Portlandtown: A Tale of the Oregon Wyldes (12 page)

“I am still at odds with this portrait, my friend. I did not pose for it, nor would I have,” he said forcibly. “This cannot be me. It
is
not!”

“I know,” said Joseph, as he passed the mayor another photo. “Here’s a fourth image, recovered during my investigations.”

The fourth picture, crisp and clear, having never been crushed out of frustration, was identical to the others except the man in this image had no face. A white mask, possibly made of cloth, covered all of the man’s head and neck below his hat.

“What is this?”

“That’s the original.”

“I don’t understand. This is not me.”

“No, but this is,” Joseph said, handing the mayor a two-month-old clipping from the
Portlandian
. It was a picture made at the ceremony celebrating the opening of the Morrison Street Bridge, and featured the mayor, front and center, grinning alongside the bridge’s architect. A closer examination of the image, specifically of the mayor’s face, revealed an exact match for the expression found in the boudoir portrait.

Joseph pointed to one of the crumpled photos in the mayor’s hand.

“The only part of this image that’s real—that’s you—is the face, and it was borrowed from this image captured months ago.”

The mayor’s eyes flitted from one image to next.

“Yes, yes, I see it. I’ve the same glint in my eye. Look here, Bart, they’re the same.”

“It’s appears so,” said the deputy mayor, peering over his boss’s shoulder.

“But how is this possible, Joseph?” asked the mayor. “What do you see that I do not?”

Joseph smiled. He had, of course, never seen the pictures in question. There was nothing for him to interpret by touch in any of the daguerreotypes. He could smell the chemicals on the paper, even the sweat left over from the mayor’s furious handlings, but it wasn’t until Kate described the images to him in great detail (minus the giggles) that he understood what he was and was not seeing.

“It’s a forgery, Mayor; a composite that combines elements from two separate pictures into one. It’s seamless, but it’s a lie.”

“Remarkable,” the mayor said, genuinely impressed.

“And effective,” said Joseph. “I gather you’ve yet to convince the governor or Secretary Milson of your innocence.”

“As I’m sure was the intent. In truth, I doubt either man took offense, but both seem convinced my reelection efforts would be damaged if such an image were to become public. They suggested I pay off the blackmailer, but if it could be proven to be fraudulent I might be able to sway their opinions.”

“It’s a complicated process, one that requires a delicate manipulation of light and shadow, but one that I could demonstrate if called upon,” Joseph said, knowing it would never come to that.

“Excellent!”

The deputy mayor laid a hand on the mayor’s shoulder.

“That may be good enough for the intellectuals, Mr. Mayor, but explaining such a distinction to the general public, especially after such a sensational image has been printed in the newspaper, is another matter altogether. There’s bound to be some confusion amongst the lesser minds.”

“Do they get a vote?”

“I’m afraid so,” said Bart.

“Yes, you’re right, of course,” said the mayor, a little defeated. “Then we nip it in the bud before it comes to that, which leaves us with the man. You said you had a name.”

“I do,” said Joseph. “Seamus Greeley.”

The mayor glanced at Bart, who shook his head.

“Never heard of him,” said the mayor.

Joseph nodded. “Mr. Greeley has a small apartment on Ash Street. It was there that I found this print, along with a store of photographic chemicals and papers, but no equipment.”

“In other words, he saw you coming,” said the deputy mayor. “He’s gone?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

For the first time, Joseph gave his full attention to the deputy mayor, who was not glad to have it. Even with only one eye, Joseph’s stare could penetrate deeply into the intentions of a man, regardless of whether he was an intellectual or in possession of a lesser mind. It was meant to unnerve. At that moment, Deputy Mayor Bart Hildebrandt could attest to its success.

“I still don’t know the man,” said the mayor. “I’d hope that my blackmailer at least has a rooting interest in whether I win or lose.”

“I believe he does, Mr. Mayor,” said Joseph, “and has for at least nine years.”

*   *   *

Kick blinked and then looked through the slit in the wall again. Something was off in the room. The emotion of the scene he’d been watching had changed. He didn’t have the words or understanding to explain it, but he knew something was going to happen—something bad.

“Maddie, I think something is—”

“Wrong,” finished Maddie. “I feel it, too.”

Kick looked at his sister. It wasn’t the first time they’d shared each other’s intuition, but it’d never been so strong.

“What do we do?”

“I don’t—”

And that’s when the first shot rang out.

8

A few minutes before the mayor and his deputy walked through the front door of Wylde’s, Booksellers and Navigation, Kate stepped off the Jefferson Street trolley and onto a muddy platform just above Fifth Avenue. This was as far as the streetcar could go without risking becoming fouled in the floodwaters. A series of sodden planks half submerged in the soggy street provided passage to the sidewalk, which Kate made without a misstep.

“We’re on foot the rest of the way.”

“Good,” the marshal said, hopping from the last plank to the sidewalk.

“You’re not tired?”

“Heck no. Used to it. Astoria ain’t but one big hill.”

Kate smiled. She hoped that meant the marshal had spent some time beyond the walls of his own house. Her vision of him alone, slowing going stir crazy, had grown over the past year, culminating in its near certainty after the incident in the graveyard.
“At least he got outside,”
Joseph had commented. Kate was not amused.

Still, if he could keep up with her now, perhaps he’d done better on his own than she’d thought.

A few blocks on, Kate stopped at a corner behind a line of pedestrians waiting to cross a narrow, elevated walkway. A small skiff floated beneath the bridge, pushed along by a lone Chinese man. Several tightly wrapped packages were stacked in the well of the boat, guarded by a small, flat-faced dog with big eyes, straw-colored fur, and a curly tail.

“What is that?” said the marshal, eyeing the animal directly as it drifted past. The dog appraised the marshal briefly, then seemed to lose interest and turned its attention elsewhere.

“Laundry service,” Kate said.

“No, no, in the boat. That some kind of Siamese cat?”

“It’s a dog. A pug. Chinese are fond of them, although there’s a family a few blocks above us that has one, too.”

“That’s a dog?”

“Be sure to tell Maddie you saw one. She’s quite fond of them—pugs, I mean. She says their eyes are big and round, just like a person’s.”

The marshal watched the laundry boat cross the flooded street to a storefront on the other side. The dog remained seated while its master clambered over the side to deliver his packages.

“You’re sure that’s a dog.”

“Yes. Now, come on. We’ve a ways to go yet.”

Five blocks from the family store, Kate finally got up the nerve to ask the question that had been on her mind since they’d left the house.

“Would you like to help out? With the business, I mean.”

The marshal considered the offer. “I don’t know much about bookselling.”

“No, I mean with our other work, our investigations.”

The marshal said nothing. When Kate had asked the question, his mind had been elsewhere, back at the house, perhaps, in his room. It took him a moment to shake loose what he’d left behind.

“Help out with the investigations,” he repeated, more for himself than his daughter. “You want me to dig out my badge? It ain’t legal. I’m not affiliated with the U.S. Marshals, or even Clatsop County, for what it’s worth.”

“No, I don’t mean like that,” Kate said, deciding not to add that Joseph already had a badge that he’d flashed on several occasions despite its dubious legality. “It’s just you’ve got a lot of experience dealing with certain low-level elements of society. And it seems our investigations occasionally take us into situations where practical experience in this area might be a useful tool to lean on.”

The marshal took his daughter’s arm, stopping her in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Are you in trouble, Katie?”

“Absolutely not!”

“Sounds to me like you are,” the marshal said. “Sounds to me like you’re wantin’ someone to look over your shoulder, someone knows how to handle a weapon.”

“That’s not it at all,” Kate said, wondering if her words sounded as false to her father as they did to her own ears. “I’m just saying,” she began, but got no further.

The marshal relaxed his grip but didn’t let go of Kate’s arm.

“What?”

“Most of what we do is fairly benign, boring even. But there are times, rare occasions, when I think it would be wise to have an experienced lawman on our side to help negotiate certain situations.”

“Negotiate, huh?” the marshal said, letting go of his daughter’s arm. “Sounds like a fancy way of sayin’ ‘shoot somebody.’”

“I doubt it’ll ever come to that.”

The marshal recalled the conversation with Joseph and his insistence that Kate knew how to handle herself …
in certain situation
s.

“What’s your husband think of this idea?”

“It was his,” Kate said, which was a lie. It wasn’t Joseph’s idea—not yet, anyway.

The marshal considered the offer. There was no doubt he would take it, would run whatever kind of
negotiations
his daughter had in mind, but he was pleased to find himself more than a little excited about the idea. It felt good. It felt right.

He would need to wear a gun.

“Course I’ll help you, Katie. Whatever you need. Just tell me when and where and I’ll back your man with whatever set of skills you fancy are best suited for the, ah, negotiations.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Kate said as she curled an arm around her father’s and pulled him back into the flow of the morning’s foot traffic.

“So, does this mean you’re expectin’ a specific conversation to commence this morning?”

Kate laughed.

“Not at all. I would say this morning’s business will be as boring as usual.”

*   *   *

Joseph heard the deputy mayor pull the small, two-shot pocket revolver from his coat, cock the hammer, and place the muzzle at the back of the mayor’s head, but he didn’t react, initially. He knew about the gun, of course, had since the man walked through the door, but he was still surprised the deputy had chosen to act so rashly. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

“Bart, what is the meaning of this?” demanded the mayor.

“I’d think it obvious, Jim.”

“What? Are you in league with this Greeley?”

The deputy mayor’s eyes went wide.

“You are such a stupid man,” he said and depressed the trigger, deciding only the instant before the hammer fell to raise the angle of the weapon.

The bullet passed close enough to part the hairs on top of the mayor’s head. Joseph heard it ricochet off the spiral staircase and lodge in a book on the second-floor loft. He thought momentarily of the kids in the storeroom and then returned his attention to the mayor and his deputy. The kids were smart. They would stay out of sight.

Bart brought the handle of the pistol sharply down on the back of the mayor’s head, then repositioned it at the base of the man’s skull.

“I’m Greeley, you moron!”

The mayor cringed, stung by his deputy’s words as much as by the butt of his gun. He looked to Joseph for help, although whether more for safety or satisfaction, Joseph wasn’t sure.

“There is no Seamus Greeley,” Joseph said. “There never was. Your deputy forged him from the ether to keep me off his scent.”

Bart leaned in close to the mayor’s ear. “He’s a clever one, isn’t he? You should have put him on the payroll years ago.”

“It was a good plan, but the trail left for me to find Seamus was clumsy and more revealing than I believe he intended.”

Bart put a hand on the mayor’s shoulder and slid the gun around to his temple. He eyed Joseph.

“You’re a prideful man, aren’t you, Joseph? You couldn’t simply accuse me out in the open. It had to be face-to-face. That was foolish.”

“To each his own,” said Joseph.

The deputy mayor grinned. “And now I’m a fool.”

The gun turned from the mayor’s temple, requiring only a slight readjustment to find its new target. Joseph would have missed the motion completely had it not been for the faintest of gasps he heard coming behind him.

“Do you suppose a hole in the head would throw you off the trail?”

Joseph knew he could move out of the way of any shot fired by the deputy, but would leave the mayor vulnerable in doing so. He remained still.

“Foolish pride notwithstanding, I’m still at a loss, gentlemen,” said the mayor. “Why exactly is there a gun at my head?”

Bart stepped back, resetting the weapon low on the mayor’s skull.

“My reasons are simple enough. I don’t like you. I never have, although what man is really worthy company in an arrangement such as ours? Better to find enjoyment in the work, but I’m afraid even that has lost its appeal. Mostly, however…” The deputy mayor flinched several times and then seemed to shake it off. “Mostly I just hate the goddamn rain. I hate it. Everything’s wet here, every day, all the time. Whole wretched town is nothing but a giant mud hole ten months out of the year.”

“That’s not true,” said the mayor. “Look at today! It’s lovely, sunny, must be eighty degrees.”

“And yet we’re under three feet of water and will be for weeks! And you can’t wait for it to start raining again.”

“Well, of course, for the festival—”

“Damn the festival! Who wants to tromp around in the muck and mire, in the damp, dark cold? Nobody! Just you and your soggy followers.”

The mayor sighed. “I didn’t know you felt that way, Bart.”