The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle (30 page)

I believed him. I found it plausible that he was sleepwalking when he
murdered the bank teller. It was consistent with everything I had witnessed at
his estate. Once I accepted that notion, the rest was easier to understand.

I asked Drysdale what could have compelled him to crush his best
friend's skull? His answer was outlandish but, reflecting on my brief time in
Wilmington, I found it credible right away.

Drysdale and George Gordon became friends as young men. They were
junior members of the Chamber of Commerce. They dined together at the
investors' club. Their ambitions were the same. Both wanted to blend fortune
with civic achievement. Drysdale and Gordon dreamed of having boulevards named
after them when they died. It was impossible for young men with those kinds of
hopes to avoid the politics of the day. Progressives that they were, the topic
of slavery became a recurring point of discussion between them.

Drysdale was master of his family estate. He kept a small staff of
slaves. They were holdovers from his parents' lifetime. If he thought they
might enjoy a better fate as free blacks in the south, he would have sent them
away.

Gordon, on the other hand, lived under his father's roof and rules. On
their property, a large contingent of slaves labored hard. As George grew into
his own man, these conditions became intolerable to him.

Before long, the friends became convinced that the practice of slavery
was holding southerners back. If they were going to meet the challenges of the
modern world, the south had no choice but to abandon slavery. Spreading
abolitionist pamphlets was George's idea. He knew that the material would
create a stir. That is what he wanted most. George Gordon believed that, given
enough talk, everyone would come to see things the same as him.

The pamphlets made people angry, especially George's father. That was
the point. George hoped that anger would lead to a moral breakthrough. It did
not. People were angry. They stayed angry. That was all.

After a time, George Gordon became a social pariah in Wilmington. His
father allowed him to work at the bank but the pair barely spoke. The only
person other than Drysdale who was willing to talk to him about politics in the
south was a radical agitator, the kind of man who did not dine at the
investors' club. This was not the sort of person who would help George get his
name on any street signs. Nevertheless, George responded to letters and agreed
to meet him. Drysdale did not know any specifics. It became too crazy for him
at that point.

When George came back to Wilmington from this meeting in Shreveport, he
was very excited. George said that the man had shown him letters from a sailor
based in New York trying to ruin the good name of a hotel owner who was
sleeping with his wife. The letters claimed this hotelier was part of a scheme
to bribe Union pollsters and buy a seat in Congress.

The tale was little more than speculation derived from the cryptic
letters of a cuckolded husband. George believed they outlined a Confederate
plan to infiltrate the Union government. He thought he'd uncovered a dangerous
secret.

Drysdale believed it was nonsense and tried to tell George as much. It
was no use. George brought the story to his father and threatened to take it to
the press. Mr. Gordon was furious. The crusty old banker blamed Drysdale for
turning his son into a radical and even went so far as to call in Drysdale's
debts to coral them both. It did not work. George was undeterred. According to
Drysdale, that was when everything changed.      

The following excerpt will be retained as evidence. Sound recordings
have served as a substitute case file since I came to Wilmington. I intend to
submit this conversation as official testimony should we ever lay charges for
the murder of George Gordon.

“The first change came among my slaves. One morning, out of nowhere,
there were more of them. The little girl you met was one of the new ones.”

“What did you do?”

“What could I do? I made inquiries. It seemed an odd thing to discuss
with police so I asked around the slave quarters. My usual slaves were afraid.
They knew something was happening but did not feel they could help me.”

“Maybe they did not want to help you.”

“Perhaps. I never learned where the new slaves came from. It was around
that time I started having trouble at night. I slept but never rested. I was
sleepwalking for the first time in my life.”

“When you woke, could you remember your actions from the night before?”

“Not once the deep exhaustion got its hooks in me. No.”

“I know that feeling.”

“Yes. They targeted you as well.”

“As well as who?”

“George. He was being a fool. They killed George to make him stop.”

“Why bother, if he was such a fool?”

“Maybe he uncovered a secret after all. Maybe that's why they brought
the fever to Wilmington, too.”

“Who are
they?
”

“That woman. The one you call my wife. She was one of them.”

“Collette.”

“If you say so. She turned up one morning just like the new slaves.
That was when I went to police. It was too late. The city was in a panic. No
one wanted to help me.”

“What about George's father? He wanted the killers to be punished. He
even called the Pinkertons.”

“You think he needed the Pinkertons to solve George's murder?”

“Why else?”

“He gave George to them. He is part of this whole thing.”

“Mr. Drysdale, there are limits to what I will accept on your word
alone.”

“George's father got infected with the fever on purpose. He tried to
sacrifice himself to save his boy. The others wanted George. They insisted.”

“To stop him from spreading the rumor?”

“And the pamphlets. And all of it. George's father agreed. He gave them
one condition. If George had to die, he wanted them to spill Union blood as
well.”

“That is why they called for the Pinkertons.”

“Yes. Whichever detective they sent down was fine.”

“No. If Gordon or Bannan wanted to kill me they had ample opportunity.”

“Not them. Not that way. I was supposed to kill you. It was part of the
ritual. I killed George with the hammer. The same was in store for you.”

“I remember having a hallucination at the bank when you attacked me.”

“Think about what happened. George's clothes? The bank records? Your
friendship with Collette?”

“It brought me into contact with you.”

“Yes.”

“Each day I became weaker.”

“Yes.”

“If not for my tent shield at the bank.”

“You would be dead.”

“I would be dead.”

“What are we going to do?”

The rest of the audio record is useless. Drysdale succumbed to a fit of
despair. I made an effort to calm him but we were both so tired. I lacked the
patience and he lacked the stamina to contain his outbursts. Without realizing
my mistake, I encouraged Drysdale to lie down. He drifted to sleep. I tried to
concentrate.

As I tried to formulate a plan to get us both out of Wilmington,
Drysdale's head lifted from the sofa. The pupils of his eyes, one dilated and
the other contracted, told me everything I needed to know. I did not wait for
the sleepwalker to attack. I used the clapper to knock him down. Blows to the
legs, chest and head made certain he stayed there. I took no chances.    

Part of me felt guilty. It was not Drysdale's fault. He could not
control what he became in his sleep. I looked at his body on the floor. Blood
pooled next to his head. Maybe I was too aggressive.

Drysdale's body began to tremble and I thought he was going to get to
his feet again. I raised the clapper but soon realized he was not the only
thing shaking. The whole room was lifting under my feet.

I fell back against the desk. The clapper split it in half when my arm
swung back. Through the window, I saw Wilmington harbor pitch and roll. My
apartment was being lifted from the outside.

I heard a crowd gather on the street. Voices were united, chanting.
This chorus was interrupted. A man barked orders, trying to impose his
authority. Throughout the exchange, my apartment lifted further. The
confrontation led to violence. These things always do.

Gunfire echoed. There was a short volley. My apartment jerked to a halt
then dropped. A long exchange of rifle fire followed. Something fell on the
roof with a thud. I heard footsteps overhead, first one set then two. They drew
gunfire toward the apartment. I rose to my feet and lifted the clapper.
Whatever was out there, I expected it inside before long.

A hole in the ceiling peeled open like a can. A soldier jumped down. He
landed beside me at arm's length. His eye was drawn to Drysdale on the floor. I
knocked the wind out of him with the clapper. Another man followed. He was
shirtless, wearing a melee gauntlet over one arm. It was Ernie Stark.

I would not have been more surprised if George Gordon himself rose from
the grave and jumped through that hole. Stark made some quip about being my
husband. I nearly struck him down just to wipe the smirk off his face.

Gunmen outside could not penetrate the apartment. The firing stopped.
Rather than try to shoot us from a distance, they reverted to the initial plan.
My apartment jostled. We rose again, as before.

I guessed what brought Stark to Wilmington. Robert must have sent him.

The scars across his chest were more of a mystery. Something wicked had
happened to Stark in the distant past. I decided not to ask. I did not
particularly care.

The soldier who jumped down before Stark regained his senses on the
floor. He rolled over, holding is head. I noticed pock marks on his face.

“Do you recognize that man?” Stark asked.

“From the checkpoint.”

“Corporal Harris. He is one of Anderson's recruits. Pulling you
out of this morass is his entry to the Anderson militia, if you can
imagine.”

“What does Anderson care about George Gordon's murder?”

“Not a lick.”

Stark and I needed to get our facts straight. He told me what he
learned from Harris. I told him what I learned from Drysdale. Together, we
managed a rough approximation of what was about to happen.

My apartment would be loaded onto a barge along with containers full of
slaves. We would be rounded up in the Union blockade then travel north by
canal. President Lincoln wished to welcome slaves, rescued in his blockade, to
a life of freedom. Instead, he was going to usher an epidemic of yellow fever
into the capital. I was to be the hoodoo's ritual sacrifice, a Union spy
murdered by an entranced abolitionist to appease some blood thirsty spirit or
other.

We could not allow the fever to hit Washington. To my surprise, Stark
raised no objection when I suggested we allow my apartment to be transferred
into the canal. I thought he might prefer us to break free and take our chances
outside.

“I came this far.”

“Then it is agreed. We wait for the barges to assemble in formation
down in the canal. Then we destroy this convoy.”

“Don't be crazy. I am only here for Ray.”

“If yellow fever breaks out in the capital, the Union will be
crippled.”

“People will get sick. Some will die. I did not come to stop a fever.
Neither did Webster.”

“Webster? What are you talking about?”

We argued for some time. There was no reasoning with Stark. Corporal
Harris sat up. He must have thought we were husband and wife after all.

To my surprise, Harris was more eager to help than my fellow Pinkerton.
I cannot say what motivates a man to want to join Anderson's militia. I might
have guessed cowardice before encountering Harris. Whatever he was, it was not
a coward.

“Let him go. Your man, Stark, ain't gonna help us.”

“Us?”

“Sure, Miss Detective. I got an idea how to break up the barges. Major
Anderson don't wanna see this convoy reach Washington any more than you.”

“How do we stop the barges?”

“With that sound device yer' using. I seen ‘em before. Anderson uses
the same kind. The sound runs both ways on those things. If we get up to the
lead transport, we can send a message forward.”

“What good will that do?”

“Anderson's people will be listening. Tell ‘em where we're at. He's got
firepower. Could knock out the canal ahead of the barges.”

“Alright Corporal. How do we get to the lead transport?”

“You still got that stick you hit me with?”

“Yes.”

“Figure that'll do it.”

My apartment was mounted into a barge. The hole in our roof was covered
by the rounded shell of a canal transport. We could tell when that barge
entered the channel because the bobbing on open water was replaced by a steady
surge inside the sealed tube. Before parting ways, Stark tore open the walls of
three containers ahead of us. It was a kind of head start. I did not think
there would be many more before the lead transport.

Stark headed in the other direction. He was going back to the slave
barracks. Once he broke open the wall on his side of my apartment, afflicted
slaves as well as all the bugs and pestilence from Shreveport and Wilmington
combined would pour between.

Fighting slaves did not worry me. I was less sure how to keep from
catching the fever. Again, it was Harris who provided an idea. He observed that
neither me in my apartment nor Drysdale at his estate had gotten sick. It was
the candles. That awful incense smell would keep the filthy bugs and disease
away from us.

Stark held a lit candle in one hand, leaving him free to swing the
melee gauntlet. Harris carried a candle for us. I needed both hands to break
walls with the clapper. Harris climbed through the opening ahead. I signaled
for Stark to open the wall behind.