He leans closer. “Don’t I?”
I let a breath slip slowly through my teeth. “He didn’t do anything I didn’t want. And he’s not the only one with blood on his hands.”
He blinks, thrown.
“You think you can force me out of here, throw me to the street, and I’ll just fade away?” My voice is soft, but the words bite. “You won’t even see me coming. I’ve made widows of women who loved better men than you, Mr. Collier. You ought to mind your p’s and q’s.”
For a moment, the only sound is the hiss of insects outside.
His fingers slacken just enough for me to pull free. But instead of retreating, he closes the distance, a shadow blotting the lamplight. “I didn’t need to take you in, you know. Virgil explained your circumstance, and I took pity on you,” he says, thick finger in my face. “You’ve nowhere else to go. Least you can be grateful.”
“And I suppose you can think of ways for me to show my gratitude.”
He scoffs, curling his lip in disgust, giving me a once-over like he can’t believe how wicked I am. “Be downstairs at dawn.” Then he’s gone, the door swinging shut, latch clicking, his boots echoing down the hall.
Chapter 37
KODIAK
When Alice wrote those words, I don’t think she realized how difficult returning to her would be. I lay low in the shadows, still in my jailbird denims. First thing is I need to get to looking different. Lord knows my size already sticks out like a bucktooth, but it never ceases to amaze me how far a gentleman’s costume can get you.
I keep to myself till dark, resting in an alley till my wound quits bleeding. There’s a gentleman’s outfitter I passed on Market Street. Behind the glass, mannequins in suits and bowler hats, gloves on wooden stands, polished boots on a shelf. This joint should have just what I need.
Alleys nearby marine supply shops and blacksmiths are rich with scrap metal, bent nails and short, useless strands of wire. Those scraps find utility in the haberdasher’s lock as it clicks open. Much more subtle than a brick through a picture window.
Inside reeks of perfumes and tonics, nearly chokes me. But it’s a good sign. They’ll have toiletries here. I scan the space in the dark; a copper pipe travels along a brick wall behind a long oak counter. Indoor plumbing. Seems I’ll get cleaned up proper here.
The register till gapes like an open dresser drawer, nothing but moonlight gleaming inside. Looks like my pockets’ll stay empty a while longer.
I move quiet through the rows, running a hand along the wool. French loom, most likely. My father had a tailor in the capitol that would order swatches from overseas. Fine weave, dark gray—something a banker might wear to church. From a hook, I lift a bowler hat and a pair of gloves, soft as milk. I take the jacket and matching trousers, then a clean shirt from the stack. Too small at the shoulders, but most are without a bit of tailoring.
Alice would know just what to do. Have me cleaned up in no time flat.
Goddamn. The thought of her hits me square in the gut, knocks the wind out of me. I been alone most my life, never thought I’d feel this kind of loss. But since she’s been gone, I’m all outta sorts. There’s a wound in me no one can see, runs straight through like I ain’t whole no more.
Ain’t just the things she’d do—making my coffee, fixing supper. It’s looking for her when the sky turns that bruised purple, when it smells like rain and I realize she ain’t there. It’s laying under the stars wanting to hear her go on about this one and that one, asking stupid questions just to make her laugh. The grief wants to choke me, but I shake it off. I’ll get back to her soon enough. In the meantime, need to clean myself up some.
In the rear room, I find the basin beneath that copper pipe. The handle groans, then gives a thread of water, cold enough to sting. I strip off the striped denim, stiff with dust and driedblood, and let it fall in a heap. The wound along my side’s crusted over, ugly but holding. I wash the worst of the dirt away, the water turning pink before it clears.
A shaving kit waits on the shelf. Straight razor, a cake of soap that smells of cloves. I work a lather, careful round the scabbed edge of my jaw. The blade’s sharp; each stroke takes years off me. I trim my hair with the scissors, clumsy but better than a prison barber’s hack. When I finish, the man in the mirror looks almost respectable.
A bottle of cologne stands among the brushes. I dab it on, too much maybe, but the scent covers the road and the blood. The gloves slide over my hands like a disguise sealing shut.
I gather what I’ve used and set it back near enough to right. A glass case out front is loaded with watches and gold cufflinks. Once the lock talks, the panel slides open. I just take what I need. One watch to add some legitimacy to this act. Another to pawn in a pinch. It’ll be a day or more before the shop owner knows what’s missing. Let the law think I’m traveling in my old denims, that Galveston is already a speck over my shoulder.
I shove all my shit in a leather bag for the road and pull the door open a crack. Outside, the lamps along Market Street burn low, and the Gulf wind whispers between the buildings. I step into it, collar turned up, a gentleman by moonlight and nothing more.
The fog’s rolling in off the bay, thick enough to hide a man if he moves quick. I stick to the shadows along Strand Street, boots scraping on the cobbles. Seems every window’s got a poster—Train Robber Still at Large—and though the face sketched there looks half stranger, the name cross the top is mine.
The rail yards are out. They’ll be watched. A man who robs trains can’t run from them the same way. So I head for the docks. Lamps along the piers are smothered in yellow halos. The wharfcreaks underfoot. Out in the dark, ropes groan as the tide pulls at them.
One ship’s working late. Small cargo steamer, maybe a dozen men moving wearily, stacking barrels under the hiss of lanterns. Across the barrels I read the letters PASC.
Pascagoula, maybe. East, out of Texas.
I watch a minute, counting heads, listening. One man, the purser maybe, sits behind a crate with a ledger open. I straighten the bowler, smooth the coat, make myself tall and certain. A man with purpose draws less attention than a man skulking in the dark. When I step into the light, the nearest deckhand don’t even pause.
The purser looks up, squinting. “Passenger business is daylight hours.”
