The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle (14 page)

“You wait here for yer' Captain.” Ray said. “Tell him we'll be at Waring farm. Maybe we'll still be there at six o'clock.”

It was the sort of answer I would like to have given.

“We'll try not to do any seizing until he gets there.” I said.

Ray gave me a queer look. It wasn't quite as biting a comment as I hoped.

We hurried back to the hotel to gather equipment and sketch a plan. Our strategy didn't amount to much. We would go to the Waring farm and sneak in to the barn or, if necessary, the house. By finding the account log, we were likely to come across William Hunt.

There was nothing complicated about it. My equipment took more time to prepare.

I stripped down to my undergarments. Father would have shaken his head.

One of our clients in the mining sector invented this jackleg chassis. The idea was to equip a single miner with tools and torque enough to drill, break and clear remote coal seams deep underground.

The chassis locked around my waist with a cinch attached to steel bands over the shoulders and across the chest. A steam chamber was housed inside a flexible brace running up the spine. Joints located at the knees, hips, shoulders and elbows were fixed with disc shaped fasteners welded into the steel frame. Everything from borehole drills and explosive detonators to crossbar roof supports and mini conveyors could be attached to the chassis.

Two narrow pistons ran down the right leg. These powered a winch that ended with a carbine bit jutting from the toe of my boot. A miner could kick the bit into a stubborn piece of stone and use the hydraulic winch to pry it loose. It was the chassis' only permanent attachment.

I pulled my pants over the pistons and peered into a crate I brought from Chicago. There were so many options. I fastened a borehole driller to the chassis' left elbow. It extended past my wrist, eight inches beyond a clenched fist.

A dragline caster went on my right arm. It was heavier and required more dexterity. With it, I could fire an iron sinker as far as fifty feet ahead by whipping my arm in a compact arc. In a mine shaft, a filament wire would slash rock and debris covering a coal deposit when the sinker retracted. For my ends, it would be more useful fighting in close quarters.

We set out for the Waring property. Ray carried other tools in a sack. He refused my offer to share the equipment.

“Yer' better with that stuff.” He said. “I do fine in my own way.”

It was true. Even with the chassis, I cringed at the thought of coming to blows with Ray.

We took our bearings from a hilltop a quarter mile away. Viewport goggles gave us a clear sightline but low cloud cover and a quarter moon obscured some of the detail.

The farm had a familiar layout. A house sat on the highest perch, a hundred yards from the main entrance. Ruts of a wagon path ran from the house down to a pair of buildings. One was a tool shed. The other was a barn. Crops stretched out of view beyond.

A flicker of candlelight danced in the house. It started upstairs then descended.

“Comin' out.” Ray said.

Two figures emerged. The first was William Hunt. The second was Sadie Waring, holding the candle. Hunt leaned across and blew it out once they stepped off the porch.

Our investigation had revealed that the scoundrel William Bucholz, who had been accused of killing Henry Schulte, was innocent. He claimed to be with Sadie Waring on the night of the murder. Her refusal to confirm this alibi led to his arrest.

“Did she betray Bucholz from the start? Maybe she has a stake in this.” I said.

Sadie might have been in line for a piece of the slave hunting business. That would have been enough motivation to dupe Bucholz into trusting her. She might also have helped blackmail Judge Terrence Mansfield with the account log.

It was essential that we find that device before William Hunt. Most think of an account log as a book. In fact, it is more of an iron abacus. It is an adding machine that tracks cash flow.

Entrepreneurs across the Union have begun sharing information about the cost of goods and the volume of major sales. Account logs are plugged into ledgers at major banks to update investments, liquidity and returns.

This information helps banks and stock managers set commodity prices. Slaves are still a commodity in America. Schulte's account log is part of a system that sets the price of men.

“She's no partner of his.” Ray said. “Hunt's got a knife on her. He can kill her quick.”

I squinted. Hunt did seem to have something propped under Sadie's arm.

We cut a wide path to the Waring property. It was long but, keeping out of sight, we ran most of the way. By the time we reached the fence, candlelight winked again inside the barn.

I crawled to the building. Years of exposure left part of the wall sagging. I jammed the carbide bit under the panels and pumped my heel to draw steam into the pistons.

It wouldn't be the quietest entrance. So long as only the rotten wood fell away, I felt there was a good chance of getting inside unnoticed. I was about to squat at the knee to engage the winch when a pebble bounced off my shoulder.

Further down, Ray had pried open a feedlot door. The smell was rank. The ground was wet with animal waste. It was awful but still the better option.

We crept low past the feed stalls. Faint light flickered ahead, shining on the underside of a hay loft. Ray put a hand on my shoulder to hold me back and call attention to a hatch in the floor. Loose hay had been brushed aside. The hatch was open.

If Schulte's account log had been inside, it was gone now. I assumed the same of William Hunt. My mind raced. How could we keep him from escaping? Where might he try to go?

Ray and I walked out from under the loft. It was a stupid mistake, an obvious trap. When I heard Sadie Waring scream above, I wasn't surprised as much as annoyed.

William Hunt lifted the girl over his head and threw her down at us. I had seen burglars use hostages as shields. Hunt used her as a weapon.

Ray lunged forward to catch her. Hunt jumped toward me with his knife drawn.

I whipped my right arm across my torso. The iron sinker and filament wire burst from the dragline device, careening toward Hunt as he fell. I worried that the impact would be too heavy. Local police would not look kindly on me killing a man without a mandate.

Hunt hoisted his legs. His knees and ears almost touched. The sinker shot between his heels and splintered the loft. Hay and woodchip tossed in the air as the dragline retracted.

Hunt drove his boots into my chest. I slammed onto the floor. Steam canisters dug into my spine. He landed on me so hard it felt like he jumped from the loft a second time.

As Stark once said, the skin on Hunt's face looked as though it had been pulled tight over his skull. I could see his bones. Eyes seemed to pop out of their sockets. His teeth looked huge.

I saw a glint as Hunt drew back his knife. He smiled with those mad teeth. I did not feel any particular panic but it occurred to me that I was about to die. The blade swung down, slicing into my neck. Hunt would have cut my head off if Ray had not lifted him away.

The knife slid from my neck up to my jaw. Its cutting edge poked through my throat and touched the bottom of my tongue. Amid the blood and saliva, I tasted it.

Hunt hooked the blade under my chin. It dug into my jaw bone. I felt every nick and dull spot rattle through my teeth. At last, Ray threw him clear.

I fell to the floor. My body trembled in shock.

William Hunt skidded across the barn. He rolled once then got his feet underneath him. He was poised to strike even as he continued to slide from the force of Ray's throw.

Hunt flipped his knife, caught the blade between his fingers and drew back. Taking aim at Ray, he paused then lowered his hand. Again, Hunt's awful smile emerged.

“I thought we lost you at Harrisburg.”

“You did.” Ray said.

Hunt jammed the buck knife back into his belt. He saw Sadie Waring scramble out of the barn but made no attempt to stop her. His attention was focused on Ray.

“Dump that garbage out of yer' bag and load the old man's contraption.” Hunt said. “We're leaving.”

“We'll leave together. But not like you think.”

Ray sprung forward, striking a terrible blow against Hunt's temple. His head was knocked so far down it tucked under his arm. The rest of his body stood firm. Ray was off balance, following through from the punch. Hunt drove his knee up into his chest.

Ray fell. I did not think such a thing was possible.

Hunt jumped on him and swiped his fingers across the deep scars on Ray's face. He ranted in a thick southern slang that was impenetrable to me. Hunt seemed to retell the story of each lash on Ray's skin. It was withering, all the more so because he didn't hit him once.

Hunt stood. Ray rolled onto his hands and knees, head low.

“Be sure to kill that one before we go.” Hunt said.

Ray looked over. He did not recognize me. At that moment, more than I had been with Hunt's knife at my throat, I was afraid.

A commotion saved me. Voices outside echoed in the barn. Hunt emptied the sack then slid Schulte's account log inside. Ray picked it up and followed him out the back.

Police officers charged in from the front. I could hear Sadie wailing in the distance. Her father shouted about a man breaking into the house and kidnapping his girl.

They eyed me on the ground, blood spilling from my face. I saw the constable kick a first boot into my ribs. After that, something cracked me over the head.

*   *   *

Ernie Stark

July, 1861

I was ready to wring Robert's neck. I had visions of taking years off his life.

The sliding walkway came to a stop at an interview room where I was greeted by the unsmiling face of William instead. I was worried. Something must have gone wrong.

Robert was an idiot but he would never have sent me to Ryker's Island knowing that Saul Mathews from the Golden Circle was waiting. That was the sort of thing only William would do.

Physically, the brothers shared their father's features. The brow gives them away. Pinkertons always appear to be thinking hard even when, like Robert, they are not.

The difference between them is revealed in more delicate features. William has dry patches on his skin. His jaw sticks out. His nose bends at the ridge. It is as though their mother had an easier time giving birth to Robert and her pain is etched all over William's face.

My shackles fell away. A wall folded behind me, cutting me off at last from the prison. I was alone with William and the Agency's lawyer, Byron Hayes.

“Sign this.”

It was the same thing Ray ordered me to do on the train fleeing to Philadelphia. The Golden Circle had laid waste to a rail yard. I had seen Ray kill with a swipe of his hand. I was still less reluctant to sign the paper he put in front of me than I was with William.

“Don't act like you have any options.” William said. “I don't know what sort of deal Robert cooked up with prosecutors . . .”

“Where is Robert?”

“He is in jail, like you. The Norwalk police are handing him over in New York.”

I didn't want to believe him. It did sound like Robert, though.

“We vouched for you as an employee of the Pinkerton Agency.” Hayes said. “That is the only reason you are being released.”

“I'm not a Pinkerton employee.”

“You will be after you sign these papers.” Hayes said.

The idea was repulsive. I spent years doing jobs that others viewed as impossible or irrelevant just to avoid being someone's employee.

“It's this or we send you back.” William said. “So long as you are with us, the administrators at Ryker's will treat your file as being under review.”

“Let them review it.” I said. “I was only here because Robert wanted access to Bucholz.”

William turned to Hayes. They had rehearsed this part.

“Yes, well. A thorough review could take a long time. You would remain in custody for the duration. It would not be in your best interests, Mr. Stark.”

I signed the blasted thing. Robert and I both lost our freedom without ever getting to the bottom of Henry Schulte's murder.

“That file is dead.” William said. “Robert was arrested for trespassing on a farm after the client voided the contract.”

“What was he doing at Waring farm?”

“I have no idea.”

Hayes stayed behind to file paperwork. William hired us a carriage to Union Station.

At the rail yard, we rode a lift to the upper platforms. As we passed between scaffolds, sparks floated onto our shoulders. A team of electricians was outfitting trains on all four levels at the same time.

Thick wires swung down to the ground. They bumped and sparked against the outside of our lift. Men snatched at the cords, fighting each other to power their tools. They yelled threats one minute then shouted encouragement as the work moved along. New York was its usual self.