Tom smiled grimly at the memory. He and Eli watched the Jersey shore slip by as the light faded and the second round of beers came. They turned in early after a satisfying meal. That suited Tom just fine. When they woke, the Chesapeake was slipping astern and the James lay wide before the bow. Breakfast was long gone when the outskirts of Richmond hove into view. The docks were bustling with barges, coastal steamers, fishing boats, freighters, and everything in between. Stevedores cursed and sweated. Teamsters maneuvered heavy wagons and heavier teams through the crowded streets.
“It's on Carey and Fifteenth.” Tom pointed. “I think that's to the left,” he said over the noise. They strode up Carey gawking like tourists. “Don't recognize anything. This was all burned out in '65. Nothing left but brick walls and chimneys.” They walked farther, with Tom marveling at how the place had changed, when he stopped short at the corner of Carey and Nineteenth.
“What's the matter?” Jaffey asked, almost bumping into him.
Tom didn't respond right away. He stood silent, looking at the building on the corner. “You ever hear of Libby Prison?” he asked softly.
“No.”
Tom turned to glare at Jaffey, the surprise clear on his face.
“What the hell did they teach you on Staten Island?”
“Plenty,” Eli said defensively, “but nothing I can recall about Libby Prison. What was it?”
“Prisoner-of-war camp,” Tom said shortly. “Was a warehouse or factory before the war, I think. Mostly held officers, but later in the war, it was pretty much everyone they had a square foot for.” Tom stood silent for a moment just staring up at the place as the street traffic went by unheeded. “Remember this place, Eli. More good men came out of here feet first than from most battles. Disease, mostly. Bad food, and not enough of it, crowded conditions, not a whole lot of heat in the winter, and hot as hell in the summer. Men just gave up.” Tom walked away at that. Jaffey thought he saw him shudder. He stared for a moment longer, then followed.
They found the address they were looking for on Fifteenth and Carey. The sign on the door said Broome Brothers Warehouse. They looked at each other silently. This was not a good start. It didn't take long to find that nobody there had ever heard of Liberty Construction. Nobody knew if the firm had ever occupied that address or one nearby. Tom and Jaffey questioned at least a dozen people, from the general manager down to a handful of men on the warehouse floor. The story was the same, remarkably the same. They spoke with the manager first, a man named Chester Wilsey. When Tom asked if he could see the books, the man gave him a cold stare and said in a slow drawl,
“I don't got to show you Yanks shit. You got no jurisdiction down here.”
Tom stared right back. “I can get the cooperation of the local authorities if I need to, Mr. Wilsey,” he said evenly, not at all sure that he could. “I don't want to do that, so I'd consider it a personal favor if you'd help me out with this.” He even managed a smile for the man.
“Hmph. What the hell? Won't find nothin'. Go ahead ⦠poke around all you like, jus don' waste my time, nor slow my workers. Them niggers're slow enough already.” Wilsey grumped, waving at a few idlers who were watching them.
Wilsey was right. They found nothing.
For the next few hours they canvassed the neighborhood looking for anyone who knew of Liberty Construction. They went to City Hall and checked records for a company by that name or anything close. Again they came up empty. There were two Lansdorfs but no Limners on the records. They checked on both. One turned out to be an old woman, the other a haberdasher. Neither had ever heard of Liberty Construction. There were two other places of business with “Liberty” in their titles but one was a dry goods store,
the other a securities trader. The closest thing they had to luck was when they talked to a frail-looking older man on the street opposite Broome Brothers. The man's nose was swollen and red like a ripe strawberry with veins. He reeked of drink and walked unsteadily on his one good leg.
“You boys lookin' fer Liberty, eh?” he asked in a cracked and boozy voice. “You won't find âer. Won't never.” He pointed a bony finger at them. “You want my advice, you'll stop lookin' too.” The man cast a furtive look across the street as he spoke. In an instant his expression changed, like a dark cloud scudding across the sky of his weathered face. “That's all ah kin say.” He started shaking his head and exclaimed, “Goddamn Yankees! Leave me be! Not enough ye took my leg at Chicamogy.” The man waved his cane at them. “You git. Got nothin' to say to the likes a you.”
Tom followed his eyes across to the warehouse. Two of the white foremen stood in an open doorway, arms folded. Tom thought he'd do the man a favor and called out to his retreating back. “Thanks for nothing.”
The two by the doorway just stared.
It was getting late by the time they had finished checking records at City Hall, so Tom asked a clerk about the nearest hotel. They were told that the Powhatan was closest but the America, down the hill from the old capitol building, was cheaper and nearly as good. They were looking forward to a hot bath and an early bed. After all the running around they'd done, Eli and Tom were frustrated and dragging.
“The fellas at Broome were holding back on us,” Jaffey said over dinner, his mouth full of steak.
“Oh, yeah,” Tom agreed ruefully. “Not going to get anything from these folks. Whatever they were up to is well hid. Eli ⦠we are into something here that's far bigger than we'd imagined.”
“Got that feelin'. Can't say I'm comfortable here either.” Eli looked around the dining room. “Had the feeling we've been watched all day. Can't shake it. Can't say I'm sure who's watching, but the feeling's there.”
“Keep your voice down,” Tom said, looking at the other tables to see if he'd been heard. “I thought the same thing. Noticed a couple faces on the streets more than once today.”
They finished their meal and went up to the room. Tom took note of where the stairs were, walking to each end of the hall to peer up and down the staircases. He checked utility closets too, rattling the knobs to see if they were open or not. He and Eli went to the toilet together. Back in the room, Jaffey pushed a chair against the door.
“That ought to make enough noise if somebody tries sneaking in.”
Tom nodded and went to check the windows. They were four floors up with no outside stairs. At least they wouldn't have to worry about someone getting in that way.
“Only one way in or out. Sleep light,” he warned.
T
om wasn't aware of the time when he woke much later from a dreamless doze. He'd been catnapping for some time. It had to be late, maybe two or three, he guessed. Something had woken him and his senses were suddenly on alert. The creak of a floorboard out in the hall focused his attention on the door, his head snapping around like a bird dog on point. The dim light seeping under the door from the hall cast a moving shadow. Tom watched as it stopped. Quick as he could, he hit Eli with one hand and grabbed for his Colt with the other. Tom was rolling out of bed when the door burst open. The chair clattered across the room. There was a dresser near the bed and Tom dove for its cover. At almost the same instant, the doorway erupted in sound and flame. A shotgun lit the blackened room like lightning, leaving Tom's ears ringing. The bed exploded in a snowstorm of feathers. Jaffey's bed was next. Jaffey was dead if he hadn't moved, and there was no way to tell in the dark. No sooner had the shotgun shredded their beds than pistols took up the barrage. A second black form in the doorway cut loose with a pistol in either hand, emptying them at the beds blindly. Bullets ricocheted around the room as sheets of yellow flame leapt from the pistols. Splinters flew. Glass shattered. A big pitcher and the bowl it stood in disintegrated in a shower of porcelain and water. Tom did his best to make himself small behind the dresser. It was dark, and he doubted that the gunmen could see what they were shooting at, so he waited till the storm petered out.
As he expected, there was a momentary lull once the pistols had given up their bullets. The two gunmen stood silent for an instantâno more than a heartbeat, really. Tom could see the shotgun coming up again. The man had reloaded while the other had emptied his pistols. Tom wasn't sure if Jaffey was in any shape to return fire, but he figured this was his one chance. With the two backlit by the hall light his chances were pretty good. Tom brought the Colt up, aiming around the corner of the dresser. The one with the shotgun must have seen the movement, and he started to bring the gun to bear. Suddenly, from Tom's left, a pistol barked, lighting the room an instant before his Colt. Tom fired again to be sure, but it wasn't necessary. The man fell, crumpling backward in the hallway. The second man disappeared. Heavy feet pounded down the hall.
“Jaffey,” he shouted through the smoke and floating feathers. “You all right?”
“Yeah.” A voice from the other side of the room broke through the ringing in his ears. He sounded surprised.
“I'm going after him,” Tom said. He was through the door, vaulting the sprawled body, and sprinting down the hall almost before he finished saying it. He heard feet pounding behind him but didn't look back.
Sleepy heads were poking out of doorways, and some even ventured into the hall, watching, groggy and open-mouthed, as Tom and Eli ran by. A door slammed up ahead and they both bolted for the stairs to follow. Tom was through first. He leapt down the stairs two at a time with Jaffey close behind. As they reached the next landing, shots exploded in the stairwell. Tom dove and rolled, coming up against the wall. Jaffey flattened himself against the other side. Neither returned fire. Tom took a moment to reload, as did Eli.
“You see him?” Eli called. The sound of running feet were his answer. As they took up the chase again, they heard another door slam at the bottom of the stairwell.
“He's outside.” Tom panted. They burst through the door just in time to see a form rounding the corner onto Carey.
It was a long chase through the darkened streets of Richmond. Tom, dressed in his underwear and socks, and Eli in only his shorts, ran up Carey then followed their man down toward the canal, making a left on Seventh. He had nearly a block lead on them. Catching him was going to be tough with no shoes, but they kept on. It wasn't worth a shot from that distance, not with a pistol in the dark, so they saved their ammunition and ran as fast as they could. They caught glimpses of the man as he ran over the canal and turned toward the hulking form of the old Tredegar Iron Works. The buildings loomed in the nightâmassive forges, foundries, sheds, and chimneys formed a maze and a perfect refuge. Tom saw that there was no way they'd catch him before he got lost among the blackened buildings, so he puffed to Eli to try a last sprint to close the gap. He thought to try for a shot while their man was still in the open, but they needed to be closer to have any chance. Tom's feet were raw and bleeding and he was certain Jaffey's couldn't be any better, but he put on a last burst of speed and drew within about a hundred yards of the man.
It was too late. Tom could see that, but he pulled up short, steadying his aim with two hands. A hit at that distance would be nearly impossible, especially at night after a long run, but he had to try. Jaffey stopped beside him, taking aim too. Almost simultaneously their pistols lit up the night. Tom fired methodically, doing his best to steady his breathing and aim true. Jaffey just blazed away. Eight times their pistols barked, but the man kept running, seemingly
untouched, then he disappeared in the shadow of a building at the edge of the canal.
“Did you see that?” Jaffey asked, breathing hard. “I think we hit him. I think I saw him stumble.” Back in the city, they could hear cop's whistles and voices in the night. They seemed to be getting closer.
“I don't know, Eli. Let's move in, but be careful.” Tom panted. “You have any bullets left?”
“One.” Jaffey huffed.
Tom had saved one too and was glad Eli had kept his wits about him. “Okay,” he said, wincing with each step. “Let's see.”
It took an hour to find the body. It was floating facedown in the canal. One of the local police found him. There were three bullets in him, none of which would have been instantly fatal, but they were enough to stop him. Tom cursed their luck. Judging from the wounds, the man probably drowned. A dead man was little use to them. The man with the shotgun was in a similar condition back at the hotel, they learned.
“You boys been busy,” one of the cops observed laconically, once they had identified themselves.
“Yeah,” Tom replied glumly.
It took the rest of the night to explain to the local police exactly what they were doing shooting up the town. They sat in police headquarters, their guns temporarily confiscated, their bloody feet leaving sticky red smudges on the floor while a string of cops questioned them. Tom and Eli didn't tell them everything they suspected about the case, just enough to keep the cops satisfied. Early in the morning Tom and Eli were brought down to view the bodies. They lay on tables in the basement of the headquarters building. It was the first time they got a good look at them. The one who had been fished out of the canal looked to be asleep on the worn wooden table he was laid out on. There were three small red holes: one in his upper right arm, on in his left calf, and one in the lower left side of his back. The one they had shot in their room was in ghastly condition. One of the bullets had caught him in the face, ripping most of his lower jaw away, punching a big hole through the back of the skull. The local cops claimed there was nothing on either of them by way of identification. Tom accepted that with a grim nod. Jaffey wasn't quite as successful at concealing his suspicion.