Captain Lacey and Fitzsimmons rode into St. Louis and were amazed at the bustling frantic growth of the busy town, well on its way to becoming a city. Four and five story buildings of brick were going up as well as large stick-built mansions. The lumber yard was the biggest business located on the river, second only to the barge and riverboat industry.
Both men gaped at the size of tree trunks floated in and the number of barges and boats loading and unloading at the massive docks.
When asked for directions to the Army post, they were told that it wasn’t in St. Louis but a small town just to the north, another day’s ride. Closer to the frontier and the hostiles left after the government had forced the Five Nations out. Lacey debated whether they should stop in St. Louis for the night before going on in the morning.
“I for one would like a hot bath and a meal,” Fitz sighed wistfully. “And it wouldn’t hurt to inquire of the constable the whereabouts of Johannsen and his ilk.”
“You think he’s here, Fitz? With Crispin?”
The former indentured servant nodded. “He wants the gold, he’ll be here,” he said firmly.
“How in Finnegan’s Seven Hells are we to find him?” Lacey despaired looking at the crowds. He shook his head and gigged his horse on. Fitzsimmons followed as they entered the city, marveling at the broad expanse of the largest river they had ever seen. The Mississippi rolled on, indifferent in its majesty, carrying cargo down river and steam power taking the boats up.
There were no sidewalks and the roads were a seething mass of horses, wagons, riders and pedestrians fighting for their right-of-way. The streets were either a roiling mass of dust or quagmires of mud to your knees. In certain places, proprietors had laid down carpets so that ladies could walk without muddying their skirts, but the carpets had disappeared under the incessant downpours that plagued the city.
Lacey asked for directions to the nearest hotel from a man standing on one corner, twirling his large handlebar mustache. He wore a frock coat and derby, his twinkling blue eyes and gray hair neatly combed. He said his name was Clemmons and he told the Captain that there were seven hotels just down the street. The Driscoll was the newest and boasted of a French chef, laundry service by the best Chinks in town and that the bathrooms had both hot water and bathtubs for a reasonable price.
The pair reached it after a harrowing twenty minutes after dodging women and children, loose horses and runaway wagons. They could see the massive brick building of the new Busch Brewery in the distance, near the upper part of the river. Wagon stacked with oak barrels six high were among the traffic on the roads.
The hotel had stables attached and they saw to their animals. The cargo on the mule was carried by the Captain as they walked into a fancy lobby with red velvet drapes, overstuffed chairs and horsehair couches. All the newest fad in furnishings. There were exquisite Aubusson rugs on the marble floors and Waterford Crystal chandeliers lighting the foyer. A man dressed in a smart black suit stood behind a waist-high desk and greeted them.
“We’d like a room for the night,” Lacey said. “Our horses are stabled in your livery. Also, I’d like this locked up in your safe. You do have a safe for valuables?”
The concierge nodded and pushed the register around. Lacey picked up the quill and signed his name, handing it over to Fitz.
Captain Faille Lacey, Quarter Master Corps, Washington, D.C. 8 October 1833.
Mr. Seamus Fitzsimmons, Washington, D.C. 8 October 1833.
“Welcome to the Driscoll, Captain Lacey, Mr. Fitzsimmons. Room 305. If you need anything washed and pressed, leave it outside your door. Boots, too. Dinner is served in the Petite salon until 10 pm. The bar closes at 2 am. If you are interested in card games, the Scarlet Room is open all night. Please check your weapons at the door, your room is up the stairs and to the right. Joseph will show you the way.” He pushed a bell and a small colored boy dressed in a page outfit appeared silently at their side.
“Joseph, show these gentlemen to room 305, please. Do you have any luggage, Captain?”
Lacey handed over the saddlebags and the concierge opened a paneled door behind him to reveal a huge walk-in vault. He twirled the lock and opened it, walked inside and laid the bag down on a table. There were tags lined up on the wall and he selected the one marked 305, added the Captain’s name. After securely locking the vault door behind him, he handed another tag over to Lacey. It held the room number, his name and a receipt for the vault. Only then did the two men follow the boy up the stairs to their room.
*****
Johannsen and his men cursed at the loss of the boy. They had tracked him as far as the Frenchmen’s camp, had cornered the traders and taken all that they had. He had beaten both men and got the story of the boy out of their mouths, but it was the squaw, they said that knew the most. Even after Johannsen had raped and beaten her, she refused to talk. They tortured her and still she remained silent.
“Them Injuns ain’t human,” one of the men complained. “But they fuck all right.”
Even after every one of them had taken a turn, she would not even grunt. In a rage, Johannsen hit her across the face with his heavy pistol and she dropped without a sound. He kicked her, and her body slid on a thin film of growing blood from the crack in her skull. There was no response and Lassiter bent over to check the woman’s breathing. There was blood running from her eyes, ears and nose which told him that she was dead. They all knew it as her bowels voided, stinking the air with the smell of waste. Her skull was grossly deformed, her nose nearly torn off her skull and a huge indentation in the forehead through which blood and brains leaked.
“She’s dead, Jimmy,” Lassiter said in disgust. “You kilt her. We coulda used her for cooking, fetching and whoring.”
The fur trappers lifted their own beaten faces and spat blood at his feet. Through broken teeth and split lips, the older said, “Them French brothers took that brat, pro’ly kept him as a slave. They was too old to fuck the squaw.”
“What brothers?” Johannsen demanded.
“The Frenchies – Jean-Claude and Pierre LaSalle. They traders, usually spend the winter up in Canady. Stop off in Chase’s Corners to stock up before they head north for the winter trap season. They got a trading post in Dawson’s Creek.”
“You telling the truth?” Johannsen snarled. “If you’re lying, you’re dying.”
The old man spat a bloody wad at his feet. “You is gonna kill us anyway. I know you, Jimmy Johannsen. I been a bad man but you – you’re the devil. You’d fuck a dead horse and then sell it to a preacher.”
The outlaw smashed his rifle stock over the trapper’s skull and the sound it made was like a melon hitting the floor. Blood and brains splattered back in Johannsen’s face. He snarled and kicked the corpse out of his way as he headed for his horse. Mounting, he stared down at the body and the other cowering trapper before he shot him point blank in the head. He left both corpses there as they rode over the body of the Indian woman, their horses snorting and skittering at the smell of blood and death. Heading for St. Louis, not Chase’s Corners.
I
t had snowed during the night. Just a light dusting that barely covered everything in white. I was fascinated with the snow, it was the very first time I had ever been in it. It was cold on my tongue and I wasted an hour on checking to see if each snowflake was different. So far, I had not found one the same.
My snares had caught a rabbit each. After knocking them in the head with a rock, I skinned and gutted them with my sliver of slate, stuck them through a green branch and roasted them over the coals. Half an hour later, I was enjoying roasted rabbit. I only ate one, saving the other for lunch. I used the leftover foil from the garbage to wrap the pieces of meat and stuck them in my coat pocket for later. I had tea and sealed the leftover liquids in the coffee can.
A quick check of my campsite and I kicked the fire apart, dousing it with dirt dug up with the abandoned shovel. When I was sure that the coals were completely out, I left the camp heading for the road and the town of Unadilla. Although, I was probably safer in a large city like Albany where I would stick out that much easier in a small town like Unadilla.
T
he man who stepped in to Levinger’s NYC office at 3 pm was one of the Admin assistants’ favorite people. Not only was he single and unattached, but he was quietly handsome. Lean with smooth muscles that were only hinted at beneath expensive suits, he rarely wore anything else. Even when relaxing at home, his clothes were designer chic.
But what really got the women in the office drooling was his Boston Irish accent, his brilliant blue eyes and the dimples he so rarely showed.
He didn’t raise his voice or curse, and in fact, his nickname was the Toff, referring to an old-time English Gentleman Bandit.
His name was Mathieu Eachann and he was a Detective First Class out on sick leave recovering from a car accident where he had severely broken his leg. The doctors weren’t sure if he could come back 100%, or enough to pass a rigorous physical and keep his job. If he failed, he could retire at full disability as the injury happened on the job. He could walk with a cane. Stairs were a problem and running down a perp was out of the question just yet.
He moonlighted for Levinger as a favor – they were related through Eachann's sister, she was married to the lawyer. Which made Jason Levinger his brother-in-law. Matt often teased him about a Jew in an entirely Irish clan which included priests.
He took the elevator up and entered the foyer of the luxurious office, saying hello to Angie and the other assistants. All the ladies came out to ask how he was doing with rehab and he thanked them for the gifts that they had sent to his hospital room and apartment.
Levinger came out of his office to pat him on the back while Matt rolled his eyes. He followed his brother-in-law into the office and Angie shut the door.
“Sit, Mathieu. How’s the leg? Still on pain killers?”
“Thanks.” He sank gratefully into the padded chair, his leg extended in front of him. “Fine and yes,” he answered. “I’m down to four a day. Unless I’m running around. What did you need me for?”
“Just some minor snooping. You can do it on line. No need to drive down there,” Jason said.
“Drive where?”
“Louisiana,” Jason said sheepishly. “I want to find out everything about a Deputy Sheriff out of Pine Bayeux, Louisiana.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s Perry Baker’s client and his son is John Doe,” Jason stated.
“The John Doe? One hundred fifty-million-dollar settlement John Doe who just came out of a year-long coma John Doe?” Eachann stood there dumbfounded.
“Yeah. That one. The father said he caught his wife cheating and she took off with the boy, but I smell a rat. I want to make sure that the boy – his name is Cris Snow, by the way, is in the hands of a father who loves him, not his Trust Fund.”
“He called me. Perry. He wanted to meet me, so I drove up there and talked to him. Wanted me to investigate this Neige’s background but all he told me was that it was a custody case and he wasn’t sure if the father was suitable. So, I know a guy who knows a guy down that way, but you can look up his jacket through your court connections,” he shrugged. “I can’t drive yet and flying’s out of the question according to the docs. My doctor barely lets me use the subway or a taxi.”
“How’d you get here?” Levinger asked. “And up there?”
“Chief gave me a rookie driver and a car until I can come back full-time. Plus, he wants me out of the city until the asshole that hit me is through the trial. What’s his name?”
“Tempe. Tempe Neige. Which is French for snow.” He spelled it and Eachann put it into his cell phone. Scrolling through his contacts, he found the name he was looking for and called it.
“Hello, Jeff, this is Mathieu Eachann. I’m looking into a client’s background for my brother, the lawyer. Yeah, the sleaze bag. Yeah, you know what they say –you can pick your friends but not your family. Me? I’m doing okay. Running five miles a day. Anyway, this guy is a Deputy Sheriff in Pine Bayeux. Louisiana. Name’s Tempe Neige. Do you need me to spell it for you or are you more literate than last time?”
Levinger could hear the reply, but the accent was so thick that it made understanding difficult. Matt listened without commenting as the Cajun promised to investigate it and get back to him.
“Okay, thanks, Jeff.” He turned to Jason. “That was Jeff Robichaud. He’s a State Trooper out of New Orleans. We did a hostage rescue course together at Quantico last year. If there’s anything hinky, he’ll ferret it out.”
Ten minutes later, Matt’s cell played an Irish Jig. It was Robichaud calling back. “Matt, I had to step out where nobody could hear me. No one wants to talk about him but there are rumors that Neige beat his wife and kid. That she ran away one night because he got drunk, beat her and the kid and tried to pimp them out to some friends. The kid was all of nine-years-old at the time. Sheriff covered it up and warned Tempe not to try it again, cut out his drinking and behave. It was too late, the woman took the child and disappeared. No one heard or saw a thing until a month before the bus accident. He was placing fliers up and down-state and someone reported seeing a woman and child matching the descriptions in a small town in Tennessee. He sent DNA and fingerprints into the National database. Got a hit only a couple of days ago. It turned out that the kid was the only survivor of the bus crash but because he was so small, they had him at the age of six or seven. He turned out to be Temper’s son.”
“Temper?”
“That’s what they call him behind his back because he has one nasty temper. Anyway, long story short, this guy is not a good father candidate. Tell your client to drop him fast. If Neige gets the boy, he won’t be around long. He’ll disappear with him and then no one will ever see the kid again.”
“Wow, Jeff,” Matt said slowly. “That’s the longest speech I’ve ever heard you make with your mouth.”
The State Trooper sighed. “Fuck you, Eachann. I knew Violet Snow. She was a sweet, lovely girl. Barely five-foot-tall and not a mean bone in her body. He treated her like shit. I was surprised when I heard she had disappeared and thought she was dead. When I saw the missing poster alert, I immediately suspected foul play.”
“You heard the boy came out of the coma?” Matt asked.
“No? Really? That’s great!” He paused. “That’s why Neige took FEMLA, he’s on his way up to get Cris.”
“Yeah. Only there’s a little bitty catch.”
“What?” the trooper asked.
“The kid’s disappeared from the boarding school. No one knows where he’s gone. Or what shape he’s in,” Jason interrupted. “The doctors said he needed extensive physical therapy to catch up to the shape he should be in. After lying in a coma for a year, his muscles must be mush. We have both state and local PD looking for him. Helicopter runs with FLIR and the FBI has stepped in because it might be a child abduction case.”
Matt said, “I didn’t know that. Where is the boarding school?”
Levinger handed him a thin folder. Matt opened it. On the top was a photo of the boy and it brought a visceral punch to Eachann’s body. Almost as if he recognized the solemn faced boy.
“He’s…beautiful,” he commented. “You got anything else? Any grandparents he might run to? Other family? Any chance this is a pedophile case?”
“Nothing. We know next to nothing about what happened to him or about Violet, other than she came from upstate New York. I’m sending you a photo of Neige. He’s a big son of a bitch. Handy with his fists and a hair-trigger temper. He’s fast with a gun, too. You be careful, Mathieu.”
“Noted. Thanks, Jeff. Bye.” Matt pulled up the photo of Neige. “Tough looking dude. Looks like the wife beater type,” he mused. “The school is in Mt. Upton. That’s within driving distance. I think I’ll head up there and poke around,” he told his brother-in-law.
“You need travel expenses, Matt? A room for the night or will you drive back tonight?” Jason asked.
“Money’s always welcome, Jase,” he grinned and took the American Express card from Jason’s fingers. “You have my cell. Call me if you have any updates.”
Jason nodded as Matt climbed laboriously to his feet, helped by his cane but his brother-inn-law knew better than to offer a hand and imply that the detective was in any way helpless. He took the file and walked back to the elevators.