The Empire of Shadows (40 page)

Tupper kept coming. He didn't slow, didn't seem to feel the bullets ripping into him. Mary swore she could hear him chant, even after he'd been hit. Tupper rushed the last few steps, crashing into Owens and carrying them both into the Long-waisted Maryann. The dynamo rocked. Sparks flashed. Blue arcs of electricity leapt out of its coils and terminals. Tupper and Owens went stiff, like insects, electric pins skewered them in place.

Tupper's shoes began to smoke and blue flames jumped from his fingertips, disappearing into Owens's twitching flesh. Low moans escaped them, as they stood, locked together. The steam engine thumped its relentless rhythm, eating the forest a stick at a time, feeding power to the dynamo. Wood become electric. The light in the ceiling went out.

Mary rolled off Tom and watched as the two men sizzled. Tom stirred. Tupper fell first. Smoke leaked from his eyes and hair. Owens fell too. He seemed to melt into the floor as if his bones had turned to jelly. For a long time nothing moved. The smell of burnt flesh and singed hair hung heavy, settling in a low mist along the floor. In the occasional flashes of lightning, Mary could see the bodies by the dynamo. They did not move.

Mary began working on her bonds, working her hands back and forth. Her wounded arm screamed with every movement. It seemed to take forever, but it was only a few minutes before she got one hand loose. A moment later her gag was gone.

“It's over, 'Becca. It's over, sweetheart,” she said. “I'll untie you in a second.”

At last she got the second rope loose, and she reached for Tom, slapping his face and calling his name. “Tommy! Tommy! Stay with me. Hang on. You're gonna be all right.”

His eyes flickered. He could barely see Mary, but he knew she was there. “Sorry,” he said.

Mary laughed and cried and kissed his cheek. “Save your sorries for someone who needs them. You just hold on, I've got to get 'Becca loose.” Mary rushed to her, pulled off her gag and hugged her.

“You are so brave. Such a brave little girl!” Mary said in her ear as she hugged her tight. Rebecca cried, unable to say anything. Mary worked on her bonds. The knots were tight. She got one off and was pulling at the other when Rebecca's eyes went wide. She shrieked and pointed with her free hand.

A black shadow oozing gray smoke swayed in the dark. Owens staggered, then went to pick up something from the floor. A shot split the darkness like a bolt of lightning. Tom had somehow gotten to his backup pistol and was firing from the floor. Mary didn't know if he'd hit anything.

Tom's arm was waving around like a reed in a storm. He fired again, but Owens seemed to pay no attention. He stood slowly, the length of steel glinting in his hand. Mary dove for the floor as Tom's pistol cracked again. Owens stumbled, then regained his footing; but when he did, Mary was there with Tupper's Winchester thrust up under his chin. She pulled the trigger.

Mike and Mitchell were at the door when Owens went down. Mary came close to shooting them, too, when they pounded into the room. She screamed, but then Mike was there holding her, and suddenly the room seemed to be filled with people, waiters, maids, guides, and guests all jostling at the door and trying to peer in at the windows. Mary fell beside Tom, and Mike scooped Rebecca into his arms where she buried her face in his shoulder.

“Tommy. It's over,” Mary whispered. “Can you hear me? He's dead.”

“Oughta be,” Tom wheezed. “Blew his fucking head off.”

Mary laughed gratefully, hysterically, like a string of Chinese firecrackers exploding.

“He'll live, I think,” Doctor Whelen told Mary sometime near 1
A.M
. The doctor had been working on Tom for hours. He ran a hand through his hair as he spoke with her and blinked the fatigue from his eyes. “I've done about all I can for now. He's unconscious but stable.” He looked at Mary from under heavy brows, as if measuring her.

“I can see there's more,” Mary said. “Tell me. What is it?”

Whelen shrugged. “He's in a weakened state, Missus Braddock. He can't be moved. In a few days perhaps we'll see, but right now he would not survive the trip to North Creek, let alone Albany, where he'd be able to get the best of care. And…,” the doctor hesitated a moment before continuing, “if an infection sets in, well there's limited resources at my disposal, as you might imagine.”

“So he might still die?” Mary said.

“I'm afraid so,” the doctor replied, not looking Mary in the eye. “He's a strong man, though, with a vital will, so I am hopeful.”

Mary shook her head. “You have no idea, Doctor. No idea.”

As he described it to Frederick and General Duryea at an early breakfast many hours later, “Though I'm certain he was in the utmost pain imaginable, he hardly showed it.”

“He's still alive then?” Duryea said.

“Oh yes. Quite, though I'm damned if I can say how, gentlemen. Surely, he might not survive much longer. The man has been through hell. He was in a weakened state to begin with. I'm certain he had a concussion, probably sustained from before the fight last night. He was dehydrated and about as close to exhaustion as a man can be. He'd lost almost half his blood, or I'm a veterinarian, yet he was talking to me while I worked. Remarkable!”

“Indeed! I told you,” Frederick said. “The man is as tough as roots.”

Doctor Whelen nodded. “He's so full of opium, he's not aware of much pain at this point. But when he awakes, well…” Whelen shrugged. “We'll just have to keep him dosed.”

“Did you see Owens?” Duryea said with a shudder. “Not even an animal deserves such a fate.”

“Normally I'd agree with you, General,” William West Durant said as he sat down with them. He'd traveled through the night to lend whatever support he could to Tom and Mary and had just come from Tom's bedside. He'd seen Owens as well. “But, in this case, I'd have to say that Exeter Owens received exactly what he earned.”

Within a few days Tom seemed well enough to travel, although he was in a great deal of pain. Still, he managed to sit up in bed and sip the clear broth that Mary fed him with her good arm. The doctor had seen to her as well, finding the wound to be a clean puncture through the bicep.

“You were fortunate, Missus Braddock,” Dr. Whelen told her as he fixed a sling for her arm. “There appears to be no nerve damage and relatively little blood loss. This could have been much worse. Your son was lucky, too. He's got a nasty cut, but apparently, when his ribs were set in that lumber camp, the woman bound in some whalebone for stiffening.”

Mary smiled. “I almost took them out, but Mike wouldn't let me, said they helped ease the ache, especially when he slept.”

“Be glad of that. The bandages and the whalebone deflected the worst of the blow. He might be dead right now, if not for that.”

The decision was made to try to get Tom to Albany, or at least to Saratoga. He was given an extra dose of laudanum that had him seeing double but feeling little pain. He was bundled in blankets against the autumn chill, which had gripped the region after the rain.

Mitchell was there as they loaded Tom into a carriage that William had provided. He stood to one side, his shotgun leaning against his side like a third leg. His hat looked as well-used as ever. Mitchell's deep-set eyes sparkled when he saw Tom, and the creases at the corners of his mouth deepened into a smile.

“Mitchell,” Tom said, extending a hand from under his blanket. “Good to see you.”

The old Abanaki Indian took Tom's hand. “And you too,” he said with a small grin. They clasped hands for a long moment until they both felt awkward.

“Be back come spring,” Tom said through the opiate haze. “I'll write.”

“Good,” Mitchell said with a nod. “Next time we just go fishing.”

One by one, Frederick, General Duryea, and finally William said their good-byes, wishing Tom well, making him promise to write, saying that he must come back when he was well, and many other things he figured they mostly didn't mean, but said because they were gentlemen.

“If you don't mind, I'll call on you in a month or so, when I'm back in town,” William said. “We are all in your debt, Tom and I hope you don't mind if I look into ways of repaying you in some small way for the good you've done.”

Tom just smiled. He'd been fed so much laudanum that he wasn't at all sure what William was saying. But he gripped Durant's hand and managed, “Thanks,” though he wasn't sure for what. They put him in the carriage then and Tom closed his eyes. He didn't know about coming back, or fishing, or anything. He wasn't sure even he'd make it home, though he tried not to show it to Mary.

They all shook Mike's hand, too, and they all said how happy they were that he'd been cleared, and how they'd never believed he'd done such a terrible thing, and that they hoped he'd not remember them unkindly. Mike held no grudges. That surprised him. He thought he probably should, especially against the doctor; but, somehow, he just did not feel that way. What he felt, now that he had the time to feel was a slow sadness.

He mourned Lettie Burman still. The pain of losing her had withered to a dull ache, a suit of sadness he put on each day with the opening of his eyes. But that sadness did not rule him, not as it would have a month before, a lifetime before. He tried to bear it as he figured Tom would, or as Mitchell bore things.

He felt no less deeply. He simply carried the hurt in ways he hadn't before. He could not have explained how that came to be. It simply was. When he shook hands with Mitchell, the old guide held him with his ancient eyes, his small hand gripping Mike's like roots on rock.

“A man leaves much behind when he leaves these woods,” Mitchell said. “You take much, too. I will be here when you return.”

The trip to Albany nearly killed Tom.

It was three weeks and two operations later before Tom started to come out of his haze of pain and opium. It was many weeks more before he felt anything like his old self.

September leaves blazed around Blue Mountain Lake, and on clear, bright mornings, when the waters were still, they danced with liquid fire. October frosts sparkled, and November ice stilled the shoreline before Tom got back to the job and the case.

There had been much left to do, and he kept two detectives busy on the legwork while he was laid up. When he at last had what he needed, he went to Byrnes to set things in motion.

That evening, as Tom and Mary lay in bed, he told her what he planned to do in the morning. She approved. Though complete justice was a virtual impossibility in this case, she knew Tom was doing all that was possible. It was more than Van Duzer would expect, she was certain of that.

The gaslight was turned off and Tom kissed Mary good night. There was a long silence before Mary spoke.

“Tom, what does
‘ganos gay'
mean?”

“What?”

“
Ganos gay
. You said it over and over after you were shot. You were only semi-conscious. I couldn't tell if you knew what you were saying or not.
‘Tain cha day
.' You said that, too. Do you remember?”

Tom didn't respond, though he sat up and propped himself against the headboard.

“It was just so odd. I've always wondered,” Mary said. “It sounded like Indian words. Did you learn them from Mitchell?”

“No, not from Mitchell,” Tom said softly. “God, I thought that was a dream.” He ran his hands through his hair and sighed. “It
was
a dream, I'm sure. Seemed real, though, so damn real.” He looked at her closely. “I said that stuff?”

“You were delirious,” Mary said. “The doctor wasn't sure you'd live through the night at first.”

“Yeah, But it was as if they were right there. Like I could reach out and touch them. They spoke to me and I could hear them. Really strange.”

“Who?”

“Tupper and his grandfather,” Tom said, suppressing a chill.

“But that's not possible,” Mary whispered.

“I don't know what's possible or what's not possible, Mary. I know what I saw, what it felt like. And—I know what they said to me.”

“Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell me?”

“You'd have believed me? Later, after I woke up I thought it was just a dream,” Tom said. “I didn't know I'd said anything.”

“What do they mean, those words?”

Tom sighed. “Near as I know,
Ganos'ge'
means ‘house of the tormentor.' It's hell, I guess, or something like it, to an Indian. They said the words, but didn't tell me what they meant. The strange thing is I understood them. The other word means ‘heaven world.' It's Iroquois, I guess.”

Mary sat up next to Tom in the darkness. She took hold of his hand, knowing there was more. She didn't ask. She just caressed his hand and listened to his steady breathing. It was many minutes later before Tom continued.

“They were doing something to Owens,” Tom said. “Holding him down or something. But it wasn't him exactly. It was his spirit, or what I knew was his spirit. It was strange, blurry. Like there was two of him, Owens I mean. He was struggling. He wanted to get away. And there was a place. I couldn't see it but I could sort of feel it and I knew they were making him go there. Then they hauled him up and took him, and the old man kept saying,
‘Ganos'ge.'
He said other things, too, but I can't remember. He chanted that word so that I almost imagined I could see it. Owens was screaming,” Tom said. “The other word the old man said to me. He said ‘
Tain 'tchiade
is yours in the living world, if you desire. Only you can say.' It was almost as if he was leaving it up to me if I wanted to live or die. My decision.”

Mary was silent, the full import of Tom's story sinking slowly, like a leaf in water. Her thoughts swirled and she thought to say a thousand things, none of which came to her lips. It was Tom who finally broke the silence.

“I guess I knew what I desired,” he said.

 

Van Duzer sat back for a moment, his high, deep-tufted leather chair creaking in a comfortable way. He'd have to have a talk with Morgan soon. They'd made Durant wait long enough, he calculated. With winter coming on, and the tourists gone, there would be no way for Durant to recoup his losses before next summer. Land values were at the lowest levels in years. Morgan could name his price and Durant would have little alternative but to take it.

The old lawyer smiled as he looked about the office. The mahogany was waxed to a mellow red glow. The brass was buffed. The carpets were the deepest plush wool, and swallowed noise like a well-bribed judge swallows lies. Perhaps a new painting for the spot near the window, he thought, considering how to reward himself for his coming success.

Van Duzer leaned forward and picked up a gold-quilled pen. He was about to write a note to Morgan when he was stopped by a commotion outside his door, voices raised. The door burst open, revealing a tall, broad man with a full mustache and a derby under one arm.

“Who in blazes are you?” Van Duzer grunted in surprise. “Hopkins! Hopkins! See this man out!”

The clerk poked a head around the threshold. “Terribly sorry, sir, but I—”

Tom closed the door, silencing Hopkins's groveling.

“Not his fault,” Tom said. “I insisted.”

Van Duzer started to rise from his chair, a red flush blossoming at his collar.

“Explain yourself, sir!” the lawyer roared. “By what right do you presume to barge in here? This is not one of your Bowery saloons, you—you…”

“Sit down!” Tom said, pulling his vest aside to show the badge on his chest. He'd come unofficially, out of uniform. “Captain Braddock,” Tom added, knowing that would be all the introduction he'd need. The story of his adventures in the Adirondacks, thrillingly embellished by journalism's finest, had been plastered across the papers for weeks back in September.

Van Duzer went silent, hesitating.

“Do it! I will not say it again,” Tom said in a low voice that sent a chill down the lawyer's spine.

Van Duzer seemed to collect himself, and settled back into his throne, crossing his hands on his ample belly, even leaning back a bit. He glowered at Braddock from under bushy brows, a courtroom glare that had struck fear into many an opposing counsel or witness.

Tom walked to a chair facing the desk, wincing slightly as he settled himself into it and wondering just how long it would take before the ache of his wounds would finally leave him. He stared back at the lawyer for a moment, then put his feet up on the edge of the desk. Van Duzer's lip quivered and Tom could see a vein throb at his temple.

“Explain yourself, I say again,” Van Duzer said with low menace. “If you imagine that you can walk out of this office with whatever it is you came for, you will be sadly disappointed.”