People continued to fall as the panicked crowd behind poured off the promenade. Hundreds were pressed between the railings, thrown down the stairs, crushed and trampled by the weight of the thousands behind. With every body that was added to the pile on top of him, the jagged end of Earl’s rib dug farther into his chest. Breathing was becoming difficult, movement impossible. He was entombed, crushed inexorably into Yankee soil … into the bridge itself. All around him was blackness. Earl opened his mouth to scream, as even more weight piled on. He felt something give with the stabbing pain in his side, as one lung collapsed. Earl’s scream became a gurgle of blood. He gasped, drowning in it. He tried to spit but had no breath even for that. His fingers, ragged from clawing the ground left bloody streaks on the concrete.
Earl Lebeau’s world had come down to a narrowing circle of light as his life slipped away. He stopped struggling, fascinated by its brilliance. His oxygen-starved brain saw it as the blinding flash of explosives and he imagined the captain had blown the bridge. Then it flickered and went out.
Pat Dolan and Charlie Heidelberg saw it happening but were powerless to stop it. Thousands came running down the promenade from behind them, pressing them forward no matter how they yelled or tried to hold the mob back. Everyone was in a panic. Incoherent with fear, the crowd had taken on a life of its own, rushing toward the stairs like lemmings in a massive rush of self-destruction. Most had no idea why they ran, they just bolted with the rest. The two detectives were very nearly swept under by the screaming, hysterical tidal wave. They had to climb up on top of the trusswork over the train tracks to save themselves. From there they pulled as many to safety as they could, helping them down to the roadway below. Women and children were sometimes passed over the heads of the boiling mob. Others were not so lucky.
Screams that the bridge was collapsing, screams that anarchists were dynamiting the span were heard. Both detectives heard the cries, but there were so many injured and dying before their eyes that it was impossible to turn away. People crushed in the mob bled from the nose and ears. Some walked on the backs of the writhing mass to escape. Clothes were torn and shredded. Some ran naked.
Beneath the bridge, a bizarre rain of shoes, handbags, hats, parasols, clothes, canes, toys, wallets, watches, and loose change sifted down on the roofs and cobblestones of Brooklyn. They fell between the railroad ties, disembodied evidence of the carnage above. Among them was a striking white bonnet and an infant’s coverlet.
Justice hadn’t seen Earl try to saunter away from the two detectives. It was three-fifty-six when he and Pat heard the screaming and saw the sudden surge toward Brooklyn. Why they were still there, neither could have said. By rights they should have been well on their way to New York. Instead they seemed rooted to the spot, almost as if they both were under some spell, doomed to die with the bridge they helped build. Oddly, it was Earl who broke it. Earl Lebeau, the diehard Yankee-hater had somehow managed to clear the center of the bridge. Within two minutes Lincoln and Sullivan were practically alone, while the promenade and roadway on the Brooklyn side appeared to actually boil.
“Jus, it’s three-fifty-eight,” Sullivan called in a panic, looking at his watch. “Either we run like hell, or—”
Justice didn’t say a word. He reached into his back pocket, his hand coming out with a large folding knife. He flipped it open with a grin. Patrick climbed halfway up the trusses and was looking up at him. Justice reached down, feeling for the wires …
“Hold it right there!” a voice called behind him, freezing him in place for a split second. Jus’s eyes locked with Pat’s in that instant. He seemed to be saying good-bye as he handed him the knife.
Tom, Sam, and Eli had just broken through the fleeing mass of people when they saw Lincoln bending over the truss. It seemed that no sooner had Tom called out than Lincoln spun around, a pistol in his hand. Eli was slightly ahead. He saw it too.
“Gun!” Eli cried before Justice fired. They were so close that Tom could swear he felt the heat of the explosions. Jaffey crumpled but Tom was on Lincoln before he could fire again. He hadn’t had time to pull his own pistol. Tom went at him with his bare hands, knocking the pistol away with a backhanded swipe that sent it clattering over the side of the promenade. Braddock struck out with his right with all the power he could muster, feeling as if the blow came right from the floor. Braddock’s fist landed with a sickening impact, knocking Lincoln, arms flailing, clear across the promenade, where he came up hard against the trusses. Amazingly, Lincoln didn’t go down. Braddock didn’t wait for him to recover. Roaring his anger, he grabbed Lincoln, lifting him overhead and throwing him off the promenade to the train tracks eighteen feet below. Justice Lincoln’s life ended abruptly.
“Eli!” Tom called as he whirled around. Sam was stooping over the patrolman. The look on his face was grave, though Eli held up a shaky hand to prove he was all right. Movement in the corner of his eye brought Braddock around, his Colt appearing in his hand almost before he thought of it.
“Halt!” he shouted at Sullivan, who had clung there transfixed by the sudden, terrible action before him. Sullivan was at the main wire where it emerged from the junction box for the bridge lighting. He yanked at the connection but it wouldn’t come loose. “Halt I said! Don’t move!” Braddock’s pistol was suddenly inches from Pat’s head, the barrel looking big enough to swallow him whole.
Sullivan took a deep breath and, looking straight at Braddock, said, “For the love o’ God, Braddock, I got to cut these wires or we’re all dead.”
The shock on Tom’s face must have been clear, but the pistol didn’t budge. He knew instinctively that Sullivan was telling him the truth but to act on it, he needed to trust … the enemy! He stood for eternal seconds. His heartbeat thundered in his ears as the time ticked by.
Braddock suddenly tucked the pistol in his belt and said, “Give me the knife.”
Pat hesitated now himself.
“Give it to me!” Tom commanded. The knife was handed over giving trust for trust. “Where do I cut? C’mon, show me!” Braddock shouted. Suddenly Sullivan seemed to come to himself and said, “There. Cut those wires there, where they come out of the junction box!”
Tom had to bend almost double over the trusses to see what he was doing. He located the wires and started sawing. An instant later he was through and started yanking at them, pulling them apart to be sure there was no contact. When he looked down to the train tracks for Sullivan, all he saw was his back as he raced out of sight toward New York. Tom, his hand still on the naked end of the detonator wire, jumped with the sudden jolt of an electric shock running through him like a bolt of lightning.
“Christ!” He dropped the wire, stunned.
He came to himself quickly enough, looking to Jaffey and Sam.
“Go!” Eli said weakly. “Go, I’ll be all right. Get to the dynamo room.” Amazingly, he picked himself off the promenade and walked to a bench to sit. His feet left red tracks on the wood decking.
Sam watched open-mouthed.
“What are you waiting for? Go!” Eli shouted.
Tom and Sam climbed down the trusses onto the train tracks as fast as they could. Sam started to chase after Sullivan but Tom stopped him.
“Forget him! The dynamo room!” he shouted. He was running before he finished.
“Jesus, look at the mob!” Sam panted as they ran.
“C’mon!” Tom didn’t say any more. They dodged through the milling mass as best they could. Tom saw Charlie up on the top truss, helping people down off the promenade, still boiling and screaming. Suddenly one scream riveted him in his tracks. He skidded to a halt, scanning the crowd. He heard that scream again and a sickening chill ran through him. Mary! He saw her then, pressed against the railing, her hair wild, blood streaking her face, then she disappeared.
“Sam, it’s Mary!” he shouted over the din as he tried to climb to her. The mass of people climbing down overwhelmed him, though. There was no way up.
“Charl
ie!” he called, his voice cracking and unnatural. “Charlie!” Heidelberg looked down at Tom, not sure what he wanted but not wanting to leave where he was desperately needed. Mary must have heard Tom too, for suddenly, over the tumult, a piercing, desperate cry rang above all others.
“Tommy!”
Sudden recognition registered on Charlie’s face, and he turned back to scan the crowd. Tom saw him reach. Mary was being carried by the mob toward the stairs, like a river raging toward the falls. In slow motion she swept by Charlie, his hand thrown out like a lifeline. She grabbed and held on as he pulled with all his might to free her. Throwing everything into it, she reached with her other hand, grabbing his arm by the elbow. She was pulled off her feet. She felt her shoes being pulled off, her dress tear. She hung on. Suddenly, she was being pulled free. She clambered up on the trusses next to Charlie, who handed her down into Tom’s waiting arms.
“Thank God you’re all right!” he cried, hugging her trembling body against him. “Thank God.” She clung to him limply, all energy seeming to leave her. Tom stood back and looked into her face. She had a wild-eyed, desperate look. Tremors shook her, and her knees went weak. She reached for support, clinging to Tom, her eyelids fluttering.
“Tom,” Sam said. He didn’t have to say more. Tom knew he’d have to leave her. The one chance they had of catching Sangree was slipping away with every heartbeat. He couldn’t just drop her, though. She needed help. Tom looked around frantically. He spotted Pat Dolan in the crowd, helping people down off the trusses.
“Pat!” Tom shouted. “Take care of Mary. We’ve got to get Sangree!” He turned to her then and said softly, “Mary, I’ve got to go.” She didn’t seem to understand, and nodded distractedly. “Mary, you’re okay. I’ll be back.”
She ran a bloody hand through her hair, looking about like she’d lost something. “Tommy, where’s Chelsea?”
Tom handed her to Pat, saying, “Take care of her, Pat. Help her find Chelsea if you can. I’ll be back.”
Tom and Sam ran then, the cries and shouts from thousands of throats following after. Together they ran down to the street level and around to the left, toward the power house, where Tom stopped for a moment against the wall around the corner from the engine room door. Without a word, he took out the old Colt and tried to steady his breathing. Sam took the cue.
“Ready?” Tom panted. Sam nodded. “Let’s go!” They rounded the corner of the power house. From there they could see the door to the engine room. Officer Monzet wasn’t there.
“Shit!” Tom grunted. “I was afraid of that.” They sprinted for the wall. Pistols held high, they flattened themselves against the brick on either side of the door. Sam nodded at the ground in front of the door.
“Blood,” he whispered.
Tom nodded. “I’ve got the key,” he said softly.
Jacobs had run in five minutes before, locking the door behind him.
“There’s something going on up on the bridge!” he exclaimed, sounding perplexed.
“What? What do you mean?” Thaddeus shouted. “What the hell’s going on?”
“I can’t really see from this angle, but there’s a lot of screaming and shouting. This sounds crazy, I know, but it looks like clothes are falling from the span, just beyond the Brooklyn anchorage.” Jacobs didn’t really believe it himself.
Thaddeus didn’t hesitate.
“Bart, I’m blowing her now!” he shouted in the echoing room. Thaddeus Sangree gave out with a rebel yell at the top of his lungs. It vibrated off the brick and stone of the vaulted room like the ghosts of battles past. For an instant, in that stark, nightmarish vault, it could almost be imagined that the captain had conjured those ghosts and set them loose in an avenging tide. He slammed down the plunger on the detonator, making the small dynamo inside whir, as it sent a jolt of electricity out over the river … Nothing!!
The captain looked at it with wide-eyed disbelief. Jacobs stared, slackjawed. They were frozen. Mocking seconds ticked off.
“No! No! No! No!” the captain screamed suddenly, slamming down the plunger again and again. Minutes careened by as they checked their wire connections, fumbling to find the reason for their failure. Sangree ranted, slamming the plunger down again and again.
Jacobs stood back, shock washing over him, draining his face of color. He checked out the window, then looked again. With unnatural calm, he said to the captain, “We’ll be having visitors in a moment. Two cops; one of them’s Braddock.” Jacobs stood beside the door paralyzed. The sound of the door being pushed, then the rattle of a key in the lock, brought him out of his stunned silence. “Thaddeus! Thaddeus!” The captain seemed oblivious to Jacobs or to their danger. He worked in frantic haste, checking the wire connections and slamming the plunger. “Captain Sangree! Captain!” Jacobs shouted.
Thaddeus finally seemed to come to himself. He looked at Jacobs with red eyes, brimming with tears.
“You’ve got to go. Go now!” Jacobs said, waving toward the window in the opposite wall. “Go for Roebling! I’ll hold them.”
“Jesus, you hear that?” Sam said, cocking an ear toward the heavy door. A moment after they had plastered themselves against the wall, they heard a savage, high-pitched yell inside, muffled by the brick and stone. Tom and Sam exchanged a worried glance.
“Never thought to hear that yell again this side of hell,” Sam breathed.
Tom nudged him.
“Try the door.” Sam shoved slowly but as hard as he could against the triple-thick yellow pine. “Locked.”
Tom nodded to the key. There seemed to be more yelling inside.
“Get that?” Sam said.
“Somethin’ about Roebling, I thought.”
A worried frown creased Tom’s forehead.
“Careful!” Sam whispered.
Tom’s hand rattled the key around the keyhole before finally slipping it in. He turned the big key with a cautious hand, hoping to turn the tumbler quietly. They heard the lock click as the bolt slid back.
“On three,” Tom said in a low growl. “One … two … three!”
Sam hit the door first and though he hit it hard, it opened no more than about two feet, with a scraping sound that told of something braced behind. Tom saw Sam duck to his right and bounce off the door. An instant later, a bright, bloody length of steel erupted from the collar of Sam’s uniform. It appeared, then disappeared so quickly, Tom almost couldn’t believe he’d seen it, flashing like an icicle from Sam’s neck.
It was the bark of Sam’s Smith & Wesson that made a believer of Tom. As Sam fell back against Tom, Sam fired through the gap in the door. Tom fired too from behind, the exploding pistols setting his ears ringing. Then Sam fired through the door, blowing splintery holes in the hard yellow pine. Tom caught him with one arm and emptied the Colt in an arc from door frame to door frame. The shots, deafening in the brick corner between the power house and the approach, sent splinters flying about their heads. Gunsmoke and the faint smell of yellow pine hung in the air. The sudden silence following the fusillade rang in their ears. Tom pulled Sam to one side of the door.
He gave a rasping cough and choked out, “I’m all right. It’s okay, he just—” Sam held a hand to his neck, which leaked red into his blue coat in a widening purple stain.
“You see them? How many?” Tom asked his old friend.
“Just one I could see.” Sam’s voice sounded odd and strangled. He reloaded with a shaky hand, as did Tom. They positioned themselves on either side of the door once more. Sam looked pale but determined.
“I’ll go low, you go high.”
Sam nodded. They went through the door again, Tom diving through the gap and rolling, Sam wading in after. They swept the room, looking for targets among the dynamos, wheels, belts, and gears. Weasel Jacobs crouched behind one of the dynamos, a big cast-iron monster, hulking and sinister with threatening new power. Two bullets had caught him in the blaze of gunfire a minute before. One had carved a ragged furrow in his left arm the oth
er had passed right through him from back to front. He looked down at the hole in his chest, amazed at the sight of his lung as it frothed through the silver dollar—size hole. His breathing was short, ragged, and unlikely to continue for very much longer, he realized. The knife was useless. It lay where he’d dropped it. He readied himself, his Remington .44 held tight in a shaking hand.
Tom saw the knife, a wicked length of bloody steel, sparkling on the concrete floor. He knelt to retrieve it, keeping his head up and eyes scanning. The almost imperceptible movement of a falling drop of blood caught his eye. He saw it fall and splash by a pair of feet on the other side of one of the dynamos. A hand was poised near the two feet. He was about to signal Sam when the hand left the floor. Jacobs popped up as fast as he could, but the sudden movement left him light-headed and reeling. He got off one shot at the sergeant before the man returned fire but couldn’t tell if he’d hit his target. He was so dizzy it seemed like his pistol was firing all over the room and he wasn’t sure if he hit anything. The .44 boomed like a cannon. To Sam, the appearance of Jacobs, the explosion of his pistol, and the angry buzz of the bullet were almost the same event. He fired back with no aim. Tom fired too, letting go three rounds at Jacobs’s feet. Bullets slapped and ricocheted, as all three pistols blazed. Glass shattered, splinters flew. Jacobs felt as if a rug had been pulled out from under him. His left foot seemed to explode. He staggered from behind the dynamo, his pistol waving and belching sheets of flame in a deafening staccato. It was Tom whose bullet caught Jacobs in the neck. It must have hit the spine, for the spray of red seemed dappled with white. Jacobs’s head lolled on his shoulder, a puppet’s head with a severed string. He stood reeling, stunned and uncomprehending. Two heartbeats and two small fountains of deep red blood passed in slow motion as Jacobs’s brain groped for the reason why the room was now on its side. He never got the answer.
Suspension Page 57