The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle

by David Luchuk

  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.

  If the hoodoos were involved, I did not want them to get their hands on Harris. He seemed a good fellow. I knew what they would do to him.

  “What should we do?” I asked Webster.

  The corpse’s irises floated in dead eyes. It was a kind of answer. Looking into the ghastly face gave me an idea. I remembered things about the hoodoos. Hard as it was to face those memories, I had a notion of how to help Harris.

  I turned the cart and pushed it back to the center of town. Being with Webster made me calm. He had my back in a way. He would protect me. It occurred to me that this was his final case.

  I followed the commotion down to the waterfront. The scene that greeted me was hard to understand. A crowd was gathered outside an office building near the docks. Harris and a remaining handful of soldiers stood firm with guns drawn. He was trying to convince a mixed group of dock workers, sailors, slaves and even a pair of businessmen to disperse.

  Harris yelled at crane operators to stop lifting a section of the office building away from its mooring. He was trying to get the situation under control and looked like he was caught off guard by the immediate hostility of the locals.

  The crane was braced against a wall, pulling a kind of temporary annex off the main structure of the office building. Operators continued to lift despite his order to stop. The annex looked like a transport container dressed up as a rickshaw apartment. Harris' soldiers fired a warning shot at the control station.

  The pair of businessmen stamped their feet in protest. One looked to be on the brink of death. His skin was a disgusting shade of yellow and brown. The other was tall and fit. He made a bigger show of pointing fingers. Harris was having none of it. He turned a pistol on them and took steady aim. The men in suits found their courage depleted and stepped carefully away.

  With that, Harris took charge and his soldiers surrounded the crane. The brief conflict looked to be over. I had half a mind to wheel Webster back to the cemetery.

  At that point, more men came running from the docks. They were ready for real trouble. Each came armed with a gun and powder. They formed a tight line in front of the Confederate deserters. Harris and his soldiers were in no position to sustain or return fire.

  There was a pause. Neither side knew what to do.

  The woman I saw in Shreveport emerged from the crowd. She was dressed in prim southern fashion, all frills and chiffon. Sure enough, she was the same hoodoo witch I watched pull a vial of poison from inside the torso of a slave in Shreveport. She oversaw the operation down there and was now in Wilmington, presumably to ensure those barges full of slaves were delivered. That was a dangerous lady.

  She ordered her men to open fire. They responded without hesitation. Three of Harris’ unit fell in the first brutal volley. This left only a pair of terr
ified soldiers standing next to Harris to fend off the attack. They were pinned, trapped between the crane and the annex being lifted away. If I was going to do what I planned, now was the time.

  I looked at Webster. Again, his grisly face gave me a boost of confidence.

  I walked down the street in full view. As I approached the office building and crane, the crowd bearing down on Harris shifted its attention. Men stopped loading their guns. The two businessmen stood dumbfounded with their mouths hanging open. The woman in charge turned and her eyes opened wide at the sight of me.

  I was naked above the waist. The melee gauntlet was on my right arm but my chest was bare. This gave everyone a full view of my hoodoo ritual scars.

  I got those scars a long time before. I was just a boy. I had a boy’s sense of what was smart and what was stupid. I followed a girl into a bad crowd. I dreamed of being a raindrop running down the nape of her neck. I thought I was in love. How else do people get into trouble in this world?

  The scars form a crescent and a cross that stretch across my chest between the shoulders. The crescent point ends below a puncture wound in my armpit where a shaman tried to insert a tube into my heart. If the narcotic they tricked me into breathing had not lost its potency, and I had not thrashed for my life in that reeking cellar, they would have turned me into something other than a man.

  Anyone familiar with hoodoo ceremony would recognize those marks. They would also understand the challenge I yelled at the crowd.

  “Sango.”

  They froze. I held my arms over my head.

  “Sango!”

  I had no real idea what I was doing. I wanted to give Harris and his soldiers a reprieve to gather their wits before the gunfight resumed. I expected a reply to come from the woman I saw in Shreveport. Instead, it came from a hushed and girlish voice near the back of the crowd.