The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle (27 page)

Container shipments held steady but the nature of goods shipped in the
barges changed. Canals became a backbone of illegal trade. They were perfect
for it. To sustain a uniform pressure inside, the entire canal system was
sealed in bronze cylinders and buried under the earth. The whole operation was
hidden from view.

Towns sprung to life underground, where a generation of poor,
overworked people learned to live in the half-light. What incentive did they
have to report illegal activity to police? The few times anyone dared bring
officers down to the canals, a quick and gruesome murder put everyone else back
in line. Only the pumping station managers exerted any control over the flow of
traffic. They were always happy to be bribed. The more money governments poured
into the canals, the more illegal traffic they attracted. Underground villages
turned into dangerous black markets.

That was where I met Jay Thayer. The pumping station at Albany was a
major junction. The abutting village was built directly into the mud walls.
Balconies hung at precarious angles from each hovel and looked down to the
oxidized outer shell of the canal chamber. Every dwelling was rotting and
rusting.

Thayer met me in what passed as a town square. It was an open patch of
sopping mud between the dwellings and the canal chamber. He was happy to see
me, assuming I was there to make his troubles disappear. I counted on his hopes
being high.

Most of the villagers wore filthy coveralls, so weighed down with grime
they became a kind of camouflage. Thayer was the only one wearing a proper pair
of trousers with a vest over his collared shirt. They were dirty, for sure, but
still retained some trace of life outside the place.

Thayer told me it was a great relief to see me. No doubt these men are
happy to see any new faces in the dank village. He launched into a discourse
about his sister and recent information related to his case. I made sure to
remind him that we had not yet decided whether to accept the investigation. I
apologized if my son had overstated the intent of my visit. Thayer's sister and
her lover had not done anything illegal. The only criminal act was the
abortion, which Thayer himself had financed.

Thayer knew something was awry. He asked why I had come all the way
down to the canals if not to accept the case. If it was a question of money, he
would pay what was needed. I assured him it was not a matter of our fee.

Thayer looked me straight in the eye. After years at sea, he had seen
his share of blackmail. Adele was his most sensitive nerve. At some level, he
knew what was coming. I told him to convince me. My words hung in the air:
convince me. I felt ill saying them.

Thayer stepped back. He scanned me up and down, as though he had not
seen me properly when I first arrived. Whatever disparaging claims have been
made against my Agency in the past, we have never been accused of outright
browbeating one of our own clients. This was a first. Thayer wanted to be sure
he had the right read on my meaning before accepting that he was being so
ill-used.

A different sort of look settled on his face. No longer relieved, he
was now resigned to a callous negotiation with his sister's honor hanging in
the balance. He asked how I could be convinced.

Most of America's sordid black market passed through the canals. Thayer
and the other workers knew more about the dealings of the criminal fraternity
than police on the surface. I had no interest in illegal goods or the men who
profited by their transport. I wanted to know if Confederate forces had started
using the canals.

What Thayer said in response astonished me. He told me that the
Confederate army was not using the canals because Major Anderson would not
allow it. Those were his exact words: Anderson won't allow it.

I asked whether he was sure. Thayer only laughed. He told me that, if I
had the sand to blackmail someone, best not to bristle when it yielded
information. He said I was ridiculous. He was right.

Seeing there was no hope of me taking on his case, Thayer sat down on a
stone that served as a bench and explained that the canals belonged to
Anderson's militia. They were how he passed information. In fact, they allowed
him to recruit his troops.

There is only one way for a deserting soldier to be recruited into
Anderson's fold. That is by providing useful and verifiable information.
Anderson can find fighters anywhere. What he wants are secrets. Those secrets
are transmitted down in the canals.

Curiously, there are no telegraph wires in the sealed canal chambers.
Anderson has devised a way to transmit sound itself, to broadcast actual
voices, directly through the water. Would-be recruits send dispatches to the
pumping stations, literally calling into the void. Anderson himself will
sometimes reply.

Thayer reached into his pocket. He took out a written note and handed
it to me.

Anderson knew that either I, or one of my operatives, would come down
to the canals sooner or later. He sent word that a message was to be passed to
me by any soldier who crossed my path. Thayer meant it to be a kind of gift, a
show of appreciation for taking his case. Instead, he forced it into my palm
and walked away without so much as looking at me. He didn't want my help
anymore.

 “You did well.”

How can you say that?

“You went down with nothing but came back with a dispatch from the
enemy.”

I was ashamed.

“Don't be daft.”

The paper Thayer handed me is the one you are after, Baker. I destroyed
it before you took control of the Protocol.

“Why destroy it?”

Because it read:
Warn Lincoln: it is a trap. Move the Army north.
Commit every resource to New York.

“Why not do what he asked?”

I thought about what to do. Then suddenly it was too late. My pride
made me hesitate. God save me. I did not want to admit that the best I could manage
was to serve as Major Anderson's messenger. The great Detective Pinkerton
reduced to that.

“You let the President walk into this disaster.”

Yes.

“You are a traitor.”

You have some nerve, Baker. How dare you?

“Don't be angry, Pinkerton. There is a bright side. After Robert burns
to death, he will not have to watch you hang for treason.”

*   *   *

Ernie Stark
December, 1861

Webster and I kept a good pace through the wild country, all things
taken to account. Him being dead, it was mostly me dragging him across rough
terrain in a cart I stole from a farmhouse. This war has a way of getting
people out of their homes and freeing up that sort of material.

The melee gauntlet was a help. I hid the contraption after the Golden
Circle case went haywire. Once I retrieved it, and remembered how to sling it
on my shoulder without folding my arm backwards, it proved useful as ever.
Twisting the wrist filled steam pistons in the forearm and gave the whole thing
an ungodly power. I pushed trees over, roots and all, and pulled that cart up
all manner of steep terrain.

Webster and I crossed paths with Confederate deserters as we came
within striking distance of Wilmington. I could tell they weren't army
regulars. For one thing, they were too few in number. For another, every order
was met with a shrug or a grumble. Real soldiers know better than to
belly-ache. If you are alive enough to walk, you count yourself lucky and keep
your mouth shut.

The unit commander was a Corporal named Harris. He lacked the charisma
of a born leader and his face was scarred with deep pock marks. It was hard to
look at him for too long.

Harris was not even a proper soldier. He had been stationed at a
checkpoint on the Tennessee border. He was a border guard who never saw the
frontlines in his life. The others knew it, too. The only leverage Harris held
over them was the promise of a way out. He vowed to get them all accepted into
Robert Anderson's militia if they did what he said. That kept them in line.

Harris' control was put to the test the moment they crossed paths with
Webster and me. The troops were on edge, waiting to be scooped up by a random
patrol and thrown in a stockade. I emerged from behind an outcropping of rock
and each man had a rifle pointed at my head.

Guns have been aimed in my direction more than once. I've learned to
prefer having seasoned killers set their sights on me. With a murderer, there
isn't much mercy but at least you won't get shot my accident. With a shaky
amateur, they may intend to let you walk away but shoot you down without even
meaning to.

Harris ordered them to hold their fire, which they did, but I could see
the gun barrels twitching. I knew enough to be worried. Harris gave me one
heartbeat to catch my breath and another to explain myself.

“What are you doing out here, stranger?”

“Headed to Wilmington.”

Mere mention of the town made the soldiers jittery. They were going
that way as well. Harris chided them before turning back to me.

“Steady yer' nerves for chrissake! Bunch o' mongrels. Don't pay ‘em any
mind. What business you got in Wilmington?”

“Bury my friend, here.”

I pointed to Webster in the cart behind me. One look at that
decomposing body exposed to sun and rain under a scrap of old sheet I laid over
his face and Harris decided I was telling the truth. A corpse gives you a
certain credibility.

Harris told the others to stand down. Whatever I was doing out there, I
clearly didn't pose them any threat. From then on, the troops treated me and
Webster like one of their own. They even helped me drag my cart over the
roughest terrain. I couldn't use the melee gauntlet around them, it being Union
equipment, so the help was appreciated.

Harris figured a good soldier, even a deserter, ought to help a man
with that kind of load. He opened up to me during our walk to Wilmington. I
pitied him for choosing to trust a Pinkerton. I knew where that sort of mistake
could lead.

As we crossed the miles, I came to like him a little. He took his life
in his own hands, whatever end was in store. I respected that. I also learned a
lot by letting him talk. I propped Robert's recording device under Webster. It
was no trouble to turn it on once our conversation got interesting.

“Truth is I got lucky. Word spread. Any conscript who pointed Anderson
to the woman, the Union runaway, earned a spot in the militia. Jus' so
happened, she crossed at my checkpoint.”

“What does Anderson want with her?”

“Couldn't say. Maybe she's snoopin' where she don't belong. Maybe he's
got somethin' particular in mind for her. Don't much care, between you and me.”

“But say you find her, what then?”

“Pull her out. Bring her to him. That's it. Not stickin' around. That's
for sure. Folks in Wilmington get up to some weirdness. They killed a boy,
burned him. His own father stood by and watched. God awful creepy stuff. I
figure they aim to do the same to that woman.”

“What for?”

“Lot o' the time with those types, it has to do with pleasing some
spirit or other. When people turn up dead in those parts, usually means they're
up to something.”

Harris was more right than he knew. Kate Warne went to Wilmington to
give the Pinkertons an agent behind enemy lines. That's what Robert and the old
man thought. What they really did was send a blood sacrifice to the hoodoos.

I was going to Wilmington because Ray, a freed slave who fell back into
captivity because of Robert, was shipped there from Shreveport along with
scores of others. I watched the hoodoo mystics load containers full of slaves
onto barges headed this way. My aim was to save Ray. If I encountered Kate
Warne, fine.

Robert had a notion that I would help her out of whatever horrible
crisis he sent her to face. He thought I might pose as her husband, come to buy
a piece of land or some such nonsense. That was not going to happen.

Whatever the connection between the slave barges in Shreveport and the
hoodoo sacrifice in Wilmington, Kate Warne was not my burden. She was Harris'.
He was the one who wanted to join Anderson's militia. His boys were
Confederates troops. They were the closest thing to the law down here. If
Harris found Kate, a spot in the rogue army was his for the taking. Good for
him. All I cared about was Ray.

We rolled into Wilmington. The place gave me a chill straight away. It
was almost empty and stank so bad you wished you couldn't smell at all. I
decided to let Harris take charge of whatever we found in the town. Locals
would kick up a fuss as his soldiers went around knocking on doors and looking
for Kate. If I held back, Ray would be easier to find after things settled
down.

“Cemetery's in the north end. Take yer' friend and steer clear,” Harris
said.

I was happy to comply. We shook hands and I thought that would be the
last time I ever saw him.

The cemetery in Wilmington was a peaceful place. Since accepting that
first contract from Robert, I could not remember being in a more serene and
calming spot. The rest of the town reeked. The empty buildings were taking on
that look of a human place being overrun by the natural world. The cemetery,
though, was a lush reminder of the heaven promised to true believers. It made
me happy to think of burying Timothy Webster in one of those plots.

That was when everything came to pieces all at once. Gunfire rang from
the center of town. That is not what you hear when soldiers impose their
authority. It is the sort of thing that echoes when soldiers get scared and
lose control.

Harris' voice boomed. He shouted orders, trying to get the soldiers
into formation. The obedience they showed in the mountains did not carry over
to a real fight. His deserters ran. That stood to reason, I suppose.