PROLOGUE
Friday, August 5, 1892
St. Louis, Missouri
It was an hour before sunset when the locomotive came to a stop, belching smoke and hissing steam. Before the woman stepped on the platform, several passengers got off ahead of her. She hurt from head to toe. The twelve-hour train ride from Vinita, Oklahoma Territory, had been torture: regardless of how she shifted positions, her tall, thin frame would not conform to the contour of her passenger seat. Now, the satchels in each hand seemed heavier and tugged on her aching shoulders and lower back. So she dropped them on the platform and glanced around.
She had left Vinita in a hurry and was confident no one had followed, but she was wary of everyone. The hustle and bustle of passengers, depot workers, and railroad workmen unnerved her. This was the largest city she had been to since her youth, and she felt apprehensive and alone.
The woman picked up her bags and scurried to the depot, avoiding the activity around her. She plopped her bags and leaned against the building, weary, hungry, and thirsty. She adjusted the bun that kept her long black hair tightly curled under her upturned-brim straw hat. She patted smooth as many wrinkles as she could off her bead-trimmed skirt, but her white-cotton blouse had not traveled well, and all her efforts could not smooth its frumpled fabric. The toes of her high-heeled laced shoes pinched her feet, and a cramp gripped her right calf. Beads of perspiration trickled down her temples, and she dabbed them with a lace hanky. She sighed deeply and tried to lick her chapped lips, but her tongue was as rough as sandstone, and her mouth was dry as cotton.
A porter walked nearby.
"Sir...,” she called out. “Please, sir."
The porter, a large man with broad shoulders and a broader smile, stopped and approached her. He tipped his hat.
“Ya all right, ma’am?” he asked, extending his hand.
The woman nodded and waved him off.
“Where can I get information about steamboats to New Orleans?” she asked.
“Is ya sure, ya’s all right, ma’am?”
“Steamboats, please,” she said, declining his inquiry.
“They’s right over there, ma’am,” he said, pointing to fliers on a display board on the depot’s wall.
She nodded a polite thank you and hurried to inspect them.
The board was plastered with fliers for hotels, eateries, transportation, general notices, and steamboats. The one for the Mississippi Queen Steamboat caught her attention. It was scheduled to leave the day after tomorrow. The aches and pains of the trip melted away in the glow of relief that swept over her.
The woman gathered her bags, went inside, and found a drink of water. The liquid was as warm as the unseasonably warm temperatures, but she did not care. It was wet and refreshing nonetheless, and she savored every drop. Once invigorated, she headed to the telegraph station.
The clerk looked up when she stepped to the counter. “You wanna send a telegram, ma’am?”
“Yes... Yes, I do,” the woman said nervously and dictated a message to Reginal Prescott, care of Vinita, Oklahoma.
“Now, sir... Could you direct me to the train tickets?”
He pointed behind her. “It’s just across the depot, ma’am.”
#
“When’s the next train to San Francisco?” she asked the ticket clerk.
“Monday,” he said poker-faced, without emotion or expression.
A wave of disappointment and anxiety swept over her, and her misery returned with a vengeance. Her right ankle turned when she shifted her weight. She winced and clutched the counter for support. She breathed deeply as a wave of nausea seized her stomach.
The color drained from her face, yet the clerk paid her no mind.
“You want a ticket or not?” he asked sourly.
“Uh... Chicago, then?”
“One-thirty tomorrow,” the clerk said indifferently.
Color returned to the woman’s face as a glimmer of hope rebounded.
The clerk tilted his head back and looked at the woman along his narrow nose with an accusatory glance.
“One-way or... Ahem, roundtrip?”
“Oh... I haven’t decided yet. Meanwhile, could you recommend—”
“Planter House Hotel,” he said unsympathetically.
“Thank you, sir. Kindly direct me to transportation if you please.”
The clerk pointed to the depot’s front doors and turned away.
#
The woman stood on the boardwalk in front of the depot, her satchels lay at her feet, and her purse dangled from her wrist. A warm east breeze drifted from the direction of the waterfront, factories, and downtown. When the woman inhaled the hodgepodge of odors through her nostrils, her mouth curled to a smile: the pungent aroma of cows was gone at last.
Soon a horse-drawn buggy cab stopped. The driver, a lanky man with unkempt, loose-fitting clothes, tipped his hat. “Need a ride, ma’am?”
“Planter House Hotel.”
The driver hopped down and put the woman’s satchels behind the passenger’s seat. He helped her into the buggy and climbed into the driver’s seat.
“Have ya there inna jiff, ma’am.”
The sun had set, and the city’s lamps added a warm glow to the busy streets where people hurried from shop to shop, a band performed in the square, and children played in the park. The sights and sounds rekindled memories from the woman’s childhood.
The woman felt restored. This was the first time she could sit in nearly an hour, but the nagging ache in her ankle would not go away. The packet of “herbal powder” she kept in her purse was for such an occasion. She quickly ingested it. The powder tingled her tongue and throat, and soon its alkaloids coursed through her bloodstream.
“First time to St. Louie, ma’am?” the driver said.
“Uh... Yes... ”
The buggy rumbled along the busy street, stopping at intersections for cross traffic. While she rode along, the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and the herbal potion had a soothing effect on her. Soon she drifted in and out of awareness.
“Visiting someone or traveling through?” the driver asked.
“Huh?”
“Visiting or just traveling through?”
“Always ‘ntergate... Interrogate passengers... Yer... Your passengers?” she said, her lips feeling the numbing effects of the powder.
“Sorry, ma’am. Just makin’ conversation.”
“Train... Tomorrow.”
“Didn’t mean ta pry, ma’am.”
The woman did not respond. The alkaloids had so numbed her senses she slipped into a stupor. She did not notice when the streets became shabbier and darker. She did not stir when the stench of the seedier side of St. Louis seized her throat. She did not respond when the buggy cab left the main street and rolled into a dark alley.
The driver yanked on the reins, and the horse stopped. He turned to the woman and yelled, “End of the line, lady. Gimme yer purse.”
“Where’s the Planter?” the woman asked, startled and unable to think clearly.
“And yer rings, necklace, any jewelry yer wearin’.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Ain’t got all night, lady,” the driver said, brandishing a knife. “Hand ‘em over.”
“Bastard!”
“Ah... Go back ta China; where’s ya belong!”
“I’m Japanese, not Chinese!”
“Ya all look alike ta me, lady,” the driver said as he grabbed her arm and pulled her from the buggy. “And my old lady needs a new hat,” he said with a chuckle.
When he yanked the hat off her head, the bun unfurled, and her long black hair fell to her back and shoulders.
“Stop,” she yelled as the driver climbed aboard the buggy and rode into the darkness.
The woman glanced around, still groggy from the potion. The alley was littered with debris and stinking garbage. She turned and ran to the street, looking for help. Cold fear swept over her as she stood on the street corner and took stock of her predicament: no luggage, no valuables, no money, just the clothes on her back.
A man approached her out of the shadows. “Lost, girly?” he said with a sinister grin. “I kin help.”
The woman turned to flee, but the man grabbed a handful of her hair and tugged. She fell backward.
“Let go,” the woman screamed, standing and kicking at the man and punching with both fists.
“Feisty... Just the way I like ‘em,” the man said, lunging at her and dragging her into the shadows.
End Prologue