“That's for sure,” Eli said.
“Exactly. Remember, Jacobs worked in the office, Tom reminded them. He's probably the one had them assigned to the lighting job. Now, suppose they were to run their detonator wire along with the wiring for the lights?”
“Whoa, Nellie! Hold on there, Tommy,” Pat said, stopping in his tracks.
“What?” Tom asked.
“Well, they got electricians, foremen, engineers, everybody lookin' over their shoulders, right? Inspecting everything, I'd imagine.” Pat looked from Charlie to Tom. “How're they gonna run their wire without somebody catching it?”
“Hell, Pat, I don't fucking know! But you got a better theory?” Tom growled. They all stood for a moment, staring at each other. “I rest my case,” Tom said. “Let's get going.” They had almost left the terminal when Tom saw Sam Halpern ambling toward them.
“Sam! What the hell are you doing here?”
“Good to see you too, Tommy. Eli, Pat, Charlie, how's it going? You all look like you're headed somewhere.”
“Yeah, it's going great,” Tom said distractedly. “Want to come along? We need to get moving.”
Sam didn't hesitate. “You lead, I'll follow.”
Tom headed off toward New York at a brisk walk. “So, what're you doin' here, Sam?” he asked over his shoulder.
“I was up at the Marble Palace, taking care of some bullshit, and I heard you were in a lather this morning. I figured if Byrnes let you have Pat and Charlie back, then maybe this was important.”
“Your instincts are impeccable, Samuel,” Tom congratulated him. “These goddamn fanatics had jobs on the electrical work, andâ”
“What? What fanatics?” Sam asked, bewildered. “How many we talkin' here?”
“Don't have time, Sam. They're gonna blow the bridge,” Tom said quickly. “Could be today. I don't know exactly, but it could be.”
“Say no more, I'm right behind you.”
T
hey got through the terminal as fast as they could, hindered by the crowds then made their way onto the promenade and up the stairs onto the bridge itself.
“Colonel Roebling told me how it might be done,” Tom explained as they shoved through the packed strollers. “Of course, it all seemed pretty theoretical at the time, but the most efficient way is to set explosives at the center”âTom pointed out toward the middle of the riverâ“cutting the connections between the main cables and roadway beams. Now, if you cut enough of those connections where they attach to the support beams, then the whole thing will start to come apart. He said ⦠if it was him, he'd blow the stay-cables too.”
“The diagonal ones?” Charlie asked from behind.
“Yeah, Charlie. We've got to check 'em. Climb up there if necessary. Whatever it takes.”
“Great.” Charlie didn't sound too enthusiastic. “I'll let you do that stuff.”
They had just passed the Brooklyn tower when Tom stopped, that nagging feeling strong in his gut. The others stopped too, questions on their faces. Mary was standing out of Tom's sight just on the other side of the tower, her creamy-white dress blowing in the gentle breeze. She had stopped to admire the view of the Heights. She didn't see Tom.
“What's the matter?”
Tom turned back, staring toward Brooklyn. “We should check the dynamo
room,” he muttered, looking back at the power house but thinking there was something else he couldn't put a finger on.
“Huh?” Sam looked at the others to see if they knew what Braddock was talking about.
“We left that cop there, Tom,” Eli said. “It's covered.”
“Just got a feeling. Remember what I found on that pad this morning? Think about it. Where better to set up their generator? Nice and quiet, out of sight ⦠it's perfect.” He looked at Sam, who nodded slowly.
“Yeah, but the charges would be at the center of the span, right?” Sam asked.
“Good point. We'll check there first, ⦠dynamo room after.” Tom turned on his heel and headed out over the river. It was three forty-five.
A
t three-thirty precisely, Partick Sullivan had flashed his small mirror at the Brooklyn shore. Almost instantly, there was an answering flash from a spot near the power house. Pat flashed “ready.” Jacobs flashed back “set.” Sullivan put the little mirror back in his pocket and gave a quick hand signal to Jus and Earl. They'd wait now for the traffic to build a bit more. One way or another, traffic or not, they'd blow it by 4:00 P.M. Patrick settled into his private hell again.
“I
wish I could see his face, Bart,” Thaddeus said, his voice echoing in the dynamo room. “I wish I could see it when he hears the explosions. That was pretty work, by the way ⦠finding out about them.”
“Thank you, Thaddeus. Didn't take much digging really,” Jacobs said modestly. “I know the grocer where they buy their food. Odd, them getting deliveries of milk, eggs, and such, while they're supposed to be in Newport.”
“But you're sure it's him ⦠Roebling and his wife?” Thaddeus asked, concern knitting his brows.
“The old bastard isn't the only man with a pair of field glasses, Thad. It's him, all right.”
“I wonder why the ruse? You think they were afraid to leave? They must have been alerted by the good Detective Braddock.” Thad chuckled. “So diligent, so dedicated, but always a step behind. Too bad we can't blow him along with the bridge. He's been a thorn in our side for months, that bastard. Who knows, maybe we'll get lucky and blow his Irish ass into the river.” Bart and Thad had a good laugh at that.
“Well, I'm glad they stayed. I'll be thinking of him when I push this
plunger down,” the captain said, lightly tapping the handle. He paused for a moment, a look in his eyes that had Jacobs wondering. “If anything goes wrong, Bart ⦠I mean, if somehow this”âhe tapped the generatorâ“doesn't work, I'm going after him. He'll pay, one way or another.”
“Roebling?” Jacobs asked, knowing very well who the captain meant.
Thaddeus shrugged. “Just in case ⦔ he said, feeling sure the possibility was quite remote. “Everything will go as planned. It
has
to.” He looked at his watch again. “I've got three-forty-eight, Bart,” the captain said, the tension tightening his throat. “Better get into position.”
Jacobs went outside and leaned against the wall of the power house, the small mirror in his hand once again.
“Looks like a hell of a crowd up there, Captain. Casualties will be high ⦠better than we'd hoped,” he called to Thaddeus, who waited inside the door, just feet from the detonator.
“This is a day the country will remember for centuries, Bart. It's even bigger than the Lincoln execution. We'll be in the history books, my friend,” Thaddeus intoned. “Think about it, an act of such daring, such symbolism, that it burns our names forever into the national soul.”
“Must be twenty thousand up there, Captain,” Jacobs called. “This is going to be spectacular! Ashtabula was nothing compared to this. Gonna be falling like leaves on a windy day.” He looked at his watch. “I've got ten of, Captain. Shall I give the signal?”
Thaddeus hesitated just a moment, more for dramatic effect than anything else. “Give the signal, Corporal. On my mark ⦠Now!”
Jacobs flashed his mirror in the Memorial Day sun. “Done, sir!” It was 3:51 P.M.
E
arl had seen them coming. The group of detectives and cops stood out in the holiday crowd like bulls at a horse show. The signal had been flashed just a moment before.
“Let 'em come,” he figured. There wasn't much they were likely to do unless they knew what to look for and where. Earl turned his back to them, leaning his elbows on the trusswork railing. He felt them pass and turned to look at the backs of the dead men. That's what they'd be if they were still out there in ten minutes. But as he turned, Charlie looked over his shoulder. In his days going over to the bridge office, before Emmons and Lebeau dropped out of sight, Charlie had passed Earl once or twice as he worked on the roadway. Tom had shown them all the pictures just this morning too. It didn't click right away.
Charlie hadn't gone more than a half-dozen steps farther though when he said to Pat, “I think I saw Lebeau!”
They both turned, with Charlie pointing at Earl's retreating back.
“That's him, I think.”
In an instant they called to Tom, who had gone on. “Spotted Lebeau! We're going after him.” Then they took off in pursuit. Tom, Sam, and Eli stopped short to look, but after a moment's indecision decided to go on.
“They've got him covered,” Tom barked. “Let's go.” They picked up the pace, heading out over the river, Tom's gut feeling like it was tied in a knot. He scanned for Mary as sweat broke out on his brow.
E
arl knew it was a mistake as soon as he did it. He could see the look in the big German's eyes. He slipped one hand under his jacket to the pistol he carried, tucked in an inside pocket. The detectives kept on though, going toward New York. Earl turned and stepped quickly toward Brooklyn, figuring he hadn't been recognized after all. He moved a lot faster than the rest of the strollers, cutting a swath through them. They were stupid, slow Yankee animals, lowing mindlessly to the slaughter. He had passed the Brooklyn tower when he ventured a look behind. The two detectives were back there, bowlers bobbing in unison, heading after him. The others were nowhere in sight.
“Shit!” Earl swore out loud. A matronly woman frowned her disapproval at such foul language in public. Earl picked up the pace, hoping to lose them in the crush, something his long legs both helped and hindered, for his head stuck up above the crowd. He hadn't gone more than five more steps, when he heard someone call out.
“Hold it, Lebeau!”
Earl didn't stop, or turn to look. He broke into a run, caroming off people like a cue ball on a hard break. The end of the promenade was just fifty feet away. He planned to vault down the stairs that led to the level of the approach.
“Halt!” he heard behind him. It seemed a little farther back. Earl felt his chances were good. As he neared the stairs, though, he had to dodge around a perambulator pushed by a beautiful woman in a striking white bonnet. He managed it well, actually throwing an apologetic look over his shoulder to her for his rudeness. His momentum carried him into a gentleman in a silk top hat, whom he jostled badly, bouncing off him toward the stairs. He hit the steps at a staggering run, definitely not in control of his balance and going far too fast. A woman was directly in front of him, just at the top step. He tried to avoid her but his momentum carried him into her back, propelling them both headlong down the stairs. Her scream seemed to carry above the crowd, cutting
through the hubbub. Earl knew right off that it was going to be bad. He covered his head as best he could in the split second before he hit the steps. He hit hard, his side landing on the edges of the steps. The impact was blinding. The edge of one step caught his upper thigh, on the right side another hit a rib like an explosion. The next step he caught with his elbow and upper arm. The three impacts were so fast, it was like a Gatling gun of pain raking him from thigh to shoulder. He'd been shot before. This was not much better.
He wished that the damn woman would stop screaming. She was loud enough to be heard halfway across the bridge. They tumbled to the bottom, bouncing into others as they went. The next thing Earl was conscious of was the cold texture of concrete pressed against his face. He had no idea if any time had passed, if he had blacked out or not. He was numb and the concrete vibrated against his face as people came running. He tried to rise. The two detectives would be on him in no time. As he tried to push himself up, his side erupted in a brilliant bayonet point of pain. He fell back to the pavement, crying out breathlessly.
People came running to the screams. They could be heard all along the Brooklyn side of the bridge. Some in the crowd, alarmed at the growing stampede, cried that the bridge was collapsing. As the mass of humanity broke for the Brooklyn shore, the press became overwhelming. Mary and Chelsea were caught up in it immediately. People who a moment before stood at the top of the stairs, aghast at Earl and the screaming woman, were now thrown down by the press of the crowd behind. Earl tried to rise again, but someone had fallen across his legs. He struggled and kicked despite the pain, but he couldn't break free. The body on top of him wasn't moving. Someone else tumbled down on him. Arms, legs, and elbows knocked him flat again. He felt hard shoe leather on his back, as the maddened crowd trampled over the fallen, who were now all around him. His side felt like a stake had been driven through it. A broken rib, he recognized. He tried to move, to crawl, but the crushing weight of bodies piling up on him pinned him helplessly. Screams, shouts, crying and the moans of the injured filled his ears, drowning out all else.
People continued to fall as the panicked crowd behind poured off the promenade. Hundreds were pressed between the railings, thrown down the stairs, crushed and trampled by the weight of the thousands behind. With every body that was added to the pile on top of him, the jagged end of Earl's rib dug farther into his chest. Breathing was becoming difficult, movement impossible. He was entombed, crushed inexorably into Yankee soil ⦠into the bridge itself. All around him was blackness. Earl opened his mouth to scream, as even more weight piled on. He felt something give with the stabbing pain in his side, as one lung collapsed. Earl's scream became a gurgle of
blood. He gasped, drowning in it. He tried to spit but had no breath even for that. His fingers, ragged from clawing the ground left bloody streaks on the concrete.