Into the Bright Unknown (The Gold Seer Trilogy #3)(30)

“You’re already the best doctor I’ve ever known,” I tell him.

He grins. “And I’m going to get even better.”

“That makes perfect sense,” I say, even though I’m disappointed. “I wish you well. You’re welcome to stay aboard the ship, even if you’re not part of our plan.”

Jasper stands. “I’d like to maintain a cabin here, if you don’t mind, Lee.”

“Of course I don’t mind!”

“It’s just the doctor I’m working with has invited me to board with him on weekdays, because there’s no telling what hour of the day an emergency will come knocking. He calls it ‘a residency.’ My home will always be here, with you.” He glances toward Henry and Tom, his face a little apologetic. “But I think I’ll take him up on that. Spend most of my nights there, come back to the Charlotte on weekends.”

Henry and Tom exchange a glance, part resignation, part relief, and suddenly I understand. Henry and Tom have always been especially attached to each other, and Jasper is leaving them be, giving them space of their own.

I swallow hard and force myself to say, “That doctor is lucky to have you.”

“Now, this doesn’t mean I won’t help. Hampton is my friend, and we’ve been through a lot together, and I’ll do just about anything to get him back. So, if you think of something I can do, you let me know, understand?”

“Count on it.”

He rises from the table. Becky says, “You’ll come around often, won’t you, Jasper?”

“Of course!”

The Major shakes Jasper’s hand. Jefferson puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.

Henry crosses his arms and says emphatically, “See you soon.”

“See you soon,” Jasper echoes.

“See you soon,” Tom whispers.

With a final nod, Jasper leaves the room. I stare around the rest of the table. “Anybody else want to go? Now’s the time to do it.”

Nobody moves. The Major reaches down to rub the stump of his leg. “Just promise me there’s a chance to take down Frank Dilley too.”

“That’s definitely part of the plan,” I promise him.

“Then I’m in.”

Tom pushes his chair back from the table and rises. Before speaking, he straightens his collar and cuffs. “I think I need to go see a man about a job,” he says in a tight voice. “I’ll catch up with all of you later.”

I nod to him, not trusting my words enough to say anything.

“Tom . . . ,” Henry says.

Tom smiles the tiniest bit. “I’ll be back.”

When he’s gone, I lean forward. “All right then. Let’s get to work.”

Just below us, deep inside the ship, a hammer pounds on thick wood. A moment later comes the rasp of a saw.





Chapter Nine


The first thing we decide to do is find out how much money Hardwick has and where he keeps it.

The day we ran into Hardwick, his entourage included the fellow whom Henry has taken to calling “Mr. Keys,” real name unknown. All we do know about Mr. Keys is that he’s a small man with a narrow face and no chin, and—most importantly—he sticks close to Hardwick, carrying a large ring of keys and a heavy leather bag full of gold.

It’s a sure bet some of Hardwick’s money is at that bank. But it’s a surer bet that not all of it is. And if anyone is in charge of Hardwick’s money, it’s Mr. Keys.

Jefferson took off before dawn to make inquiries about Hardwick’s main business office and hopefully put an eye on the little fellow.

In the meantime, before the bank opens, Becky and I camp out in the parlor of a hotel kitty-corner to the Custom House building. We find two large armchairs and drag them from the fireplace to one of the windows. The window is dirty but large, and it gives us an unobstructed view of the bank. This is one of the establishments where miners, flush with gold, stay up all night to gamble, and are then late abed, so we have the downstairs mostly to ourselves.

Their gold sings to me, though. Several coin purses’ worth, mostly upstairs, but a larger stash hides away in the downstairs office.

The air is especially chilly. Nothing close to a frost, but still the kind of cold that seeps into your bones and makes you ache for a warm kitchen and bread right out the oven; even a chunk of half-burned, half-doughy bread from Becky’s restaurant would be just the thing. A light rain falls, so the plaza feels sleepier than usual. The men who come to open the bank have hunched shoulders and dripping hats. They pause beneath the veranda to kick mud off their boots before unlocking the doors.

For the next hour or so, a handful of brave but unfamiliar souls, similarly inured to the cold and wet, are the only ones to enter and leave.

“Excuse me, ladies?”

I’d been so intent on watching the bank that I hadn’t noticed anyone approach. The proprietor of the hotel, wearing a green velvet vest and an air of self-importance, looks down his blunt nose at us.

I’m not sure what to say, but Becky doesn’t hesitate.

“My dear sir,” she says smoothly. The baby kept her up half the night, and it’s a wonder she’s not dozing in her chair. “How may we be of service?”

“That’s just it,” he says, hooking his thumbs into his vest pockets. “You can’t.”