The Empire of Shadows (19 page)

Mike didn't look directly at Tom. He just shrugged and said, “Maybe whoever killed her—maybe he…”

“Yeah,” Tom said. “That's probably it.”

After a while longer they retraced their steps out to the road. Tom took another look at the wagon tracks, going further up and down the road to see if he could tell anything about them.

“Appears as if the wagon pulled off here. I can't be sure, but I think it stopped. The hoofprints are different here than they are back there. Not as kicked up, like the horse was standing still.”

“You can tell that from these tracks?” Mike said, his brow knitting into a frown.

“I'm no goddamn Daniel Boone, if that's what you're asking,” Tom said with a wry grin, “but I think it's a fair guess.” He showed Mike what he meant about the hoofprints, then looked again at the other side of the road. “May as well check over there, too,” he said.

They looked at the margin of the road, not finding anything, then plunged into the verge of trees, checking the ground for any prints. “I don't know why we're doing this. I told you we didn't see anybody else,” Mike said after a while.

“Well, you're probably right. Who knows, that wagon could have been here hours after you were gone. No way to be sure. One thing I can tell you, though, is if you find a piece of evidence that's out of place you have to check it. Hardest thing about doing an investigation is keeping an open mind. You gotta let the facts lead
you,
not the other way around.”

Mike shrugged and looked around in a disinterested way. He started to walk out toward the road when he stopped. “What's this?” he said.

Tom saw him point to a tree and he walked over to get a better look. There, on the trunk of a young, smooth-skinned oak, was a series of small holes, the yellow wood below the bark showing through. Tom put his nose to the marks.

“I can smell the sap. It's fresh,” he said. He looked at the ground and could see a number of footprints at the base of the tree and behind a bigger tree a foot or two away. “Somebody was here,” he said.

“Doing what?” Mike said, looking around.

Tom stood behind the tree and looked at the road. There was a clear view, though it was plain that anyone behind the tree would have been hard to spot from the road. “Watching. Maybe watching,” Tom said.

He took another look at the marks on the tree.

“And killing time. He stuck his knife into this tree. Bored,” Tom said to himself. “Tracks say he was here for a while. How long were you and Lettie over there, Mike?”

“Couple hours, I'd guess.”

“Couple hours,” Tom said, running a hand through his hair. “He's bored. He's hiding. He's sticking his knife into this tree. Maybe the tree's not the only thing he sticks his knife into,” Tom said, regretting it as soon as he saw a dark cloud pass across Mike's face.

“Sorry,” Tom said.

“But why? None of this makes any sense. You've got what, two men now—following me and Lettie around, looking to kill us—or her, or
what?
Why? Nobody wanted to kill her, and I know nobody wanted to kill me, so what the hell would somebody be following us for? This is all just guessing. This stuff,” he waved his hand at the tracks and the trees, “it just happens to be here. Who knows why? But it don't have anything to do with me and Lettie.”

Tom shrugged. “Maybe you're right. Maybe there's nothing to this,” he said, looking closely at the marks on the tree while he talked, noticing for the first time their slightly triangular shape, “but, in my experience, coincidence is just a cover for the guilty.”

 

Late in the afternoon Frederick Durant knocked on Tom and Mary's door, apologizing for the intrusion.

“I just wanted to inform you that in all likelihood a sheriff won't be able to get here until tomorrow at the earliest,” he told them. “It seems our closest was at Lake George, and he's on a fishing trip somewhere up the lake.”

“Hmph,” Tom grunted with an annoyed shrug.

“I know how hard this is for you both,” Durant went on. “But there's no helping it. I'm truly sorry,” Frederick added with formal awkwardness.

Tom nodded, saying nothing at first, but finally he said “Doesn't make me like it any better. That doctor of yours is jumping to conclusions. A man gets a thing fixed in his head in such a way he'll only see things that fit with it.”

“I understand, Tom,” Frederick replied. “I, too, am more than a little concerned with that. I worry about the, um, how shall I put this—the objectivity of local authorities, if you understand me.”

“I do,” Tom said. “Your doctor may carry a lot of weight up here, and it seems his mind is made up. God knows what kind of sheriff you've got. And judges, let's face it, backwoods judges are always a roll of the dice, from what I hear.”

Frederick nodded. “I'm not without influence, Tom. My cousin also has friends we can rely on for fair treatment before the law.”

“That's good to know,” Mary said with an appreciative but worried smile.

Frederick nodded, turning to go. “Oh, I almost forgot. You have another telegram.” He handed it to Tom. “Came in just a little while ago, I understand.”

Tom sat by the window a minute later and read the message.

“What is it, Tommy?” Mary asked, watching him closely.

“Message from Chowder. About that prisoner that escaped the day we left. May be coming our way. Says he mailed me all the information he's got on the case and the magnifying glass I asked for.”

“What do you mean? Coming to the Adirondacks?”

“Well, the prisoner, he was an Indian called Tupper, and he used to live up here somewhere, according to Chowder. Chowder thinks he's headed north.”

Mary looked increasingly concerned as Tom told her this. It seemed to her that he was taking this telegram too seriously. “You're not thinking of going after him, are you? What are you supposed to do, go off chasing this man and leave Mike to fend for himself?” Mary said.

Tom looked at her in surprise. He hadn't thought to act on the telegram. He'd simply thought it interesting. He could understand her reaction, though. It wouldn't be the first time he'd dropped something for the job. Tom shrugged.

“Normally, you'd be right. There's nothing normal about this situation, though. Mike's my first priority. That's all there is, plain and simple,” Tom said, laying the telegram aside. “Besides, there isn't enough here,” he added with a nod toward the telegram, “to do much of anything about.”

Mary sighed. “I'm sorry Tommy,” she said. “I'm just—I mean, this whole situation has got me at sixes and sevens.” She came over to him and gave him a quick kiss. “Forgive me?”

“Of course,” Tom said. “I'm on edge, too. Who wouldn't be?”

Mary nodded. Still, she had a bad feeling about that little sheet of paper, and was curious about something else.

“What was that about a magnifying glass? Have you been in touch with Chowder.”

Tom had held off telling Mary about what he'd found. He wanted to take a closer look and find out more before he told her anything that might raise her hopes prematurely. He abandoned that plan now. “Mary, last night I…” He hesitated for a moment, uncertain if he should tell her how he'd found Mike in the icehouse. “Well, I suppose you'll find out anyway,” he said.

“Find out what?” she said.

Tom walked her out onto their verandah, where they sat and were able to look out over the lake as they talked. He told her everything of the night before, how he'd searched for Mike and how he'd found him, as well as what his examination had turned up. Mary put her hands up to her face as though she could hold back the image that Tom's words had conjured.

“He was in there—alone with the body—
with
her? Dear God. Oh, dear God,” she said, almost sobbing the words. Turning red eyes to Tom, she said, “I hardly thought I slept at all last night. I should have been—I should have known, or something.”

Tom put a hand on hers. “You were exhausted. The climb, and then this. I don't know why I went to check on him myself. Listen to me. This is nothing to worry yourself over. What's done is done.”

Mary took a deep breath and looked out over the lake.

There was laughter on the broad lawn in front of the hotel. A group of girls played at some game or other. Mary wanted to scream at them. She dabbed at her damp face and asked in as calm a voice as she could muster, “What did you find out?”

He told her all there was, the fact that he'd found no pantalets on the body, and of his other discovery, a piece of plaid cloth that was not part of her clothing.

“I've got my theories about that, of course. That's one reason I wanted a magnifying glass. I need to examine her more closely, scrape under her nails, look at the head wound, and give this a closer look, too,” he said.

“There's always something, some piece of the attacker that is left behind—blood, a broken fingernail, flesh scraped off by a nail, something. I can learn more about the weapon, too. I've been trying to work it out, fit the pieces together, and at the same time handle how I'm going to use it once I'm sure. I worry about that doctor. If I tell him things too soon, I mean before I know more, he could dismiss it or invent his own theories, even destroy evidence. Anything's possible.”

“You found this in her mouth?” Mary said with a queasy turn of her lip.

Tom nodded. “I think she bit it off in the struggle,” he said, looking closely at the piece of cloth in his hand. “You have a better theory on how it got in her mouth?”

The sun sank as Tom and Mary talked. The mountain, towering to their right, glowed orange. A steamboat rounded the point, tooting its whistle and setting the white buck charging about his pen.

“It seems ages ago that Mike got bit,” Mary said half to herself.

“Strange how things work out,” Tom replied.

“If he hadn't been bit, perhaps he'd never have met that girl.”

Mary gave a little start. “I hadn't thought about that. It's true,” she admitted, looking down at the animal bounding about his enclosure. They sat and watched the white buck, the blue water, and the orange mountain.

The crack and echo of shooting jolted them out of their thoughts.

“Sounds like the Duryea boys are at it again,” Tom said. “Those two do more shooting than any ten men I know, me included.”

Mary seemed to be only half listening as the shooting echoed across the lake, bouncing off the mountain in answering volleys.

“We have to talk to him, you know,” Mary said at last.

Tom sighed. “I know. I've been putting it off. It's been hard enough on him as it is,” Tom said.

“In a way, we've been lucky there's been no sheriff close by. He's had some time to mourn without having to deal with, well—whatever.”

“Charges,” Tom said, finishing her thought in a grim, low voice. “You're right. We had a pretty good talk today. We'll have to go over it all, though, learn whatever we can.”

Mary turned away for a second in a gesture Tom had come to know well. “I don't think I should be there, Tom,” she said. “I think he'll be more open with you. I mean about the girl and…”

“You're right,” Tom said. “He's more likely to tell me about the girl,” Tom said. “There're things a boy doesn't tell his mother.”

The men had talked of the fire for most of the day before. In a place where things seemed to move as slowly as the seasons, news of a fire was worth at least a day's conversation. Tupper was amazed the news had traveled so fast. Somehow, he'd never thought of the telegraph. It was Durant's connection to the outside world, a convenience he'd insisted on, running wire all the way from North Creek to Blue, and then on to Raquette some fifty miles or more. Jim couldn't begin to imagine how much it must have cost. It was beyond his reckoning.

Tupper hadn't volunteered much to the talk about the fire, though he'd been asked plenty. Everyone knew he'd been there that day and everyone seemed to think he'd have something to say on the matter, even though he'd been back at Pine Knot by the time the blaze was discovered.

“Barn was standin' when I left,” he said when anyone asked, which was quite true. He never spoke of the couple he'd watched. It was one part of his trip to the Prospect House he didn't mention.

He'd settled into a comfortable routine the last couple of days, working and bunking with the rest of the men in a tent camp that moved with the new road as they cut it through the forest. Tupper had no idea where it was going, other than the fact that it would probably not get there for as long as a year. He was content with that and looked forward to the feel of cash in his pocket.

The food was plentiful, the work hard enough to keep his mind from his troubles in the city and from
Segoewat'ha
. “The tormentor,” his grandfather used to say, “is in all men. Treat him as you would a serpent. Lock the devil in his cage and let him out only in the face of your enemies.”

His grandfather had been wise in the ways of
Segoewat'ha
. His grandfather had once met Handsome Lake, the great Seneca prophet and preacher of the
Gaíwiio,
the code by which all true Iroquois lived. Grandfather had been a young buck of barely sixteen summers in 1814 when Handsome Lake came to his village. Though Tupper had never seen the great Handsome Lake in life, he knew much of him and remembered times when he was young, when preachers came to chant the
Gaíwiio
in his little village. Thinking of Handsome Lake and the code he preached was calming for Jim. He was contented remembering the ceremonies, the throwing of tobacco, and the ritual response,
eniáiehuk.

Tupper's thoughts were interrupted by the foreman who'd ridden his horse close to him while he was rigging a block and tackle to a stump.

“Mister Durant's expecting guests next week an' the lady says they're low on ice,” the foreman said. “Told 'em when they built the place they shoulda made that icehouse bigger. In comes the money, out goes the common sense, I always says,” the man added with a chuckle. “Seems they always run short come late August, September. Anyways, need you ta go on over ta Blue again, fetch back a wagonload.”

Tupper didn't mind. He figured maybe he'd look up Owens and have a beer or two. He enjoyed the solitude of the long ride, and agreed to set out early the next morning with a large wagon specially prepared to keep the ice insulated. As he drifted off to sleep that night, Tupper was content. Work was good. He was settling into a routine, feeling comfortable, secure and farther than ever from the city.

 

The next morning Tom and Mike had their talk. They'd walked down to the lake and taken one of the guide boats. Tom rowed while Mike talked. He held nothing back, but Tom was disappointed anyway. There was nothing in what Mike told him about Lettie, no spurned or jealous lovers, no enemies that Mike knew of, no unwanted advances from supervisors.

Tom had hoped Mike could somehow point to a suspect, but he and Lettie had not gotten too deeply into the details of their lives. They'd shared much, but if Lettie had had any dirty secrets she didn't share them.

The man who murdered Lettie Burman may have known her or not, may have loved her or not, may have worked with her or not. All that remained was that Mike had been with her last, had been intimate with the girl and would have to remain the primary suspect for anyone investigating the case. Though Tom had doubted at first that Lettie had been the victim of a murderer, he'd come to see it as the most likely scenario, after his examination. So, if it was murder and it wasn't Mike who'd done it, there had to be something pointing to the one who had. Tom had one clue, but a small piece of charred cloth was not enough.

Later, Tom and Mike trudged back up the slope to the hotel, no closer to the truth than they were to the sun. They noticed a shay draped in black parked near the black pile that had been the barn.

“Wonder if that's the sheriff,” Tom said with a glance at Mike, “not that I'm in any hurry to find out.”

“I'll have to talk to him sooner or later,” Mike said with a shrug.

Tom eyed the two men who stood beside the shay. It was too far to get a look at their faces, but he somehow doubted they were the law. “You're right. But the more time we have before that happens, the better armed we'll be. No rush right now.”

Mary and Rebecca were out when they got back. There was a note just inside their door when Tom opened it. It was written on hotel stationary. Tom read it and frowned.

“What is it?” Mike asked.

“Says to go to the telegraph office. Man by the name of Clark's got information on that escaped prisoner from New York.” Tom looked around the room. “Good thing your mother isn't here. She doesn't much care for the idea of me following up on this, but…”

A few minutes later Tom walked to the telegraph office in town. It had been set up by William even before the Prospect House was built. It was a modest, one-room affair, but it served its purpose as the only link to the outside world. “You Clark?” Tom asked as he came through the door. The man behind the only desk in the room looked up.

“And you'd be?”

“Braddock. Thomas Braddock. You send me this note?”

Mr. Clark pushed back in his chair, looking at Tom as if measuring him. “Funny thing about this telegraph, Mister Braddock,” he began. “This here's an open line. Means I hear all sorts o' chatter. Everything from here to Pine Knot to North Creek,” which he pronounced “crik.”

“Saw the one you got yest'day. Natural 'nough, I took it down.”

“What's that to me?” Tom said.

“Nothin', nothin' a-tall, 'cept my friend over ta Pine Knot, he sees it, too.”

“You've got my attention,” Tom said with a puzzled grin.

“Glad o' that, sir,” Clark grinned back. “Anyhow, I got a clickety-clack this mornin' from Pine Knot sayin' they got a new man workin' there these last few days. Indian fella, goin' by the name o' Littletree.”

Tom couldn't help raising an eyebrow. Remembering the description in Chowder's telegram, he said “Black hair, cut short?”

“Not sure on the hair, cap'n,” Clark replied.

“Hmph,” Tom said. “Got a pad and pencil?” Tom wrote a quick telegram to William Durant. “Get this out to Pine Knot immediately, if you will.” Tom took a silver dollar out of his pocket and slapped it down on the desk. “Keep the change, and let me know as soon as you get a reply.”

The telegraph key was clicking before the door closed behind him.

Mike went out a few steps before Tom, letting the screen door slam on its squeaking spring. Tom's hand was on the knob when he saw Mike look to his left. He was hit an instant later.

Tom saw only the fist at first, saw it hit Mike on the side of his face. Another followed as Mike reeled back. There was no other sound, no curses, no shout, just a silent attack seen through a screen door.

By the time Tom opened it, Mike was fending off blows and covering up as best he could, staggered by the sudden onslaught.

He backed across the front porch of the telegraph office, his attacker pressing him hard. As Tom rushed out the door, Mike managed to get in one solid blow to the man's middle that stopped him for a split second. Tom grabbed the man's left arm as it dropped. With a tremendous heave, he pivoted away, dragging the attacker back and around, slamming him into the wall. He drew back his fist but did not strike.

The man, probably not much older than Mike, slid to the floor, his hands to his face. He started to sob between moans of pain. He sat there not moving, weeping uncontrollably. Tom and Mike stood over him. Mike rubbed at his face, smearing a trickle of blood off his eyebrow.

“What the hell's wrong with you?”

“You all right?” the telegraph operator said, poking his head out the door.

“I guess,” Tom said with a look at Mike. “Who the hell are you, mister?” he said, realizing this was one of the men he'd seen by the shay.

The man looked up, his red eyes fixed on Mike. He pointed and said, “Killed my sister, you sonofabitch! Killed my little Lettie,” he sobbed. “I know who you are, you fucking murderer. I swear to God Almighty I will strike you down for it.” He tried to get to his feet but Tom put a foot on his thigh, pinning him to the floor. He put a hand out to hold Mike off, as it looked like he wanted to kick the man right through the wall.

“You don't want to get up just yet, son,” Tom said. “What's your name?”

“Lester. I'm Lettie's older brother. Get your goddamn foot offa me,” he cried, slapping at Tom's shin. Tom crouched down in front of him. “You've got no right to do this, Lester. My Mike, he didn't kill your sister any more than you did.”

“Bullshit! Ever-body says it was him!”

“That's not true!” Mike cried out. His face was red and his hands were balled at his sides. “That's a fucking lie!”

Tom held up a hand to silence him. “Listen to me, Lester. Look at me!” he said, catching his eyes and holding them, “We understand how hurt you are. Mike here is hurting, too.”

“Now who's lyin'?” Lester spat. “Huh? Who's doing the lyin' now? You're all the same. Goddamn downstaters, use our women an' go home scot-free.”

Tom shook his head in exasperation.

“Sonofabitch!” Mike shouted. “I loved her!”

Both Tom and Lester looked at Mike and for a moment nobody said a word. Tom let Lester roll to his feet.

“That don't mean shit, you lyin' bastard. You love her so much, why'd you kill her, huh? Answer me that?”

Mike said nothing.

Lester spat at his feet. Mike stepped toward him, picking up his fists.

“Thought so.” Lester scowled at Tom. “You're gonna lose your boy, here mister. How's that feel like?” Lester turned and stalked away. Tom let him go.

Mary and Rebecca were back in the rooms when Tom and Mike returned. “What happened to you?” Mary said when she saw Mike's face.

“Lettie had a brother,” Tom told her. “He jumped Mike outside the telegraph office.”

Mary got a washcloth and wet it before putting it on Mike's bloodied eyebrow. She let out a deep, exasperated sigh. “Good Lord, when is this going to end? Are you all right, Mike?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. This is nothing,” he said, holding the washcloth to his face.

Mary looked at Tom. “Is this nothing?”

Tom just shook his head. There was no answer that would serve.

“And what were you doing at the telegraph office?” Mary added.

Tom looked at Mike and shrugged. “Got a lead on the whereabouts of that escaped murderer. Can't very well ignore it,” Tom said in a way that didn't invite argument.

“No, I suppose not,” Mary said, though she was clearly not happy with the idea. She changed the subject and said, “Did you tell Mike about the other evidence you found?”

“What other evidence?” Mike asked.

“The evidence other than these,” she said, holding out a pair of pantalets for them both to see. Mike went from white to a bright red. “I found them in his drawer,” Mary said to Tom. “Mike, there's blood on them!”

“I know. I know,” Mike said. He sat on the bed, rocking back and forth. “I didn't do anything. She gave them to me. The blood, it's…”

“What?” Tom said. He was so appalled he could hardly speak. He looked from the blood stains to Mike and back again.

“I'd never hurt her. You have to believe that,” Mike said with an intensity that made the words burn. Tom looked at Mike, not sure now what to believe.

“She said I should keep them, like to remember, you know? Said she was getting her friend. That's what she called it, getting a monthly visit from her friend. She noticed after we finished and she didn't want to put them back on.”

“Jesus, Mike. You know how this looks? You know how goddamn dangerous this is?” Mary said, shaking her head in disbelief. “I can't decide whether you're crazy or just plain stupid.”

“Mike, you should have told me right away!” Tom said. He started pacing the room. “That doctor sees this, or the goddamn sheriff, whenever the hell he gets here, and you're a dead man. You think they'll believe she gave them to you? Hell, I'm not sure I believe it myself. Jesus, what were you thinking?”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Okay?” Mike said, putting his hands against his temples as if his head might burst. “I know I should have told you, but at first I was embarrassed, and then I was afraid of what you'd think. I know it was stupid. I know. I know. I know,” he said, bouncing off the bed and going to stare out the window.

“Jesus, Mike. How do we trust you now? You just keep tearing us down, son, whether you mean to or not.” Mary put a hand on Tom's arm, stopping his pacing.

“Let's just deal with this, Tommy. Mike's telling the truth. You can see that,” she said, concerned about where Tom was heading. “It wasn't smart but it was innocent. Look at him, you can see it.”

Tom knew she was right, or at least trusted her judgment. He didn't want to believe anything more. He didn't even want to entertain the idea. Mike was no murderer. He was sure of that.