The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle (12 page)

Any chance of saving the operation was lost when the fiddler stopped as Ray said,

“Bucholz didn't do it.”

The bar man swung his club hard against Ray's knee. The sting made Ray wince.

He raised the club a second time. Ray caught the man's forearm.

We were in the free north but this was still America. A black man couldn't put his hands on a white one.

The Emerald went quiet. The two men returned from the toilet to find Ray restraining the bar man, me ambling to the front and everyone else holding their breath. Ray pointed to the one in spectacles.

“He did it. They had the same planned for you. Drag you out. Give you the axe.”

Pushing the eye glasses up his nose, the whiskered man came at us. His partner threw open a long jacket to pull a pistol out of his belt. A dozen others around the bar stood up.

“They're slave catchers.” Ray said. “That was Schulte's business.”

Ray pulled the club away and pushed the bar man aside. He stepped between me and the crowd, taking a deep breath as though calling on some deep reserve. I was touched that he thought he would have to save me.

I flipped one of the rags from his disguise over Ray's head to cover his eyes. An optical stunner, around the size of an apple, was in my pocket. I palmed the globe in my left hand and lobbed it high into the air while yanking on the firing pin with my right.

No one could resist looking at the ball of sparkles. When the gas tab inside exploded, the orb bloomed. Crystal and glass pieces came apart, suspended in mid air. An intense blue flame sent light radiating through the lenses.

Patrons were helpless. The light had a destabilizing effect.

It never fails to impress me, seeing people fall away from the stunner. Like trees blown over by a strong wind, they all splay out in the same direction. So it was at the Emerald.

The only person left standing other than Ray and me was the whiskered man. His spectacles filtered out light from my stunner. He lifted the pistol from his partner's hand.

“Pinkertons.” He said.

Ray threw the club. It struck the man's neck just as the gun discharged. A bullet hit the fingertip jar. Nubs of lost digits fell on the bar, some bobbing like ice cubes in full glasses.

Ray and I ducked for cover. When we looked up again, the man was gone. His partner was unconscious on the floor.

“He won't get far.” I said. “This one here will tell us who he is.”

“I know who he is.” Ray said. “Never forget that voice. That was William Hunt.”

What was William Hunt doing at the Emerald?

“Don't know.” Ray said. “Jus' know that Bucholz didn't kill the old man.”

In the alley outside, I retrieved the audio device. We could prove that William Bucholz was innocent. We also found William Hunt. It was exciting.

“Now that yer' out,” Ray said. “I can tell the rest.”

“Of what?”

“Rest of what he said.”

There was no time for me to listen to the recordings at the hotel. I didn't understand why but Ray was certain that William Hunt would be headed to the Waring farm.

*   *   *

Ernie Stark

June, 1861

I thought my leg would break when the wall rotated down to the floor. Worse, I thought the savant might leave me behind. The panel dug into my shin and I cried out.

“Wait!”

Bucholz came back. His arms shook with effort as he pulled the panels apart. When my leg was free, his fingers smashed between. He screamed bloody murder.

Far off in the walls, I heard Saul's men laugh. They were following us again.

This was not what I had in mind when we set out ten minutes ago. How had I managed to botch this so badly in so little time?

The guard who pulled us out of the fight, the one who knew I was a Pinkerton, decided to send Bucholz and me back to the common area rather than into the hands of Saul's gang. That was lucky. We emerged among other prisoners. Saul's crew wasn't there.

It was a head start. We needed to move but I had no idea how.

“We can't stay here.” I said.

Bucholz pointed across the quad.

The savant was by himself, eyes closed, bobbing in the corner. I thought he was doing some kind of idiot's dance. I was wrong.

He was listening to the prison and mimicking the movements needed to walk behind the walls. I saw him repeat the same pattern three times, always stopping and shaking his head at the same spot.

“They changed it.” He said.

Every piece of the prison was connected. To open one corridor or close an area to quell trouble, other components shifted all over Ryker's Island. The savant who figured out how the whole thing fit together didn't do so by watching the pieces. He did it by listening.

He moved through the prison in his mind but couldn't get past a certain point. Maybe the guards adjusted part of the sequence. This was our chance.

“They changed it.” He said again.

I held him by the shoulders. Our world was a waking dream to him. I shook hard and locked my eyes on his.

“Bosses.” He said. “Bosses won't be happy.”

The gangs were helpless without this man.

“You have to show them.” I said.

I motioned toward Bucholz and myself.

“We came from in there.” I said. “Take us back, to his cell. See what changed.”

The savant turned to Bucholz.

“3703-WB. Block 13-C. The sound isn't from 13-C.”

“That's what they changed.” I lied. “To fool the bosses.”

He believed me. I doubted Saul or any of the gang leaders would kill him for helping us. He was too important.

The savant crouched next to the stairwell. A bell sounded in the common area as guards cleared inmates out of the quad. The stairwell came apart and the savant rolled into the hollow. My spine rattled against a bracket as I followed. It was dark and louder than I had imagined. I panicked waiting for my eyes to adjust.

I felt the same panic moments later when, barely able to see, I got my leg stuck and Bucholz had to come back for me. Keeping up with the savant was tough. We crawled from tight corners into spinning gears then down black holes with no real idea where we were going.

Bucholz pulled his mangled fingers out of the panels. The savant was a step ahead. He bent at the waist, fell forward and was gone.

The ceiling dropped and the light disappeared. I dragged Bucholz to the far end and pushed his head down. We tipped over and crashed into an iron rod. The platform behind lifted. Upside down, Bucholz and I slid off the bar and fell on our backs.

I was tired, happy just to have a break. Bucholz was in a state.

“I didn't kill Schulte.” Bucholz said. “It was those slave catchers. They wanted his business but the old fool wouldn't sell. Waring was in on it. Schulte kept slaves at the farm.”

“Everyone's guilty but you, huh? Next you'll tell me you didn't steal the money either.” I sneered.

“I did steal the money,” Bucholz insisted. “but only ‘cause it was in the same chest as Schulte's account log. That's what I was after. That's what they sent me for.”

The floor spun. We slid under a platform rotating above. It passed so close that my nose pressed down against my face. Bucholz kept talking.

“They sent me to get in with Schulte so I could get my hands on the account log.”

“Who is
they
?” I asked.

“The one you slugged. He was part of it.” Bucholz answered. “But the smaller guy, he was in charge.”

“Smaller?” I said. “Not William Hunt?”

Mention of Hunt's name made Bucholz seize in panic.

“That man is insane.” Bucholz said. “He planned the con. There's a judge from New York. Schulte's account log lists him as an investor in the slave business.”

“They want to blackmail a judge?”

“Yes.” Bucholz whined. “Something about the war and the government. I don't know why for sure. You're the bloody detective.”

The slab clattered and tilted. I felt a rush of blood behind my eyes. The floor beneath us became a wall beside us. We were in a hallway, sure to collapse as quickly as it had appeared.

The savant sprinted ahead. Bucholz and I followed.

“Sadie. What did I get you into?” Bucholz said to himself. “So much danger. No wonder you lied to the cops.”

He turned to me with wild urgency in his eyes.

“Get me out of here.” Bucholz said. “Find a way to get me out of this place and I'll bring you the chest, show you the account log.”

The Pinkertons still had ties to that dandy Harry Vinton in Washington.

“You're a foreigner, right?” I said. “I bet we could have you deported.”

“Fine. Anything. Just give me a chance. I'll dig up the chest for you.”

At the end of the corridor, we crouched and slid into a corner. There was no floor. We fell, landing in a prison cell where Saul was waiting for us.

“I'll do the digging, pal.”

Bucholz tried to jump behind me. I was already in the grips of Saul's goon.

“Tell me where it is.” Saul said.

Bucholz shook his head. Saul grabbed his face in both hands.

“I just want to hear you say it. You buried it at the farm.”

Saul stabbed a piece of iron, filed to a sharp edge, into Bucholz' ribs.

“She has it, doesn't she? Your little peach. I want to hear you say it.”

“Saul, please . . .” Bucholz said.

I struggled to get loose, elbowing the man holding me. I even bit his arm. It was no use. He had me pinned.

The cell door fell away as guards stormed the scene. Saul drove the spike all the way into Bucholz' chest. The accused murderer rolled beside me. He took shallow breaths and stared at nothing.

*   *   *

Kate Warne

June, 1861

I looked for high ground to take a scan of Chesapeake Bay with the viewport goggles. There was no easy way up. The hills were a no man's land.

Union ships were not firing this way. They were more concerned with merchant vessels at port. This didn't stop Confederates in the hills from firing all manner of outdated cannon at the northern fleet.

The ground shook. Flack fell everywhere. The safest place was the docks, which neither side viewed as a target.

Wearing the goggles, I peered down into that part of the harbor. If I was lucky, maybe I could see a way to cut from there to a better vantage. As it turned out, there was no need.

The Hampton Roads shipyard was active. This was to be expected. Unfinished boats in the harbor made good targets. They could only be protected inside the factory dry dock.

Hampton Roads was a modern facility capable of assembling fifteen boats at a time. All the machinery and materials required for these huge projects were on site. At full capacity, there were enough welders, fitters and engineers to occupy a small town. Further, if circumstances required emergency service in another part of the country, Hampton Roads could even detach from shore and sail along the coastline.

Men worked in teams. They hooked boats in the quay onto winches reaching from the factory wall, and hoisted them onto a conveyor. Nothing was out of the ordinary except that some of the men wore blue slacks. Others wore grey. Some used green sashes to hold their pants up. Others used red sashes.

Men are vile and stupid. A man will eat a dollar bill just to keep you from taking it then cut his own guts open to buy a flash of your skirt. Their code of honor is a study in nonsense and hypocrisy. There is only one thing you can count on from men. They will die for their colors.

Knowing this, it caught my eye that teams loading ships into dry dock at Hampton Roads mixed different pieces of Union and Confederate uniforms together. Such a thing would be heresy among army regulars. These were the troops I had been sent to find.

I shaved a fresh flint chip, loaded an ultraviolet flare into its sling and lit the fuse. My arms were still sore from my fight with the Golden Circle. I gritted my teeth when the spring released and the sling fired.

I flipped the lens over my goggles to watch the flare streak through the sky. Despite the smoke and cloud cover, I saw it explode.

I waited. Operators on the
Cumberland
bomber high above fired their own signal. They were tracking behind me as planned.

I discarded my protective gear, save for pistol, and hiked down to the shipyard. I wore a brown pantsuit, frayed at the hem, with a man's shirt buttoned to its collar. The cuffs and one breast pocket were stained with ink. I also dabbed ink between my index finger and thumb. The outfit stank of cigarettes.