The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle (23 page)

Surgical tools occupy even more space than the lenses. They harness
enormous power yet deliver it on a tiny scale. Dr. Lowe believes the function
of any large machine can be replicated in smaller devices so long as scaling is
done in increments.

A piston engine is mounted near the ceiling. It is connected to a
control panel on the platform with a sight line angled down through the imaging
lenses. Racks of cogs and pinions are overlaid with smaller combinations of
pulleys and crank rods. These tie to blades and needle points that fold and
combine in different shapes close to the patient's body. Finally, they end in
pinpoint tools barely visible to the naked eye.

From the operating table, I watched a set of pincers no larger than the
legs of a fly descended toward my broken face. Tendrils slipped under my skin.
I felt no pain. The pincers took hold to steady my skull. I felt that part.
Larger implements then crawled down the metalwork cone like insects.

“Hold still,” Dr. Lowe said from above, perhaps making a joke.

The procedures took several hours. To pass the time, we listened in on
my father's meeting with President Lincoln.

After redesigning my audio recorder, Dr. Lowe advanced the science of
sound transmission several steps just by tinkering with the equipment. What
interested him was the fact that air made such a poor conduit. He scoffed at
the effort required to create a vacuum inside the tubes and became convinced
that water would be more efficient. So long as constant pressure was
maintained, sound could travel great distances.

Dr. Lowe thought such a tool would be useful for soldiers in battle. He
built a device and arranged through Harry Vinton to demonstrate it. President
Lincoln refused to deploy a steam arsenal against the Confederacy. Even so,
using better technology to coordinate the military effort was of keen interest
to him, especially after Bull Run.

What Dr. Lowe did not tell the President was that he designed the
equipment to transmit sound in both directions. I was pinned to the operating
table. The Protocol hovered over the White House. From those positions, we
listened to President Lincoln confer with his wartime advisors.

The White House event was vintage Harry Vinton in its pomp if not its
guest list. Every rung on the social ladder was present. Rich men squeezing
lawmakers for favours brushed with machinists dragging crude inventions in tow.
As was the custom, guests stole keepsakes from the White House. It was the sort
of thing that makes my father furious.

Papa believes America's government is the most important innovation in
the history of politics. Yet Americans as a people manage to be unworthy of
their own creation. The White House is being carried away in the pockets of its
people.

Entering the building for the first time, my father said he was struck
by its poor condition. Carpets were mangled. Floorboards groaned. Mrs. Lincoln
did her best but the overall impression remained: an unloved home.

Only the East Room was true to its high function. Walls were papered in
rich red and bronze. Cornices above the doorways accented stencils on the
ceiling. These connected to sculpted plaster medallions holding a row of
chandeliers in place.

Papa met Lincoln and his advisors in an office connected to the East
Room. Transmitters from the Protocol snaked through an open window. The men
expected to hear from Dr. Lowe in the course of their meeting. They did not
know we were listening.

Dr. Lowe retained this excerpt as part of his test of the two-way
broadcast. Along with Papa there was Lincoln, newly appointed army commander
General McClellan, and security chief Lafayette Baker. Papa was the first to
speak:

“We are finished with Kate Warne.”

“Fine.”

That was our President. He would not say two words if one would
suffice. Lafayette Baker was more forthcoming.

“Warne has left Chicago. She is moving south. The fugitive will not get
far.”

Baker was already tracking Kate. There was no telling what other things
he knew.

General McClellan cut in. He took charge of the military after the
defeat at Bull Run. McClellan was young. He won a minor skirmish near the
western frontier but not much else. The press loved him.

“You chase that girl, Baker, if it makes you happy. Stringing her up
won't change a thing. We all want the same, Mr. President: to march the army
into Richmond and beat the southerners brains in. I got bad news. Our boys
ain't ready. They need training. The troops need to drill until they hold their
lines in a flack storm without thinking twice.”

“How long, General?”

“We have to get them into formation and see what they can do.”

Lincoln was not happy. For a moment, it seemed McClellan might be the
shortest serving General in U.S. history. Lafayette Baker broke the silence.

“Training them in Washington would be a good start. It might give them
something to do, at least.”

“How so?”

“Your naval blockade snared a flotilla of slave ships that cannot find
safe harbor in the south, Mr. President. More boats arrive every day. We either
bring them north or let the slaves drown when the ship captains cut and run.”

“We will not allow them to drown.”

“Of course not. They must come north. It will be easiest to take them
off the open water and move them using the canals. General McClellan's forces
can secure the route.”

“My soldiers are not security guards!”

“They are not
your
soldiers, General.”

Everyone started talking at once. One of them knocked Dr. Lowe's audio
device off the table. It was confusion. My father did not say a word, was
likely trying to size up Lafayette Baker. Lincoln brought the men to order.

“Enough. Train the army, General. See to it the slaves are received in
Washington then prepare to march south. Baker: take Kate Warne into custody.
Pinkerton: see to it there is no rebel mischief on the canal route.”

Orders were given. The President did not have to say another word. So
he didn't. Dr. Lowe chose this moment to transmit his message:

Mr. President. I trust you are in position. It is my pleasure to
send the first voice transmission ever broadcast from an airborne station. I am
indebted to you for this opportunity to demonstrate what science can achieve in
the service of our great nation.

The room was stunned to silence. Lincoln was impressed. He invited Dr.
Lowe to explore how the equipment could be used on the battlefield. The
President also asked a favour. He wanted the Protocol to fly over the canal
route to Washington and report any activity that seemed unusual.

Lincoln was determined to bring the flotilla of slave ships north. To
him, it was precious evidence that his naval blockade was disrupting the
southern way of life. He took every precaution to make sure the passage was
safe.

Dr. Lowe agreed. He thanked President Lincoln for trusting him with the
task.

The Protocol drifted away from Washington. I was recovering from the
operation, feeling about as bad as I did when Kate dragged me off the turf at
Bull Run. I certainly did not relish the idea of skirmishing with Confederate
forces in this state.

“Never fear, Robert. There will be no soldiers on the canal.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Because the south wants to separate, not invade. If there is any
danger in bringing those slaves north, it will not come from the Confederate
army.”

“Why fly over the canals at all then? We should have a look at that flotilla.”

Dr. Lowe clapped his hands together.

“We will. But first, this is an opportunity to fly into no-man's land
between the warring armies. It is the perfect time to test one of our new
weapon systems.”

“Test it on what?”

“A railway company's dirigible malfunctioned somewhere out there. It
has been circling in aimless flight without a pilot since the battle at Bull
Run. The company can't seem to bring it in so we're going to bring it down.”

“What? Over Bull Run, you say? Is it a PWB dirigible?”

I tried to sit up in my gurney. It had not even occurred to me that the
dirigible I flew to the battle might still be in the air.

“Yes, my boy. Settle down. You will undo all our fine work.”

I put my head back down. The outburst clearly got the professor's
attention.

“How in the blazes did you know the dirigible belonged to PWB?”

*   *   *

Ernie Stark
November, 1861

Hello, Robert. So you found me. Out here in the wilds, where only
madmen roam, it is as deep as it gets. Yet as soon as I arrived in Shreveport,
there was a parcel waiting at the station. From you.

I'm glad to have the money. Not sure what to do about the rest. This
idiotic sound box is of little use. I am only using it now so that I can tell
you one thing.

We both know that you are no detective. Yet you reached into the middle
of nowhere and tapped me on the shoulder. How can that be?

I will tell you how. You read my sealed case files, Robert. That is
what I want to tell you. I caught you. I am going to make you pay for it.

If I make it back alive.

Whoof. I need a break.

Digging graves was easier when Ray was with me. He did most of the
work. The Appalachian corridor is as rough as I remember. I promised Webster
the day Ray and I buried him out here, the day William Hunt crushed his chest,
that I would not leave him in this wild terrain.

A man keeps his promises. So here I am. While I dig this body out of
ground, and decide what to do with it, I suppose it won't do any harm for us to
have a chat.

I read your note, Robert. You damned idiot. That bank owner in
Wilmington did not call on the Agency to solve a murder. Your father should
have left the case alone. Did it not seem odd that the letter arrived in the
middle of so much trouble? Clients were abandoning the Agency. Your father was
at his weakest yet this plum assignment falls out of the sky. None of that
caught your eye?

No. You were too busy trying to keep Kate Warne from facing those
treason charges, trying to keep her safe. She is a blind spot for both you and
your father. Well, you both failed. She is not safe.

I wish you were here right now. You could pick up a shovel and do some
of this digging, for one thing. You could also tell me what I am supposed to do
with a pocket full of loose bills, an audio recorder and your stupid idea.
Travel to Wilmington and pose as Kate Warne's husband? Ridiculous.

Who ever heard of a man sending his wife alone to strange city to buy
property? Did you expect that story to fool anyone? Did you think it would save
her? No. I am not running to Wilmington.

You left Ray to his own devices. Kate Warne deserves no better. I am
going to finish digging Webster up and then ...

I have an idea, Robert. How about this? Once I've got old Webster up
here, I'll ask him what I should do. He was a good detective. He will see the
truth of things.

There was no murder in Wilmington, Robert. George Gordon was killed but
it was not murder. It was a sacrifice. You would see this if you understood the
south. To you, the south always boils down to slaves instead of machines. Well,
it is not as tidy as you think.

After the Golden Circle fell apart, I worried they might try something.
You don't have any idea what you're in for this time. It isn't the army. These
aren't soldiers. They are the people you call saboteurs and radicals. They are
fanatics to you, but they are real people with homes and children. They are the
beating heart of the south, its soul. Those folks regrouped after William
Hunt's wild ploy came to nothing. Schemes and trickery were set aside. They got
back to basics and tapped into the only power they believe in.

You see, Robert, after living among millions of slaves for more than
two hundred years, white southerners absorbed a little of their hoodoo. They
soaked up more than just a little, as a matter of fact.

You claim that nothing ever gets invented down there. That may be true
so far as gadgets go but the south has made plenty of advances. It is more than
spells and spirits. They can stir up a poison that will make you claw your eyes
out while whistling
John Brown's Body
. They can put a powder in your
water that turns into venom in your gut. They can make clothes on your back a
toxic poultice on your skin. Anything can be made to pollute the body and mind.

What I saw once I got to Shreveport convinced me that your Union is not
ready for what the south has in store. I also saw clear as day that only a
maniac would go chasing after Kate Warne in Wilmington.

She is as good as lost. Dead, that is.

You had a chance to capture William Hunt, Robert. You botched it. Hunt
nearly cut your head off then escaped. He took Ray with him. I came to
Shreveport to bring him back. I promised Ray freedom after he saved me from the
Golden Circle. I owe him that.

After petitioning every auction house I could find, with counterfeit
papers stating Ray was my property, I learned he was registered at Heritage
Estate Brokerage. I imagine William Hunt thought it would be a lark to sell him
right back into the bondage he escaped. Ray was up for sale.

No auction house wants to sell a slave with disputed ownership, though.
Heritage Estate agreed to delay the sale until a clear title could be
established. That brought me to Shreveport.

The auction house, once I laid eyes on it, struck me as a slice of hell
with a fresh coat of paint. From outside, it looked pleasant. It was modest in
size, only two storeys. An open air quad at the center was framed by the walls
of the main building. It might have passed for a decent hotel. Walls were a
crisp white like pressed laundry. Flowers were freshly cut. The air was
fragrant. It all masked the horror on the floors above.