The Empire of Shadows (39 page)

“Crazy, murdering Indian, running about, leaving bodies wherever he goes.” Owens made a whoop like an Indian and hopped once or twice in a mock war dance. Tupper's legs jiggled in Owens's grip.

“Scared shit outa the tourists. Cost the Durants a bloody fortune, but not near enough yet. Fucking William stole my land,” Owens said as he dropped Tupper's boots with a thud on the floor.

“My family's land since before I was born, my island, right smack in Raquette Lake.” Owens kicked at Tupper's legs. “Forced me off.” He booted him again. The body flopped and jiggled. “Goddamn sheriff came with a shotgun.” Owens's foot thumped into Tupper again. “Cleared me outa my own island!”

Mary was shaking her head. None of this made sense to her. Rebecca was silent, her eyes wide and red.

“Heard his sister was gonna sue him, how he cheated her like he cheated me.” Owens walked back and picked up Tupper's pistol and tucked it in his belt. The rifle he held in the crook of one arm. “That lawyer, he's a crazy old coot, crazier than me, maybe. He had some millionaire about to buy a camp from Durant, lot o' land, too.

“‘Drive the price down, son,'” Owens said, imitating the gravely voice of an old man and sticking out his gut. “‘Hurt William West in the bargain, you can name your price.'”

Switching back to his own voice, Owens said, “Didn't give a shit how I got it done. Didn't want details. So I don't give him no details,” he went on in a sing-song tone.

Mary still wasn't sure if he was talking to her or not. He seemed to be in a trance. His eyes were unseeing. Blood dripped down his face, yet he made no move to wipe it away. “Just luck Jim here decided to stick his foreman,” he said, kicking a leg again.

“Shoulda seen the headlines:
MURDERING INDIAN ESCAPES POLICE
,” Owens chuckled with a wave of his hand. “Didn't have an idea till I heard about him. It all fell into place after that. Like a sign from the Great God Almighty himself, a big ol' finger from on high, saying
this here is your instrument, Ex, use him any way you like
.”

Owens looked at Mary, who wore an uncomprehending expression. For an instant, he seemed to falter. He looked from her to Rebecca and his eyes flickered and a deep crease stole across his forehead.

“The first one was the hardest,” he said. “After that it got easier, till I got to liking it, especially that little maid.” Owens seemed to catch himself, as if he saw what he'd become and didn't much like it.

“Sorry you had to get caught in this,” he said softly. “But hell, what's done is done.” He shrugged, his turn of conscience seemingly gone as quickly as it had come. Then he added, “What I said before about doing you like I did Lettie, well, I won't do that, I guess. Kill you quick. No pain or nothing. Once your husband gets here we'll get this all done an' put behind us.”

Tom rode hard from Long Lake, as hard as his plow horse could go. That turned out to be not very fast; still, he managed to keep the animal at a trot most of the way. Once night fell, he had to slow for fear of having the horse fall over a rock or root in the darkness. The rain had started maybe a half hour before he got to the hotel. Exhausted, drenched, and muddy, he bounded through the lobby and took the stairs up to their floor. Tom knocked on his door, then tried the knob, surprised to find it was open.

“Mary? 'Becca?” he called. Looking around he saw they were not there and went to the connecting door. He saw Mike was asleep on the bed. The light was off and he flicked the switch with a loud click that woke the boy.

“Dad!”

“Mike. You all right?”

“Sure. You got him? You got him, right?”

“No. Where's your mother? She's not in the room, 'Becca either. I sent a telegram, told them to stay put,” Tom said, his tone worried enough to bring a frown to Mike's face.

“What's wrong, Dad? What is it? I was sleeping. I don't know where they went.”

“It was Owens all along, Mike. Not Tupper, but Owens who killed Lettie, Busher, and the rest.” Tom hesitated for a moment before adding, “And Chowder, too.”

Mike's eyes went wide. Chowder was one of the men Mike had always thought of as being indestructible, a tough-as-nails cop whose nightstick had bruised half the male population below Houston Street.

“Uncle Chowder?” Mike said in disbelief.

“Yeah. He's gone, Mike. Don't believe it myself. Where's the deputy? We have to get you out of those irons. Owens is here. Your mother wired me. I don't know where he is, but we can't have you cuffed, not now.”

“The deputy's just down the hall, room two twenty-three,” Mike said.

Tom was out the door before Mike had finished. Mike heard him pounding on the door.

“Keep yer britches on, goddamnit,” Tom heard the deputy call. “I'm comin'.”

When the door opened, Tom pushed it aside and barged in.

“Hey!” the deputy said.

“Listen, the sheriff's dead, the other deputy and Chowder, too. Ambushed! All of them! Tupper didn't do it. It's been Owens, Exeter Owens all along. Man named Zion Smith was with him. He confessed to it. Now, give me the key to Mike's cuffs. Owens is here at the hotel and I think he might be after my family.”

“What the—?” the deputy said. “I can't. I can't do that. How do I know you're tellin' the truth?”

“Oh, for Christ's sake!” Tom said through gritted teeth “Give me the fucking key!”

“Well, You got no right to get—”

Tom didn't let him finish. He chopped at the man's neck and he went down like the legs had been cut from under him. Tom picked him up by the shirt and looked into his fluttering eyes.

“The key, goddamnit!”

The deputy waved a hand toward a chair where his pants hung.

“Thanks,” Tom said before smashing a fist into the man's temple. A quick search of the pants yielded the key. Tom took his pistol and locked the door behind him, leaving the deputy unconscious on the floor.

“Listen, Mitchell is not far behind me,” Tom told Mike as he unlocked him. “Take this pistol. Tuck it in your belt under your shirt, just in case.”

They went into the other room with Tom mumbling about having told Mary to stay behind closed doors. He did a quick search, finding nothing until he looked under the bed. There was nothing there, but as he got to his feet Tom noticed two small splotches of blood on the carpet. They had blended in with the reds and yellows of the weave so as not to be visible from more than a few feet away.

“Shit! Look at this.”

Mike bent down to look.

“You sure you didn't hear anything?” Tom asked Mike.

Mike's face screwed into a worried frown, but he shook his head.

“Damn! No. I should have been more careful, I—”

“Not your fault,” Tom said, putting a hand on his shoulder, half to steady himself. When he stood, a wave of dizziness swept over him. He rubbed his eyes and blinked to clear his head, but he still felt strange.

“Listen, go down to the lobby. Keep an eye out for Mitchell. When he comes, start searching. Don't go on your own, you hear me?”

Mike nodded as they opened the door and headed out.

“I'm going down to the bunkhouse first. Maybe get lucky and find Owens asleep in his bed,” Tom said with a sarcastic twist of the mouth.

They split up then, Mike heading for the elevator, Tom trotting off in the opposite direction. It took a minute or so for the elevator to arrive. Mike paced back and forth as he listened to the clunk and whirr of machinery as the contraption arrived. The door opened and the brass gate was slid aside by the sleepy operator.

Mike had taken one step inside when he heard a rush of feet behind. He was only half turned when he was hit, tackled and hurled into the elevator. He crashed into the opposite wall, his broken ribs screaming, robbing him of all breath as they stabbed deep into his side. He crumpled to the floor as he heard the operator say, “What the hell? You can't do—”

Mike heard an impact and saw the operator go down, holding his head.

“You killed my sister, you goddamn, bloody bastard!” Mike heard a voice say above his head. “Swore I'd 'venge her. You got this comin'!”

“I didn't kill her,” Mike managed to say. “I loved her.”

He earned a vicious kick for that.

“Don't you say that! Don't you say a goddamn word, you! I'm doin' the talking! You're a fuckin' murderer, you weasely bastard, an' you ain't getting away with it.”

Mike looked up and saw a knife, large and red with blood. He realized then that he'd been stabbed.

“Send you straight to hell, may God guide my hand.”

Lester crouched to strike, lifting the blade as he did. Mike didn't think, he just kicked out as hard as he could. He caught Lester in the stomach, pushing him back. Off balance, he stumbled half out of the elevator, falling on his back. The operator, who had regained his senses, kicked his feet away and slammed the brass gate closed. With a blood-slicked hand he slammed the lift mechanism to the down position and the little room started to lower.

Mike pulled himself up, hanging onto the gate, the pain in his side so intense he could hardly stand. But Lester had regained his feet, too, much faster than Mike imagined he would. Lester dove at the gate, first trying to wrench it aside, then plunging his arm through. He cut the operator's hand, sending blood splattering across the car as the man yelped and pulled it away.

The car was small and Lester's blade almost reached Mike as well, but the elevator was half down and Lester was crouching to reach them. Mike pulled the pistol from the back of his pants, suddenly remembering he had it. But he held his fire as a strange thing happened. The elevator operator put a foot against Lester's arm, pinning it within the gate. Lester yelled and cut at the leg, but couldn't manage to get it off, despite the gash he inflicted. The operator gritted his teeth and braced himself against the wall. The elevator descended. Lester went from his knees to his belly as he tried to pull his arm out, panic making his eyes big as saucers.

“No! No! Lemme go! Damn you!”

The operator paid him no mind. He ground his foot against Lester's arm as the gap between the car and the floor narrowed to a couple of feet, then a foot. The knife dropped, clattering into the car.

“Stop!” Mike yelled. “Let him go!” But it was too late.

Lester's scream echoed through the deserted hallways as his arm was crushed in the narrow gap. It disappeared through the brass grate. Blood followed the elevator down. Lester could no longer be seen, but his screams followed them, echoing down the shaft. They turned to howls, then ceased altogether.

Tom didn't hear the screams. He was out in the storm by that time, the rain pelting his shoulders, thunder shaking the ground beneath his feet. He didn't find Owens in the bunkhouse, nor did he find anyone who claimed to know where he was. He circled around toward the rear of the hotel, not knowing where to look first, but feeling it was wise to check the outbuildings, structures that Owens would be likely to know well and be more comfortable using.

It was as he was checking the icehouse that Tom saw a figure in the distance enter one of the buildings behind the hotel. It was too dark to see who it was. It was even difficult to make out exactly what building it was. They seemed to huddle together in the dark, their outlines indistinct.

He thought he heard a shot, but the thunder and pelting rain made him uncertain. It took a few minutes for Tom to locate the small building. He padded around the outside, peering through the windows, but finding each of them covered from within. None of the other utility buildings had coverings on the windows of any sort.

There was light, but visible only as bright slashes on either side of the curtains, or whatever they were. There may have been a voice, too, but the pounding rain made it all but impossible to tell. Tom didn't know what building this was but he approached the door with caution.

He felt the latch, finding it unlocked. Tom stood in the rain for a moment, collecting himself, taking a few deep breaths and checking his pistol. He figured he'd go in hard, try to surprise whoever was inside. If it wasn't Owens the worst that could happen was that he'd scare the bejesus out of one of the help.

Tom kicked the door open, rolling across the threshold and coming up in a crouch, his pistol ready. The light was in his eyes, leaving the back of the room in darkness. The only thing he saw clearly was Mary and Rebecca, tied to chairs, the light on them as if they were actors on a Broadway stage. Tom saw movement in the dark, but a moment too late.

The thuds of a pistol and the impacts on his body were indistinguishable. His arm went numb and blossomed in red. His pistol clattered across the floor. An instant later he was doubled over by a blinding impact in his stomach. He dropped to one knee, gasping for air, not even certain what had happened. He heard a click and looked up to see Owens standing a few feet away, a towel-wrapped pistol in his hand.

Mary was trying to scream. Here eyes were wide and the veins in her temples stood out with the strain. Rebecca was screaming, too, but behind their gags they sounded so distant, so very far away, as if they were in a dream. Owens took another step and Tom heard the pistol click on another empty cylinder. Owens seemed confused, but not concerned. He threw the pistol aside, keeping the towel. He started to reach for the gun in his belt. He was sure of himself, in no hurry.

Tom didn't think. He was dead already. He charged at Owens, hitting him low with a shoulder under the ribs. Owens's pistol skittered off into the darkness as he crashed into the wall. The building shook and wood splintered.

Owens let out a gasp, but tried to grapple. Tom was operating on instinct. He wanted to drive his fist through Owens's head, break every bone that could be broken. Tom drove a left into Owens's jaw that snapped his head half around. He instinctively threw a right, but he pain was blinding, stealing what little breath he had. He kicked at Owens's leg, crumpling him backward, but Owens was caught by the wall and somehow remained on his feet. A rain of lefts poured down on Owens's head as lightning flashed at the windows.

Owens's head bounced like a rag doll's. His nose was smashed. Teeth tumbled from his mouth like red and white kernels of corn. He flailed back, dazed. Tom felt nothing. Another left crushed Owens's cheekbone and eye socket. Tom felt the bone collapse under his fist. Owens went down on one knee and Tom bashed him with a knee to the face, snapping his head back into the wall.

But Tom was barely able to stand himself. Each breath was an agony, and his vision was down to a small circle of light, surrounded by blackness. He could hardly breathe, feeling his stomach might burst if he did. He reeled, finding himself falling against the wall above Owens.

He somehow caught himself and was about to stomp down on him, when Owens hit Tom with a piece of firewood, the piece Mary had dropped. It hit Tom on his wounded arm, and for the first time he screamed. Something hit him in the stomach as he staggered back, his vision black and starry as an Adirondack night. He was hit again, though he didn't feel it. Mary screamed behind her gag as Tom fell at her feet. She stared down as his eyes rolled back in his head, showing nothing but white.

Mary rose up, throwing herself forward on top of Tom, her only thought to cover his body with hers.

Owens stood over them, sucking air, gasping for each bubbling breath. Mary felt his blood spatter her back. He said nothing. His face was a jellied mass of red and he labored for each breath, his hands braced on shaking knees. Glacial minutes crawled past.

Mary heard him above her, expecting to feel the bayonet plunge through her skull. She could feel Tom breathe beneath her and knowing there was still life in him gave her strength.

“Wanna die t'gether, huh?” Owens gurgled above them at last, his broken face making the words come out in a slurry of blood and spit.

Mary heard Owens turn and lifted her head to watch him stagger off, looking blindly for a weapon. Mary saw something else out of the corner of her eye. Tupper's boot moved.

“Get yer wish. Promise,” Owens slurred. “Watch little 'Becca get it first.” He spat blood and it ran down his chin. “Whersh foockn' pisto?”

Mary saw Tupper rise until it seemed he towered above her. His head and shoulders were covered in blood and one ear hung off, dangling by a thread of flesh. His left leg was dipped in red too.

“Dere,” Owens grunted as he bent for the pistol. Tupper stumped after him. Mary heard him mumbling something she could not understand. It sounded like a chant, the words coming in a definite cadence. Owens heard him too. He had gone down on one knee to pick up the pistol. Owens turned and fired as he stood on wobbling legs. Point-blank, he blasted at Tupper, the shots sounding impossibly loud in the enclosed space.