Chapter 45
Columbia
August 1854
Brandy burned the lining of Victor’s throat, inflaming his stomach, but it didn’t stop the pounding in his head. The last two silver dimes in his wallet were spent and still there was no relief for his pain.
After all these years, Mallie was finally his, yet she wasn’t as he remembered. The beauty remained, flourished even, but her respect for him was gone.
She’d fought him back in her hotel room, giving him a lump behind his ear. He’d wrestled her down and tied her to the post of her bed, threatening all manner of things if she screamed again, not the least of which was kidnapping Isaac if she didn’t cooperate. He was still stronger than she—and a good inch taller—but she defied him with eyes that used to fear him, eyes now filled with disgust instead of awe.
And those eyes reminded him of Eliza.
He’d go back to the hotel room when the darkness came, after the brandy cured his head. Then he wouldn’t care one whit about Mallie’s eyes. He’d teach her to revere him again, and she wouldn’t be able to fight back this time. Nor could she drain his power away. No matter what she did, he would remain in control.
When he was finished, Mallie would call him master again.
He took another swig.
Captain Ahab had triumphed in darting his whale before Moby-Dick took him down, but there was no victory for Victor yet. Nor was there any money left to take Mallie and Isaac on a coach back to Sacramento. He’d searched her hotel room for an hour, but all he found were two measly dimes.
If Eliza were here, she’d be laughing at him again. Was Mallie laughing too?
A new hatred began to burn inside him with the brandy.
He’d loved Mallie with his entire heart, doing everything to provide for her, love her, and she was laughing at him. Mocking him because of his ragged clothing, his incompetence. Because he couldn’t read.
No one laughed at Victor Duvall.
Mallie was his, and she would pay for her scorn.
As he stood up from the bar stool, the tables and mirrors around him began to spin. Even the chandelier overhead rocked back and forth.
A man wearing a long overcoat slid onto the stool beside him. “It looks like you need another one,” he said.
Victor dumped his wallet onto the counter. “I’ve used up all my resources.”
When the man clapped him on the shoulder, Victor teetered back onto the stool. “I’ll buy you another.”
His new friend told him stories about his adventures and laughed at jokes that Victor didn’t find funny. But he drank a third brandy on the man’s bill. Then a fourth.
And suddenly nothing seemed to matter anymore.
Alden raked his hands through his hair, pacing alongside the wooden bench in the jail cell. The light had faded outside the barred windows, and a dank air settled over the bricks around him.
Back in the courtroom, he’d ripped off the bridle of restraint, trying to protect Isabelle, and now there was nothing he could do to help. He’d lose her too, just like he’d lost Benjamin.
He slapped his hand on the bricks.
Isabelle never should have agreed to return to slavery without consulting him first. They could have fought this together. With the money from his gold nugget, he could have convinced Victor to sell Isaac, like he and Stephan had done for Persila.
But once Isabelle offered herself, no amount of money would motivate Victor. A nugget of gold may pay for room and board and buy nice clothing and decent passage on a ship, but it wouldn’t resolve this.
He clenched the iron bars on the door and shook them. He’d tried to pick the lock from the inside, like he’d done with his father’s desk, but he needed a hairpin or needle to do it. The jailer had made sure he had neither.
He sank down to the bench, his head in his hands as despair filtered through the darkness, its talons piercing him. He had to stop Victor before he took Isabelle away, but he was useless as long as he was trapped in this cell.
Minutes passed and then another hour before lantern light trickled down the dirt path outside the cell. Then he saw a familiar face on the other side of the bars, a man smiling between his mustache and spade beard.
Judah Fallow had come at last, but after all this, Alden wanted to thrash him. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”
“I’ve been all over,” Judah replied. “I heard you might need some help with the law.”
“I wish you’d heard that news yesterday.” Alden folded his arms over his chest. “The law here didn’t do me or my client any favors.”
“Clearly.” Judah held up his lantern to look into the cell. “At least you’ve got the place to yourself.”
After Alden told him what had happened in the courtroom, Judah groaned. “We sing about this sweet land of liberty, and yet the liberty is only sweet for a portion of our citizens.”
“I’m terrified that Victor will kill Isabelle.”
“If Judge Roth won’t serve justice, then we’ll have to serve it ourselves.”
“She won’t leave Victor,” he said. “She’s protecting Isaac from him.”
“Then Victor will have to leave her.”
Alden shook his head. “He’d never do that.”
“I happen to know that your Mr. Duvall is at a saloon across town this evening, drinking away what seem to be his sorrows with an associate of mine.”
Alden wrapped his fingers around the bars again. “But Victor got exactly what he wanted today.”
“Getting what we want doesn’t always make us happy.”
“Can you help me secure his passage back to Boston?” Alden pleaded. “I have enough gold to pay for it.”
“Keep your gold. As long as you make good on working for me back in Sacramento, that is.”
“I’ll gladly work for you.”
Judah glanced back at the door. “The jailer will be here in a moment. I told the judge that Mr. Duvall is on his way out of town and that I’d keep my eye on you for the rest of the night.”
Hope flooded him again. Perhaps it wasn’t too late after all.
“Do you know where Isabelle is?” Judah asked.
“I’ll find her.”
“Before we send him off, let’s have a chat with your Mr. Duvall to make sure he won’t bother her again.”