The Empire of Shadows (20 page)

“We'll make this go away,” he said at last. “That's it. We've never seen it and it never existed.

“I suppose you ought to know the rest now, the other evidence I found,” Tom said after a long pause. He had been dreading having to get into this with Mike. “You remember I stayed to examine the body?” he said with an almost lecturing slowness. “Well I found something in her mouth, Mike—a bit of cloth.”

“You looked in her mouth?” Mike said with a grimace.

“Whose mouth?” Rebecca asked from her room, where she'd been busy listening.

Mary, looking flustered, strode to their connecting door and closed it, saying. “You mind your business, Miss Nosy-pants.”

“In her…” Mike couldn't continue.

The color drained from his face. His eyes went blank in his ashen face, seeing Tom examining Lettie's corpse. He'd known that Tom would look at Lettie, but somehow the image of him rummaging about in her mouth, and everywhere else, left him weak and sickened. Mike wandered over to the bed and let his knees go slack. He sat with a small bounce, his back to them, framed by their open window, the lake, and the mountains.

Tom had been afraid of Mike's reaction. It was why he had been reluctant to speak of what he'd found unless he had to.

“I'm sorry, Mike but it had to be done,” Tom said in a soft voice. “I wasn't about to rely on that doctor.”

Mike was shaking his head, but he took a deep breath and said “What about this piece of cloth?” His voice was strained and it was only with a visible effort that he managed to get that much out.

Tom started to explain what his theory was, but he didn't get very far. A knock on their door interrupted him.

“Mail, sir,” a clerk said when he opened the door, handing him a large envelope. “I was told you'd want to see any mail immediately.”

Tom tipped him a quarter and was ripping at the envelope before the door was closed. He looked at the copied forms, the information from Fat Bess, and the coroner's report on the body of the steward from the Albany night boat.

“Good God!” he growled.

“What?” Mary said. “What is it?”

Mike swiveled about to look at them. Tom went over the information again and scanned Chowder's note while Mike and Mary waited, frozen.

“The same man! Damn it all to hell. It's the same man!” Tom shouted, slapping the wad of forms against his thigh. It cracked like a bullet. “I have to go examine Lettie's body again. I have to see the head wound,” Tom said. “Damn, I wish I had that magnifying glass!”

Tupper was confused by his reception at the Prospect House kitchen.

“Can't give you no ice! For the last time, I don't care if it
is
for Mister Durant. I have been instructed to use no more ice than I have to for our guests. Period. You'll have to try Merwin's or the Blue Mountain House.”

Tupper didn't care much where he got the ice, just that he got it, and plenty of it. Coming back empty would likely get him fired. He got back on the wagon, clucked to the team, and was off toward the Blue Mountain House on the other side of town. The Blue Mountain House was smaller and decidedly more rustic than the Prospect, more a collection of added-on buildings in a variety of styles, from log cabin to Victorian.

They catered to a slightly less well heeled crowd who liked to feel as though they were enjoying the simple pleasures of the outdoors, unadorned by the flubdub of the grand hotel across the lake. Tupper got as much ice as the manager thought he could spare. The guarantee of compensation by William West Durant opened the icehouse door quicker than “open sesame.”

Still, Tupper's wagon wasn't full. He drove on up the steep ridge at the foot of the mountain to Merwin's. It was the last place he could hope to find ice in any quantity. Merwin's was much like the Blue Mountain House, except that it had a spectacular view of the lake. Perched hundreds of feet up the foot of the mountain, it was a favorite of those who preferred hunting and hiking over the diversions of the lake. Tupper inquired in the main office, a small log building that had been the original hotel, boasting just four, tiny guest rooms upstairs. Again, Durant's request was honored and Tupper was dispatched to the icehouse cut into the side of the mountain to take what he needed. He got to work with a large pair of tongs and an ice pick.

 

Tom was almost to the telegraph office when a boy came running out, heading for the hotel. “Whoa, son, where you off to in such a hurry?” Tom called.

“Got a message for Mister Braddock,” he answered.

“I'm him,” Tom replied, holding out a hand for the telegram. He read it quickly, then turned and ran back to the hotel. Bursting into their room minutes later, Tom retrieved his pistol as he told Mary what he knew. The metallic snick of bullets sliding into the cylinder punctuated his words.

“Littletree was at Pine Knot! He's been sent here to fetch ice. He's probably here right now!”

“God, be careful, Tommy,” Mary said. “Don't go alone. Get someone to go with you. If you're right about this man, he's already killed three people.”

Tom hesitated a moment. He'd been ready to go after Littletree, so anxious to clear Mike that caution did not occur to him, not that it often did. He gave a shrug and a brief, sheepish glance to Mary.

“Mike, run down to the boathouse. See if you can find Mister Busher. Tell him to bring his rifle and meet me in back as soon as he can. I'm going to take another quick look at Lettie's head wound first. I want to be sure about something.”

Mike slammed the door on his way out. His feet could be heard pounding down the hall. Tom tucked his pistol into his shoulder holster and turned to Mary.

“Don't worry, I won't take any chances.”

“Make sure you don't, Tommy,” she said, then, in an attempt to ease the tension, added, “Of course, this might not even be the man.”

“True,” Tom said, not believing it for a second, but feeling that Mary might like the notion.

“Don't kill him, Tom,” Mary warned. She'd seen that look on his face before. “We need him alive. Mike needs him alive.”

Tom shrugged and with a dark grin and a bad rustic accent said “Awright, Ma. Ah'll jes kill 'im a leettle bit.”

It wasn't Chauncey Busher who rounded the corner of the hotel with Mike about fifteen minutes later, but Exeter Owens. He had his rifle gripped loosely in one hand.

“Your boy said you needed help,” he said as he strode up to Tom.

Tom nodded. “Grateful for it. Owens, wasn't it?” Tom said extending his hand. He sketched out who he was looking for and what Littletree was suspected of.

“That ain't Littletree, that's Tupper!” Owens said. “Well it's both actually. Most don't know Littletree's his Indian name. I just saw him a couple of days ago, not more 'n ten feet from this spot.”

“The day of the fire,” Tom said.

“That's right. Damn! You think he killed that girl, then set the fire? What's got into that boy? Always took him to be a bit edgy, if you know what I'm saying, but never figured him for something like this.”

“He's edgy alright. Killed three people between New York City and here. He gives us any trouble, you shoot the sonofabitch. You okay with that?” Tom asked with an appraising squint. Owens shrugged as if it were a given.

“I want him breathing, though,” Tom added as they set off. “He's not much use to me dead.” Owens gave him a curious look but said nothing.

“Mike, you stay here, okay? Tell your ma we're headed for the Blue Mountain House,” Tom said over his shoulder.

“I will Dad. Be careful,” Mike called after them.

“I thought Tupper was here,” Owens said, puzzled.

“He was, but he went on to the Blue Mountain House for ice.”

“Oh,” Owens grunted as they broke into a jog toward town.

It was nearly a half hour later when Tom and Owens made their way to Merwin's. They'd missed Tupper at the Blue Mountain House. They crossed the broad lawn, where a group of women in long, full skirts and wide hats played croquet in the afternoon sun. They were laughing and seemed to take no notice of Tom and Ex. Neither their rifles nor their haste drew a second glance. Tom went to the hotel office while Owens waited.

“He's back that way,” Tom said as he bounded out, pointing up the ridge behind the hotel. “You ready?” Owens just nodded and checked his rifle, chambering a round and flipping the safety off.

They came upon Tupper at the back of his wagon. He'd backed it up to the icehouse door, so the horse and wagon shielded him slightly. He was chopping at a block of ice, the ice pick tossing up sparkling little sprays with each blow. Tom had a fleeting vision of the thing punching into Lettie Burman's skull.

“Jim Tupper!” Tom said in a way that froze Tupper instantly.

Tupper looked up at Tom and Owens. Ex stood behind Tom, by the horse's hindquarters while Tom advanced. Tupper cursed himself for ever trusting Owens. He could feel a black rage sweep through him. His vision went dark, leaving only a focused circle of brilliant light surrounding Owens and the stranger.

“I'm Tupper,” he managed to say.

“Turn around,” Tom said. “Put your hands behind—”

He never finished the sentence. A remarkable thing happened, something Tupper would not make head nor tails of for some time. Owens, who was behind Braddock, looked straight at Tupper, then kicked one of the horses with all his might. The horse reared and struck out with his hooves, startling Tom, who turned half about in surprise. It was a stupid mistake, turning his back on Tupper, the sort of thing that got a man killed, even if it was for only a split-second.

Braddock felt the impact, but did not understand that something had hit him until the earth came up to meet his face. He got his hands under him to push himself up, but the grass was turning gray and indistinct. The ground was moving. He couldn't seem to make his arms do what he wanted. He heard a rifle boom above him, so close he was certain he'd been shot. The grass danced before his eyes. His ears rang. Tom felt something wet run down his nose. It dripped black into the gray grass.

Mary heard the shots from across the lake. They rolled like thunder. She felt them to the bottoms of her shoes. One hand went up to her mouth. Mike, who was standing beside her on the verandah saw it. No one else took notice, though there were a number of guests lounging there. Shots in the woods were not uncommon.

“Don't worry. He'll be fine,” Mike said. Something in Mike's voice made Mary turn and look at him. Mike knew that it wasn't Tom's pistol they'd heard. He wondered if she knew, too.

“You all right?” said Owens.

“Hell no! Christ, what'd he hit me with?” Blood had stained Tom's shirt and pants in bright streaks and blotches.

“Chunk of ice,” Owens said as he helped Tom to sit on the tailgate of the wagon. Tom didn't bother to look around. He wasn't seeing all that well anyway.

“You didn't hit him.”

“Don't think so,” Owens said. “He's one fast sonofabitch. Off into the trees in two shakes.”

Tom heaved himself up, steadying himself with one hand. “Gotta get after him,” he said, though he wasn't at all sure how he was going to do it.

Owens put out a hand. “Dogs,” he said. “You take it easy for a spell. I know a man's got some fine hounds. Don't worry,” Owens said, when it looked like Tom wanted to go after Tupper by himself. “We'll catch him quicker with hounds than without.”

Owens headed off at a run. Borrowing a horse from the hotel stable, he galloped toward town, the horse kicking up clods of hotel lawn as he went.

Tom sat with a kerchief wrapped around his head. He held a piece of ice against it as he cursed himself for his stupid lack of attention. A small group of solicitous hotel employees and anxious guests only made him feel more bruised and self-conscious. “Contact my wife at the Prospect House. Tell her I'm all right and going after the suspect,” he said to one of the hotel staff. “Could you do that?” He didn't want Mary to worry, though she was bound to anyway. She had been right to worry.

Tom was anxious to get going by the time he heard the dogs. Owens had been gone nearly an hour. He didn't come back alone.

“Brought some help,” Owens said. Besides the man with the hounds, three of them, Busher and the two Duryea boys were with him. They were all heavily armed.

“Tried to keep these two from comin',” Busher said with a nod toward the Duryeas. “They wouldn't have none of it.” The boys just grinned. Tom shook his head but wasn't about to argue. They were a little older than Mike at least.

“What the hell. Let's go!”

 

Tupper heard the hounds baying.

When after about fifteen minutes he realized he hadn't been followed, he had started to circle back toward the hotel. He had thought that if he could steal a horse he could get back to Pine Knot and snatch his equipment before they caught up with him. His gear was so important to him, it was worth the risk. He knew that if he had to take to the woods his life might depend on his gear.

All thoughts of going back for his equipment vanished like smoke in a gale, chased off by the baying of the hounds.

Panicked at first, Tupper set off at a run. He gave no thought to how he might elude the dogs. The terrain was rough. Fallen trees, boulders, and dense undergrowth slowed him, still he went as fast as he could. His course meandered through the forest as he navigated the barriers. The dogs, he knew, would not be slowed as much.

He plunged down a steep slope to a small, rocky stream that crossed his path. Slipping down the last few feet, he tumbled into the cold water. Getting up, he stood in the stream, the water rippling around his ankles and dripping from his clothes. He gulped air, his hands on his knees as he looked up the rocky waterbed. The hounds sounded farther off from down in the gully. His panic washed away a little.

“A fish leaves no tracks, Jim,” he heard his grandfather say. The voice seemed to come from somewhere up the stream, just out of reach. He followed.

Staying to the water where he could, or jumping rock to rock, he made his way up the stream. The dogs would be slowed by the water, his scent washed away. They'd be confused. He went with confidence, navigating the rocky watercourse with light, sure strides and jumps. If he could trace the stream back to its source, he might be able to hide in the water amidst a marsh or under a sheltering bank. If he could remain hidden until dark he'd disappear.

The thought encouraged him and he smiled as he went. Circling back to Pine Knot was still a goal, though, if he had to do it on foot it would be no use trying. In the time it would take to make the trip afoot, the whole region would be on the lookout for him and certainly everyone at Durant's camp. He could not worry about that now though. Eluding the dogs came first.

Tupper was not slow, not even in the tumbled rock of the stream. He'd gone a bit more than half a mile, when he heard the baying take on a different tone. He knew the sound. The dogs had lost his scent in the water. He'd gain some distance on them, but still they were far too close. He picked up his pace. Though his chest was heaving and his lungs burning with the effort, he sprang like a deer, drawing on his inner reserves of strength and endurance, the legacies of a life in the wilderness. From time to time he listened, barely able to hear the hounds over his own breathing.

Tupper thought of Ex Owens, too. He couldn't figure it. Ex had led them right to him then given him a chance to escape. It made no sense. The only way it seemed to add up was if Ex had somehow been forced to it. Perhaps Ex knew they already had a bead on him, he thought. It could be that Ex had come along to give him his chance if he could. It seemed to fit.

The baying of the hounds, faint now, suddenly changed tone. They'd caught his scent again. Tupper put on an extra burst of speed.

 

“Where's this stream go?” Tom asked between gulps of air.

“Marsh, maybe a couple miles back o' here. Used to be a beaver pond,” Owens said. “Might give us some trouble, he gets in there.”

Tom nodded. He knew little about hounding, but it seemed obvious how confused the dogs were when they lost the scent in the water. It had been their handler who'd got them on track again, leading them up the stream, talking to the dogs. He kept up a steady banter with the dogs, calling each by name as if they were his children.