Angel in the Fog

By TJ Turner

Perfect for fans of espionage thrillers, historical fiction, and indefatigable female protagonists—

Molly Ferguson’s comfortable life unravels when her Louisiana home is burned to the ground, her family murdered, and she is enslaved in a Baltimore brothel. Amidst the threat of the Civil War, Molly learns of secessionist plans to assassinate President-elect Abraham Lincoln as he makes his way to Washington for his inauguration. She’s manages to pass this information on to a Pinkerton agent posing as a client. Impressed with her fortitude and intelligence, the Pinkerton Agency arranges for Molly’s freedom and brings her under the tutelage of Mrs. Kate Warne, America’s first female detective. After they save Mr. Lincoln in Baltimore, Molly is sent by the Pinkerton Agency into the Deep South—where the Civil War now rages—a spy behind enemy lines.

Molly threads a thin line between revenge and redemption as she races to unravel a sinister plan that will doom the Union and allow the Confederacy to win the Civil War—while coming face to face with the demons from her tragic past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oceanview Publishing
• Release date: Apr 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781608092420

Book preview

FOG

  CHAPTER ONE  

3 MAY 1860, NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA

BUSHES TORE AT Molly’s dress as she flung herself into the darkness of drowning shadows. Her feet graced the dirt just long enough to make faint footprints, and her chest strained to keep pace with her legs, begging her to slow. She refused. The orange glow ahead violated the night and consumed her thoughts. The sun had set at her back, so what lay ahead was wholly unnatural.

Miss Molly! Stop!

Isabelle was chasing Molly to the end of her breath, yelling as best she could. Though Isabelle was a decade older than Molly, both girls had the advantage of youth. But Isabelle had never been as nimble, and she struggled through the tight spaces. The plea fell muffled on Molly’s ears—as if a great distance separated them. Behind her, Isabelle’s feet hit the ground with a pounding pulse. Isabelle wore shoes. Molly only used them if the formality of the situation dictated. This wasn’t that time.

The light ahead built. The girls sprinted along the path until it spilled into the clearing of the great house. Smoke rose above the treetops, leaping from the orange tongues of flame until it congealed into the dark night. Though not all escaped. Some clung to the air until it teased their noses and burnt the back of their throats with each deep breath.

Molly was the first to break out of the woods. The scene across the clearing stopped her like a wall. Isabelle caught up. Her chest rose and fell. Both struggled to understand what they witnessed.

Across the clearing, the great house burned, its windows transformed to glowing eyes. The front door stood open as if the mouth of a monster. The staircase beyond the front foyer filled with ribbons of dancing flame. Fire grew from the roof, reaching into the night. The structure groaned and creaked. The noises it made matched its hideous appearance. Molly’s hands gripped her head. Her fingers pulled through her hair in absolute anguish. The light of the flames danced across the dark skin of Isabelle’s face.

They stood awestruck, confused. The fear that had driven Molly through the night distorted to shock and despair. So overwhelmed, it blotted her senses, blurring the men on horseback from her vision. They rounded up the plantation workers—Isabelle’s people.

Molly! Isabelle wrapped an arm around the younger girl to drag her into the trail where the night would conceal them. Who would do this?

Molly’s knees gave out. Isabelle clutched her as she sank to the ground. Once on her hands and knees, Isabelle pulled her tight.

The men on horseback had torches. They held them high, casting evil shadows. Other men with rifles, pistols, and whips forced the plantation workers into a ragged line. Molly knew each of these people—their faces, their stories, their children. More than half came with the land her father purchased. He added the others over the years. The crack of a whip reached above the roar of the fire. Molly startled when a man on horseback fired his pistol. The white smoke from the gun punched into the night like a plume of cotton-wood seeds in a strong wind.

Miss Molly. Who told them? Isabelle’s voice betrayed her agony.

Molly had no answer. She wiped her mouth and stared, rising until she knelt. Two of the men pushed a large colored man forward. It was Big John. They shoved him, prodding with a rifle in his back while the other man cracked a whip along the ground. Big John would never hurt anyone. He could scarcely swat the mosquitos that plagued during the summer months. But his size blinded most to his true nature. The man on the horseback, the one with the pistol, leveled the weapon and fired. Smoke leapt from the gun, like a white finger pointed at Big John. The large man stood for a moment. Then the man on horseback pointed the weapon skyward while he cocked the hammer again. As he leveled the pistol once more, Big John sank to his knees. Then he crashed like a giant timber upon the earth, his arms limp at his side, useless to break his fall.

No! No, no, no …

Molly crawled forward. Isabelle dragged her down, clamping a hand over the younger girl’s mouth to silence her. For a moment the man on horseback turned in their direction. But another voice rose above the fire and the cracking whips. His Irish accent fell to Molly’s ears.

Molly’s father charged forward, breaking free from a group of women corralled near the front walk. His sleeves were rolled up, his usual jacket gone. The light of the fire flickered and blurred his features. As he stormed forward, one of the men struck him from behind with a rifle. The man fell to his knees near where Big John lay.

Father. It came as a whisper. Isabelle still had her hand clamped over Molly’s mouth.

The man on horseback swung down from the saddle. He landed in the dirt. Little eddies of dust kicked up from his feet. The fire behind them created a terrible wind, sucking the air as if caught in a chimney. The man walked calmly to where Molly’s father knelt. In the flickering light Molly recognized the other man—Mason Cheeney. Her heart sunk. This couldn’t be happening.

Cheeney stood over her father. They spoke, but from where Molly knelt, the words didn’t reach her. She felt sick and pulled away from Isabelle.

Cheeney motioned to two of his men. They dragged Molly’s father to his knees, holding his arms steady. Another man came from behind with a length of rope. One of the men bound her father’s wrists as his protestations died. With the rope tightened, they tossed him backwards. He sat upon the dirt, his chest rising and falling with anger. Sweat rolled down his forehead, making it shimmer in the light of the fire.

Cheeney motioned again. This time one of his men dragged a woman from amongst the group—Molly’s mother. Her father struggled to rise, but one of the men put a boot on his chest and kicked him down. Cheeney returned to his horse and tied a length of rope to the saddle horn. Then he dragged the other end of the rope out to where her father sat. He tied a crude noose.

No, Molly muttered. No!

Don’t look, Isabelle pleaded. Molly couldn’t help it.

Isabelle pulled her backwards. She dragged Molly to the edge of the woods, obscuring them both in what shadows they could find.

One of Cheeney’s men yanked her father’s head, holding him by the jaw and extending his neck skyward. Cheeney slipped the noose around his head and tightened it. In response, the bound man stiffened. He looked to the horse. Another of Cheeney’s men held the reins, ensuring the beast would not spook and run off. It would only take a few steps by the large animal to snap his neck in the noose.

Cheeney walked toward Molly’s mother, stopping once he stood in front of her. She spit in his face, defiant and angry. Slowly he wiped it away, and then slapped the woman across her face. When she fell, he grabbed her by one arm and pulled her upright. Molly’s father struggled, then screamed. The man holding the horse forced the animal to take a half step forward. It dragged her father onto his back and stopped his fight. As the animal came to a rest, her father struggled to gain slack on the rope in order to sit.

Cheeney turned his attention back to Molly’s mother. Once she stood on her own strength, Cheeney pulled her higher and onto her toes. Then with his free hand he tore at her dress, managing to rip one side. He dropped her to gain the use of his other hand and tore open what remained of her gown. She stood clutching her bare breasts as she held up the last remnants of her petticoat. One of Cheeney’s men came from behind and grabbed her arms. Cheeney unhooked his suspenders, and then worked at his belt buckle. Molly’s father screamed as her mother filled with shock. Then she pulled away to free one arm. Swinging it wide, she dug across Mr. Cheeney’s face.

Immediately he dropped his pistol in the dirt, both hands clutching his face. When he turned back, one hand still covering his left eye, he struck the woman. She fell to the ground. His free hand worked his belt until he pulled it free of his pants. He began using the strap of leather to beat Molly’s mother. Her screams drowned out the crack of his belt.

It was too much.

Stop! Molly screamed. She rose off her knees and broke out of the shadows in the tree line. Her vision narrowed. With uneven footing, she sprinted across the field.

Cheeney turned to see her.

Molly! Dear God, no. Run. Run! Her father yelled across the clearing.

Without hesitation, Cheeney nodded toward his man holding the horse. The man let go of the reins, and with a quick swat with a coiled whip, sent the beast up onto two legs. It landed stiffly, then bolted forward. Molly locked eyes with her father. He mouthed the word Go. Then the horse yanked him into the darkness.

Bring them to me! Cheeney’s voice carried above the fire. He stood framed by the burning house, as it moaned. The center of the roof began to collapse.

Isabelle caught Molly and pulled at her. The older girl was heavier and dragged Molly toward the open trail. Two riders from near the great house turned their horses in the direction of the trees. They spurred the beasts forward. Isabelle’s voice became frantic.

Molly! We have to go!

My mother. Molly pleaded. Your sister.

We can’t … Isabelle pulled at Molly, who stared at the carnage laid before them. Molly’s mother looked in their direction.

No, Molly said, barely above a whisper.

The woman nodded.

Isabelle grabbed hold, pulling with all her weight. Molly stumbled backwards, and both girls disappeared into the shadows.

  CHAPTER TWO  

5 FEBRUARY 1861, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

THE BED CREAKED as Molly settled herself on the fresh linen. At least Mrs. Barbusca kept the place clean. She did it for the profits, not for the girls. But it was a small point of happiness for Molly—maybe her only one. Molly worked the top of the far bedpost, careful not to make a sound. Just a little more. She wiggled the top free and stared down the hollow center. Molly thrust the few coins she had received from the boy down the post. They clanked when they hit the others at the bottom.

The boy came every week, rapping at her window before the Barbuscas awakened. He would scale the building, clinging to the outside in a show of precision. Then he would brace himself as he reached through the bars. He came for the vial of bitter liquid next to her bed—laudanum. Together they would pour off her bottle into one he brought. Then they would fill hers with something that smelled as awful but contained none of the drug. He sold it on the street. Though she could make a good trifle more than he gave her, he had the one thing she didn’t—freedom. She remained chained to the bed, the metal cuff cutting into her left leg. The boy also fancied her. She played to it. He brought her the few things she asked of him, things she kept hidden. The charcoal and white paste disguised the broken addiction to the morphine. Every day she rose and applied her own makeup concoction to make it seem she still had need of their bottle. Mr. Barbusca figured the chain was not enough to hold her. He was right.

The stairs outside her door creaked. She scrambled to replace the top of the bedpost. Normally at this hour the house had not yet stirred. But a brothel only napped—it never slept. And the Barbuscas were all too happy to appeal to the degenerate whims of Baltimore’s underbelly.

She fumbled with the top of the bedpost, settling it in a haphazard manner. It didn’t seat correct, but she had no time to fiddle with it. Instead, she flung herself over the bed, as if all along she had waited in the dark for the first visitor of the day.

As the hinges squealed, light streamed into the room. It blinded her. The man closed the door. Spots filled her vision where the sunlight had scorched her eyes. One of the unfortunate matters in pretending to be in need of the morphine was the lack of light. Someone still attached to it hated the sun, so Molly kept the curtains pulled tight. Between clients she would gaze outside in longing, planning her next escape.

The man settled into a padded chair that faced her bed. He wore a dark suit, with a matching vest, and carried a walking stick with a well-kept felt hat. He was more than a match for most who came through that door, at least in manner of dress. A trimmed beard adorned his face. Molly imagined it made him look older. Still, he had her by a decade—maybe two. His hair waved upon his head, affixed as if carved from marble.

Her thin nightgown felt immodest, and she shuffled the outer bed covering to hide the chain at her ankle. It felt heavy. Shame filled her, though her heart knew she had no call for such feelings. Her circumstances were beyond her control.

Silence grew between them. The man unbuttoned his vest and crossed his legs. His gaze was intimidating. When he had taken enough in, he broke the quiet.

You hardly seem the dangerous creature Mr. Barbusca described. More a wretched girl than a fearsome entertainer.

Somehow the words fell hard upon Molly. She didn’t quite know which among them made her most angry. The mention of Barbusca’s name was a certain trigger. But this man had challenged her self-image. All her planning, her scheming to fool the Barbuscas about her addiction, her plotting to escape—those things had given her power. This man insulted all that with only a few words.

What manner of man dresses in the latest fashion, grooms his beard and combs his hair to come to a whore house? she fired back. Are you afraid you might be rejected even here?

Molly returned his gaze, meeting his blue eyes and locking hold of them. She made her expression fierce—no issue letting her hatred show. A smile formed on the man’s face, then he broke into a low laugh. It deepened her anger.

Does your wife know you’re here? she prodded.

His laughter stopped. He adjusted himself in the chair.

That’s more what I expected.

Did my size fool you then? Molly asked.

The man shook his head as he continued to take the measure of Molly.

I learned long ago that size is not a predictor of someone’s heart. With heart, anything is possible.

Is that why you chose my room? Molly asked.

Mr. Barbusca fancied himself a salesman. Evidently, he marketed Molly as a firebrand with an unpredictable manner.

The man had still not risen. Molly had never seen a man sit in the chair this long. Most didn’t even bother to wait for the door to close before they started undressing. They came in already tugging at their jackets and ties.

Mr. Barbusca offered you last—like an afterthought. He seemed rather concerned I might consider you. I figured if I am to pass time in this establishment, then I would find the lady most likely to keep me entertained with conversation.

You want to talk?

The man nodded. It made no sense. Men never wanted to talk—at least not the kind of men who came here.

I came with a friend, the man explained. He enjoys this place and spends much time with a woman down the hall. He felt I should join him. This is business, nothing more.

The explanation made no sense. His accent was familiar. It had a hollow ring, a mix of Southern gentlemen and something else. But it had been learned. He forced it—a disguise to hide behind. The thumb of his left hand stroked his ring finger while his hand lay upon the arm of the chair. But there were no rings upon any of his fingers.

So, you are married, Molly said.

The man’s thumb stopped rubbing the place where a ring should have been. A smile came across his face, but he fought it. She was right.

Enough about me, the man said. How does a girl like you come to a place like this? I am certain there is a tragic tale hidden behind your sharp tongue.

Molly shook her head, moving it only a small amount from side to side. Her eyes didn’t leave the floor. Under the duvet her left foot twisted, checking if the iron clasp still held her ankle. The pain felt good, though she managed to move without making a sound. The great house, the fire coming from the windows, her father snatched away by the horse as the rope remained tight around his neck—no. She wouldn’t think on that.

Girls come here many different ways, Molly replied. She avoided the man’s eyes.

I imagine they do. But few are chained to their beds.

A tide of anger surged through her, then died off. Of course, Mr. Barbusca had told him of the chain. Most men didn’t care. At most, they would see it for a moment, pity her, but continue to undress. Or they took it as part of the unpredictable mystique as they forced their fat bodies down upon her. No one ever asked why. Upscale or not, it revealed their true character.

The blanket covered her foot. She pulled at the linens until her feet felt the cold air of the room. The steel clamp had dug in deep on her leg. It had been weeks since Mr. Barbusca had closed it and turned the key. Even when she had leave to bathe, they walked her to the bath with the chain as a manner of leash.

I heard you tried to escape.

Twice. I almost made it.

And you stole Mr. Barbusca’s money?

I earned it. Do you see that fat bastard tied to a bed?

The man’s laugh was deep, covering the space between them. It sounded like you would have made it, if you had known how to work the pistol.

She had taken off with Mr. Barbusca’s pistol. The brothel keeper and his men had found her at the train station. She had only minutes to board the last line out of the city, bound for Washington. She didn’t know that she needed to cock the hammer to make the revolver fire. Barbusca grabbed the gun from her hand and struck her about the head. She woke up chained to her bed.

I only make mistakes once.

Molly willed her defiance to pierce through him as he sat smug upon the chair.

I don’t doubt it. Do you have another escape worked out?

Molly didn’t answer. She had been saving money, selling the laudanum. Beyond that, she had no plan. The bed next door began to creak. It swayed in a rhythmic manner as the end of the brass bedposts struck the wall with each beat. The door to Molly’s room opened. Light once more flooded the space between her and this strange man. Molly’s hands went to her eyes, holding back the onslaught of day. The smell alone revealed his identity—stale whiskey and smoked meat.

Are you finding her as you desired? Mr. Barbusca asked.

The man in the chair didn’t turn.

Out, he ordered. His eyes remained fixed on Molly.

This is my establish— Mr. Barbusca began, but the man cut him off.

And I have paid handsomely for my time here. It is no concern of yours how I spend it. Get out, or we will have words upon my departure.

Mr. Barbusca hesitated and then closed the door. Molly’s hand fell from her eyes as she replayed the man’s words again in her head. They drew her attention. His accent. As he angered, he lost the Southern drawl. He formed his words with sharp edges, and a touch of the North seeped in. She had heard it with some of her father’s associates.

I apologize. Where were we? the man asked.

Molly shook her head. Both of them looked to the wall at the head of her bed, which now rocked more violently with the couple in the next room. The bedposts hit hard a few times, then settled.

I see your friend found what he was looking for, Molly said.

Indeed. He will likely nap or have a cigarette, so we have time still.

Molly eyed this man and his peculiar manner. She was beginning to believe him—he had come for conversation alone. Her curiosity built, but she didn’t know what to ask or how to pose the questions. She had learned long ago to ask nothing—questions were how girls got beat. Curiosity was not looked upon favorably in a brothel.

That man is not your friend, Molly said.

She surprised herself by saying it, and the meek volume to her voice betrayed her lack of confidence. Immediately she regretted letting her observation out into the space between them.

The man’s expression washed away. His hand stopped fidgeting about his ring finger. His other hand stopped tapping the high arm of the chair. She held her breath. Would he fly into a rage?

How’s that? There was urgency in his voice.

That man, the one you came with—he’s not your friend.

What makes you say such a thing?

She had piqued his curiosity. Puzzlement filled his brow as he furled it ever so slight.

You’re pretending to be his friend. But you’re not.

He sat up in the chair, as if positioning himself to lunge forward upon her. From his face, he had no intention to move from the subject. Panic gripped her. She had crossed a line that would have been better left alone.

You’ve never seen me before, he said.

Molly shook her head. Of course not.

I wasn’t asking. But you’ve seen my friend?

I know him, Molly answered. He’s been here.

Her head motioned about the room, but she never took her eyes from the man who sat across from her. He pushed forward in his seat and leaned closer as he dropped the volume in his voice to just above a whisper.

And what makes you think that we’re not friends?

Molly broke his glare. It was making her uncomfortable. She pulled her leg in, to give her some means of grabbing a length of the chain in case this man sprang upon her.

How? he demanded.

His patience grew thin. But there was another edge in his voice—fear. He was afraid the other man would find out.

Your accent, she offered.

The man became puzzled. He eased back in the chair as his forehead furled deeper.

You’re not Southern. You’re pretending to be, but I can hear it.

The man looked both amused and shocked.

You can hear it? His tone shifted to doubt. He didn’t believe her.

I can. Molly grew more confident. You’re from up North—maybe New York. But there’s something else. She paused for a moment. Britain. You’re English.

Her father was from the Old Country—Ireland. When he drank too much, he would use an English accent and make fun of the barbarians from the big island—as he called them.

The man startled. He started to stand, but then looked behind him. The door remained secure. Molly hadn’t heard any creaking from the floor outside since Mr. Barbusca had come and gone. The man leaned forward, as if he would grab her.

Who told you this? His face grew grim. Fear ruled his emotions.

No one, I swear.

Molly moved away on the bed. His eyes darted to where she reached for her chain. He held his hands up.

I’m not going to hurt you. But it’s important that I understand how you came to know such things.

The man settled back in the chair but remained on edge.

I told you, Molly said. Your voice gives you away. I came from the south. It’s subtle, but I can hear it. When you got angry with Mr. Barbusca, I heard it strong then.

The man nodded—he didn’t quite believe her. From his stiff manner, she had alarmed him. He looked back over his shoulder. No one came.

But it makes sense, Molly continued. You’re not his friend, but you want to know what Mr. Hillard plans.

You know his name.

I wish I didn’t. His regular girl was gone once. He came here.

The man nodded. I am sorry for that.

Do you think he’s serious then? Molly asked.

Serious about what? The man’s fear had abated, replaced by curiosity. Molly had him hooked once more.

He wants Maryland to leave the Union. There’s been much talk of it.

The man nodded. And do you take him seriously?

I didn’t, Molly said. Not until today.

Because of me?

Molly nodded. You’re pretending to be a Southern gentleman, but you’re not from here. You work for someone. Someone who wants to know Otis Hillard and his plans.

Did he discuss those? the man pressed. They could hear the room next door stirring. Their time was short.

Molly nodded.

Tell me girl. What are they? The man lowered his voice but didn’t hide his urgency.

He wants to kill the new president, Mr. Lincoln, when he arrives through Baltimore this month.

The man’s face showed his shock. But also joy.

How? the man pressed. The floor outside the door squeaked. Someone battered upon the door. This wasn’t Mr. Barbusca.

Harry, all done? a voice in the hall hollered through the thin door. It was Hillard.

How? The man pressed his point again, more desperate.

It gave Molly an angle. Get me out of here and I will tell you everything.

No. Tell me first, and I will see what I can do.

Molly crossed her arms over her chest, defiant. She shook her head. The door opened behind them. Light flooded the room, but Molly didn’t flinch. Hillard stood in the doorframe.

Do I need to rescue you from this one? Hillard said. She’s a feral cat, she is.

Molly said nothing. She didn’t even glance in Hillard’s direction or shelter her eyes from the light. The man in front of her started to rise, reaching inside his jacket to remove his billfold.

I already covered you, Hillard called out. This time is on me. I hope you used my money well.

The man said nothing. He had yet to turn around and acknowledge Hillard. He stood, and then leaned in to Molly. As he kissed her on the cheek, he pushed bills into her hands.

For your silence. The man pulled back until he could look into Molly’s eyes. And your next escape.

He turned and walked across the room to join Hillard. He buttoned his vest as he did so, making it seem he was getting dressed. The room fell dark as the door shut.

  CHAPTER THREE  

THE ENCOUNTER WITH the odd man consumed Molly’s thoughts. Her mind raced. What could she have done differently? Maybe held out more hope of Hillard’s plans to force the man to take her with him? She had grasped at sand and allowed it to slip through her fingers. Her melancholy was barely noticed by the men who filed in over the course of her afternoon. Or if they did notice, they ignored it as they did the chain about her ankle.

The next morning she awoke early as was her manner. She stood at the window and watched the street below, peering around the iron bars. Her chain fell loose upon the floor, lying like an old rat snake upon the wood floor. The bars worked with the chain to hold her latest escape at bay. She had worked the bottom of one bar loose, though she disguised her work so no one could detect it with only a cursory inspection. She should have been working on the top portion of the bar. Once she removed it, she could press her body through. But she had not the heart to keep working it loose. Instead, she let the bustle of Baltimore fill her room as she stared outside.

A carriage pulled up and stopped out front of the brothel. It wasn’t ornate but appeared well looked after. The first patrons arrived earlier each week. Perhaps Barbusca advertised extended hours. He likely had, pushing his profits higher to make the return on his investments ever greater. There might even be a flurry of customers ahead of the presidential inauguration. Barbusca would be the second man she killed. She vowed it.

When the carriage door opened, a woman stepped out. Her dress was splendid—a deep scarlet with black trim. On the front she wore the black and white cockade of the secessionists. She held a box in one hand as a footman helped her to the ground. A wide-brimmed hat covered her face. Lace gloves transferred the box to and from as she found her footing on the rough cobblestones. The carriage remained as she walked into the Barbusca brothel.

Molly tried to follow her route inside, to see whom she met. But the overhang from the building obscured her view. Women didn’t come here, at least not through the front door. The carriage remained parked out front. If not for the chain, she would have sneaked to the door and peered into the foyer below, where all the gentlemen waited.

With the carriage parked in the street, the rest of Baltimore competed for her attention. This was the only time sunlight graced her skin each day as she stood on the far side of the thick curtains. Soon men would arrive. The single merchants, the ones without wives and children, they liked mornings best. But the afternoons always picked up. Her stomach turned. This was the best, and the worst, part of her day.

The knock at her door startled her. She barely