallowed and waited until her voice was hers to control again.
“My mother has, several times in the past two years, mentioned something I thought rather curious. She has alluded to her “prairie heritage.” I didn’t understand her—I didn’t realize what it meant. I think now I do.
“Some thirty years ago, during the darkest time in her life, she came west, searching for solace. In a tiny country church out on the prairie, she found Jesus and made him her Lord and Savior, and she found consolation in a simple farming life lived for God.
“Farmers may seem plain and unsophisticated, but the hardships of the prairie require honest work, spines of steel, and faith that cannot be shaken. This is the heritage she found out on the prairie, this faith that cannot be shaken, and this is the heritage she and my father passed to me as I was growing up and the heritage I hope to pass on.
“We are here to say goodbye to my beloved husband and to testify how he lived for Christ. We will see him again in the Resurrection. I am confident in this and look forward to That Day. His testimony will live on in all of us—and in our son.
“Which is why, while we are here together, I will also speak of our little boy. My arms long to hold him. I have wept until I have no tears left. I tell you, my heart is broken, but I will also proclaim to you that my faith is not.
“Where is Edmund? Where is our baby? I ask this question every hour of every day.
“I do not believe he is . . . dead, but I could be wrong. If I am wrong, then I know with certainly that he has merely gone home to join his papa, ahead of the rest of us. I say home, because life upon this earth is not our real home, you know. Here we are merely sojourners and pilgrims. We are merely passing through.
“But because I sense in my heart that Edmund is alive, I will not forget to pray for him. I have set my heart to remember him in prayer daily and to believe that, even though he is apart from me, God will make himself known to Edmund and, on That Day, the day when we see Jesus face-to-face and every injustice is revealed and recompensed, we will see each other again and all this grief will vanish away.
“I spoke a moment ago about my prairie heritage—the enduring faith my papa and mama lived as an example for me. It is because of their faith that I have such hope for Edmund even though he is, today, lost to us.
“You see, what is lost to us is not—is not—lost to God! I remember Papa saying this very thing: In God, the lost are found. Our Lord sees the entire world—and nothing in all of his creation is hidden to him! I am comforted to know that wherever Edmund is, God is there with him.
“How do I feel about the man who took our son? I confess that I am tempted to hate him and to curse him, but . . . I cannot call myself a Christian if I do.
“And so, here and now, I declare that I forgive Dean Morgan for every wrong he has done me. I leave his life and our vindication in God’s hands. I believe that the just and righteous God I serve will make all things right in the end.
“I will not hate and I will not be afraid; I will not allow my mind’s eye to wound me with fearful imaginings. And I will not lose hope.
“This is how I stand before you today; this is how I will live: with faith that cannot be shaken. From now until I draw my last breath, I will believe that, if I cannot hold Edmund in my arms, my heavenly Father will hold him in his arms—until he brings us all safely home to himself.
“Like my papa, I declare, that in God, the lost are found.”
A ripple of amens followed Joy as she stepped toward the grave. Tears washing her face, she kissed her hand and placed it on the coffin, letting it linger. Then she straightened and, composing her face, she turned away.
Edmund O’Dell was next to walk to and stand beside the coffin. As he did so, he was remembering the most remarkable conversation of his life.
My friend, I don’t have many months left to me—No, no. Why do you deny this? It serves no good purpose. Nothing can be done to help me, and death comes to us all in due time, doesn’t it? My departure will be my entrance into eternal joy, and I am glad beyond measure that you, too, have received the Savior’s gift. Someday you and I will meet again, in the glorious presence of God the Father and his Son!
Now, because I am dying, Edmund O’Dell, my dearest friend, I must talk plainly: I know y
ou once had feelings for Joy. Please do not protest. I knew this the first time I saw you look at her—while you still thought her a widow.
I do not mention this in condemnation! Rather, I say this to one of the most honorable men I have had the privilege of knowing. I have never feared you, Mr. O’Dell, because I know your worthy heart, just as I know that Joy’s heart belongs to me. No, you did not dishonor me, and I say this to your credit, realizing the struggle you endured.
Why did I write and ask you to come to Denver? Before it is too late, I wish you to make me a solemn promise. I wish you to promise me that when I am gone you will watch over Joy and our son. In time, if it is God’s will and when Joy’s grief allows her to love again, I hope you will marry her and raise my son—my son to whom I gave your name.
I cannot think of any man I would wish to be a father to my son besides you! I say, “if it is God’s will,” because he will lead and guide you in this. I am content that, if you pray and follow his direction, all will be well.
I am asking a difficult thing of you, my friend, I know—but it is so strong in my heart, and I sense death closing in on me. I cannot let what time I have left slip away without speaking to you and asking for your sincere word.
Will you give me your word on this?
O’Dell, too, rested his hand on the casket for a moment. “I will miss you, Grant, and I will miss your example of godly manhood. As long as I live, I will not stop searching for Edmund. When I find him, I will cherish him as my own. I will not relinquish my promises to you.”
~~**~~
The End
Postscript
Peter Granger—AKA Dean Morgan, formerly Shelby Franklin, formerly a dozen or so men including Regis St. John—settled back in the easy chair of his new home and sighed with contentment. His house, perhaps a mile from the fabled Garden District, boasted nothing extraordinary when compared to the Italianate, Colonial, or Greek Revival beauties of St. Charles Avenue, but it still had character—the kind of character that marked him as a man of wealth and means.
Stolen (A Prairie Heritage, Book 5) Page 28