That night, he had led her back into the little bedroom. Later he had turned off the light and she had slept. But something had wakened her in the night. The creak of the apartment door. Su-Chong opening and closing cupboards.
The next morning he unlocked her door and gestured for her to come out. “Please fix us something to eat.” He was fatigued and limping again.
Mei-Xing almost said there was nothing to fix but then she remembered the noises in the night. When she opened the cupboards they had been refilled—not fully, but with enough to last a few days. Her mouth watered when she found fresh bread, fruit, and cheese.
“Where did you get these things?” she asked. She felt no immediate fear of him after the amount of time they had been together.
He stared at her.
Mei-Xing remembered the noises. “Have you also become a thief in the night?” she demanded.
His face flamed but still he said nothing.
So. That answered her question.
“How long will you keep me here?” Mei-Xing demanded again, tears clogging her voice. “How long will I be your prisoner?”
Again, he did not immediately answer. When he finally did, her blood ran cold.
“I am sorry.” His words were spoken softly. “I am sorry I had to take you, but I had no one else to turn to.” He sighed. “I cannot let you go, Mei-Xing. Not without endangering myself.”
He gestured to a tin of bacon sitting near the small gas burners. “Please.”
Mechanically, Mei-Xing turned to preparing a meal for them. He sat at the table and waited for her. When she placed his food in front of him he gestured to the other chair.
“Please eat with me.”
“I-I would prefer not to,” Mei-Xing replied, not meeting his eyes. “I will take my food into my . . . room.”
“No. You will sit with me.” It was not a request.
Reluctantly, Mei-Xing placed her food on the table. Su-Chong did not pick up his fork until she seated herself. Then he ate ravenously. When he finished he watched as she picked at her food.
“Will you tell me what happened?” His question stunned Mei-Xing. What she heard unspoken in his question stunned her more. Compassion. Pain.
“I cannot,” she whispered.
He was silent. Finally, he replied, “I understand.”
He did not ask again. The days dragged by and settled into a routine marked by shared meals and few words.
Every night he would lock her in her room. When supplies ran low, Mei-Xing would arise in the morning to find more food in the kitchen. During the day they would both read, Mei-Xing her little testament and Psalms, Su-Chong from the volumes that lined the shelves in the sitting room.
Often Mei-Xing would look up from her reading to find his eyes on her. She read many things on his face. Loneliness. Regret. And longing.
The open longing nearly destroyed her composure. How she had loved him!
As they sat at the meager dinner she had prepared one evening he asked her again. “Will you not tell me what happened?”
This time Mei-Xing hesitated. In her heart she heard a soft warning. Do not open this door, the voice whispered. She hesitated. Finally, she nudged the warning aside . . . and the story she had never spoken of—to anyone—began to trickle from her lips:
Breaking her engagement to him. The anger and disbelief of her parents and other family members. Su-Chong’s abandonment of home and family. Fang-Hua’s public vilification and ostracism. The continuing shame and strain.
Su-Chong’s eyes narrowed as she told of his cousin Bao’s friendship, his compassion and understanding shoulder.
The ticket and the late-night train. The long ride to Denver.
Mei-Xing knew she should stop. That voice within her was warning her. She thought she could tell the tale without feeling much emotion, but she was wrong.
She was reliving the horror all over again: Not the loving adoptive family she expected to find. Instead, Darrow, his meaty hand easily spanning her arm, clamping across her mouth, dragging her. Corinth. The house. Roxanne Cleary. Drinking what they forced on her. The man they gave her to and . . .
Mei-Xing stopped, her mouth open on unspoken words. Her eyes were wide reliving the terror and shame.
And then Su-Chong’s arms were around her and he was holding her, rocking her, whispering comforting words into her ear, across her neck, along her jaw, into her mouth.
His lips moved upon hers until she responded. The warning voice in her heart grew softer and more distant as she allowed Su-Chong’s solace to altogether drown it out.
~~**~~
Chapter 32
It took several days to investigate Mei-Xing and Su-Chong’s families. Armed with business and home addresses, O’Dell hired a driver to take him to the posh residential area where Mr. and Mrs. Li lived.
O’Dell was always careful. He had the driver drop him several blocks from his destination.
He walked half a mile and found the Li’s home. He studied it then wandered the neighborhood, striking up casual conversations, occasionally pretending he was in need of directions.
He would admire the architecture and gardens of the houses, usually finding opportunity to insert innocent questions about long-time neighborhood families. Of the Li home itself he saw nothing that would speak to anything other than a law-abiding, well-to-do family.
The next day he dressed as though he were looking for manual labor and walked to the wharves. He found the Li warehouses and asked Li employees if they knew of available work. He casually asked how it was to work for the Li family. Universally people spoke well of Jinhai Li: He was a fair man to work for and did not dabble in illegal activities.
O’Dell had a driver drop him a distance from the Chen home. From there he walked. What he observed immediately set off alarms in his head. He proceeded cautiously.
The Li house fronted an expensive avenue in the middle of a stylish, open neighborhood. Unlike the Li family, the Chen home was built on a solitary road, surrounded by a tall wall, and maintained like a fortress. Iron gates blocked the entrance.
O’Dell burrowed into wild undergrowth across the road where he could watch the comings and goings of the Chen estate. He spent an entire day peering through shadowed foliage, watching and waiting.
He made notes on every motor car and its license plate. He counted guards and watched their movements. He wrote down delivery trucks and their frequency.
Wei Lin Chen owned restaurants, import shops, and a chain of laundries. The next day O’Dell had a cab drop him downtown. A Chen restaurant and import shop were within walking distance. He strolled and he watched, eating lunch and making small purchases to keep up appearances.
The following two days he changed locations and repeated his activities. He noted the same young boys running errands from place to place and once thought someone was watching him. Just in case, he stepped into a Chen competitor’s import shop and bought a sack of trifles that the girls in Palmer House would enjoy—carved fans, jade ear bobs, silk scarves, ivory hair combs.
At the end of three days O’Dell was convinced. If the Chen’s were not deeply invested in crime and vice, he’d eat his hat. He took dinner in a downtown restaurant intending to return to his hotel before the late afternoon grew any darker.
As he approached a taxi stand two men passed him, one on either side. He realized the danger too late.
—
O’Dell’s jaw felt unhinged and his pulse pounded in his head with the frequency and volume of a jackhammer. Every part of his body ached. He could not open his eyes. He was piled in a heap somewhere, but had no idea where.
Through the crusted blood in his nose he smelled something unfamiliar—incense of some kind. Without intending to, he groaned. He heard footsteps and strong hands jerked him to his feet. O’Dell’s stomach lurched at the sudden motion and he retched, emptying its contents on the floor.
He heard a stream of high-pitched invective and his captors stiffened. Th
ey dragged O’Dell aside and dumped him again. Two sets of feet scurried to clean the mess he’d made.
Then, amid hurled curses from across the room, someone stomped on his hand. He felt the bones shatter before two sets of boots began kicking him viciously in his ribs, his face, his hips, his back. All O’Dell could think as he again lost consciousness was that the voice he’d heard screaming was a woman’s, and she had not spoken in English.
Fang-Hua fingered the notebook found on the unconscious man. He used some sort of shorthand, and that in itself disturbed her. He had been seen too many days near too many of their businesses to be merely a white man shopping in China town.
As she paged through the entries she noticed sets of numbers. She studied them. What? Her own motor car’s plate number! He had been spying. But for whom? And why?
She frowned and looked into his wallet. Money only. Nothing to provide his name. Suspicious. Only the little book with its secrets. She did not like it.
Could Reggie be right? Could Su-Chong have sent this man to seek opportunities to strike at her? No. Even if the unthinkable were so, would he use this guĭlăo–this white man? No. Would he not come himself? She shuddered.
“Take him down to the waterfront where foolish white men should know better than to go. Beat him more and leave him in the cold to die. It will look like robbery.” The police have many of those to deal with. It will not seem uncommon, she assured herself.
But she did not like it.
—
(Journal Entry, February 3, 1910)
Minister Liáng returned to Seattle this past week. There was nothing more he could do here in Denver, but in Seattle he could join with our dear Mr. O’Dell and share the information we now have regarding Mei-Xing’s family.
The story he tells us is incredible and heartbreaking. Minister Liáng says that even now, this man, Bao, who played such a large role in the evil done to Mei-Xing, waits for Mr. Liáng’s return, hoping to beg Mei-Xing’s forgiveness.
Minister Liáng wanted to be able to bring Mei-Xing home. It will be a great blow to Bao.
Father, I lift up Bao to you. Your Son forgave even those who crucified him. As hard as it is, we must forgive Bao and show him to your throne of grace. Lord, have mercy on this man, we ask!
Minister Liáng will not tell Mei-Xing’s parents what he knows. Not until she is safely found. We believe you will restore her to us, Lord, and then to her family! We hold to our trust in you.
I sent a letter to Mr. O’Dell introducing Minister Liáng and gave Mr. Liáng Mr. O’Dell’s hotel. Minister Liáng will find Mr. O’Dell as soon as he returns to Seattle.
We did ask Mr. O’Dell to telephone us at his earliest convenience. The letter went out ten days ago. I confess that I grow concerned. Mr. O’Dell should have called by this time.
—
Yaochuan Min Liáng left the hotel confused and concerned. Yes, Mr. O’Dell was registered; however, he had not been seen for several days and the maids reported that his room had not been used in that same time.
Standing outside under the hotel’s awning, Liáng prayed. O Lord, this man has perhaps become prey to the Dragon. Your people have been praying for him, O God. I am, therefore, confessing my confidence in his deliverance! Show me, O Most High.
You, who see everything, please show me . . .
As he prayed, he walked, shutting out the sights and sounds of the busy wharves. Should he visit the police? Should he make a trunk call to Denver?
Without conscious thought, he walked away from the waterfront and toward Chinatown. He scarcely noticed as the cries of gulls and shouts of workers on the piers gave way to the rumble of wagons, motor cars, and clanging trolleys.
He was surprised to see he had reached 5th Street. He stopped. He was facing a sign pointing north: First Providence Hospital. He turned and soon his steps quickened.
Liáng knew the Sisters of Providence who had founded the hospital; he was acquainted with the sister administrator. He hurried. Lord, have you shown me? Liáng breathed in awed thanksgiving.
The nursing sister who escorted him had permanent creases between her eyes. Sister Mary James had nursed Seattle’s indigent and affluent for more than 30 years. The worry lines deepened when she showed Liáng to the bedside of an unidentified man.
Minister Liáng gasped with dread when he looked down.
With his characteristic enthusiasm, Flinty had described the Pinkerton man to Liáng. “Dapper, that ’un is!” he’d laughed. “Black hair, al’ays combed back jest so an’ wears a fancy hat, one o’ them derby kind. An’ I niver seed ’im w’out a fine cigar.”
Flinty’s pronunciation of “cigar” came out “see-gar.” Thinking on his colorful new friend lifted the corner of Liáng’s mouth. Then he looked closely at the man lying helpless in the bed. His face was swollen, bloodied, and bruised beyond identification. Black hair was his only distinguishing feature.
Even your dear friends would not recognize you, my friend, whomever you are, he worried.
“He was found by workers at the waterfront,” the sister whispered. “The police brought him here four days ago. We believe he was out in the cold all night. We found no wallet but did find a hotel key. Tucked into the side of his shoe.”
In his shoe? That piqued Liáng’s curiosity. “May I see it?”
While Liáng examined the key, the sister checked the man’s pulse and spread an ointment across his cracked lips. He moaned, and she spooned water into his mouth.
“We held little hope he would make it through the first day,” she added. “But we prayed, and he has surprised us all.” From the side, her white wimple hid her face but not the compassion in her voice.
“May I see his clothes and other belongings?” Liáng hoped for something, some sign.
She handed him a large paper sack and watched him as he took out each article. Trousers, shirt, waistcoat, all bloodied and torn. Socks, muddied shoes. At the bottom of the sack something rustled. He turned the sack over and the crushed remains of a cigar fell onto the table.
Ah!
Liáng looked at the man again. As gently as possible he took one of the man’s hands into his own.
“Friend,” he whispered into to the man’s ear. “If you can hear me and your name is Edmund O’Dell, will you squeeze my hand?”
He waited. And then he felt a tremor in the fingers he held and a gentle pressure. And the man groaned.
“Again, please,” Liáng breathed into O’Dell’s ear. He took care that his whispered words were not heard by Sister Mary James. “If you are Edmund O’Dell, squeeze my hand.”
A few seconds later he felt the man’s finger close on his. And hold on.
Liáng leaned near O’Dell’s ear again and spoke slowly. “Mr. O’Dell, your friends in Denver have sent me to find you. Mrs. Thoresen. Mr. and Mrs. Michaels. Flinty! You are safe here. I will take care of everything for you while you recover. Do you understand me?”
This time the man uttered a garbled “yes” followed by a groan of pain. He tried to open his eyes.
Liáng whispered again, “Do not try to move just now, Mr. O’Dell. I will let your friends know I have found you.”
“This is him,” Liáng informed the sister. “His name is, uh, Jones. Timothy Jones.”
Dear Lord, forgive my deceit, but I wish this man to live, not die. “When can he be discharged?”
“Not soon. His injuries will take time to heal. He will need care even when he leaves.”
Minister Liáng nodded. “Thank you. Here is my card. I will make the arrangements for when he is able to be released.”
He looked again at the hospital bed and realized the man was still gripping his hand. “Do not worry, my friend,” Liáng spoke aloud. “I will return soon.”
~~**~~
Chapter 33
(Journal Entry, February 7, 1910)
We received the most distressing news from Minister Liáng. Mr. O’Dell is seriously injured in the hospital. He believes M
r. O’Dell was either robbed or his investigation put him in the way of harm. We do not know which.
We gathered the household immediately to pray for him. Minister Liáng is watching over him as he recovers and will keep us informed.
Tonight I confess I longed for Jan’s strong arms to hold and comfort me! So many trials are upon us, and I just wanted to run from them, run into Jan’s embrace and hear him say “Nei, Rose; I have you.”
Lord, we are pressed out of measure, above strength. We cannot trust in ourselves and so we trust in you, Lord, the God which raiseth the dead.
—
February dragged on, miserably wet, slushy, and cold. Spirits flagged under the distressing news and grey, overcast skies.
Heating the house became such a financial strain that Rose, Grant, and Joy made the unpopular decision to tamp down the coal furnace until it was barely burning. This economy plus judicious use of the many fireplaces kept the household from freezing. But just.
Everyone gathered in the great room in the evenings where its two fireplaces blazed continually. By shutting off the room from the entryway and dining room, they kept in the warmth generated by the two fires.
“Missus, I wish you’d take a look at Flinty,” Mr. Wheatley said to Rose one evening. She saw the concern underlying his request and hurried to check on their friend.
The butler quarters near the back of the house were relatively dry and not too cold, but Flinty was huddled in his bed under many blankets, shivering violently. Rose laid a hand on his forehead and was alarmed at how hot it felt.
“Will you fetch Breona, please?” she asked Mr. Wheatley. Without a word, he left her.
Rose sat on the edge of the bed. “Dear Flinty, how are you feeling?”
“Bin better, I reckon,” he wheezed. Then he coughed and grimaced. Rose could hear the tightness of his chest in both his cough and his labored breathing.
Breona hurried into the room, felt Flinty’s forehead, and listened to his breathing. He coughed several time while she watched him, groaning in pain each time.
The Captive Within (A Prairie Heritage, Book 4) Page 22