The One-Eyed Prayer
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After the prayer, I went to my room and sat in one of the chairs. The night air was cool on my skin and made me shiver as though it had come from inside me instead of outside. It seemed strange how quickly life can change, even when you try not to think about that.
How many times had I thought about it? Had a man died because I hadn’t seen him coming or been fast enough with my horse’s reins to hold back his horse’s pace? And now this…
I tried to put myself at peace so I could fall asleep, but my mind wandered. What did God really want of me? Was it true that all men were sinners? Or that if they weren’t, they wouldn’t be able to do their jobs well enough for God to bless them?
Did He mean all men or just white men? Maybe he didn’t care who worked for a living. If He did, why would He make us feel so guilty if we did anything wrong? Why wouldn’t He just forgive us right away if we repented?
I knew that wasn’t what He wanted of me—not yet. I felt like such a failure already. But then again, I’d always known I was supposed to be the preacher’s wife instead of a hired gun, and I hadn’t been very good at either.
And if there was no god, maybe all these prayers and fasting were wasted. Maybe it was better to give up trying to get God’s attention, stop wasting your time praying and go after whatever pleasure you could find.
But then why had I come here to pray? That must have been a waste too. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Maybe it was a waste, but at least I got a little peace before the day began.
I closed my eyes against the rising sun as though I could hide from the world inside its warmth, then opened them again to find myself in an unfamiliar room. A stranger stood beside me. “You’re new,” she said. “Didn’t you come through last night?”
“No…” I turned around slowly and saw her. She was young. Younger than me by two or three years, wearing a blue dress much fancier than mine. “Yes.”
She came over to me and sat down next to me. “I’m Lizzie, the cook,” she told me. “Do you need help getting ready for the morning meal?”
“Thank you,” I said.
Lizzie took off her cap and rubbed her face. Her hair fell across her shoulders in dark curls. She glanced at the clock on the wall and said, “You’re probably hungry. I’ll get breakfast started as soon as you finish dressing. I’ve only got two hands, ya’ know.”
Her accent gave me something else to focus on besides myself, and for some reason, her friendly manner put me at ease. She reminded me of someone. Not my sister, because Lizzie was taller than my sister, and I remembered my sister as short, round-faced.
But her voice sounded familiar… I couldn’t place it, and then she spoke again and the memory came flooding back. She reminded me of someone I’d heard speak once. I was standing in church, listening to Reverend Haught preach.
“All right, Miss,” she called out, “you can go wash up now.”
She went into the kitchen while I undressed and washed up in the bathroom. As I brushed my teeth, I realized how tired I was, and I lay down on top of the sheets. In spite of the heat in the house, I fell asleep almost instantly.
When I woke, I found a tray waiting for me with eggs, bread, bacon, fried potatoes, and coffee. It was a far cry from last night’s dinner of beans, cornbread, and biscuits, and it looked delicious. The smell of the food brought back memories of Sunday dinners when I was younger.
When we lived with my mother’s parents, our meals were a combination of their southern cooking and ours. We always had roast beef and gravy for supper with mashed potatoes and peas. And every Easter, Grandma made us a cake that looked like a cross.
That was another thing I liked about being raised by my grandparents; they let us eat dessert first. They never said anything about eating too much candy, even if we ate until we were full. At school, we learned the names of the saints, but we also talked a lot about the Bible and why we should be good Christians.
I remember sitting in Sunday school with my classmates, thinking how lucky they were to have such strong Christian role models. It seemed like everybody loved their relatives, but I only had my father’s mother and my grandfather.
Grandfather was gone now, but Grandmother lived just north of town in one of the houses that belonged to her family. I visited her on Sundays sometimes when I was a child and we’d talk about old times. She was still a good woman and a wonderful storyteller, but it wasn’t like going to see Father.
There was something sad about the way Grandmother watched TV alone each evening, sitting on the sofa while her grandchildren played in the yard outside. My sister had married and moved away when I was ten, but I’d never forgotten her or my grandmother.
Now that I’d finally met my cousins and had my own family to look forward to, it hurt more than ever to think of losing either one of them.
My thoughts drifted back to the dream I’d had the night before, and suddenly everything became clear to me: I’d dreamed about my mother, and I’d known who she was. But then what had happened after she died?
Had she come back to haunt me because she was angry at my father? Did she expect me to tell him he’d lost his family? If so, then what had I done wrong? Why hadn’t she given me any clues before she died? She would have been able to answer many of my questions, and I might not be feeling quite so confused now.
In spite of the strange dream, I felt peaceful enough to start my day. I poured myself a cup of coffee and went into the kitchen to find Lizzie watching a soap opera. “Goodness,” she exclaimed when I came into the room. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I must have dozed off,” I confessed. “Is this show on the air?”
“It is,” she replied. “Didn’t you know that?”
The program was called As the World Turns. I recognized the characters and their problems, though the actors on the screen didn’t look anything like the people playing them in real life.
“How long does it run?” I asked Lizzie.
“Three hundred twenty-seven years,” she answered. She smiled and added, “You know I’m just kidding, don’t you?”
We laughed together, and for a few minutes, all of my troubles seemed distant.
“Do you always watch this stuff?” I asked her.
“I sure do, especially on days like today. I’ve got nothing better to do except sit around the house waiting for Mr. Parker to get home, and there’s no telling how long that will be.”
As soon as he left, she took me aside to explain the situation. After I finished hearing her story, I understood why the man had been so determined to get into my mind and control my actions. He knew that if Mr. Parker didn’t return in time, Lizzie wouldn’t stand a chance against his schemes.
The only reason he’d let me stay in Texas was that he wanted to give the sheriff and the marshal time to catch him. Once he’d captured both of us, it would be simple to kill me and claim the reward money.
Lizzie and I sat on the back porch with some iced tea. Neither of us knew what else we could do, so we waited patiently while the clock ticked by slowly. The sun hung in the sky and warmed us through our shirtsleeves until a sudden squall of thunder and rain sent us scurrying inside again.
We drank hot chocolate instead and tried not to worry about Mr. Parker and what was happening in Kansas City. I couldn’t stop wondering why the man thought he needed two women. What made him believe he’d succeed where others had failed?
Why did he seem to have complete faith that he’d be successful in kidnapping me? I wondered if he’d already found other accomplices to help him kidnap me, but I had no idea who those people might be.
By late afternoon I grew restless and tired of pacing the floor, so I went in search of something to read. I picked up a book on how to train horses from the shelf and opened it at random, expecting to see words about saddles and bridles, not a detailed account of how to capture an outlaw.
I skimmed the pages quickly, but there was too much to absorb in such a short period of time. I set it aside and went out front to watch Lizzie ride.
There was no sign of Mr. Parker, nor did he come home by sunset when Lizzie usually ate dinner with him, so I assumed he was still somewhere in Kansas City. That meant that I was alone with Lizzie for another night.
When I returned to the kitchen to make some supper, I stopped dead in the doorway. There were four men standing in the middle of the living room. Two wore dark suits, and two wore blue serge uniforms. They looked very official, and their badges identified them as members of the Kansas City police force.
The two wearing blue stood close together and spoke quietly to one another. Their conversation stopped abruptly as soon as they saw me. Both of them turned toward me. One of the detectives waved me over to join them, and the other detective stayed behind to speak to Lizzie.
When I came into the room, the two detectives exchanged a quick word and shook hands before taking seats opposite each other on a matching chair and ottoman.
“Hello,” the detective in blue said and gave me a nod. “I’m Officer O’Hara, and this is Detective Miller.”
Both were tall, thin-faced men with gray hair and hard faces. I guessed they were older than Lizzie’s father, though that didn’t necessarily mean anything since it was impossible to tell age these days. The only thing that marked them apart was their uniforms.
O’Hara had a gold shield pinned above his heart and a large badge. He looked very serious as he studied me closely with shrewd eyes. His mustache twitched when he caught mine shaking nervously.
Detective Miller seemed more relaxed, but he was no less suspicious. “What brings you to Kansas City?” he asked. “You’re obviously from out of state.”
“Just visiting,” I answered.
“Where are you staying?” O’Hara continued.
“In town,” I replied.
“And where were you born?”
“Out west.”
“Are your parents still alive?”
“No, sir.”
“Did they pass away recently?”
“Not recently, no.”
“Have you any family here in Kansas City?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Who would that be?”
“My husband’s sister.”
O’Hara nodded and scribbled down notes on a legal pad. “Why do you live in Texas instead of Kansas City? It’s obvious you know Mr. Parker.”
“It isn’t obvious,” I told him firmly. “Mr. Parker doesn’t want me anywhere near him, so he has to send someone else—a friend of his or a relative. I don’t even know Mr. Parker personally, so why should anyone expect me to know his friends or relatives?”
The detective frowned. “How did Mr. Parker find you?”
“I think that will take a long time to explain,” I answered, then added, “but let’s just say he had to ask around first to learn my name and whereabouts. Then he sent Mr. Parker’s nephew to find me here.”
Miller chuckled. “He didn’t exactly send anyone to find you. He wanted us to locate you so he could come in and rescue you.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, feeling like I’d been hit with a shovel full of dirt. “So he thinks we’re married?”
“That’s right,” O’Hara confirmed. “Mr. Parker sent a man to fetch his niece so he could marry her himself.”
“But I’m already married,” I protested, and I glanced at the detective for confirmation. But he ignored my question and looked down at his notebook again.
“Does Lizzie have any brothers or sisters?” Miller asked. “Or maybe she’s a twin?”
“A twin!” I said, repeating his words back to him.
“That might explain things,” O’Hara agreed. “If your mother and Mr. Parker weren’t married, there must be an explanation for their having twins.”
“I’ll bet there is,” I muttered bitterly. “Mr. Parker probably found a doctor who could make me pregnant so he could claim to be Lizzie’s father.”
The detective looked up quickly. “Why would someone try to make you believe you’re Lizzie’s mother if your mother wasn’t married?” he demanded angrily, and I thought he sounded ready to throw a punch.
“Maybe because her real father was dead,” I suggested, but I was afraid O’Hara wouldn’t understand what I meant.
“Who was this dead man?” he asked sharply. “Your mother?”
“Not her,” I answered, wondering if I’d ever get an answer.
“We’d better talk about this later,” O’Hara said. “Right now, can you tell us how you ended up on the farm in Arkansas?”
“I met a young woman there by the name of Mary Ethel.”
“Do you know what happened to her?” Miller interrupted.
“She went off the deep end.”
“How?” Miller persisted.
“I don’t know,” I snapped back. “She took poison, or she tried to kill herself. It was one or another. She was very ill after she left the ranch and never recovered.”
“Did you visit her often?” Miller asked.
“Only once or twice. Her illness got worse each time and eventually, she passed away.”
“You knew she was sick before you visited her?” Miller asked, looking at me suspiciously. “Was there something you wanted to keep hidden from us?”
“No,” I insisted, then added, “but you’re not going to find out what it was anyway, so don’t bother asking me.”
They both looked disappointed and turned their attention to O’Hara. Both men appeared to be in charge of finding Lizzie, which made it hard for them to discuss anything personal. Still, they seemed more than willing to discuss the case itself.
“What’s our next step?” Miller asked.
O’Hara pulled out his cell phone and started punching in numbers. “Our next move is to check out some of those places you mentioned and see if we can identify any of the people you know.”
“There’s only one place where I know the person who lives there,” I told the two detectives. “And that’s a funeral home.”
“Why are you so sure it’s a funeral home?” O’Hara asked me as soon as he’d finished making calls.
“Because when I first arrived in Texas, Mr. Parker paid off a mortician so he could bury Lizzie and make her death look like an accident.” I stared at the detective, wanting to convince him of what I’d learned. “The funeral home is called Oak Hill Funeral Home. The owner is named Jock McKee. Do you know of him?”
“Yes,” O’Hara answered, and I wondered what his reaction would be when he learned that one of Lizzie’s uncles had hired him. “I know all about him and his family’s business.”
“Then why don’t you arrest him?” I demanded, thinking that was obviously the obvious thing to do.
O’Hara shook his head. “You’ve been living under his roof for months, Miss Ethel,” he reminded me. “He owns you. If we take him into custody, he’ll use everything in his power to make us pay.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s called blackmail. A man will do just about anything for money—even kill himself, if he thinks doing so will save his property. I think Jock McKee may be suffering from mental illness, but you can’t be too careful.”
I didn’t want to argue with him because I understood what he was talking about. In the past, I’d heard of a few cases of murder committed by someone who feared he was losing his mind, but nothing ever came of such crimes because of the victim’s relatives and friends.
Most of these cases involved women who were suspected of killing husbands whom they felt were cheating them. I thought about Mrs. Parker’s supposed affair with Jock McKee and remembered the way I’d felt when my mother confessed to being married to Mr. Parker.
I was certain my mother hadn’t killed anyone, but she was certainly capable of committing suicide if someone else was trying to force her out of a job.
As far as I knew, O’Hara was right: Mr. Parker didn’t know exactly what his wife was doing with Jock McKee and probably believed she was having an affair; he just couldn’t afford to let her go. “So what should we do?” I asked quietly.
“You said there was only one funeral home? We could send a squad car down there to see if they have a list of clients or a photo directory. And if there isn’t any information to help us, we can start looking for McKee,” O’Hara suggested.
Miller nodded in agreement and O’Hara put in another call. As I sat listening to their conversation, I thought about how strange it was to watch two men who were so different in appearance and temperament work together as if they’d known each other forever.
Maybe it was easier for them because of the similarities they shared as police officers, rather than because of their friendship. I wondered what kind of relationship they’d had years ago and decided that even though I liked both of them, I wouldn’t try to get close enough to them to find out.
The detectives continued to discuss strategy until a woman on the other end of the line interrupted them. It was Detective Miller’s wife. “I’m sorry,” she apologized in a voice that sounded apologetic and relieved at the same time. “But this is urgent, so please forgive me for calling so late.”
Both men hung up the phones and headed toward the front door. “We’re taking over the investigation,” Miller announced to me as we left, “so you might as well leave.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back to Chicago. There’s an old lady who needs us,” O’Hara said as he walked ahead of me and Miller.
“Who’s an old lady?” I asked in a low voice as I followed them down the stairs.
“She’s not an old lady,” O’Hara answered as they reached the sidewalk, “but she’s very ill and needs our help.”
“How did you find out about her?”
“One of those phone calls I mentioned before,” O’Hara answered. “A nurse from one of the hospitals told us about her.”
“Will we meet her?”
“No, it’s just a matter of following up with some people we need to talk to,” O’Hara explained. “We’ll be back here tomorrow night.”
I watched the detectives walk away and then returned to the hotel. I wanted to get a good night’s sleep before returning to Texas the next day. The only thing I was certain about now was that I wasn’t ready to give up on finding Jock McKee yet.
I’d done a lot of thinking during the last week, and I was beginning to see that there might be the hope of bringing him in alive after all. He was the wrong man for this case and I didn’t expect it to be easy, but I didn’t care.
I wanted to catch him and stop whatever he was doing before it destroyed more lives. I just hoped O’Hara and Miller had a plan to capture him—and that their plan included me.
***
On Monday morning, I got up early and showered again before leaving the hotel room. My stomach growled as I looked through the newspaper while waiting for breakfast in the dining hall downstairs.
I’d eaten too many meals on trains in the past few weeks, so I didn’t really feel hungry, but I knew I needed something besides coffee and doughnuts. After filling my plate, I took my usual seat near the back of the dining room.
As I waited for the food, I skimmed the headlines: a story about an outbreak of polio in California; the weather report that called for a hot day and rain later; and a sports page. I flipped through it quickly then glanced around the empty dining room and wondered where everyone had gone.
“Are you going somewhere?” a woman asked as she entered the dining hall and sat across from me. She wore a white uniform and her dark hair was pulled into a bun atop her head.
“To work,” I replied, not bothering to look up from the paper.
“You don’t eat much for a working gal,” she offered. “Why are you always alone?”
“I’ve been traveling.”
“You haven’t found a husband yet?”
“That’s why I’m not married,” I answered, not bothering to correct her assumption that I was single. “And no, I haven’t found a husband yet.” I was still eating, but I felt like answering her questions so I kept talking, trying to make myself sound as lonely as I actually was. “It looks like I’ll be here awhile longer.”
The waitress smiled and picked up her coffee cup. “Well, you seem comfortable enough to me.”
As we talked, I realized she was older than I’d first assumed. When I looked up from the paper, she seemed much closer to sixty-five years old. I could tell by the lines that marred her face and the gray hairs that showed beneath the cap she wore.
And there were other signs that made me wonder if she hadn’t retired long ago. I’d never seen anyone so old who didn’t seem aware of her age. “You don’t have to pretend you’re single anymore, ma’am,” I said as I rose. “I’m not.”
“Are you kidding?” the waitress exclaimed as she stood too. “I wouldn’t dare try to take your place!”
I couldn’t help laughing as I walked away from her. The old woman would probably never accept that I was a detective unless she saw my badge. But I wasn’t surprised when I learned from the waiter that she’d worked at the hotel since before World War II and had taken over most of the waitressing duties.
It wasn’t every day that someone with that kind of experience came to Chicago to visit relatives.
I spent the rest of the morning working out in the hotel’s small gym and then went to the police department to return the badges, gun, and other gear we’d borrowed from the station house. I also asked Chief Jackson if they’d found a lead on Jock McKee.
“He’s been spotted a couple of times, but we haven’t managed to bring him in yet,” Jackson answered as he handed me back my gun. “There’s been a little bit of progress on this case, though.”
“What do you mean?”
Jackson pointed down a hallway. “A woman named Elizabeth Johnson has turned herself in for murdering two men. A third man died later. We’re still trying to sort out what happened, but it seems to have begun when Johnson hired them to find a young woman—a runaway or something like that. That’s all I can say right now. You want to question her?”
“Yes,” I replied as I headed down the hall.
After knocking on the door and getting permission to enter, I followed the chief to another interview room. He left the door open as I entered and closed it behind me as soon as he left. “Have a seat, Miss Johnson,” I offered, hoping she might recognize me. “I’m Detective Kate O’Hara. What’s your full name?”
She shook her head and refused to speak. Her eyes stared blankly ahead of her as she sat stiffly in one corner of the room. I moved toward the chair beside her. “I understand you killed three men?”
“Not quite,” she replied flatly. “Two are dead. One is dying.”
“Who did you kill?”
“I only meant to kill one, but he tried to escape,” she explained calmly. “It was self-defense.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’ll let you figure it out for yourself, Miss O’Hara. I hope you’re happy here.”
The End