Chapter Seventeen
For three days Scott had done nothing but stare out the window at the passing scenery, his mind traveling down different roads, all leading to Murdoch's betrayal or his grandfather's death. With each new thought, he dove deeper into the murky waters of self doubt. Could he have seen this coming? Were there tell- tale signs that he had missed in his grandfather's letters? He hadn't seen any, but then he was not looking for them either.
He had been content in his life at Lancer. Possibly for the first time in his life, he had been truly happy. That was why Murdoch's words, his acceptance of the Pinkerton report and his silence, hurt so much.
He went over his meeting with Arthur Hill. To be fair, the evidence suggesting that he was an imposter was overwhelming. If he had read the Pinkerton report, substantiated by his grandfather's silence, he might have thought the same thing. Scott couldn't begin to guess the anger and pain Murdoch must have felt. But, damn it! He should have said something, and so should Johnny. But, what would he, Scott Lancer, do if the tables were turned and it was not himself in question, but Johnny? Would he confront Johnny immediately, demand to have answers? Or would he have wanted to spare his brother the hurt of knowing he was not trusted, worse even, feared? The more he thought about it, in all honesty, he didn't know what he would have done.
The whistle blew and the train began to decrease speed. They were nearing Omaha where he would change trains. The thought of solid, steady ground beneath his feet sounded like heaven. He would get a meal in a real restaurant, find a bookstore and get something to read. The sudden thought that his grandfather would never again send him the newest books and magazines months before they appeared in the stores in California hit him hard. He had waited with great expectation for the packages to arrive. Johnny would complain that he wouldn't see his brother again until he had finished his grandfather's newest offering.
How could his grandfather have been dead for two months and he not know it? He didn't remember reading the date on the last letter. The contents had been too inflammatory. Even for Harlan Garrett, the words had seemed harsher than usual. Was the letter actually from his grandfather, or had someone else written it? Was there a plot to drive a bitter wedge between him and Murdoch Lancer? If it had been planned, then it had worked to perfection. And if it was a plan, then by who, and for what purpose? Hopefully the answers awaited him in Boston, along with his brother.
The train slowed to a crawl as it pulled into Omaha. A loud hiss and a plume of white steam billowed around the outside of his car. Grabbing his one traveling bag he eased into the line of fellow passengers and made his way off the train. The sun glinted on the Missouri River as it flowed lazily by, a refreshing sight after being cramped in the train car.
He had visited Omaha on his trip to California, and then too, he had only seen the few stores around the station. Like most towns since the railroad came in, enterprising businessmen had flocked to open stores near the hub of passengers. There was a lot of money in train travel. Scott smiled to himself as he tapped the money belt around his waist, hidden beneath his clothes. It was also a place where a man could lose everything he owned in the blink of an eye.
Scott had four hours until he boarded the next train, too long to just sit around and not long enough to investigate the city properly. He found the same restaurant he had dined at last time, an overly expensive café, but the food was good and the portions would keep a man full for hours.
The smell of real food reminded him that he had done little more than snack the past three days. At this rate he would be worth nothing emotionally and physically by the time he reached Boston.
Sitting at a table by the back wall, he ordered steak and potatoes. Steak wasn't served often at his grandfather's dinner table. Seafood and French cuisine were the staple. He'd been so glad when the French chef had cooked a disastrous meal for an important business dinner one night and his grandfather had fired him on the spot. Cook Heddy had brought a welcome change to the menu and also let him sneak into the kitchen at times to talk or even on a rare occasion, help her cook.
As Scott sat at his table, he realized that he felt uncomfortable being alone. It had never bothered him in Boston. In fact, he looked forward to the times when he could escape the rigid formality set forth by his grandfather at the dinner table. But Lancer had changed all that. Meals were a time to socialize and plan. It was seldom that he ate alone, and on the rare occasions he did, he missed his family.
His family: How he missed them now. His world had been turned upside down and he felt it would never be right again.
The thoughts burned a hole in his stomach and Scott suddenly lost his appetite. He pushed his half eaten steak aside and called for the bill. After paying for his meal, he headed for the bookstore down the street that he remembered visiting the last time he was here.
The building looked the same and as he walked in, even the same bell jingled above the door. He felt comforted by the smell of old leather bindings and freshly printed books. There were only two customers in the store; a young woman with a small boy in tow and a man dressed in a business suit. An elderly clerk stood behind the counter, his eyes at half mast. Had he always been so attentive to his surroundings? Or was this another thing that he had unknowingly acquired from his brother? The bookstore no longer seemed as inviting, but he had two hours to browse and he was determined to have a good time while he was there.
The woman and child had left half way through his search. He looked toward the door when he heard the bell above the doorway jingle again and two more women walked in. Mother and daughter he assumed, though the daughter appeared older then him. Just as well, if she had been young and pretty he might have been forced to introduce himself, and he really didn't have time to socialize. The sudden reminder of the life he was returning to, with all its formalities and expectations, soured his stomach. It was a lifestyle so far removed from the way of life he had come to love at Lancer. Up before dawn, sometimes not returning home until after dark, so tired he could barely get a cold sandwich down before dragging himself upstairs to bed. At the busiest times, he didn't get a chance to take a bath for days. But he had never felt so alive. With Johnny at his side, he felt a part of something so right. Life had been good. He saw a future there that he had not seen in Boston. A legacy he would be proud to leave a wife and children someday.
Now he was headed back to a place he didn't want to be. But he had nowhere else. His home at Lancer was no longer his. Pushing back the thoughts, he continued his exploration.
A title caught his eye on the top shelf, near the back of the store, and he stretched up to grab it.
"Nice and easy now." Scott heard the hushed command a second before he felt a gun barrel pressed against his ribs.
"If you don't want anyone hurt in here, you'll step outside with me."
Scott glanced sideways to see a man nearly as tall as himself looking around the store hastily to see if anyone had noticed the encounter. He wore a sailor's pea coat and knitted cap, an outfit seen often in harbor towns like Boston and New York. But how had he entered the store without the bell ringing? The answer came a moment later when Scott saw the door open just far enough for a hand to snake in and hold the bell before silently opening the door the rest of the way.
Scott lowered his arm and nodded. He would not put the rest of the patrons of the store in danger. The gun stayed against his ribs until he was outside and the man holding the door open, similarly dressed, joined them discreetly, herding him toward the alleyway between the bookstore and the telegraph office.
"What's this about?" Scott demanded when they were out of earshot of the main street. "If you want money, you have accosted the wrong man."
"Shut up, Lancer."
Scott nearly stumbled at the mention of his name. This was not just some fly-by-night robbery. Someone was deliberately targeting him.
"What's this about?" Scott demanded again. A cold wind buffeted him from the waters off the river. He had the dreadful feeling he knew where his escorts were taking him.
"I said shut up!"
The butt of the gun struck the back of his head and Scott collapsed to the ground.
"Damn it, Sutter," one of his captors complained. "Now we got to drag him the rest of the way."
"Quit bellyaching. We're being paid good money to see that Lancer disappears."
Scott's arms were pulled behind him and bound, then his ankles. He couldn't fight them off, even if he had the power and it didn't feel like his head was an anvil being struck by a sledgehammer. He felt himself lifted and then suddenly he was in the air and falling. Gasping in surprise, he hit the river with a jolt as hard as being thrown from a bucking horse. He sank rapidly beneath the surface, the cold water pouring into his mouth. Something heavy was tied to his ankles and he plunged deeper into the water. Fear and panic gripped him. He worked desperately at the ropes around his wrists but they just grew tighter. He tried holding his breath, but the instinct to breathe was overpowering and he sucked in a lungful of water, choking him, making him draw in more water. He continued to sink deeper, his lungs on fire. Then suddenly the pain was gone. He was floating in a warm nothingness. Memories came to mind. Good memories; the days he was happiest. And Lancer was foremost in his mind. Johnny and Murdoch, Teresa and Jelly. His own death seemed inconsequential compared to the knowledge that his family would never know what had happened to him. The tragedy of it all was that he would never know if they knew he really was Scott Lancer. He felt the warmth and he let it take him away. His only regret was that he didn't know if Johnny still trusted him.
Johnny pulled the heavy coat Thomas had lent him tighter across his chest, awkwardly buttoning it closed with his right hand. His left arm was still bound to his chest, so tightly that it was hard to breathe at times. But Johnny knew if he wanted a working arm again he would have to endure the discomfort, at least until he could get back to the mainland and find Sam with his bucket of heavy plaster. His side still ached from the bullet furrow. Sometimes those kinds of bullet wounds hurt more than the ones that went clean through. Every move he made pulled on healing flesh. He shivered and pulled the collar of the coat up around his ears.
Even though the rain had moved on, the strong gale force winds blowing off the Atlantic were bitterly cold. Grey waves pounded against the cliffs, sounding like cannons buffeting the rocks, filling the air with a fine mist of salt water.
"When will this weather let up?" Johnny yelled over the cacophony of wind and surf. This was his first time outside, and he was stunned by the remoteness of the island. No bigger than two acres, he could see nothing but churning waves marching toward the small chunk of isolated land in every direction.
"Hard to say," Thomas shouted back. "It could blow itself out in a day or last a week."
"I can't wait a week! I've got to get back to Sam. He probably thinks I'm dead by now."
Thomas grabbed Johnny's good arm when he stumbled on the uneven ground and almost lost his footing. His legs still felt shaky. The small amount of blood Thomas had said he lost when he first came to turned out to be quite a lot, and with his body still recuperating from his initial injury back at Lancer, he was finding it harder to bounce back than he usually did. Or maybe he was just getting older. That thought brought a twitch of a smile to his face despite the circumstances. Imagine, Johnny Madrid worrying about getting older.
"We'd best get back," Thomas shouted, most of his words swept away by the wind. "It's too dangerous out here."
Johnny tore his arm loose and strode purposefully toward the water. "I'm getting back to Boston one way or the other," he yelled back.
He was frozen to the bone by the time he made it to the edge of the cliffs. The sight before him took his breath away, and sent chills down his spine even the cold weather couldn't match. The cliffs were sheer fifty foot drops to the crashing waves below.
"You were only semi- conscious when we hauled you up to the island." Thomas was beside him again. He pointed to the dingy sitting on the ground lashed to a wooden beam. A sway arm jetted out over the open water with a block and tackle swinging wildly in the wind. "The only way to get on and off this island is that hoist. I'm sorry, Johnny, that boat would be kindling in two seconds if you tried to lower it into that water. Until the weather eases up, we are all stuck here."
Johnny had faced too many enemies in his lifetime not to recognize one that he could not beat. Turning away from the churning waves he slowly made his way back toward Thomas' house. But the wind seemed determined to prove how powerful it was, and how inconsequential Johnny Lancer was. A gust nearly knocked him to his knees before Thomas' strong arms wrapped around his waist and hauled him in another direction.
"It's time I introduced you to the Lady," Thomas called. They were nearly beneath the towering lighthouse before Johnny realized it, and despite the weather, Thomas took time to pat the white bricks. "She's like a mistress at times. Warm and inviting one minute and cold and hard as ice the next. But above all, if you take good care of her, she'll do the same for you. Come on, its time you two met."
The wooden door flung open and Edward Gorham wrestled with it to keep it from slamming open all the way.
"I wondered when you'd come a calling. I saw ya walking around out there like it was a spring day. You both wake up without the good sense God gave ya?" Johnny had met Gorham just long enough to exchange names yesterday. He and Thomas manned the lighthouse year around. Johnny couldn't see how anyone could stand being on this damn rock for even a day let alone a year. He needed wide open spaces where he could ride Barranca until they were both exhausted.
"And a good morning to you, too." Thomas laughed "I thought it was time that Johnny met the Lady."
"Good idea since he'll be stuck with the two of us 'til this storm blows itself out. Take off your coats and sit down. I was just frying up a rasher of bacon for myself. How many eggs can you eat, boy?"
Johnny shook his head. "I'm not hungry, but thanks anyway."
Edward chuckled. He was about the same height as Thomas, but broader, and bested Thomas by a good twenty pounds. His blue eyes and open smile seemed out of place on the hardened, weather worn face. Another time, another place, Johnny would have taken time to get to know the man, but now his only thought was getting off this island and back to Sam. And Scott. He was sure Scott was on a train headed to Boston by now. His brother could be headed straight into a trap.
Edward threw several more rashers of bacon into the skillet and waved a fork at Johnny. "You've got to eat, boy. You're thin as a rail as it is."
Thomas took his jacket off and threw it over the back of a nearby chair. "Better listen to him, Johnny. You're not going to get your strength back until you start eating."
Johnny begrudgingly admitted the two men were right and unbuttoned his jacket, throwing it on top of Thomas'. He would do no one any good if he was too weak to hold his own.
"There ya go, you do have some sense. How do you like your eggs, Johnny?"
"Cooked."
Edward laughed and grabbed a couple of mugs and filled them with steaming hot coffee. "Warm your insides while I 'cook' your eggs."
Johnny accepted the coffee and began looking around the large circular room. It was bigger than he expected. A sofa and two easy chairs sat to the left of the free standing cook stove. Everything sat away from the curving walls. A small dining table with two chairs sat close enough to the stove to take advantage of its heat. To the right were two bunks with end tables and another set of easy chairs. Paintings of past lighthouse keepers hung from the wall. Thomas and Edwards were at the end of the long line of portraits.
"This has been home for a lot of men over the years. Some have brought their wives and children with them. My wife and two daughters will be coming in a few months."
"You've got an understanding wife if she's willing to live here."
Thomas smiled, dragging a third chair up to the table. "She married a lighthouse keeper. She knew what she was getting into. It's not always an easy life, but it is the only thing that truly makes me happy."
"I live here," Edward added. "Thomas has the house. But there are times when the weather is too fierce to take the chance, and he bunks down here. A few years back, a storm hit. Waves reached the top of the look out. But throughout it all, the glass never broke and the light never went out. The Lady kept us both safe and warm, right Thomas?"
"She's been standing watch for over a hundred years, I expect she'll still be here another hundred. But I hope we never see another storm like that for a long long time."
"When your feeling stronger we'll take you up top. Its a hundred and two feet about sea lever and the flashing light can be seen twenty seven miles out into the Atlantic."
Johnny whistled. "That's a long way."
Edward chuckled. "And ninety-two steps up the spiral staircase."
Thomas's voice turned sober. "There are treacherous rocks out there. They can rip the bottom of a boat out before the Captain has time to blink. We still lose a ship now and then."
Johnny noticed the heavy port windows, too thick to see out of, but allowing some light into the room. The ceiling was low, maybe seven feet and the spiral staircase had a trap door at ceiling level to keep the heat from rising up the tower.
Edward set plates filled high with bacon and eggs on the table. "Come and get it while it's still hot," he called.
Johnny had to admit he was hungrier than he thought when he saw the food before him.
They ate in silence, the sound of the wind buffeting the tower and the rumble of the waves crashing against the cliffs shaking the floor beneath his feet. He wondered if the whole island would soon lose the battle against the raging sea. Finally Johnny had to admit he was full and pushed his plate aside. He had managed to eat one egg and a couple of pieces of bacon.
Neither Thomas nor Edward said a word and continued to eat until their plates were empty.
Thomas drew his pipe out of his shirt pocket and started filling it. "Johnny's anxious to get off the island. Find out who sent that note to him."
Edward looked up. "I was thinking about that myself. Old Timmy Pearl, he delivers coal to all the highfaluting houses in Boston, he said that he'd heard there was a reward out for someone else from California. Madrid I think the name was."
Johnny stiffened. "Johnny Madrid," he said softly.
"Yeah," Edward nodded. "You heard of him? He's supposed to be some kind of famous gunfighter. I've read about them. They're supposed to be cold as ice. Must be to take money for killing a man."
"Them books don't always get it right," Johnny said slowly.
"You know him then?" Edward asked incredulously.
Johnny nodded.
"You think he's here in Boston?" Thomas asked as he sucked on his pipe until he had it burning to his satisfaction.
"Maybe." Johnny stood up and crossed the room to one of the small port windows. He wished he could see out the thick glass. He felt the room closing in around him. He had to get off this island. Johnny turned back toward the table. "But who would know he was coming?" Johnny suddenly looked up. "You sure old man Harlan is dead? He knew Scott knew Madrid."
Thomas set his pipe in a holder on the table, suddenly distracted. "Scott knew Johnny Madrid? How? I mean why would Scott know a man like that?"
"Scott knew a lot of men. And never judged them before he knew them first. What about Garrett? Could he still be alive?"
Edward shook his head. "I saw him in the casket myself before the burial. He was dead all right, and not looking so pretty. It wasn't Garrett who sent the note."
"I've got to get back to town."
"I'm sorry, Johnny. There just isn't any way," Thomas tried to console him. "As soon as the weather clears enough I'll take you back."
Johnny angrily headed for the tower stairs and awkwardly pushed open the trap door. The climb was longer than he expected, and his legs nearly gave out a couple of times before he reached the watchtower. Gasping for air against the tight bindings around his chest, Johnny looked out over the raging sea, then back toward land. He could see some of the higher buildings of Boston, only nine miles away, but it might as well have been ninety miles away. He couldn't get to it. His anger raged. Sam was there, alive or dead he didn't know. Scott would be there any day, if he hadn't already arrived. Damn the letter! Damn Murdoch for not saying a thing until it was too late! Damn Harlan Garrett, for Johnny knew he had something to do with this, alive or dead. And damn himself for being so stupid to walk right into a trap.
Johnny laid his forehead against the cold glass. A Mexican prison had never defeated him like this little piece of land.