The Empire of Shadows (6 page)

It was more than an hour later when a slamming door jolted Tom out of his nap. Mary didn't stir, not even when a rhythmic thumping announced that Rebecca was jumping on her bed in the next room. She giggled and laughed and Tom could hear Mike's deeper voice laughing with her. It was good to hear him laugh. Tom couldn't remember when he'd heard it last. He lay there listening, soaking up the sounds of play while Mary snored lightly beside him.

Pleasant images of laughter past started to flicker against Tom's closed eyelids, Rebecca in her bath, Mike and him flying kites in Prospect Park four or five years ago, the surf at Coney Island and the face Rebecca had made when she got her first mouthful of salt water. The images blended and flowed, merging into a dream when 'Becca bounded into the room.

“They have magic lamps, Daddy! Magic! They go on when you turn the secret switch!” she cried as she took a running leap onto the bed. Then, in a conspiratorial whisper she said, “I know how.”

The Prospect House was unique in a lot of ways, but first among those was that it had electric lights in every room. It was the first hotel in the world to boast of it. Thomas Edison designed the system and the generator, a contraption that was dubbed “Long-waisted Maryann,” because of its unusual design featuring two long poles a bit more than four feet high, tightly wrapped with wire.

Its boiler, which produced the steam to power the generator, would burn about a quarter of a cord of wood each evening to produce light for the hotel. It cost only six or seven cents a night to light the place. In New York or Boston it would have been a marvel, here in the wilderness it was magic.

“That's amazing!” Tom said to Rebecca with hug. “Can you show me how?” Tom knew about the lights. It was one of the things that had attracted him to the place. Rebecca was on the move before the words were out of his mouth.

“This is how, Daddy,” she said, running to the ceramic, insulated switch on the wall. “You turn it like this.” Her small hand grasped the black switch, twisting it with a loud click. Tom and Mary looked at the ceiling fixture, expecting the little glass bulb to glow, but nothing happened. Rebecca and Mike started laughing and 'Becca finally managed to say “Fooled ya! It's not turned on yet, not till supper time.”

“Okay, you win,” Tom said, throwing his hands up. “Now, out of here while your mother and me get dressed. I want a full tour before supper. I expect you two to know the place up, down, and sideways by now.”

“Oh, we do, Daddy. Do you know they have a two-story outhouse and a bowling alley and a pharmacy and steam heat and—”

“And a billiard room,” Mike broke in, “a shooting gallery and a boathouse, all sorts of things.”

“All right. All right. Get going you two. We'll be ready in a couple of minutes.” Mike and Rebecca closed the adjoining door behind them while Mary said, “This might just be worth the trip after all.”

The sky above Raquette Lake was menacing and gray. Angry thunderheads, black-bottomed, crowned in dirty white, were rolling in like the devil's own blanket. The waters of the lake shifted and slapped at the shore. The lake was empty, save for the steamboat
Killoquah,
alone and still glistening white and brassy in a last shaft of sun far out on the roiled water.

Durant watched it, a small smoking chip of white, as it steamed for the carry to Forked Lake. He watched as the gray sky overtook it, shrinking the last of the blue water until it disappeared and the lake was conquered by cloud. The
Killoquah,
too, turned from white to a ghostly gray, as if somehow it no longer plied the choppy waters but had slipped into the past, a memory steaming only in dreams of what might have been. William West Durant shivered, shaking off the sudden gloom. Such thoughts were not for him. He was an optimist.

Durant turned from the window as the first drops began to fall. They plopped in a sporadic tattoo, as the storm tested the ground with a tentative toe. A few seconds more and the rain jumped in with both feet, streaking the world outside Durant's window in little rivers of silver. The surface of the lake seemed to leap up and the choppy outlines of the waves were lost in the froth of droplets beyond count.

Durant dropped the letter he had been holding onto the top of his desk. Ella just didn't understand, he thought, shaking his head with a troubled frown. She had no idea, no notion at all of how business was conducted. He was the master of the estate now, he and he alone. Father had wanted it that way, knowing that Ella was in no way capable of running their vast holdings. She was a writer and an artist, a dilettante more accurately, dabbling in the arts for lack of anything else to do.

She had no head for numbers. He doubted she could even balance her own accounts. All she knew was that their father had left them money and she wanted more of it. And that lawyer of hers; a blood-sucker of the first order, by the sound of it.

He'd have to find out about Van Duzer, have his lawyers give him a report or something. The man was demanding far too much, even for a lawyer. William considered his letter, which came in the same post as Ella's. There was something about it, something beyond the usual lawyer's language. He couldn't put his finger on exactly what it was, what combination of threatened legal and financial ruin had made that impression, only that when he'd put it down it was with an overwhelming feeling of dread.

Thunder boomed across the lake and Durant looked out at the broad, empty sheet of water. It must be the storm, he thought, the sudden gloom and the downpour. It was enough to bring any man down a bit.

He looked at the old photograph on his desk. Father, Ella, Mother, and he were lounging on the porch of the original main lodge at Pine Knot. He was standing by one of the wide windows Father had insisted on, talking to Ella who sat inside. Father, his beard white by then, was sitting on the porch, Mother on the stairs. Ray Stoddard had taken it back in '77. It had been Ella's idea, an effort to pull the family together in an illusion of close domestic life. She supposed that having the photograph done would make it so.

They had rarely seen their father during the years he'd worked on the Union Pacific. He'd sent them off to Europe, to school and tour and hobnob, and it was only through his letters that they knew him at all. So Ella had tried to build bridges in any way she could. The photo was one of her attempts. It was a good thought, a worthy attempt, but it was an artist's effort after all, a dreamer's conjuring of a loving family.

William admired her dreamer's soul, but as always Ella let it rule her practical side. Father and Stoddard had ended up using the picture to promote Raquette Lake for development. They knew that a view of a relaxed family, enjoying the civilized comforts of a rustic camp in the woods would speak volumes. That was one thing William liked about Stoddard, he was an artist, but he'd always had a sound head for promotion and business. William looked out over the lake again.

He couldn't see the far shore now, veiled in slanting rain. The downpour hammered on his roof with an insistent roar. “I can't let you win,” he said to the smiling face in the photograph. “Sorry, Ella, but I simply can't.”

Durant walked out the screen door onto the porch of what he called “The Cottage,” built just the year before. The door slammed behind him on squeaking springs. He stood, hands in his pockets, staring out over the troubled sheet of water. Hundreds of thousands of acres of forest, lakes, and mountains surrounded him. It was a wilderness, not so much different than when the Iroquois hunted there.

There were some hotels now, and his little fleet of steamers ranged the lakes carrying sports and excursionists, but these were only scratches on the surface of an otherwise pristine natural setting. Such things were necessary. The sort of men he wanted to sell to, the Huntingtons and Vanderbilts of the world wanted their wilderness in civilized doses, easily enjoyed from the comforts of a sheltering porch.

His father, Thomas C. Durant, had come to love the Adirondacks somewhat late in life. William recalled how excited he'd been after returning from his first surveying trip.

“It's spectacular, Willie! Unspoiled forest as far as the eye can see, lakes and rivers jumping with trout. And lumber! Trees without end, William. Can't cut them fast enough. And when our railway is done, we can haul the logs out and the tourists in.”

As with any grand plan, there were those who did not agree, those who'd gotten in the way. Most had welcomed the Durant family's investments in the area, but enemies were made nonetheless. William wondered about that, wondered if somehow those enemies had resurfaced.

Ella had known something of it, though she'd paid little real attention to anything financial or legal years ago. Could she have remembered those troubles, told Van Duzer of them? It was possible, though unlikely.

William considered the idea, considered how it might help Van Duzer and Ella. After a while he dismissed it. It had all been perfectly legal after all, and, unpleasant as it had been, it was in the past, buried. What any of it could have to do with Ella's getting her share he could not fathom. Father had kept it very quiet. Father had always known how to keep things quiet.

His father was a great man. His mother had told him. It had been clear to him at an early age that his family enjoyed a special status. The family of the president of the Union Pacific deserved no less. He, Mother, and Ella cruised through the upper channels of European society, had been received by royalty, and became accustomed to the very best that a cultured upbringing had to offer. There were the homes in New York and Saratoga and North Creek and Raquette Lake, the private railway cars, the servants, all of which had come as a birthright. But somehow, none of that truly symbolized his father's wealth and status, at least not for him. For him it was always the golden spike.

Ella had actually held it once, out in Utah when they held the ceremony. His father posed with the spike, a ceremonial hammer held as if he'd driven spikes himself. She'd been sixteen then, and Father had let her hold it afterwards.

“It was hot and heavy, Willie,” she'd told him. “The sun had warmed it up so it almost burnt my hand.” William had always imagined what that golden spike must have felt like, hot from the forge of the sun. The man who could drive that spike was more impressive, more important than any number of houses or private Pullman cars could ever make him. Thomas C. Durant had earned his golden moment. William was determined to earn his.

At first, after his father had pushed through the deal with the New York legislature securing the rights to build the Adirondack Railroad, it was hard to see any golden moments in his future. The Adirondacks seemed a dreary backwater compared to the great cities of Europe or even New York. It was fit only for lumbermen, failing farmers, and the occasional sport, so he'd thought. It hardly seemed a place to leave his stamp on life. William settled into a chair on the porch, watching the rain cascade in sheets off the roof. He hadn't thought much of the Adirondacks then. Compared to building the Union Pacific, it was entirely less glamorous.

He remembered the first time he'd seen this place. “Camp Pine Knot,” his father had called it. It wasn't much more than one rather crude one-story main cabin and a couple of tented platforms that served as kitchen and dining rooms. The exteriors were rough-hewn timber with the bark still on. The outhouses were sided in sheets of bark, as was part of the main lodge. He laughed aloud at the pouring rain, remembering how Mother and Ella had almost refused to stay, even for one night.

“It's horrible, Daddy!” Ella had cried, stamping a high-laced boot on the old porch. “I won't stay here. I won't! You and Willie may like it, but it's not for Mother or me!” she'd said, looking to their mother for support. “Mother, you tell Daddy. I'd rather stay in that horrible Merwin House, back on Blue Mountain than this—place.”

She had been convinced at last. Father could be very convincing. But, in truth, it hadn't been Father's doing entirely. The place itself had cast its spell. William had seen it many times since. As certain as the moon and tide, those who came were taken in. The effect was nearly always the same, but the causes were infinitely different. The green cathedrals of the forest, the blue-green vistas from the mountaintops, the cry of the loon warbling across the lake, these things could charm beyond all understanding.

Ella had fallen under the spell for a time, though she was loath to admit it. The parlors and drawing rooms of London or New York held her in sway now. But, for William the spell had never faded. Though he loved the luxuries and varieties of the city, he found himself drawn ever more often to this single remote place in the world. He was tied to it in ways he understood all too well and others he understood not at all.

The Albany night boat was bustling with activity. Tupper had spent over an hour watching it from a safe distance, noting the steady stream of passengers, stevedores, and deckhands filing on and off. He watched for patterns and opportunities. He'd changed his location more than once for a better view, or to avoid undue attention from the occasional cop. There did seem to be more of them out this evening, not that he was any judge of police presence on the North River piers. Cops or no cops, he didn't want to be noticed.

Getting on that steamer without notice was a puzzle, prepared though he was. He had no intention of buying a ticket and having some clerk recall his face, or get his name on a passenger list, even if it was a false name. He had to get passage with no one knowing.

“Patience and cunning are the tools of the hunter,” his grandfather had told him more than once when he was a boy learning to hunt. They were more important than a gun, though Tupper's hand never strayed far from his. A bullet was just an exclamation point, a conclusion and a reward for cunning patience. A bullet could be a failure too.

“A hunter shoots when the choice is
his
. Anything less is the way of the butcher and a waste of lead.” His grandfather had been a very wise man.

Tupper saw his chance as he knew he would. He ambled across West Street, hands in pockets, eyes darting from under the brim of his hat. Without pausing he grabbed a large bag of rice from the pile of provisions the stevedores had been loading. Throwing it over his shoulder, he marched slowly up the rear gangplank. He reached the deck of the big triple-decked steamer and turned toward a rear gang-way where he'd seen others go before.

“Hold up there!” a voice bellowed behind him. Tupper pretended not to hear, hoping the man was talking to somebody else. “You. Hold up! The rice goes straight to the blasted galley, goddamn it. How many times I got to tell you idiots?” Tupper stopped and looked at the man from the shadow of his hat, holding the sack close to his face.

“You deaf?” the fellow shouted. He looked like a foreman and carried a manifest in one hand and a pencil in the other. “Get going,” he shouted, waving the pencil toward the midships area. Tupper grunted in reply and walked in that direction. He figured he'd take the first door into the interior of the ship. Beyond that he planned on trusting his instincts.

Across West Street, opposite the dock, a man emerged from the shadow of a low front porch of a chandler's shop. He'd been there almost as long as Tupper had been waiting, concealed by barrels and piles of cordage. He dodged across West Street, avoiding wagons with an athlete's grace, all the while keeping focused on the deck of the steamer. He waited by the gangplank, leaning against bales of cotton, watching everyone who went on and off. His arms were crossed and he picked his teeth in a leisurely way, but his eyes were bright and darting. He knew there were only two ways Tupper was likely to leave New York, the Albany night boat and the train from Grand Central. Another man was watching there, though the train was the less likely of the two. He congratulated himself on guessing right about the boat. As the last of the luggage, ship's stores, and freight were loaded, he felt for his ticket. He grinned and walked up the gangplank.

As luck would have it, a deckhand popped out of a door just in front of Tupper.

“That the way to the galley?” Tupper asked without showing much of his face.

“Two doors on the left.”

Jim found his way and after a bit of searching dropped his sack with a pile of others in a storeroom off to one side. He asked a distracted cook where he could find a water closet and was directed to the “head,” as the cook called it. He closed the door behind him and latched it tight. Ten minutes later Jim peered out while a couple of waiters passed up the corridor. When it was clear he slipped out and made his way up through the ship to the main saloon. As he did he heard the massive walking-beam engine start to shudder and throb to life.

The main saloon was spacious and well appointed, with rich Belgian carpets, carved and gilded woodwork, large crystal and brass chandeliers, and a number of comfortable upholstered chairs scattered around the room. A balcony ringed the two-deck-high space allowing access to staterooms around the sides of the ship. There were a few gamblers at the tables in the center of the room trying their luck early at faro, roulette, or poker. No one noticed him as he picked a copy of the
Tribune
from the news rack and settled into an overstuffed, high-backed chair deep in one corner.

It was a very different Jim Tupper who spread his
Tribune
out in front of his face. The work clothes were gone, stuffed into a small carpetbag at his feet. He was dressed like a gentleman, or as close to it as he could come from Bess's inventory. Deep claret pants, pleated at the waist, a paisley vest in matching burgundy and black over a ruffled, white shirt with a high celluloid collar, and a floppy bow tie completed his transformation. A trim bowler covered the stubble of hair on his bruised and wounded head, shading his eyes just enough for safety.

He felt like a peacock, and about as unnatural as an
ongwéonwe
could feel in the clothes of the
honióo,
but he fit in well with the other passengers. The baggy work clothes had covered his fine duds as neat as bark on a cedar. Tupper relaxed in his chair, feeling more confident with each passing minute.

He was smirking behind his paper, hardly noticing the headline about the murder of the night before and the dramatic capture of the wild Indian suspect. The evening editions hadn't made it to the ship yet, or there would surely be a story about the escape as well. He had signaled a waiter for a drink when he saw the cop.

The light from the chandeliers made his double row of brass buttons shine like searchlights. An electric jolt shot through Tupper, nearly sending him to his feet in panic. His heart jumped in his chest, as if it would burst out and run off on its own. The waiter stepped up to take his order just then and blocked the cop from view. Tupper ordered a whiskey, and when the waiter turned the cop was gone.

It had happened so fast, Tupper almost doubted he'd seen the man at all. It was with a grateful hand that he took his tumbler of whiskey a few minutes later. He wanted to down it in one gulp but forced himself to sip as he felt the ship start to rock. The engine rumbled louder and Tupper could clearly hear the river's protest as the immense side wheels thrashed the stinking Hudson.

Tupper was exhausted and the chair was deep and soft. He ached from his beating and his nerves were fried from the constant vigilance of the last day. The whiskey warmed him into a drowsy stupor. He stretched his legs out before him, easing deeper into the chair. He didn't notice how his pants rode up, exposing the bone handle of the bayonet at the top of his boot. As the sun set over the palisades, Tupper's eyelids drooped and his chin fell on his chest.

Despite the noise of the boat and the chatter of voices in the parlor, within an hour he was about as unconscious as a man can be. It was some time later when the man from the dock slid into place behind Tupper's chair. He listened to him snore while watching the rest of the parlor. Leaning against a fancy, fluted column, he hid behind a newspaper and watched. After a while, once the crowd had dwindled, he folded his paper, then as he appeared about to walk off, he dropped it beside the chair. When he bent to pick it up, he slid the bayonet out of Tupper's boot and inside the folded paper. Tupper snored undisturbed.