The Empire of Shadows (5 page)

At last, North Creek chugged into view. All Tom could see of it was maybe a dozen houses and stores strung along a dirt road close by the tracks. The station was small and ordinary, with a raised platform and a freight warehouse at the far end. A couple of porters pushed luggage carts forward as the train came to a smoking stop. They leaned on their handles, eyeing the passengers as they descended. One of the men said something to the other that made them both laugh. They slapped their thighs at their private joke.

“I think those men are laughing at us,” Rebecca said, frowning at them.

A slow hurricane of activity blew people and luggage about the platform. A couple of shays, a buckboard, and a plain, faded-red farm wagon took away the locals. The rest waited. The stage to the Prospect House wouldn't be in for another two hours.

It was close to 1
P.M
. when all the passengers were finally loaded. Mary and Rebecca managed to grab a cramped seat inside, but Tom and Mike, in deference to the other ladies of the group, had to scale their way up the side of the stage to the bench seats on the roof. There were nineteen passengers all told. Nine men and one woman perched on top.

“Everybody up?” the driver called as the horses stamped and chewed their bits. When all were safely seated, luggage stowed and tied in the separate baggage wagon behind, he clambered up and gripped the reins. He was joined by another, riding “shotgun.”

“Five miles to North River, folks. Stop there for lunch. Pretty good road hereabouts, so you can sit back and enjoy the ride.”

Breakfast was good, the road less so. About an hour later they were off again. The road from North River began to climb only about a mile outside of town, getting steeper and rockier as they went. Everyone on top clung to their seats as the tall stage lurched and bucked. In places the road was corduroyed. The big coach stuttered across these, setting teeth on edge and turning knuckles white on handrails. Mike hung on in silence.

After a time, the slope became so steep that the coach slowed to a crawl. The six horses strained, leaning forward, stomping the slope as harness leather creaked. Finally they came to a halt. The driver set his brake and turned to the passengers on top.

“Gotta lighten the load,” he said with a jerk of his head over the side. Tom and Mike got down with the other men.

“Great vacation,” Mike said, making sure it was loud enough for Tom to hear. They were the first words Mike had uttered in hours.

It was a long uphill climb following the coach. Even when the driver finally had to tell everyone to get off except Rebecca and two small boys, the stage went no faster than a slow walk. Tom, Mike, and especially Mary trudged and stumbled. Rebecca all the while kept up a game of peeking out the coach windows, calling to Mary or Tom when she thought they weren't looking. Mary did her best to keep up her spirits. She stopped for a moment at last, turning to look back.

“Isn't this gorgeous?” she said, waving a hand at the view of the mountains. “The river looks like a ribbon of silver from up here.” She brushed some loose strands of raven hair that had come loose about her flushed face. Tom gave her a secret grin, blessing her for trying to lighten the mood. He put his arm around her waist as he stood by her side, not caring if it wasn't proper.

“Sure is pretty,” he said. He thought to say more, something about how wonderful she looked with her face flushed and her hair flying loose, or maybe about how he was glad he hadn't let Chowder shanghai him into not coming, but the moment passed. They turned to follow the coach.

It wasn't all that far to the top of the slope, a mile or so. Still, it took over an hour to make it. When the road leveled out, the women, and finally the men climbed back aboard. The driver passed a couple of canteens of cool water. Tom and Mike were rocked into a fitful doze, jolted now and again by boulders in their path.

Hours went by. After a time, they started to see signs of lumbering, with ugly tangles of cuttings scattered about and rutted tracks back into the woods. Some were old and weed-choked, others fairly new. “Comin' to Indian Lake soon,” the driver threw over his shoulder. “Stop at the Arctic for a little refreshment. Old Jackson sets a pretty good table. Get you set up proper for the ride on ta Blue.”

“Sounds good,” one of the men behind said. “This seat's got a lot harder the last hour.”

“How much more after that?” Tom asked.

“
More?
Ya mean miles or time? One's pretty sure, t'other ain't. Been wet up here. Rained up ta Blue last night. Roads get iffy.”

For a moment Tom considered this. He finally settled for “Uh-huh,” as if all was crystal clear.

“It would appear that time is a decidedly relative thing in this part of the world,” a dapper gentleman in a black top hat mumbled from the back seat. Tom folded his arms, letting his chin fall back on his chest. If this was a vacation, then by god he was determined to treat it like one.

The Arctic Hotel, or the Cedar River House as the place was called, depending on who was doing the talking, was about a mile on the other side of town, though “town” was a generous word for the scattering of houses and the couple of stores that comprised Indian lake. A dog, and two locals whose feet were propped on a porch railing, seemed to be the only inhabitants. The three of them watched the coach full of fancy-dress flatlanders pass as if it were a parade. Mike said something under his breath that Tom didn't catch.

The coach was barged across the narrow Cedar River about a mile outside of town. “Just another coupla three hours ta Blue, folks. Got a bit o' rough road here ‘n' there but h'ain't lost a fare yet.” A yell from the driver set the coach off again. Soon the rattle of the wheels and the jingle of harness lulled Tom back into a doze. Mike slumped in his seat, and in a few miles was leaning on Tom's shoulder. Tom stole a look at him through a half-open eye. He let the boy get comfortable.

Tom woke with a start, disoriented by the sudden jolt to wakefulness. The forest clung close to the road. The trees overhung it in spots. They were passing under a towering white pine that stood sentinel by the road, a grand and powerful presence, its head in the clouds, roots gripping the earth in a gnarled embrace. Feathery-needled branches reached far out over the narrow dirt track. Tom could have reached up and touched them. But it wasn't the tree that drew his attention.

His eyes were drawn to the forest. It was thick with fallen trees under a lush blanket of moss and fern. Spruce, too young for cutting, grew close under the overhanging shade of tall hemlocks. Silver birch struggled. It was cool, green, and fragrant. Tom saw the eyes first, but once he did the rest of the fox seemed to materialize as if pulled from a magician's hat. It stared, unblinking, muzzle slightly open. Tom could see white points of teeth. The eyes held him, man and animal locked in recognition.

“Mike!” Tom said, elbowing the boy out of his doze.

“Wha?” Mike grunted.

“Look, a fox!”

“Huh?”

“There.” Tom pointed, but it was gone. Vanished. A single fern swayed. Mike craned but saw nothing, nor did anyone else on the coach. They were all set to looking and pointing. Mike grumbled, annoyed at the interruption but even more so at his father making a fool of himself.

“Probably a stump,” Mike mumbled.

“Fox ain't easy ta spot,” the driver said over his shoulder. “That was a pretty one.”

“Might get a touch wet,” the coachman observed a while later with a nod toward the west. They'd cleared the forest near a large marsh that the driver had called “Thirty-four Flow.” With an unobstructed view they could see a mountain of cloud was rolling down on them. “Off a ways ta Raquette. Mayhaps ten mile or so,” he added with an appraising squint. “Comin' on fast. Might jest make it dry-shod.” He flicked the reins hard, calling, “Get-up now!” to the team, setting them into a rolling canter. Everyone held on as the coach stuttered from gully to rock as they raced the storm. The horses sensed the coming weather. With widened eyes and flared nostrils they pulled together. Distant thunder rumbled.

The first drops were falling as the coach stopped before the Prospect House. Guests on the veranda watched with curiosity and amusement as the coach emptied, the passengers dashing for cover. Coachmen and porters unloaded bags and steamer trunks, hurrying them up the stairs to the porch. In minutes the coach was emptied, leaving only the steaming horses, heads held low and muscles twitching in the growing downpour.

The Prospect House was nothing short of magnificent. It stood poised at the edge of the lake, tall and commanding. The forest around the hotel had been cut back into broad, undulating lawns that surrounded it like a great moat keeping the wilderness at bay. The thunderheads had piled up behind, casting the world in a weird half-light, as if seen from under water. The lake was choppy. Whitecaps danced to the gusting breath of the storm.

The Prospect House glowed in the odd light, its tiered verandas standing out in delicate relief. It was as though it had been transplanted here intact, uprooted whole from Saratoga or Newport and levitated to this spot fifty miles within the forest. Like some marvelous confection, a wedding cake or a marzipan castle, it seemed to exist in sparkling suspension, awaiting the time when the patient forest would reclaim its own.

“That was fun!” Rebecca cried, dancing from one foot to the other in the shelter of the wide veranda.

“Yup. Just made it, 'Becca,” Tom agreed, stomping a bit of mud off his boot. “So, what do you think?” he asked her, waving a hand at the hotel.

“Oh, it's a very big house, Daddy. Is it all mine? Can I play in it?” she asked, hopping more than ever.

“Sure it's yours, but just for a couple of weeks, okay?” he said as they marched into the lobby.

They were registered quickly by a polite, liveried clerk behind the long, polished walnut front desk. Tom signed in and the clerk fetched his keys, handing him a folded telegram as well.

“This came for you earlier this morning, Mister Braddock,” he said. Tom looked at it as if it might bite. Though he had known that there was telegraph service to the hotel, he had hoped never to actually get a telegram. A telegram on vacation was like a rabid dog, best avoided till you were out of the neighborhood. Tom opened it and read quickly.

“What is it?” Mary asked. She was familiar with inconvenient telegrams. Tom heaved a sigh and frowned. “Note from the chief,” Tom said with a downcast look. He let Mary wait while he read it all. “Oh no! Says I should…” Tom hesitated, “…forget about the job and concentrate on my family, especially you, my beautiful wife,” he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Mary grabbed his arm and pinched it for all she was worth.

“Ow!”

“Serves you right for fooling me,” Mary said as she straightened her skirts. “I hate when you do that. For once I agree with the old walrus, though.” Tom put his arm around Mary's waist as they started to follow a bellman to their rooms.

He hadn't told her everything that was in the telegram. What would be the point? Byrnes's rumblings about important cases and new police investigations were nothing for Mary to be concerned with. Tom knew how huge a rationalization that was. He also knew where his priorities lay, or should lie at least. There had been no orders in the chief's words, nothing more than concern, and Tom wasn't about to alter his plans for that.

“Now, is that any way to speak about the chief of the New York Detective Bureau, one of the most respected men of law enforcement in the nation?” Tom asked with mock seriousness.

He knew very well how hard Byrnes had been leaning on him and the pressure it had put on the entire family. Though, as a precinct captain Tom no longer reported directly to Byrnes, he still worked closely with the legendary chief detective.

They had developed a strong bond working on the East River Bridge conspiracy a few years before. The deft way Braddock had managed to handle his troubles with the corrupt Captain Coffin had earned Byrnes's respect. But with that respect came expectation. Tom knew he was ignoring Byrnes's concerns at his peril. He put it out of his mind as best he could though, determined to be on vacation, no matter the cost.

“Byrnes will tell you what he wants when it suits him,” Mary said. Tom nodded. It was almost as if she'd read the telegram herself.

In short order they were settled into their rooms, with Mike and Rebecca sharing one and Tom and Mary the other. They had a door between them and shared a spacious porch one floor above the main veranda. The rain was hammering the glass of their windows like nails falling from a molten steel sky. The far side of the lake was a gray-green mass of forested mountain, all detail sponged away by the slanting rain.

“We want to go exploring,” Rebecca said before the bellman had even closed the door behind him. It was clear that Mike was a reluctant part of that “we,” but he seemed willing enough, if it got him away from his parents. They left with Mary's warning to Mike to look out for his sister.

“Hmm,” Tom muttered after Rebecca slammed the door. “How long you figure they'll take?”

Mary picked up on his tone. “Oh, an hour at least, I'd imagine. It's a very big hotel,” she said with a raised eyebrow. A tug at her hair, letting it cascade over her shoulders was all the invitation Tom needed.

“And I thought you might be too tired,” he said playfully as he took her in his arms, feeling the answering press from thigh and breast and hips.

“I'm exhausted,” she sighed, nuzzling his neck. “Hardly a wink on the train and seven hours on that horrible stage. If I don't lie down I'm going to fall down.” Tom bent, sweeping her up in his arms, though he was every bit as tired. “Let me help you, Missus Braddock.”

The bed was a cloud, the sheets crisp, cool, and billowing. In a few languid minutes their naked flesh was streaked with liquid light from the rain-running windows. The storm, unnoticed, grumbled and flashed and drove at the glass. In a short time, though, it was spent and passed on rumbling gray feet off into the east. Slashes of blue slowly rent the reluctant clouds, sending brush strokes of light to color lake and forest. The world outside their windows emerged sparkling and renewed. Tom and Mary drifted off to sleep.