Tom nudged him.
“Try the door.” Sam shoved slowly but as hard as he could against the triple-thick yellow pine. “Locked.”
Tom nodded to the key. There seemed to be more yelling inside.
“Get that?” Sam said.
“Somethin' about Roebling, I thought.”
A worried frown creased Tom's forehead.
“Careful!” Sam whispered.
Tom's hand rattled the key around the keyhole before finally slipping it in. He turned the big key with a cautious hand, hoping to turn the tumbler quietly. They heard the lock click as the bolt slid back.
“On three,” Tom said in a low growl. “One ⦠two â¦
three
!”
Sam hit the door first and though he hit it hard, it opened no more than about two feet, with a scraping sound that told of something braced behind. Tom saw Sam duck to his right and bounce off the door. An instant later, a bright, bloody length of steel erupted from the collar of Sam's uniform. It appeared, then disappeared so quickly, Tom almost couldn't believe he'd seen it, flashing like an icicle from Sam's neck.
It was the bark of Sam's Smith & Wesson that made a believer of Tom. As Sam fell back against Tom, Sam fired through the gap in the door. Tom fired too from behind, the exploding pistols setting his ears ringing. Then Sam fired through the door, blowing splintery holes in the hard yellow pine. Tom caught him with one arm and emptied the Colt in an arc from door frame to door frame. The shots, deafening in the brick corner between the power house and the approach, sent splinters flying about their heads. Gunsmoke and the
faint smell of yellow pine hung in the air. The sudden silence following the fusillade rang in their ears. Tom pulled Sam to one side of the door.
He gave a rasping cough and choked out, “I'm all right. It's okay, he justâ” Sam held a hand to his neck, which leaked red into his blue coat in a widening purple stain.
“You see them? How many?” Tom asked his old friend.
“Just one I could see.” Sam's voice sounded odd and strangled. He reloaded with a shaky hand, as did Tom. They positioned themselves on either side of the door once more. Sam looked pale but determined.
“I'll go low, you go high.”
Sam nodded. They went through the door again, Tom diving through the gap and rolling, Sam wading in after. They swept the room, looking for targets among the dynamos, wheels, belts, and gears. Weasel Jacobs crouched behind one of the dynamos, a big cast-iron monster, hulking and sinister with threatening new power. Two bullets had caught him in the blaze of gunfire a minute before. One had carved a ragged furrow in his left arm the other had passed right through him from back to front. He looked down at the hole in his chest, amazed at the sight of his lung as it frothed through the silver dollarâsize hole. His breathing was short, ragged, and unlikely to continue for very much longer, he realized. The knife was useless. It lay where he'd dropped it. He readied himself, his Remington .44 held tight in a shaking hand.
Tom saw the knife, a wicked length of bloody steel, sparkling on the concrete floor. He knelt to retrieve it, keeping his head up and eyes scanning. The almost imperceptible movement of a falling drop of blood caught his eye. He saw it fall and splash by a pair of feet on the other side of one of the dynamos. A hand was poised near the two feet. He was about to signal Sam when the hand left the floor. Jacobs popped up as fast as he could, but the sudden movement left him light-headed and reeling. He got off one shot at the sergeant before the man returned fire but couldn't tell if he'd hit his target. He was so dizzy it seemed like his pistol was firing all over the room and he wasn't sure if he hit anything. The .44 boomed like a cannon. To Sam, the appearance of Jacobs, the explosion of his pistol, and the angry buzz of the bullet were almost the same event. He fired back with no aim. Tom fired too, letting go three rounds at Jacobs's feet. Bullets slapped and ricocheted, as all three pistols blazed. Glass shattered, splinters flew. Jacobs felt as if a rug had been pulled out from under him. His left foot seemed to explode. He staggered from behind the dynamo, his pistol waving and belching sheets of flame in a deafening staccato. It was Tom whose bullet caught Jacobs in the neck. It must have hit the spine, for the spray of red seemed dappled with white. Jacobs's head
lolled on his shoulder, a puppet's head with a severed string. He stood reeling, stunned and uncomprehending. Two heartbeats and two small fountains of deep red blood passed in slow motion as Jacobs's brain groped for the reason why the room was now on its side. He never got the answer.
“Y
ou okay, Sam?” Tom asked in a shaking voice.
“Yeah, okay ⦠I think,” Sam said uncertainly, looking down at himself. The front of his shirt was turning red at an alarming rate though. They checked Jacobs's corpse, then the rest of the room. The open window on the other side taunted them. Screams, cries, and the sound of running feet wafted in, a reminder of the disaster on the bridge. They looked out at the street but there was no sign of the captain.
“Christ! You see this, Tommy?” Sam pointed to the detonator, its plunger pushed all the way down.
An icewater chill rippled down Tom's spine. His hands trembled from excitement and fear. “This is what gave me the shock up on the bridge.” Sam was shaking his head “Jesus H. Christ!” he said, his voice echoing faintly.
“Yeah,” Tom whispered. “And where's Sangree?” He turned to Sam, suddenly remembering.
“Sam, you said you heard something about Roebling, right?”
Sam nodded. “Pretty sure, yeah.”
A sudden realization dawned on Braddock, turning his face into a mask of horror. “Oh, God, Sam ⦠The Roeblings!”
A light came on in Sam's weary eyes.
“Go! Go!” he said, waving at the open window. “I'll be all right.
Run!”
Tom almost dove through the window, breaking into the fastest run he thought he could maintain all the way to the Roebling mansion. It was a good half mile to 110 Columbia Heights, mostly uphill. Tom dashed through the curious crowds, drawn to the cries up on the bridge. They slowed and tired him, forcing him to work even harder to keep up the pace. He hoped too that Sangree had been forced to walk so as not to draw attention to himself. He couldn't be sure, though. The image of the Roeblings and especially Emily shone like a beacon. He'd been too late to stop Sangree from pushing the plunger. If he was too late now ⦠He didn't want to think of the consequences. He sweated up Poplar and Hicks streets, feeling he wasn't going nearly fast enough, gulping air like a drowning man. He prayed as he ran. “Dear God! After all they've been through, don't let it end like this.” Tom pounded down Orange Street, Colt in hand, reloading as he ran. The Roebling
house was right at the end. As he ran down the cobbles, his racing heart sank. The front door hung open.
T
haddeus hadn't hesitated. Jacobs was a soldier. He'd do his duty and die if necessary to slow the enemy. The captain ducked out the window and was gone into the crowd in seconds. He walked fast, trying not to draw attention to himself. At the sound of the muffled shots, though, he picked up the pace to a slow jog. No one seemed to notice. He kept up the pace, cursing all the way up Hicks Street. He raved continuously, cursing in disjointed bursts. The failure of all their plans, all their years of sweat and sacrifice had unhinged him. He felt itâknew that there was a part of him that had lost touch with reality. Another part seemed to observe, aloof and dispassionate, watching from some distant place as he came apart. Thaddeus knew it was happening but was incapable of stopping it. In fact, there was almost a pleasure in it, a mad exhilarating release from the world. He almost howled in his rage, putting back his head as he ran and letting forth a moaning, haunted sound that seemed to come from distant depths of loss and torment. He knew it was madness but it was beyond his control. He let it carry him, helpless yet exultant. He felt infinitely powerful ⦠unstoppable. It was the power of madness, a voice said to him from somewhere back in his head. He rather liked the feeling. People he passed shrank from him. His eyes burned in his haunted face. He was frightening to look upon, he knew. He liked that too. He ran like a rabid dog through the streets of Brooklyn Heights with one goal in mind. Roebling. Fearful passersby stepped back but they needn't have. He was a man with one mission, one purpose. It was as if he were an angel of death, set down on earth to right an ancient wrong. No earthly power could stop him.
He crashed with incredible force against the heavy mahogany doors of the Roebling house. He hadn't remembered getting there, just the impact and the splintering of wood. Unstoppable! He stood for a moment in the foyer, casting about, sniffing the air for his prey. A sound, perhaps a footstep or the scrape of a chair, he wasn't sure what, drew him up the curving staircase to the second floor. He flew, bounding after the scent, sensing his quarry was cornered. In seconds the colonel would be dead. He could see it already, the glazed eyes, the pumping blood. He flung open the first door he came to, his pistol ready. The room was empty, save for a pretty beam of light flashing across the floor from the big front windows. A few steps down the hall brought him to another door, which he tried, but the knob wouldn't turn. No mere door could keep him out. He stepped back, then kicked it in with such force that it slammed back against the wall, splinters flying. Mrs. Roebling was
there. She let out a small cry. He wasn't interested in her, though. She could live. It was the colonel who would do the dying. He could see the man across the room, standing framed against the window. Thaddeus stepped into the room and started to sweep Mrs. Roebling aside for a clear shot at the colonel. She had a determined look about her, though. He hoped he wouldn't have to kill her but he would if she forced him.
As he reached to push her aside, she brought her hand up and placed it against his chest. He couldn't believe she would attempt to resist him. Couldn't she see the inevitable? Didn't she know she couldn't stop him?
Nothing
could stop him. Too late he saw the glint of steel in her hand, felt the poke of it against his sternum, then the explosion. He heard it more than felt it, which amazed him. He wasn't hurt, he told himself, just off balance as he backpedaled, staggering out the door and across the balcony, trying to regain his equilibrium. He was brought up short against the balcony banister and put out a steadying hand to grasp it. He looked down at his shirt and smiled at the widening red stain. It hurt not at all. The temerity of the woman angered him. He brought up his pistol, a reluctant smile on his face as he brought it to bear. She stood blocking the door. He'd have to punish her now as well.
T
om heard the shot as he rushed up the front steps. The sound sent his heart to his throat. A sickening despair coursed through him. He was too late! The thought flashed through his mind as he burst into the house through the splintered front door, sliding to a stop on the marble of the foyer. He saw them above on the balcony! Sangree, his hand coming up, a pistol gripped stiffly, Emily standing still in the doorway, protecting the colonel to the last, the empty derringer hanging loosely in her hand. Tom didn't remember bringing his Colt to bear, didn't remember aiming. It bucked in his hand and what he remembered was surprise at how fast it had gone off. He saw Sangree buckle and twist toward him as a bullet caught him in the hip. Tom watched in slow motion as Sangree's pistol came around, swinging toward him. Tom fired again, seeing the impact, the crimson spray as the bullet plowed flesh and bone. Then Sangree was falling.
The slender banister wouldn't hold him. He crashed through it, tumbling twelve feet to the marble foyer. He blacked out for a moment from the impact but still he felt no pain, just a strangeness all over, a disembodied feeling, as if he were no longer in charge of himself. He could hardly move. His lungs wouldn't draw air. Where was his pistol? He'd need it to shoot the colonel. His hands groped for it. He'd have to get up now. It wouldn't do to let the bastard get away. But when he tried to move, there was painâhuge, billowing
thunderheads of pain that stole his breath and shriveled his will. He knew now what Franklin had felt. The thought of his brother seemed to draw him farther from his body. It was not an unwelcome feeling. In fact, it was a warm feelingâalmost sunny. He saw Braddock standing above him, towering, tall, and stern.
No need to be so stern, Braddock, he thought. Mrs. Roebling's done your work for you. He smiled up at the detectiveâa big warm smile, for that's how he felt now, warm. They were enemies no longer. He could afford to smile. He was going home.
Tom looked up at the Roeblings, standing at the head of the stairs. Washington's arm was wrapped about Emily, who still held the ivory-handled Remington at her side.
T
om and Sam sat in the front room of Tom's home on Lafayette Street. The evening was slipping in, as the day gathered her skirts to leave. It was June 2, 1883.
“Damn that woman's got sand!” Sam commented over his beer.
“Believe it! She has more tenacity than any two men I know, and she'd walk through walls for the colonel.”
“Both barrels, point blank,” Sam said shaking his head slowly. “Must've opened a hole big enough to put your fist through.”
“He was not feeling well when I got there, I can tell you that. Drained out pretty quick. Didn't last more than a couple of minutes,” Tom said. He took another sip of his stout, shaking his head slightly before he said, “Funny thing isâand I can't get this out of my headâhe smiled at me.”
“Sangree?” Sam asked, hardly believing it.
“Yeah. On his back, bleeding like a butchered pig ⦠and he gives me this strange smile, like he was my friend or something. It was kind of ⦠sad actually. I mean, for just a second there, he was ⦠I don't know ⦠human.”
“He was a strange one,” Sam said slowly. “Who can say what might come over a man at the end?”
“Strange, yeah,” Tom mused, thinking of the scene at 110 Columbia Heights.
“Almost a shame it'll never get told,” Sam said, shaking his head, wincing as he did and putting a hand to his bandaged neck.
“Nah, I don't think so. Better it's left to lie,” Tom said, leaning down to
scratch Grant's ear as the cat wound himself around Tom's feet. “The Roeblings have had all the stress they can stand. If I told it the way it was, there'd be an inquest, reporters, pictures in the papers. They deserve to go out in triumph, the world singing their praises. Why put blood on Emily's hands? Besides, Sullivan and Emmons could be just looking for an excuse to strike.”
The two hadn't been found and as far as anyone knew, they were still a danger. Telegrams had gone out, of course, alerting police departments up and down the coast. Train stations were being watched. Still, Braddock figured they wouldn't be found. He had a feeling too that they'd never be back.
Sam held up his empty bottle. Tom got the hint and got up. Sam did have an excuse. The bandage that wrapped his neck and shoulder was stained a brownish-red again, though he'd changed the dressing this morning. Mary walked out of the kitchen then.
She pushed Tom back into his chair. “I'll get that. You two sit.” She disappeared back into the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, “I've got something special cooking for you two heroes.”
Tom grinned at Sam. She came back a moment later handing each of them a cold bottle. Tom got a small kiss with his.
“I am one lucky son of a bitch!” he said, shaking his head. Mary had been remarkably understanding of Tom leaving her as he had, once she found out what had happened. Chelsea had not been so lucky. She was in Bellevue, but she'd recover.
“By the way ⦠you see Lebeau's body?” Sam asked. “Hell of a way to goâcrushed like that.”
“No sympathy for the likes of him,” Tom's voice held a hard edge. “Eleven others ⦠women and kids too, dead because of that mess. Who knows how many more hurtâhundreds probably.” Tom took another swig of stout, adding, “The shit! Hope he had time to think about it before he went.”
“Don't get me wrong, Tom,” Sam said, holding up a hand. “Just a hard way to go is all.”
Tom just shrugged. He didn't give a damn how hard Lebeau had it at the end. “The thing that gets me is the wires. Don't understand it,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. “They could have blown the bridge easy.”
“Hard to say what might take hold of a man,” Sam observed. “If it was me, I'd cut the wires. Think of it. They'd worked on it for years, longer maybe than they've worked at anything else in their lives. Maybe it's the one thing that they ever really accomplished. And it's so beautiful that a hundred fifty thousand people come out on a sunny day just to admire it. I'm going to blow that to kingdom come?” Sam shook his head. “Killing wasn't the problem. It was the bridge made them give it up.”
“When it comes down to it, I can't say I much give a shit why Sullivan did what he did ⦠though I suppose you're right,” Tom said. “I'm just glad he did it.”
“Seems to me you had a hand in it too,” Sam said. Tom just shrugged.
“You read the manifesto?” Sam asked. It had been found later in the dynamo room.
“The chief says it'll never see the light of day,” Tom growled back.
Sam nodded at the wisdom of that. It would only open old wounds, stir things up, raise old resentments just when the country was coming together again.
“When you've been hating for so long, I guess it's hard to stop. Maybe you've got nothing else ⦠I don't know.” Sam said.
Tom frowned. “I suppose it's something that sort of defines youâlike a job or ⦠I know it would be hard to just quit being a cop, for example. Maybe it's like that.”
“Yeah, exactly. Suppose being a cop was bad. Suppose you knew it but didn't know how to do anything else. You'd probably still do it,” Sam reasoned.
“Interesting example,” Tom said, looking at his friend directly.
They sat and watched the setting sun paint the top floor of the Astor Library in yellows and golds. The shadow of Colonnade Row crept up the front in a solid line. The bottom floors had lost their color, as if stolen by the fleeing sun. Tom and Sam drank their Clausen's in silence for a while. They were avoiding what they needed to speak of most. It was hard to break the silence. Tom finally spoke but still he didn't say what they both had been thinking ⦠remembering.
“Fact is, I kind of hope we never find out,” Tom said, getting up to light a gas lamp. “Sullivan may have earned a second chance. Speaking of second chances, I got a report from Doc Avery. I sent Mrs. Bucklin to see him. She's tubercular,” he said grimly.
“Tough break. What about the grandkid ⦠Mike?”
“That's what I'm saying about a second chance. Patricia asked me once, back when Terrence died, if I'd help with Mike if anything happened to her. Never thought I'd be in this position so fast. She hasn't asked yet, but the boy's got to get out of that shabby little tenement or he'll be sick too. Hell ⦠might be already.”
Sam didn't say anything. This was something Tom would have to work out for himself.
“He's a good boy, a real good kid. You'd like him.”
Sam smiled. “I'm havin' trouble picturing you as a dad, Tommy-boy. Have you talked to Mary about this?”
“No.” Tom shook his head doubtfully. “I just found out this afternoon.”
Sam leaned forward in his chair. “So, what would you do, take him in?”
“I guess. Hate to see him in one of those homes for orphans or out on the street. Can't let that happen.” Tom corrected himself almost right away, seeming to make up his mind right there.
“Won't
let that happen. Gave my word.”
Sam looked closely at his old friend. “Seems to me you've made up your mind already. You're going to settle in with Mary now, right? Sounds like you got yourself a family. âBout time you settled down anyway. Been makin' all us married types jealous for too long,” Sam said, grinning, his mouth full of stout.
“No apologies from me.” Tom laughed. “Had my fun.”
“I'll drink to that, Thomas.” They slurped their beer together, the silence conspiring to resurrect the thing they'd been avoiding.
“Gonna be one hell of a funeral,” Tom said finally. Sam looked at the mug of Clausen's in his lap, running his finger through the sweat on the glass.
“Never should have let him go first,” he said softly, shaking his head.
“Not your fault, Sam. Nobody's fault. He was a good cop ⦠wanted to do what he was doing. It was justâI don't know, it just
is
,” Tom said, not knowing how to put it any better. “Could have been one of us just as well. Could've got shot when Jacobs opened on us. Could've been a lot of things,” Tom reasoned, trying to ease both their minds.
Sam seemed to ponder this. He knew the truth of it, had seen it many times during the war. The war was history, though. It had been some time since he'd had to face a death like this, so close, so personal.
“Hate to lose the young ones,” Sam said, regret and sadness coloring his words. “He just bled out. Couldn't stop it.” He looked at his hands as if he could still see Jaffey's blood.
“Sam, it's not your fault, youâ” Tom started to say. Sam had done his best, going back up on the bridge, injured and bleeding to see to Jaffey.
“Held him in my arms,” Sam continued quietly. “Nobody could have done more for him, Sam.” Tom croaked, his throat tightening as he remembered how pale Eli had looked.
“I know. Tried to stop the blood but ⦠he just slipped away.” They sat in silence, remembering. It was a long silence. The night slipped in, stealing the last of the day while they sat. Tom looked up at the spot on the wall where he'd fixed the bullet hole. With a sad smile he said, “I'll miss him.”
E
mily watched the bridge as it slipped astern. She didn't think of the bridge, though. She had seen Tom Braddock for perhaps the last time the day before.
He had given them final assurances that the story of Captain Sangree and how he died would never be connected to her or Wash. Tom had buried it. There was nothing in the official police records, no mention of their ever having been there. As far as anyone knew, they were in Newport and Sangree was nothing more than a burglar, caught in the act. That was where they were finally headed, Newport. A long-deserved rest beckoned, a regrouping of body and spirit before life's second act.
Tom had taken care of everything that terrible afternoon. Shock had set in and she stared and shook, her ears ringing from the deafening report of the little gun. Emily couldn't actually remember firing. She recalled Sangree's face, though, the eyes fierce and wild as they looked through her to her husband. The hate shone there, the years of it, scalding and scarring from the inside. Emily could feel the heat of it, knew it would consume them both if she let it. She recalled too the surprise. He hadn't seen the small Remington in her fist. He hadn't expected a woman to stand in his way. He thought she could be swept aside. Emily had sensed that. It had angered her, a fatal error. She almost enjoyed his surprise now, though she hadn't then. She could see the mouth in an oval, the arms flung wide. But there was that fierce determination, the will that somehow kept the man on his feet. Then Tom, firing from the front door, and Sangree jerking like a puppet and falling. Next thing she remembered he was taking the pistol from her hand, telling them they should leave. Tom herded them out the back, down to their carriage house at the bottom of the hill. Wash drove. They took the ferry to New York, because he was afraid they'd be recognized at the bridge. From there they had taken the ferry to Staten Island and the obscure refuge of Wash's sister's home. Telegrams had come and gone to Newport and back, where Hughes covered for them completely.
Wash and she hadn't understood the need for such skullduggery at first.
“But I've done nothing wrong, Tom. I simply defended myself and my husband. Why should we sneak about like thieves in the night? We're not criminals!”
“Emily, first, we don't know how many more there might be. We can't take the chance that they may come after you and the colonel,” Tom had said as he hustled them out of the house. “Second, if they think their captain's blood is on your hands, it'll make things just that much worse. Better they think I did it, and that's how it's going to look.”
“Butâ”
“I'd give anything to undo all this, but I think at least I can contain it, keep your name out of it. It's best if we keep up the ruse of you two being in Newport. But you've got to go and go quickly.”
They had agreed, of course, and the last she saw of Tom Braddock was a small wave and a grim smile, before he headed back up to the house. They'd driven away then and they hadn't gone back.
J
une 3, Braddock had been shuffling paper all morning, completing reports on the Bucklin case. Neither his head nor his heart was in it. He found himself staring blankly into space more often than not, reliving the events of the last few days. Nothing had gone quite as he'd planned. In fact, there'd hardly been a plan at all. It was all reactionâat least that's how it felt. He'd been frustrated at nearly every turn, staggering like a punch-drunk boxer from one blow to the next. Yet it was he who had won. There was no denying that. He had beaten them in the end. And though there were riddles yet unsolved and in truth probably would remain so, he was somehow satisfied. The bridge still stood. The Roeblings were safe in Newport. At least four of the conspirators were dead. Though he had regrets, he wasn't sure he'd have done anything differently. He'd done his best, as Eli and Pat and Charlie and Sam had done theirs. Braddock wished it could have turned out better, wished Eli was here to share a beer. He wished too that he could tell Mike who'd killed his father, but in truth he couldn't.