Second Street Station (25 page)

“Somehow I knew I’d find her at the post office,” Mary said. “But I still don’t completely understand it. If she wasn’t writing her parents…”

“We looked through her letters. She was answering men’s personal ads. Apparently, that’s how she met Goodrich.”

The guard had opened the door, and they entered. There were only four cells. Chief Campbell stopped at the fourth and pointed. “Well, here she is.”

Mary froze. She had to see Kate, and yet she knew it was going to be difficult for her. She slowly edged closer. Kate was sitting on the cement floor, her back against the wall with her right arm bandaged. Without blinking, she stared ahead in what seemed like a complete state of stupor. Mary had read about this affliction in medical journals. Recently, doctors had given her condition the label of catatonia.

Chief Campbell pointed. “See that large locket around her neck?”

“Grandma Stoddard’s,” Mary said, remembering happier days. “That’s where she was going to put the pictures of her and Charles Goodrich’s
grandchildren.”

“Her plans changed. The inside is smeared with Goodrich’s dried blood. She said it makes her feel closer to him.”

The more Mary heard, the sadder she got. She couldn’t help feeling that the part of Kate she had loved, the naïve country girl caught up in the big city, was real and was somehow being strangled by whatever disease it was that perverted minds like hers.

Mary got nearer to the bars. “Kate. Kate, it’s me, Mary.”

There was no response and no hope. They waited a little longer, then left.

When they were gone, Kate blinked. She thought she had heard something, a faint sound of a voice from long ago. There was no need to answer. That was another lifetime, when the world had waged war against her. Just the thought made her insecure. She desperately felt for her locket and found it. Its presence soothed her, and she slowly exhaled. It was silly to get upset. No one could take away what she had. Charlie was gone, but they would be together again someday. Their love was destined, and destiny could never be changed. She flipped open the locket, licked two fingers, then dipped them into the dry blood that lined its inside. She opened her mouth and eagerly pressed the two fingers to her tongue. Charlie was so thoughtful to leave her a part of him. This way they’d always have their moments together. Their passion would never die.

Just as you think the circus can’t get any more exciting, in come the elephants. During the next couple of weeks, Mary’s celebrity increased. One headline after another featured the miraculous woman who had done a man’s job in capturing the Goodrich killer. Then, as happens, the news cycle changed. There was a series of murders in Manhattan, and everyone went off to cover them. The circus pulled up its tents and left. Mary dropped out of print.

It didn’t bother her at all. It had been fun while it lasted. She had a wonderful evening with Sarah and her family. Chief Campbell invited her to his home for dinner, and she got to meet his wife. She was bright, observant, and really knew how to handle him: in short, she was everything Mary had imagined. Even Elizabeth congratulated Mary, though she soon backtracked, tempering her praise with suggestions on how Mary could use her celebrity to find a suitable husband. It became a full retreat when she concluded (out loud, of course) that most men would now be intimidated by Mary, and that would lessen her chances of finding a mate. Alphonse Karr again: the more things change, the more they stay the same.

Being out of the spotlight gave Mary a chance to heal and think. Wondering about Charles was fruitless, so she concentrated on the case. There were still many things about it that bothered her. Who were these people who had tried to kill her? Kate couldn’t afford to hire anyone. She had seen J. P. Morgan’s carriage at the Russian baths and naturally assumed that in his determination to find Goodrich’s journal, he had hired Wallenski and then had him removed. But that didn’t explain the large German man who had attacked her before she knew there was a journal. And who was Roscoe? Was he just a business acquaintance or did he have some greater significance? The mere mention of his name had scared Mortimer, so there must have been something there. Questions like these plagued her. Merely solving the Goodrich murder was not enough. Being who she was, Mary would not rest until she had found answers.

During this period, she was able to come to one definite decision. She had had an acrimonious encounter with Edison. He had fallen from grace, her grace. She didn’t approve of his business practices and his treatment of scientists, nor of her, but she possessed information that could help him. There was really no point in withholding it. She decided to rise above her feelings and extend an olive branch. She contacted Mrs. Embry and made an appointment.

As Mary waited in Edison’s outer office, she couldn’t help noticing her reception was quite different than it had been at any time before.

“Mr. Edison had a meeting with J. P. Morgan,” said Mrs. Embry. “But he will return presently. He instructed me to request that you stay.”

“I have no pressing engagement.”

Just hearing J. P. Morgan’s name was unsettling. It was frustrating to know she could do nothing about what he had done, but Mary was trying to put that behind her. She was no longer in a position to obtain Goodrich’s journal, so the threat of another attack was minimal.

Mary glanced out of the window and saw J. P. Morgan’s carriage pull up. Edison emerged, shortly followed by the Bowler Hat.

“Ah, here’s Mr. Edison now with Mr. Morgan’s man.” Mary’s tone betrayed her unease at what she was seeing.

Mrs. Embry corrected her. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. That man’s a detective, a former Pinkerton, very thorough I understand, and quite discreet. Many people of means have used his services. So has Mr. Edison on numerous occasions.”

Mary had assumed he was solely Morgan’s employee, because that was the only capacity in which she had encountered him. She realized that was another oversight on her part. A good detective never assumes anything. She turned back to the window and saw that the Bowler Hat was all alone. He put on his hat, the black bowler, and adjusted it, tilting it slightly to the side. He casually looked around, turning full-on toward the window facing Mary, then got back in the carriage. She was overcome with a strong sense of familiarity. Her brain flashed on the image of the dead Frenchman she had seen hanging in the train when she was a little girl, but she didn’t know why.

Edison entered in an unusually cheery mood. He pumped her hand.

“Good to see you, Miss Handley.”

“Good to see you, too, sir.”

Edison noticed that Mary seemed disconcerted.

“Don’t just stand there. Come in.”

He motioned to her, and she followed him into his office. Mary tried to regain her composure, but the image of the Frenchman kept haunting her. Edison grabbed a pen off his desk.

“Will five thousand be enough?” he asked.

“Five thousand?”

The images in Mary’s brain were piling up. This time she saw the Bowler Hat exiting the Frenchman’s compartment on the train.

“For the journal,” Edison explained. “Mrs. Embry said…Are you all right, Miss Handley?”

Mary now understood the reason for her royal treatment. “I’m afraid there’s a
misunderstanding.
I didn’t bring the Goodrich journal. I don’t have it, sir.”

Edison’s good humor instantly soured. Regardless, she had a mission to complete. She took a periodical out of her pocketbook and placed it on Edison’s desk.

“What I brought is a medical journal, one with a revealing study on cocaine. I know we’ve had our differences, Mr. Edison, but—”

“You interrupted my day with this hogwash!”

Disgusted, he tossed the journal at her feet. Mary looked down at the journal and shook her head. She was only trying to help Edison. Surely he couldn’t have known cocaine was harmful, or he wouldn’t have endorsed it. And most assuredly he wouldn’t have been consuming it. But as these thoughts were rumbling around in her head, she was jolted by another memory. Her brain put her back on the train again. Outside of the Frenchman’s compartment, the Bowler Hat turned toward her. She could see his face, and this time she recognized it. She cried out.

“It was you! You had him killed!”

“I did
what
? To whom? I say, Miss Handley, you really do seem ill.”

“Louis Godard, a French inventor, murdered on a train bound for New York.”

“Godard? Yes, twelve, thirteen years ago, but the poor man hung himself. Financial woes.”

“Findings his wife strongly refuted. You see, he was about to patent a new invention that would provide untold riches, a device that played recorded sound, over a year before your phonograph.”

Mary stared right at him. Instead of cracking, instead of denying, Edison laughed.

“My dear Miss Handley, I fear gossip from Eadweard Muybridge and Nikola Tesla has warped your pretty little brain.”

His condescension was annoying, but Mary held the trump card.

“I was there. I saw your hired assassin, the man whom you were just with, leaving Mr. Godard’s compartment with his invention in hand.”

She studied Edison for a reaction. She couldn’t read him. There was a reason he was Thomas Edison.

“What you think you might have seen as a child is irrelevant and most definitely a waste of my time.”

“I was twelve, and I know what I saw.”

“And a very mature twelve, too, no doubt,” he said mockingly. “It appears you may have caught whatever awful disease plagues your friend Miss Stoddard. Before it consumes you, you should consult that fellow who’s all the rage, Dr. Freud. He’s making great progress in the area of female hysteria.”

“Thank you for the suggestion. Maybe he can also explain why certain men crave glory, even if it’s unearned.”

“Miss Handley, you’ve had some modest success. Don’t let it go to your head. Now, I don’t personally care what you do, but if you make these unfounded and defamatory claims public, I guarantee you will become a
laughingstock.”

“Not if I locate Mr. Goodrich’s journal. He was very thorough, I’m told. I’m sure there’s a dated entry noting when Mr. Godard’s device arrived, possibly along with a check made out to the man you hired.”

“You truly are incorrigible. Good-bye, Miss Handley.”

Edison hadn’t so much as flinched. Mary picked up the medical journal. If he had been anyone else, she would have just left. But this was Thomas Edison, her hero, and she felt betrayed.

“You’ve achieved mythical status: a man who built an empire on pure intellect and foresight. How disappointing to find you’re just a common thug, like your robber-baron cronies.”

“I assure you, Miss Handley, there’s nothing common about me.”

“Incompetent then.” Mary was flying without a net, based on a spur-of-the-moment hunch. “How else can one explain why you hired that nincompoop Wallenski to kill me?”

Mary got her flinch. Edison was momentarily silent. He knew only too well that hiring Wallenski was his mistake, and he hated making mistakes.

“You know, maybe I underestimated you. What’s the saying? Oh, right,” he said as he stared directly at her. “There’s always next time.”

She had squeezed out the truth, and it was sending shivers down her spine. Mary began to wish she had left earlier, much earlier, while still in a state of blissful ignorance.

Cutting up lettuce, tomatoes, and vegetables for a salad gave Mary time to analyze her situation. She only had herself to blame. Goading Edison into revealing himself was good detective work, but it did little for her. She couldn’t arrest him, and it was a bad trade-off. When the case ended, she had felt free of threat. She no longer did.

Her terrified reaction to an unexpected knock at her door confirmed that. She immediately stopped cutting and listened, her heart pounding away. There was a second knock. Knife in hand, she slowly opened the kitchen cabinet and removed Charles’s pistol from the roasting pan, then made her way to the door, grateful he had given it to her. She had even practiced with it a few times. Fully armed, she was ready.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me, Mary. Charles.”

“Charles! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Thrilled, she threw the gun on her bed and opened the door. Charles looked at her, and his eyes wandered to the knife.

“Father warned me I might return a gelding.”

Mary glanced at the knife, laughed, and then hastily put it with the salad fixings. Charles came in and closed the door. Mary had practiced what she might say if she ever saw him again, but now that he was here, she couldn’t find the words. Neither could he, but he eventually managed to say, “I’m very proud of you, Mary.”

“Charles, I’ve been so worried.”

“I did it, Mary. The morphine’s out of me.”

“That’s wonderful! I knew you could do it.” Her impulse was to hug him, but their recent history made her tentative. She wound up fidgeting and feeling awkward.

“Father and I leave for Atlanta tomorrow.”

Mary was confused. In her mind, one piece of news didn’t follow the other.

“You’re coming back, though? I mean, there’s no reason why we can’t—”

“I succeeded because I had to, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep it up.”

Charles was being brutally honest about himself. Mary wanted to tell him how wonderful he was, how proud she was of what he had done. She wanted to list a litany of reasons why together they could conquer anything. But she knew it was no use. Only he could erase his self-doubt.

“You’ll make it. I know you will.”

“What, no sarcastic quip? I must confess, I’m not used to this new, upbeat Mary. I guess accomplishment does that for a person.”

“Charles, I…”

He had to stop her. He could feel his resistance weakening.

“I’m sorry if I caused you pain. You’re truly magnificent, my darling.”

He kissed her gently on the cheek. There was a finality to it she couldn’t ignore.

“Surely we can at least correspond,” she said tentatively. Letters weren’t even close to what Mary had envisioned for their relationship, but it was the best she could do at this time. She tried to hide it, but her disappointment was palpable.

“I’d like that very much,” Charles replied. “Yes, very much.”

He paused for a moment, also trying to suppress the upset he was feeling. Covering his anguish with a smile, he took a card from his wallet and handed it to her. “Our address: pemberton pharmacy with two small p’s. Father believes a lack of capital letters adds a smidgen of class.”