Land of a Thousand Dreams (38 page)

The boy—Bhima at last turned to look at him, and Michael, caught his breath. In truth, the lad had a beautiful countenance, the face of a saint. Delicately formed, kindly features, and an unexpected warmth.

The dark eyes raked his face. Michael knew himself to be under a disturbingly shrewd scrutiny. He forced himself to meet the boy's gaze straight-on. “I'd do with it whatever I could,” he said evenly. “It would count for something, you can be sure.”

The boy smiled, suddenly looking much younger. “It is said in the Bowery that Captain Burke is a man of his word. A dangerously honest man, some say.” He nodded slowly, still studying Michael. Then his expression sobered. “Across the street,” he said, motioning up toward the window with his head, “there's a warehouse building. You know the place?”

Michael nodded. A dark, rambling structure that had once been a garment warehouse, the building had stood abandoned for over a year. “What of it?”

“It's not as empty as it might appear on first glance, Captain,” Bhima replied. “In fact, there would seem to be a good, brisk business going on there some nights.” He paused. “Do you know who owns the building?”

Michael shook his head.

“Walsh—Patrick Walsh. ‘Snake Eyes,' he's called in the streets.”

Michael felt the blood rush to his head. Could it finally be that, after all these months of futile searching and digging, he was about to get something concrete on Walsh? “You mentioned ‘business.' What sort of business? One of his gambling dens, is it?”

The boy smiled, a bitter slash, quickly gone. “Oh no. Not gambling.” He stopped, studying Michael's face as if gauging his level of interest. “More in the way of a slave market, I'd say.”

Michael's head jerked up. Bhima nodded, and again came the bitter smile. “Not quite the kind of slave market we associate with the South, however. This one is more…specialized.”

Michael tried not to let his impatience show. “In what way?”

“There's no auction involved. No bidding. They simply herd Negro children—boys and girls, most of them guttersnipes picked up off the streets—into the warehouse, where they're released into the hands of certain buyers. Apparently, the purchases are prearranged. All that's left is for the owners to pick up their property.”

The dryness of Michael's mouth turned sour with the bile of revulsion. He had known this sort of thing went on, of course; black children in the slums disappeared by the dozens every week, with no explanation.

But this was the first time he might have the opportunity to identify a
place
where the ugly business was being transacted. And at least one of the individuals behind it all.

It was also his first hint that the filthy “enterprises” of Patrick Walsh might actually extend to this—what he personally considered to be one of the most inhuman, conscienceless acts one human being could wreak upon another.

“Captain? What happens to the children, do you know?” the question was guarded, almost as if the boy dreaded the answer.

“A number are sent South, more than likely,” Michael answered. “I'll warrant that just as many end up in the brothels, right here in the city. The committee I'm working with has come up with information that indicates a good deal of trafficking among wealthy buyers who pay exorbitant sums for the youngest…” He scowled and looked away for a moment. “They buy them for their own personal—perversions.”

A look of pain crossed the other's features. The dark eyes closed for an instant, as if to shut out the cruelty of Michael's words. When the boy opened his eyes, they were shadowed with a great sadness.

“These children…they have no choice in what becomes of them? No chance to escape, isn't that right?” he questioned softly, all hint of lightness now gone from his voice.

The thought struck Michael that Bhima might well have been describing himself. “That would seem to be the case,” he said tightly. “How sure are you of this?”

The boy met his gaze. “I am absolutely certain, Captain.” He glanced behind him, up toward the window. “I can't see out, of course—but I have friends who can. Besides, I've heard the goings on over there for myself. I'm easily overlooked, as you can imagine. I can squeeze into the smallest of hiding places. I promise you, I know what I'm talking about.”

“You did a good thing in getting word to me,” Michael said finally. “But why did you bother?”

“Because you're a man who can be trusted, I'm told. A decent man. A Christian.” He paused. “And so am I. Does that surprise you?”

For some reason, it did.

“How can I love a God who made me this way—is that what you're wondering?” The boy smiled at Michael, a faint, sad smile. “Some would consider that a fair question. I don't mean you, Captain, but…some.” He paused. “I think the real question is, ‘How can I
not
love a God who gave up His only Son for me?' ”

Something stirred deep inside Michael.

“These children, Captain,” Bhima was saying, “these children who are being sold like cattle—they have no hope. It ought not to be that way. Some of us may seem to be…locked into our destiny, without hope of escape. But it shouldn't be that way for children, should it? Black or white, shouldn't children have at least some measure of hope?”

By now Michael was scarcely aware of Bhima's deformity, only of the compassion in his eyes. In this lad—this boy whose poor, distorted body would seem to mark him as hopeless—he saw what was perhaps the most vivid testament he had ever encountered of the wondrous difference God could make in a life.

“Why do you stay here?” he asked, his voice gruff with emotion.

Bhima gave a small shrug. “Even a freak needs a roof over his head, Captain. And food.”

Michael found himself angry at the sound of the ugly word. It simply didn't fit—indeed, stood in stark opposition to the gentle eyes, the sensitive nature so evident in the boy.

“You don't have to stay here,” he said abruptly. “I can try to get you a better place.”

Bhima regarded him with a studying look. “Thank you, Captain. I believe you would. But for now, this is where I need to be. This is where I am
meant
to be, I think. There are people here who…depend on me, as difficult as that might be for you to understand. Although there is little I can give, I can at least share a touch of God's comfort, at times even His Word. For all I know, that might be more than they would have without me.”

With full certainty Michael realized in that moment that there was no ugliness in this young man, no real deformity other than what happened to exist in the eyes of the beholder. There was only nobility and the grace of God made evident.

“There is something you
could
do, though,” Bhima went on. “As you might imagine, love—even God's love—is not easily experienced here…or anywhere else in the Bowery, for that matter. Perhaps, if you happen to know some good people brave enough to venture among us, you might make them aware of the darkness in this place. The need for God's caring heart and a touch of human kindness exists, even here.”

Michael nodded. Immediately, he thought of Jess Dalton. And Evan Whittaker.

And Sara. His wife, who, if she knew of the need, would no doubt come charging into the midst of this abyss, armed only with her faith and the determination to make a difference.

But, of course, he would not tell Sara.

24

Quest

Men are measured by what they seek—
A dream, a truth, a star.

ANONYMOUS

Ireland

I
n Belfast, attorney John Guinness was making his third visit to speak with Annie Delaney's mother and stepfather.

The stench of the city's poverty districts hung heavily on the damp afternoon as he got out of the hired carriage. Telling the driver to wait, he turned, standing for a moment in the street.

A combination of smells assailed him in the time it took to dart inside the hovel where Annie Delaney's family lived. The entire neighborhood seemed to reek of dunghills and breweries, outdoor privies and sewers, and something else—some indefinable, vile odor that hinted of disease.

All around him, Guinness could feel the miasma of hopelessness. In this city where the looms were seldom silent, where the linen mills continued to spew out even greater wealth for the already wealthy owners, the plight of the poor seemed never to change. The stinking atmosphere of poverty and degradation hung over Belfast like a fixed cloud.

In the midst of it all one could sense the wall of hostility that had changed the complexion of the old city forever. In the confines of the “settlements” built up around their church, the unwanted Catholics remained the aliens, while the Protestant poor watched them with suspicion fueled by their own misery. The divisions had developed to the point over the years that, now, there was nothing between the two but rancor and mistrust and a fierce resolve to hold on to the little they had.

If there ever was a more hopeless city than Belfast, Guinness thought as he made his way up the sagging stairs, he hoped he never had to see it firsthand.

The woman let him in. To Guinness's relief, her husband was nowhere in sight. The attorney had deliberately waited until late afternoon, on the chance that Tully would be at one of the local pubs. His last time at the flat, he had sensed a faint change in the woman, a suggestion of willingness to accept Fitzgerald's offer after all, if Guinness were to press. Today, he intended to do just that.

Mrs. Tully appeared disheveled and downcast. Her gray hair was unkempt, her apron soiled, but she stopped just short of being slovenly. Her eyes were hard: suspicious and unforgiving. The woman wore the look of one who had resigned herself to the poorest of life's leavings long ago.

To Guinness's surprise, she let him in without protest; the last time he'd come, she'd gotten angry and warned him off. Of course, the last time, her husband had been there—drunk and agitated and abusive.

Anxious to be done with the affair entirely, Guinness got right to the point as soon as he entered the room. “Well, then—I said I'd be back, Mrs. Tully. I've brought the necessary papers for your signature.”

“You heard my husband,” she muttered sourly. “He said we'll not be signing your papers.”

“Yes, he did say that, didn't he? Still, as I pointed out to you both, it's for
you
to decide the future of your child. As I understand things, your husband has never adopted Annie, never claimed legal custody of her.”

Even as he spoke, Guinness noted a large, angry bruise on the woman's cheek—a bruise that had not, he was certain, been there at his last visit. Lest pity interfere with what he had to do, he reminded himself that this woman had rejected her own child.

She stood now, arms crossed over her thin bosom, glaring at him. “And what sort of mother would I be, then, signing me rights to me own child over to a stranger?”

Guinness fought for patience. He would do Fitzgerald's cause no good by losing control. “A mother who wants something better for her daughter, it seems to me,” he said carefully. “One who recognizes a golden opportunity when it's placed in front of her.”

The woman's eyes went to the sheaf of papers in Guinness's hand. “Frank is against it.”

Again, Guinness controlled his temper with a good deal of effort. “I understand. But I must remind you again that the decision is not his to make. Besides, it may be that your husband doesn't fully appreciate his choices.” He went on quickly before she could interrupt. “I've already explained that Mr. Fitzgerald intends to legally adopt your daughter, make her heir to his considerable fortune. She'll be educated, cared for—she will have every opportunity for a wonderful, prosperous life, I can promise you.”

“But not a mother's love,” the woman whined.

Guinness studied her, a hot surge of anger rising in his throat. “That's true,” he bit out, unable to stop himself. “But then, I doubt that she was accustomed to all that much of it before.”

“Now, see here—”