Froelich's Ladder (21 page)

“Easy,” Gordy said. “Froelich’s my uncle.”

All the Scotsman’s good humor, no matter how fatuitous, promptly vanished. “Your uncle?” he croaked.

“I’m pretty sure—mostly sure. Anyway, it’s not like I lied.” Borrowing from the Sergeant Major, Gordy qualified, “Or if I did, it was a lie of omission. I’ll just knock on the door and tell him to let her go. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“No.”

Frowning, Gordy peeled his shirt from his chest. It was becoming unpleasantly stuffy in the stairwell, and his clothes, still wet from the recent downpour, smelled altogether brackish.

“No? What do you mean,
no
?”

Shaking his head, Myers muttered, “The man’s demented—he’s naked and ranting, locked away in a tiny space. What if you knock on the door and he doesn’t believe you?
I
can hardly believe you, and I’ve still got my wits about me. It’s too easy.”

Desperate to press his advantage, Gordy blurted out, “I have a ladder.”

The idea was so tailor-made that it actually made him smile. Myers, however, seemed unconvinced.

“A ladder?” he echoed, cocking his head to one side. “You’re saying you’ve got a ladder tall enough to reach that window?”

“The fourth tallest in history—seventy meters, at least. It’ll reach Miss Josephine’s window and keep on going. It’s not here, obviously—I’ll have to send word to my brother to bring it, and he’ll need help, but we can have it here in a day or two. If Froelich won’t walk through that door, you can go in the other way.”

“A ladder,” Myers said a second time, clearly at a loss for what to think. “And you’d be prepared to give it to me?”

“I’d sell it to you.”

“
Sell
it?”

“Well, I don’t work for you yet, now do I? You said if I had to choose between money and fame that I should always choose money. This ladder could make me famous. There’s a reporter from Philadelphia who wants to write about it. But you,” Gordy added, looking the Scotsman in the eye, “can do better than a newspaper story. You can make me your right-hand man. It’s an easy decision.”

 A moment of silence passed between them. In the distance, the sound of the surf rose and fell, and beyond that came an ethereal disturbance, like the tinkle of wind chimes. While waiting for his answer, it suddenly occurred to Gordy that Myers would research his history—that he’d hire someone like cousin Hiram to investigate his past. Indeed, why would a magnate trust his affairs to a total stranger?

Finally, the Scotsman thrust out his hand. Staring at it, Gordy expected to feel elation. But instead of sealing the pact, he remained with his arms pressed against his sides. His mind had returned to that country lane, littered with mail, and the victim he’d left by the side of the road.

“Do you not see my hand?” Myers barked, seemingly oblivious to his duress. “Take it, man! Don’t let an offer wither on the vine!”

Shaking his head, Gordy said, “Frank, there’s something I have to tell you before I can shake. Something I’ve done.”

In his mind, he was furiously unspooling the narrative, trying to find its natural starting point. Not riding on the mail jitney with Gak. Earlier, then—as far back as Carmichael and Nantz? Or further still, when he was falling through the trees? All his thoughts, Gordy discovered, terminated with the ladder.

Myers’s outstretched hand had flagged a little, but he’d managed to keep it extended. Perhaps to ease the strain on his shoulder, he now took a step toward Gordy and reached out, seizing his palm in a firm grip.

“I can see it weighing on you,” Myers said, holding Gordy’s gaze. “This terrible thing that you’ve done? Take it from me, lad—we’ve all done terrible things. All of us, without exception. But the only alternative is
not
doing bad things when the moment requires it, and that has consequences too, does it not?”

Gordy was picturing the jitney driver, his pants pulled down around his ankles, sprawled over Gak. Up until this moment, he hadn’t allowed himself to consider what might’ve happened next, had he failed to intervene. It might’ve been Gak lying dead in the road if Gordy hadn’t swung his bludgeon.

“Let the one-tenth men debate the finer points,” Myers continued, as if he were privy to Gordy’s innermost thoughts. “In that way, they’re trapped in the moment of indecision. We made our play, you and I—we did what needed to be done. So no more talk of deeds or misdeeds, yes? I won’t hear another word. Now could you
please
rid my turret of your blasted uncle?”

Pumping Gordy’s arm, Myers jarred him from his revelry. Although he’d promised to deliver his uncle, Gordy wouldn’t sacrifice Froelich’s safety.

“Rid him, sure,” he repeated. “But do you promise not to hurt him? No tribunal or firing squad—nothing like you said?”

Shrugging, Myers groused, “Of course—you have my word. So long as my Josie is returned safely.”

Then, as if amused by a clever turn of phrase, a smile graced the Scotsman’s face. “By golly,” he said, tousling Gordy’s hair. “I always imagined myself having a son!”

After witnessing Danny’s death, Josie spent hours wandering among the caravans. Carmichael and Nantz saw fit to let her go—or perhaps they made threats to ensure her silence; Josie was too distracted to notice, ever conscious of the hole in her boot. Whenever her thoughts drifted toward that awful memory, she stuck her toe in the breach, as if she were a dinghy taking on water. Finally, when the daylight failed her and it started to rain, she was forced to consider her sleeping accommodations.

Surely, she thought to herself, the Logging Camp must employ a prostitute, if not two or three. She didn’t trust any man to offer her lodging without demanding something in return, not even one of the camp’s missionaries. The brothel itself was easy to find. She spotted the hutch at the center of things, with Harmony loitering in front, even despite the presence of a steady downpour.

“You with squirrel?” she asked, before Josie could introduce herself. Up close, the madam’s lips were painted the color of pomegranates.

“Am I what?”

“With squirrel. I can fix that.” Her eyes drifted to Josie’s midsection, giving meaning to the expression.

“Oh, no!” Josie exclaimed, horrified. “Not that! I just need a place to stay. I haven’t got any money. I’ve made a terrible mistake, really, and I just—”

“Your shoes.” Harmony’s eyes flitted to Josie’s feet.

“Pardon?”

“You can stay till morning, but only for your shoes.”

“They’ve got a hole in them,” Josie confessed. Inexplicably, tears filled her eyes and she suffered a bout of nausea.

The madam shrugged her shoulders. “There’s worse things. If a caller comes during the night, you’ve got to wait outside. Understood? Unless you want to put some money in your pocket.”

Rather than answer, Josie promptly removed her shoes—hoping the blush would quit her cheeks by the time she had them off.

Luckily, the eventuality of a customer never came to bear. Josie survived the night, albeit on little sleep, and in the morning the rain was slightly improved. She was eager to return to Fort Brogue; she only wanted to fill her stomach before quitting the camp. How hard could it be, she thought, to find a warm meal?

But now, guided by the clarion call of the dinner bell, she was all turned around. The last time she’d heard it, it had been at her back, meaning she’d either passed the smokehouse or her ears were playing tricks on her. Her eyes, too: in a place with more head lice than walls (not counting the tarpaulin), it was ridiculous she couldn’t
see
the cookfire! She could’ve asked for directions, but even a whiff of helplessness might’ve been construed as something different. Frankly, she would’ve rather climbed a tall tree than submit herself to another wink, overture, or lewd grin.

Having lost all sense of direction, she decided to follow her nose, and finally she discovered what she’d been looking for. An uninspiring feat of carpentry, the smokehouse reminded her of a stable, save for the enticing aroma. Harmony had praised the brisket; and while Josie might’ve expressed misgivings, her way of thinking had changed.

“Hey!”

The voice came from behind her. Walk on, she thought to herself, determined to ignore it. It’s just a vagabond, trying to provoke a response. Or another cobbler who’s not a cobbler.

“Hey, red—over here!”

Spinning on her bare heel, she turned to face her aggressor—this vile little creature who would seek to rile and intimidate her. But when she looked, there was nobody there. Instead, she was presented with the broad side of the smokehouse, where the proprietor (busy at the moment, catering to a handful of diners) could enter and exit through a latched door. Frowning, Josie continued on her way. But almost immediately the voice sounded again.

“Here! Over here!”

From behind the door, a disembodied hand emerged, waved, and was swiftly withdrawn. That it appeared to be uncallused and possessing all of its digits confounded her expectations. With a sigh, Josie trudged over—peeking through the doorjamb, while being sure to keep her distance.

The air inside the smokehouse was kept artificially warm and poured out like something molten. Through the breach, Josie could see a boy approximately her own age, partially undressed and drenched in sweat. His face was the color of a turnip.

“What’re you doing in here?” Josie asked, feeling her throat constrict.

“I’m roasting—what’s it look like I’m doing?” When his sarcasm was greeted by silence, the boy moaned, “I’m
hiding
, you dummy.”

“Hiding? Hiding from what?”

“From those two, over there.” Pointing an index finger through the crack in the door, Josie observed a heat rash down the length of his arm. She did not, however, turn to see whom he’d indicted. “The fat one and the skinny one? If they see me in here, I’m as good as dead!”

Her first thought was that he was exaggerating; but then the image of Danny’s face floated before her eyes, and she probed for the hole in her boot—realizing that she was now barefoot. As Josie herself began to sweat (the pores on her scalp opening up like tiny pinpricks), she thought to ask the obvious question:

“Why not run?”

“Because they’ll see me!”

“Then why not stay here? Until they’re gone, I mean.”

“
You
get in here,” the boy quipped. “See how you like it. If I hang around any longer, I’m gonna turn to jerky!”

Trying to keep her composure, Josie swiped at her brow. “Then what shall I do?”

“Cause a distraction! Go over there and get their attention. Then, while they’re watching you, I’ll sneak away!”

“Cause a distraction?” Josie echoed.

“Yes!”

“No.”

The boy frowned at her. “Why not?”

Why not, Josie thought? Because she didn’t enjoy being gawked at, which was precisely what the men would do—wasn’t that reason enough? Or perhaps because this boy, whom she didn’t remotely know, would presume to give her orders? Or maybe because these hypothetical fellows, who would so readily cause another person harm, might not lose interest when she was done
distracting
them. Any one of those reasons might’ve sufficed; but instead of choosing, she asked, “What’s your name?”

“My name?” he scowled. “Why?”

“Because I’d like to know. My name’s Josie.”

As the rash advanced even farther up his neck, the boy made a vile noise.

“
Gak
?” Josie repeated.

“You heard me. So?”

“So?” she huffed. “Obviously it’s not your real name,
so
. It’s a common courtesy to introduce oneself—especially when asking another person for help. And why should I help you, when all you’ve done is be rude to me? Why not leave you here, to melt in a puddle?”

It could’ve been a result of his prolonged exposure, but the boy (Gak?) had turned an even deeper shade of red. While waiting for his apology, Josie nakedly appraised him. Unwilling to remove all his clothes, he’d rolled up his sleeves and pants legs to reveal long, sinewy muscles. The bruise around his eye made him look like a bandit.

“Gabrielle,” he muttered.

“I’m sorry? I didn’t catch that.”

“My name’s Gabrielle. My brother, Hollis, he likes to call me Gak.”

“Gabrielle.” With a sharp nod of her head, Josie said, “All right—good-bye.”

“Wait!” he shouted after her. “What d’you mean,
good-bye
? You’re not going to help me?”

“No, I’m not,” Josie hissed, whipping around and finally venting her frustration. “Why should I, when you’ve made a mockery of me.
Gabrielle
? What do you think I am, some kind of idiot? I swear, if I didn’t think they’d hurt you—”

“Good grief,” Gak sputtered. “It’s my name, okay? I’m a
girl
.”

For a moment, Josie was at a loss. “A girl?” she said—though, once clued to the fact, it was possible to see.

“They’ll kill me, all right? I’ll
die
. If you don’t do this, then I don’t know what else.”

Whatever misdemeanor Gak might be accused of, Josie had seen how justice was meted out. She couldn’t feign obliviousness.

“Do they know you’re a girl?” she asked.

“No,” Gak said, vigorously shaking her head.

“All right then … wait here.”

Before Gak could protest, Josie had already turned and left, in possession of an idea.

She found Harmony outside her hutch, in the same pose as before—a disheveled sentry manning her post. Befitting the early hour, she held a steaming cup of coffee.

“You decide to earn some money after all?”

Josie scowled at the suggestion, determined not to be intimidated. “I need some clothes.”

The madam shrugged, absent any judgment. “What kind of clothes? I ain’t giving back your boots.”

“Girl clothes.”

“For you?”

“For my friend.”

“This friend,” Harmony said, lighting a cigarette. “Is she your body type?”

“I don’t see how it matters.”