Read Online Heirs of Acadia - 03 - The Noble Fugitive by T. Davis Bunn - Free Book Online Page B

with my friend’s death, save a sharing of a cause and a passion for our Lord.”
    “Enough.” The pastor thumped his fists upon the table and rose to his feet. “That must be enough for me and for anyone. It is no longer safe for you here. Bounty hunters are offering silver for word of a tall man bearing a scar on his face. Among our guests are those who would sell whatever information they can.”
    Falconer touched the disfigurement, the scar that ran from his jaw to his cheekbone’s peak, where a pike had sought to take out his eye. When Falconer smiled, the scar contorted his mouth. He was not smiling now. “Where can I go?”
    “I must call upon a friend. I ask that you accompany me.”
    “Might I ask who this friend is?”
    The pastor walked to the front door and opened it, then waved Falconer forward. “A man who has learned to be as close with his secrets as you.”

Chapter 6
    To Falconer’s surprise, the carriage halted at a bustling Georgetown crossroads. The air was filled with the clattering racket of a city in full cry. Hawkers called their hoarse boasts. Produce wagons trundled past, the drivers shouting for the horses to make greater speed. The raised sidewalks were packed, and the thoroughfares were a solid line of traffic. “What manner of place is this?”
    “An emporium.” The pastor opened the carriage door. “Come.”
    “You mean a trading establishment?”
    “Just so.” The pastor looked carefully about. “We must hurry.”
    But Falconer remained where he was. “I thought we would be visiting a cloister, someplace where I might be hidden away until—”
    “This man we are to see is as trustworthy as any on earth.”
    “But—”
    “The longer we remain here, the greater the risk of someone identifying you. Come!”
    Reluctantly Falconer followed him out of the carriage, tipping his hat low over his face. The vast emporium was as large a structure as Falconer had seen. They entered by way of a coffee shop. The smell of roasting beans and brewing chocolate took him back to Grenada. But the pastor did not linger. Instead, he walked to the rear and spoke softly to an older woman by the register. She nodded and pointed at a door shielded by embroidered leather curtains. The pastor motioned Falconer to follow him.
    They mounted two flights of stairs, pushed through another door, and navigated a hall filled with clerks and bustling office personnel. The pastor was obviously well known, for he was greeted by many and challenged by none. The succeedingoffices grew finer and quieter. Falconer slowed to examine oil paintings adorning walls of the next long room. The most recent resembled the ship at anchor in the Georgetown harbor.
    “This way!” the pastor called.
    Beyond the offices lay a very fine apartment that smelled of linseed oil and age. “These are the owner’s quarters?” Falconer inquired.
    “They served as such a long time ago. Nowadays the Langstons reside in a house by the river. These chambers are used by visiting family and friends.” The pastor knocked on a walnut door. When a maid opened it, he said, “Good day to you, miss. Mr. Powers is expecting me.”
    “The doctor is with him.”
    “I hope he has not taken ill again.”
    “Only with impatience.” The maid held the door open. “Perhaps you can convince him to rest as the doctor wants.”
    “I would have more luck parting the Potomac.” He turned to Falconer. “Wait here. I won’t be long.”
    The paneled room was filled with furnishings from an earlier age. The carpet and the oak-planked flooring looked very old indeed. The drapes were shut, the light muted. The room had managed to trap a bit of the previous night’s coolness. Falconer seated himself in a high-backed chair. His neck and shoulders ached from bearing the weight of fatigue and worry and futile travel. Between the nightmares and the necessity of constantly watching the shadows, he was not resting well.
    He was in a half doze when a sound