could be so deceiving.
She concentrated on forging a path through the smoldering debris to the nearest bridge, and tried praying through her gritted teeth. But the words to even the simplest prayer simply would not come. She did not know how to ask for all that she wanted—for her family to be safe, their home to be standing. Forgiveness for seeking beyond her means for a life not meant to be hers. Safety for her friends, whom she had abandoned in order to make the desperate dash across the city.
Some of the newly freed convicts started looting the shops and businesses that lined the street. They helped themselves to jugs of liquor, lamps, bolts of cloth, anything that wasn’t nailed down. Despite her understanding of these men, the pillaging shocked her, and she hurried faster. Even so, she was not quick enough to elude a heavyset, mean-eyed convict who shoved himself up against her on the walkway. He was a black man with a sculpted mouth, a bald head and a thin, raised scar under one eye.
“Let’s have a look at those jewels now, sister,” he said, his meaty paw reaching for her borrowed necklace.
There was no time for fear or hysteria. Kathleen had been raised in the rough West Division, and she didn’t hesitate. “Over my dead body, boyo,” she said, and at the same time, she brought up her knee. The mean eyes bugged out, and she felt the rush of his hot breath as he doubled over, wheezing, leaning against the concrete base of the bank building. Kathleen knew she had only seconds before he recovered, angrier than ever, so she darted down a side alley.
Away from the bridge. But there was nothing else for it. Too many of the convicts overran the vicinity. She preferred the unknown perils of the fire to the very familiar dangers of newly freed prisoners. She hoped the narrow, smoke-shrouded alley would lead to another westbound street, but instead found herself in a maze of walled-off mews. After a few sharp turns to the right, she became disoriented. She passed no one; the area had been evacuated. Stable doors hung open to empty stalls, the stores of hay fueling the conflagration. Only the occasional rat streaked past, seemingly as lost as she.
Suddenly a crashing sound ripped through the air. Looking back the way she had come, she saw that the walls on either side of the alley had caved in on themselves. A fountain of dust and ash rose from the sky. But out of the ashes came something…someone. A man. Staggering, wounded. She blinked and squinted against the stinging smoke.
There was another crash, and she lost sight of the man. Then the wind screamed through the alley, scouring the air so that, for a few seconds, she could see clearly.
He wore prison stripes and a look of hideous fury.
He had a bald head and a scar under one eye.
And he was hopelessly pinned by a fallen roof beam.
Kathleen wheeled around and started to run away, for the first time truly afraid for her life. After a few yards, she dared to turn and look. He fought with the charred, smoking beam, desperately trying to drag himself out from under its weight. With one arm, he reached toward a shadowy doorway. Bright embers and sheets of tarred roofing wafted down, setting fire to all they touched.
Kathleen hurried away, expecting to feel a rush of relief.
Instead, she kept thinking of the way the Negro man struggled, the twist of his open mouth. She imagined his bellows of pain and rage, drowned by the roar of the storm. She wondered if he knew how to pray.
And against all common sense, she stopped running and turned back. He was a convict, a thief and possibly a murderer, but was it for her to condemn him to the flames of eternity?
She trembled as she returned to his side, crouching down and tugging at the huge beam. Tears of hot sap spurted from the wood, burning her hand. She flinched, but kept pulling at the beam.
“Best get on out of this place,” the man said in a low voice.
She didn’t pause. “You can’t stay here,” she said. “You’ll burn like Saint Joan if you do.”
He managed to push one leg out from under the beam. His foot was clad in a cheap China canvas shoe with holes cut for his toes. His arms were still pressed to the ground.
“Can’t move,” he said with a rough sneer. “An’ that ought to make her ladyship happy.”
She swallowed hard, tasting a dry grittiness in her throat. “Hush up. I’m trying to help you.”
He eyed her with suspicion. “Help me what? Burn like the sinner I am? You done enough already, thank you very kindly.”
Realizing that she lacked the strength in her arms, Kathleen sat down in the roadway and pressed her feet to the beam. “Look, I don’t have time to argue with you. Push from below, and I’ll push with my feet until we move this thing off you. Unless you prefer to sit here and caterwaul like a bleedin’ infant until you suffocate.”
He seemed to respond to her sharpness more than her compassion. With a nod, he indicated that it was time to push. With him heaving from below and Kathleen pushing with both legs, the beam finally moved. Crawling inch by inch, the convict freed himself. Kathleen jumped up with a shout of triumph. Then, seeing that he might be injured, she stuck out her hand.
He closed his soot-blackened hand around hers, nearly pulling her down as he levered himself to a standing position.
“There now,” she said, “I’ll help you walk. But keep your greedy mitts off the necklace.”
“You’re no bigger’n a minute,” he said. “How you going to help me?”
She angled a glare up at him. “Didn’t I just? It’s not the size that matters,” she reminded him. “Come, and be as quick as you can.”
He settled a big, heavy arm across her shoulders and they started along the smoke-filled alley. Kathleen could feel him wince each time he put weight on his injured ankle. His bald head, shining with sweat, had a gash across the right side. Still, he drove himself to match her pace.
“Why?” he rasped, wheezing with the rhythm of their hurried footsteps.
She knew what he meant. “You’re a bully and a thief, but so are most men. That doesn’t mean they should all be burned alive.”
He coughed out a laugh. “I can name a dame or two who’d disagree.”
The injured man smelled, and he weighed heavy against her, but Kathleen just wanted to get the two of them to a place of safety. The fire pursued them like a deadly enemy with a mind of its own. The wind drove the flames to lick at their heels. They needed to find a place of relative quiet, where the air was at least breathable. They walked for what seemed like hours, encountering dead ends and blocked passageways. Sometimes the smoke blinded them utterly.
“Do you know where we are?” she asked the convict.
“Not a blamed notion.” He grunted as his foot struck a stray brick in the road. “My name’s Eugene, by the way. Eugene Waxman. Friends call me Bull.”
She didn’t have to ask why. He was as big as an untrimmed side of beef, and just as muscular. Her back and shoulders ached under the weight of him even though she sensed his effort to support himself as much as possible.
“Kathleen O’Leary,” she replied.
“It’s
