The Empire of Shadows (17 page)

“All righty,” he said, picking up and shouldering his pack once more, “but we best be on the move now. I'll tell it again on the way.”

It was cool at the top of Blue. Busher had been right to tell them to bring extra clothes. Still, it was a beautiful day and nobody complained. The sun was playing hide-and-seek with the clouds by the time they got there. Looking to the west Busher said, “Guess Owens was right. Got some weather comin'.”

The clouds that way were a dull gray sea, but they were still many miles off. The world from the top of Blue rolled away on all sides, covered by an unbroken blanket of green. Deep, blue lakes dotted the landscape, reflecting the sun when it raced between the clouds. The mountains marched away in solid ranks into the blue distance until they finally lost all color, looking like the great, gray, humped backs of whales swimming the forest seas.

They ate a picnic lunch sitting on stumps or on the lichen-covered rocks.

“Colvin cleared this out back about ten, twelve years ago,” Busher said, “so's he could have a sight line for his surveyin' 'quipment.”

“Hell of a job surveying all this,” Tom said, standing atop a stump for a better view. “Wouldn't know where to begin.”

“Ain't a thing I'd be likely to know neither,” Busher said. “Colvin's got that kinda schoolin' though. Still, he needs a guide when he goes inter the woods, even though there's some says he's seen more o' these hills than any man livin'. There's knowin' the woods and then there's
knowin
' the woods, if you take my meaning.”

The tide of cloud rolled in as they clambered down the flanks of Blue an hour later. The woods grew damp with a clinging mist that condensed into a gentle drizzle by the time they were down to the final half-mile. No one complained, not even Rebecca. A carriage was waiting for them when they got to the trailhead. They rode back to the Prospect House as the rain began in earnest.

Tom paid Busher on the way back, $2.50 for his day, 75 cents for the carriage, and a $1 tip. He followed Mike, Mary, and Rebecca into the hotel, shaking the water from his hair when he got under the cover of the piazza. He was walking through the lobby when a voice called from the front desk.

“Mister Braddock? Mister Braddock! Sir, may I have a moment of your time?”

Tom pulled up short, turning toward the clerk who'd called to him. The man came out from behind the front desk, walking with a quick, determined step.

“We've been looking for you, sir.”

“We?” Tom asked. “Who would
we
be, and what is it I can do for all of you?”

“I'm sorry, Mister Braddock, but it's a matter of some urgency. Will you come with me?” The clerk put a hand on Tom's arm. The grip was insistent.

“Mary,” Tom called. When she looked back, Tom said “There's something I need to attend to. I'll be just a minute.”

Mary, who was completely played out, just waved, though she did it with a puzzled frown. Tom turned back to the clerk. He looked down at the hand that clung to his bicep, then up at the clerk.

“I'll thank you to let go of my arm,” Tom said when the man didn't take the hint.

“Sorry, sir,” the clerk said. “If you'll come with me, Doctor Whelen and Mister Durant would like a word.” The clerk wouldn't say more. He just led him out the back of the hotel into the rain. They passed the blackened pile that had been the barn. It was clear that work had already begun on clearing the debris. Even in the rain, Tom could smell the burnt wood. He was lead to what appeared to be an icehouse or root cellar, a low roof projected out from the hillside, flanked by thick stone walls. A heavy door was set three feet back into the stone. The clerk hammered on it with a closed fist. The sound seemed to rumble deep within the hillside, hinting at hidden depths.

The door opened on groaning hinges. The light within was bright, and a cold blast of air pebbled Tom's skin.

“Christ!” Tom grumbled, looking around as he passed through the door. “It's as cold as the grave in here.” He rubbed his arms, damp from the rain. “What the hell is all this about?” he demanded, his words falling flat, as if frozen by the walls of ice that lined the place.

“Mister Braddock! Come in sir. I'm glad you've come.” It was Doctor Whelen. He looked distracted. His eye would not meet Tom's as he shifted from foot to foot.

The only other person in the icehouse was Frederick Durant. He stood in the center of the room. Lanterns set on big blocks of ice lit the place. The ice, stacked to the rafters, glistened under a blanket of hay.

There were blocks of ice separated from the rest, laid out in roughly a rectangular shape in the center of the room. A sheet covered them.

“Tom,” Frederick said, seeming to come to himself, “I'm glad you've come.”

“Well, now that everyone's glad I've come, do you care to tell me what this is about?” Tom could guess well enough, but guessing was something he was in no mood for.

“I'm sorry, Mister Braddock. It's just that we wanted to keep this quiet. I'm sure you'll appreciate why,” the doctor said.

“That, and the fact that you are a captain of police,” Frederick added, “and have experience in these matters.”

Tom just frowned. He looked past Frederick and the doctor at the sheet-covered blocks of ice.

“Did you know Letitia Burman, Tom?” Frederick asked in a low voice.

“No. Should I?”

“No,” Frederick said. “She was a maid here at the hotel.”

“She was in the pharmacy when you came in with your son a few days ago,” the doctor added. A cold hand passed down Tom's spine and it seemed as if each hair on his body stood straight out. His teeth clenched so hard that his jaws hurt, but he was determined to show nothing, not until he knew more. He nodded toward the sheet. “Is that her?”

They moved to the center of the room, the doctor at the left side of the ice-block pier, Tom and Frederick on the right.

Doctor Whelen pulled back the sheet, not looking at what lay beneath but at Tom. Tom said nothing and showed nothing. There was nothing to ease the horror of what the fire had done.

“We were able to identify her by this ring,” the doctor said, holding up a silvery ring with a small stone. “She was discovered missing once we were able to complete a count this morning.”

“My God,” Tom said, hardly realizing the words had escaped his mouth. He almost said more, almost thanked them for telling him first, letting him break the news to Mike. Tom waited. He knew there had to be more. The doctor and Durant shuffled, rubbing their hands in the cold. Tom hoped it was just the cold, but hope seemed a lifeless thing in that icy tomb.

After an uncomfortable silence, the doctor finally spoke up.

“There's one more thing, Mister Braddock. And I wanted you to see this, get your professional opinion.” The doctor pointed at Letitia's head. The hair was gone, burned away. The flesh hung in blackened flakes. The facial muscles were a deep, brittle red. The eyes, nose, lips and ears had all been consumed. Tom couldn't imagine why he needed to look any more than he already had, but he looked where the doctor pointed.

“She was murdered, sir.”

Tom saw it just as the doctor spoke, saw the hole in the temple. Bending close to examine the wound, Tom stared at the hole. He could smell Lettie's charred flesh. After a moment, he straightened and looked at the doctor.

“You're jumping to conclusions, Doctor. That could have been caused by any number of objects commonly found in a barn, anything from a pitchfork to a protruding nail. You saw how that barn collapsed. This,” he said, pointing to Lettie's head, “doesn't necessarily prove anything.”

“That was my reaction as well, Tom,” Frederick said, though Tom could see he was holding back.

“But?” Tom asked.

Frederick shrugged. “Once we found the body, and particularly the damage to the skull, we thought the same thing. Checked very carefully near where she was found, very carefully, I assure you.”

“And you found nothing,” Tom said, finishing the sentence. “Still inconclusive. You realize she could have moved quite some distance, even with a wound like that.”

“I'll tell you what we realized,” the doctor said, pointing a finger at Tom. “We realized that your son has been seen with this poor girl on more than one occasion. The dear thing had even confided to others of her feelings for him. And from what we've learned, your son was the last person to see her alive. Apparently, they stole off yesterday afternoon. Were you aware of that?”

Tom glared at the doctor. “So, you put two and two together and came up with murder?” Tom said, not answering the question. “Brilliant!” Tom almost added, “you idiot,” but managed to keep it down.

“Two young people have a harmless summer romance and that somehow spells murder to you? Where's your motive, doctor?” Tom laughed at him. There was no mirth in it, just glaring eyes and bared teeth. “I don't presume to tell you how to treat patients. I suggest you do the same when it comes to police work. You're wasting my time and insulting my intelligence. Good night!”

Tom turned his back on the doctor and Frederick. His hand was on the icy latch of the door when the doctor added, “Your son was with Letitia Burman yesterday,
Captain.

“She did not return last night. I don't need to be a detective to know your son must be a suspect! Telegrams have been sent to the authorities. I have friends in New York as well, Mister Braddock, powerful friends in the judiciary and in political circles. If there's anything we should know about your son it would be better if you told us now,” the doctor said with a smug scowl. “There may be no motive, as you say, but certainly you must appreciate that this is a circumstance that must be investigated.”

“I'm sorry, Tom,” Frederick broke in, “but it's something that we must follow through on. I'm sure it will turn out to be, ah—nothing of any—substance. I'm sure,” he said with a sideways glance at the doctor. “But surely you, of all people, must see the necessity of pursuing this.”

Tom stood looking from one to the other, wondering if they could somehow find out about Mike, discover his involvement in the fire at the warehouse. The fact that there was no official record couldn't make the incident go away entirely, a fact that Tom hadn't thought would ever haunt them until now. He knew he'd have done the same in their shoes, but, as Mike's father, he knew more than they ever could. He knew Mike.

For a brief, sickening instant, though, the incident of six months before flashed before his eyes, the sight of the watchman lying in the hospital, the smoldering warehouse. He dismissed it. That had nothing to do with this.

“We need to talk to your son, Braddock,” the doctor added. Perhaps he took Tom's hesitation as a sign of weakness. “We expect your cooperation. If that is not forthcoming, well—I don't have to tell you how that would look.”

Tom smiled at the doctor. It was a sarcastic twist of the mouth that said even more than the words that followed. “I don't give a fuck how it looks!” Tom growled. “You will not be speaking with my son!”

“You arrogant bastard!” the doctor roared, his neck flushing red above his stiff collar. He pointed a righteous finger at Tom. “Your son is a bloody murderer and you're protecting him!”

Tom was surprised at the doctor's reaction. Frederick was as well. He put a hand on the doctor's arm.

“I will not be silenced, Mister Durant. I will speak the truth, as God gives me the vision to see it! This blackguard may imagine he can bully his way out of this, but…”

The icehouse door slammed behind Tom with a dull thud that echoed into the hillside.

Tom walked back to the hotel. He was drenched within minutes. He took no note of it. He felt nothing, saw nothing but the image of Letitia Burman's charred body. It hung behind his eyes, refusing to be washed away. Tom wrestled with how he was to break the news to Mike. There was no way to make it easy.

He considered the situation. There was no physical evidence at this point linking Mike to the girl's death, but that was little comfort. Tom refused to think of it as a murder. There was no proof, no weapon, no witnesses, no motive. Mike could still be arrested on suspicion though, and held for God knows how long. Tom didn't want to entertain the notion of this ever coming to trial. He hesitated even thinking about it. It was a possibility that could not be ignored. This was not New York City, home to some of the finest detectives in the country. Tom could only imagine what kind of untrained, hick sheriff might show up tomorrow or the day after to take charge of the investigation. Mike could be railroaded. A bit of flamboyant rhetoric, a bucketful of trumped-up circumstantial evidence, tales of a similar crime in New York, a flow of tearful testimony, and Mike could find himself behind bars for a very long time, or worse.

Braddock had seen it before. He'd done it before. He'd railroaded more than he liked to admit. He hardly knew a cop who hadn't in one way or another. Planted evidence, false or misleading testimony, ambitious prosecutors, witnesses who left town or suffered memory loss, Tom had seen or used them all to get convictions. The fact that he reserved those tactics for career criminals had always been his moral shield, his rational armor.

It was a source of pride in the department. If a cop or detective had a chance to put a known criminal behind bars, he took it, the niceties of the law be damned. As the elevator lurched to his floor, he knew the sickening feeling of being on the wrong side of his moral shield. But as his heels hit the carpeted hallway, sounding like a drumbeat marching toward his door, he knew he was not unarmed. There were things that could be done. He was not without resources, not even there.

If Tom had entertained any doubts, they were erased when he broke the news to Mike. Tom and Mary called him into their room, telling Rebecca they needed to see Mike alone. 'Becca knew something was wrong and she closed the door slowly to catch whatever she could of what was going on. Mike had been unnaturally calm at first, or appeared to be. But it was not calm. It was the draining of all sensation, all feeling that made him seem not to have heard what Tom had told him. He sat on the edge of their bed, stunned and staring, going white as the sheets as the reality of Tom's words sank in.