Oh, Christ! he thought as he fell. Now look what I’ve done.
“Shut the door. Hurry,” the captain rasped.
Jacobs kicked at Monzet’s feet, then hit them with the door.
“Pull him in more, Captain.”
Thaddeus did, dragging Monzet by the tunic collar. They slammed and locked the door a moment later, then went to the window, looking out for signs of alarm. There didn’t seem to be any. The pistol hadn’t made much noise. On this side of the bridge there were mostly warehouses, closed for the holiday.
“Excellent. No one seems to have noticed,” Thaddeus said.
“Excepting him,” Jacobs said with a jerk of his head toward Officer Monzet, whose breathing was getting shallower by the second.
“That worries me, Bart,” the captain said, looking down at the officer.
“Exactly.” Jacobs glared over his glasses at the body. “Whoever posted him here is bound to be back.”
“We’ll deal with that problem as it arises,” Thaddeus said, getting moving. “Let’s get set up. I want to be able to blow it at a moment’s notice.”
They set to work quickly, setting up their wiring and generator. Within five minutes they were wired in to the main lines to the charges, the wires screwed tight to the terminals of their portable dynamo.
“Ready, Captain!” Jacobs called out when he finished.
“Ready here too, Bart. What time you have?”
“Three-twenty-one, Captain. We check signals in nine.”
“They can’t stop us, Bart,” the captain intoned solemnly. “Not now!”
Sullivan was amazed by the crowds. He’d never seen anything like it. They had waited about fifteen minutes after the captain and Bart had set off, not wanting to bunch up and attract attention. The promenade was packed shoulder to shoulder. He was happy to be down on the roadway. Traffic was light, consisting mainly of carriages. The holiday kept the freight traffic down to almost nothing. He looked at his watch again. They had time. He was keeping pace with Justice and Earl up on the promenade. He could see them occasionally through the top hats, parasols, bowlers, bonnets, and skimmers. It was a lively, happy crowd despite the crush. The beauty of the day only added to the general feeling of celebration. The novelty of the bridge hadn’t worn off yet. It was truly the Eighth Wonder of the World. People wanted to see it, marvel at its monumental architecture, and most of all just be on it.
The thing that disturbed Patrick was the women and children. There were hundreds of children. Their parents, for the most part, held onto them tightly for fear of losing them. Still, some ran free, giggling and laughing. They pointed with delight at the boats, like so many toys in a bathtub, at the gulls that flew about them, at the people on shore, so small and antlike. Children were freest to express the wonder of being out on the bridge. In them Patrick could see the uninhibited joy, the exhilaration, and freedom of it. Somehow the reality of their plan hadn’t fully struck home until now. Last night he’d tried to cut the wires for the love of the bridge, the thing he’d given more of his life to than anything before. That was all about him, though, him and Jus. He realized now that that was only part of it. It was about parasols in the sun and laughing, delighted children. It was about parents holding their children’s hands and strolling out to see the city from a place no one had seen it from before. It was about rising above the teeming confines of the city and feeling for just a while like a king.
Sullivan looked over at Justice. He caught a glimpse of him through the crowds, moving slowly. He looked directly at Pat, as if seeking his eye. It was clear from that one glimpse of his old friend’s face that he felt the same horror. Earl, however, seemed oddly pleased with himself. But they were at the center Sullivan realized. He stopped, almost bewildered, as he realized it. Unthinking, he went through his mental checklist. He checked out the charges without being too obvious. He could see Earl and Jus doing the same. They located their positions and settled in to wait. Sullivan lounged against the outer railing, seemingly a relaxed spectator to the parade of life strolling by. Inside he struggled, his mind wrestling with what he had sworn to do. It was worse than torture. At least under torture he could have given voice to his pain … and have someone else to blame for his suffering. The seconds ticked by slowly.
Tom and Eli waited for Pat and Charlie by the terminal. The two dogged detectives had been searching the files for over two hours. Matt and Earl, they knew, had been on masonry, like Watkins. They had no idea what Sullivan and Lincoln had worked on, nor what any of them may have done in past years. Tom felt stupid for not checking it out sooner. He told himself that he’d had no firm direction at all until just days ago. Still, he kicked himself. He was wondering how he could have figured it out sooner when Pat and Charlie jogged up.
“Tom! They were assigned to work on the lights.” Charlie gasped.
“The lights?” Tom asked. “What the hell would that … oh, shit!”
“What?” It came like a chorus from Eli, Pat, and Charlie.
“Let’s go.”
“Go? I don’t get it,” Charlie said, bewildered.
“Charlie, whoever blows the bridge has to run wire,” Tom exclaimed. “You can’t just drive a wagonload of dynamite out there. It wouldn’t work. Besides, how’re you gonna get away?”
“Yeah, so?” Charlie asked.
“Listen, these guys are good.” Tom explained quickly. “They’ve worked here undetected for years. We have to assume they’re sophisticated enough to blow the bridge from a safe distance. They’ve had plenty of time to work this out.”
“That’s for sure,” Eli said.
“Exactly. Remember, Jacobs worked in the office, Tom reminded them. He’s probably the one had them assigned to the lighting job. Now, suppose they were to run their detonator wire along with the wiring for the lights?”
“Whoa, Nellie! Hold on there, Tommy,” Pat said, stopping in his tracks.
“What?” Tom asked.
“Well, they got electricians, foremen, engineers, everybody lookin’ over their shoulders, right? Inspecting everything, I’d imagine.” Pat looked from Charlie to Tom. “How’re they gonna run their wire without somebody catching it?”
“Hell, Pat, I don’t fucking know! But you got a better theory?” Tom growled. They all stood for a moment, staring at each other. “I rest my case,” Tom said. “Let’s get going.” They had almost left the terminal when Tom saw Sam Halpern ambling toward them.
“Sam! What the hell are you doing here?”
“Good to see you too, Tommy. Eli, Pat, Charlie, how’s it going? You all look like you’re headed somewhere.”
“Yeah, it’s going great,” Tom said distractedly. “Want to come along? We need to get moving.”
Sam didn’t hesitate. “You lead, I’ll follow.”
Tom headed off toward New York at a brisk walk. “So, what’re you doin’ here, Sam?” he asked over his shoulder.
“I was up at the Marble Palace, taking care of some bullshit, and I heard you were in a lather this morning. I figured if Byrnes let you have Pat and Charlie back, then maybe this was important.”
“Your instincts are impeccable, Samuel,” Tom congratulated him. “These goddamn fanatics had jobs on the electrical work, and—”
“What? What fanatics?” Sam asked, bewildered. “How many we talkin’ here?”
“Don’t have time, Sam. They’re gonna blow the bridge,” Tom said quickly. “Could be today. I don’t know exactly, but it could be.”
“Say no more, I’m right behind you.”
They got through the terminal as fast as they could, hindered by the crowds then made their way onto the promenade and up the stairs onto the bridge itself.
“Colonel Roebling told me how it might be done,” Tom explained as they shoved through the packed strollers. “Of course, it all seemed pretty theoretical at the time, but the most efficient way is to set explosives at the center”—Tom pointed out toward the middle of the river—“cutting the c
onnections between the main cables and roadway beams. Now, if you cut enough of those connections where they attach to the support beams, then the whole thing will start to come apart. He said … if it was him, he’d blow the stay-cables too.”
“The diagonal ones?” Charlie asked from behind.
“Yeah, Charlie. We’ve got to check ’em. Climb up there if necessary. Whatever it takes.”
“Great.” Charlie didn’t sound too enthusiastic. “I’ll let you do that stuff.”
They had just passed the Brooklyn tower when Tom stopped, that nagging feeling strong in his gut. The others stopped too, questions on their faces. Mary was standing out of Tom’s sight just on the other side of the tower, her creamy-white dress blowing in the gentle breeze. She had stopped to admire the view of the Heights. She didn’t see Tom.
“What’s the matter?”
Tom turned back, staring toward Brooklyn. “We should check the dynamo room,” he muttered, looking back at the power house but thinking there was something else he couldn’t put a finger on.
“Huh?” Sam looked at the others to see if they knew what Braddock was talking about.
“We left that cop there, Tom,” Eli said. “It’s covered.”
“Just got a feeling. Remember what I found on that pad this morning? Think about it. Where better to set up their generator? Nice and quiet, out of sight … it’s perfect.” He looked at Sam, who nodded slowly.
“Yeah, but the charges would be at the center of the span, right?” Sam asked.
“Good point. We’ll check there first, … dynamo room after.” Tom turned on his heel and headed out over the river. It was three forty-five.
At three-thirty precisely, Partick Sullivan had flashed his small mirror at the Brooklyn shore. Almost instantly, there was an answering flash from a spot near the power house. Pat flashed “ready.” Jacobs flashed back “set.” Sullivan put the little mirror back in his pocket and gave a quick hand signal to Jus and Earl. They’d wait now for the traffic to build a bit more. One way or another, traffic or not, they’d blow it by 4:00 P.M. Patrick settled into his private hell again.
“I wish I could see his face, Bart,” Thaddeus said, his voice echoing in the dynamo room. “I wish I could see it when he hears the explosions. That was pretty work, by the way … finding out about them.”
“Thank you, Thaddeus. Didn’t take much digging really,” Jacobs said modestly. “I know the grocer where they buy their food. Odd, them getting deliveries of milk, eggs, and such, while they’re supposed to be in Newport.”
“But you’re sure it’s him … Roebling and his wife?” Thaddeus asked, concern knitting his brows.
“The old bastard isn’t the only man with a pair of field glasses, Thad. It’s him, all right.”
“I wonder why the ruse? You think they were afraid to leave? They must have been alerted by the good Detective Braddock.” Thad chuckled. “So diligent, so dedicated, but always a step behind. Too bad we can’t blow him along with the bridge. He’s been a thorn in our side for months, that bastard. Who knows, maybe we’ll get lucky and blow his Irish ass into the river.” Bart and Thad had a good laugh at that.
“Well, I’m glad they stayed. I’ll be thinking of him when I push this plunger down,” the captain said, lightly tapping the handle. He paused for a moment, a look in his eyes that had Jacobs wondering. “If anything goes wrong, Bart … I mean, if somehow this”—he tapped the generator—“doesn’t work, I’m going after him. He’ll pay, one way or another.”
“Roebling?” Jacobs asked, knowing very well who the captain meant.
Thaddeus shrugged. “Just in case …” he said, feeling sure the possibility was quite remote. “Everything will go as planned. It has to.” He looked at his watch again. “I’ve got three-forty-eight, Bart,” the captain said, the tension tightening his throat. “Better get into position.”
Jacobs went outside and leaned against the wall of the power house, the small mirror in his hand once again.
“Looks like a hell of a crowd up there, Captain. Casualties will be high … better than we’d hoped,” he called to Thaddeus, who waited inside the door, just feet from the detonator.
“This is a day the country will remember for centuries, Bart. It’s even bigger than the Lincoln execution. We’ll be in the history books, my friend,” Thaddeus intoned. “Think about it, an act of such daring, such symbolism, that it burns our names forever into the national soul.”
“Must be twenty thousand up there, Captain,” Jacobs called. “This is going to be spectacular! Ashtabula was nothing compared to this. Gonna be falling like leaves on a windy day.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve got ten of, Captain. Shall I give the signal?”
Thaddeus hesitated just a moment, more for dramatic effect than anything else. “Give the signal, Corporal. On my mark … Now!”
Jacobs flashed his mirror in the Memorial Day sun. “Done, sir!” It was 3:51 P.M.
Earl had seen them coming. The group of detectives and cops stood out in the holiday crowd like bulls at a horse show. The signal had been flashed just a moment before.
“Let ’em come,” he figured. There wasn’t much they were likely to do unless they knew what to look for and where. Earl turned his back to them, leaning his elbows on the trusswork railing. He felt them pass and turned to look at the backs of the dead men. That’s what they’d be if they were still out there in ten minutes. But as he turned, Charlie looked over his shoulder. In his days going over to the bridge office, before Emmons and Lebeau dropped out of sight, Charlie had passed Earl once or twice as he worked on the roadway. Tom had shown them all the pictures just this morning too. It didn’t click right away.
Charlie hadn’t gone more than a half-dozen steps farther though when he said to Pat, “I think I saw Lebeau!”
They both turned, with Charlie pointing at Earl’s retreating back.
“That’s him, I think.”
In an instant they called to Tom, who had gone on. “Spotted Lebeau! We’re going after him.” Then they took off in pursuit. Tom, Sam, and Eli stopped short to look, but after a moment’s indecision decided to go on.
“They’ve got him covered,” Tom barked. “Let’s go.” They picked up the pace, heading out over the river, Tom’s gut feeling like it was tied in a knot. He scanned for Mary as sweat broke out on his brow.
Earl knew it was a mistake as soon as he did it. He could see the look in the big German’s eyes. He slipped one hand under his jacket to the pistol he carried, tucked in an inside pocket. The detectives kept on though, going toward New York. Earl turned and stepped quickly toward Brooklyn, figuring he hadn’t been recognized after all. He moved a lot faster than the rest of the strollers, cutting a swath through them. They were stupid, slow Yankee animals, lowing mindlessly to the slaughter. He had passed the Brooklyn tower when he ventured a look behind. The two detectives were back there, bowlers bobbing in unison, heading after him. The others were nowhere in sight.
“Shit!” Earl swore out loud. A matronly woman frowned her disapproval at such foul language in public. Earl picked up the pace, hoping to lose them in the crush, something his long legs both helped and hindered, for his head stuck up above the crowd. He hadn’t gone more than five more steps, when he heard someone call out.
“Hold it, Lebeau!”
Earl didn’t stop, or turn to look. He broke into a run, caroming off people like a cue ball on a hard break. The end of the promenade was just fifty feet away. He planned to vault down the stairs that led to the level of the approach.
“Halt!” he heard behind him. It seemed a little farther back. Earl felt his chances were good. As he neared the stairs, though, he had to dodge around a perambulator pushed by a beautiful woman in a striking white bonnet. He managed it well, actually throwing an apologetic look over his shoulder to her for his rudeness. His momentum carried him into a gentleman in a silk top hat, whom he jostled badly, bouncing off him toward the stairs. He hit the steps at a staggering run, defin
itely not in control of his balance and going far too fast. A woman was directly in front of him, just at the top step. He tried to avoid her but his momentum carried him into her back, propelling them both headlong down the stairs. Her scream seemed to carry above the crowd, cutting through the hubbub. Earl knew right off that it was going to be bad. He covered his head as best he could in the split second before he hit the steps. He hit hard, his side landing on the edges of the steps. The impact was blinding. The edge of one step caught his upper thigh, on the right side another hit a rib like an explosion. The next step he caught with his elbow and upper arm. The three impacts were so fast, it was like a Gatling gun of pain raking him from thigh to shoulder. He’d been shot before. This was not much better.
He wished that the damn woman would stop screaming. She was loud enough to be heard halfway across the bridge. They tumbled to the bottom, bouncing into others as they went. The next thing Earl was conscious of was the cold texture of concrete pressed against his face. He had no idea if any time had passed, if he had blacked out or not. He was numb and the concrete vibrated against his face as people came running. He tried to rise. The two detectives would be on him in no time. As he tried to push himself up, his side erupted in a brilliant bayonet point of pain. He fell back to the pavement, crying out breathlessly.
People came running to the screams. They could be heard all along the Brooklyn side of the bridge. Some in the crowd, alarmed at the growing stampede, cried that the bridge was collapsing. As the mass of humanity broke for the Brooklyn shore, the press became overwhelming. Mary and Chelsea were caught up in it immediately. People who a moment before stood at the top of the stairs, aghast at Earl and the screaming woman, were now thrown down by the press of the crowd behind. Earl tried to rise again, but someone had fallen across his legs. He struggled and kicked despite the pain, but he couldn’t break free. The body on top of him wasn’t moving. Someone else tumbled down on him. Arms, legs, and elbows knocked him flat again. He felt hard shoe leather on his back, as the maddened crowd trampled over the fallen, who were now all around him. His side felt like a stake had been driven through it. A broken rib, he recognized. He tried to move, to crawl, but the crushing weight of bodies piling up on him pinned him helplessly. Screams, shouts, crying and the moans of the injured filled his ears, drowning out all else.
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