A Barricade in Hell

by Jaime Lee Moyer

  “You know more about this than the captain does. Do what you think is right, Delia.” Randy leaned back in the chair, eyes half closed. “Dora trusts you. So do I.”

  She did trust me. Now I needed to be worthy of that trust and find a way to bring her back.

  Heating broth didn’t take long. Putting cheese, apple, and slices of yesterday’s bread on the tray took a minute more, but I’d have wagered Randy hadn’t eaten since supper last night.

  I carried the tray into the guest room to find Randy fast asleep. He’d pulled the chair even closer to the bed and he’d laced his fingers through Dora’s, holding tight even in sleep. Mai had moved as well, lying half across Dora’s chest so that her head rested near Isadora’s heart. The cat opened one eye to peer at me and purred loudly, a signal that all was as well as could be, at least for now.

  Randy loved Isadora, quietly and deeply, and knowing all the obstacles that stood between them. Dora’s relationship with Daniel was the greatest obstacle of all. But given a chance, Randy would bring all those hidden depths of his to bear and make a life with her. Love was a kind of power in and of itself, one that would help give Dora strength to recover. I found a great deal of real hope in that.

  Sung Wing represented a different kind of hope, the hope of Dora waking again and going on as before, hale and hearty. He knew as much about the darker aspects of the spirit world as Dora and much, much more about how to counter those aspects than I did. I wouldn’t consider the idea that he’d ignore my message or say no.

  I couldn’t. I had to believe.

  Gabe

  Raised, angry voices carried down the corridor from Gabe’s office. He recognized Robert Lindsey’s booming voice trying to drown out Jack’s shouted replies, but his partner was holding his own. Jack wouldn’t give an inch unless forced to it. If anything, years of fighting with Sadie probably gave him an advantage.

  Gabe shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, hiding clenched fists and white knuckles. Enough obstacles stood in the way of finding the place where Effie Fontaine had gone to ground. Interference from the police commissioner was the last thing he wanted to deal with.

  He shoved the office door all the way open and stood framed in the doorway, his no-nonsense command expression firmly in place. Gabe reserved his coolest stare for Lindsey, giving Sam and Jack no more than a passing glance. The scene was just as he’d pictured it. Commissioner Lindsey stood toe to toe with Jack, attempting to roll right over him. One of the morning papers pulled from the pile in the center of the desk was crumpled in Lindsey’s fist. That explained the yelling.

  “Good morning, Commissioner.” Gabe nodded to Lindsey and hung his overcoat and hat on the coatrack behind the door. He turned, arms folded over his chest. “What can I do for you?”

  Sam Butler leaned casually against the file cabinet, bouncing Jack’s baseball in one hand. He cleared his throat, drawing Gabe’s attention. “The commissioner takes exception to the article I wrote for the Call. He’s not too fond of the Examiner or the front page of any of the morning papers, for that matter. I suggested he might want to avoid the afternoon and evening editions too.”

  Lindsey shook the paper in Gabe’s face. “This is slander, Ryan. I want these papers off the street right now! You said Adele was in danger from these people. This … this says Bradley embezzled money and Effie Fontaine blackmailed him. Do you know what you’ve done?” He tossed the paper against the wall, face scarlet with rage. “If Adele sees this, it will kill her.”

  Jack raked fingers through his hair. The frustration on his partner’s face might have been funny if the situation weren’t so serious. “Robert, stop yelling and listen. Adele knew about the article last night. Gabe and I told her all about what Sam wrote before we gave him the go-ahead to print it. It’s a hoax we cooked up to flush Effie Fontaine from hiding. Read the damn thing again. Nothing in that article says Bradley stole money.”

  Commissioner Lindsey gaped, his face growing redder and the cords in his neck bulging. Gabe dragged a visitor’s chair over and steered Lindsey into it. “Have a seat, Commissioner. Take a minute to calm down.”

  He moved past Lindsey to pull a copy of the Call off the stack. Effie Fontaine’s picture looked back at him from under a banner headline reading, PACIFIST USES CAUSE FOR FRAUD!! The accompanying article was full of names from San Francisco high society who’d been fixtures at Fontaine’s lectures. Alleged blackmail, extortion, unpaid loans, and fraudulent business deals were mentioned all through the piece. Henderson’s nickel-weekly stories had fewer crimes committed.

  It was all very vague, a masterwork of implication unsupported by facts or solid connections. Anyone reading Sam’s story would come away thinking that Effie Fontaine had stolen from half the population of Nob Hill, and swindled the other half. Bradley Wells’s name was never linked to Fontaine. That Lindsey had read the story that way gave Gabe hope his plan would work.

  Gabe finished reading and dropped the paper back on the stack. “I’m impressed, Butler. I wasn’t sure you could pull it off.”

  Sam shrugged. “Writing was the easy part. Getting the other papers to go along was what took some work. My editor helped by calling in some favors.”

  Lindsey looked up from the paper in his lap, more than a little crestfallen and the belligerence bled away. “Very clever, Ryan, but what’s the point? Everything you’ve told me points to Effie Fontaine murdering people. Why not put that on the front page?”

  “Because having their money stolen makes people mad. They don’t want to look like fools, especially the kind of people Fontaine has been hobnobbing with. I want her believers to turn against her.” He sat in his desk chair, leafing through the morning papers and noting the small differences in headlines, or the size of the photograph. “Someone knows where she’s hiding. I want that person to turn her in, not stay quiet because they’re afraid she’ll come after them or that they’ll be arrested as an accessory to murder.”

  “And if no one comes forward?”

  Gabe slumped back in his chair and traded looks with Jack. “I’ll hold a press conference tomorrow afternoon and connect her to some of the murders and disappearances. The idea is to keep the pressure on and give her no place to hide. She’ll make a mistake if she feels cornered.”

  Sam frowned. “Or she’ll claw her way out and not care who gets hurt. Don’t underestimate her, Gabe.”

  He thought of Sal and Dora, of Sung Lan and Archie Baldwin, Thad Harper and unnamed young women washing up under half-built piers.

  Underestimating Effie Fontaine would be difficult.

  CHAPTER 24

  Delia

  Owen Perry found me in the kitchen around four that afternoon. He knocked on the doorjamb, warning me before walking in. “Pardon me, Mrs. Ryan. There’s an old Chinese gentleman at the door. He insists you sent for him.”

  I managed not to drop the teacup I was washing, but it was a near thing. Hope Mr. Sung would come to my aid had faded with the waning sunshine. “That’s Mr. Sung and I did send for him. Is he alone?”

  Owen’s expression was distinctly unhappy. “He’s got three men with him. One of them looks harmless enough, but the two youngest are a rough-looking pair of hooligans. I’m not sure Captain Ryan would want them inside the house.”

  Captain Ryan likely wouldn’t want any of them in the house, including Sung Wing, but I’d already crossed that boundary. “It will be fine, Owen, I did invite him. Put the two young men in the parlor. Bring the other man back here with Mr. Sung, please.”

  He frowned and muttered as he left, but did as I asked. I had tea brewing and cookies set out on a plate by the time Owen Perry led my two visitors to the kitchen. Mr. Sung paused at the threshold, a small smile on his face as he studied the entrance. He wore his brown suit and held a bowler hat in one hand. “Mrs. Ryan, may we enter?”

  He saw my wards, I was sure of it, and didn’t want to test them. I smiled and gave hurried permission, nervous and desperately needing this
to go well. “Come in, please, both of you. Would you like some tea before seeing Isadora?”

  The younger man accompanying Sung Wing was grave and dignified, and moved as if the weight of his responsibilities was almost too heavy to bear. His hair was beginning to gray, but I didn’t think he was too much older than forty. He carried a black lacquered box by the brass handles attached to two sides, carefully setting it in the middle of my kitchen table.

  “Tea would be lovely, but I’m not sure Miss Bobet can wait. Let me introduce my nephew, Sung Zao, Mrs. Ryan.” Mr. Sung placed his hat on the seat of a chair, but didn’t sit. Zao nodded, the barest hint of a smile lightening his expression, and remained standing as well. “Zao is my brother’s son and learned to mix medicines from his father. Forgive me for presuming to bring him along without asking first. I didn’t know if we might have need of his skills in attempting to cure Miss Bobet.”

  “Cure” was such a lovely word. I savored that for an instant, resolutely ignoring that Mr. Sung had also said they’d attempt to help Isadora. He hadn’t said he could guarantee their efforts would be successful.

  “I’m very grateful you came. And of course your nephew is welcome.” I untied my apron and laid it aside, hiding how nerves and the thought of Dora never waking made my hands tremble. Feeling helpless in the face of her condition was torture. “I have to admit I’m over my head, Mr. Sung. I don’t have the first idea of where to start.”

  He followed me down the hall toward the guest room, Zao trailing a few steps behind us both. “Wu Mai taught me that admitting what we don’t know was the first step toward finding answers. I’ve heard only street whispers about the woman who gave the lecture. Tell me what happened and what you know about Effie Fontaine.”

  Dora had once said that the less Sung Wing knew about Effie Fontaine, the better, but circumstances had changed. I put her warning aside and told him all I knew, pausing in the middle of the hallway to finish the tale. He listened quietly, frowning at times or asking a question to make sure he’d understood, but for the most part he let me tell the story uninterrupted.

  Zao’s scowl never lightened from the first mention of the shadows surrounding Maximillian through my telling about the souls sheltered by the little girl spirit. Once I’d finished speaking, he said something to his uncle in Chinese. I didn’t understand the words, but the harshness of his tone was unmistakable.

  “English, Zao.” Mr. Sung frowned. “Show Mrs. Ryan the respect she’s shown us. She is Miss Bobet’s apprentice as I was apprentice to Wu Mai and Sung Lan was apprentice to me. There shouldn’t be secrets between us. Tell her.”

  Zao stared at his uncle, his expression blank, before bowing his head. “Your pardon, Mrs. Ryan. I told my uncle this is a fool’s errand. The man you describe, Maximillian, is a shadow demon and a spirit hunter. No medicines I could mix will cure his touch.”

  “But he never touched Dora last night.” I looked between the two men, stubbornly refusing to believe the churning in my stomach or that Zao’s words held any truth. “None of Miss Fontaine’s people touched her, only Randy and I. Something in the smoke made her ill.”

  “Opium is very powerful and opens spirit pathways best left closed, especially for someone as sensitive as Miss Bobet. The chance of someone practicing black arts using opium alone is very small. It may very well be as you say, but we must consider other outcomes.” Mr. Sung took my arm. “Is this the room?”

  Randy looked up quickly as the three of us entered the room. He had a book balanced on one knee, but still held tight to Dora’s hand. I’d taken to forcing Randy away from the bedside every few hours, to eat and splash water on his face. Making himself ill wouldn’t do Dora any good.

  The cat was coiled tight against Dora on the opposite side of the bed. Mai opened one eye to peer at Sung Wing and promptly went to sleep again. Mr. Sung stood on that side, stroking Mai’s head.

  “This is Officer Randolph Dodd. Randy, this is Mr. Sung Wing and his nephew, Sung Zao.” I fussed with straightening the bedclothes and shifting Dora’s pillows, giving myself something to do other than wring my hands. “Mr. Sung might be able to help.”

  Randy struggled to stand and not let go of Dora’s hand. Mr. Sung waved him back into his chair. “Please, Officer Dodd, sit. Miss Bobet rests easier with you near.”

  I’d no doubt that someone as accomplished as Mr. Sung had easily discerned how Randy channeled harmful energy away from Dora. Sung Wing wore the same faraway expression I’d grown accustomed to seeing on Dora’s face these past two years. He looked beyond the here and now and the surface world, searching for the secret that would explain why Dora wouldn’t wake.

  He glanced at me, his frown angry and sad at the same time. “Miss Fontaine’s man may not have put his hand on Isadora, but he marked her as prey just the same. Her will is very strong or she’d have already fallen to Maximillian.”

  Confusion filled Randy’s eyes for an instant. “Hang on a minute. Maximillian’s not here, and he wasn’t anywhere near Dora last night. Are you saying he’s responsible for her not waking up?”

  Mr. Sung whispered something in Chinese, the words soft and sounding not unlike a prayer. He touched Dora’s cheek. A blessing. “Miss Bobet’s spirit runs and hides from the hunter nipping at her heels. Her body is here. She fights her battle elsewhere.” He straightened up, tugging down the front of his suit coat. “Stay with her, Officer Dodd. Help her fight.”

  Without a word, Sung Wing left the room. Zao and I followed him to the kitchen, both of us hurrying to keep up. He’d already taken a seat at the kitchen table and begun rummaging through Zao’s case of medicines when we reached the kitchen. I sat opposite him, a platter of cookies and a pot of cold tea between us. Sung Wing looked at me over the glittering vials and pile of muslin bags.

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Ryan. I didn’t take the threat of Effie Fontaine and her hunters seriously enough. That was a grave mistake on my part, one I won’t make again. I should have listened to my brother, Liang. Keeping her hunters away from my people wasn’t enough. I should have done more.” He continued sorting through the box, his expression grim. “Undoing my mistake will take time and preparation. But first we must do what we can to strengthen Miss Bobet in her fight against this creature. Then I can begin.”

  My hopes plummeted. “I’d thought—You’re saying you can’t wake her.”

  “The cure for what’s wrong with Miss Bobet doesn’t lie with me. I have many skills, but I’m not in the business of working miracles.” He held out two small bags, sympathy and compassion in his eyes. “There are things I can do, but they are things of this world, not magic. Keep the young officer with her and add these herbs to her tea. Both will make her stronger. You’ll know if I succeed.”

  I took the packets of herbs from him, not knowing what they were, caring only that they’d help Dora. Sung Wing and Sung Zao repacked the box, preparing to leave. I couldn’t just let him walk out. “Mr. Sung, I have to ask. If what you try doesn’t work, how long will Dora stay this way?”

  “You’re asking what will happen if I fail her.” He studied the lid of the box for an eternity, considering. “You deserve the truth. Isadora will sleep until she wins or loses the battle for her spirit, or until her body gives out. She’s a strong woman. I can’t say how long she will survive.”

  I nodded, numb and unable to comprehend the possibility of her dying. Dora was young and vibrant. People like her didn’t die. She couldn’t.

  Mr. Sung’s hand on my shoulder startled me. “Don’t mourn her yet. This Maximillian and Miss Fontaine have harmed far too many innocents. I don’t intend to fail.”

  Zao picked up the big wooden box and followed his uncle out of the house. I sat there long after they’d gone, watching the pale blue winter sky darken into an indigo twilight, thinking hard about hope and belief.

  Gabe

  The battered old clock over the door chimed six, startling Gabe. Darkness came early in January, and he’d turned on the desk lam
p long before and lost track of time. He’d spent the entire afternoon reading over all the autopsy reports recovered from Sal’s home. Searching the home of victims for clues about why they’d been killed was standard. In Sal’s case, what he and Jack uncovered confirmed what they already knew.

  Gabe slumped back in his chair, easing the ache in his shoulders, and attempted to wipe the tiredness from his eyes. The deputy coroner had made duplicate files for all the cases they suspected involved Effie Fontaine, keeping the second set in his study at home. Sal must have had a reason to suspect that filing the autopsy reports in the morgue alone might turn out to be a problem. Whatever Sal Rosen’s suspicions or the reasons behind them, he’d been right. All the case reports Sal had filed over the last two months had disappeared from the coroner’s file room.

  How daring Effie Fontaine was in covering her tracks and how far her reach in his city extended were frightening.

  Jack nudged the office door open with his shoulder, two brimming mugs of coffee in his hands. Gabe had overridden Jack’s protests and sent his partner home to have dinner with his wife and baby. “Sergeant Riley had just made a fresh pot of coffee when I came in. I pulled rank on Baker and that new kid, Quinn, to get the first two cups. Sadie said to say hello and told me to thank you. We had that talk like you said. It’s killing her that she can’t help take care of Dora, but she understands it’s too risky.”

  “I worry enough about Dee and Isadora being in the same house. And thank you, I need coffee.” He sipped from the mug, not really tasting the liberal portion of cream or the two cubes of sugar. “I’ve read the Baldwin autopsy twice. Sal comes right out and says he doesn’t believe Archie Baldwin killed himself. He found marks on Archie’s arm that were consistent with recent hypodermic injections.”

  Jack scowled, but the tone of his question was cautious and careful. “How recent?”