The Empire of Shadows (18 page)

“I'm sorry, Mike. So sorry,” Mary said, a soft hug of words, though she did not take him in her arms. It didn't feel right at that moment, not with the way he sat, pale and hard as a tombstone. His eyes were glazed and unblinking. What he was seeing Mary could only guess. It may have been nothing. He hardly seemed to breathe. After an eternity of minutes, he looked at them, focusing his reddening eyes on Tom and Mary.

“I…” he started to say in a voice like a dying man “I loved…”

Mike jumped up from the bed and ran to the washbasin in the corner. Doubling over, he vomited up everything that was in him, retching, sobbing, and gasping for air. His stomach heaved long after there was no more to lose.

Mike had known death before. His sister and mother had died in a typhoid epidemic when he was nine. His father had been murdered. He, too, had come close to falling under the knife of one of the men who'd killed his dad, a little animal he'd called “the bow tie man.”

It had been then when Tom first entered Mike's life; but not even Tom could save his grandfather from consumption. His grandmother had it, too, by then, and though Tom had paid to send her to the sanitarium at Saranac Lake, she had followed her husband into the grave.

But none of the deaths had wrenched him like this. Lettie was his love. They had shared their bodies and it had been more wonderful than anything he'd ever know. To lose her while their flame burned bright was almost more than he could bear or even comprehend. His mouth was full of ashes.

Mary and Tom stood by Mike, their hands on his shoulders. Mary made no effort to wipe the tears away as they coursed down her cheeks. Mike was as close to her own flesh as another woman's son could be. The storm that wracked him battered her as well. Powerless to stop it, unable to make it better as a mother sometimes could, she could only rub his shoulder and share his pain.

At last he straightened and turned to her. She took him in her arms and held him tight.

“Oh, Mom,” was all he was able to say.

It was some time before Mike was back in control of himself. As the storm passed, Tom wrestled with himself about telling Mike the rest. He needed to know. He had a right to know. But there were bigger things at stake than that. It was Tom's responsibility to think ahead, to foresee the possible outcomes and pitfalls of an investigation and perhaps a trial. He thought not so much of Mike and his personal pain, but of what the next step should be. Tom looked at the clock.

“How do you feel about getting something to eat?” Tom said, as if this might make Mike feel a little better.

“We can wash up a bit and go down to supper,” he added as Mary and Mike looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. “You'll feel better,” he said. “You're exhausted from the climb today, and if you go without food you'll weaken yourself, end up coming down with something.”

“Tom, how could you…” Mary started to say in precisely the tone he'd expected, but Mike put a hand on her arm.

“It's all right, Mom. I don't know what I can hold down, but I think I need something in my stomach,” he said without much enthusiasm. Mary just looked from Tom to Mike, shaking her head.

A while later the family went down to the dining salon. The chandeliers glistened. The china sparkled on snowy, crisp linens. Conversation hummed and waiters hovered. Mike walked through the room as if asleep. His red eyes and stooped shoulders drew a concerned frown from the wine steward, a former slave, who wore the large, brass key to the wine cellar on a chain around his neck.

“Your boy feelin' a bit under the weather, Mista Braddock,” he asked with a frown. “Not comin' down wit' somethin', is he?”

Tom nodded, serious and slow. “He had some terrible news this evening, just terrible. Thank you for asking, Mister Erskine.”

The wine steward looked at Mike as he, Mary, and Rebecca continued to their table. “Damn shame. Anything I can do, you just let me know,” Erskine said so no one but Tom could hear. “There isn't much goes on here I don't know about, sir. I hear things, see things,” Erskine said, looking at Tom with knowing, dark eyes. “You take care. Take care o' that boy,” and in a louder voice that could be heard at the next table, “The Saint-Émilion, Mista Braddock. An excellent choice, sir.”

Dinner passed in a bubble of silence. Even Rebecca was quiet. Food was left half-eaten. Their waiter asked more than once if everything was to their liking. He seemed to pay particular attention to Mike. Even the busboys appeared to be measuring him as they cleared the table.

Tom watched with grim satisfaction. This was a small step, but an important one. Mary, who had come down to dinner with frosty reserve and black eyes, looked at Tom differently by the meal's end. She understood.

As the family left the dining hall, Tom stopped for a moment and had a word with Erskine. They spoke in hushed tones, their backs to the hall. Tom wasn't sure if he could trust the man, but thought he'd take him up on his earlier offer.

A man like Erskine could know more about what went on at the hotel than the Durants did. Tom hoped he could tell him something about Lettie, what the girl was like, what the rest of the help said about her, anything at all really. He hoped, too, to learn about the Durants and the doctor. Tom didn't know at this point what might be valuable, only that information was far too scarce.

As they shuffled back to their rooms some time later, Mary asked, “How do you want to tell him?”

They were a few steps behind Mike and Rebecca, out of earshot.

“No way but straight out,” Tom said, the reluctance clear in his voice. “He's got to understand what we're up against.”

Once they were behind locked doors, the electric lights casting the room in stark relief, Tom sat Mike down while Mary got Rebecca ready for bed. “Mike,” Tom said, looking at the top of his bowed head. “Son, there's something I haven't told you about Miss Burman—Lettie, I mean.”

Mike looked up with a dark, quizzical frown. He didn't say anything. He let the silence do the asking. “The doctor, that Whelen fellow from the pharmacy, he thinks there was foul play.”

Mike's frown deepened and he shook his head in a slow arc as if letting the words fall into their proper place. “You know what I'm saying? You know what that means?” Tom said, not quite sure if the words had sunk in. Mike looked up, his red eyes looking fierce and defiant.

“It means Lettie was murdered,” he said, almost choking on the word. “And—they think
I
did it.”

Chowder Kelly had always done things his way, a habit that had become only more pronounced after thirty years on the force. Byrnes may not have wanted Tom to be bothered with telegrams while he was off smelling pinecones but Byrnes hadn't said a damn thing about the mail.

Chowder knew Tom as well as Byrnes did. Some things he knew better, things shared with Tom across a bar or in the basement of the precinct house. There were always things the chief didn't need to know or didn't want to know. Byrnes knew the score. Chowder was sure Tom would want to know more about this one. There hadn't been a spectacular escape like this in years. There hadn't even been a string of murders in a year or so.

To catch a man like Tupper, a man the Tammany bosses wanted badly, would be a huge feather in Tommy's cap. That kind of success could carry a lot of weight, the kind of weight a man might put to real use. With rumors of another police corruption commission forming soon, it would be useful to be seen the hero. Heroes were damnably hard to prosecute.

He finished writing a note, adding his thoughts to the copy of the police report he'd already stuck in a large envelope. Tom would want to know what he guessed as much as what he knew, so he didn't hold back. Sealing it, he got up from his desk, signed out, and headed for the post office. He knew a clerk there, a man who'd been a useful informant over the years. It was amazing how useful a postal clerk could be. In this case, all Chowder needed was to be sure the envelope got to Tommy without a side trip to the bottom of a bin in the bowels of the postal system. With any luck, it might actually get where it was supposed to go in a day or so. As Chowder handed over the envelope to the clerk, who was grateful he hadn't been asked to do more, he couldn't suppress a satisfied smile.

 

Tom hadn't been sleeping, at least he thought not. He looked over at Mary, who seemed to be a sleep. He thought again about checking on Mike. He'd taken Lettie's death hard and the news that he was a suspect harder still. Through the small hours of the morning Tom had resisted the urge. Now he found himself planting his feet on the cool floor and easing out of bed for fear of waking Mary.

Tom padded softly to the connecting door, opening it halfway. He slipped through, his eyes scanning the twin beds in the moonlight. 'Becca's little form lay buried under the sheets with hardly one curly hair visible. She'd been exhausted after their climb and had collapsed into her bed after dinner, despite her curiosity about Mike. Mike's bed was rumpled, the sheets and pillows bunched up, so that in the darkness it almost appeared that he was there. Tom looked again, then crept to the bed and felt the lumpy sheets. Mike was gone.

Tom was in his pants and shoes a moment later, dressing in haste. He wrote a quick note to Mary, who hadn't stirred, then slipped into the dark hallway. The Prospect House was empty, the hallways echoed. The electricity had been turned off as it was every night, and Tom had to feel as much as see his way through the long, deserted corridors. He saw only one person, floating like a ghost in the dark, the meager glow of a candle lighting the way toward the two-story outhouse in the rear.

Tom wasn't seen. He didn't want to be. He searched the hotel, stalking every corridor, every room, even the bowling alley and the pharmacy, which was unlocked, to Tom's surprise. In his heart he knew where Mike had gone, though he prayed he was wrong.

Tom slipped through the kitchen and out toward the black pile that had been the barn. His eyes strained in the moonlight, which almost seemed bright compared to the tomblike interior of the hotel. He stood motionless for a moment, watching. With a sigh, Tom turned toward the place he feared to go.

As he neared the icehouse door he saw a sliver of light at its edge, a razor cut in the blue-black night. Tom drew close and listened. He felt the cold oozing through, and despite the warmth of the night he shivered. A sob, so soft it seemed to come from the ground, broke the silence. Tom didn't know how long he stood sentinel before that icy door. He only knew that it was not in him to disturb Mike's grieving.

It had to run its course, find its natural release. Tom stood monument-still, listening to the breaking of a young heart. He could not stop his own tears from coming. They coursed down his cheeks, mingling with the rain. The two of them cried together, a heavy oaken door between.

At last Tom put his hand on the wrought iron latch, the city cop in him wondering why nothing ever seemed to be locked here. The latch rattled. The sliver of light disappeared.

“Mike, it's me,” Tom said in a soft voice as he pulled the door open. There was no sound at first, just a cascade of deathly cold air, scented with candle wax.

“Mike?” Tom said again as he closed the door behind him. “Mike,” he said to the inky blackness, “I know you're here.”

There was a rustle of hay and then the awkward clasp of strong arms about his shoulders. It startled Tom, and he flinched at first, but Mike held on, his head against Tom's chest. Neither of them spoke, though for Tom there were volumes to say.

Somehow none of the words seemed adequate and they lingered in his throat, slipping about as he struggled to grasp only the right ones. He felt a coward for not saying them, not even in the dark. He didn't know that, for Mike, just his being there was enough.

They separated at last, Tom saying, “I know how—I mean I can imagine how you must feel, but you can't stay here.”

Mike didn't answer.

“You took a chance coming,” Tom said. “Who knows what the hell people might think if they saw you. You understand? You've got to go back to the room. Go through the bathhouse. If you're seen there, nobody'll think anything of it.”

“Okay,” Mike said in a whisper.

Tom patted him on the shoulder. “I'll be back in a few minutes. I need to check a couple of things.” The door closed behind Mike with a dull thud and Tom made sure it was pulled tight before he struck a match. Turning to find Mike's candle, he saw Lettie Burman.

“Jesus!” he muttered.

Her fire-ravaged form lay half uncovered on her pier of ice. He thought of Mike, alone with her. He shuddered so hard he had to try twice to light the candle.

“Mike. Mike,” he sighed, shaking his head as if to erase the image from his mind. This was the way of madness. He wondered how much damage the boy had done to himself coming here.

As for Tom, he'd seen death before. He was as used to it as a man could be, as if a protective callous had grown around his mind. He needed that defense now. He looked at Lettie, trying to picture her in life, trying to humanize the grizzled form she'd assumed.

“Lettie?” he said, holding the candle close so the shadows moved in her empty sockets. “Lettie, I'm Tom Braddock, Mike's dad.” The only sound was the shuffling of Tom's nervous feet in the hay. “He needs your help,” Tom said, as if she might hear and come to his aid.

“I'm thinking maybe you can do that,” he added. The candle flickered and the corpse seemed to grin in the shadows. “If you don't mind, girl, I'll just have a look at a thing or two,” he said with a hand on her shoulder. “I promise not to hurt you,” Tom said as he began his examination.

The first gray hint of dawn had begun to light the eastern sky as Tom climbed back into bed. He took the untouched note off the pillow, grateful that Mary had slept through the night. Though he'd washed up before coming back to the room, Tom still felt unclean. Lettie's body had told him two things. He couldn't know yet whether they might prove significant. He'd need to know more before he could make those kind of conclusions. He had guesses, though, and even more questions. He lay awake as the new day crept through the windows. Theories and possibilities banged about inside his head like rocks in a rolling can. Two things he decided: He'd need a microscope and he'd need to talk to Mike.

 

Chowder couldn't figure what the hell Braddock would want with a microscope. He looked at the telegram once more as if expecting more information to magically appear. A low hum rumbled in the back of Chowder's throat. The damn telegram had been on his desk when he got back from court in the afternoon. For a moment he imagined that Tom had already gotten the envelope he'd sent. He realized as he'd read it that that wasn't possible. It would be tomorrow at best till Tom got that. Tom's message mentioned nothing about Tupper, the escaped murderer. Instead it asked that Chowder send him a microscope as soon as one could be located, or, failing that, the most powerful magnifying glass he could find.

“Not like Tommy at all,” Chowder mused as he sat on the corner of his desk. He decided to send Tom a magnifying glass that afternoon. He knew he could borrow one from one of the detectives who specialized in forgeries. A microscope might be a bit more difficult, but that, too, could be had in another day or so. There wasn't much that Chowder Kelly didn't know how to lay hands on in New York, one way or another.

He set to work rounding up a magnifying glass along with a box to ship it in, all the while wondering at the request. Tom hadn't taken a sudden interest in science, he was sure. Chowder knew him better than that. This was about a case. It had to be. But it was not about Tupper. Chowder decided it was time to send Braddock a telegram. Tom was onto something, vacation or no, and once he got Chowder's envelope his vacation was likely to get a lot more complicated.

“Better to give Tommy a bit o' warnin',” he mumbled as he went down to the basement telegraph office.

 

The morning had passed in unnatural calm. It was hot and sunny and the sky was the clearest pale blue Mary had ever seen. After breakfast Tom said to her and Mike, “I've got to take a look at where Mike and Lettie met that day. I want to see it before any sheriffs go tramping about.”

“Wouldn't the rain have washed things away,” Mary said, “tracks and whatever?”

“Most likely,” Tom said, “but I feel like I've got to do something. I'm gonna go crazy just sitting around waiting for some hick cop to show up.”

“I'll go with you,” Mike said. “You'll never find it otherwise.”

They walked out the road a mile or more. They made no secret of what direction they were headed, and no one seemed to pay them any mind. They reached the spot where the old maple stretched across the road and Mike stopped.

“The path's here someplace. It's hard to spot.”

“Hold up a second,” Tom said, putting a hand on his arm, the first words he'd said since they left the hotel. “Let's take a look at the ground first.”

The side of the road was still a little damp from the rain, the grass retaining some moisture. Tom got down on his knees. There wasn't much to learn from the dried-out roadbed, but he hoped that the earth along the edges might still hold some evidence of Mike and Lettie having been there. Tom grunted as he examined the grassy margin. “Wagon been here,” he said. “If you look this way you can see the track where it bent the grass.”

Mike looked too. “Pretty well washed away,” he said.

Tom got up. “Yeah. Couldn't say whether it stopped here or just went off the side of the road a bit, maybe passing another wagon or something. You don't remember seeing a wagon, do you?”

Mike shook his head.

“Might be nothing,” Tom said. “This the path?” He pointed to a faint trail that disappeared into the woods.

“Yeah. I think so.” Mike squatted down, looking at the ground as Tom had. “See this?” he said. “I think that's me, my footprint I mean. Rain's washed it mostly away. And that's Lettie.”

Tom had a hand on Mike's shoulder, looking where he pointed. “Good work,” he said. They're faint, but I think you're right. Hold your foot next to that one.” Mike did, and it was a clear match. Tom just nodded, but then he looked closer.

“So, who in hell was that?” he said, pointing to a third track, larger and broader than the other two. It was a few feet further on. “See how the grass is bent under the footprint, the way the dirt's washed away at the edges just like yours? I'd say this was made the same day.”

“A fisherman or something,” Mike said. “We didn't see anybody though, not all afternoon.”

Tom just made a low sound, deep in his throat as he stood up. He looked about, staring up and down the road and across at the woods on the other side. He shrugged his shoulders at last and said, “Let's go look at where you two…” He let the words trail off as Mike led the way into the forest.

Tom tried to follow the bigger tracks, but it was next to impossible on the forest floor. They went slow, but all they could see was an occasional ghostly depression, while Mike's and Lettie's prints were somewhat clearer in the center of the faint trail. At last the third set of tracks disappeared entirely.

“You sure you didn't see anyone?” Tom asked, looking about on his knees.

“Nope,” Mike said again. “Certain,” though he scratched his head and shrugged.

Tom got up. “You were over that way, under those big pines?” he asked, guessing by the pretty look of the spot where Mike and Lettie had gone.

“Yeah. It was nice there. Smelled great. You can see all down the lake from there,” Mike said.

Tom didn't say anything. He just moved forward toward the stand of pine. They looked it over carefully, going over the ground on their hands and knees.

“I lost a button here,” Mike said after a minute. “Looked for it but didn't find it.”

“Where from?”

“My pants,” Mike said, not looking at Tom.

“Not here,” Tom said. “Must've lost it someplace else.”

“No. It was here. Lettie, she…” Mike stopped, embarrassed.

“Uh-huh. Well, it isn't here now,” Tom said, amused at the color in Mike's cheeks. “Mike, do you know why Lettie wasn't wearing any ah, well any underclothes? I noticed it last night when I looked.” Tom stopped, not wanting to give Mike too many details of his examination. “There were remnants of her dress still intact but no pantalets, or—anything.”