Chapter Eleven
"Dead?" Johnny quickly stuck his foot in the threshold, leaning his good shoulder against the heavy ornately carveddoor, the word still echoing in his head. "Why didn't you tell Scott?" he demanded.
"Remove your foot, or I will have you arrested for trespassing."
"I asked you a question," Johnny snarled. "Why didn't you tell Scott?"
"Several letters were sent, if it's any of your business. But no one knows for sure what part of Europe Mr. Scott is in at the moment."
"Europe…?"
"Yes. Now, will you remove yourself from this door or will I have to summon the constable?"
Johnny felt like he was gut punched. He could barely breathe. He watched the door close in his face and just stood there, stunned beyond reason. Garrett dead? Unbidden questions wormed their way into his thoughts. If Garrett was dead then who was sending those letters to Scott? He had never actually seen the letters…no one had. No! He refused to allow those thoughts to take root in his mind. He trusted Scott. He was here to find the truth. But was Murdoch right? Could he accept the truth if it wasn't what he wanted to hear?
He turned and walked back down the stairs toward the cab, a fog of confusion and despair blanketing his thoughts. Sam opened the cab door and Johnny climbed in, barely aware of what he was doing.
"Johnny?" Sam's voice hardly registered.
"Garrett is dead," he answered, his voice devoid of emotion.
"What?"
"He died two months ago."
A long,stifling silence filled the cab, broken only by the driver when he opened the small window between the driver's seat and the interior of the cab. "Where to, Gents?"
"Back to the hotel," Sam ordered.
The cab lurched as the horse made a wide circle and began to retrace its steps back to the Parker House Hotel.
"I don't understand. Surely someone would have notified Scott."
Johnny looked out the window, not seeing anything. "They did. But it takes a long time for a letter to get to Europe."
"Johnny, what are you talking about?"
Johnny felt as if the inside of the cab was closing in around him. He needed air to breathe, time to think. "Stop this damn thing," he barked, grabbing the handle.
"Johnny, no!" Sam held his arm. "We'll be at the hotel in a few minutes."
Johnny snatched his arm free and opened the door as the cab slowed to a stop. Sam scrambled out after him, stopping only long enough to hand the driver the fare.
"Johnny, wait!"
Johnny barely heard Sam, his mind reeling. Garrett dead. It was the last thing he ever thought he'd hear. He walked past people, so many people. Could they tell that he had just been betrayed by the one person in this world he trusted most? Anger welled up inside him. He'd been so sure that he could confront Garrett and get the answer he knew in his heart was true. But now…/dead for two months/…Someone jostled his shoulder and he hissed in pain. /No one knows for sure what part of Europe Mr. Scott is in at the moment./ Lies, all lies. But who was lying? /Your brother may be an imposter'/. No, Scott was back at Lancer. His gut told him so. His heart told him so. But what if he was wrong? He'd never allowed himself to ask that question until now.
The unforgiving stone sidewalk jarred his arm with each step, but he couldn't stop, not now. His hand went automatically to the gun hidden inside his sling. It was the only thing he could rely on, could trust not to let him down. He'd been a fool to let his guard down, to let people into his life. It was safer to stay on the outside looking in.
Suddenly he realized he was entering the hotel lobby. Sam was steering him toward the stairs, and he let him. He was too tired to fight. The pain in his arm throbbed with each beat of his heart. His feet didn't seem to reach the ground anymore. Now he was sitting on the edge of the bed, Sam pressing a glass into his hand.
"Drink this," Sam ordered.
Johnny complied because he didn't have the strength or the will to say no. /No one knows for sure what part of Europe Mr. Scott is at the moment./
Sam gently maneuvered him until he was lying on the bed, his left arm supported beneath a soft pillow. He knew Sam had given him something to make him sleep. Would it make him stop thinking? Would it stop the questions?
He felt his body sag deeper into the mattress as he drifted into a deep, drugged sleep.
Johnny awoke some time later. He lay very still, eyes closed, listening, trying to remember where he was. The lack of the constant motion of the Pullman car and the silence told him he was no longer on the train. /Mr. Garret has been dead for two months./ He threw the covers off and leaped to his feet, regretting the movement instantly. He clutched at his arm, damning the heavy cast that imprisoned the pain. His ribs joined the symphony of discomfort and he groaned in misery as he sat back down on the edge of the bed.
The door leading to Sam's room opened slowly and Sam stuck his head in. "Is it safe?"
Johnny should have been mad. Sam had fought dirty last night, drugging his water.
Most times he would have been. But the sleep had cleared his head. "Maybe..."
Sam produced a tray with two plates covered with white napkins. "I had breakfast brought up. I didn't know if you would feel like eating in the restaurant downstairs."
Johnny feigned annoyance. "In that case, come on in."
Sam silently went about placing the dishes on the small round table in the corner of the room and disappeared back into his room. He returned with another tray with two cups and a porcelain coffee pot.
Johnny slipped into a chair and watched Sam pull the napkin off with a flourish. Scrambled eggs, toast and a small tumbler of honey filled the plate.
"Where's the steak?"he asked, disgruntled. "I've had nothin' but eggs and oatmeal for longer than I can remember."
"Maybe tonight."
Johnny nodded, knowing "maybe" most likely meant no, and reluctantly took a taste. It was good, but it lacked Maria's special touch. The thought of Maria brought back memories of home, of sitting around the breakfast table, Scott grinning like a fool over Johnny's inability to eat anything but oatmeal after a brawl in the Green River saloon. He hadn't realized how important those moments were until it hit him that he might lose the chance of ever making more memories. He took a couple more bites and put his fork down. His stomach was a mass of knots.
"You have to eat, Johnny."
Johnny pushed the bowl away from him. "Don't feel much like it right now."
Sam nodded, not saying anything until he poured another cup of coffee for both of them.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"About what?" Johnny's voce was harsher than he intended. "That Scott made a fool of me? That I trusted him?"
"And now you feel betrayed."
"I don't know what I feel. I want to believe. My gut tells me that Scott is my brother. But everywhere I turn…what do you do when the facts say one thing and your heart says another?"
"I think you trust your instincts."
"I wanna believe, Sam."
"Then do what you can to prove that you're right."
Johnny adjusted the sling supporting his arm and grimaced.
"You should rest today," Sam cautioned. "It was a long trip getting here."
Johnny shook his head. "Don't have time for that."
Sam sighed heavily. "Something tells me I'm not going to like what you have in mind for today."
"Answers, Sam. I need answers. First, I got to know if Garrett is really dead. Then I need to get inside that house. There's got to be something there that will prove that Scott is Scott."
"Johnny, they are not going to just welcome you in with open arms."
"There's other ways of getting in."
"Now you're talking about breaking and entering. That, my friend, could land you in jail."
"Not if I'm not caught. Scott told me that everyone goes out on Sundays. The staff goes home or to church. Only the old man and his servant stay behind. Scott used to hate Sundays. They were long and boring and he was expected to stay in his room out of the way." Johnny shook his head sadly. "I may have had it rough growing up, but at least I had a life."
"Johnny," Sam said softly. "Being Devil's advocate here, what if you can't find anything to substantiate Scott's claim, what then?"
Johnny stood up slowly. "I ain't there yet, am I? I'm going for a walk."
"I'll get my coat and be right with you."
"No, Sam. I need some time to think. I'll be all right. Everyone knows this hotel. If I get lost I'll find my way back. Meantime, you think of what you're going to say to keep Garrett's servant busy while I have a look around inside."
"What?"
Johnny smiled cheekily. "You're my, what is the word Scott uses…accomplice"
Johnny stopped at the desk occupying the back wall of the lobby and asked directions to King's Chapel Burying Ground.
The clerk gave Johnny a disapproving look as he unabashedly appraised the bolero jacket, the left side draped over the cumbersome cast, and the line of silver conchos running down the outside of his leather pants.
"Would you like me to hail you a cab, Sir?" The "Sir" seemed to come out strained.
Johnny shook his head. "I'll walk."
Stepping outside, Johnny was surprised to find the streets much quieter than yesterday. Though he didn't remember a lot about his trip back from Garrett's, he had noted the chaos of too many wagons and cabs filling the streets. Now he could see tracks traveling down the center of the street where horse drawn cars, looking very much like train cars, carried a dozen or more passengers. It seemed as if there were more people in the town of Boston than in all of California.
He made his way down School Street. Even though the weather held the sharpness of fall, he felt sweat trickle down his back and dampen his face. Was he ready to see what awaited him in the cemetery? If Garrett really was dead, what then?
Johnny didn't have time to mull over the question before he came upon a distinctive granite building. The desk clerk had described it perfectly with its six columns in front and second story bell tower. He slowly walked past the church to the cemetery, knowing with each step he came closer to finding answers he might not be ready to accept. Fenced off by a stone and iron picket fence, he passed through the archway leading to the sacred grounds. Rows of small stone markers were intermixed with larger gravestones dating back hundreds of years. This was Boston's history. He had seen cemeteries like this in Mexico, hundreds of years of history inscribed in stone.
As he walked along the narrow paths, worn by visitors over the years, he came upon a row of newer stones. His heart beat faster as he read each name, and suddenly froze before a finely polished, black ebony headstone. IN MEMORY OF HARLAN BERNARD GARRETT. AUGUST 13, 1807 –AUGUST 22,1870. LOVING FATHER TO CATHERINE GARRETT LANCER. LOVING GRANDFATHER TO SCOTT GARRETT LANCER. MAY HE REST IN GOD'S ARMS.
"No," he breathed. He felt the ground sag beneath him. Beside Garrett, another gravestone proclaimed to be the last resting place of Scott's mother: Catherine Garrett Lancer. Was this a glimpse of the grandfather Scott loved so? A place he had given Scott to grieve for the mother he never knew?
He could not deny the truth now. /Mr. Garrett died two months ago/ The voice that would not leave his head taunted him. The servant was right. With a growing disbelief, Johnny had to admit that Garrett was dead.
Turning away from the graves, Johnny silently walked out of the cemetery. What should he do? Send Scott a telegram? If he was truly Scott, the news would be devastating. If he was, as Murdoch feared, an imposter, it could put Murdoch in danger.
When would he get the answers he wanted…needed? Until now, all he hadwas more questions.
"We have to tell Scott. He has a right to know." Sam poured a second cup of coffee for Johnny as he sat on the edge of the bed, looking as tired and defeated as Sam had ever seen him.
"I don't know. Those letters he said he got from Garrett. A dead man doesn't write from the grave."
"So you aren't sure anymore?" Sam prodded.
"He is Scott!" Johnny said sharply - too sharply. Was he trying to convince Sam or himself? With a softer voice he added, "I'm not giving up on him."
Sam dragged a chair over to the bed sitting down heavily. "But what can we do?"
"We get inside Garrett's house and prove Scott is Harlan Garrett's real grandson. That he's Murdoch's son and my brother. I can't believe Scott could have lied like that."
"And just how do you propose to get inside the Garrett mansion? This is Boston, Johnny, not Green River."
Johnny walked to the closet and brought over his traveling bag, rummaging in it awkwardly with his right hand, finally bringing out the suit Murdoch had insisted he bring. "Can you make me look like one of them men from Boston?"
Sam raised a quizzical eyebrow. "A shave and a few inches cut off that mop you call hair…maybe."
Johnny shook his head emphatically. "You stay away from my hair. I saw some men with hair longer than mine. Besides, I don't plan on meeting anyone, just don't want to stand out like a sore thumb."
Sam nodded. "I'll see what I can do. But first I want you to get some rest. You won't do Scott any good if you collapse from exhaustion."
Johnny sighed heavily. "I know. I'll rest. Could you send the telegram for me, Sam? I know you'll know what to say. Maybe you should send it to Murdoch. But I don't know how he'll react. He was hanging on by a thread when we left. I don't know what he will do."
"They have to know."
Johnny lay back on the bed. He only wanted things back the way they were.
"I'll be back in awhile. You rest now."
Johnny nodded. Things were going from bad to worse.