Su-Chong watched her with an intensity that terrified her. It seemed the only way he looked at her now. He stared at her as though trying to decide how to dispose of her. “What is that book you are hiding from me?”
“I-I am not hiding anything,” she said weakly. Lord! Please don’t let him take your word from me!
He ripped the book from her hand. “What is this nonsense? You are no Christian.”
He smiled at her then, a poisonous smile so much like Fang-Hua’s that Mei-Xing nearly fainted. “Let me tell you something, Mei-Xing, something you must take to heart. You are a whore. I have enjoyed your body whenever I wished, because you are nothing but a whore. You tried to trick me, but I discerned the truth about you. You are a whore. You will always be a whore. You can never be anything but a whore!”
He tore the book in two down its spine and tossed it on the floor. Mei-Xing eyed the pieces hungrily and he spotted her desire.
“Oh, no. No, I won’t leave you even this deceitful garbage for comfort. You deserve no mercy for your lies and perfidy.” He picked up the two halves of the book and carried them with him through the door.
She remained frozen in place as he locked the door behind him. She could hear his words resounding in her ears. Hateful, hopeless words.
Words that were, somehow, strangely familiar. She strained to recall hearing those same words in another place and another time . . . spoken by someone who had loved her so deeply.
“Those voices! They sneer at you, you are a whore. You will always be a whore. Once a whore, always a whore! You can never be anything but a whore!”
Mama Rose! Mei-Xing sank into a heap on the floor, squeezing her eyes closed and shutting out everything but the sound of Rose’s voice, speaking truth to her broken heart.
“Yes, we are all guilty of doing wrong things, bad things, even horrible things. Those may be the facts but, when covered by the blood of Jesus, they are no longer the truth.
“Choose instead to follow the voice of Jesus, the voice of truth. He calls to us, Come to me all you who are weary . . . weary, worn, and heavy-burdened. Come to me, and I will give you rest for your souls.”
Oh, Jesus, thank you.
—
For a long week, O’Dell pressed Bao, and he was merciless. No detail Bao spoke was insignificant. O’Dell made Bao tell all he knew of Su-Chong and rehearse every conversation he’d had with Fang-Hua. He took copious notes and then had Bao repeat it all again.
For a while Miss Greenbow stayed in the tiny kitchen trying not to listen or at least pretending not to. After a day or so she sat in the living room watching and listening to the interplay between the two men, one harsh and pressing, the other broken and compliant.
As the days passed and no helpful information emerged, O’Dell became more frustrated. He began to berate Bao.
As this continued, Miss Greenbow chewed her bottom lip, unhappy with O’Dell’s contempt, concerned about Bao’s lifeless responses. At last she could keep quiet no more.
“Mr. O’Dell?”
With an impatient gesture, O’Dell turned.
“You are a bully, Mr. O’Dell. You are bullying him. I-I do not like to see it.”
He glared at her. “This is not your concern, Miss Greenbow.”
Miss Greenbow pressed her lips together. “You will catch more flies with sugar than with vinegar, Mr. O’Dell.”
“Again, this is not your concern, Miss Greenbow, O’Dell snapped. “Kindly keep out.”
Her eyes flashed. “You are so intent on punishing him, you would miss the information you seek even if it hit you square on the head.”
She jumped to her feet. “And it is not your job to punish him.” With that, Miss Greenbow flounced into the kitchen.
O’Dell listened as she banged cupboard doors and pots and pans. His mouth gaped. Demure Miss Greenbow was throwing a tantrum!
Then he caught himself. Is that what I am doing? Throwing a tantrum? Her words convicted him. And is that what I’m I trying to do? Punish Bao?
He looked at Bao and, for the first time in days, really saw the man. If possible, he had lost more weight. Although Bao was supposed to sleep on the sofa at night, O’Dell knew he spent much of the long nights in the back yard staring into the dark skies. His eyes appeared hollow, burned out.
At that moment Bao glanced up and O’Dell caught a glimpse into his hopeless soul. He flushed and stood up, irritated. This wasn’t about Bao; it was about justice for Mei-Xing!
But he didn’t like the feeling that lurked just below the surface, the sense that he’d lost Miss Greenbow’s good opinion. A bully? She’d called him a bully! He stomped through the kitchen, ignoring her, and out the back door. He needed to clear his head.
O’Dell lost track of how long he’d stayed outside. The weather was cool, but spring was on the air. He could smell the perfume of lilacs from some yard nearby. Scotch broom cascaded over the back fence in a wild, yellow blanket. Tulips, nearly spent, wagged in a gentle breeze.
I’ve lost my objectivity, he grudgingly admitted. For a long while he watched rain falling in the distance, the mist of the downpour tugging and pulling the clouds toward the ground.
He let himself back into the house. Bao and Miss Greenbow were seated at the little kitchen table. She had fixed him lunch and was coaxing him to eat it. What she said next stunned O’Dell.
“Now, when this Mr. Morgan was talking to Madam Chen, I think I remember you saying that she called him some sort of nick name. What was it she called him again?”
Bao chewed on a bite of sandwich and thought hard. “I think she called him . . . Reggie?”
“Yes, that’s what it was! What do you suppose that means?”
O’Dell inched closer. Bao, with his back to O’Dell, did not notice him, but Miss Greenbow, facing him, gave him a tiny, solemn shake of her head. O’Dell stopped where he was, afraid to breathe.
“I-I think I’ve heard it before,” Bao said, unsure of himself. “Because Morgan used to live in Seattle, you know. Grew up here.”
Miss Greenbow was tempted to pursue that line of information but resisted. “Reggie. Do you think it is short for something else? Reginald, perhaps?”
Bao rested his forehead on the heel of his hand. “Not Reginald.”
Miss Greenbow glanced at O’Dell and then back to Bao. “No? Not Reginald?”
He stopped chewing. “Regis. They called him Reggie, short for Regis.”
She licked her lips. “Regis. Not a very common name, is it? Has a nice ring, though. Um, Regis . . . what? Do you recall a last name?”
Bao ignored her. “They called him Reggie. I remember my father and uncle laughing about it. Not because it was so terribly funny, but because . . . because he hated it. I don’t know why, but it made him very angry, and his anger amused Wei Lin Chen.”
Miss Greenbow looked to O’Dell for help.
O’Dell asked, as quietly as he could, “Regis. Can you remember his last name?”
Bao started and turned fearfully toward O’Dell. He lowered his eyes and shook his head.
He’s clammed up. Great job, O’Dell!
“That sandwich looks great, Miss Greenbow. Ah, any chance I could get one?”
She left her chair and began to pull out the sandwich makings. He slid into the chair opposite Bao and tried to figure out how to begin again with him.
“Bao, you haven’t told us much about your family, your parents, brothers, sisters.” O’Dell made sure his voice was light, conversational. He waited, not giving in to the urge to badger him as he’d done previously.
When Bao still remained silent, O’Dell asked quietly, “You mentioned that your father knew Reggie. Is he still around?”
Bao shook his head. “No.”
“Do you have any relatives who would recall Reggie?”
Bao thought. “I . . . yes; but only on Uncle Wei Lin’s side.”
O’Dell frowned. “If only we could only talk to someone who would remember. You see,”
he leaned confidentially toward Bao, “we have searched property records in Denver under every alias of Morgan’s that we know, which is the problem. We don’t think we know them all.
“If Su-Chong is still hiding in Denver, it must be in a place that was prepared ahead of time—stocked with food and other necessities. What is called a bolt-hole.
“In Omaha, Morgan went by the name of Franklin. Franklin owned dozens of properties. One of them was prepared as I’ve described—but was owned under the name of Dean Morgan. I guess I’m wondering . . .”
He didn’t finish his sentence and, after a few moments, Bao dared look at him. “What are you wondering, Mr. O’Dell?”
O’Dell saw Bao, this time not as a piece of filth to be wiped off his feet, but as a man. “I am wondering if Morgan has a bolt-hole in Denver under a name we don’t yet know. If he does, I’m betting Su-Chong knows of it and is hiding there. And if he is hiding there, perhaps he has Mei-Xing with him. I guess that makes Regis’ last name pretty important.”
The kitchen was utterly quiet except for the ticking of the clock on the wall. Still O’Dell waited.
Tentatively Bao whispered, “My wife’s name was Ling-Ling.”
O’Dell was confused but nodded, pushing down his irritation. “I understand she passed away recently.”
Miss Greenbow stared at him. He could feel her eyes boring into him, challenging him, willing him, to not bully an already mortally wounded human being.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” O’Dell added.
Bao’s eyes became moist. “Yes. She and a baby son.”
O’Dell would not look at Miss Greenbow. “I am truly sorry, Bao.”
Bao shuddered. “The cook in the Chen home is related to Ling-Ling. Her daughter is also a servant in the house. They were the ones who warned me of Fang-Hua.”
“You think they would remember Reggie?”
He shrugged. “One of them may.”
O’Dell looked at Miss Greenbow then. “We need Liáng.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Will you walk to the grocer’s and use his telephone? If you have to leave a message, just say that Mr. Jones has taken a turn and hopes Minister Liáng will visit soon.”
She was already pulling on her gloves and hat. “I’ll be back shortly.”
~~**~~
Chapter 39
Rose rubbed her eyes and refocused her thoughts. The new year was almost a third gone, the house still had so many needs, and managing it required her attention to so many details!
Joy and Grant still felt that it was the right time to push ahead to found a sewing school. Rose knew they felt it time for all of them to shake off the listlessness that Mei-Xing’s disappearance and Flinty’s passing had engendered.
But a sewing school and business? It had taken years of plodding under the patient tutelage of her friend Vera Medford back in RiverBend for Rose to become even a modest seamstress!
For a moment she questioned her expanding role in their endeavors. Her heart was in ministering to the young women in the house—teaching them how to remake their lives and find peace with God. She had not bargained on all these other, more practical details.
Joy was far better at these things than she was. But Grant and Joy were fully immersed in running the store. Rose groaned inwardly. She needed a cup of tea. And her Bible.
She took her cup and saucer and returned to her desk and the many details demanding her attention. While the tea was steeping, she thumbed through her Bible and began to read Psalm 37. She stopped at verses 4 and 5 and smiled. Oh, yes!
Delight thyself also in the Lord:
and he shall give thee
the desires of thine heart.
Commit thy way unto the Lord;
trust also in him;
and he shall bring it to pass.
She fed on those words and prayed over the many needs of the house. She was sipping her tea and gathering her energy when the front doorbell sounded.
The doorbell rang again, and Rose sighed. Breona, Marit, Mr. Wheatley, and the girls were likely at the market. Grant and Joy were due home from the shop in a while.
She pushed herself to her feet wondering again how they could begin a sewing school let alone a sewing business. And yet the rest of the girls—and those who would be coming after them—must have employment. They could not sit idle. They needed to be working toward their future independence.
“Lord,” she whispered as she trod toward the door, “Let every plan of ours begin and end with you. If a sewing business is not your plan, we will look elsewhere for your hand. If it is not your timing, we will wait on you until it is.”
She glanced through the peephole. Rose saw a fashionably dressed woman facing away from the door, looking with interest at the yard and the porch that wrapped itself around the front of the house. A mass of tight, glossy-black curls peeked out from under a wide, beautiful hat.
What a gorgeous hat! Rose thought. Everything about this woman bespoke elegance and the finest style.
Rose glanced down at her dress and then touched her hair self-consciously. Her dress was simple and of good quality, but downright primitive compared to the visitor on the porch!
The bell rang again and Rose pulled herself together, quickly unlocking and swinging wide the door. The woman, now facing her, smiled pleasantly. Her glowing skin was the color of warm, creamed coffee.
“Is this the residence of Miss Thoresen? Miss Joy Thoresen?”
“Yes it is, but she is away at present. I am her mother, Mrs. Thoresen. May I be of help?”
The woman smiled again. “Mrs. Van der Pol speaks very highly of you, Mrs. Thoresen. But I apologize. May I introduce myself?”
She offered Rose her card. The stiff ivory paper had a gold border around the engraved words Miss Victoria Washington.
“How may I be of service to you, Miss Washington?” Rose asked, her curiosity aroused.
“I have only arrived in Denver, just last evening,” the young woman replied, “and I am staying with Mrs. Van der Pol for the present. However, I came back to Denver to offer my services.”
Before Rose could respond, she heard the front gate open and the sounds of Grant and Joy’s voices coming up the walk. The woman also heard and turned eagerly toward them.
Joy stopped when she saw their visitor. Something was so familiar about her . . .
“Tory?”
“Yes, miss!”
“Oh, my goodness!” Joy rushed to embrace her. “Oh, my dear, but I am so happy to see you!” She pulled back and gazed in Tory’s face. “You look so well, so lovely!”
Tory blushed, her cheeks reddening prettily under Joy’s praise. “I am equally happy to see you, miss.”
“Forgive me,” Joy said, “I would like you to meet my husband, Grant Michaels.”
Grant offered Tory his left hand and she graciously took it, confused both by the arm hanging lifelessly by his side and by the introduction.
“But . . . I mean, I thought—” she pulled herself up short and managed, “A pleasure to meet you,” while trying hard to mask her puzzlement.
“Yes, I see we have confounded you,” Joy laughed. “My husband died nearly three years ago—and yet here he stands. Perhaps we can go inside and explain. But first, have you met my mother?”
Joy turned to Rose. “Mama, this is Tory. She is one of the first girls we helped to escape from Corinth!”
“Tory! Mei-Xing spoke often of you,” Rose responded warmly.
“There is no word of Mei-Xing?” Tory’s eyes saddened. “Mrs. Van der Pol sent the news to me months ago and I have prayed . . .” She stopped and cleared her throat.
Rose took her by the arm and led her inside. “No, nothing to date, but we still hope. We have placed our trust in the Lord.”
They moved into the parlor and seated themselves. Tory gracefully arranged her skirts and crossed her ankles demurely. Joy sat close beside her.
For more than an hour, Joy, Rose
, and Grant explained all that had happened in the 15 months since that bitterly cold January when Tory and her friend Helen had arrived at the lodge in the dark hours of the night. Tory listened intently, her brow creasing in fear and sorrow as they told of Banner and his men burning the lodge and taking Joy prisoner.
Her worry turned to triumph as they described the U.S. marshals and Pinkerton agents descending on Corinth and arresting Morgan, Banner, and his gang of thugs, finally breaking their hold on the girls in Corinth’s two infamous houses.
“I would have loved to have seen it all,” she whispered, breathing hard. “I would have loved to have seen Banner and Darrow and Roxanne taken away in handcuffs.” She dashed away a few tears. “I would have given anything for Helen to have seen it.”
Joy touched Tory’s hand gently. “I’m so sorry about Helen, Tory.”
Tory nodded. “Thank you. Thank you for everything you did for us, Miss Joy. For everything. Mrs. Van der Pol sent us to the Misses Wright—Miss Eloise and Miss Eugenia Wright—in Philadelphia, and they have been so good, so kind to us. They, they cared for Helen until the end. She had the finest doctors, but they all said . . . they said they could do nothing for her.”
She was quiet for a moment, lost in her thoughts. “Miss Eugenia spent the most time with Helen. She sang to her. Sang for hours.” Now tears trickled down Tory’s face. “She sang the most beautiful hymns to her. Then she would describe heaven to Helen, how beautiful it would be, and how much Jesus loved her and how he would be waiting for her.” Tory choked and had to stop speaking.
“It’s all right, Tory,” Joy soothed her.
“I want to tell you, Miss Joy.” She looked from Rose to Grant and back to Joy. “I want to tell you what happened.”
Grant handed Tory a clean handkerchief and she dabbed her eyes. “Thank you. I want you all to know.” She took a deep breath, composing herself. “Helen was so weak and in so much pain, but she asked Miss Eugenia how Jesus could possibly be waiting for her, after, after all the awful things she had done.”
Here Tory bowed her head and spoke as though remembering each word of the conversation. “Miss Eugenia told her, ‘Child, Jesus has been waiting for you all your life. If you will go to him right now and ask his forgiveness, he will certainly receive you.’ Well, Helen prayed right then—and oh! I saw it! I saw it, Miss Joy! I saw the forgiveness wash over her and the grief leave her poor, thin face! She became young and lovely again, even though the disease had wasted her so. It was the most wondrous thing I ever saw.”
The Captive Within (A Prairie Heritage, Book 4) Page 26