The Damsel of Distress

The world was disappearing, one person at a time. First her brother had vanished, evidently a victim of his own mentor. Then her husband had failed to show up for their prearranged meeting. She could find no sign of him anywhere in the city. Now a Federal Marshal had disappeared too. A law enforcement officer known for his steady reliability according to locals was nowhere to be found.

Amanda Madeleine Gordon West wasn't just scared now – she was angry. Very angry. And the people responsible for making her feel that way, when she found them, were going to be very, very sorry.

Amanda wasn't a fool, however, regardless of what traits others often assigned to her sex. She wouldn't allow herself to be helpless either. She knew what it felt like to be panicked, to be worried and fearful, filled with sorrow and dread. She'd felt all of those emotions in the previous twelve hours. But there was another feeling, a center, a reserve within her that she had learned to reach for when conditions were at their absolute worst. It was a kind of terrifying, calm, cool practicality. The situation was at its very worst right now. That meant the time had come to set aside her other feelings and let that terrible practicality take over and guide her decisions. If she was to have any hope of withstanding her unseen enemies and saving her family, she had to be at her best. So upon returning to Wanderer II, exhausted after Tem and Marshal Jeffers' failure to appear, and her fruitless drive around the city, she went to her empty bed to sleep, getting off a telegraph message to Secret Service headquarters first. When she needed it, Amanda knew a quick but effective meditation exercise that would help her sleep like a stone however circumstances demanded. She set a small chiming clock in the room to wake her in exactly nine hours.

It had been nearly dawn when she went to bed. The sky was still light with the afternoon sun when she awoke. Her fatigue was gone, but the cold, rational center of calm remained. Quickly, she washed and ate a basic meal, dressed in some of her most 'functional' garments and prepared to get back on the road and on the hunt. With one perfunctory check on Diamond and Daisy, who the engineers had already seen to, she refueled the auto-mobile, tossed in her disguise kit, a few different sets of clothes and every parasol she had left, concealed under a tarp. If the enemy thought she would run away in terror or go down easily, they were in for a surprise. "The female of the species is more deadly than the male," wasn't just Kate Pike's saying.

Murfreesboro by daylight appeared again a different animal than it had in twilight and the darkness such a short time ago. It looked entirely innocent, but then again, so did she. And if there was one talent Amanda had inherited from both of her parents, it was acting. Therefore it was an entirely proper young society lady of cause and conscience who began her first foray into Murfreesboro society. During her frantic perambulations about the city the night before, Amanda had been careful to make mental note of anything that stood out, any little nugget of information that might prove useful. That included a notice bulletin outside one of the larger churches for an afternoon tea and temperance league meeting this very afternoon – 'everybody welcome.'

Amanda needed to find out where the rogues and the real dens of iniquity were located in this city and no one gossiped about such things with more zeal or authority than proper church matrons. Amanda walked in, head upheld with blessed righteousness and bible in hand, introduced herself as 'Prudence Peters' and in no time at all found herself comfortably ensconced among a gaggle of gossipers that could put Washington's finest to shame. Although she was a stranger to their ranks, she had no difficulty revealing as little about herself as possible, the other ladies being so eager to do the talking. By the end of the social gathering, Amanda had a wealth of new information on what parts of town a proper young woman ought to avoid, who might be the friendliest contacts in those places, what societal, legal and political personages it was best to avoid also, etc., etc., etc.

Of course, the enemy would be looking for her even as she was looking for them. They wouldn't have been searching in a church temperance meeting, though. They might be expecting her to go to the usual places a distressed woman might resort to – the police station, the local telegraph or telephone office. Perhaps they might expect her to go pay a call on the mayor or even on the morgues looking for her lost loved ones. So she would not go to those places directly. But she would be paying very close attention to find out who did. It might help her to do a little of her own distressing.

First, however, as the proper and high-minded woman of missionary zeal that she allegedly was, she would pay a discreet call on several of the very places her new compatriots had told her not to visit. She would minister to the fallen, tread among the drunks and the lowlifes to preach the virtues of abstinence and sobriety, with her faith as a shield. This was just the sort of action a naïve fool might take, and a naïve, righteous fool would be a better disguise than any other she could contrive at the moment. 'Prudence Peters' could hopefully get away with the sort of scrutiny that Amanda Gordon West could not. What her grandmother would have thought of the appropriation of the name, she neither knew nor cared at the moment. She had a mission in the low quarters all right.

A self-respecting and proper woman did not drive an expensive auto-mobile filled with valuable (and high caliber) possessions into the closest thing Murfreesboro had for the stews, nor did she dine or sleep in those places. 'Prudence' used a recommendation she had gotten to locate a clean and decent hotel as close as possible to the unclean and indecent places she sought and also conveniently located adjacent to one of the police stations she wished to be spying on. She rented a tidy little room, ate a tidy little dinner, and then, armed with her sleeve derringer, a small but significant pocketbook, and her favorite white parasol, she went out into the still-light evening to stalk her prey on foot. Dressed modestly and not very attractively, long, curly hair pinned back into an aggressive, straight bun that still retained a touch of the previous day's graying, she did her best to radiate celibacy, modesty, and most dread of all, piety. At times such as this, Amanda could be grateful that the features she had inherited were more 'striking' than her mother's soft beauty. Far from propositioning or troubling her, men headed in the same direction steered themselves away from her and tried not to meet her gaze, preferring not to attract a school-marmish lecture for the evening entertainment they were seeking. The truly wicked would be those who did not care if she noticed them, recognized them or not, and she would be paying attention to those men carefully.

It didn't take Amanda long to get the lay of the land in Murfreesboro's 'sin' district, such as it was. The 'Athens of Tennessee' did have one – no self-respecting city of any size would be without its upper-and-medium-class bordellos and gambling dens. Amanda made note of those establishments, but would not attempt to enter in – yet. The brightly lit, noisy places could wait a few more hours. What she sought, before the true and total darkness of night descended, were the shadowy dens where the less fortunate whores turned tricks for the worst of the worst. No missionary sister would dare to go in such a place after the early evening hours had passed, but with the sun not slipped below the horizon, she could still venture in. If she was truly fortunate, she might find some of her best sources of information here. She'd have to be extra careful in discerning which fallen flowers she might trust, but she didn't doubt there were some down here smarter and more observant than society often gave them credit for. Women who, like the waterfront denizens of Chicago, would never go to the authorities willingly, but who might be induced to talk if approached in the right way.

Even the poorest quarters have their social striations. Amanda found what she sought without too much difficulty – an old and run-down town house that might have had its glory days during the Civil War, and still had a tinge of varnish and pride to it as well as heavy curtains and a red light in the window. No gilded cage full of gaiety, music, and well-heeled clients, this. The women working here were not 'escorts' or 'consorts' – they were tarts, and they'd know it. That didn't mean they lacked brains or self-respect. The tired and jaded but still attractive woman leaning on a front porch pillar as she approached was as sharp-eyed as any street urchin. And possibly just as vicious, Amanda reminded herself.

"A little out of your neighborhood, aren't you?" the woman nodded to her.

Amanda nodded back, meeting her gaze boldly rather than demurely, but without any of the contempt another 'churchy' woman might express. She needed conversation here, not hostility. She walked toward the speaker in what she hoped was not an off-putting fashion.

"Prudence Peters," she introduced herself. "Newly arrived and seeking to bring help to the good citizens of Murfreesboro where I may."

"Ah." The hooker looked decidedly unimpressed, but at least had the good grace not to roll her eyes. No doubt she'd had more than a few bible-sayings belched at her by many a well-meaning person in what must be her very hard life. Amanda wouldn't have blamed the woman for showing her own contempt. But this was an experienced veteran of the stews who would know that 'mission' people could sometimes be counted on to hand out a few dollars without requiring backside work. Listening to a brief lecture on morality or hygiene was an easier way to earn a meal than her usual lot.

Amanda was just about to engage in the sort of conversation she hoped might yield some more interesting tidbits of information when the most interesting tidbit of all nearly overtook her unawares. She noticed that the woman she was talking to suddenly stopped looking at her and began looking past her instead. Then Amanda heard the sound that brought a chill to her blood even in her current state - a shuffling noise, as of a man dragging one foot.

How could they have found her so fast?

Amanda's reflexes were good; the hooker's were better. But the woman did not attack her. Rather, she stepped around Amanda to conceal her, and put herself in between 'Prudence' and the source of the shuffling sound. Amanda, popping her sleeve derringer into her hand, turned around to see the prostitute waving her fist at an unkempt, dark-haired man with a shuffling gait and an eye patch.

"Get out of here, wretch!" the prostitute yelled at the man. "I've told you! You rough up one of my girls, you don't come back here! Ever!"

To Amanda's amazement, she wasn't the only armed female present. Not only had the hooker acted to shield her, the woman had drawn a revolver larger than her own from somewhere on her person with equal swiftness. As the ratty-looking man attempted a shuffling step forward, the 'Madam' fired off a single warning shot, raising the road dust between his feet.

"Get your sorry ass out of here before I aim higher up!" the woman yelled.

The stranger with the eye patch backed away, still dragging one foot before cursing and screaming back at them.

"You'll be sorry!"

"And you'll be sorrier!" the Madam yelled, cocking her pistol again and raising it a bit to make her point.

Amanda watched the man's retreat while trying to keep her own face as obscured behind the hooker as possible. She was certain now, from the sound of his whiny yell as well as his dragged foot, that here was the man she'd heard through the trap door in Chicago. She'd picked the quarter of town a member of the gang might frequent accurately enough. Had he recognized her as well? It didn't seem likely. The wretch had barely looked at her while keeping his focus on the woman with the bigger gun. She wanted to go after him right now, wanted to shoot him enough to wound, capture and interrogate him, no matter how much of a tactical mistake it might be, but the point was moot as the hooker blocked her way. The cold, practical instinct flashed her a warning as well. Seconds ago she had feared an ambush and capture. That could still happen if she behaved imprudently.

Find out who he is. Find out everything you can about him. Then act.

The Madam didn't put her gun away immediately as the man disappeared into the dusk, but she was sharply observant enough to notice Amanda's small derringer as well. That was the trouble with using the spring-loaded sleeve holster – it made the gun quick to draw, but not nearly as quick to re-holster.

"You're pretty fast," the other woman commented, with a tone of approval mixed with curiosity. "We don't get many missionaries down here with guns."

"My daddy travelled a lot and met a lot of bad characters," 'Prudence' said with perfect honesty and vagueness. "He wanted me to be able to take care of myself."

The Madam gave her a sad smile before ushering her into the front entrance of the whorehouse.

"Smart of him," she said. "Come in for a few, Sister Peters? We can serve you something to drink that isn't whiskey."

Amanda hadn't wanted to lose sight of the man with the eye patch, but again, she had to be practical. She followed the Madam in, but not without a backward glance at the street.

"That man," she asked. "Who was he?"

"Him?" The Madam followed her gaze and almost spat as she closed the front door. "Miserable, nasty piece of work called Ratch. Joe Ratch. My girls call him Retch 'cause he makes 'em want to throw up. Money's good enough, but his temper ain't. Came here last night in a foul mood and beat one of my girls so badly she won't be able to work for a week! So he's out. He comes here again, I'll do worse than shoot his jewels off!" She colored, as if suddenly remembering who she was speaking to. "Just you be careful going back home or wherever tonight, Sister – and keep that gun handy. Like I said, he's nasty."

Amanda managed a convincing shiver.

"Does he come around here often, then?" Oh, how she hoped he did!

"Too bloody often," the Madam snorted. "Lives somewhere near hereabouts these days, probably because the rest of the city won't have him. Goes away for weeks, but then he turns up again like a bad penny. Can't be up to any good – gets into fights, maybe. The limp's new, fairly, and the patch. My girl he beat up said his foot's all messed up from some kind of stab wound, and he beat her when she asked about the patch."

So the limp was new 'fairly,' and from a stab wound? That was another point that might link this Mr. Ratch to the smugglers in Chicago, if that wound had been made by a certain bladed walking stick . . . . Oh, yes – Amanda needed to find him again all right. And hope that his slime trail led her back to her imperiled loved ones.

Amanda heard the Madam order tea to be brought by another one of the 'girls' working in this establishment. She wasn't interested in drinking it, since her father's tales of 'Shanghai' cocktails and coffee had led her to looking for potted plants or decorative vases whenever offered any kind of beverage by strangers. But she could think of making herself a pleasing – and useful - temporary guest in another way.

"About your girl," she asked, "the one who was so badly beaten? Could I perhaps be of some assistance? I have some experience in nursing." She did, too – and not only in helping her parents take care of her baby brother when he was little. The Secret Service insisted on giving its few female employees quite a bit of medical aid training, considering nursing a far more natural and practical occupation for women than the hand-to-hand combat and sharpshooter skills which she was also quite good at.

The Madam gave her a genuine smile of gratitude. This offer was clearly more welcome than a morality lecture would have been.

"Would you?" the woman accepted. "We're not bad hands here ourselves. But it was an awful thing, and she's in more than a morsel of pain."

Amanda didn't mind a bit. She was always glad to be able to use these particular skills when called on to do so, and she might learn something more from the girl about Ratch as well. 'Prudence Peters' was having a productive night.

To Amanda's dismay, though, the Madam's bruised 'girl' really was one – the beaten hooker appeared to be younger than her own brother. One look at the poor child was enough to explain the Madam's anger, too, and add some additional simmering to Amanda's. The victim of Ratch's wrath now sported a pair of shiners and an impressive collection of lumps and bruises, all new. Her name – or nickname, at least – was Bev, and by Amanda's estimation, the pounding she'd taken would be keeping her from 'work' for more than just a week unless the men frequenting this establishment had a taste for purple or green skin.

"Likes them young, does he?" she remarked sourly. At least that was expected from one of her character.

The Madam shrugged.

"We all have to eat, Sister. But I wouldn't have let the bastard in here if I'd known he'd do this. Wouldn't have let Bev be the one to handle him, either, but the others have all taken their turn."

"And now it was hers to draw the short straw." Amanda checked the unfortunate girl over, smelling the whiskey on the youngster's breath. Alcohol might be the only painkiller these women had ready access to. Amanda could do something about that, taking out of her purse a bottle of aspirin mixed extra strong. She also made sure Bev wasn't running a fever and had no apparent sign of internal injuries other than a cracked rib or two. From the look of things, the poor waif had been lucky to escape outright broken bones. Feeling entirely dissatisfied that she couldn't do more to help, Amanda gave the Madam, whose name she still didn't know, advice on how and when to administer the aspirin and treat the bruises. She also took out a double eagle and handed it to the Madam, with even stricter instructions to use it on the girl's behalf. That should more than make up for the 'keep' Bev wouldn't be able to earn this week. The Madam stared at her in astonishment before taking the coin. This was much greater generosity than might have been expected from a typical 'mission' visitor, but Amanda was also capable of giving others a look that brooked no argument, and she used one now.

"Thank you," the Madam breathed, pocketing the double eagle. Amanda had been tempted to say that she'd be back to make sure the money was used to help the girl, but one look at the older woman's face told her that it would be unnecessary. It was a pity that these women were forced to live as they did. In other circumstances, Amanda could picture making friends with the Madam – as well as getting a few pointers on her quick draw. But the day's shadows were growing longer and it was time for her to be heading out. The Madam knew it too, and encouraged her to be on her way – and watching out for Ratch as she went. Amanda had no trouble promising she'd be on the lookout for that bad, bad man.

Who would be really sorry when she found him . . . .

Before she left the whorehouse for more fertile hunting grounds, Amanda did get one more tidbit of information – the Madam's real name.

"Lucy Mapp," the older woman introduced herself before they parted, not without a certain amount of mutual respect. Amanda would have a friend in this place, if she needed one. As well she might.

It was nearly full dark when Amanda emerged onto the street again, and there was no sign of Joe Ratch anywhere. She checked carefully around the block surrounding the whorehouse, alternately encountering or ducking the neighborhood's other denizens. No sign of Professor Niebhausen or the mysterious man in the red hat either. But she was determined to pick up Ratch's trail again. She wouldn't, couldn't afford to drive herself to helpless exhaustion, but neither would she give up. She had to believe that Tem and Jimmy were still alive, still findable. She was certain that her connection to them was so close she would surely feel it if they were dead. And if anyone knew where they'd been taken, it would be that slimeball Ratch.

After more hours of a fruitless search, Amanda was forced to concede that she wasn't going to get anywhere further tonight. But she was on the right trail. She had to be.

Hold on, my loves, she urged silently. Hold on, wherever you are. I'm coming to help you.

Dusk would return to this neighborhood tomorrow, and so would she. And this time, if mean Joe Ratch came prowling around looking for a woman, he was going to find one . . . .