Murdoch in the JungleT

by Romantic Nerd

In 1904 Detective Murdoch and George Crabtree investigate a murder involving the abusive world of the meat-packing industry. Posing as hobos, they encounter Upton Sinclair researching his novel, "The Jungle." Sinclair helps them with their investigation and to learn how to survive in this dark, depressing and soul-torturing world of the early twentieth century jungle. M version.

15. Chapter 15Losing that ONE Thing T

Chapter_14_Losing that One Thing?

Davies Slaughterhouse workers discovered a pair of hobos hiding out in one of their meat-packing train cars. Finding the abuse of such weaker men to be good sport, they began their bullying. "Well, lookie here boys, we got us some hobo vermin plundering themselves on OUR meat. "Block their escape around the car – Now!" their leader bellowed as the two trapped men attempted to flee, slamming open the rooftop door to their little ice-compartment box in the ceiling of the train car.

Once the two hobos stood on the roof, now out in the light of day, the leader recognized one of them. "Oh my, what have we here?" he declared sarcastically, like a cat toying with a mouse, "If it ain't that pig-lovin' detective… Murdoch wasn't it?"

"I believe you're right, Jim. It is that piggy smellin' detective. Must a gotten down on his luck, heh," he ribbed his friend. "Chet, we'll be needin' the rifle – quick!" the large man hollered out towards the building.

"George," Murdoch whispered, "the only way out is forward along the rooftops."

"But sir, that will only bring us deeper into Davies' place," George worried.

Unnoticed by anyone, a clean-shaven man in an overcoat and suit approached. Taking up his rear were five other men. They appeared to be rather… official.

Chet ran out of the building wielding the rifle, "Here boss," he said rushing to hand the weapon over to Jim. Immediately the two men on the roof took off running the only direction not blocked by the mob, forward, on the top of the train. Jim took aim…

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Clegg's voice yelled out.

Instantly William and George recognized his voice, glanced down to see the spy standing there as they ran by, up above him and his men. Not slowing his rushed exodus, William held eye-contact with Clegg for a brief moment, recognizing him. Clegg saw in the look, gratitude.

Turning his attention back to the man with the rifle, Clegg said, "Gentlemen, gentlemen, I am with the United States of America Meat and Animal Byproducts Department," he lied. I believe murdering two innocent men down on their luck right in front of us might be inconducive to our ongoing business with your company. Might upset Mr. Davies, hmm?" he asked.

Thus, William and George escaped Davies Slaughterhouse thanks to the help of none other than Alan Clegg.

Safely outside of the confines of Davies Slaughter house, William asked George if he had any money. Fortunately, between the two of them they were able to gather up enough money to afford a cab. The detective explained that he would need to have Adomas' letter officially interpreted before they could arrest Davies and Mulligan. Both men exhausted, drained, starving, pounded and still filthy, reeking from days and days and days of hobo life, the detective asked, "George …I would like to stop off at my home before going to the stationhouse, or interrogating suspects…"

"Of course sir," he interrupted before the detective could finish, "You need to be Detective Murdoch rather than a homeless hobo if you are to be taken seriously."

Honestly, William had ulterior motives. He found himself longing, intolerably, urgently longing, to have Julia in his arms, and the feelings had only grown in intensity now that he was almost home. He decided to let the constable's explanation stand for it was also true – but, had he been properly clothed, he would still have found the need to get home to her, to hold her body close to his, to be irresistible. So much so, that it took all the self-control he had not to tell the carriage driver to gallop the horse to his address. Perhaps it was the presence of George sitting next to him in the cab that provided such restraint.

))) (((

Both Julia and Eloise were in the kitchen. Eloise had already prepared the doctor's breakfast and they were making plans for the day. They both looked at each other with excitement upon hearing the sound of the front door and then William's voice. Julia quickly ascertained that he was speaking with George. Forgetting her state of being – huge with pregnancy, which normally rendered her movements more similar to those of a beached whale than to those of the relatively young, healthy woman she was, she found herself standing before him in the foyer so quickly, she wouldn't ever remember thinking that he had gotten home. The sight of him – the irrefutable sight of him, brought her to pause, ever so briefly, her forward motion slowing without ever actually ceasing her inertia.

Having spent nearly a week battling with her rage and her worry, Julia now had only one thought, more an image in her mind really, or a profound awareness, there was only one thing – "To be in his arms." She was surprised by the look of him, although she was not aware of it right at that moment, finding that her recognition of his suffering only surfaced in her memories of the moment, later. He seemed to be shorter, smaller somehow. And when their eyes met, her heart sunk away, for his expression revealed to her a deep sense of having been battered and damaged, profoundly hurt, down to his very core.

This was not the first time their eyes had reunited under such circumstances. The situation now was not so different from when he had lost his memory and ended up in Bristol, or when he had been pulled ashore after having been found by the constables floating unconscious on a log in the river, barely surviving after jumping in after James Gillies. Yet, never before had her heart felt such a pull from a simple gaze into his eyes, his need for her utterly inescapable.

She called his name, as she ran to him, seeing his face brighten. Strangely, her call would not make it into either of their memories, for the relatively slow speed of sound as compared to the speed of their force of attraction to one another, its extraordinary power rivaling that of the speed of light and the strength of gravity, meant that her call would never be recorded in their memories, arriving too late to fit into a commonsense understanding of the world.

Their bodies connected with a light 'thump,' clicking into place as they were meant to be. Eloise and George looked on as the couple embraced, their attention drawn to the sight by the sheer beauty of William and Julia's love for each other. William hugged Julia like a drowning man hugs the shore – as if his life depended on having her safe and well and in his arms.

His unshaven cheek scratching against hers, his lips near her ear, finally his breath on her, he asked, "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine," her reply came, offering reassurance.

He pulled back, dropped his eyes down to her belly, "The baby?" he asked. After a slight hesitation, considering on some level of asking her permission, but lacking the patience, William covered her belly with his hand, protectively, affectionately.

"Yes William, we are both fine," she replied, her blue eyes calling his up to touch hers. She needed to see that he was truly alright, worry still lingering under the surface from his earlier look. "And you… Are you alright, William?" her eyes threatened tears, no one in the room would be able to say if they were happy tears or sad ones.

He was slow to answer, finally replying, "No injuries," with a wrinkle of the corner of his mouth, and she knew he was hurting, and he saw her recognition, felt her empathic caress, prompting him to release a big sigh. Julia reached up to cover her mouth, a part of her noticing the horrible smell coming off of him, and asked, "Is the case solved?"

Again, he offered his 'admitting it' wrinkled face. "Not yet, but we have something crucial… It is a long…" William scooped her up into his arms once more, explaining, "I just wanted to see you," with a whisper. After a moment, the couple broke off the hug once more. William noticed Eloise standing in the hallway to the kitchen, her smile exploding on her face.

"Detective," she declared…

"Oh it is so good to see you, Eloise," he blurted out excitedly as well.

Business-like, she pulled back her emotions, "You must be starving," she insisted, "Come, I'll make you both a big breakfast."

No one would need to invite George twice, he exclaimed, "Oh! That sounds wonderful!" quickly moving passed the couple to hurry to the kitchen.

William's hand at the small of Julia's back as they followed along towards the kitchen, he said, "That is very kind, Eloise, but I'm afraid I won't have time. Perhaps George can have some while I change."

Julia added, "We'll pack something up for you."

Though Eloise said nothing, she too had seen William's look. This was a man who needed nurturing. She would be making him breakfast too.

Eloise indicated a chair at the kitchen table for George. As he walked by Julia, she felt her body recoil with the rank, reeking odor of the man. "My goodness George," she reacted, "How can you possibly smell that bad?"

So, exhausted and worn out that George could not even muster up the energy needed to feel embarrassed, he replied, "I fell… in… pig slop, I guess you'd call it."

Julia nodded, "That would do it," she thought, simply answering with a, "Mm."

"Julia, could you look at a knife wound George got… on his side? It was only minimally treated," William asked.

"Certainly," she answered. As some of the harshness of their experiences started to become more apparent, she felt it… inside of herself, a reminder stirring, of her own awful experiences while he was away. First just a twinge, her anger. It did not fit; it was out of sorts with the world. The sensation was similar to when a familiar song starts to play, but the tune has not yet become synched with the brain. The melody is tried in slot after slot, and none of them seem to be fitting with it, and then suddenly, it snaps into place, and like that, she remembered that he had kept a secret from her, about meeting with Ettie Weston, and with her new-felt awareness there was searing hurt bubbling up with her anger. Yes, she remembered now, she was angry with him.

Trying to cover, off-kilter but hiding it, Julia called after William as he headed out of the room, "Bring me a shirt for him so he doesn't have to wear this filthy one. Oh, and the penicillin too. It's down in my lab, and my medical bag…" she added, feeling her cut heel throb and sting with remembering leaving the medical bag up in their bedroom so she could treat her injury from stepping on the broken locket in the dark.

Eloise had many pans going on the stove, but felt her eyes pulled to look as George removed his coat and shirt for the doctor to check the wound just below his right armpit. Julia too struggled with the urge to take a peek. Both women would remark to themselves on how much more attractive the detective's naked chest was, although he was older his workouts with lifting weights clearly paid off.

Immediately recognizing the significance of the type and location of the slice in his side, Julia said, "George, I've seen this type of wound before. You were lucky."

"Yes doctor, the detective told me it was you who had figured out the dangerous technique. But, it wasn't luck… The detective saved me," George explained.

"Of course he did," she thought, unsure even to herself whether it was a thought filled with pride or sarcasm.

Eloise placed butter and jam down for the toast. "Will you be wanting these things?" she asked, her eyes dropping to the rancid, filthy coat and shirt draped over an empty chair.

"I will have to wear the coat, I'm afraid, but you could throw out the shirt for me," he suggested. "Thank you," he added quickly.

"George, this wound is infected," Julia said, thinking it was the worst stitching job she recalled ever seeing. She wondered if her husband had done it, certain he would have done a better job of it than this.

George's eyes bugged out of his head as Eloise put some golden-brown toast down on the table for him, prompting his stomach to somersault with anticipation. "We have not eaten since dinner on Saturday," he offered. It would be difficult to wait until the doctor had finished.

In her mind Julia was calculating, "Saturday, Sunday, today is Monday… That is quite long indeed." Needing to wait for the supplies, she said, "Go ahead George. I'll finish when William gets here." She changed her gaze to the stove, asking, "Eloise, do you think…"

"Don't you worry doctor," Eloise interrupted proudly, "I am already making the detective some." Eloise put a plate of eggs and bacon and sausage and even pancakes down in front of George. He immediately dug in, wolfing down the hearty food.

) (

Upstairs, William had taken off his dirty hobo clothing, wrapping it up into an oilskin bag – the one that had inspired his idea for his backsack – hoping to contain the lice. He took out the small bottle of lice shampoo George had given to him and placed it in the bathroom for later. He shaved and dressed, regretting putting his stinky body into such a nice, clean suit, for it would surely ruin it, but he decided he had no choice. He found his eyes stuck staring at their bed. It was not yet made; Eloise would get to it later. But he noticed his pillow was missing, the observation surging his gut with pain, for he immediately knew the reason, felt it sink in hard – like a punch in the stomach, complete with the urge to bend over slightly with the aching of it.

Lifting Julia's medical bag, and a shirt he had pulled out for George, he imagined himself looking into the living room and spotting the bundle of bedding waiting there for him… with such sadness. He sighed and went down the stairs, denying himself the opportunity to look as he passed by the living room; he went on to go down to the basement for the penicillin. Failing, lacking the self-control, when he got back upstairs, he checked, and saw his red pajamas folded up neatly on the top of the pile by the couch. A wrinkle formed at the corner of his mouth, for he could not deny that he deserved it. And yet, the pain of it… It threatened to undo him, for she was the one thing that had kept him alive, and now…

William turned on his heel, so quickly he felt dizzy. He would not let himself fall into anguish. He was stronger than that. And he had a case to solve. "Keep moving forward," his instincts advised.

Pausing in the kitchen doorway, the delicious smells seeming to bowl him over, William had to admit he was very glad to see a plate of breakfast waiting for him in his usual spot at the table. He sat, thanking Eloise profusely.

"Could have been worse, could have been ham, sir," George shared his inside joke with William.

Desperate to eat, William barely managed to reply between bites, "True George."

George was wise enough to know that if the detective wanted his wife to know about his close call with Jonathan Armour almost killing him and adding his body to the Christmas hams, well then, the detective would do so himself… However, he figured it would be acceptable to share with the women some of the revolting things they had seen involving the preparation of meat in general. There was an irony, George knew it, to his describing the slaughtering, butchering, and packing of meat, with the mixture of blood and disease all around, and some of the things that got thrown in with the meat, all being just nauseating! And yet, right there at that very table, both of the men who knew the disgust first hand were scarfing down the food, bacon and sausage included. Ironic to say the least.

"So, how did you gentlemen find Chicago?" Julia asked.

George was nearly done with his food, closer to satiated, he answered. "It is truly the most awful, down-trodden, vile, brutal, inhumane place I have ever seen… Now perhaps the city itself is not so bad, but I do believe that where we were in the stockyards was not but a step above hell," he said.

"Oh, my," Julia responded. The extent of George's reaction unsettled her somehow. Julia glanced over at William, finding that her worry for him was back.

George had gone on, with a happier tone adding, "But we met a fellow writer – researching a book, named Upton Sinclair. A marvelous, though painful, book I'm sure it will be."

Julia noticed that William nodded in response to that.

George continued, "Sinclair, 'Sin' we called him, he followed the lives of some of the hobos he met on the train – was going to use our tales, till we told him who we really were. My God doctor, these people have seen nothing but the degrading, horrible side of life… To be honest, it's a side of life that I had never really let myself see so clearly before, dreadfully abysmal and hopeless," he finished shaking his head.

"It sounds quite terrible," she replied, her eyes more blatant in their observing of William now as she remembered how he had hesitated before answering her question about him being alright – only saying that he had no serious physical injuries. "He's keeping his eyes down on his plate," she told herself. "Doesn't want me to look at me… Or avoiding me? Maybe he saw his bedding by the couch?" she wondered. Oh, how she wished she hadn't, but she did then, remember that she was angry with him… her jaw tightened against her will, incited with the memories of the phone call and learning about Ettie and his "secrets." She took a deep breath and asked, her eyes still watching her husband, while she raised her cup to her lips, "And Winnipeg?"

She swore she saw it – William flinched.

Astutely aware of the interactions of those around him, George sensed the tension. He had figured there might be trouble with the detective's… with his relationship with Madam Weston, now feeling the anxiety between the couple, he was certain he had been right. He jumped in, "Oh, Winnipeg was much better. As far as the conditions of the meat-packing industry, in Winnipeg, as here in Toronto, they still mostly deal with live animals – that get slaughtered and distributed locally, or shipped alive to other locations to be slaughtered – Though they are starting to do some of the meat packing there too, particularly Burns…" George remembered that Burns' Winnipeg plant was huge, and speculated it likely involved repulsive conditions also. "After seeing how disgustingly the meat is handled in Chicago – I swear I thought I'd never eat anything made from an animal again. But in Winnipeg I trusted the food to be what it is supposed to be. And we finally had a decent meal," he added.

Julia decided not to push the Winnipeg issue in front of George and Eloise any farther. "Well," compassion in her voice, with a dose of concern, "You two look like you lost twenty pounds each – and like you hoisted the weight up onto your shoulders, where now it seems you are carrying the weight of the world." She studied the reaction of her husband, beautiful brown eyes still down on his food, he wrinkled a corner of his mouth again, acknowledging her accuracy.

George marveled, "That's very good doctor. May I use it – in my writing?" he asked.

"Yes, of course, George," she answered.

George's plate was empty, wiped completely clean, prompting Julia to suggest she finish treating his wound. As she worked on it, she asked, "So, who is responsible for this… attempt at stitching you up George?"

He answered so quickly, cringing somehow with regret the moment his words hit the air, "Miss Weston's cook."

Even Eloise tensed up with the mention of Ettie Weston's name!

"Oh, I see," Julia said, sounding as if she had just been punched in the stomach. Changing the subject, coping as best she could she said, "I'll give you some of this penicillin to use to treat it each day – for a week George," her tone sounding authoritative. He agreed. She removed the infected stitches, cleaned up the wound, and applied the penicillin, finishing with a bandage. George put on the detective's shirt – Julia finding herself comparing again, noticing he did not fill it out as well as her well-sculpted husband did.

Now finished eating as well, William pushed his plate away and said, "Let's get going." He stood, helping Julia up, aware that it was quite difficult for her to rise in her state.

"Thank you, Ladies," George said. George couldn't help but frown with the thought of having to put his rancid, mucky coat back on to go out into the cold December morning. He took up the rear as William and Julia headed out to the foyer. Eloise hurried to tag along.

William put on his coat, his eyes glancing at the place where his homburg should be. Without hesitation, he moved on, reaching out for his maroon scarf. His back to the room, he thought, "Perhaps she was mad enough to…" He wrinkled his face and reached up to rub his brow…

Even without being able to see his face, Julia knew he was feeling stressed. She felt such regret, now, for her anger with him. However, she coached herself, reminded herself, that she had learned, the hard way, that denying one's feelings only leads to trouble, and so she couldn't deny her anger now, even if she wished that she didn't feel it.

Finding he needed to push himself to do so, William turned to face her. The couple stood facing each other, hesitant, each unsure of what to say, of what to do. William took a deep breath and said, "I guess we'll talk later," and leaned in to kiss her good-bye.

Turning her head so his kiss landed softly on her cheek instead of her lips, she replied, her tone serious, "Yes William… we will." She pulled back from him, terminating their embrace. Then, William and George took their leave.

))) (((

With George's suspension only half done, William walked into the stationhouse alone. His unexpected presence caused quite a stir, albeit for the Inspector, who did not seem surprised to see him, and called him into his office. William felt concerned when the Inspector closed the door.

"Is everything alright sir?" the detective asked.

"Alan Clegg called me just now," the Inspector answered. His expression suddenly changed, and looking puzzled, he noted, "It seems the man has nearly lost his hearing…"

William's mind flashed to remember boxing Clegg's ears when the spy snuck up on them while they were hiding from Graveson between the hay-bales in the train. Admittedly, he felt a pang of guilt.

The Inspector took a deep breath and got back to his original point, "Clegg wanted to be informed of anything you brought back on the Baltavesky case. Said he had just seen you over at Davies Slaughterhouse. Why is it the United States is involved in this, Murdoch? Bloody hell, I swear if Meyers weren't dead, I'd half expect him to show up too."

"Actually sir," William replied, "Meyers isn't dead… And unfortunately, he'll probably show up," the detective said with a frown, prompting the expression to spread to his superior's face as well.

William felt his face growing red with the stress of it all. He blew out a puff of air, trying to lower his internal pressure. "I think it best we sit, sir," he started, gesturing to the Inspector's chair as he took a seat in front of the desk. "He rubbed his forehead and proceeded, "To be honest, I'm not quite sure where to begin…"

So he began at the beginning. William informed the Inspector about going to Chicago instead of Winnipeg, and meeting Sinclair who had known Adomas Baltavesky and then put them in touch with the same policeman who had gotten Baltavesky a job at Armour & Company. They also got jobs there. He told him that he had broken into Armour's office to find any records that would show that Baltavesky could have been the one to sabotage the meat last summer…

Much to William's chagrin, it seemed that even the Inspector knew of his being that despicable toff, Jonathan Ogden Armour's, cousin. How could it possibly be that everyone knew except him – about HIS own relative!?

Getting back to his story, William explained that he had torn the proof out of the employee pay record's logbook only to then be caught by Armour, who almost shot him. (He left out the part about Armour threatening to put his body in the Christmas hams). He explained that he had managed to escape with the evidence, but had feared he had accidentally killed Armour in the process, adding that he was very relieved to learn that the wealthy American businessman, and Julia's first cousin, was fine, having survived William's hitting him over the head with a giant bronze pig statue. He said that, "After that, both Clegg, and Armour's hired assassin – Graveson, a creepy man who kills using the same American spy technique that was used in that old case about the gold… Remember sir, the gold they tried to use to support the Confederacy in the US?" he paused to ask, receiving a nod.

William continued, "Well, this Graveson killed Adomas Baltavesky with that technique, and tried to kill George with it too," his voice rose as he became excited. "He fakes a handshake and then stabs the victim under the right armpit," he described, pretending to put his body through the motions of being stabbed. "George needed stitches," he added.

The Inspector found his heart racing a little with the detective's story, concerned for the constable. He would miss the little bugger if he had gone and gotten himself killed. "How is Crabtree?" he asked.

"Oh, he's fine sir," William replied, wondering to himself if either of them would ever truly be fine after this whole ordeal.

William told him the rest, that Clegg had held him at gunpoint and taken the evidence from him, the ripped-out log records of Baltavesky's dates and train routes, and then how they had found Ieva Baltavesky's landlady, who had given them the last letter written by Adomas to his wife. William explained that the letter, which he pulled out and unfolded for the Inspector to see, was in Lithuanian, but that the landlady had interpreted it for them, that it named both Davies and Mulligan as hiring Baltavesky to sabotage the packed meat last summer. The same meat that had killed five innocent people. He suggested that the letter could provide evidence to incriminate Davies and Mulligan in committing sabotage, and in the manslaughter of the five victims that sabotaging that meat had caused, innocent victims from both the United States and from Canada.

The inspector was impressed with the Murdoch's plan. And, even though Brackenreid wasn't sure that Clegg would have a problem with their locking Davies and Mulligan up for hiring someone to sabotage American meat and indirectly killing those five people, he did figure that Meyers would. And, now that he knew Meyers was alive, he suspected that Meyers would be the one who would try to block the detective's investigation, both in the name of national security, and because Meyers would want to avoid incriminating important Canadian toffs like Mr. Davies in committing such crimes.

Further, because Davies and Mulligan's crimes were aimed against a big, important, meat-magnate American toff like Jonathan Armour, the Inspector suspected that Meyers would want to keep it quiet, hoping to avoid alerting the United States to a Canadian's crimes against them.

William informed the Inspector that he had figured out that Clegg and Meyers had worked most of this out last summer. Meyers covered up what they now knew was an American's murdering of a Canadian – Adomas Baltavesky (who was slain by Graveson), in trade for the American toff Armour admitting, lying when doing so, that his company was at fault for the bad meat, and then funding the addition of several more icing stations along the train routes. They concluded that Clegg too might try to stop them from making arrests now because the whole case might lead back to Armour's involvement in murdering Baltavesky – a Canadian. The whole thing ended up circular, messy, and made their heads hurt.

In the end, Brackenreid agreed, saying, "You'd best be quick about getting Mulligan or Davies to confess, Murdoch," his bark reluctantly giving his detective permission to move forward. "You'll need an official translation…"

"I figured Slorach could do it," William rushed to say, "And I think I can prove that Adomas Baltavesky wrote the letter – by matching the handwriting, and even getting his fingermarks, from the earlier letters we have that he wrote to his wife. We have Ieva's fingermarks on file, so we can eliminate hers – if the other fingermarks on the old letters and this new one match, then we can prove it was Adomas who wrote it."

Quiet between the two men for a moment, William then added, "I can keep the investigation away from Adomas Baltavesky getting killed… keeping Graveson, and Armour, out of it, sir," he argued, wanting his support. He gave his final emotional argument before he left to begin the work, "We know Mulligan killed Ieva Baltavesky, sir. Tons of evidence, all of it unusable or circumstantial, the murder weapon we can't use – the letter-opener that matches the victim's wound and that has Mulligan's fingermarks on it, and the green bloody carpet from his office which has human blood on it and the fibers from it match those in the victim's nose and mouth…" William shook his head, still finding it hard to believe they couldn't catch the slimy murderer, adding, "Useless because Mulligan claims there are many carpets that could match the fibers in the victim's nose, and that the blood on his carpet was from a man who had cut off his finger while butchering pigs at the slaughterhouse."

Then William remembered that Mulligan had murdered more people than just Ieva Baltavesky. Anger clenched his jaw as he said, "Sir, we know he killed his worker, Kempsey, too, the only man who could say he knew Mulligan had killed Ieva, Kempsey was the man who moved her body after Mulligan killed her…" William lifted his eyes, so big and brown, to the Inspector's, full of pleading. This was personal too. "They sent Kempsey's body down the line sir, like they tried to do with Jackson and me," his detective pushed.

"Yes, Murdoch," the Inspector said as he opened the door, "You will have anything you need to get him. Davies too, if you can prove it. But like I said, best be quick."

))) (((

William figured that Meyers, whom he knew for a fact had been in Ettie's room in the Coffee House in Winnipeg at the time when he and George had left on Saturday night, could not possibly get to Toronto any sooner than late tonight. And even that would require that Ettie had betrayed him the next morning and had informed Meyers about the letter they had found. Based on backwards planning, William would arrange interrogations of Mulligan and Davies for late afternoon, with Mulligan first because they would probably need Mulligan's confession to get Davies to confess. William was fully aware that he would need to conduct these interviews before Meyers could get to Toronto, and he would have to do so with any evidence he had gathered by that time. It was a race against the clock.

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Inspector Brackenreid stood on the outside of the metal-meshed Interrogation Room door, watching his top-notch detective question the manager of Davies Slaughterhouse, Mr. Mulligan. His nerves were on edge, for this was only the first interrogation the detective had on the roster this evening. The next one was of Hogtown's biggest meat-magnate, well possibly Toronto's second biggest meat-magnate because some would debate that Mr. Burns, Canada's Cattle King, was bigger than Mr. Davies. These were powerful men, who could cause them a great deal of trouble, he suspected even mortal danger. And their power could sweep in from above them too, bringing in the likes of government men, like Terrence Meyers or even the American Alan Clegg. In his head, he cheered Murdoch on. Subconsciously, he repeatedly checked the clock. In this case, time was of the essence. They needed this confession, and they needed it quickly.

"Did you hire Adomas Baltavesky to intentionally spoil meat from your employer's competitors, intentionally masking the act so that innocent people would consume the meat and die, thus creating a public scare designed to put your employer's competitors' meat-packing businesses out of business?" William asked the suspect from his side of the interrogation room table. The letter that the detective's entire case revolved around, written by the now dead Adomas Baltavesky, sat in a folder on the table surface between the two men. "Was your employer, a Mr. Davies, threatened by his competitors' recent success with the invention of refrigerated train cars in which to ship butchered and frozen packed meat? Does not such a method's success render his entire slaughterhouse business as worthless, as Davies Slaughterhouse is the only big business that, instead of killing the animals and packing and chilling the meat and then shipping it cold to distributors, slaughters live animals near the distribution site?" the detective asked.

The suspect sat across from him, looking smug, so far refusing to react to the detective's questions. His body language suggested that he was bored.

The detective continued, laying out his case, still working on motive, "And then, after sabotaging Armour, I hold you went after Canada's "Cattle King," a Mr. Burns… particularly after Mr. Burns started packing pork as well as cattle, pork being Davies' specialty… Giving Toronto its nickname, actually - "Hogtown." Americans like Armour and our own Mr. Burns were going to put Davies Slaughterhouse out of business if they remained successful, were they not? You had to do something to stop them, had to do something to help Mr. Davies."

Murdoch leaned forward, lowering his voice, suggesting secrecy, intimacy, "The strike in Chicago was your big chance, Mr. Mulligan. You and Mr. Davies figured you should strike while the iron was hot. The Americans… Armour, Brown, Durham, they were struggling with the strike. It would be easy to get your man, Baltavesky, inside one of their establishments because of it."

The detective's voice hurried, growing close, "You hired Baltavesky for your employer, Mr. Davies. You told him exactly how to sabotage the meat on the train, by throwing out the ice after the train left each icing station, and then making sure to leave the ice in the rooftop ice compartment after the last icing station, cooling the already-spoiled meat so that when it arrived for distribution the workers there wouldn't suspect the meat had gone bad. You arranged to pay Baltavesky five hundred dollars to complete the sabotage…"

William watched as Mulligan flinched with the mention of the exact amount Baltavesky was paid. He had him!

"Then you hired him to do the same thing to Burns' meat – particularly the packed pork," Murdoch added, tapping his finger on the table top for emphasis. Everything he had just said to Mulligan was written down, in the letter that sat waiting on the table. William knew Mulligan was scared – he had shown that he knew too many details…

"You know Murdoch," Mulligan said, sounding completely calm and in control, "I thought with your reputation that you might…" Mulligan shook his head, "You have no proof detective. No witnesses, no evidence…"

Detective Murdoch opened the folder that had been lying on the interview table, revealing Adomas Baltavesky's letter that he had written to his wife Ieva. He placed the important letter on top of the folder and pushed the folder and letter forward towards Mulligan.

Instinctively, Mulligan stopped talking. He could not read the letter because it was not in English or Gaelic, but he could see his own name written on the page, and Mr. Davies' name too.

Outside, watching, the Inspector felt a smile building on his face. "Bloody hell, that Murdoch's good," he thought, "He's got him now."

William clasped his hands in front of himself on the table, letting the suspect peruse the letter and said, "This letter has been translated from Mr. Baltavesky's native Lithuanian. It has been matched to other letters of Mr. Baltavesky's that have come into our possession, by both matching the handwriting and by matching fingermarks…"

Looking more worried now, Mulligan rushed to say, "You have no idea what Adomas Baltavesky's fingermarks look like, detective. We both know that. You're bluffing!" he declared crossing his arms across his chest.

"Oh, but I do know what his wife's look like," the detective said.

Mulligan's eyes bolted up to meet the detective's. It seemed that mentioning Ieva Baltavesky's murder indirectly, for that is how the constabulary had come to have the woman's fingermarks in the first place, and it seemed that even referring to that crime indirectly had sparked a bit of fear in the man.

Detective Murdoch continued, "And I was able to find that her fingermarks were not on this letter," he said touching his fingertip to the important letter on top of the folder. I didn't expect them to be… She had never received it. Ieva Baltavesky's fingermarks were however, on these letters." The detective pulled a pile of letters out from inside the folder and placed the pile next to the letter on top of the folder, allowing the suspect to see the older letters next to the incriminating letter.

Murdoch went on, "As a matter of fact, there was only one other person's fingermarks on any of these letters," he said, touching his finger down onto the pile of older letters, "besides Ieva Baltavesky's… those of her husband, the man who wrote her these letters, Adomas Baltavesky." Murdoch switched his finger to point to the more recent letter on top of the folder and said, "Those same fingermarks, those of Adomas Baltavesky, are also on this letter…"

The detective paused, let the significance of his words sink in. Then he added, his finger still pointing to the most recent, incriminating letter, "Also on this letter are the fingermarks of Ieva Baltavesky's landlady in Winnipeg. That is to be expected though, she was the one who opened the letter and she said she removed five hundred dollars that was inside this letter to pay for Mrs. Baltavesky's back rent." The detective leaned back, sitting taller. Suddenly he added, a slightly sheepish look on his face, "Oh, and mine. I handled the letter without wearing gloves it turns out," Murdoch admitted.

Mulligan remained quiet, but his complexion appeared pale, he was fidgety, nervous.

The detective went on, "This most recent letter, written by Mr. Baltavesky, names you, Mr. Mulligan, as the person who arranged the deal, told him how to commit the crime, and when to do it, even naming Armour, Brown and Durham from the United States as the targets. It says that you offered to pay Mr. Baltavesky five hundred dollars once the job was complete, and it even says that you arranged, and were present for, Baltavesky's meeting with Mr. Davies to receive his pay, which this letter says was placed in the envelope with this letter – the same five hundred dollars Ieva Baltavesky's landlady claims she removed from the envelope with this letter. It says that it was at this very meeting of the three of you, Baltavesky, you and Mr. Davies, that Baltavesky was offered another five hundred dollars to do the same thing to Mr. Burns' packed meat from Winnipeg to Toronto."

William paused and seized Mulligan's eyes with a confident look. He then said, "I do have proof, Mr. Mulligan. Mr. Baltavesky himself is my witness, and this letter is my evidence."

Wavering, eyes jumping from the detective to the door to the letter and back to the detective, Mulligan's eyes became teary with panic and dread… his mouth sputtered attempting to speak but failing…

A loud ruckus at the Interrogation Room door drew Mulligan's eyes suddenly. Murdoch's too.

It was Meyers! He had grabbed a hold of the door handle and was loudly discussing the ceasing of Detective Murdoch's questioning of the suspect with the Inspector.

Opening the door and leaning in, Meyers said, "Murdoch, a word." Behind him the Inspector looked on, apologetic, defeated.

William's heart sunk.

"I told you! You had nothin' Murdoch! Nothing! Just wasting my time. I'm a busy man Murdoch…" Mulligan hollered after him as William pushed away from the table, collected his letters and tucked them into the folder and carried it out with him.

As William walked down the hallway behind the Inspector and Meyers towards the Inspector's office, he noticed that the feeling of despair was back, weighing down on his chest, stealing away his air. He hadn't realized it until it was gone, but he had gotten his old groove back in there. He felt strong, powerful, capable, competent. He hadn't felt those things for a long time. Those feelings were gone now.

By the time William settled onto the Inspector's couch, pulled an ankle up on his knee and sat with his leg crossed preparing to hear what he was sure would be the ways his investigation threatened national security, he found he had already given up on the case. Instead if working on ways to sway Meyers he was sitting there wondering how Meyers had gotten to Toronto from Winnipeg so quickly. "Maybe he came in a dirigible," he thought to himself, already accepting his loss.

William was impressed with how hard the Inspector fought with Meyers on his behalf, however. It took a phone call from the Prime Minister himself for the Inspector to concede, and for Mulligan to be released.

Before the Prime Minister passed down his decree, he asked to have Murdoch put on the phone. Meyers held out the receiver to Murdoch, who stood, for their conversation while Meyers and the Inspector listened in on his half of the conversation.

"Yes, of course sir," Murdoch answered into the phone, "We have a letter written by the man who committed the sabotage last summer against Armour & Company from Chicago. It names Davies and his manager Mulligan specifically, complete with dates and amounts paid – five hundred dollars – and arrangements for another sabotage, against Burns…"

Murdoch stopped suddenly, listening.

He continued a moment later, answering the Prime Minister's questions, "No sir, the man is dead. Um, he was found… No sir, the current death report says it was an accident… Yes, Baltavesky was Canadian… Of course, sir, the target of the crime was American… Yes, some of the victims were from Buffalo and New York City…"

There was a long pause while Murdoch listened, the Prime Minister offering his argument for his decision, explaining that the crimes Murdoch was investigating had the potential to bring about much strife and difficulty between Canada and the United States – difficulty that the Prime Minister intended to avoid if possible. He told Murdoch to trust that the deal made last summer between the two countries through Meyers and Clegg best resolved the situation, and he wanted it left alone.

"I understand, sir," Murdoch said respectfully. Yet, he was unable to let the injustice go so easily, thus he asked, "But sir, I wonder if you are aware that after that deal, Mr. Mulligan murdered Baltavesky's wife when she showed up looking for him, and then murdered the man who had helped him move her body…"

Again he waited, listening.

Murdoch took a deep breath and said into the phone, "No sir, I have not been able to gather sufficient evidence to arrest him for these murders… Yes, sir. Thank you, Prime Minister." Murdoch offered the phone receiver back to Meyers.

Meyers spoke into the phone, "Prime Minister?"

Brackenreid leaned forward from his seat behind his desk, Murdoch leaning over to hear. "Sorry me old mucker," he said.

William offered him his admitting it face, with its customary wrinkle at the corner of his mouth and said regretfully, "I failed to garner sufficient proof. There's nothing to be done."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, to you to, sir," Meyers finished his conversation and hung up the phone. "There you have it gentlemen. Mulligan must be released, and no interrogation of Mr. Davis," he concluded.

While the Inspector called Mr. Davies to let him know there would be no need to come down to Stationhouse #4 after all, Murdoch had a constable go to the Interrogation Room to collect Mulligan for release.

Meyers, Brackenreid and Murdoch stood in the hallway as the constable escorted Mulligan out of the stationhouse. The sleazy man attempted to goad Murdoch on his way out, making barely audible "oinking" pig-sounds as he passed by the detective.

The insult incited outrage in Brackenreid, who grabbed a hold of Mulligan and slammed the man up against the wall! "You watch your step Mulligan," he whispered through gritted teeth, his eyes searing into the man.

"What ever for?" Mulligan asked sarcastically, working to appear unfazed by the Inspector's onslaught.

"Let him go, Inspector," Meyers said calmly from behind him, his voice lingering in the air with the smoke from his cigar.

Anger and indignation surging through his veins, it took Murdoch's voice, his colleague and friend's words, to convince Inspector Brackenreid to let go of Mulligan.

"He's not worth it, sir – not worth stooping down to his level," William said.

Brackenreid huffed and stepped back, removing his fists from the man's, now twisted and mauled, clothing. Mulligan straightened his jacket collar, stuck his nose up in the air feigning pride, and marched out of Stationhouse #4.

Meyers, Murdoch, and Brackenreid all returned to the Inspector's office and took seats.

"Sorry Murdoch," Meyers said, receiving an intense look from the detective, with a wrinkle to the mouth and with an impassioned glance that endured, that showed the hurt.

Feeling certain that discussing the case would only dig salt deeper into his throbbing wounds, William changed the subject. "How did you get here so fast?" he asked, his tone one of being conquered more so than one of authentic curiosity, almost as if he was asking 'How did you beat me at the game this time?'

The two men held each other's gaze, for an oddly long time, the Inspector thought. "More to this than first meets the eye," he thought to himself.

Terrence felt the Inspector watching them, wondering. Still holding eye-contact with William, he abruptly started to speak to the Inspector, "Murdoch here and I…" he said, slowly turning away from William to look at the Inspector, "We… shall we say, ran into each other, in Winnipeg. Happened to be um, staying in the same place." He reached up and scratched his forehead, took a puff on his stinky cigar – prompting the Inspector to remember that he had seen Meyers' cigar butt in the ashtray when they had had their big meeting with the Judge back when Crabtree received his suspension – he should have known the man was still alive. Meyers continued, "Even in the same lady's room, actually – just different nights," he added, telling more than he knew Murdoch would like him to.

Murdoch surprised the hell out of Meyers though, asking in front of Brackenreid, "Did she tell you… that I had found Adomas Baltavesky's letter? Is that why you came so quickly?"

Shocked by Murdoch's boldness, directness, Meyers reminded himself that he should not have been. He had seen the detective go after suspects in such a manner previously. Needing time to think, he puffed on his cigar again, feeling the warm smoke fill him, embolden him, he replied, "No, Miss Weston did not betray you Murdoch…"

Brackenreid's brain jumped into high alert, subconsciously tilting his body forward and perking up his ears. "Oh this is getting bloody good," he whispered to himself, "Madam Ettie Weston… They both stayed in HER room! Oh, bloody hell, that would explain why the good doctor was so upset – it was the Madam who called and told her that Murdoch was expected – by HER – in Winnipeg, and he hadn't shown up! Bollocks!" his brain screamed, "Unbelievable – Murdoch and Miss Weston! And Meyers!"

Brackenreid forced himself away from his juicy, internal gossiping to get tuned back in, hearing Meyers say, "…It was Clegg actually, who erm, called me."

Perhaps trying to spare his buttoned-down detective any more stress by changing the subject, the Inspector jumped into the conversation there, "Meyers," he called both men's attention, "Did Clegg seem to be… becoming hard of hearing, to you… on the phone?" he asked.

"No," Meyers answered, "He seemed fine…"

Murdoch's mind replayed the scene of him boxing Clegg's ears. "How far along on the trip back to Toronto were we at that point?" he asked himself. Reason told William that if Clegg had called Meyers to warn him to come stop his investigation after he had boxed Clegg's ears, then Meyers would have been communicating with Clegg when he was having trouble hearing whatever Meyers said into the phone. Therefore, Clegg must have called Meyers before William had boxed Clegg's ears. He interrupted Meyers and asked, "When did Clegg call you?"

Meyers remembered exactly the moment. Clegg had interrupted a rather lovely sexual moment he was having with Ettie, quite annoyingly, prompting Meyers to frown with the memory. He replied, "The morning you left Murdoch. He had spotted you and that constable sidekick of yours sneaking out of the Coffee House in the middle of the night the night before. I suppose he did the courtesy of at least waiting till the sun was almost up before he called to notify me, of your actions, and the dangers they could pose to…"

William's brain annoyingly finished Meyers' sentence in his head, repeating the irritating man's most common directive, "National Security." However, Meyers' response had lightened the load on his shoulders a little, because it had indicated that he could trust that Ettie had not betrayed him by warning Meyers about his impending success. There was that at least.

Both men turned to look at Brackenreid. It was all the Inspector could do just to keep his jaw from dropping in shock, so he clamped his lips together tightly and nodded at the men with a smile. "Well, he sure couldn't hear me in the phone," he said, "this morning when he called… here, to tell me Murdoch was back, and had once again almost been killed at Davies Slaughterhouse."

"How many men are trying to kill you anyway, Murdoch?" Meyers asked. Interestingly, he sounded impressed.

"Too many," Murdoch replied, receiving a light-hearted chuckle, for of course, any was too many when it comes to having people trying to kill you.

With that, Meyers took his leave, the Inspector and Murdoch soon after. As the two men stood outside the stationhouse door in the cold night air, Brackenreid warned Murdoch that he shouldn't get too comfortable thinking Meyers would be out of the picture just yet. The Inspector figured Meyers, and even Clegg, would be watching from the shadows a while longer to make sure that they didn't go back to, "stir the pot more."

His tone defeated, Murdoch responded, "It shouldn't matter, sir. I'm all out of ideas anyway. It seems I lost on all fronts this time, Ieva Baltavesky's murder, that of her husband Adomas, and even the planned act of sabotage that killed those five innocent people. No justice served here, sir…"

"Well it wasn't for lack of trying Murdoch – and you did well, got close, bloody close," the Inspector encouraged.

Murdoch looked down the street, then he sighed. The Inspector felt the man's reluctance to head home – the realization sparking the reminder of the earlier spicy conversation between Murdoch and Meyers.

"Home to the missus?" he asked, trying his darndest to sound casual.

Murdoch clamped his lips together and gave the Inspector a light nod, and yet, his feet did not move.

Brackenreid leaned over closer to his detective, to his friend, and said, "Let me give you a little advice Murdoch," his tone authoritative, offering advice from one with more experience with these matters to a relative newlywed. "When it comes to marriage, if you behaved like a dog you have to accept being put out in the doghouse. And if want to get out of the doghouse, Murdoch, then you'd best behave like a man… like a good man… Still," he added with a bit of a frown, "it may be awhile."

"Again," William pondered, "Again this analogy of my male behavior being like that of a dog," his brain conjuring up memories of Julia telling him that Isaac Tash, and his friend, had reassured her, after his ogling the waitress at George's Author's Awards Dinner, telling her that ALL men act like dogs – but that as far as men go, her husband was a good one. Guilt surged and seeped inside of him, with the flashes of memory of Julia crying so hard that she vomited after he had… lusted after the waitress.

William lifted his face to the Inspector's, his head slowly shaking, denying the thought. "But sir," he said, "I didn't… act like a dog."

Doubt spread over the Inspector's expression. He had heard what he had heard. "Me old mucker, you and Meyers… Madam Wes…"

Shaking his head more violently now, William blurted out, pleading, insisting, "But I didn't…"

"Does your wife know that?" he asked.

Motionless, quiet, reflecting, William hesitated. Ettie had called Julia out of the blue. Told her she had been expecting me and I hadn't shown… "She has reason," he said, reluctantly.

The Inspector lowered his voice, leaned closer with his paternal advice, "Then talk to her Murdoch."

This time William's nod was firmer, more resolved, and after it, his feet stepped off to face the music at home. "Thank you, sir," gratefully, feeling better, he called back as he headed to hail a cab.

))) (((

Julia sat in the living room, in her nightgown and robe, reading the latest article Isaac had recommended on the transverse Cesarean section. Unfortunately, it was in French, so she was struggling with it, her mind constantly wandering off. She wished William were home, and everything was fine with them, and he had made a warm, cozy fire, and they were lying together in his reclining chair…

She heard the front door, stammering her heart into a frenzy. The door closed quietly. She waited there. He appeared in the doorway, unbuttoning his coat. Their eyes met, neither one of them ready, sure of, what they wanted to say.

"William," she said, grabbing a hold of the couch arm and rocking a bit to gain the momentum needed to lift herself off the couch. She noticed that his eyes had dropped down onto the bundle of his pillow and blanket and pajamas resting in the corner of the other couch – the one across from her – the longer one that he would sleep on. She wondered where her anger was – only palpably aware of her sadness.

"Sorry I'm so late," he said, stepping back into the foyer to hang his coat and scarf, the action reminding him once again, that his hat was missing.

She stood in the living room doorway and asked, "You must be hungry. Eloise made one of your favorites, beef stew."

He took a deep breath and turned to face her, forcing a smile. He was hungry. "Very good," he said.

"Come, I've been keeping it warm," she said, walking ahead of him towards the kitchen. "I think I might have some more. It seems I'm endlessly hungry these days," she said. She opened the oven and started to lean down to pull out the beef stew…

"I'll get it, Julia," William said, gently pushing his way next to her. "You sit," he requested, she acquiesced, sitting in her spot in the chair next to his, around the corner from where he would sit. He brought water and two plates of stew and forks to the table, stating, "Of course you are always hungry milady, you are in the process of making a baby."

She corrected him, "Our baby, William."

Somehow, to him, it felt like a dig. "Yes," he agreed as he sat in his spot at the head of the table.

Their ensuing conversation was strained, centering around safe topics, the meal – even the weather. Julia sensed the case had not gone well, and felt hesitant to ask him about it. She found her own curiosity pushed her to do so. "Did you have any luck on the case," she asked casually. So often when she asked such a question and things had not gone well, she would see him frown, or look frustrated… This look was quite different, and it bothered her.

"I'd prefer not to talk about it," he replied, "Suffice it to say, Meyers showed up…"

Her eyes widened, "I thought he was dead!" she exclaimed.

Now she received the frown. "No," William said, "He ejected from the rocket…" He paused, reminding himself that he had tried to hide his own flying with Pendrick in the flying suit from her, but continued, "Used Pendrick's flying suit to land in Borneo."

"I see," she said. Ever so slightly, her lips curled into a smile as she added, "So, Meyers showed up and stopped your investigation…" knowing he would join in finishing, "because of… National Security."

He had said it with her, and for the briefest moment, they were happy together, sharing a chuckle.

William took a deep breath. Finally, he said, "You are angry with me?" She could see the dread on his face.

She sighed, and answered frankly, "Yes," with a frown of disappointment. Oh, how she wished it weren't this way, but it was. There was no point in denying it.

"Because I stayed with Ettie Weston in Winnipeg?" he asked.

She nodded and said, "Because you kept it a secret from me that you were planning to do so, William."

He took a sip of his water, delaying for time to think. He reached up and rubbed his forehead. Then he rested his hands down on each side of his plate and took a deep breath. "Julia," he said, sounding resolved, "I did not want to upset you." He lifted his eyes to meet hers and hurried to explain, "I couldn't bear to think that I would have to leave, to go undercover, for weeks possibly, with you upset. It was hard enough leaving you – and with you so far along with the baby… our baby. But …" William shook his head with the pain of the memory, wishing he could push it away, "Remember how hard you cried – until you vomited even…" His eyes pleaded. He cleared his throat, "When I had looked at the waitress."

Julia lowered her voice, seeming to scold, "You did more than look William, and you know it."

He really didn't want to be reminded, but it was true. He was only grateful that she did not actually know the full extent of the fantasies that had passed through his mind at the time.

She noticed that he had dropped his eyes away from hers again. "Probably shame," she thought. Winning an argument tended to be irresistible to her, thus Julia decided, in that second, to take advantage of his weakness. "Perhaps you could have stayed somewhere else besides her brothel when you were in Winnipeg," she insisted, stressing the word, "brothel," trying to shame him with the tawdriness of his choice, of the whole relationship. She took a champion's sip of her drink.

He rubbed his forehead again and then picked up his fork. "I needed someone who knew the wealthy men in the area… And who knew their darker sides..." William offered as an explanation. He took another bite of his food. "Ettie was perfect as an informant. It would have been illogical not to take advantage of that," he insisted. "Besides, she had known one of the victims – Ieva…"

"Then you should have told me that you planned to stay with her, and explained that to me… Before you left," she said, scalding, her eyes digging into him intensely, so that he refused to look at her so as not to feel the burn. It seemed she had re-connected with her anger.

"Perhaps," he said, chewing. He coached himself to remain calm – it seemed essential to do so to remain in some sort of balance as she escalated.

His lack of emotion, absence of any compassion for the pain he had caused her… The inherent dishonesty … and outright lack of trustworthiness he had shown in hiding his secret plans from her being unacknowledged, sent her further over the edge. She was angry. Yes. And she had every right to be so! "Well then, perhaps," she said, "you should sleep on the couch tonight, William Murdoch!" she stormed. Her anger fueled her strength, and she found that, despite her huge, pregnant belly, she stood from the table quite quickly and marched out of the room, William watching her arms flap and pump as she left. If she had been listening, she would have heard his sigh. But her mind was screaming, her own voice squeaking as it does when she is upset inside her head, "Perhaps?! Perhaps?! Perhaps you should tell your wife if you are going to be staying in your old girlfriend's brothel?! Perhaps?!... What a little piss-ant!" She made every effort to pound her feet on each step as she barreled up the stairs, and then with all her might she slammed their bedroom door.

Once again, William was rubbing his forehead with the stress of it all. He was no longer hungry, now too upset – nauseous even. He sighed again, and got up to scrape the remainder of their beef stew into the garbage pail and then rinse the dishes and load up the dishwashing cupboard. "Welcome home," he managed to say out loud as he began the tasks.

He sighed, deeply, as he remembered how much he had longed to hold her in his arms, to smell her, and to know she was safe. His shoulders slumped with the memory of how desperately he needed to see her – as if having her in his arms would help him see that there was at least ONE good thing in this world. And then his heart sank even lower. He had already known she was angry with him, from their brief conversation on the phone while he was in Winnipeg, and from what Ettie had said, but seeing the bedding laid out for him – ready for him whenever he had come home… That was solid evidence that she was very angry after all, and had been since Ettie's call… And his missing hat too. Bleak, things felt extremely bleak.

Upstairs Julia was working to deal with her fury. Teeth clenched, she went to the bathroom and began her routine to prepare for bed, brushing her teeth, and such. She, too, remembered the way he had hugged her earlier, prompting her to sigh as well. He had been so desolate. Her mind flashed an image of a sturdy tree, its branches drooping with exhaustion and despair, blowing in the breeze, its leaves so dry from thirst that their rustling rattled more than whooshed – and the nearly imperceptible shift in it as the first few raindrops fell upon it, slowly drenching it in relief, and it began to suck in the nourishment, seeming to come back to life. She remembered the smell of him, putrid and rank. Her nose had rested on his shoulder. She assumed it was only the coat, his clothes.

Then she noticed it. He had placed a bottle on the bathroom counter. She recognized the chemical; it was a delouser. She rushed to finish with her teeth and then check to see what he had done with his lice-ridden clothes. She shuddered, for he must have been in such dank, revolting, places.

She found his clothing in a canvas bag in the closet on the floor. Relief spread though her, thinking the oil and wax on the canvas would contain the lice. But then she had a thought. "I wonder if he left anything in the pockets?" she asked herself, and she quickly dug into the bag and began to search.

In the overcoat pocket she found a can-opener, his knife, and some photographs. She recognized two of the pictures, of Adomas and Ieva Baltavesky. Julia almost gasped, her heart skipping a beat as she looked upon the larger photograph. It was of her. She barely remembered the photo – it was from so many, many years ago. If she remembered correctly, it was from before they had begun courting. She had given it to him for a case – so he could obtain suspects' fingermarks, a plan she had marveled at at the time, it being another example of his brilliance. He would hand the suspect the photo, asking if they recognized the woman, and they would unsuspectingly leave their fingermarks for him to collect later. "He kept it all these years," she thought, the act striking her as romantic. "Then he brought it with him on this trip?! Amazing," she wondered, "to remember me by."

She imagined him leaning back against the wall of a moving train, hungry, dirty, cold, so far from home, and pulling the picture out of his pocket to retell him, to feel the stirrings of love inside of him. Julia sighed, the imaginings tugging at her heart.

She decided to investigate his effects further. She searched the pants pockets and found a bullet – and… "What's this?" she thought, innocently, before the recognition of the item registered in her mind. "A condom!" her mind screamed, "He was carrying a prophylactic! We haven't used one for years!" Livid, so that that there was steam billowing out of her ears, she cursed him. Suddenly, fueling her anger, at the same time burning the wound deeper into her core, images ran through Julia's mind. She saw William's gorgeous backside, moving and pumping on top of Ettie – her brown hair against his ear. Unbearable, the image! She stuffed the repugnant clothes back into the canvas bag and charged down the stairs to confront him.

William stood at the sink, rinsing off the plates. Deep in thought, his mind had moved backwards from his current stress with Julia to plague him with flashes of the horrors he had experienced in the jungle, so he did not hear her storm up behind him. Thus, he was particularly startled when she slammed the prophylactic down on the counter. She clamped her jaw tight and tried to control her rage, resulting in her voice becoming a disturbing blend of a whisper and a scream. "You snake," she said with her eyes searing into his.

He was mesmerized by her fury, finding it hard to look away; he was so lost, not knowing why she was so very, very angry with him. She lifted her hand away from the condom on the countertop and waited for him to look down, waited for him to see it, waited for the moment he would know, that she knew, that he had planned ahead, that he had intended to make love to another woman, even if he would claim he never did actually perform the act. She saw fear, or maybe more worry, encompass his face before he started to say, "Julia, it's not what you…"

"Tell me William, why would a married man, a man married to a wife who is eight months pregnant – with YOUR child William – YOURS! Why would such a man need a condom, hmm?" she asked seething.

His mind rushed, "She thinks I was actually… that Ettie and I, or some other woman for that matter… My God, how can I possibly explain about Jack, about what a "wolf" is, and a "sheep," and what Flannel Bull would have wanted me to do…what he would have wanted to do to me … to explain why Jack would give me a condom?" and, he felt such an enormous pain envelope and conquer his heart, for she trusted him so little, and he didn't think he could get her to see…

Julia stared, waiting for him to respond, daring him to try to lie to her. Impatience took her, giving into her urge to smack him, she reached out and slapped him across the face, shocking both of them with the sound of his cheek receiving the blow, only a split second before he felt the sting. "You disgust me," she said, and then turned and stomped away, breaking into a run once she was out of his sight, and falling into tears.

) (

Sometime later, William knocked softly on their bedroom door. "Julia … I need to come in… to get some things out of the bathroom," his voice asked from the other side of the door.

She remembered the medicine he had brought to remove lice. He would need to shower – he would have to use the shower in the hall bathroom. He would need his toothbrush, and things to shave with in the morning. He had work.

"Would it be alright if I come in?" he asked.

Not wanting to see him, she tucked herself down into the bed and called out, "Yes."

She heard the door open, tentatively. Straining to hear his footsteps as he crossed the room, she knew he was in the bathroom when she heard a drawer open and close and him gathering up various items. She laid, with her back to him, holding her breath, when he paused on his way out.

His voice scratched, betraying his worry, as he said, "You have the wrong idea about the prophylactic. There's another explanation, Julia. It's just that it is hard to explain…"

"I don't believe you William," she said, her tone devoid of emotion. "Please, just go," she asked.

Moments later, the sound of the door as it opened surged an urgency through her veins. Should she stop him?! She waited… It still had not closed. He was still there, hoping, praying she would call him back – that he wouldn't have to go. Her voice was so low he had to strain to hear her, "I'm sorry I slapped you, William. I truly regret it," she said.

Taking the time to take a breath, letting the small relief of her words raise his spirits, he responded quickly, "Apology accepted," and, although she could not see it, he wrinkled a corner of his mouth, for he was sorry too. He waited still, for an acknowledgement of his forgiveness, at least. Perhaps she would say, "Thank you," or "Good," or even just, "Good night." But no such gesture came. Eventually, accepting that she had given all she would give, he walked out and closed the door behind him, only the sound of the door clicking into place revealing that he had gone.

He showered in the hall bathroom – delousing as well as giving himself a much-needed scrubbing. With all of his might he fought the tears and the painful thoughts. Yet, they came despite his mountainous efforts. She did not believe him. He had lost the ONE thing that gave his life meaning, joy, value. He had been through so much, was hanging on by the thinnest of threads, and it had just snapped, and now he had lost Julia. He had lost her, and he couldn't bear it. Unable to remain standing, he collapsed to his knees in the shower, hugged his sides under the torrents of the falling water and rocked himself trying to find soothing, as he wrenched with the agony. He allowed the tears to come, believing the rush of the running water and the closed door would dampen the volume of his crying. He had miscalculated though, for the hall bathroom wall backed up against the wall in their master bathroom, and his lament was so powerful, that his sobbing breached the boundaries to be heard by Julia in their bedroom.

She found her body reacted before she could garner any control of it, before she had had a chance to consciously identify the sounds – buckling in half, finding the fetal position essential for absorbing the waves of his pain. Intolerable, and yet she withstood it. She fought the urge to go to him. The word, "secret," fueling her resolve. She stayed, leaving each of them alone and hurting.

William pulled back from the edges. Told himself he would cope. She wouldn't leave him, not with the baby. It wouldn't be so bad, a loveless marriage… And his sobs would crumple him again, for his thoughts would remind him that she didn't love him anymore. After a time, he emerged from the hall bathroom, wrapped in a towel, for his pajamas were downstairs in the living room, waiting for him down there… in the doghouse – the canine label giving him the tiniest flicker of hope because the Inspector had said that there might be a way out, if that were the case.

He carried in his arms all the toiletries he would need for the morning, shaving cream, spare toothpaste, his toothbrush. He would leave them in the downstairs half-bath under the stairs. In there he would prepare for work in the morning, only needing to get into their bedroom for his clothes, then he would go into work to face his failures there as well…

Down in the living room, William built a fire, longing to be embedded in warmth, hoping it would provide some of the comfort he needed. He decided to prepare the couch rather than the reclining chair, because deep inside of him, the reclining chair came wrapped with memories, of being with Julia. Usually such memories provided coziness, but not now…

Not surprised by his mind's torture when he tried to sleep, he yielded, and let the thoughts go where they would, too weak to fight against them anymore, for now he had lost … everything. He would have to crawl out of the pit tomorrow, no matter how deep it had become. And he believed it was already too deep to make it out anyway. He gave in to the despair, "Come what may," he thought, and closed his eyes, and tried to focus on the sounds of the fire crackling and the dancing shadows that drifted over his eyelids.

It was those shadows that shifted and twisted into the figures, first of the pigs, one after the other, their feet bound in the chain, so fast and so slow the hoist lifting them into the air, pulling their muscles to the point of ripping the tendons out of their joints, with a 'snap.' In all his life, he was certain that he would never forget the appeal, the desperation, of their squeals. Then the next one would come, and he would shackle it, again committing the sin. He truly believed he was condemned to Hell now. "Father Clements," he remembered, with a sputter of hope teasing the darkness.

He awoke from a dream with a startle. His hand jumping to his cheek to determine if it was real. So strange the mixture of emotions as he realized that it was and it wasn't, for her slap had happened, but not now, and she had said she was sorry. Still tingling and shaken from the dream, his mind replayed the likely source of his personalized, but slumbering, traumas, his imaginings of Jurgis' finding of his wife's body, his baby still encased within her flesh, save for a hint of its tiny foot that had breached into the world. She was dead. He had been out drinking away their money, which had not been enough to keep their house in the end, and she had been alone. His beautiful wife had died alone, without him, in pain.

"Julia's fine," William told himself. "You are drowning in someone else's story. Stop it!" He warned himself. She was upstairs, in their toff-house, warm and safe. Again, too many emotions to handle replaced the sadness and despair, now gripping him in guilt, for his unearned privilege in the face of the suffering of so many others, and remorse for having hurt his own wife as well. It was not long before he turned over, somehow changing the track of his thoughts, and once again, fell asleep.

Upstairs, Julia too awoke with the memory of slapping her husband. She tried to forgive herself, acknowledging the level of her anger, of her desperate response to his betrayal. She heard his voice in her head, "There's another explanation, Julia. It's just that it is hard to explain…"

She should have heard him out, she knew that now. Every fiber of her being could not accept that he would really do such a thing. Oh, how she worried she would be playing the fool, but, no, not William, any other man, yes, but not him. It just couldn't be true. Suddenly, an image, a memory, fluttered into her mind, from years ago, when the evidence that she had killed Darcy had been mounting, and William had asked her about her words that she had last spoken to him about their problems getting Darcy to grant her a divorce. She had said that she would deal with it. Now, her husband, William himself, the very same man who had hurt her so badly all those years ago when he had doubted her, now he was downstairs, devastated with the pain of being doubted by the one person in the world he most trusted to believe in him – her.

Over and over again Julia ran through the battle in her head – stay or go, stay or go. Ultimately, she decided to go downstairs and ask him, accepting the fact that her love for him could blind her, warning herself to be vigilant in her observations. But her heart knew – she would believe him, whatever he told her.

She stood in the darkness, for the moon could not shine through the dense clouds in the sky this night. The fire he had built had gone out, the open chimney fluke chilling the room. He slept, or so she thought, on the couch with his back to her. Perhaps she had best not wake him. She remembered his weeping, earlier in the shower, and it probably had been so very difficult for him to finally fall asleep at all. And she was sure he so needed sleep. She marveled at her ability to care so much for him. Would it be possible for her to love him still, even if he had been unfaithful? She sighed. "Perhaps it is best to wait till morning," she thought, "But he has work…" she reminded herself. Still, she turned to go.

She heard the rustling of his body moving on the couch, then his voice, "Julia?"

She cleared her throat and turned back to him. "Yes, it's me. I'm sorry. Go back to sleep."

"Please don't go," he asked, now sitting up, finding her in the dark.

Her anger seemed nowhere to be found. Feigning aggravation she replied, "It was silly of me anyway."

"Please," he said.

She sighed, loudly. She would stay. They both knew it by the sound. William stood up and helped her to sit down on the couch. Eyes adjusted to the darkness now, he could tell she had on only her nightgown. He wrapped the blanket around her shoulders, stood and turned on a lamp and then closed the chimney fluke before returning to sit on the other end of the couch.

Julia sat up taller and said, "Tell me why you had a prophylactic in your pocket."

Oh, William's heart beat quickly now, and he thanked God for she was giving him a chance.

He told her the story, beginning, "George and I got on the wrong train, going to Chicago. We met the man George was telling you about, the one who was researching a book… Sin, Upton Sinclair."

Julia nodded. It seemed he may have started his tale quite aways away from when the prophylactic fits in, but she was willing to be patient. She found the story quite interesting besides.

William continued, "He had known Adomas Baltavesky, and he took us to a "jungle" to find any others who might have known what happened to him. A "jungle" is a place where hobos get together, usually in the summer, so we were lucky in this case."

Julia couldn't help but admire him. William was a good storyteller, it was true, but he had also, once again, done something so rare, so unique – something so few people in the world would ever do. And he did it to find justice and truth, such noble causes. And he had done it despite the risk, and despite the discomforts. And from what she could tell, it had been quite hard. And try as she might, she could do nothing but love him. She shifted her position, moving closer, opening her posture more to his words.

He went on, "There were nearly twenty men there – in an abandoned barn near the tracks…" William paused for a moment organizing his thoughts before he started up again, "One of the men there was an older fellow, named Jack. He approached, uh... me…" William paused in his story, reached up and rubbed his forehead.

Julia knew he'd gotten to an important part, but his new stress in telling it worried her. She wondered, "What could be so bad that William has trouble saying it… It had to be something related to having sex because of the condom," she thought. Curiosity teased at her, and, just a little, a twinge of worry. Was he hurt? Would she end up being angry with him anyway?

William took a deep breath, seeming more to calm himself than to provide air to speak, and he said, "Jack was what Sin told us was a "wolf," a man who was very experienced at surviving on the trains, and he, um … well he took on new hobos – "sheep or lambs," and taught them all he knew… Their relationship would usually be, well …. Um …"

His discomfort strong enough to keep him from taking the chance of catching her eye, William could not tell whether or not she already understood. He would rather not have to explain it…

"Go on," Julia said, sounding puzzled, thus answering his question. She sensed his distress, heard him swallow back his apprehension before he spoke.

Briefly he glanced her eye, quickly darting away again and said, "Jack… told me he had never taken on such an old, "lamb," before, but in my case he was willing to make an exception," William explained, going on to add, "He made some joke about me being a, "ram," instead of a, "lamb," and how that might be fun…"

Julia's mind lit up with understanding. Oh, she got it. William was being propositioned. Her heart took on a quicker beat. "That's why he had a condom?! Did he … Oh my God, did this "Jack" …?!" the thoughts barreled through her mind. She felt her eyes wide and wild. Focus, listen, she needed to listen.

"Well, I certainly didn't want to have "fun" with the man, so I was quick to thank him for his generosity but declined his offer. When I got back to Sin and George they poked fun at me, and that's when I knew my suspicions were right," William had gone on to explain.

Finding the situation far from humorous herself, Julia nodded and said, "Yes … but what about the condom?"

She slid closer to William, and he felt it so strongly, his hope and her love. His confidence roused, he took up the story again, "Jack came and sat next to me. Kind of apologized. Sin and him talked, across me. They knew each other. Not much later, some policemen, um, remember we were in the United States, without any identification. Well, some policemen showed up. There was a man in charge. Sin and Jack knew him, called him, "Flannel Bull," they said he was no good. They became concerned for a teenage boy who had been in the jungle that night, they were certain Flannel Bull would want to take the boy – victimize him. He was nowhere to be found inside the barn. And that's when Jack said to Sin, that Flannel Bull would pick me then, and then Jack snuck me a prophylactic… Which I thought was such a strange thing to do … And then he whispered that Flannel Bull would let me use it with the woman first…"

And again he paused, and again he rubbed his forehead, and again Julia's heart leapt in her throat, and he continued, "You know Julia, I had this thought, that I should close my eyes… Pretend to be asleep or drunk, so he wouldn't pick me. Um, I kept thinking about how you always say how beautiful my eyes are, and I thought maybe if he didn't see my eyes, well it would be better… But he was standing in front of us so quickly."

William sighed and went on, "He did pick me. Told me to stand up. Had his men, guns out and ready, surround me. He told me to take off my coat. And then George…" William shook his head trying to push away the memory. "George attacked, trying to help I guess, but they knocked unconscious, left him there on the floor, put a gun to his head. Flannel Bull said he'd just as soon shoot him as not and that I should take off my shirt…"

Julia imagined it, all those men watching, around William, George lifeless on the floor, gun aimed at his head. She knew William, he would do anything he had to do to keep them from killing George.

"I did… um, take off my shirt," William said.

But then a look overcame his face. Julia had never seen anything like it. It was sickening and terrifying, and seemed to plummet her soul downwards so quickly that she lost her ability to breathe with the sight of it. There was rage, and disgust, and an unspeakable deadness, all rolled in together, all on her William's face. And she hurt so badly she could have cried, albeit for the shock.

"He put his hands on me, Julia," William rushed to say, as if it was the only way he would ever get the words out, "And when I resisted they pistol-whipped me on the back of the head. And this, Flannel Bull, walked around me slowly – I swear, I didn't even feel the cold – looking me over from head to toe, inspecting my body, like I was an animal for sale. I was so humiliated. And he said that, "I would do for now." William stopped, took a breath. "They put the cuffs on me and they went to escort me out of the building, the gun still aimed at George," he added.

Julia hadn't noticed before, but he had been fiddling with his wedding ring. His story had so completely entrenched her. Now his eyes searched hers, and yet she felt she could offer nothing more than that she was stunned to know he had gone through such a thing. His willingness to show her his shame – it touched her. William truly trusted her. She figured that subconsciously he used his ring to remind himself of their connection. She wondered if it had helped him, now, to feel less alone – Had it at the time?

William went on, "When we reached the barn door, it opened. The teen-aged boy was just standing there, on the other side. And I knew, and he knew, that they would try to take him instead of me… And I was handcuffed and there were five of them, and I yelled for the boy to run, and he did. And I tried, I truly tried, even risking George, but still I fought them."

This time his look wrenched every cell in her body, to see such desperation in his beautiful brown eyes, it broke her heart to the core. William's tone full of guilt and shame, he said, "When I came to later, Sin and Jack told me that they had taken the boy."

She slid closer and took his hand. "To let him, you had to have had a choice William – some control over the situation, which you didn't," she said.

William shook his head, disapproving of himself, shocked at his own weakness, and explained, "I was undercover, in a country that wasn't mine. I had no identification, no weapon. I felt so helpless." Again, William reached up and rubbed his forehead. Shame captured him, and he pulled away from her. He stood up and walked to the fireplace, keeping his back to her, his gaze watching only a fire that had gone out.

Silence – in the dim light – and cold, they stayed quiet for a time, waiting for something to say. Finally, William cleared his throat and then released a huge sigh, through pursed lips – it almost sounded like a moan, as if the toxins in his breath burned his soul as they rode over his heart and were shoved out of his body. "I forgot it was there," he said of the condom, bringing her back, them back, to the beginning.

He returned to sit down in front of her on the couch. Softly, cautiously, he reached up and pinched one of her curls in his fingers.

The closeness, the intimacy this gesture of his symbolized in her mind, surprised her, startling her back to remembering why he was telling her the story, reminding her that they had had such a huge argument. Julia's own voice in her head reminded that he needed to be told Isaac had said no more sex of any kind until after the baby had been born. "Was she really that ready now, to forgive?" she asked herself. She released a sigh and reached up to push his hand away as she felt her answer take shape in her mind. No – Not yet. She began to try to stand, and chivalrous as her husband was, he rushed to help her despite the fact that he did not want to let her go.

She walked towards the stairs, but he hurried to block her way. "Don't you believe me, Julia?" he asked.

She stepped back and replied, "I do believe you William." Then she stepped around him and continued on.

Again, he rushed to stop her progression, reaching her just as she got to the stairs, being bold enough to take her elbow and stop her. She turned to him and said, "William, I believe that that is how the condom got in your pocket. But …" She paused. His breath rushed over her, fast and strong. They were close enough that, despite being in the darkened foyer, she could tell his chest was heaving. He still had kept his staying with Ettie a secret from her. She still harbored doubts, about trusting him as she used to, about trusting herself to see the truth.

He realized it then, that they were not in the clear yet. She was unable to trust him. She still doubted his fidelity. My God, it hurt him, the knowledge that she did not know him well enough to know that he had never considered making love to another woman, never would. That for him there truly was no one but her. How could she not know? His heart sank, for he saw it clearly now – he was all alone. He had already lost her, and if he had lost her for this, then he must never have really had her, at least not the way he had thought he did.

He noticed the burning in the back of his eyes as tears began to swell, and there was a lump growing in his throat. He had to fight it back. He began to work to stop himself from crying. Even so, the words lined up in his mind, to ask her, the tip of his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth behind his front teeth, ready to make the "D" sound of, "Don't you love me anymore, Julia?" He pictured falling to his knees in front of her to ask it. He stuttered it, "D… Don't…" His head shaking, as if he could make it not be so if he willed it hard enough, his whole body shaking, but before he could ask, she said…

"William, don't look so forlorn. I… I need some more time… to sort out my feelings. But, I'm sure we will work this out – just not right now," she said, her compassion washing over him and calming his panic. She reached up and cupped his cheek, the one she had slapped earlier, and they each remembered the pain. Unable to see it, as they stood together at the foot of the stairs in the dim light, he did not know that she fought back tears as well. She whispered to him in the darkness, leaning closer, her breath glancing his ear, "Don't give up hope, William," and then she walked up the stairs, without him.

He clung to her words, their meaning embracing so many of the things that he had been fighting desperately, seemingly for an eternity out in the jungle, to hold onto. His heart knew – her words would be enough. Hope was there, firmer, denser than the despair, thus sinking below it, providing a limit to how far into despair he could fall. Maybe he hadn't – lost that ONE thing.