“We hit on the old Oreornogo gold mine in North Idaho. Once owned by a certain Colonel Wallace, there seems to be some questions about the legality of the original claim. We, the Trinity, knew that if we could get our hands on the surrounding properties we would be in a good position to eventually take over control of at least two of the mines in that area.”
Stephen sat back on his chair and suddenly, to Matthew anyway, it seemed as though the man was far older than he had originally thought. “You know,” Stephen murmured, “Branson has enough money to buy those mines in Wallace outright, but he would rather take what he wants than purchase it honestly…”
Shaking his white mane of hair, Castle went on, “So, we decided to offer cash-out plans to new claim owners throughout the region. For the most part, it worked. We managed to buy twenty-two out of thirty-four claims for just a little more than what the owners originally paid. It’s a tough life, you know, mining for gold and silver…tougher than a lot of people realize, and most of those folks were more than happy to recoup their losses and move on.”
The older man sighed, “Then, we started to meet resistance. One family after another decided to dig their heels in and stay—no matter how much incentive we offered. Unfortunately, once those same folks heard rumors that we were shelling out more money for their worthless claims, they got stubborn and started demanding outrageous prices for the properties.”
“That’s when things got ugly, Mr. Wilcox,” Stephen said. “My partner and I tried to talk Branson out of his insane quest to own the biggest mine in the area, but he was adamant…and that’s when his men started to kill the landowners who dared say no.”
“Since then…well, I think you know the rest of the story,” Castle stopped talking and stared into Matthew’s eyes. “You know, I’m not trying to exonerate myself…or my other partner—whose name I will not mention. I just wanted you to know that neither one of us are happy with the way things are going. I am deeply sorry for the harm that befell the Brazil family, and still threatens the Thurstons.”
Matthew stared intently at Castle for a moment. “You said you have a plan?”
Castle grinned. “Yes…well, I think so, anyway. It would depend on whether or not you and your son are good enough actors to play in high society for a while, and if you are willing to travel west of the Cascades, to the Seattle area as quickly as possible…preferably today.”
Picking up his napkin again, Stephen Castle wiped his mouth and mustache. Then he added, “I am leaving as well, in…” he glanced at his watch, “a little over an hour.”
Looking out the window, he said, “I must warn you, sir…another man—the third partner in the Trinity—is coming to Spokane today. He is coming here to permanently silence you, your son and the Thurstons. He’s under orders from Edward Branson, and he’ll do whatever Branson wants, but please, if you see him, just run. Do not hurt him in any way.”
Seeing the look on Matthew’s face, Stephen smiled. “Don’t worry! Even now, as we are talking, my men are stalking the man who stalks you. They will keep him under wraps as much as possible but he is, and always has been, a fierce fighter. It would be better if you and your son were not here at all when he arrives.”
Ignoring the rage in Matthew’s eyes, Castle added, “Let me tell you, quickly, what I think you can do to stop Branson, and then if you agree with my plan, take the train to Seattle. By the time you arrive, this newest threat should be neutralized.”
Castle paused, and in a hushed whisper he pleaded, “In many ways, although the third man in our group is the most dangerous, he is also the most vulnerable. He follows Branson blindly, having not done anything else since he was just a boy. Still, he is deadly.”
Matthew watched as Castle’s eyes sharpened. Following the man’s gaze, he looked out the window and saw his son limping down the street toward the café. His hair shone golden-red in the early afternoon sun, and Matthew watched as more than one pretty lady paused what they were doing to follow the young man’s progress with hungry eyes.
Castle smiled. “Fine boy you have there, Mr. Wilcox…”
Matthew’s heart skipped a beat when Stephen said, “Just so we’re clear, I care for the man who seeks you out…just as I know you care for your son. I am prepared to help you take down Edward Branson, as long as my friend and I have immunity for our previous actions.”
Castle’s eyes grew cold as he added, “However, you need to remember that I have men everywhere. They will do what it takes to stop my associate from hurting you and your boy, but I will know if you do anything to cause my friend…or me, harm.”
Staring into Matthew’s eyes, he added, “And, if I find out that you did anything to sabotage the man…or me, our deal will be off, my testimony will disappear…and I will send my men to visit all the people you hold most dear.”
Chapter Twenty-One
High Society
Two days later, Matthew and Chance sat in an opulent drawing room with Annie and Clyde Thurston. This particular room was only one of the thirty-four rooms in the palatial estate Clyde Thurston called home, in Seattle. The rest of the gray stone mansion boasted ten bedroom suites, an expansive kitchen, a dining room large enough to feed fifty guests, two large living rooms, a parlor, a game room, two offices, a library, five indoor bathrooms, servant’s quarters and, like icing on an already delectable cake, an enormous, gilded ballroom.
Matthew was astounded. Although Clyde had admitted he came from a wealthy family, he’d failed to mention just how rich that family had been and, apparently, still were. It was a good thing, though, because ostentatious wealth was a much needed…no, necessary tool in bringing Edward Branson down.
Thinking back over the last few days, Matthew was relieved that the train ride from Spokane to Seattle had been uneventful…except for left-over nerves from his encounter with Stephen Castle, and the fact that a number of men had boarded the train along with he and Chance—many of whom he recognized as being part of Castle’s crew.
He had wondered at the time whether Castle had set an ambush, or if the men were spies, or if the men simply lived in Seattle and were headed back home after Castle’s show of force. The Trinity member himself was nowhere to be seen.
Matthew and Chance (who’d been told all that had transpired while he visited with the doctor) watched as Castle’s men ignored them, and when the train reached the station, they saw most of the men board taxis and carriages without ever glancing back at the two of them.
Sighing with relief, they had smiled when Clyde drove up in a fancy black automobile. But even as they drove toward the Thurston mansion, Matthew couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes drilling into the back of his head…that subliminal sensation of being “watched.”
Still, two days had passed now and neither he nor Chance had seen the henchmen again, so they were finally able to recuperate and relax a bit before they carried out Castle’s plans…which were becoming more complicated by the minute.
Matthew was financially well off, almost embarrassingly so—thanks to his own family fortune and that of his deceased wife. Although he had never been comfortable with the social aspects of his personal fortune, he understood many of the dynamics involved with ultra-wealthy men and their families.
One of the greatest aspirations of a wealthy man in this day and age was political office. Indeed, it followed that money (or the lack thereof) was the driving force behind most laws and legislation. Matthew, being a non-political man, had stayed as far away from those kinds of shenanigans as humanly possible since his stint as County Sheriff.
But he knew that, in many circles, political power was not only desired among the rich—but expected. Unfortunately, he was also aware that some of the biggest crooks in the state of Washington (and probably the whole United States) were politicians.
Matthew didn’t believe that all politicians were crooks…but he knew the temptations for men with too much power and money were many, and that even the most honest man could be bought
and therefore, corrupted.
There were many avenues men like these could travel in order to achieve success, but two were certainly most helpful—#1-a lot of cash could (and did) pave their way in bricks of gold and, #2—membership with the Freemasons.
Matthew felt a chill. Not because he was worried about the Masons themselves but because that particular fraternal organization was almost freakishly insulated against outsiders. Which, of course, meant it would be very hard to strike Edward Branson through his connections to the society of Freemasons, but that was precisely what Castle was suggesting they do.
Twice Matthew had been approached and asked if he would consider joining the newly-built Spokane Grand Lodge. The first time he’d said thank you, but no. The second time, however, he had agreed. That was right after he’d hung up his lawyer’s shingle and he’d thought that Freemason membership would help advance his budding career.
He was right. For a while, many a closed door had opened for the fledgling attorney, thanks to the Freemasons’ influence. That soon came to a stop, though, when it became clear that Matthew Wilcox had no intention of advancing through the many ranks of membership. He didn’t hold a grudge against the organization but advancement required a declaration of religious belief.
Too many things had happened in his life for Matthew to feel close to God—any God. He’d seen too much unadulterated evil, and had participated in acts as a lawman that, if he understood the words of the Bible correctly, had already condemned him to the gates of Hell.
He had also never really forgiven God for the losses in his life. Matthew knew that God was not to blame for the death of his Uncle Jon, his wolf Bandit or most recently, the death of his beloved wife Iris. Nor was He the architect of the evil deeds of the outlaws he had run into throughout his life as a lawman. Still, he couldn’t help but feel resentment that the Almighty had not done more to protect the loves in his life.
He did, on occasion, attend Temple parties and once in a while, the Presbyterian Church; usually on demand from his daughter Abby for a baptism or Christmas services. But to stand in front of a group of Freemasons and swear his fealty to God was something Matthew knew he was unable to do with complete honesty.
There was another reason Matthew did not advance further into the order…the Freemason’s habit of greasing each other’s palms. There was nothing technically wrong, or illegal, with this age-old ritual. For centuries, if you were sworn in as a Mason, you were blessed with a large discount through life’s every day commerce from other sworn brothers. Ten percent, twenty, thirty…the rumors were rampant and, as with most rumors, sometimes wildly exaggerated.
By the same token, sworn brothers were also expected to donate large portions of their income to charity. Again, rumors abounded, but Matthew himself had seen one Master Mason donate a staggering $5,000 to the tithe basket one Christmas Eve at the local Presbyterian Church.
Knowing that Edward Branson was an exalted Mason Master who had used his Freemason connections not only to swindle hundreds of people out of their life savings, but to rob and murder his way into being one of the world’s richest men was a tasty bit of knowledge for an ex-lawman, but an almost impossible hurdle to climb as a private investigator, because of the fraternity’s strict adherence to insulation and privacy.
Nevertheless, Matthew knew that criminal behavior was not tolerated amongst the ranks of Freemasonry brothers, and this was what Stephen counted on. All three members of the Trinity were lifelong brothers and Castle knew, to the minute, when Branson’s actions had cast the group from being respectable Masons into being outlaws.
Stephen knew Branson prided himself on being an exalted Master…his enormous ego required and relished in it. Being asked by the Freemasons to vacate his position would be tantamount to Edward’s ultimate social and personal disgrace.
Sighing, Matthew sat back in his chair and listened as Annie discussed the ball she was preparing to host in two weeks’ time. There were a number of moving parts in what was turning out to be an elaborate plan to take Branson down…the grand ball, hopefully, being the culminating event.
First, Clyde was penning a series of candid articles about theft, murder and corruption to run, consecutively, in both the Seattle Times and the Post Intelligencer newspapers. It was a gamble, Matthew knew, but even he was impressed by the small army of security that surrounded the Thurstons and their household.
Clyde knew better than to name any one man in particular as the perpetrator of the crimes in North Idaho and Spokane but he had enough knowledge, certainly, to name the deeds, times and places the foul crimes had been committed, and to point a vague but persistent finger in Branson’s direction.
Matthew couldn’t help but grin at the thought of how many eyebrows were about to rise in shock when the exposes were finally published…and he couldn’t help but wonder how many of society’s finest might suddenly decide to decamp to other climes when their complicity in these crimes were exposed.
Secondly, it was Matthew and Chance’s job to sow seeds of doubt amongst the movers and shakers in Seattle’s high society circles. Bankers and lawyers…judges, political big wigs and, most importantly, Freemasons. These people were the targets and since Matthew was a Freemason member (albeit, a minor one), he was best suited to farm that fertile soil.
Finally, if things went according to plan, the Thurstons would host the season’s most sublime ball. Everyone who was anyone would be invited…and that is where Matthew and Chance had decided to spring their trap.
If anyone of them survived that long, that is…
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Elite
It took three days and an engraved invitation, but Matthew entered the high wrought-iron gates of the Hunter’s Club (the most exclusive club in the city) at precisely two o’clock the next Saturday. The odor of high society…fine leather, expensive horseflesh, perfume and aged liquor hit his nostrils almost immediately…carried on the warm afternoon breeze.
A long, sea shell drive wound through park-like grounds. Tall conifers and a colorful assortment of deciduous trees, pale green oaks, trembling aspens and fiery Japanese maples swayed in the salty air…a scenic backdrop to the hundred or so guests attending Judge Ashworth McKinley’s annual fencing match and target shoot. A large, gaily-striped tent in the near distance bustled with people and uniformed servants. Matthew smelled meat roasting and heard soft laughter and the tinkling of fluted crystal glasses.
Matthew saw a splendid white Colonial-style clubhouse to his right and the club’s stables to his left. A tennis court with its bright green slate peeked through the flowering shrubbery and he could hear the steady thwack, thwack of a tennis ball being lobbed back and forth. A red barn and attending stable were on the left-hand side of the driveway. A small, hand-painted sign reading “TARGET SHOOT” pointed toward the back of the stables.
Matthew looked up, squinting against the sun’s glare, and realized that the hazy blue-gray mass in the distance was actually Puget Sound. He heard hounds baying from a hidden kennel and, “Watch out, sir! Coming through…” Matthew watched as a young groom led three beautiful geldings across the drive toward the stable and realized he was holding up traffic.
“Carry on, young man!” a grizzled oldster with a grimy monocle and smelling of urine muttered grumpily in Matthew’s ear as he hobbled by, almost tripping over Matthew’s scabbard, followed by a very fat woman and two rather plain young girls Matthew guessed were her daughters.
Matthew stepped aside, murmuring an apology and tried to keep his distaste from showing. This was one of the many things he despised about the elite echelons of high society. Having money was a nice thing in itself, he acknowledged. It offered freedom of choice and movement in life, unavailable to those who did not possess it. He considered himself lucky in that he was able to provide a certain level of comfort and security to his loved ones.
However, many folks who did not have ready cash often hated those who did, which caused a social div
ide and constant worry for the rich and their progeny. In addition, the wealthy lived in fear of losing their money and the privileges that came with it…social standing, political power and influence. This caused inbreeding, arrogance and a willful disdain of anyone less fortunate than they…which, of course, perpetuated the cycle of the “haves” vs. the “have-nots.”
Matthew had no doubt that the corpulent Mamma who had sniffed at him as she and her brood swept by was, even now, trying to secure her family’s fortune by finding rich husbands for her less than attractive female offspring. Shaking his head in amusement, he picked up his gun case and made his way around the stables to where the target shoot and fencing match was about to begin.
He walked down a wide pathway spongy with pine needles to a large clearing where he saw a number of men and women standing behind a long ribbon separating the contestants from the targets and seated on a set of grandstand bleachers. A small bar had been set up near the grandstands and champagne, whiskey and hors d’oeuvres were being served to both participants and spectators. Matthew availed himself of a small glass of whiskey as he studied his competition.
He noticed Judge McKinley right away. Surrounded by a number of aides and hangers-on, the middle-aged man sported an elegant gray suit and matching chin-whiskers. McKinley was known as a staunch Catholic, a stern judge of criminals in his courtroom and, more importantly, (according to Annie’s research) held the title of Grand Master for the largest Masonic temple in Seattle. It was Matthew’s duty to woo the judge today…enough so that he and, hopefully, Clyde Thurston as well, could secure a private meeting with the man.
Matthew had his doubts. From what he understood, a Grand Master never admitted to who or what he was unless he or his temple were under duress. Also, Matthew didn’t know if he was a good enough shooter anymore to turn McKinley’s head. He intended to try, though… if he failed to engage the man’s interest, he knew their elaborate plans were for naught and they would have to start all over again with a different (and, unfortunately, less influential) Mason.
Second Chance (The Deadman Series Book 5) Page 12