City of Angels (The Trials of Kit Shannon #1) Read online

  The Trials of Kit Shannon – Book 1

  City of Angels

  Tracie Peterson and James Scott Bell

  City of Angels

  Copyright © 2012 by James Scott Bell

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owner.

  Published by Compendium Press

  P.O. Box 705

  Woodland Hills, CA 91365

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Part Two

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Author's Note

  Pride still is aiming at the bless'd abodes.

  Men would be Angels, Angels would be Gods.

  Aspiring to be Gods if Angels fell,

  Aspiring to be Angels men rebel.

  —ALEXANDER POPE

  An Essay on Man

  Prologue

  Boston 1893

  KIT SHANNON KNEW that the man seated on the platform held her life in his gnarled hands. Breathing in deeply, she fought back tears.

  Thirteen years old, frightened, and alone, Kit knew her only hope was to keep her wits about her. Mama always said that a person had to keep herself in one piece when everything around her was falling apart. Oh, how she wanted Mama by her side now, needed her, but that would never happen again.

  Yesterday her mama had been buried in the cold rain in a nameless graveyard. And now, without father or mother, Kit had been thrust into this strange place they called a courtroom for what they told her was a "resolution of her situation."

  The judge who sat so regally above her had thick gray hair and eyes as cold as the sleet pounding outside. Though his appearance made her tremble, she reminded herself of something Papa once told her. "The law is a wonderful thing, daughter. This country was founded on the principle of justice for all, rich or poor, weak or powerful. And all justice comes from God."

  So, Kit reasoned, this judge must represent justice, and in some way God himself. That was enough to give her the courage to hold back her tears. Surely this man would see to it that Kit was taken care of, that the small amount of property and belongings her mother owned would come to her and that the men—called lawyers—who had cheated her mother would be kept from doing the same thing to her.

  It also comforted Kit to tightly clutch the Bible she had brought with her. Papa's Bible, the one from which he used to read to her and preach the Gospel to the unsaved. In a small but meaningful way, holding his Bible made her feel as though Papa was there with her.

  "All right, then," the judge growled. His voice was deep and resonant, tinged with a strange anger that confused Kit. "I see this girl has been declared a ward of the court, is that right?"

  What's a ward of the court? Kit thought. Why am I that?

  "That's right, judge," the man with the sticky hair said. This was the man who, a few minutes before, had told Kit he would be her lawyer for this proceeding. She didn't like him. He would not look her in the eye, and he didn't ask her anything. She'd spent the previous night in a spare room in what seemed like a jail to her, even though they had called it a "house for girls." This afternoon she'd been whisked to the courtroom. The lawyer, named Smythe, had spent all of one minute talking to her before telling her to sit down and stay quiet.

  "Well, then, let's hear it," the judge demanded, looking impatient.

  "The family has recommended St. Catherine's," Smythe said.

  St. Catherine's? What family?

  "If that's the case, what are you wasting my time for?" said the judge. "That can all be done without me."

  "There is just a little matter of the property," said Smythe.

  "Well?"

  "The girl's mother died intestate. Naturally a child . . ."

  What is going on? Kit wanted to say, but held her tongue.

  "Yes, yes," the judge said. "Is there a trust?"

  "It's been done."

  What's been done?

  "Then there's no more to—"

  "Please!" Kit heard herself shout.

  The old judge seemed startled, then annoyed. "Young lady, you are not to speak."

  "But I don't know what is happening to me, sir."

  "You are being taken care of," the judge said. "Mr. Smythe, your attorney, will explain things to you."

  But she did not want Mr. Smythe explaining anything to her. She didn't trust him. The judge was her only hope. If he did not help her now, if she was left with Smythe, she sensed it would be terrible, like falling into a dark pit with a hungry animal.

  "Please help me," Kit said. If she asked politely, as her mother had taught her, surely this judge would . . .

  "No more from you!" the judge snapped. "I don't see why I was dragged out here."

  "We just need your signature on this document," Smythe said.

  What document? Kit wondered as Smythe handed the judge a single piece of paper. What was on that paper, she did not know. What she did know was that it concerned her, and the judge—now dipping a quill pen into his inkwell and scratching his name on the paper—was not concerned about her in the least.

  "That's that," the judge said. "I need a drink." And with that he stood and shambled out of the courtroom.

  When he disappeared behind an austere oak door, Kit felt her hope leave with him. Smythe, a crooked smile on his face, turned to her and said, "That wasn't so bad now, was it?"

  But it was bad, in ways she did not understand. In ways only this man and that judge, inhabiting a world that was beyond her reach or even voice, understood. Was this the great system of justice Papa had told her about?

  "Better let me take that," Smythe said, reaching for her father's Bible.

  "No!" Kit screamed, and without a thought of where or why, she ran as fast as she could toward the big doors that she had been led through only minutes before.

  She ran as if the dark hand of death were reaching out behind her—and then she hit something big and blue.

  "There, now, missy, that won't do." It was a policeman. And his hands were strong.

  The realization of her fate washed over Kit in waves that threatened to take her breath. Her chest tightened. She then lifted her eyes to meet the stern expression of Mr. Smythe, who had followed. He did not look pleased with her
actions.

  That makes us even, Kit thought.

  ———

  As the police carriage clacked through the streets of Boston, carrying her toward her uncertain future, Kit sat alone, the Bible still clutched to her chest. They may have taken everything else, but they would never take this from her.

  Looking through the carriage window at the dark gray of the unrelenting clouds, Kit voiced a prayer. "O God," she said in a whisper, "Papa said praying is just talking, and we can talk about anything. I'm scared, God. I don't know where I'm going. I don't know what to do. Something bad has happened. . . ."

  Her voice caught as she took in a deep breath and closed her eyes. "But Papa said you always make something good come out of bad. God, please do it now. Please make something good happen. Please show me what I should do now. You're all I have, God. Show me the way."

  The sound of horse hooves on cobblestone streets mixed with the beat of the rain on the carriage. The wooden bench was hard underneath Kit, and the bumping of the carriage rattled her bones. Hold fast, she told herself. Hold fast.

  It seemed like hours before the carriage pulled to a stop. Kit looked out the small window and saw high iron bars stretching on for what seemed like forever. In the dismal rain the place looked like a prison. Then Kit saw above the iron gate a sign that read, ST. CATHERINE'S SCHOOL.

  "Out with you," the policeman said as he opened the carriage door. He was in a slicker and held an umbrella for her. Holding her Bible close, Kit stepped into the rain. Her feet landed in a puddle, wetting her cloth shoes.

  The policeman put his hand on her shoulder and led her to the gate.

  That's when she saw the angel of death.

  Kit would always remember Sister Gertrude that way. In her nun's habit of blackest black and her face a mere shadow under her own umbrella, she looked like some malevolent spirit from the abyss. And as the iron gate creaked open, Kit did feel as if she were entering a tomb—her own.

  "I take her from here," the nun said in a thick German accent.

  The policeman said nothing as he turned away. For a moment Kit was between them, uncovered, rain pelting her relentlessly.

  "Get here!" the dark nun said. She pulled Kit's arm so hard pain shot through her shoulder. "What is?" The pronunciation sounded like,Vott iss? Kit was momentarily confused, then felt the nun tugging at her father's Bible.

  "No!" Kit shouted. She pulled the Bible closer to her breast.

  The nun grabbed Kit's chin and cheeks in a viselike hand. "You vill not talk to me that vay again! I am Sister Gertrude. You vill obey me!"

  Sister Gertrude let go of Kit's face and with one quick snatch took the Bible.

  With a yelp and an anger she could not control, Kit reached out and grabbed the Bible with both her hands, pulling it free. She turned to run, not knowing where, but the nun caught her by the hair and pulled hard. Kit's head snapped back, fire shooting over her scalp. She felt herself falling backward, landing hard on the stones beneath her feet.

  The impact jolted her arms, and the Bible flew from her hands. She sensed more than saw Sister Gertrude picking it up.

  Rain blinded Kit as she looked up. Soaked and shivering, Kit heard Sister Gertrude say solemnly. "So vee haff trouble vit you. That vill end soon."

  Kit heard the gates clang shut and some heavy lock click into place. Then she felt the nun grasping her hair again, pulling her to her feet. The pain was almost unbearable, but Kit was determined not to utter another sound.

  In her mind, though, she was shouting, Why, God? Why have you brought me here?

  Part One

  Chapter One

  "LOS ANGELEEEEZ!" the conductor yelled. "Next stop!"

  Kit Shannon sat up with a start. Almost there! She reached up to force an errant strand of hair up under her straw hat and looked past her pale expression reflected in the train window to the scenery outside. More desert. It had been like this for hundreds of miles. The bustle of New York seemed but a distant memory.

  I must be insane!

  The words flashed into Kit's mind without warning, her heart pounding with the rhythm of the train. In just a few minutes she'd be turned loose in a world as unfamiliar to her as the tombs of Egypt.

  I am crazy. What do I know of Los Angeles? I should have stayed with Cousin Victoria and taken that teaching position in Manhattan. It was a good school and just right for an unmarried woman of twenty-three.

  Kit pushed aside her thoughts and squinted against the harsh sunlight. Was there really a city on the other side of all this dirt and sand? A city poised, as the eastern advertisements said, "to blossom in the sun"?

  Would she blossom there as well? She glanced down at her simple traveling costume—a wrinkled serge suit of navy blue and a well-worn white shirtwaist—and thought she looked like anything but a blossom. Would her great aunt Freddy, whom she was to meet for the first time, be completely mortified at her appearance?

  "Almost there, huh?"

  Kit turned and saw a tall, leggy man standing by her seat. He looked young and dashing in his dark suit and jaunty straw hat.

  "Mind if I . . . ?" He took the seat opposite her without waiting for her response and stretched out his legs. "Name's Phelps. Tom Phelps."

  "How do you do?" Kit said guardedly.

  "First rate. And your name?"

  "Kit . . . Kathleen Shannon." She tried not to appear as nervous as she felt. Surely the man would be harmless here in such a public setting. She had heard that the western states were much more relaxed in their protocols.

  "Sorry to be so forward, but that's how Tom Phelps is," he said. "First trip to Los Angeles?"

  "Yes, it is."

  "I could tell. Tom Phelps can always tell. It's how I make my living."

  What did he want with her? Kit felt both intrigued and cautious at the same time. The man had a way of putting her at ease with his open friendliness, and yet it was this companionable spirit that also put her on guard. At least he was a momentary antidote for her anxiety over meeting Aunt Freddy and facing her new life in Los Angeles.

  Without waiting for Kit to inquire, Phelps continued. "I'm a reporter for the Los Angeles Examiner. Ever heard of it?"

  "I'm sorry, no."

  "You will. It's new, owned by Mr. William Randolph Hearst. We'll give General Otis and the Times a run for their money."

  She nodded, allowing herself to study his face as he spoke. His eyes seemed to take in everything at once.

  "And what occasions your visit to our fair city, if I may ask?"

  "I am coming to live with my great aunt."

  "From?"

  "New York."

  "Quite a switch. You know, the City of Angels isn't as refined as your eastern hubbubs. We still have one boot in the Wild West."

  "And where is the other boot, Mr. Phelps?"

  He gave her a roguish grin. "Kicking at the new century, Miss Shannon. Do you realize it's already 1903? Doesn't it seem like yesterday that we turned the corner from the 1800s? Life moves fast these days, and people have to move fast with it or they'll find themselves run over."

  "All I see out there is desolation," Kit said, glancing at the window. "I've literally watched the country change from cities and green farmlands to this dry and barren place."

  "Looks can be deceiving, Miss Shannon. Remember that. There's plenty of life out there—you just need to know where to look. Me, I see plenty covering the law courts."

  Kit sat up with sudden interest. "You know the courts of law?"

  "Sure I do."

  "What are they like?"

  Phelps took a cigar from his pocket, bit off the tip, and spit it into the brass spittoon in the aisle. He took his time lighting it, then said, "Our courts are wide open, Miss Shannon. A far cry, I'd say, from what you have back East. Frontier justice, some say. But I'll tell you one little secret." He leaned forward, and Kit couldn't help but do likewise. "If you're rich," he said conspiratorially, "you can buy yourself a good lawyer. Money rides in our
town, Miss Shannon. You ever murder anybody, make sure you got the money to get a good lawyer."

  "I haven't any such plans, I assure you."

  "Well, a word to the wise. If you ever do, hire Earl Rogers."

  "Whom?"

  "Best criminal lawyer in Los Angeles, Miss Shannon. Maybe the world. I've seen him perform more miracles than Moses."

  Phelps took a puff on his cigar and regarded Kit closely. "Now, I've been sitting here revealing my charming self for a couple of minutes, and I haven't seen those eyes of yours light up once. Until just now, that is. Why is that, Miss Shannon?"

  Kit hadn't realize how transparent she'd been. "Well . . ." she hesitated. What would he think if she told him the truth? Perhaps she would do better to completely change the subject, or better yet, close the conversation entirely.

  "Come, now," he said, leaning ever closer. "Tell old Tom your secret."

  She squared her shoulders and chided herself for acting like a silly schoolgirl. What did it matter if he knew the truth? Soon everyone would. "It's really no secret," she began. "I've come to Los Angeles to practice law."

  His reaction couldn't have been stronger if she had revealed she was Theodore Roosevelt in a woman's dress. Phelps's mouth dropped open, and he nearly lost his cigar. His hand shot up quickly, and he saved the smoldering stogie with two fingers. The juggling act made Kit smile.

  "Did you say practice law?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well, I'll be . . ." Phelps stuck the cigar back in his mouth, leaned back, and considered her as if she were a curio in a pawn shop. Finally he said, "You seem like a perfectly nice young woman, Miss Shannon. Might I give you a piece of advice?"

  "Certainly," she answered.

  "Go back to New York," he said.

  "Go back? But why?"

  "This city's no place for you. It's hard-edged, and so is the law here. You'll get eaten alive, like a purebred horse down in a field full of vultures."

  "But I—"