“He’s gone,” he said as soon as he saw Cartwright enter the gate. Which was Helena’s cue to bring her knee up as quick and firm as possible into Doyle’s groin temporarily immobilizing him and rendering him speechless almost efficiently as Madame Youngblood’s grigri bag did against that trash Cade Storm.
Doyle tried to speak while in the fetal position, “Dammit woman I’m trying to catch a murderer.”
“And I’m trying to stop one,” Helena rose trying to fix herself, her riding gear now covered with grass stains and twigs from the tree above. At that moment her mixed emotions for Detective Doyle Longstreet distinctly focused more on the hate over love.
Doyle worked his way as best he could behind the tree and deeper into the shadows. “Please come here and tell me why you think Cartwright is involved with Missy’s disappearance?”
Helena checked the Mission gate, then turned back to Doyle resigned to the fact that she might need his help. “You tell me first then I’ll let you know.”
Helena could hear Doyle grit his teeth. For a moment she wasn’t sure if he was going to cooperate or strangle her. “Through a source, I learned that the good reverend might be selling his wards to pay for his cocaine habit.”
“I have a source, a contact, who said there were some strange things going on at this mission.”
“And that’s what brought you here? There are strange things going all over the city.”
“Mister Doyle I find you the most impertinent man.”
“To you, it is Detective Longstreet, and I find you the most infuriating girl. Now run along home,” on all fours, he tried to make his way to standing.
Helena could do nothing but clench her fists in anger, her fingernails bit into the soft flesh of the palms of her hands, ready to march off in anger. She was so tired of men telling her what to do. Looking down at his smirking face and immediately deciding what to do, she leaned back with all her force and kicked him as hard as she could in the jaw. The blow took Doyle entirely by surprise laying him out cold. Helena did a short victory dance until she realized she might’ve broken her foot on his jaw, shortly after she came to the realization that Doyle wasn’t moving.
“Doyle if you’re playing possum, I’m going to kick you harder,” she waited for him to reply, which he didn’t.
“I swear Doyle if you’re faking, I’m going to thrash you,” she leaned down to check for signs he was still breathing, and immediately sensed him snoring.
Her attention was pulled from him once she listened to a wagon’s metal-rimmed wheels and the horseshoes making their distinctive sound on the cobbles. Ducking behind the tree and watching as the uncovered buckboard wagon pulled up to the Mission’s gate, she peeked inside when the gate swung open for the wagon to enter.
She could hear Doyle groaning at her feet. “Shush will you, something is going on,” focused on the gate, she shut everything else out around her. Quickly the gate opened again the wagon now covered guided out of the courtyard by the Teamster. She had a split second to decide, her mind made up she sprinted at her best possible speed, with a sore foot, across the street. The wagon moved slowly, Helena checked to make sure she wasn’t being watched from the mission courtyard, then crawled into the back of the wagon under the tarp.
Once under the tarp, she had to stifle a scream, finding an unconscious bound and gagged body stashed. She bit her lip, the metallic taste of blood snapping the fear out of her, needing to do something she began working on the binds on the woman’s feet. Her calculation was if nothing else the woman could run once she got her awake and out of the wagon. Not sure where they headed, but she knew so far, they traveled straight down Post Street towards the bay with no turns.
Now she grew sorry she had knocked Detective Longstreet out, she could really use his help to untie these knots. She found the sword in her walking stick useless, with no cutting-edge. Urgently working to untie the knots she considered shouting for help, she could hear people on the street, but she felt in her heart that if she cried out, she would lose her best lead at finding Missy. She had come this far she wasn’t going to give up now.
She almost lost her balance as the wagon took a left turn she could tell the street wasn’t as crowded, and in only a few moments it made another left turn. Helena prepared for combat, the unconscious woman still trussed up, blade in one hand, scabbard in the other ready to pounce, like a wildcat to protect the woman.
Then she heard a scuffle like two people fighting, apprehension took hold of her, should she attack now in the confusion or wait and use the element of surprise, then the sounds of fighting stopped.
“Helena come out I’ve taken care of the driver,” it was Doyle’s voice calling to her from the other side of the tarp.
Helena exhaled and thought: Why are men constantly sticking their nose in when it’s not needed?
Sister Ping:
“How did you find me?” Helena asked as she peeked out from under the tarp covering the wagon.
“After that coldcock, I barely woke in time, when I saw you climbing into the back of this wagon. I almost shouted, trying to stop you but, then I thought, ‘Why would she do such a foolish thing?’ So, I decided to follow instead. I almost lost you at the first corner--”
“Help me lift this woman out of the wagon and to safety,” Helena interrupted him.
Doyle peeked over the buckboard and saw the woman tightly bound. “Hold on now, what are you doing with an unconscious woman?” He walked over and closed gate.
“I found her here,
