Searching for Home (Spies of Chicago Book 1) (17 page)

“Get started, boy.” The beefy man slapped his back.

James staggered forward, bashing his knees on the washtub with a holler. A tower of gravy covered dishes wobbled back and forth. With a lurch, James wrapped his arms around them to prevent a giant crash from occurring. Angry at being disturbed, a colony of flies rose to buzz around his head. He batted them away, their fat bodies making little thump sounds when his swats found purchase.

James made a move for the backdoor. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”

But the cook’s chubby fingers hooked on his shirt by his neck and yanked him backwards. “Naw, the boss said I’d know the fancy-pants new boy when I saw him, and you’re him all right.” The cook shoved a dirty rag his way. “Now take the coat off, roll your sleeves, and get to scrubbing. And don’t go sneaking back in with those religious people. I’ll wring that little chicken neck of yours if you so much as think about it.”

When James dropped a couple dishes into the already black water in the basin, like monsters from the deep, giant food particles surfaced. The plates would have been cleaner left with gravy coating them. He glanced over his shoulder and Meat-Cleaver raised a brow in warning.

As James reached for more plates he assessed the situation. One, he didn’t know how to wash plates. Two, he hadn’t found the anarchists yet. Three, if he tried to leave Meat-Cleaver might make good on the death threat. Four, how blessed long would this night last?

State of affairs? Not good.

The cook grunted behind him. James closed his eyes, thrusting his hands into the nasty water. He tried not to grimace when it felt like something slithered over his hand.

“And fancy-pants, pay no attention to what the men are talking about, you hear? Unless you plan on leaving The Rat Palace to work at one of them factories, it doesn’t much matter anyway. They pay me well to pretend I’m deaf. You’d do well to do the same.” Meat-Cleaver dumped two charred pans into the water, and it sloshed over the edge. “Unionize. What foolishness.” The cook walked away muttering.

Keeping his head down, James peeked in the direction the cook had pointed. Sure enough, a cluster of five people stood behind a rack of food. He recognized two of them from the Wild West Show. Stilling his hands and tilting his head, James listened.

One of them pulled a dog-eared handbook from beneath his coat. “You have read
Revolutionary War Science
, haven’t you? Because he explains what we would need to construct a bomb. Mary says—”

“Yes, yes.” Another urged with hand motions. “Tomorrow will be the first of many mass meetings at the lakefront. Spread the word, anyone with access to dynamite should bring it. Tomorrow may be the start of the revolution.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“The materials, has anyone moved them to the shipping yard?”

Someone clomped down the back stairs. “What are we going to do with the girl?”

A rowdy laugh escaped from the one with the handbook. “Leave her to me. I wouldn’t mind taking care of that little girly. Bet she’s even pretty without all her—”

Swat
. “Shut your mouth, Abe.”

“He’s right. When Ingram gets here, he won’t be happy if you’ve touched his sister. Mary’s already got explaining to do for hitting her.”

“But if his sister is spying against us, then don’t she deserve the worst?”

“It’ll be a good test of Lewis’s loyalties.”

Blood running cold, James froze. A plate slipped from his hand and clattered against the metal basin.

Did they say Lewis’s sister?

Ellen squared her shoulders. If death knocked tonight, she wouldn’t answer the door whimpering. “I had nothing to do with your husband’s murder.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Mary continued her vulture-like circles around Ellen’s chair. “The tyrants of this city will pay.”

To avoid getting caught, Ellen stopped moving her fingers right before Mary crossed behind her back. “I don’t see why you can’t go to City Hall and talk to them, maybe if—”

Mary’s cackle snapped through the room like a whip in the night. “Go talk to them?”

“I met Mayor Harrison at a party. He seems very nice. I’m sure he’d be willing to speak reason with you.” Ellen scratched her ankle with her free foot.

“Nice? Are you aware that he has lately introduced the policy of police moderation at our events? Tell me. Last year did he step to our aid when his army beat the members of the cable car workers strike?”

“I don’t know anything about that. I don’t even live around here.” Ellen wiggled her thumbs. Suddenly, the rope hung slack.
Freedom
. Thankful for the darkness and for Mary’s distraction, Ellen grasped the string so it still looked tight behind her back. Like Moody said, heaven would be her true home, but if given the choice she wanted a chance to find one on earth first.

“Then until you’re educated, you don’t deserve to have an opinion. Let’s go for something easier. I’m sure you’ve at least heard of Albert Parsons?”

Ellen shook her head.

“Figures. He’s an anarchist … of a different sect than ours. The police searched the town for him. They dragged him to City Hall. The Board of Trade threatened to lynch him if he continued making public speeches about his beliefs. Does that sound like the type of people who would sit down for a nice chat?”

“That’s absolutely terrible.” Ellen meant it.

“But their persecution has only made our numbers grow. You see, the wheels of change are already in motion. Your class can do nothing to stop it.”

“My class? I grew up in the country.” Ellen ground her teeth. “You, on the other hand, are married to one of the richest men in the city.”

“Not by choice.” Mary’s voice turned to ice. “I
hate
him. I made that sacrifice for the cause. I made it because I followed instructions. Because Bruce said—”

“Enough, Mary!” The shadow-man, whom had been so quiet during their exchange, burst to his feet. “Why don’t you go and tell her all our plans? If she is the Swan and Lewis sets her free, that’ll be a fine kettle of fish for you.”

Mary stomped toward him. “If she is the Swan, then I’m demanding a head on a platter.”

“A bit John the Baptist for your taste, isn’t it?” A hint of teasing filled his voice.

“Lewis’s head or hers, I couldn’t care less.” Mary crossed to the doorway. “Where is Lewis, anyway? What’s taking him so long?”

“He had a mission tonight, but we expect him soon.”

Mary pointed at Ellen. “I have to go check on the buffoons meeting downstairs. Who knows what plan they’ll hatch if I’m not there to advise? Watch her.” Clips announced her retreat down the stairs.

Ellen’s shoulders sagged. The woman might be gone, but she’d be back. Then what?

Floorboards groaned as the man playing watchdog paced near the window—her way out. If only she could get him out of the room … or distract him.

A thought struck her. What had James warned her?
Don’t flaunt yourself in a man’s direction.
And hadn’t Mary said she could get any man in Chicago to do her bidding with a few coy blinks?

Ellen lowered her eyelashes to half-mast. “So you’re part of this anarchist group?” She dropped her voice, hoping it took on a husky quality.

He put his hands on the windowsill and leaned to look down the alley below. “The alley’s clear right now.”

“Your arms, when you flex them like that, they’re so … so big and strong.” Or she guessed because, between the dark and his large coat, she couldn’t tell.

“Are they now?” His laugh came out quiet, comforting almost. He pivoted, crossed his arms, and took four steps toward her. “It’s now or never, Ellen.”

How strange of him to use her given name. She squinted, but the grimy hat on his head shielded any light that could have illuminated his features.

He pushed his hands into his coat pockets. “I saw you untie your restraints.”

Bluffing? He’d been ten feet away. “What? I don’t know what you’re—”

“So try to get away right now, or else Mary will return. When she does, I won’t be able to help you. Besides that, the rest of our group is meeting in the kitchen. They’ll hear the scuffle so when you do get out, make your way home without delay. Understood?”

“Who are you?” She leaned forward.

He took a step back. “Just a man who doesn’t want to see a lady get hurt.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He made a show of stretching his arms. “I will lunge for you when you get up, so be prepared to defend yourself. This needs to be convincing.”

“Defend?” She licked her lips.

“Be ready on the count of three.”

Ellen glanced around the room again. “This is absurd. If I—”

“One.” He bent his knees, ready to spring.

She dropped the rope and brought her arms around to her lap. She flexed and straightened her fingers. They tingled as blood flowed back into her hands.

“Two.”

Before the man had a chance to say three, Ellen catapulted toward the table on her left. As he dove in her direction, she scooped up
War and Peace
. She lifted the book high and bashed him once on the back of the head. He expelled a pained noise, went rigid, and fell to the ground.

“Sorry!” She jumped out of his groaning reach and ran for the window. Trash piled beneath it. She prayed it would cushion her fall.

Without another second to consider, Ellen flung her legs over the edge and jumped.

Chicago, April 30, 1886

James never expected to see Ellen fling herself out of a window and into the trash heap below.

He lunged forward, grasping at air. Ellen landed with a thud. With a moan, she tried to gain her feet but slipped backwards on a month’s worth of decaying rubbish.

Before she could right herself, James kneeled and grabbed her shoulders. Something with very pointy nails scurried across the back of his leg.

Eyes spitting fire, Ellen shoved at his hands. “No. Not again. Please.”

“Hush. You’ll get us both caught.” He’d weaseled away from Meat-Cleaver under the pretense of dumping trash out the backdoor, but the beefy man would come looking for him sooner than he wanted to consider.

James seized Ellen’s hands and hauled her to her feet.

With a half-laugh-half-sob, Ellen threw herself against his chest, tossing her arms around his neck so hard he reeled back two steps. “James! Thank God.”

She smelled like she’d spent the night swimming in the foul end of the Chicago River. But that hardly prevented James from tightened his embrace. “We need to get out of here.”

Nodding, she moved to take a step and would have crumbled to the ground if not for his arms around her waist.

He dropped to his knees. “You’re hurt.” Hot blood rushed to his face. Dear God, please say they hadn’t injured her.

“My ankle. There’s a shooting pain.” Tears squeezed from her eyes.

A distant bell tower rang out midnight. Weary from the last couple days of sleuthing, he doubted he could carry her all the way to safety. But he stooped to gather her in his arms anyway, at least until the backdoor opened.

In the two seconds it took for someone to fling wide the door of The Rat Palace he only had time to scoot, with Ellen cradled on his lap, behind a pile of discarded crates. A keen eye would see them right away. He prayed the group of men filing out the doorway were fools.

Meat-Cleaver stepped out after them. He turned to the anarchists. “You seen my fancy-pants washer boy out here?”

After a smattering of, “no’s,” he went back inside, slamming the door in his wake.

“There he is!” A swarthy man with a pipe dangling from his lips pointed in their direction.

Ellen gasped and turned her face into his neck as she clutched his lapels. James’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach. He calculated their options. At least this time he had a gun in his pocket, but could he use it? If someone came at Ellen, yes.

But the men made no move for them. Instead they crossed their arms, waiting.

Footfalls sounded down the alley. James shifted ever so slightly. He didn’t need to squint to know who walked toward them. James would know his best friend’s confident stride anywhere.

“Look. It’s Lewis,” Ellen whispered.

His friend loomed five feet away, a scowl pulling his thin lips. “Did I miss the meeting? How utterly sad.”

“Completely,” offered the swarthy fellow.

With a nod, Lewis patted his coat pocket and withdrew what James knew would be a W. Duke Sons & Company cigarette. He’d stayed loyal to the brand in order to collect the tobacco cards that came in the case.

Next, he fished his tin of matches from his pocket. “Care to sum up the information for me?”

When Lewis arrived, the men had stopped their muttering to stand at attention. The pack hierarchy couldn’t be clearer. The men shifted with nervous energy while Lewis’s motions were slow, calculated—laden with authority.

Could his friend be more than a mere member of the anarchist ring? Never once had he breathed a word of anarchy during their school days. How little James really knew him.

Ellen trembled. Poor thing, she shouldn’t have to see her brother in this light.

James offered a reassuring squeeze.

The smallest member of the group worked up the courage to speak. “We march out tomorrow.”

Lewis dragged his match against the building’s wall. “And so the strike begins.” Bright light from the small blaze floodlit his harum-scarum smirk. He lit the cigarette, taking a long drag afterwards. “Did Downing’s men move the supplies to the warehouse?”

“Yes. And he says you’re the only one who can handle command of the militia.”

Cigarette hanging from his lip, he scratched his eyebrow. “Naturally.” The men cowered when he took a step forward. “And if the robber barons bring in strike-breakers?”

“We were instructed that if the police move against us in the name of the Law, we’ll strike back at them in the name of Liberty.”

Lewis lifted his brows in a haphazard manner. “Brilliant. They are—after all—enemies of the people. Why not give them a tough battle?”

The smaller man bounced on his feet. “Then we rise against the mayor.”