The Resurrectionists

THE

RESURRECTIONISTS

A Novel

THE

RESURRECTIONISTS

A Novel

Stephanie M. Braun

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2023 by Stephanie M. Braun

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

First paperback edition May 2023

Book cover design by Emily Laubscher

ISBN 979-8-9877727-0-6 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-9877727-1-3 (ebook)

www.stephaniembraun.com

Author’s Note

Several years ago, I sat at my desk and sorted files while listening to the hosts of the podcast, Sawbones, talk about the Resurrection Men of Victorian times. Their discussion sparked the idea for a heist story, and so this book was born.

After writing fantasy stories, historical suspense felt impossible; instead of creating a world in which almost anything is possible, I now had to uncover a real-life time and place, and set in it a story that could actually hold water. I am grateful to the San Francisco Public Library, specifically their historical documents section, and the librarians who brought me anything you’ve got about San Francisco in 1877. And then, when it became clear 1877 was not the time frame I’d pictured, they brought me everything from 1890. I read and researched and generally tried to develop a familiarity with 1890’s San Francisco that would allow these characters to feel at home in the setting.

No character in this novel is based on anyone from history, though I hope they are plausible. The aim of this book isn’t to tell an exact truth, but to tell a fun and interesting story filled with fun and interesting people. The aim of this book is to be honest if not completely truthful.

In that vein, I must admit here that there are elements of this story that are a stretch, that are – in the words of one acquisitions editor – whimsical. I can’t deny it, and wouldn’t want to. I hope you will lean into it and forgive the stretch. At the end of the day, dear reader, this is a work of fiction, and I truly hope you enjoy the story.

For Little Gare.

Enjoy your cookbook.

June 11, 1890

San Francisco

He's dead!

The woman's wail pierced the night.

We don't know that yet, the man defended, but his ragged voice merely validated her despair. She didn't hear him, only lunged toward the gash in the earth, crying out and reaching for the body inside. Another man pulled her back, gentle in his movements, while yet another climbed out of the hole they had just dug.

Fire exploded in the distance, crashing into the darkness. Chaos claimed the night and they sprang into action. Spurred by the silhouette of a lone lawman, the figures scrambled to gather their supplies before sprinting away.

One stayed, paralyzed by the shock of it all. This wasn't part of his plan. He didn't deserve it. He stared at the dead body at his feet.

Shit.

May 31, 1890

11 Days Earlier

JESSICA

Uncle Alfie, Jessica admonished. Have you no regard for the opinions of your peers? A playful expression covered the real anxiety that rose in the moment. Her brown eyes glanced around surreptitiously, searching the folks milling around to see if she and the distinguished man in the carriage had caught any attention.

My peers be damned. Alfred Sherman, seated above her, thumped his ornate cane against the floor. Come up here, girl. You are my family. Why shouldn't I be expected to invite you to join me on a sunny morning?

Jessica considered for only a second more before stepping up to join him. In her estimation, the longer she stood there looking up at him the greater a chance that someone would take notice, an outcome she wished to avoid, both for his sake and her own. Once she had settled herself across from him she fixed him with a stern look. "You know there are people who will judge you for allowing me to ride with you. I am, after all, a soiled dove."

Uncle Alfie scoffed, then fell into a coughing fit. I thought the lack of fog would be good for this, he said when he calmed, more to himself than to her. Please do forgive me.

Of course, Jessica dismissed his apology with a wave. Are you still feeling poorly?

It is nothing I have not experienced before, he said, but something in his expression gave her pause. She peered at him, frustrated that she could not read him as easily as she could others. He returned her stare. Tell me once more why you refuse my offer to stay with me. It would, he paused for a brief moment before barreling on. Legitimize you, my dear.

Jessica's stomach burned, and her concern for her uncle melted away. You are rather blunt.

And why should I not be? You are my family, after all. It falls to me to protect and care for you.

No. Jessica's voice was firm. Uncle Alfie's eyebrows rose but he said nothing. Uncle Alfie, you are my family and I am grateful to spend time with you. But I have learned not to fall into the foolishness of allowing others to run my life – no matter their relation. I've already made the mistake of trusting others to protect me. I will not repeat it. She looked out over the ocean in silence as they rolled past the waterfront. There was comfort in the repetition of the waves as they tumbled over each other before fleeing back to the sea. Finally she looked back at her uncle. Besides, you stand more to lose from associating with me than I do by living with Charlie.

Uncle Alfie's nose wrinkled at the mention of Charles Tremain but he said nothing about the man Jessica was living with. What were you saying about protecting others? he murmured.

It was different, Jessica thought. She had learned that she could survive on her own, but for such a powerful man Uncle Alfie seemed oddly frail, and as much as he claimed he would pay no mind to his peers ostracizing him for associating with her, she knew he would be affected by their disdain. His money and prestige might still allow him access anywhere, but she was well acquainted with the loneliness that accompanied the stares and whispers. She had grown accustomed to the feeling. 

But to know that they would turn their venom on Uncle Alfie? That she could not allow.

She had only just reconnected with her uncle after years apart. She recalled the trepidation that had plagued her when she sent the first message to him after being set up in Charlie's house. It was one of the reasons she had set her sights on Charles Tremain: only a letter from such a prestigious name would make it to the hands of a man like Alfred Sherman.

His reply had come more quickly than she ever could have expected, and was warmer than she felt she deserved. Of course her dear old uncle remembered her, he'd written, and he would be damned if his niece would live in San Francisco without calling upon him. He had not been feeling quite well as of late, but would she stop by some afternoon?

Jessica cherished the visits they'd had. To be embraced so instantly and warmly by Uncle Alfie after so many years without family seemed something out of a dream she had never allowed herself to acknowledge. They were still getting to know each other, still overcoming the awkwardness of decades apart, but for all her resistance to his attempts at helping her, something deep and primal inside made it clear she could never let go of him. While she was growing up he had provided a sense of calm in the storm that was her life. Now, however, he seemed a lifeline, tethering her to her roots and helping her remember who she really was amidst the fluff and insincerity that now ruled her life.

With a sigh she looked at her uncle, who was beaming at her with affection. Come now, she said and she reached across the carriage to grip his hand. Let's put this talk aside. Tell me all about the soprano who was in town last month. Was she just as talented as people say?

Her heart pounded in her throat and her tongue felt thick in her suddenly dry mouth. It had been a perfectly nice morning with Uncle Alfie. This could not be happening.

He could not be happening.

She ducked around a corner and rested her head against the rough, dusty wood of the storefront facade. It was just a stranger – a stranger who looked and moved like him, but that meant nothing. There were hundreds – maybe even thousands! – of men in San Francisco. Of course one of them would share similarities with him. It only made sense.

She put her hand over her wildly beating heart, willing it to slow. She struggled to draw in a few deep breaths and told herself it just would not do to allow panic to overtake her. Panic, she reminded herself, would only lead to carelessness, and if her brain wasn't playing tricks on her, if he had in fact followed her to San Francisco, she would need to keep her wits about her and think clearly.

She poked her head around the corner and looked around, wishing now that she had been calm enough to notice the direction in which he walked. A man brushed against her as he hurried past and she jumped back with a gasp.

Pull yourself together, Jessica, she commanded herself. She closed frightened brown eyes and let the familiar words run through her mind. You are safe. Over and over they played, until she almost believed them, or – at any rate – believed them enough that she was able to step out of the shadow and into the light.

It was a technique she had learned on her travels with an old peddler. The grandfatherly man, kind and shrewd, made his living selling snake oils, moving from town to town too quickly to be taken to task by his customers. It was Chicago where she'd met him, where she'd watched him set up his cart and gather a crowd more quickly than anyone else she had encountered. Apparently he had noticed her, too, because when the sun began setting and it was time for him to close down for the day, he called her over and introduced himself.

Clarence Meriwether, he said, ignoring the way Jessica's shoulders hunched as though she hoped to shun all attention.

Perhaps, though, she was not completely closed off to human interaction, because she took a step forward.

Jessica. She cast her mind for a usable surname. Chase. It fit, as Jessica felt she would be ever running from the past that had chased her out of her hometown. Yes, it would do nicely.

Pleasure to meet you. He made no comment on the obvious lie that was her name.

Likewise. Her voice was cold and tight as she extended a hesitant hand to accept his cheerfully offered shake.

Happy to make a new acquaintance, Clarence loaded a box into the cart that doubled as his display table. Jessica peered at the objects that were still out and unboxed before picking up a jar and inspecting the label. Patience: Fills the user with the greatest of all virtues! Clarence saw her rifling through his inventory but made no comment as she picked up another. Temperance: Imbibes the drinker with moderation in all things!  She scoffed as she set it down. She picked up yet another jar. Courage. Her grip tightened around the glass. Drink to receive valor, boldness, and freedom from fear!

Clarence continued packing his items, casual and calm in his movements. You don't need that, he said.

Jessica almost dropped the bottle. In her desperation she had forgotten he was there. She cleared her throat and attempted to mimic his nonchalance. Is that so?

Clarence stopped packing and faced her. It is so. He nudged the brim of his hat up and used his handkerchief to wipe sweat from his brow. Summertime in Chicago. Hotter than I anticipated. He pocketed his handkerchief and closed up another box.

What makes you say that? Jessica pressed.

About the weather? Clarence looked surprised. Well, I suppose that is because it's almost impos –

No, not the weather. Jessica waved this away. About the jar. About the elixir you're selling.

Now Clarence scoffed. Elixir? Girl, you look like you have brains in your head. Use them. He plucked the jar from her hands. This is nothing more than water and sugar, with a little bourbon and pepper thrown in for good measure. He dropped it into a box. If you want courage you have to make it yourself.

Jessica took a step back. You said exactly the opposite while standing on that box earlier.

I did, Clarence allowed. That doesn't make it true. He saw her betrayed expression and laughed. Don't look so surprised, Missy! How on earth can an elixir be expected to bring a body courage? Or patience or temperance, for that matter? No reasonable person would believe it if they thought about it for two minutes.

How can you sell those? She was affronted. "You told all those people lies! You sold them lies!"

Clarence huffed out a sigh. "Don't let yourself get all snooty, little miss. I sell people possibility. Folks find whatever it is they're looking for. They want a magic pill – or elixir, he held up a bottle, to fix their problems. I give them that. More often than not they find the result they want."

From sugar water mixed with alcohol?

From the idea that they are in control of their lives. He gave her an appraising look. What do you need courage for? Jessica lifted her chin and stayed silent. Clarence laughed outright. See that? I'd wager you have courage in excess. Someone has twisted it, is all. I'll tell you what: you come with me and help me on my route and we can avoid whatever it was that made you scared. He held out his hand again.

Jessica eyed the extended hand warily. Why are you offering to help me? Why not just sell me a bottle of 'possibility' and let me go on my way?

Pretty girl like you could help me sell a few more bottles. Or not. He shrugged and turned away. S'your choice.

I would get a cut?

Absolutely.

And I could leave whenever I want? She had intended for it to be a demand, but it came out as a question. Clarence took a step back, then looked at her intently. She was self-conscious as his gaze traveled over her tangled hair and tattered dress but she held her ground.

What kind of a monster do you think I am? The question made her flinch even though his voice was gentle. Of course you can leave whenever you'd like. He shook his head. Whoever he was, I am not.

Jessica stared at him, wavering between opposing desires: one to join him and the other to run. Finally, deciding to trust her instinct, she stepped forward and offered her hand. It's a deal.

Clarence smiled as he shook her hand. Well then, partner. Grab that box there and fill it up. He searched the night over his shoulder, then grinned at her. Some of that possibility may be wearing off, and we want to be out of town before it's all gone.

Yes, sir, she said and turned to do as she was told. His hand on her arm stopped her. She cursed her foolishness as her heart began to pound and she suddenly realized she was alone with a man she did not know. Did she have an escape? Her eyes flicked to the alleyway behind the cart. Perhaps she could sprint toward it if she needed to make a quick getaway, though she would have to get around him first.

None of that, now, he said. His gray eyes were serious in the twilight. Fear, deep and primal, made Jessica's mouth go dry. No 'yes sir's' and 'no sir's,' is that understood?

Jessica's mind came to an abrupt halt. He didn't want her to call him sir? Yes, si – She looked down. Yes.

First lesson, Miss Chase, Clarence said. You are safe. She looked at him and wanted to believe him but felt something like a stone inside, barring her ability to trust. He held her gaze and said it again. You are safe. Come on, he coaxed. Now you say it.

Jessica tugged at her arm and he released it immediately. I'll say it when I choose to. She turned to fill the box, unaware then that she had just learned her first lesson: she was safe.

Now, over a year later, she cursed herself for turning back into the weak girl she once was, even if only for a moment. It hadn't been him – it couldn't have been him. He couldn't know where to find her.

She pressed her hands against her ribs and wished for the freedom to take a full breath. She hated the whalebone that lined the bodice of her dress. Charlie, God bless him, wanted to shower her with finery, and she wasn't about to turn him down. But finery, she had learned, came at a cost, and she couldn't help but despise anything that made her feel bound. Although, it didn't count as binding if she chose to wear it, she reminded herself, and she checked to make sure her jaunty hat was still in its place. Satisfied, she stepped into the sunlight, scanning the crowd for any sign that he actually was in town.

June 1, 1890

10 Days Remaining

FELIX

Felix Rodgers caught his reflection in the storefront window and gave a sharp tug to the bottom of his vest before smoothing his hands down his front. Dust. There was no shortage of dust in this godforsaken city.

God, he hated this place. Paris of the West, he thought derisively. Like hell. Yes, there were buildings lining the roads, but they rose higher than they had a right to, bucking the orderly control that more civilized cities embraced. No surprise there, he mused, as anybody who would build on hills like this must be more insane than civilized. Between the steep inclines and the chilly, damp mornings that burned away in the heat of the afternoon sun, San Francisco was a decidedly unpleasant place to be. Of course, he could expect nothing else since it was inhabited by thieves and scoundrels, drawn by hope there would be any gold left in them there hills, lured by the promise of easily obtained land, or pushed by some moral sense of superiority. He understood the latter. With the abundance of brown skin and almond-shaped eyes he'd seen since arriving, Felix felt assured of his superiority, moral or otherwise.

Why Jess had settled here was beyond his comprehension. Perhaps she appreciated the distance from their home; he could think of no place farther away, unless she boarded a ship and set sail for Europe. A year ago, when there'd been no sign of her in Boston, he had worried she'd done just that. It wasn't until a meeting with, Dobson Green, a former associate, that he had felt sure she was still stateside. Felix had been annoyed and barely listening as Green begged to be allowed a second chance in assisting Felix with jobs, promising his lips would not be so loose again. It was a useless request. Though Green's carelessness had not put Felix into personal danger, he could hardly be expected to work with a man who'd proven himself untrustworthy.

Just as he had been about to dismiss the sniveling man, his attention had been caught. I saw your lady out West.

Even now Felix felt the same dark thrill of excitement and determination as he had in the moment Green said it. Traveling with one of those medicine men. I'm sure it was her, he blabbed on, apparently unaware that he was in fact disproving his promise to keep his mouth closed.  Man says Reno is their next stop.

Felix had left for Reno that night, in search of anyone who may have knowledge of an old man and young woman peddling wares. They were not in Reno, but after an exorbitant amount of money, the proprietor of a boarding house suddenly remembered that he had overheard some discussion of California.

That's it? Felix had asked, fury burning his throat and making his words harsh. California is a giant place.

Unconcerned, the proprietor had merely shrugged before turning to walk into his office. Take it or leave it, Mister. I've got nothin' else.

Though tempted to lash out at the dismissive man, Felix had instead focused his efforts on figuring out where Jess had gone. He took a chance when he decided on San Francisco rather than traveling south to Los Angeles. His only hope was that he was close on her tail, and as he had no cartful of items slowing him down he could make better time than she.

And so he found himself in San Francisco. This Wild West that others idolized only made him sick. Despair had almost overtaken him when he had learned that the medicine man had indeed been in town but had left a few months ago. And then! His source mentioned that yes, the man had left, but his female assistant had not gone with him.

Jess was here, in this horrible place. He knew it. He could withstand the dust and grime if it meant he would have her back in his life. And he would have Jess back in his life. It would take time and convincing, but he was willing to put in the effort to remind her of her rightful place. Steel replaced the thrill in his gut and he glared at his reflection in the window. No one left him the way she had. He decided when he was done with a person.

With a decisive nod, Felix stalked off in the direction of a public house he'd passed earlier in the day. He couldn't wait to see her again.

Jess would learn what happened to those who dismissed Felix Rodgers.

JESSICA

Felix Rodgers.

His name turned her stomach. She swallowed against the bile that rose in her throat as she watched him through the filthy window of the bar, gulping down what was no doubt a disgusting concoction. Swine, that's what he was. Useless, horrible swine. Almost as though he could hear her thoughts, he looked to the window. She ducked away, her heart beating furiously in her chest.

Of course he had found her. Only a fool would think she could move on, could believe he would not follow her. Could believe she was safe.

She thought back to Clarence Meriwether, and one of the first lessons he had taught her. If you want courage you have to make it yourself.

Jessica stiffened her spine against the turmoil within. She would be damned if she would let Felix Rodgers chase her from her new home. It did not matter that her mouth was dry and her heart could not decide whether it wanted to flutter or pound, and so settled on skipping beats instead. She had already put down too many roots to leave now.

She had to make her own courage? Fine. She would do that and then some. Hadn't she proven herself resourceful over the last few months? She was not the same simpering female she had been in Boston. It was with a resolute nod that she strode away from the window and back toward more civilized neighborhoods.

Felix Rodgers would rue the day he set foot in San Francisco.

Felix Rodgers would rue the day he crossed Jessica Chase.

Good evening, Charlie, Jessica cooed. She walked through the great room, stopping when she reached the fireplace. The fog is thick tonight, she commented. It sent a chill down to my bones.

Charles Tremain had long since stopped greeting her when she swept into a room. When he wasn't otherwise occupied he would flick a glance toward her in what she thought a fittingly British manner: refined and restrained. Tonight he barely