Gunsmith 360 : The Mad Scientist of the West (9781101545997)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
Teaser chapter
A Presidential Exception
When they reached the front gates of the White House, Clint was looking out the window. The gates were opened by two guards, who waved them through without asking for any identification.
The cab stopped in front of the White House and the driver dropped down and opened the door for Clint.
“Thank you.”
As Clint stepped down, two armed soldiers approached. “Mr. Adams?” one of them asked.
“That’s right.”
“Sir, we’ll need your weapon.”
Normally, Clint would have refused such a request, but this was a meeting with the President of the United States in the White House. If that wasn’t an exception, he didn’t know what was.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental
THE MAD SCIENTIST OF THE WEST
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Jove edition / December 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Robert J. Randisi.
All rights reserved.
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ISBN : 978-1-101-54599-7
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ONE
Clint Adams had been to the White House several times, but it had been a few years. His last few trips to Washington, D.C., had involved the government, but did not involve seeing the President directly.
Grover Cleveland was in the midst of his first term. Clint had already met this President, but had not seen him for some time when he received the summons to appear. It might have been a request, but Clint would have responded to either one.
He arrived in Washington the day before he was to meet with the President. He got himself registered in the hotel on Q Street, then went out and got himself a good steak. He had some friends in Washington, but had not contacted any of them. And he wouldn’t, not until he found out what the President wanted with him.
After dinner he went back to his room and spent the rest of the evening reading. The next morning he had breakfast in the hotel dining room, then stepped out in front of the hotel to wait.
“Sir?” the doorman asked.
“I’m waiting for a cab that’s been sent to pick me up,” Clint said.
“Yes, sir.”
When the hansom cab pulled up in front of the hotel, the doorman obviously recognized it. The two American flags on either side might have been a hint for him. The driver sat in front of the enclosed cab rather than behind it.
“Sir!” he said to Clint. “Your cab is here.”
“Thank you.”
The doorman beat Clint to the cab and opened the door for him. Clint stepped inside, then tried to tip the doorman, who waved his large, white-gloved hand.
“No, sir, not necessary,” the man said. “Have a good day.”
“Thanks, you, too.”
The doorman closed the door, then slapped his hand on the side of the cab and shouted, “Driver!”
The cab started
off, and Clint was left inside, alone with his thoughts.
When they reached the front gates of the White House, Clint was looking out the window. The gates were opened by two guards, who waved them through without asking for any identification.
The cab stopped in front of the White House, and the driver dropped down and opened the door for Clint.
“Thank you.”
As Clint stepped down, two armed soldiers approached.
“Mr. Adams?” one of them asked.
“That’s right.”
“Sir, we’ll need your weapon.”
Normally, Clint would have refused such a request, but this was a meeting with the President of the United States in the White House. If that wasn’t an exception, he didn’t know what was.
He handed over his gun.
“Thank you, sir,” one of the soldiers said. “Follow us, please.”
Actually, he followed one soldier, while the other walked behind him. They marched him into the White House, where a man in a suit was waiting for him. He was a florid-faced man in his forties, in good shape except for a slightly prominent belly his suit had been expensively cut to accommodate.
“Mr. Adams? I’m Wallace Cromartie. I’m to take you to the President.”
“Thanks.”
“This way, please.”
This time the two soldiers walked behind him as he walked alongside Cromartie.
“May I ask what your position is, Mr. Cromartie?”
“Certainly,” Cromartie said. “I’m a sort of special advisor to the President.”
“Special advisor? For what kind of things?”
“Well . . . the kind of thing that would bring a man such as yourself to the White House,” Cromartie said. Which really didn’t answer the question at all.
They walked down several hallways, past more soldiers, until they reached the doors to the Oval Office.
“Wait here, please,” Cromartie said.
Clint waited with the two soldiers while Cromartie went inside. Clint thought idly that if this was a trick to disarm him so he would be a sitting duck, it would be an elaborate one.
The door opened again and Cromartie said, “The President will see you now, Mr. Adams.”
TWO
President Grover Cleveland filled the room, even though he was seated behind his desk. About fifty, he was a large man with a majestic mustache—or what some people called “mustaches.”
“Clint Adams,” the President said, rising. “Welcome. May I call you Clint?”
“Of course, sir.”
Cleveland came around the desk and met Clint in the center of the room with a crushing handshake.
“Okay, Warren,” he said to Cromartie. “You can go.”
“I, uh, thought I’d sit in—”
“Perhaps later,” Cleveland said. “I’d like to see Clint alone for a while.”
“Of course, sir,” Cromartie said, and left the room.
“You allowed them to disarm you,” the President said. “I’m sorry about that, but—”
“That’s all right, sir,” Clint said. “I understand the need for security.”
“Yes, of course you do. Please, sit,” he said, indicating the sofas in the center of the room, with a low table separating them.
Clint chose a sofa, and the President sat across from him.
“Hotel okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And your trip? And transportation here?”
“All first class, sir. No complaints.”
“Good, good.”
The door opened and a white-gloved man entered carrying a silver tray with a coffeepot and china cups on it.
“I arranged for some coffee. Unless you’d like something stronger?”
“No, sir,” Clint said. “Coffee is fine.”
“All right, Henry,” Cleveland said.
The man set the tray down on the table that separated Clint from Cleveland. He poured two cups, then looked at the President.
“That’s fine,” Cleveland said. “We’ll take care of the sugar and cream ourselves.”
“Yes, sir.”
Henry withdrew from the room.
“Help yourself,” Cleveland said.
“Just black is fine with me,” Clint said, picking up the cup.
Cleveland poured in cream from a small pitcher and then added several sugar cubes. He stirred, then picked up his cup and sat back.
“Nikola Tesla,” he said. “Do you know the name?”
“I’ve heard of him, yes,” Clint said. “Some people call him a mad scientist.”
“That may very well be true,” Cleveland said, “but he’s brilliant, nevertheless. His work with electricity may very well be priceless to our country.”
“And what about Thomas Edison?”
“Also brilliant, but impossible to deal with. He and Tesla have an adversarial relationship at best.”
“I see.”
Clint sipped his coffee and waited for the President to get to the point.
Cleveland drank some coffee and then set the cup down.
“Mr. Adams—Clint—we believe that Tesla’s life is in danger. I would like you to make sure that he does not get killed.”
“You want me to be his bodyguard?”
“Exactly.”
“You think Edison is trying to have him killed?”
“Not at all,” Cleveland said. “Edison may be a pain in the butt, but he’s no killer. No, we don’t know who’s behind it. We’ve got somebody working on that part of it. I believe you know him? Jim West?”
“Yes, a good friend of mine. Did he recommend me for this?”
“As a matter of fact, he did,” Cleveland said, “but I had already started to think about you. It was just a case of great minds thinking alike.”
Clint had heard his friend West described many ways, but never as a great mind. That kind of thing was usually reserved for people like Edison and Tesla.
“Of course, you’ll be paid for your time,” Cleveland said.
“That’s not a concern, sir,” Clint said. “If you want me to do this, I’ll do it.”
“That was what West said you’d say, but we’ll pay you. If you like, we’ll just deposit the money into your account until the job is over.”
“That’ll be fine. Where is Tesla now?”
“Colorado,” Cleveland said. “He plans to do some experimenting in the mountains, but you can join him in Denver.”
“When, sir?”
“As soon as possible.”
“I can probably get on a train this afternoon, or at least tomorrow morning.”
“You already have a ticket for this afternoon’s train.”
“Am I that predictable?”
“You’ll have to ask your friend West about that,” Cleveland said. “He’s the one who told me to go ahead and buy the ticket.”
Both men stood.
“You can keep in contact with me by telegraph,” the President said. “Mr. Cromartie will give you all the details.”
“Yes, sir.”
The President extended his hand, and Clint shook it firmly.
“I appreciate the help, Clint,” the man said.
“It’s my pleasure, sir,” Clint said. “I’m always ready to help my country.”
“Mr. Cromartie should be right outside the door,” Cleveland, moving back to his desk. “I have some paperwork to get back to. He has your ticket, the rest of the facts, and he’ll see you out.”
“Yes, sir,” Clint said. “I’ll be in touch.”
“One other thing, Clint,” the President said.
“What’s that?”
“When Tesla gets something in his head, he gets sort of . . . well, focused. Fixed. He loses any sense of . . . propriety.”
“And?”
“I need you to keep him out of trouble,” Cleveland said. “Don’t let him do anything that might get him . . .”
“Arrested? Killed?”
“And more,”
Cleveland said. “Just keep him out of trouble.”
“Yes, sir.”
By the time Clint went out the door, Grover Cleveland’s attention was on something else.
THREE
Clint left the White House, escorted every step of the way at first by Cromartie, and then by two soldiers. Once outside he found a telegraph office and sent a telegram to his friend Rick Hartman, in Labyrinth, Texas. He had traveled by stage and rail, and in doing so had left Eclipse behind in Rick’s care. He just wanted to let his friend know where he’d be. He promised in his telegram to drop another line when he knew where he would be in Colorado.
From there he returned to his hotel, packed, and barely made his train.
Clint made good time, arriving in Denver three-and-a-half days later, despite the trains stopping for water, and time lost changing trains. As soon as he arrived, he headed right to the Denver House Hotel, where he always stayed when he was in town.
Their turnover of clerks must have been amazing. He never seemed to see the same desk clerk when he arrived, and yet they always said, “Glad to have you back,” when he checked in.
“Can I have someone take your bag?” the man asked.
“No, thanks,” Clint said. “I’ve got it.” He had only one carpetbag with him. He picked it up and carried it to his room.
He had already telegraphed from Washington to see if his friend Talbot Roper was in town. Roper was a private investigator, the best in the country, and a longtime friend. He received a message back from Roper’s current secretary saying he was out of town.
So there was nothing to do but meet with Tesla.
According to Cromartie, Tesla was in a Market Street hotel called the Bijou. When Clint got down from the cab, he saw that the hotel and the neighborhood were both rundown, even seedy. There were some beggars out front as he entered, and he had to wake the desk clerk to ask for Tesla’s room.
“He may have a girl with him, though,” the clerk said. “Maybe you should wait.”