The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle (11 page)

For me, inside the crate, some painful crashing about was expected. This was the most dangerous part of the mission. I had no control.

Cumberland
's bomber was to continue firing into the jumble of boats, trying to make it look like they were clearing a path for the mother ship. In fact, this would provide passage for the blockade runner. Once I was on shore, assuming I wasn't blown to bits by stray cannon fire, the bomber was supposed to track my movements and intervene if things went wrong.

There was no way for me to know if the plan was working. The worst case scenario would be for the vessel to be struck before reaching the docks. If water penetrated the crate, I would blow the lid and take my chances.

The boat rocked at wild angles. I felt the concussion of cannon fire all around. There were moments when I felt I might lose consciousness.

It was so peaceful. I felt erased.

Maybe I wouldn't fire the charges at the first sign of trouble. Maybe I would let the water rise around me and sink with the rest of the cargo. At the bottom of the Atlantic, I would spend a few hours in total quiet, taking calm breaths until the oxygen ran out.

My sense of time was gone. The run to shore seemed to go on forever.

Without knowing for sure when it happened, I became aware that the rollicking had stopped. Everything was still. Either I was dead or we had docked.

I blew the charges. The vest kept my ribs from collapsing under the pressure. Glass cracked in the goggles. The top of the crate tore apart and launched into the air. I pulled the head piece away and sat up to take a deep breath.

The rush of air made me dizzy. I swayed in place for a half minute or more. If the guards nearby had not been so stunned to see someone rise from the exploding crate, I'm sure they would have shot me.

I got my bearings and climbed halfway out before the first rifle shot struck me in the back. The vest held but the pain was intense. I was knocked down between containers.

I tossed the neck guard aside then let all the air drain from the vest. Unprotected, the next shot would kill me but I needed to move. I jabbed a hole in the rubber cap that connected the steam canister to the head piece. Escaping gas caused it to spin and jump all over.

I lit the gas with a flint chip. Flames spread quickly as the canister whirled. Fire climbed the sides of the wooden crates. Smoke rose to the rafters. I heard the guards yell, approaching on the run. I sprinted from behind the boxes.

They fired but missed. I kept my eyes on the open door ahead.

It didn't take long for flames to creep into the oxygen canister. The explosion was contained within the loading dock. In the cacophony outside, I doubted many would notice a loud bang from the docks.

I looked back to see the guard who shot me clutching a broken shin. He looked to be in a great deal of pain. I was glad.

*   *   *

Ernie Stark

June, 1861

The original design at Ryker's Island aimed to isolate inmates. It used the same automation as in the transport capsule, only on a larger scale.

The first prisoners went crazy. They were under constant observation yet always alone. They ate, exercised, washed and slept without seeing other humans.

The rumbling of the prison sounded like voices. It was common for prisoners to talk to the building at night.

Suicide was rampant. Convicts who served their sentence were released as outright lunatics. Change became a necessity.

Administrators tested different solutions. In the end, they had to accept that inmates needed each other. In the most telling experiment, fifty prisoners were released into an empty yard. They didn't speak. No fights broke out. They just huddled together in one corner.

That was the end for Ryker's Island as a fully automated facility. Common areas were created. A social order emerged. Inmates clustered into gangs.

What happened next caught everyone by surprise. One idiot savant among the prisoners figured out the timing and arrangement of shifting walls. Changes to the old architecture made it possible for prisoners to slip into small pockets of space when a ledge folded away or a corridor opened. No one dared because they were sure to be crushed or lost.

The savant disappeared for long stretches. Hours later, he would be back at the quad or in his cell without warning.

That man became a seeing-eye dog for the gangs. Mobility was power. Inmates went wherever they pleased even during a lock down. Guards couldn't stop them.

Weaker prisoners missed the old days. Now there really were voices in the walls.

William Bucholz would have done better in that original setting. When I found him, he looked like he hadn't slept in days. Even getting kicked in the teeth, he seemed tired.

In all the time I've spent with men who would lie to your face then call you a sucker, I never saw a scramble like the one to get at Bucholz. Men were fighting each other to reach him.

Saul was right in there. He wasn't getting his hands dirty. His goons were scrapping with another gang, trying to get at Bucholz first.

I told Robert it would happen fast. Saul flashed me a smile. I punched him in the mouth.

No one knew which side I was on. I pushed into the crowd, between the gangs and Bucholz. He looked up. His rat face made me think about all the grifters I'd ever worked over.

You just wanted to stomp on him. You couldn't help it.

“What're you doing?” He asked.

“What I been paid to do.”

I leaned him against the wall. The least he could do was stand up.

The two gangs recognized a common enemy. I would have had trouble getting the jump on any of them. Forget about all of them.

The wall behind Bucholz shifted away from us. We stepped back with it. A row of panels folded up in the gap, cutting us off. The last board snapped into place and prison guards stepped into the breach, guns pointed at our heads.

I dropped to my knees. The guard who met me on arrival pushed Bucholz down beside me. I could hear Saul and the others in the walls. They were trying to find us.

“This ain't a rescue.” The guard said. “You take care of your own trouble in here. I don't like wild cards, though, mister. Why'd you step in for this man?”

Any concern I had for the integrity of Robert's investigation went out the window the second I laid eyes on Saul. All bets were off.

“I'm a detective.” I said. “The Pinkerton Agency sent me to find out if this fellow is guilty of killing an old man in New York.”

“They put you in here for that?”

“Believe me, I'm going to throttle the boy who got me into this.” I said.

Bucholz eyed me. I didn't like it so I clutched his collar in one hand and yanked his head down. None of the guards got involved. They moved back, ready to leave.

“You're going to give me what I need, Bucholz.” I said. “Or you'll die before me, I swear.”

The walls slid away. The guards were gone. Bucholz and I were alone.

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

June, 1861

The investigation was on track. Stark was at Ryker's Island. Ray and I picked up the clues police left behind at Norwalk.

I first had the idea during my trial. One of a detective's great challenges is to convince informants to speak the truth. Why not record them among their peers?

Norwalk police reported that William Bucholz first met Henry Schulte at Emerald Tap House. By New York City standards it was timid. For a small town, it was a bad place.

Schulte had been a regular at the Emerald. The only person who ever looked for him there was the farmer Waring. That is, until William Bucholz came along.

Bucholz was a hoodlum. His life was going nowhere in New York. Who could blame him for seeking out something different at Norwalk?

After being hired by Schulte, the Emerald became a favorite of his as well. Bucholz was seen there with Sadie Waring. The last dinner he ate before being arrested was at the Emerald.

I was sure the liars and gamblers at the Emerald knew more about the murder than they told police. It was the perfect place to test the audio equipment I saw reporters use during my trial. Patrons would tell us everything they knew and not even realize they were doing it.

Ray was skeptical. I tried to calm his nerves by explaining how it would work.

People are not allowed to chew tobacco in New York taverns. Men can play cards and get drunk but not chew tobacco. It has something to do with public health.

To get around the law, taverns provide spittoons in the men's toilet. Health inspectors never catch anyone spitting at their table. Taverns keep the heavy drinkers happy.

“You want to listen to the toilets?” Ray said.

“Precisely. I will be at a table. Regulars will notice me. They'll talk.” I said. “I will ask about Bucholz and Schulte. Someone will mention the murder. When that happens, it will be in the toilet, and you will be listening.”

The trick to making it work was hiding the equipment. Toilets were social places. That suited our purpose but didn't give us much time to mount receivers at the spittoon. I was reluctant to suggest the obvious to Ray. In the end, I just came out and said it.

“Given your . . . skin tone . . . if you go to the toilet, everyone else will come out.”

It was decided. Before the Emerald got busy the following afternoon, Ray shuffled in and ordered a beer. New York is free soil so the bar man couldn't lawfully refuse.

Ray drank quickly. Before leaving, he asked to use the toilet. The bar man was none too happy. He went ahead to clear all the white men out. With the toilet empty, Ray went inside.

To keep the tubes out of sight, Ray fitted them under things that patrons rarely use. A rack of newspapers hung from the wall, for example. The Emerald wasn't the sort of place where people did a lot of reading. Hand towels were another good option. He ran the tubs behind, bored a hole under the window and poked the end outside.

With those preparations made, we returned to the hotel to dress Ray like a hobo. He could have passed for any of the former slaves living in Norwalk off scraps.

After dark, Ray slumped in an alley behind the Emerald. I connected tubes from the toilet to a machine, no bigger than a shoebox, which imprinted sound onto wax discs inside. A line ran to a cup over Ray's ear so he could listen. We covered the machine in filthy rags and put a bloody bandage over Ray's ear.

I entered the Emerald and took a seat at the bar. A fiddler sawed and jigged at the far end. Few of the regulars had arrived.

Bits of tape and blood on the floor marked the square where boxing matches were held. Tips of fingers floated in a glass jar amid liquor bottles behind the bar, a common warning to card hustlers. The Emerald had its kinks.

The stools filled before the tables. Drinkers chatted in a familiar way. Friends and enemies told jokes and made threats. When my food arrived, I asked the bar man,

“D'you expect Bill Bucholz tonight?”

Some of the drunks turned to look.

“Don't imagine.”

“Still in jail then?”

“Ain't my business to say.”

I took my food to a table. It was a good start.

The beefsteak was awful but helped me hold down the liquor. I bought more drinks for those around me than for myself. We drank and stomped as the fiddler played.

The others were suspicious but not enough to turn down free drinks. I drew them to me then proceeded to chase them away.

“Bucholz ought ta' have told me what he was gonna do.” I said. “I would have taken more credit off the old man.”

I laughed like a fool, drinks going to my head. I made an ass of myself but the plan was working. It got harder to keep people at my table. Men pointed at me as they walked to the toilet.

I recognized one who had been at the bar earlier. He was short. His whiskers hung low under his chin. Tinted spectacles were perched on his nose. He was followed by a man I hadn't noticed before, wearing riding gear like he had just come off the road.

I ordered another glass of bourbon. It wasn't as harsh as the turpentine in other bottles. I tipped the waiter more than required. Things were going to script.

I noticed Ray standing in the doorway. That was not part of the plan.

“That's far enough.” The bar man said.

Ray scanned the room. The bar man stepped from behind the counter with a wooden club. He got close enough to have a good look at Ray then stopped, remembering that he had escorted him to the toilet hours before.

“What're you up to, boy?”

I wobbled, finding it harder to stand than expected.

“Ray!”

I yelled above the fiddler. I had drunk more bourbon than I realized.

Ray made a gesture for me to come to the door. The bar man moved next to him, sizing up the odds. Drinkers stared in alarm.