“What time is it?” she murmured.
Sylvester snorted, then gargled phlegm in his throat. “It’s morning,” he said. One by one, he fastened the buttons of his shirt, covering the hirsute density of his belly and chest.
“But what time is it?”
Sylvester shot her a vicious look. “It’s morning,” he repeated. “And I have you for another day. So never you mind what time it is.”
The girl shrank into her pillows. She nodded timidly and pulled the sheet over her face.
Sylvester threw on his buckskin coat, pulling the cuffs over his meaty wrists. He sat on the bed and dragged work boots over his massive feet. The bedsprings groaned beneath his weight, and he felt the girl shift away from him.
“When I come back,” he snarled, “you best be wearing that kimono I bought you.”
“The…” The girl swallowed. “The one with the flowers?”
“You see any other kimonos in that closet?”
The girl whispered, “But… the one with the birds…”
“That’s a robe,” Sylvester spat, standing up. “Just because they’re both made of silk don’t make them the same thing.”
With that, Sylvester went to the door and threw it open. He plucked his hat from its peg and glanced at himself in the small mirror. The hat contrasted sharply with his massive brown beard and rustic garb. Frayed gold tassels lay atop the navy blue brim. Without the officer’s hat, Sylvester would pass for a grizzled prospector, not a retired cavalryman. His skin was the color and texture of a golden raisin. To see him for the first time—huge, thick, and covered in pelt-like hair—gave the impression of a wild boar.
“If Wong comes ’round here,” he said, “tell him I’ll pay double for an extra night.”
The girl crumpled. He could sense her disappointment. He liked to watch her dread, knowing that she would spend another day and night in his boudoir. Another day and night obeying his commands, wearing the vestments he preferred, locked away from light and movement. Nothing pleased him quite like her confinement. Tomorrow, she would do his bidding once more, hour after hour. She tried to hide her revulsion, and he loved it. He loved that there was nothing she could do.
With this giddy thought, Sylvester grinned into the dry locks of his beard and slammed the door behind him.
It was no surprise to anyone in Pickleburg that the bordello stood only a hundred yards from the train depot. No matter what the hour, that narrow street saw plenty of men shambling from one institution to the other.
But all these men steered clear of Sylvester J. Kyd. His formidable size was enough to cut a path down the middle of Hawthorne Way. But it wasn’t just his magnitude. Sylvester’s reputation embellished their fear; passing strangers lowered their heads. The slightest glance could ignite the man’s berserker rage. When Sylvester boarded a train for parts unknown, all of Pickleburg sighed with relief.
He reached the depot and sauntered toward a small warehouse. He shoved his way through the back door, finding a large room packed with crates. Five men sat around a makeshift table, fashioned from an overturned industrial spool. The moment they recognized the giant, each man flattened his cards and stood up. Hand-rolled cigarettes were stubbed into an ashtray; hats were respectfully removed.
“Morning, boss,” croaked one.
Sylvester loomed over the table, watching the men wilt before him. He swept a hand over the cards. “What’s the game?”
“Five card stud,” muttered a second.
The men stood stock still, their breaths held. They didn’t even exchange looks; they only waited for their ringleader to speak. Sylvester was silent, except for the beastly breaths that came through his oddly bent nose. His eyes widened at the rough round table. He ignored the mess of cards, the bottle of liquor, and the tin cups scattered about.
Instead, he focused on the little piles of money—crumpled bills and stacks of coins. They were paltry sums, pennies and dimes, ones and half-dollars. Yet the very sight of legal tender excited him. He licked his lips, hungering to crush those little metal discs in his hands.
He spoke. “You boys load up them guns?”
The men gazed in separate directions, shifting their feet uncomfortably. Finally one of them cleared his throat into an open palm. He was young and trim, but his chin was scruffy, making him appear older than he was. His denim shirt was streaked with grease. The only clean thing about him was a small, polished badge, which read Paddington Detective Agency.
“Sure did, boss,” he said. “Got the ammunition, too. Ain’t nobody coming within five hundred feet of that train without getting a belly full of lead.”
Sylvester glowered at each man. When he spoke with underlings, he liked to squeeze every last drop of anxiety out of them. But he couldn’t dawdle forever.
“Good,” Sylvester rumbled. “That’ll do, Jeffrey.”
He turned around and ambled toward the door. He never trifled with goodbyes or farewells, and he would have stridden out the room without so much as a wave. But then he heard Jeffrey call after him.
“Must be something valuable, huh?”
Sylvester paused in mid-step. He still faced the door. His hulking shoulders rose and fell as he respired.
His voice snapped like a bullwhip. “What makes you say that?”
“Well,” said Jeffrey. “We’ve done nigh-on four shipments together, and I ain’t never seen so much firepower. Two mounted machine guns? Could’ve licked the Heinies with weapons like that.” He paused. “Not to mention the small train. Only two boxcars and a coal car. Seems to me you want to get somewhere real fast. So I guess I’m wondering what we’re carrying that’s so damned precious.”
Sylvester chewed the inside of his cheek. He clenched and unclenched his fingers, debating precisely how he would torture Jeffrey, given the chance. He imagined pinning Jeffrey to the floor as he drove thumbs into his sockets, turning those brown eyes to pulp. Or maybe he’d thrash Jeffrey to death, using one of the crowbars leaning against the wall. Since his earliest years, Sylvester had easily unleashed these kinds of violence, and his muscles ached to do it again. But he couldn’t, of course. He needed at least five men to ensure safe passage. There wasn’t time to hire a new man, and Paddington was slow to send replacements. In three days, the train would blow its whistle. Like it or not, he needed Jeffrey on board, and he needed him in one piece.
There was something else, too. Sylvester was loathe to admit it, but he admired Jeffrey’s brass. Few men acted so bold. Few men even dared to talk to Sylvester if they didn’t have to. This Jeffrey fellow was still young, in his late twenties, and hadn’t learned his place. Asking questions was dangerous, and Jeffrey hadn’t worked long enough in the security business to know when to shut his trap. But deep inside, Sylvester was impressed. Most of the Paddington men weren’t detectives at all, but glorified thugs. They couldn’t have detected their way out of a barstool. But Jeffrey was sharp. He knew which way the wind was blowing. Perhaps it wasn’t safe, trusting a busybody to protect such a priceless shipment. But as long as Jeffrey didn’t know their cargo, he could guess all he wanted.
“You think too much, Jeffrey,” declared Sylvester. “That kind of thinking will get you hurt.”
And with that, Sylvester marched out the door.
Chapter 9
“We have to go back!” Elizabeth cried. “We have to look again!”
“Not in a million years,” snapped Deputy Robins. “There ain’t enough money in the world to get me back in that hole.”
“But we have to!” Elizabeth insisted. “Maude’s still in there! She needs our help! Can’t you see that?”
Robins whirled around. Elizabeth found herself at eye-level with his breast pockets.
“I told you this place was no good,” he said. “And I told you there was no way in hell them robbers could survive out here. But we came, at your insistence. And what’d we get? One whippersnapper, one missing girl, and one empty mine.”
“It’s not empty!�
�� Elizabeth seethed. She was unused to sounding so frantic. She resented the shrillness of her own voice. But she couldn’t help herself. “There’s something in there, Robins. Something we’re not seeing. And even if there wasn’t, I’m not leaving Maude in a cave by herself. If we can just—”
“Excuse me.”
Both of them stopped and looked down. There, at their feet, was the blonde young man.
He was seated on a rock, his wrists bound behind his back. He looked up, blinking into the orange sky. They were outside now, standing beneath the water tower, where Maude had inexplicably abandoned her post. The afternoon light was fading, but the heat remained strong.
When the young man was sure he had their attention, he sighed long and hard. For a prisoner, he looked strangely calm; the color had returned to his cheeks, and he spoke in a mellow voice. More than anything, he looked tired.
“May I have some water?” he asked. “I’m mighty thirsty.”
Robins scoffed at this. But then he reached into his saddlebag and drew a water skin. He unscrewed its top and squeezed the bladder, so that water gushed directly through the prisoner’s chapped lips.
In the flurry of excitement, Elizabeth had forgotten about the young man. The moment she’d heard Maude’s scream, all she could think about was the fate of her beloved friend. When they scampered into the cave, Elizabeth was horrified by what they found—Maude, but not Maude. A blob. A mirage. A transparent amoeba dissolving into the air.
And then—gone.
Elizabeth’s mind raced with questions: Why had she left the horses? What had drawn her into the mine? What had she been doing, standing by herself in the middle of the cave? And now, for land’s sakes, where was she?
Elizabeth shook her head angrily. The pretty young man meant nothing to her investigation. She could tell. His very existence was a non sequitur. Robins could cut him loose, for all she cared. Nothing this scoundrel said could bring Maude back from the ether.
“What’s your name, anyway?” demanded Robins. “And what’s a city slicker like you doing, trespassing all the way out here?”
The young man gulped loudly. The draught rejuvenated him, and he tossed his head back. “Sheriff, my name is Astor Barrington.” He sniffed and added, “The fourth.”
Elizabeth felt her jaw drop. She stole a glance at Robins, but the Deputy’s face remained wooden. This name clearly meant nothing to him. She took a step back, as if to quarantine herself from the conversation.
“I see,” Elizabeth said.
Robins narrowed his eyes. “You see what?”
“Well,” said Astor, looking pained by Robins’ ignorance. “What the lady means, I think, is that she knows who I am.”
“Me and everyone who reads the society page,” Elizabeth simpered.
“What do you mean?” Robins huffed. “Who are you?”
Astor opened his mouth to speak, but Elizabeth stole the moment. “He’s an heir,” she said. “His father’s a coal tycoon. Owns a bunch of coke factories in West Virginia. He’s probably worth more than your whole damn county.”
“The dame’s right,” Astor said. He bit the tip of his tongue. “Sorry, miss. I meant the lady.”
Robins exploded. “Then what in tarnation are you doing out here?”
Elizabeth frowned. Robins didn’t express anger well. He looked like an amateur actor gracing the stage for the first time. His arms dropped at his sides, the portrait of exasperation.
“Well, you see,” said Astor, “it’s all a little hush-hush. I’m not supposed to breathe a word about it. But seeing as how you’re arresting me…” He raised an eyebrow. “You are arresting me, right?”
“Depends.” Robins folded his arms.
“Well, all right.” Astor took a breath, closed his eyes, and said: “My father is branching into copper. That is, his company is. He thinks he’ll make a fortune, if he plays his cards right. So, he asked me to check out Mine Number One. On the down-low. Just to see it.”
“What for?” Robins demanded. “Ain’t nobody using it.”
“Well, that’s the point,” said Astor. “Nobody is using it. Not yet. But my father will be. Because, you see, he just bought the land.”
Astor waited a moment to let this revelation sink in. Then he stretched out one leg, groaning as he did so. “Oof—that’s better. That leg always falls asleep. Anyhow, the truth is, this is my family’s land, now. So I’m not trespassing. You are.”
“That’s bunk!” cried Robins. “How come I didn’t know about it?”
“Oh, it’s quite true. We kept the deal quiet, so as not to cause a fuss in the papers. But I’ve got a copy of the deed in my hotel room. Which I’ll happily show you, if…” He smirked. “If you’re not arresting me, that is. And seeing as how you have no warrant, you’re on my property, and you took a shot at me, I’d say you have no reason to. If anything, I should be bringing charges against you.”
Astor was completely transformed. In the mineshaft, he’d shaken with terror. But here, in the open air, bound with rope, the sun setting behind him, Astor flashed the half-smile of invincible youth. His genial voice had thickened into smugness. Physically, he was helpless; yet his dynastic name introduced an aura of prestige. Two thousand miles away, a battalion of servants and cooks and chauffeurs heeded his every wish. Glasses of cognac appeared at the snap of his fingers. He knew the power he wielded, and there was no telling how he would use it.
“But,” he continued, “I think we can all agree that this is one big misunderstanding.”
It was Sparrow who moved first. He took a knee, then proceeded to untie the knots that bound Astor’s hands. Elizabeth felt relief as the rope fell apart. The young heritor stood up, rubbing his rose-colored wrists, and sighed.
“You’re here about that heist, aren’t you?” said Astor.
Elizabeth was startled. “Do you know something?”
“Well, not much. But you said bank robbers. Back in the mine. So I’m guessing the robbers hid out here.”
“Doubtful,” grumbled Robins, spitting into the long shadows.
“Well, if they were here,” Astor said, “then we have a common enemy. This place is worth a lot of money. And the last thing my family needs is a bunch of criminals tainting our assets.”
“How do you know it’s worth a lot of money?” Robins said.
“I’m a geologist.” Astor shrugged. “Well, an engineer, mostly. But that’s how I help my father. I visit places on my own. Keep a low profile. See what’s what. It’s a good system.” He smiled bashfully. “When I keep away from the moonshine.”
Robins laughed. It was a boisterous laugh, the loudest expression of amusement Elizabeth had ever heard from the man. He nodded approvingly toward the horizon, where the last sliver of sun was slipping behind a black ridge.
“You got a place to sleep, son?” asked Robins.
“I set up a tent by Mine Number Two,” Astor said quickly. “I should get a move on, before it’s too dark. I would’ve taken a horse, but—I’m not a very good rider.”
Robins bellowed again, and Astor chuckled with him. The Deputy said nothing more, only jutted a thumb toward the road. Astor bowed his head to Sparrow and Elizabeth, then jogged away, into the magenta twilight.
The trio stood there, unspeaking. The horses snorted nearby. A mosquito buzzed past Elizabeth’s ear. She hadn’t felt so lost in a long, long time. Her rage had subsided; now she felt heartsick for Maude, whose safety she’d taken for fact. The mine was barely visible now, absorbed into the black fissures of the mountain. Pinpricks of light appeared in the distance, outlining the town of Ezra.
“We should make camp,” said Robins.
Elizabeth offered a weak smile, which she doubted the Deputy could see. She was glad not to return to town at night, abandoning any hope of rescuing Maude. Robins was being as generous as he could be. They hadn’t expected to stay out here. Elizabeth knew how much fear Robins would endure, sleeping so close to the mine.
“W
e should,” Sparrow piped up. “I’ll start a fire. And when it’s lit, I’ll tell you where Maude went.”
Chapter 10
Maude slipped. Her feet fell away, and her body collapsed into sludge. Sharp rocks scraped along her lower back, and she yelped in pain. Maude sat there for a moment, letting the rain wash over her. Then she wobbled back to her feet and wrapped her arms around herself. The monsoon poured as relentlessly as ever; every stitch of her clothing was soaked. Maude glanced at her bony backside, where a long mud stain was now imprinted. Her dress was clearly ruined.
Maude shivered, but it wasn’t from cold. The rain drummed up an implausible warmth, as if she were staggering through a vast and lukewarm shower. If Maude weren’t so frightened, she might have savored the strange sensation. The loose rocks jiggled beneath her heels, and she slid clumsily over slick surfaces. Never had she yearned so much for the leafy canopy of a tree.
Then Maude saw it: a sloped roof. She could scarcely believe the sight—a bulky cottage wedged into a narrow defile. As she came close, Maude saw that the walls were made of mortared logs. Weathered wood shingles crowned the roof. An empty wheelbarrow was parked out front, and ranks of split wood were stacked beneath a rustic awning. Maude was relieved to see smoke wafting out the chimney. It was a sign of life, of sanctuary from the rain.
Maude threw herself at the door and rapped at the frame. Her delicate knuckles didn’t make much noise, but they did the trick: She heard a bolt squeal across metal, then the click of a handle. The door cracked open.
“Good gracious,” came a husky female voice. “Come in, dearie. Come on in!”
Maude ducked into the cottage and heard the door clunk shut behind her. She cleared strands of hair from her eyes and took in her surroundings. The cottage consisted of one big room, and its décor was notably civilized. A stone hearth stood on the far end, housing a pile of glowing embers. A stag’s head was mounted on the wall, and Maude was impressed by its expert taxidermy; even the artificial black eyes seemed to watch her from the opposite side of the room.
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