Maybe she was right. “Why he would become so emotional about it, though?”
“Do you think it’s something to do with your brother? I’ve noticed you two never speak of him—except once, last Sunday when you said we should accept Blair’s plea offer and you said Cicero wasn’t Houston.”
He met her eyes reluctantly.
“What does Houston have to do with this case, Harley?”
The world dropped out beneath him. Everything. It had everything to do with Houston. Why had he not realized that?
He stood on wobbly legs. “We’ve got to find Papa.”
Chapter 39
Catfish charged through the downpour. He hadn’t expected a thunderstorm when he set out from the office, but the rain didn’t matter one bit. Nothing mattered. By the time he crossed Franklin Avenue, he was drenched. His frock coat was sodden, slapping his legs as he churned past the post office.
Colonel Terry trotted along beside him.
“Scat! Get on back, Colonel,” he commanded, but the hound ignored him.
The Baptist church loomed ahead through the slanting rain. Henry’s voice resounded in his head. What are you doing? Thunder cracked overhead. You’re going to get my son convicted.
He broke into a trot down the alley beside the Blake building.
Is this the way you repay your debts?
Lightning flashed in the western sky. He turned on Fifth Street, then crossed the tracks on Mary Street.
Orman cackled. Counselor, you’re coming unhinged.
A tall spire barely visible ahead through the deluge. Turned right on Jackson. He ran. Afraid you’re losing this case too. Stumbled in a pool of rainwater. Methodist Church on the left—got up. You’re losing. Ran along the Katy tracks past Sixth Street—losing—across Seventh—this case too—the rain slackened—this—case—too.
He slowed. Almost out of breath. The colonel stopped ahead of him and looked back, panting.
Catfish bent over double, wheezing for air. Water streamed down his face. He could barely make out landmarks ahead. Just beyond Eighth Street, the Brazos Compress smokestack rose into the mist beside near the Katy Hotel. In front of it, a locomotive; to the right, the green-and-yellow passenger depot. He fixed on that place and slogged toward it. Why did it draw him?
Bootblack Ben perched on a stool under the hotel awning, waiting for a customer. He waved. Catfish ignored him and stumbled toward the place. The train. The Katy depot.
He staggered to a stop. It was the first time in eight years he’d stood so near that spot.
It all looked so different. Back then it had been a MOPAC depot. There was the spot where—he couldn’t go there. His legs wouldn’t move, and he didn’t want them to.
Was there someone standing on the spot? He squinted through the drizzle.
There was, yes. A bowler hat, a horseshoe mustache, a blackthorn cane. His hand like a noose around his neck, laughing: This case, too.
He dissolved in the mist.
Catfish slogged back the way he’d come, the colonel beside him, down Jackson to Seventh. Away from the depot—Houston!—away from the spot.
I’m so sorry.
Away.
***
Miss Peach touched Harley’s arm. “I’m scared.”
“I am too,” he said.
She wished she could just hold him tightly.
He brought the surrey around, and she scrambled in.
Gentle rain pelted the fabric roof. He lashed the horse, and the carriage lurched forward. They went south down Fourth Street. Few people were out in that rain. Some waited under shop awnings for it to let up.
She glanced across the seat at him. Harley couldn’t keep holding it in. She had to help him. “Have you ever seen your father like this?”
“Yes.” He kept his eyes on the road, but she still saw the fear in his eyes. “Once.”
“When?”
“Eight years ago. During Houston’s trial.”
“I didn’t know he was a lawyer.”
“He wasn’t. He was the defendant.”
“What?”
“He was on trial for murder.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my.” How could she not have known something so important about her employers’ family?
Harley turned right onto Webster. There was no sign of Mr. Calloway. She twisted her hands in her lap during the awkward silence as they turned back toward town on Fifth.
“He was accused of murdering a man at the MOPAC Railroad depot.”
Was she sure she wanted to hear more?
“Papa defended him—he was convinced it was self-defense. He couldn’t accept that Houston would deliberately kill someone.”
Goose bumps prickled her arms. “And did he?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. There were several eyewitnesses. They said the man got off the train and was walking toward the passenger terminal. Houston got off the train behind him and yelled at him to stop. Houston had a gun. When he turned around and saw Houston’s gun, he reached for something, and Houston shot him.”
That didn’t make sense. “But why?”
Harley turned left on Franklin. “Houston was coming home from a trip. They said a carpetbagger from back east was sitting across the aisle. They struck up a conversation, and the carpetbagger asked Houston about his family. He told the man about Papa, about his service in the war, but the man took offense and called Papa a traitor to his country. They got into a shoving match, and a railroad detective on the train had to separate them.”
“So Houston shot the man because he insulted your father?”
“That’s what the railroad detective testified. Papa cross-examined him, trying to shake his story about Houston’s animus toward the man, but Papa got so upset—like he was today—that all he could do by the end was curse at the witness.”
“Oh, my.”
They passed the Hotel Palmo. Still no signs of her boss. Her hand was shaking.
“That detective was in court today,” Harley said unexpectedly.
“What? Why?”
“I don’t know. His name is Thaddeus Schoolcraft.”
“The one who played cards with Orman? Mr. Calloway said he was whispering with Orman in court.”
He nodded grimly. “I think seeing
