Band of Sisters (50 page)

“Know Jaime, do you?”

She shrugged. “We’re from the same county—a long time ago.” Maureen forced herself to return their stare.

“Never mentioned anybody he knows workin’ in the house.”

“Would you?”

The taller one hesitated, then motioned toward the cages. “Keep these locked. They’ll beg and carry on. Let ’em.”

Maureen shivered involuntarily but crossed her arms, lifted a jutting chin, and nodded as though he’d addressed a hardened woman of New York’s underworld.

Maureen waited until Belgadt’s men had climbed the stairs and the echo of their footsteps died in the tunnel before she began pulling back more blankets.

“Alice?” She whispered at first, running down the aisle. “Eliza?” From cage to cage she ran, forcing herself to push away the faces of misery in hope of finding her friends.

But it was no good. More than half of the women responded.

“Here!” one cried.

And “Help me! I’ll be Eliza if you want!” called another.

Hands reached through the small doors, clawing the ground, begging with outstretched fingers.

After a dozen false hopes, Maureen knew that the names she called meant nothing to the women desperate to escape and that doors without begging hands housed women likely too weak or beaten, too intimidated and frightened, too sick or malnourished to plead.

Eliza and Alice could be behind any one of these blankets, or they might not be here at all. But how can I leave these women here—any of them?

She gripped the bars of a cage door and shook it until her teeth rattled; not a bar gave way. “Keys . . . keys . . . there must be keys,” she whispered, flashing her light across the cages. And then louder, “Where are the keys? Do any of you know where they keep the keys? Help me, tell me, and I’ll let you out!”

But the room had gone silent.

“I’ll help you, I swear it, but you must help me before they come to take you away!”

A timid voice called, uncertainly, from across the room. And then another and another.

“Maureen?” a voice, thick and husky but familiar, separated itself from the others.

“Alice? Eliza?” Maureen cried.

“Maureen?” the voice came again, closer.

“Alice? Alice, where are you?” Maureen could not believe her ears or the hope that beat in her chest. “Keep talkin’. I’ll come to you!”

“My cage is against an outside wall; that’s all I know. I’ve no idea where they keep the keys, but I’ve heard them hang them near my cage.”

Maureen ran in the direction of the familiar voice, but as the two called to each other, a life, a fervor, passed from cage to cage. Women cried, then screamed for help, the room exploding in a riot of calls that curdled Maureen’s blood.

“Come to me—to me!”

“Help me!”

“Open the door!”

Maureen could no longer distinguish between one voice and another, could no longer hear Alice above the rest.

Help me, Lord!

Find the keys.
That voice in her head came clearly, above the rest—not an audible voice, but a voice of reason and stability in the midst of chaos. The insistent voice that had counseled her before.

Holding her flashlight steady, she fanned its light across the walls of the cave, floor to ceiling, coming to rest on a heavy brass ring. “Keys,” she whispered in relief, pulling the ring from a post rammed high into the wall.

She prayed, as she fumbled with the first lock, that the key would fit all the locks, open all the cages. But the key stuck, jammed into the first lock. She tugged and twisted it back and forth until she was able to pull it free.

But even after she jerked wide the door, the woman cowered in her sodden cell corner, her face and eyes shielded by her arm as though she feared Maureen might strike her.

“Come out! Come out!” Maureen pulled the woman’s arm.

The woman burrowed deeper into the corner of her cage. Maureen finally left her, fearful of the passing of time. For every turning of the key and opening of the lock, for every swinging wide the door of their prison, not one woman in three ventured through her open door.

She pleaded with them to come out, but she understood too well the absolute terror written on their faces.
They trust no one—not even freedom.

Maureen, helpless to help them believe they were free, shed silent tears of frustration for them, came close to cursing, as she continued to unlock cages.

“Maureen? Maureen, is it truly you?” The feeble, hopeful plea came from behind a blanket and locked door near the end of the first row.

“Alice!” Maureen dropped the keys in her excitement, then scrambled across the puddling floor to retrieve them. She fumbled with the lock, twisted and turned the key. Nothing. She groaned, jerked the key from its lock, tried again, and the stiff lock pulled open.

The cell door flung forward. Maureen grabbed her friend by the arms, dragging her to her feet. “Alice! Alice!” she wept. “Oh, thank God! Thank You!”

Alice was thinner by half, cheek bruised, hair matted, her waist and skirt wet and torn, but she was alive, and Maureen rejoiced in the wonder of her friend.

“Have you seen Eliza? Do you know what they’ve done with her?”

Alice shook her head miserably. “I think they took her away—somewhere. I heard her once, but I couldn’t help her, and after that . . .”

“We’ve got to get you out.” Maureen pulled back, still grasping her friend’s frail arms, desperately trying to rub strength and life into them. “Those men will be back any minute, and the one who took you—Jaime Flynn—he’s comin’ by boat to clear the cave.”

“They don’t mean to take us all—the boat’s too small. He never takes more than a dozen at once.”

“There’s a storm. The river’s risin’ and it will flood the cave—everyone must be moved.”

“They’ll only move the healthiest. I heard them talking before you came.”

“But—”

Alice covered her face with her hands as if shutting out an image too horrible to bear. “We’ve got to get out of here before they lock us in again.”

“There’s nearly fifty of us. If we band together, we can run them over.”

“We’re too weak,” Alice argued, “and too afraid. There won’t be time to unlock all the cages. They’ll come with guns—and cords! We’ve got to get out!”

“The tunnel leads back to the mansion, and—”

Alice shook her head wearily, and Maureen knew every word cost energy her friend couldn’t sustain. “Beyond the door—” Alice pointed to the door where Flynn was expected—“we can climb over their sandbags and up onto a ledge. There’s a side tunnel beyond that. It leads up to an opening—into a copse of trees.”

“You’re sure?”

“It’s how he brought Eliza and me in—by truck, into the trees, then marched us down through the cave. I can lead us out. But it’s a narrow climb—one at a time.”

Maureen bit her lip. She wanted to hold tight to Alice, to run with her, but the pressure in her heart insisted,
Help them.

If I help them, we’ll be caught!

Trust Me.

But—

Trust Me.

Maureen ordered, “I’ll unlock the doors, and you coax them out. Then lead them through the tunnel. I’ll push from behind.”

“There’s no time, I’m telling you! Come with me now!”

Despite the fear weighting her feet and legs, Maureen shoved the key into the next lock and the next.
What if Katie Rose were one of these? What if Eliza is here somewhere? Dear God, I know I cannot leave them. I cannot leave even one!
“You go!” she whispered, the conviction in her heart growing. Then louder, “Go!”

But Alice stayed by her side. As quickly as Maureen unlocked the doors, Alice pulled prisoners from their cages. Only when she stumbled did Maureen slap her awake and shove her toward the tunnel. “You’ve got to lead them out. I don’t know the way!”

Still Alice balked.

“I’ll be soon behind you. Go!” She turned back to her work, trusting Alice to do her part.

The women, once outside their cages, stood, unbending their limbs, dazed and uncertain. Some, though still strong, were drugged beyond grasping their opportunity. Maureen pointed them toward the door and Alice. Stumbling, a few formed a sluggish human train—boxcars disconnected.

Maureen worked quickly, from one lock to the next. But the locks were stiff and some were rusted.

The weight of her cloak slowed her down. She tore at its buttons, yanking it off and shoving it high on a ledge, desperate to save the precious ledger pages hidden in its lining from the water that streamed through the doorway, a quickly rising tide. She went back to work.

When Maureen glanced up again, she saw the train of women slipping in the rushing, ankle-deep water, exhausting fragile stores of strength to regain their footing and move forward. “Grab hands!” she called.

They trust no one enough to reach for them—not the woman before or behind.

“Join hands! Join hands so you don’t fall!” Maureen screamed, pushing women forward. “Form a chain!”

Most of the women ignored her, each staying her own course. But one here and there reached for a woman behind her or for a skirt in front of her, pulling herself and the next woman along.

Maureen unlocked another door and unceremoniously dragged the frightened captive to the aisle. She’d opened but half the cages. The emaciated woman in the next cage had been terribly beaten, her clothing and bedding soiled and stained with blood. The woman closed her eyes and turned her back on her rescuer.

Though Maureen urged and tugged and pulled, she knew that for this woman there was no reason to live, no freedom great enough to rouse the energy to run. Still she begged, “Please, please come with me. I’ll help you. I swear it!”

Jaime Flynn didn’t like winter boat runs, and he didn’t like it that Belgadt’s phone line had been dead so long. All he could do was follow his last set of orders, no matter that the weather made those nearly impossible.

He thought Belgadt overly cautious about using land transportation after a storm.
Who’s out in this mess to care about tracks in mud and snow?
But he also knew it was Victor Belgadt’s penchant for detail and cover that had kept the operation secret and lucrative.

Flynn stood behind the boat captain and stared into the Hudson’s predawn fog. He shrugged.
I suppose I’ve made enough gaffes of late. Best not to stray from his lordship’s good graces. I might as well indulge the hand that feeds me.
He tugged lower his checkered cap.

The boat pulled deftly into a nearly hidden tributary above Cold Spring. Ice chunks crowded the banks, but the center flow was clear. The cave lay dead ahead.

Joshua Keeton set the binoculars on the farm window’s ledge and kneaded the base of his neck. Willing away the crick there, he forcibly opened wide his eyes. It had been a long night, ever since Curtis had telephoned that Drake Meitland had flown the coop in Washington.

It had seemed an excellent plan to have Joshua wait and keep an eye on the comings and goings of any in Belgadt’s house. Most importantly he’d be closer to Maureen, should it appear that things were getting out of hand.

Joshua knew it would take Drake hours to make his way back to New York and Cold Spring, but neither he nor Curtis knew whom he might have contacted in the meantime. Confirmed doubts about the legitimacy of Curtis’s operation would surely trigger a mass evacuation of Belgadt’s “inventory” by land or river.