flesh market. I have the right to a family of a sort, as does every man, having left mine behind entirely. The symmetry of it pleases me. I never bothered over divorcing her mother all those years ago, after all.
Quietly, I closed the book. Thinking about a closet full of dresses that fit me perfectly, living quarters I adored on sight. Lessons designed to spark my interest. A chill, dry hand stroking my hairline for comfort and for camaraderie and for no reason at all.
I thought about my mother’s opinion regarding Mauro Salvatici’s version of ambition versus Giuseppe Morello’s, and I shivered with such violence that my head ached.
I mean the more dangerous kind, the kind what grows instead of erases, the sort o’ fellow as sees himself as the king in a storybook. Making a world all his own.
◆ Twenty-Two ◆
NOW
Section 6. That if any such free negro or mulatto shall fail to quit the country as required by this act, he or she may be arrested upon a warrant issued by some justice of the peace, and, if guilty upon trial before such justice, shall receive upon his or her bare back not less than twenty nor more than thirty-nine stripes, to be inflicted by the constable of the proper county.
—LEGISLATIVE COMMITTEE OF THE PROVISIONAL GOVERNMENT OF OREGON, Act barring all blacks and mulattoes from the state, June 26, 1844
Wait, what?” I exclaim. “You suppose that because this blanket is draped in that admittedly curious fashion, Davy is here? At your cabin?”
Max snaps back into stoicism. But inwardly, I imagine he’s altogether Belgium of 1914.
“Maximilian, the ham is positively absent from that sandwich. What could he be doing here, miles from where he vanished?”
“You wanna make me believe some tramp busted in to make up a pillow fort?”
“But you could have forgotten to set it back,” I soothe.
“Nah. I run a tight ship. Either Davy was here or I got an issue with prankster ghosts.”
“My God.” As I allow myself to believe him, more questions arise, a domino effect of uncertainties. “Who has a key to this place?”
“Just me, since everybody as comes up here, I bring myself. That don’t mean I carry it on the road, though. Hangs it on a rack in my room at the Paragon.”
“Oh, my Lord.” Even though I questioned the possibility of an inside job, facing evidence of such is mortifying. “Someone could easily have copied it. They’d never fear you catching them—you’re out there clacking away for days on end.”
“I can’t wrap my brains around it. It’s like family at that hotel.”
“And how could he possibly have gotten here from the Elms? And if he did, then what happened next? Davy could still be in the area,” I realize. “We’ve been carrying on like rabbits, and he’s been—what, hiding from us? Hurt or lost?”
Another possibility materializes, one we both see but don’t speak: freshly spaded earth under the bracken, a loamy and far-too-small hole dug deep enough for the rain not to wash it away.
“Shit.” Max brushes his hands over his head in distress.
I pull his shirt around me tighter, if only for the comfort of its smell. “Max, I’m fantastically good at this. Allow me to pose some questions?”
“Hell, I’ll try anything. I love that kid, and there’s burning crosses involved.”
“Who from the Paragon has ever visited here?”
The space between his pale eyes folds into a thoughtful groove. “Davy, plenty. And Blossom with Davy. Dr. Pendleton twice, when the hooch got real bad and I figured as he needed some peace and trees. Davy with Wednesday Joe maybe a dozen times. Fishing, shooting arrows, showing ’em how to track. That’s it.”
“Very good. Now, how many people have ready access to the keys behind the front desk? Supposing they didn’t just take a hairpin to your door, of course.”
Max whistles, glancing up as he reflects. “Rooster and Mav, rotating night clerks. Anybody else would hafta time it out careful.”
The inkling of an idea has already dripped into the old girl’s cranium. It’s still just speckles, mind. But they’re present, and they give me chills.
“All right, here’s the kicker, and I ask that you give this due consideration before considering fisticuffs. Which of the Paragon’s inner circle has not been out searching for Davy Lee?”
Max’s eyes widen.
“I know!” I throw my hands up pleadingly. “Just think it over. Wednesday Joe is too young to fault for not beating the bracken—he wanted to, terribly. You and Mavereen have been frantic. But something dreadfully