The Empire of Shadows (37 page)

They all showed Owens in hopeless agony, suffering beyond endurance, until at last he'd beg to confess. Tupper remembered the stories of how his ancestors tortured captives, of feet split open, fingers, noses, or ears bitten off, and of roasting captives over hot coals. Tupper smiled at the thought. There should be no end of suffering for someone like Owens, no words that didn't end in screams.

Tupper indulged his fantasies as he rowed. That's all they were, really. Though he savored them as if to make them real, he knew they were only dreams. Not that he wasn't planning on hurting Owens; he didn't rule that out at all. He'd hurt the man, hurt him bad and deep. But torture and murder? Tupper's heart was not in that. His grandfather had taught him to revere life, the gift of
Hodianok'doo Hed'iohe
. The taking of life was not to be done lightly.

He knew, too, that Exeter Owens alive was his key out of the mess he was in, at least the Adirondack part of his mess. The city part was another problem. But that seemed to pale in significance when he thought of Owens pulling the trigger on him. That image blotted out all others.

The problem was how to capture Owens alive. On that point Tupper didn't have a clue. What he did have was determination. He'd find Owens wherever he was. He'd catch him. The wheres and the hows didn't concern him yet.

He carried with him a legacy of lore and knowledge and magic, gifts that had carried him beyond the reach of the most determined hunters. They would see him through this, too. He rowed into the mouth of the Raquette River where it emptied into Long Lake. From there it was all upstream.

It was in the early morning hours, after he'd rowed and carried his boat to Forked lake, that Tupper came near to stepping on the biggest snapping turtle he'd ever seen. It was lumbering through the night, going from lake to lake under the cover of darkness, moving much like himself, out of sight of predatory eyes. It snapped and hissed at him, holding open its powerful beak, its neck pulled back into the shell and ready to strike. The hoary shell was well over a foot wide and twice as long. A snakelike tail dragged behind.

An idea came to Tupper once he got over his surprise. He recalled seeing bullets bounce right off turtles of this size. He'd learned when he was young to shoot for the neck if he wanted turtle soup. Here, he thought, was a breastplate to stop any bullet. He found a dead branch and held it out for the monster to strike at, but when it did the branch snapped in its jaws. Tupper tried again with a thicker branch, letting the turtle grab onto the wood for a moment to make sure it would hold. He reached in then and cut the thing's throat. This was a gift from the Creator, and he said a prayer of thanks as he rolled the carcass over and went to work.

The deputy had decided to wait one day at the Prospect House. Mary was glad of it. It saved her having to decide whether to wait for Tom or go on with Mike.

“Don't know much what MacDougal wanted done with yer boy,” the deputy told her. “If he don't come back, or I don't hear from him, I s'pose I'll have ta wire Glens Falls, see what they want ta do.”

Mary and Rebecca ate in the dining hall. Mike had to eat in their room, his ankle shackled to the bed. He'd insisted on them going down to eat, as if all was normal, preferring to eat in his room, staying away from curious eyes and whispered remarks.

Mary thought he was holding up remarkably well, considering. He might have easily slipped into a dark mood and be forgiven for it, but he seemed serene instead. Mary didn't understand it. She figured he was just hiding his true feelings, or perhaps trying to be strong for her and 'Becca, putting on a confident face.

She'd asked him about it the night before as she adjusted the wrapping around his ribs. She wanted him to open up, to tell her how he really felt, give him a shoulder to cry on, if he needed it. She didn't get what she expected.

“You weren't there, Mom. You didn't see Mitchell and Dad. They wouldn't give up, no matter what. If you'd been with us you'd know.”

Mary had nodded as if she understood. She knew well enough how determined Tom could be, but that was nothing new, at least not to her.

“The only reason I'm sad is I'm not out there. These…,” Mike said, holding up a leg and jingling the chain, “these'll come off when Dad catches Tupper.” Mike grinned. “Like Mitchell said once, ‘It's when the lakes are low that I know the rain will come.'”

“I'm not sure I follow you,” Mary said.

“I suppose you kinda had to be there, but it means that when things are looking low and at their worst, it's then that things are about to turn for the better. Don't worry,” Mike said with a reassuring smile, “they'll catch him.”

Mary sat on the verandah while Rebecca threw pieces of bread to the fish down by the dock. She thought about Mike and the things he'd said. He'd never in all the last six years been an optimistic boy. There had been too much hardship in his life, too much tragedy. But something had changed. Somewhere in the forest something had happened. Mary did not begin to understand what, or how it had taken hold so completely, but it was plain that even in chains Mike was free. Mary wished that she could see with the same clarity.

Mary came out of her reverie. Rebecca was calling to her. Mary laughed and waved. She saw Owens then, coming up the lawn. He gave her a tip of his hat, as if she'd waved at
him,
and came up the broad stairs. He clumped down the nearly empty verandah, his boots sounding heavy.

“Afternoon, ma'am,” he said. “Heard you were back. How's the boy? Sorry to say I heard about him, too.”

Owens wore a concerned look, but there was something in his tone Mary couldn't put her finger on. She thanked him for his concern, though, and asked him to join her. It was lonely at the hotel now with most of the guests gone. Even Durant's little steamers seemed to whistle sadly as they carried one or two passengers between the lakes.

“Did I notice you limping, Mister Owens? Are you quite all right?” Mary asked. Though it wasn't polite for a woman to comment on a personal matter with an unattached man, Mary didn't much care. She certainly didn't want to discuss Mike's predicament, nor Tom's failure to capture Tupper, so she latched onto the first thing that came into her head.

“You have a sharp eye, Missus Braddock,” Owens said. “A sport damn near shot my leg off. Tripped and dropped his rifle.” He pulled up his pants leg to show her the bandage on his calf. “Came this close,” he said, holding up a thumb and forefinger an inch apart, “to hitting the bone. Lucky though. Ended up with just a scratch.”

“That is lucky,” Mary said in an absent sort of way. Something about Owens had struck a chord with her. She wasn't sure what it was, but the notion that there was something oddly familiar about him seemed to wash her other thoughts away.

“Does it hurt much?” she asked, looking at his leg. Perhaps it was the boots, she thought. They seemed to remind her of something.

“Been hurt worse. A little tender is all.”

“I see,” Mary said. She'd decided it wasn't the boots and tried to put the notion out of her mind. “I suppose it can be a dangerous business, hunting.”

“Hunting's not dangerous. It's fools that're dangerous,” Owens said, waggling a finger. “Guides see plenty of fools.”

Their conversation continued for some time, as the sun started to settle toward the mountaintops. From time to time the odd feeling returned, and Mary found herself watching Owens for some clue to its cause. Rebecca came running up, saying she was out of bread and was going to ask a waiter if she could have more. She waved at Owens, who waved back as she turned and skipped off.

As if for the first time, Mary saw the shirt, the mended tear in the sleeve. Her heart stopped, then fluttered in her chest like a bird in hand. She could not seem to draw the next breath. The fabric!

Mary's eyes went wide and she gripped the arms of her chair as if she might be blown away if she didn't. Owens noticed and gave her a curious frown.

“Missus Braddock, you look like you've seen a ghost,” Owens said with a narrow-eyed look that mimicked concern. It was a cold look, though the voice was soothing, “Are you all right?”

Flustered, Mary said, “Oh, oh yes. I'm fine. I just remembered something, that's all,” she mumbled.

Mary's palms started to sweat and a cold trickle of fear crept down her spine. She got up without thinking, finding herself standing before she thought of a plausible explanation. She flushed, and her fingers fumbled at her waist.

“I—I promised my husband I'd send a telegram for him,” she said.

Owens just raised an eyebrow. “I'd be happy to take it to the telegraph office for you, if you like,” he said, which flustered Mary even more.

“Oh no! I mean I wouldn't dream of imposing,” she said. “It is a private communication, as well,” she added, regaining her command a bit. “I'm afraid I've been a goose. Tom will be so mad if I forget,” she said, adding some urgency to her excuse.

“How any man could stay mad at a wife as charming as you, Mary, I don't know,” Owens said as he stood.

He put out a hand, catching one of hers before she knew it. His palm was as cool as the skin of a snake and he barely restrained his finger's crushing power. He looked into her eyes, holding her spellbound for a horrible instant. Mary felt like a mouse before the strike. Owens's eyes were dead. His voice was caring, but it was a carefully contrived imitation of how a caring man might sound.

“Is there nothing I can do to help?” he was saying, though Mary hardly heard the words. “I'd be happy to help you, Mary, in any way I could.”

“Goodness, no! It's really something I must see to myself,” Mary said, avoiding his eye.

Her skin crawled at Owens's touch, and for a horrifying instant she let herself imagine what those hands had done. “Thank you, Mister Owens. You're too kind,” Mary forced herself to say, “but I must go.”

She slipped her hand from his with the best smile she could muster. “Sorry to run off. Now, where is that daughter of mine?”

Mary walked into the shelter of the lobby, wishing there were more people about. She tried to tell herself that she could be mistaken, that there must be hundreds of shirts just like that in the Adirondacks. Surely, she had to be wrong.

Tupper was the murderer: Hadn't Chowder and Tom been sure of it? What difference did a shirt make after all, when all the evidence pointed to Tupper? Mary's heels echoed through the lobby as she hurried to find Rebecca.

Rebecca was in the kitchen, playing with one of the many cats who kept the mice at bay.

“'Becca! There you are! We have to go.”

“Go where, Mommy? I'm playing with the kitty.”

“Maybe you can do that again a little later, sweetie. We need to send a telegram to Daddy now,” Mary said, taking her hand.

“Oh good, a telegram. I love to watch the key go clickety-clackety.”

Mary smiled, “That is fun, isn't it?” she said, though her mind was elsewhere.

Mary thought for a moment to tell Frederick or William, but had to dismiss the idea. She had no proof. She'd given the swatch of fabric to Chowder. If she told the Durants, they'd surely confront Owens, but without the evidence they'd be unable to hold him. Flushing him before they were ready to arrest him would only result in another chase.

The only way was to get a message to Tom, if she could, and stay away from Owens until Tom got back. She was thinking of just how to word the telegram. She'd need to be very careful, she decided. There was no telling if some friend of Owens's might see it.

It could be days before Tom got it, and half the Adirondacks might know of it before then. By the time she got to the telegraph office she'd made up her mind. She hoped Tom would understand.

Owens watched as Mary and Rebecca disappeared back into the Prospect House a few minutes later, their telegram sent. He ambled into the telegraph office once they were gone.

The telegram was waiting for Tom when he woke. It had been near noon when he and Mitchell rumbled up to the Sabattis place. Though he'd wanted to keep on to the Prospect House, he was dead-tired and unsteady in his seat. He and Mitchell collapsed with orders to Mrs. Sabattis to wake Tom in an hour. She'd let him sleep a half hour longer. He read the telegram with foggy eyes and an even foggier brain.

 

I FOUND THE SHIRT YOU WERE LOOKING FOR STOP

CHOWDER HAS ONE LIKE IT STOP COME QUICK STOP

 

Tom read it again, “What the hell,” he muttered. He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus as the words swam in front of him. “A shirt?”

Steaming bowls of biscuits and fresh corn pulled his attention away and the sizzle of frying steaks had him frothing at the mouth. He put the telegram down and dug in. For fifteen minutes Tom shoveled food without a break. Only when he took a moment to butter his third biscuit did he glance at the telegram again.

“Why she all on fire about a shirt?” he mumbled with his mouth full. “Fuck!” he shouted, bits of biscuit flying. He jumped up from the table as if he'd been kicked out of his chair. “Sonofabitch!”

“What the hell?” Mitchell said, staring in amazement. Tom offered a stammered apology to Mrs. Sabattis and said, “Owens, he's at the Prospect House! Mary's seen him! I gotta go!”

Mitchell jumped up and ran out the back door. Tom was close behind.

“Mitchell,” Tom said. He'd scribbled a message on the back of the telegram. “Can you get this sent to Mary? I'll go ahead.”

“Sure, Tom. I'll be fifteen, twenty minutes behind you. Go!”

 

It paid to have friends who, like himself, had no love for the Durants. Owens crumpled Tom's telegram as he put it in his pocket and walked out of the telegraph office. He looked around at the deepening gloom. The sun had set a half hour before. Hardly anyone was about. There was a low rumble off to the west, and the sky flickered, outlining the black trees in blue-white lightning. The storm was still some distance off, but rolling in fast. Owens smiled. Perfect cover for the night's work. He figured he had about an hour to get ready. Lights were coming on in the hotel.

“Thank you, Mister Edison,” he mumbled, grinning in the glow.

It had been hours since Mary sent her telegram. She'd stayed in her room with the doors bolted while the hours ticked away. They'd taken their dinner in their rooms, too. The only time the door had opened was to let the waiter in with his cart. Rebecca grumbled about being cooped up for hours, but Mike had helped occupy her as best he could.

Mary told him about Owens. Mike agreed that they were best to stay behind locked doors until Tom returned. For now she'd have to wait, like bait in a trap.

A rap at the door interrupted her thoughts. The waiter announced himself. “Picking up the trays, ma'am,” he said through the door.

Mary threw the bolt and opened it a crack. She was about to peer out before opening it all the way when the door was shoved hard, cracking her in the head, sending her staggering back.

“Sorry, Mary, but I really must intrude,” Owens said, as if he were interrupting dinner conversation. He gripped her arm as she started to turn, and with the other hand punched her on the side of the head.

Mary opened her eyes and looked at Owens's boot just inches from her face. The world had turned on its side and the room towered above her. The floor pressed against her face and something sharp dug into her temple.

“The boy, he's in the next room?” Owens asked, “And Rebecca, too?” When Mary didn't answer immediately, Owens slapped her and said, “Don't make me kill you, Mary. Really, don't.”