The Empire of Shadows (15 page)

Ex nodded. “Damned if I don't know just what you mean. Took off myself a couple days after. Had my fill o' the city. Don't think I'll ever go back neither. A man can't think nor breathe down there. No place for the likes of us, eh, Jim?”

Tupper agreed and asked Owens if he was working and what his plans were.

“Thought I'd do a bit o' guidin' till fall. Then it's back to the woods for me, I guess.”

Tupper shook his head. “Not a hell of a lot else to do in winter, 'cept starve. I was lucky. Got a job over ta Pine Knot, working for Durant. Pay's good. Don't know what the prospects are come winter though,” he admitted.

They talked like that for some time, never dwelling on the city nor any troubles left behind. They had such a pleasant chat that Tupper found himself forgetting the city altogether. He told Ex about the job and about Durant and Pine Knot. Twenty minutes passed in that fashion when Jim looked up at the sun and said, “Better get going. Got some things I'm picking up, supplies for the Durants.”

“Can't keep the big man waiting,” Owens said with a sour tone, like he'd just had a bad piece of salt pork. Tupper, suddenly remembering Owens's old land problems, asked, “You got things settled with Durant, right? Seems I recall it working out.”

“Oh yeah,” Owens said with a dismissive shrug. “Sure. That was years gone.”

From what Tupper knew of Owens and what he'd heard from others, he was not in the habit of forgiving a wrong. He treated grudges like children, feeding them and keeping them warm. Owens was not a man you wanted to cross.

Owens had been a popular man at the logging camps, where hard work and close quarters could make some men edgy. He was a good logger and had done just about every kind of logging job from road monkey to river driver. He was tall and strong and he could hold his liquor like he had no bottom. His long, sandy hair and muttonchop sideburns framed a lean, hard face with deep-set eyes under overhanging brows. The eyes could be piercing, but mostly there was a cold kind of fun in them. A wry grin seemed to always flirt with the corners of his mouth, and he could be generous with those who knew him best.

Still, there were rumors about Ex, things said with little to back them up. There had been speculation about a gambling debt and a logging accident. But accidents happened all the time in lumbering. Blame got cast in directions that sometimes it shouldn't. Tupper knew about that, understood it all too well.

“Guess I'll see you around then, Ex?”

“Yup. Waltz some sports around for a month or so, then into the woods for winter.”

They shook and wished each other well, promising to get a beer if the opportunity presented itself, and talking vaguely about lumbering together once the flatlanders had gone back home. Tupper walked up the stairs to the piazza and in the main doors, not giving another thought to New York City. It was nearly three hundred miles away, after all.

It was close to two by the time Jim clucked to his horse and got started back towards Pine Knot. He'd found someone who knew about the freight for Pine Knot, and got lunch at the kitchen. A cook threw together a sandwich, giving him a reasonably cold beer as well. All he'd had to say was that he worked for Mister Durant. No other explanation was necessary. He couldn't make it before five-thirty he figured. He had no schedule to keep, but he didn't want to give that foreman any excuses to fire him.

Exeter Owens leaned against the corner of the Prospect House's two-story outhouse, chewing on a long piece off grass and swatting flies. Though the adjoining bathhouse had hot and cold running water, the outhouse had no water at all. The flies seemed to approve. He watched Tupper drive off.

The road was hot and dusty. Tupper was grateful he remembered to stow his bowler under the seat. The Adirondack sun burned like a match head, unfiltered by the soot of the city. Though it was not nearly as oppressive as the city sun, it seemed hotter on the skin. A trickle of sweat leaked down from under the band of his hat. He reached up to wipe it away when he saw someone cross the road.

A stinging bead of sweat blurred the vision in one eye, but he was sure of what he'd seen. It had been a man and a woman. The woman was dressed as a maid. They'd been perhaps two hundred yards away, but there was no mistaking what he'd seen. The pair crossed the road in a hurry as if they wanted to avoid being seen. The only reason he'd seen them at all was because he'd just rounded a bend at the crest of a small hill.

Aside from Tupper's wagon there was nothing moving on the road. Jim was curious and marked where the couple had crossed, not far from a gnarled, old maple that stretched a sagging, bony limb out toward the sun. In a couple of minutes he came to the spot and stopped. He peered back over his shoulder and again down the road in front. He stood to get a better view. The road was empty.

“Strange,” he mumbled to himself. It was about a mile back to the hotel. “No maids out this way changing sheets,” Tupper said to the horse nibbling at the grass in the center of the road. “A curious hand sometimes loses a finger,” his grandfather used to say. Tupper grinned as he recalled the old man wagging a finger at him, an image that seemed to come to him at just the right moments, as if his spirit watched over him to appear when needed. The old man had power still, almost as much as he had in life. Still, Tupper's curiosity got the better of him.

Pulling the wagon over, he hitched his horse to a tree. There was the trace of a path leading off the road. It looked to be a deer run. Deer were a lot like humans that way. They had their habitual highways through the forest, trails where hooves had carved a delicate passage. Tupper followed the trail and was rewarded with a footprint no more than ten feet from the road. He stood still, listening for any sound not of the forest. He crouched low to probe the undergrowth with his eyes. He heard nothing, but saw the way they'd gone.

They'd followed the deer run. A leaf, snapped off and laying with its light green belly showing, was as clear a sign as he needed. Tupper followed, moving in silence. He figured if he was cautious perhaps he'd see something. It seemed clear they didn't want to be seen. To see them without being seen would be reward enough, a trophy of sorts. Tupper took care with every step.

The toes went first, planted slowly, feeling for twigs that might snap like firecrackers in the silence of the woods. For all his caution he moved fast enough, going hundreds of feet into the forest in a few minutes. Every few steps he'd stop and listen, hearing nothing but his own breathing.

Eagle Lake lay on this side of the road. He wasn't sure how far it was, but judging from the blue gaps that peeked through the trees it couldn't be much farther. In a few minutes more he was near the shore. The lake shimmered between the trees, sunlight dancing on the restless surface. He knew better than to show himself at the shoreline. His grandfather had taught him that on his first hunt.

“See but do not be seen, Jim. That is the way of the hunter,” he'd told him. Tupper stood back, concealed by the trees but able to see much of the lake. A noise caught his ear. He couldn't identify it but moved in its direction, somewhere off to his left. A little peninsula jutted into the lake perhaps a hundred yards that way. It was a pretty spot, crowded with towering white pines. It would be shady and cool there, Tupper thought, a perfect spot for lovers to catch a breeze coming off the lake. A broken branch on a beech seedling confirmed where they had gone. Tupper tracked them like a hound on the scent.

He froze at a flash of movement. Something among the trees caught his eye and he focused on it with a hunter's intensity. Something flashed again. He couldn't make it out, just a blur of color through the underbrush. When it didn't change location, he ventured forward, from tree to tree, making no more noise than the breeze in the pines. Keeping a small stand of young aspen between him and the movement he'd seen, he got quite close. He was about sixty feet away before he stopped.

Tupper crouched like a mountain lion, hands on the ground, legs coiled behind. He could see them through a leafy, green window. It had been her head he'd seen, Tupper realized. Her mane of honey-blonde hair rose and fell, rose and fell in slow motion. He could see the young man's hand, her hair cascading through his fingers like a brassy waterfall. He could almost hear them.

The head moved suddenly, the body shifted. There was a brief glimpse of glistening shaft, then a leg, smothered in a maid's uniform, blocked the view. He could see her back arch and her rounded hips descend. Jim Tupper turned away and crept back the way he'd come, his grandfather's voice stern in his head.

Chowder decided to concentrate on finding out whatever he could about Tupper before looking into the case of the floater with the bayonet hole in his head. Though the two were undoubtedly related, at least in Chowder's mind, Tupper had to take priority. A couple of hours spent interviewing the arresting officers, including the one the prisoners had overpowered, hadn't yielded much, except the fact that he was called Jim Tupper.

Most of the time he'd spent in police custody, he'd been either unconscious or in transit, so nothing of any detail was known about him. His wallet and a large, well-sharpened hunting knife were all the police had found. The wallet contained no clues other than his address in New York.

The cops tossed his room soon after he'd escaped, but again had found little of use. Chowder had canvassed the men he'd worked with at the construction site too. About all he had to show for it was a name, a general description, and the fact that he came from somewhere north, near some lake they'd never heard of.

“I expect he'd be going back there, if you were to ask me,” one of the construction workers said. “He didn't talk much, but when he did it was mostly about the woods, hunting, logging, that sort of thing. You want to find him, you'd be wise to look there.”

Chowder had spent the rest of that day and most of the morning talking to stevedores, captains, clerks, oystermen, stokers, oilers, and deck crews. He'd spoken with the roundsmen who patrolled the dock area. Not one could recall seeing a man with Indian features and black hair, either long or short. The patrolmen hadn't been any more help than the rest, though they'd been alerted to keep a sharp eye for the wild Indian escapee whose picture had been in all the papers.

It had seemed fruitless. Thousands of men worked along the waterfront. Many of those were transients, in port for a day or two, then gone. At any point in time, thousands more might be temporarily ashore. Sailors of every description were commonplace, and unusual looks or dress drew hardly a passing glance. A man who would stand out on Broadway might attract no more attention than a fly at a butcher's shop on West Street.

Compounding the problem was the lack of any identification on the floater. Chowder knew how hard it was too find a man based on just a general description. In his hours working the docks Chowder had turned up five men who'd gone missing. Three of them matched the approximate height and weight of the victim. All of those were sailors. Chowder had little hope that any were his man.

Knowing sailors, those five were probably off on a binge, rollicking with whores, beaten unconscious in some alley, or in jail. Most likely it was some combination of all of that. Still, he had to check them all. He enlisted the help of each of the roundsmen he contacted, asking them to keep a lookout for both the Indian and any one of the missing men who happened to turn up alive and breathing. He hadn't entertained much hope until he got to the office of the Hudson River Night Line.

“Barry Davis,” the clerk said. “Barry Davis. Missing from the Albany night boat two nights ago. Captain reported him missing some time after they docked in Albany. Have the telegram right here.” The clerk handed it over to Chowder for him to read. Chowder repeated the dead man's description, but it wasn't any help.

“Don't know the man myself, detective. What I do know is that he was a steward on the boat. Been with us since, ah, let's see…” The clerk adjusted his glasses and flipped pages in his record books.

“September of 'eighty-one,” he said with a note of satisfaction.

“This Barry Davis, he ever disappear before, you know, go off on a spree for a few days or something?”

The clerk looked indignant, adjusting his glasses so he could peer over them at Chowder. “Detective, this is the Hudson River Line, not some oyster barge. If one of our employees misses days without cause, let me assure you he is summarily dismissed. In fact, I processed his termination just this morning.”

Chowder grunted in grim amusement. “Looks like somebody terminated him already. He's on a slab in the morgue.”

The clerk paled above his starched collar and became quite helpful, quickly arranging for the chief steward of the boat to identify the body. He also looked up Davis's address for Chowder.

“He was a widower, if I recall. Heard somebody say that once, I believe.”

Chowder thanked the man, saying, “That's a blessing in a way.” He started to leave, when he turned back to the clerk and asked, “One last thing. If I was going to the north woods, what kind of connections would I have to make in Albany?”

“Chief, I've got a body with a hole in his head, an' the coroner says it was the same weapon, a bayonet bought from Fat Bess, most likely,” Chowder said as he tried to read Byrnes's reactions. “Fat Bess told me how she sold it to that Indian, and how he changed his appearance. You remember Bess, the one running the operation on Desbrosses Street?”

“Uh-hum,” Byrnes answered, nodding. “Prostitution mostly, petty theft, a little bunco here and there, though she was never very good at it, assault, and now receiving stolen goods, though she's never had a conviction on that as I recall.”

“That's her,” Chowder said. Byrnes had a near photographic memory for the criminals of the city. It didn't surprise Chowder that he could practically recite her sheet. “Tupper paid her a visit. Did a bit o' cleanin' up. Changed clothes, cut his hair to alter his looks. Pile o' black hair in her bedroom was his.”

Though there was no way for Chowder to prove that last bit, the color and length were a good enough match.

“Got a steward from the Albany night boat, the one fished out o' North River two days gone? Identified by his boss. Well, he's got damn near the same kind o' hole in his head a bayonet would make. And last, our escapee, this Tupper fella, was from up north, somewhere near Saranac Lake, or maybe Tupper Lake, by some accounts, wherever the hell that is. A little strange, him bein' named like a lake somewhere.”

“Adirondacks,” Byrnes mumbled half to himself as if he was thinking of something else. “Big tuberculosis sanitarium up there in Saranac. Famous for its cures. A doctor named Trudeau runs the place. He went up there near dead from it, but was cured by the mountain air, or so he said. Read about it in the
Trib.
Anyway, you think he's gone back?” Byrnes said with a puff of cigar smoke. He almost managed to make it sound as if this was his conclusion, not Chowder's.

“Tell you the truth,” Chowder said with a shrug, “wouldn't have a clue without him puttin' holes in people's heads on his way.”

Byrnes nodded. He took another puff on his cigar, letting the smoke dribble and drift out of his mouth. “The most vicious criminals are often the least intelligent,” he said as he looked out the window on Montague Street. “Of course there are exceptions.” He took a deep breath and pointed the smoking cigar at Chowder. “Time to send some telegrams.”

“Send one to Tommy while I'm at it? He's near there if I recall, ain't he?”

Byrnes just grunted and appeared to think about it, but finally shrugged and said, “Man's on vacation, Chowder. Find out who the local law is up there and put them on alert, send a description.” Byrnes paused for a second, then waved his hand at Chowder, saying, “Hell, you know what to do.”

“Guess I do at that, sir,” Chowder answered. He'd already sent telegrams to Albany, Saratoga, and Glens Falls.

“But don't bother Tommy with this. Not yet, anyway,” Byrnes added while cigar smoke went up in little billows. Smoke signals, Chowder thought as he headed for the door.

Tom, Mary, and Rebecca spent the day with the Duryeas. Mike hadn't wanted to come. Tom figured it could be because he didn't want to shoot against the Duryea boys again. He guessed that instead Mike would be stealing off with Lettie. He gave it no serious consideration. The fact was that Tom didn't care. If the boy was going to have a summer romance, more power to him. Mary seemed to feel the same way and had not questioned Mike too closely when he wanted to stay behind at the hotel. She didn't say anything about it to Tom. They understood that he needed time to himself.

The day had disappeared in a slow and easy way, in good company, good food, and good conversation. They'd taken a row around the lake in the Duryea guide boat and Tom took a turn at the oars. Rebecca caught her first fish from their dock, dipping a dough-covered hook to the little fish below. It had been a relaxing day, but at its end they were all more tired than they thought they'd be. They all went to bed early, Mike, too, though he claimed he hadn't done much all day.

Tom wasn't sure what woke him. It seemed as though he'd just closed his eyes. In fact, he'd been in the kind of deep sleep he had to practically swim out of. Mary shook him just as he was opening his eyes.

“Tommy! Tommy wake up!”

It was the urgency in Mary's voice that did it more than the shaking.

“Fire!” they heard from somewhere down the hall. “Everybody up. Fire!” There was banging on the doors and pounding feet and shouts starting to come from all over the hotel. Tom and Mary rolled out of bed as someone banged on their door.

“We're up,” Tom called as he searched for his pants in the dark. “Mike, 'Becca,” he bellowed so loud the pictures on the walls seemed to shake. “Get up and get dressed.
Now!
”

Mike opened the door between their rooms almost before the last words had left Tom's mouth. Rebecca followed, shuffling and rubbing her eyes.

“Get dressed. Get dressed,” Mary shouted over the growing din in the hallway. “Hurry!”

Rebecca started to tremble. She stood frozen in the doorway with her hands over her ears.

“You're scaring me,” she cried. “You're scaring me. Stop scaring me!” Her foot stomped and she began to sob. Mary rushed to her and in an instant whisked her into the other room.

They were all out of the room and into the hall in a matter of minutes, though it seemed much longer. The wide hallway was crowded with sleepy, confused people. Each and every one of them seemed to have something to say, or shout, or cry, or argue about. The area around the elevator was packed ten deep, the press getting deeper by the second.

“The stairs!” Tom shouted to Mike and Mary over the noise. He plowed through the press holding Rebecca high in his arms while Mike and Mary followed. The stairs were crowded, too, but moving. For the first time Tom heard from a hotel employee where exactly the fire was.

“Barn's burning. We'll need help to form a bucket brigade if you're able.”

Tom handed Rebecca to Mary once they were out on the wide lawn at the side of the hotel. It was raining hard, but the barn seemed determined to burn. A huge crowd of guests in their nightclothes stood watching. From there the flames could be plainly seen licking at the inside of the barn. Horses screamed and kicked their stalls. Men were racing in and out trying to save them. One horse, a big, black stallion bolted and galloped past them, its eyes wide and white, sparks flying from its singed tail.

A long line of men was forming, stretching down to the lake. Frederick Durant was shouting directions to his staff and all was in confusion. There was no fire department here, no steam engines, no hoses, and little hope. If the fire got hold in earnest all they could do would be to watch the barn burn and maybe keep it from spreading. Maybe. The building was close to the hotel, only thirty feet away. It wouldn't take much to burn the whole place down.

Buckets appeared. Slowly at first, then quicker as the men got the hang of passing them down the line, the water made its way to the fire. Much was spilled. Tom and Mike beside him were soon soaked from spilled water and rain both. They labored and sweated and swore, a long line of men in the dark, lit by the growing orange glow from the barn. They seemed to make progress at first. But perhaps the fire got into the hay, or the men at the head of the line got tired.

Soon it was plain that they were loosing. First the men at the head of the line were driven from the barn by the heat and flames. They were reduced to running up and throwing water through the doors and windows then dashing back, smoldering. The men on the line worked hard. Pails passed full and empty, full and empty.

The line glowed on one side as the fire grew. Features, carved with effort, were outlined in flickering red and orange. Like stokers on a steam engine they burned before the furnace of the barn, shining in fire and sweat. The Prospect House glowed, too, and some of the men started throwing water on it to keep it from catching.

After a time, long after it was obvious that there was nothing to save, the men slowed their buckets, then stopped. They all stood, guests and workers, some still holding buckets, ladies with their hair in disarray, and frightened children in nightclothes, watching the barn go up.

The flames burst from around the sides of the roof, shooting out almost sideways at first. The crowd
ooh
ed and murmured. The whole roof went up, seeming to almost explode into flame, and the crowd took uncertain steps back. The heat could be felt a hundred yards away. Everything, even the trees across the lake and Blue Mountain, seemed to catch fire in the reflected glow as they shot into the chimney of the night.