“You come back to me, Thomas Braddock,” she said to herself as the people cheered.
It was just minutes to nine, and Mary had checked her watch twice more. The minutes crawled into the past like a tortoise on a hot day, stretching each plodding second. Her palms were sweaty and she actually started to flinch and twitch with each explosion. She tried hard not surrender to her nervousness. Even though she saw the most terrible things in her mind's eye, she clapped absently at the show. By nearly nine o'clock the fireworks were building to a shattering crescendo, with scores of big illuminated balloons raining sparkling icicles of fire down on the city and aerial bombs and rockets going off in thundering staccato. It numbed the senses. Suddenly she felt a heavy hand slip
gently around hers. Her intake of breath was almost a gasp. She didn't need to see who it was to know, but she turned anyway and threw her arms around Tom's neck.
“Oh, Tom ⦠oh, God, you're back,” she whispered. “I've been so worried. Are you all right?” Her hands went over him, taking inventory.
“Of course I'm all right. I told you I'd come back, didn't I?” he said nonchalantly.
Mary hit him in the arm and he yelped in surprise.
“Don't you pull that with me, Tom Braddock,” she said as angrily as she could. “I died ten times in the last hour waiting for you.”
Tom's voice softened. “I'm sorry, Mary. I'm sorry I put you through this.” The fireworks boomed, sparkled, and lit up the city in flashes of color. “Some fireworks display, huh?”
“Don't you change the subject, you bastard,” Mary said fiercely. “You hold me right now, Tommy. You hold me, before you have to catch me.”
The fireworks ended almost as suddenly as they'd started. In the deafening silence that followed, Tom held her close and whispered their future in her ear.
That silence lasted only a few short heartbeats. Before the smoke had settled on the black waters under the bridge, first one, then dozens, then hundreds of boats blew their steam whistles, rang their bells, and fired their cannons and guns. The noise was taken up on both shores. Church bells, factory whistles, horns, drums, and anything that would make noise added to the din. Hundreds of thousands of throats roared their approval. The bridge was open, the way clear to the other shore.
To trust it loyally as he
Who, heedful of his high design,
Ne'er raised a seeking eye to thine,
But wrought thy will unconsciously.
âAMBROSE BIERCE
J
acobs lay on his bed, an ice pack on the back of his head. Icy rivulets ran down his neck and into the sheets. Despite the ice, his temper was boiling. Beaten by a boy! Beaten into unconsciousness! If he hadn't been hurt so bad, he'd never have let himself be seen like that by the others. As it was he barely made it back to Brooklyn. He'd thrown up over the side of the ferry, so dizzy and nauseous he was staggering like a drunk. He had a knot on his skull the size of an egg and a cut that hadn't stopped oozing in three days. The biggest blow was to his ego. He was a killer, a thoroughly dangerous person. He'd spent years cultivating that reputation. The other men feared him, he knew ⦠at least they
did
. Yesterday they'd laughed at him!
Laughed
! He still couldn't believe it. It had been in fun, but still it hurt, maybe more than the lump on his head.
Beaten unconscious by a ten-year-old,
he thought for the hundredth time.
That little bastard was going to pay! Bart didn't care what Thaddeus said, didn't give a shit that killing the boy was no longer a priority. He would butcher that kid if it was the last goddamn thing he did on this earth! After the fiasco in Richmond, the boy was no longer important, the captain said. Braddock probably knew everything the boy knew anyway. With him still alive and on their trail, the boy was less than an annoyanceâbut not to him. He had something to prove. No kid was going to beat Bart Jacobs,
ever
. He'd gut the little fuck and hang him by his intestines ⦠kill him as gruesomely as possible any way he could ⦠set an example. He'd show the others he was still nobody to mess with. There'd be no laughter then!
He rolled out of bed, wincing and screwing his eyes shut as the room wobbled. Tomorrow he'd see. Tomorrow he'd hunt. For now he'd join the rest of the men, carry on with the plan, act as if nothing was going to happen. He'd keep his plans to himself. The less the captain knew, the better. Hell, maybe he'd just surprise them all and bring the kid's head back in a basket. He smiled at the thought.
T
he bridge had been open two days now. The captain had done all he could to throw the cops off the scent. With the police looking for them all over the city and their old apartments watched, there was great danger in every move they made. Even Sangree & Co had been staked out constantly over the last few days. It was fortunate that Sullivan and Lincoln didn't seem to be suspects. They were able to monitor the police with complete safety. Their reports were unsettling, though. Everyone's nerves were wearing thin. Tempers were short. Sleep was light.
Their manifesto was nearly done. Pat and Matt had agreed to read the captain's draft and suggest any final changes.
“Men, this is our word, our code. We'll be speaking for the whole South and all our martyred brothers with this one document,” he said, pacing back and forth in Jacobs's small apartment. “It will be a fitting coda to the destruction of the bridge.”
“Amen to that, Captain!” Earl exclaimed, not sure exactly what a coda was but liking the sound of it. He slammed a bony fist into his palm. “Make them Yankee pigs squeal!”
Over the days since the opening, they had been able to perfect their plans and get in some valuable practice. The night before, they had actually driven their wagon and carriage onto the bridge. One from New York, one from Brooklyn, they started at exactly the same time, met in the middle, and unloaded their boxes at center span, though they didn't use the actual dynamite crates. It was 2:15 A.M. when they tried it. Apart from a sole carriage crossing the bridge toward the Brooklyn shore, which threw their timing off some, it went according to plan. From the time they stopped at center span, they took only forty-six seconds to unload the boxes and pile them on the railroad tracks. Within two minutes they were packed again and on their way to the opposite shore. It was faster than any of them had hoped.
Not everything went more smoothly than planned. Jacobs had gone to the bridge offices the second day after the opening. He returned to report that the bridge police would patrol around the clock.
“Christ almighty,” Earl had almost shouted. “That's gonna throw a wrench
in the gears for damn sure!” He got no disagreement. They attacked the problem with their usual skill and determination.
Over the last couple days they'd studied the patrol patterns. It had meant some long hours, but it bought them what they needed. There was a problem though, and it became evident by the second night of observation. Starting on the twenty-fifth, two men watched the bridge, beginning at 2:00 A.M. They noted when a patrol left either side, and when one arrived. They'd watch until 3:30, then compare times in the morning. The patrols were supposed to be on the hour at that time of the night, and at first they were. By the second night, though, both the time the patrols set off and the time they took to cross the bridge had started to vary. The differences weren't great, no more than ten minutes one way or the otherâof no great consequence at that time of the morning, at least not to the cops. But ten minutes could mean everything to them. It vastly increased the risks. And it only got worse. A couple of cops had a habit of loitering in their walks across, stopping for a smoke in the spectacular solitude of the promenade at night.
“We've got to keep timing 'em till the night before, Cap'n,” Earl said.
“Precisely. It makes Jacobs's and my jobs that much more critical too. We've got to be ready to move with a warning if need be. Who's to say what kind of interval we might have? The way it looks right now, it could be anywhere from fifty minutes to an hour and ten.”
“Those two detectives been nosing around the bridge office since Thursday,” Bart said offhandedly.
“You keeping in touch with someone at the office?” Thaddeus asked. Jacobs nodded. The cops were busy everywhere, and their world had devolved to staying in hiding during the day, with practice at night, at least for Matt, Earl, and the captain. How long would it be before the rest of them were identified and hunted? Not long, Bart figured. He fingered his bandage and thought again of his plans for the Bucklin boy.
“You did well to stick in there as long as you did,” Thaddeus said with a pat on Jacobs's shoulder.
“Thank you, sir. Just playing the good little clerk, which by the way allowed me to make some extra copies of the keys to the power house and the doors to the steam generators and dynamos.” Jacobs chuckled, holding up the keys and jingling them for the group.
“Anyone care for coffee?” he offered genially.
There were two takers. Jacobs bustled about the stove. He measured the beans and ground them with deliberate twists of the little handle on his coffee grinder, getting into a rhythm, as if doing it to a metronome. He seemed to
enjoy this, concentrating on each turn of the crank. Finally he poured the grinds into the pot. Even when he stopped for a moment to breathe the essence of the beans, it was apparent that this too was part of the coffee ritual. The others watched him, fascinated. It was like watching a machine, all efficiency and precision even in this small, pleasant task. Jacobs could be just as precise about his killing. Most of the others considered his recent misadventure with the Bucklin boy a fluke, something that happens once in a blue moon. None doubted his abilities, though they couldn't resist an occasional ribbing.
“Damn, you are the neatest fella I ever seen, Bart,” Earl marveled sarcastically. “You'll make some lucky man a good wife one day.” They all laughed, even Jacobs, who had his back to Earl. Suddenly, with alarming speed, Bart whirled about, his hand licking out like a snake. A bit of bright steel spun through the air and hit the wall above Earl's head with a
thunk
. A knife quivered there like a rattler's tail.
“And I'm handy with cutlery too,” Jacobs said merrily. There was no merriment in his eyes, though. He'd had about enough from Earl over the last couple of days.
Earl half rose from his chair, but the others burst into raucous laughter and drove him back.
“Oh, that's rich, Bart!” Matt laughed. “Come near to givin' ol' Earl a trim. You are a conjurer with a blade.”
Pat chuckled too, figuring it was the best way to defuse the situation. Earl sat silent, dark as a thunderstorm, while the rest of them had their chuckle. Finally after the room had quieted, he said in his best slow drawl, “Ah b'lieve ah git yer pernt.”
“All right, gentlemen, now that we've had our little laugh, let's get back to business, shall we?” Thaddeus said. We've only got three days.”
Sullivan was happy to take the spotlight off Jacobs and Lebeau. Those two never did get on real well, so it was best to keep them occupied with other matters. “We've got to be clear on our positions, timing, signals, everything.”
Braddock's investigation had cut their practice time to the bone. They had planned on having more time to prepare. Everyone was under pressure and it was beginning to show, as Bart's little flare-up proved.
“Signals will be critical,” the captain said, trying to keep them focused. “There will hopefully be thousands on the bridge. It's essential that the men on the span will be in proper position to see the signal. I don't want to blow you boys along with the bridge,” he said with a grim smile. Sullivan knew the captain wouldn't hesitate if he had to. He'd blow the whole lot of them without a second thought. “Once you see the signal, you'll have exactly five minutes,
no more.” They all knew the captain meant it. “For you men on the span, that should be enough to make it beyond the towers at either side. Which way you go is up to you, depending on the number of people in your way. Once you're beyond the towers you'll be safe. The land spans may sag, but they will not collapse.”
“That's a real comfort, Cap'n,” Earl said, smiling. “We'll meet up later then, after ⦠or what?”
The captain dropped his pencil with an exasperated sigh. “No, Earl! We went over this yesterday. We go our separate ways. We meet again only when the circumstances are right. If things are clear, the shade will be drawn in the room on the northwest corner, third floor, of the Powhattan Hotel. If you see that sign, check at the front desk for a message. Instructions will be waiting for you. Is everyone clear on that?” The captain cast a challenging eye around the room. “Good. Let's go over those positions and signals again then. We only get to do this once.”
H
eadquarters was more of a beehive than usual, with detectives scurrying in and out at all hours of the day and night. Coffin's sudden resignation had left a void in the power structure, and perhaps more critical, it left others feeling vulnerable. Rumors had been running around the Marble Palace like a plague, leaving festering sores of doubt and suspicion. Tom felt an almost macabre sense of fascination at the workings of the rumor mill. He had no way of knowing how many were involved with Coffin's “corps,” but if all the activity was an indicator, it was plenty. Some no doubt had plenty to worry about too. Byrnes wasn't a murderer, nor was he one to let Coffin get off with a resignation without some quid pro quo. Coffin had spilled everything. He'd had to. Tom knew how Byrnes could be when he got his temper on the boil. There would be more “resignations” to come, of that he was certain. Meanwhile, he noticed a steady stream of men filing in and out of Byrnes's office. Braddock found it fascinating to watch the faces “before” and “after” a meeting with the chief. It was most revealing. For the majority, though, the increased activity was simply a nervous reaction to the shakeup. It wasn't a good time to be seen doing nothing.
The other factor was opportunity. Any time a captaincy opened up, which wasn't all that often, dozens of men tripped over themselves to be noticed. The sudden increase in official preening was like watching some bizarre mating ritual. Blue-bellied, bowler-headed cop birds were strutting all over the building, brass polished to a blinding sheen, pants pressed to a knife edge. It was a fascinating,
Darwinian display. Tom took it all in as he went about his job. He could afford to do the job as he'd always done it. It was the one thing he really cared about, the one constant in this frothy blue sea. He let the waves break around him, the foam and spray fall where they would. It couldn't touch him.
It was midmorning when he got a summons from Byrnes. They'd already had a couple of conversations over the last few days about Coffin, the corps, and Braddock's involvement in it all. Tom had come about as clean as he could without revealing things that Byrnes didn't need to know. The chief was understanding enough to keep Tom's revelations focused just on Coffin's operations, leaving the rest to Tom's better judgment. It wasn't Tom he was after. Byrnes couldn't help being annoyed at the whole episode, though. He'd literally beat everything he could out of Coffin, taking out his fury on the captain for putting him in this situation. Shakeups like this could be messy, brutal affairs. It was a job Byrnes was well suited for, but still he hated doing it.