“You okay, Sam?” Tom asked in a shaking voice.
“Yeah, okay … I think,” Sam said uncertainly, looking down at himself. The front of his shirt was turning red at an alarming rate though. They checked Jacobs’s corpse, then the rest of the room. The open window on the other side taunted them. Screams, cries, and the sound of running feet wafted in, a reminder of the disaster on the bridge. They looked out at the street but there was no sign of the captain.
“Christ! You see this, Tommy?” Sam pointed to the detonator, its plunger pushed all the way down.
An icewater chill rippled down Tom’s spine. His hands trembled from excitement and fear. “This is what gave me the shock up on the bridge.” Sam was shaking his head “Jesus H. Christ!” he said, his voice echoing faintly.
“Yeah,” Tom whispered. “And where’s Sangree?” He turned to Sam, suddenly remembering.
“Sam, you said you heard something about Roebling, right?”
Sam nodded. “Pretty sure, yeah.”
A sudden realization dawned on Braddock, turning his face into a mask of horror. “Oh, God, Sam … The Roeblings!”
A light came on in Sam’s weary eyes.
“Go! Go!” he said, waving at the open window. “I’ll be all right. Run!”
Tom almost dove through the window, breaking into the fastest run he thought he could maintain all the way to the Roebling mansion. It was a good half mile to 110 Columbia Heights, mostly uphill. Tom dashed through the curious crowds, drawn to the cries up on the bridge. They slowed and tired him, forcing him to work even harder to keep up the pace. He hoped too that Sangree had been forced to walk so as not to draw attention to himself. He couldn’t be sure, though. The image of the Roeblings and especially Emily shone like a beacon. He’d been too late to stop Sangree from pushing the plunger. If he was too late now … He didn’t want to think of the consequences. He sweated up Poplar and Hicks streets, feeling he wasn’t going nearly fast enough, gulping air like a drowning man. He prayed as he ran. “Dear God! After all they’ve been through, don’t let it end like this.” Tom pounded down Orange Street, Colt in hand, reloading as he ran. The Roebling house was right at the end. As he ran down the cobbles, his racing heart sank. The front door hung open.
Thaddeus hadn’t hesitated. Jacobs was a soldier. He’d do his duty and die if necessary to slow the enemy. The captain ducked out the window and was gone into the crowd in seconds. He walked fast, trying not to draw attention to himself. At the sound of the muffled shots, though, he picked up the pace to a slow jog. No one seemed to notice. He kept up the pace, cursing all the way up Hicks Street. He raved continuously, cursing in disjointed bursts. The failure of all their plans, all their years of sweat and sacrifice had unhinged him. He felt it—knew that there was a part of him that had lost touch with reality. Another part seemed to observe, aloof and dispassionate, watching from some distant place as he came apart. Thaddeus knew it was happening but was incapable of stopping it. In fact, there was almost a pleasure in it, a mad exhilarating release from the world. He almost howled in his rage, putting back his head as he ran and letting forth a moaning, haunted sound that seemed to come from distant depths of loss and torment. He knew it was madness but it was beyond his control. He let it carry him, helpless yet exultant. He felt infinitely powerful … unstoppable. It was the power of madness, a voice said to him from somewhere back in his head. He rather liked the feeling. People he passed shrank from him. His eyes burned in his haunted face. He was frightening to look upon, he knew. He liked that too. He ran like a rabid dog through the streets of Brooklyn Heights with one goal in mind. Roebling. Fearful passersby stepped back but they needn’t have. He was a man with one mission, one purpose. It was as if he were an angel of death, set down on earth to right an ancient wrong. No earthly power could stop him.
He crashed with incredible force against the heavy mahogany doors of the Roebling house. He hadn’t remembered getting there, just the impact and the splintering of wood. Unstoppable! He stood for a moment in the foyer, casting about, sniffing the air for his prey. A sound, perhaps a footstep or the scrape of a chair, he wasn’t sure what, drew him up the curving staircase to the second floor. He flew, bounding after the scent, sensing his quarry was cornered. In seconds the colonel would be dead. He could see it already, the glazed eyes, the pumping blood. He flung open the first door he came to, his pistol ready. The room was empty, save for a pretty beam of light flashing across the floor from the big front windows. A few steps down the hall brought him to another door, which he tried, but the knob wouldn’t turn. No mere door could keep him out. He stepped back, then kicked it in with such force that it slammed back against the wall, splinters flying. Mrs. Roebling was there. She let out a small cry. He wasn’t interested in her, though. She could live. It was the colonel who would do the dying. He could see the man across the room, standing framed against the window. Thaddeus stepped into the room and started to sweep Mrs. Roebling aside for a clear shot at the colonel. She had a determined look about her, though. He hoped he wouldn’t have to kill her but he would if she forced him.
As he reached to push her aside, she brought her hand up and placed it against his chest. He couldn’t believe she would attempt to resist him. Couldn’t she see the inevitable? Didn’t she know she couldn’t stop him? Nothing could stop him. Too late he saw the glint of steel in her hand, felt the poke of it against his sternum, then the explosion. He heard it more than felt it, which amazed him. He wasn’t hurt, he told himself, just off balance as he backpedaled, staggering out the door and across the balcony, trying to regain his equilibrium. He was brought up short against the balcony banister and put out a steadying hand to grasp it. He looked down at his shirt and smiled at the widening red stain. It hurt not at all. The temerity of the woman angered him. He brought up his pistol, a reluctant smile on his face as he brought it to bear. She stood blocking the door. He’d have to punish her now as well.
Tom heard the shot as he rushed up the front steps. The sound sent his heart to his throat. A sickening despair coursed through him. He was too late! The thought flashed through his mind as he burst into the house through the splintered front door, sliding to a stop on the marble of the foyer. He saw them above on the balcony! Sangree, his hand coming up, a pistol gripped stiffly, Emily standing still in the doorway, protecting the colonel to the last, the empty derringer hanging loosely in her hand. Tom didn’t remember bringing his Colt to bear, didn’t remember aiming. It bucked in his hand and what he remembered was surprise at how fast it had gone off. He saw Sangree buckle and twist toward him as a bullet caught him in the hip. Tom watched in slow motion as Sangree’s pistol came around, swinging toward him. Tom fired again, seeing the impact, the crimson spray as the bullet plowed flesh and bone. Then Sangree was falling.
The slender banister wouldn’t hold him. He crashed through it, tumbling twelve feet to the marble foyer. He blacked out for a moment from the impact but still he felt no pain, just a strangeness all over, a disembodied feeling, as if he were no longer in charge of himself. He could hardly move. His lungs wouldn’t draw air. Where was his pistol? He’d need it to shoot the colonel. His hands groped for it. He’d have to get up now. It wouldn’t do to let the bastard get away. But when he tried to move, there was pain—huge, billowing thunderheads of pain that stole his breath and shriveled his will. He knew now what Franklin had felt. The thought of his brother seemed to draw him farther from his body. It was not an unwelcome feeling. In fact, it was a warm feeling—almost sunny. He saw Braddock standing above him, towering, tall, and stern.
No need to be so stern, Braddock, he thought. Mrs. Roebling’s done your work for you. He smiled up at the detective—a big warm smile, for that’s how he felt now, warm. They were enemies no longer. He could afford to smile. He was going home.
Tom looked up at the Roeblings, standing at the head of the stairs. Washington’s arm was wrapped about Emily, who still held the ivory-handled Remington at her side.
&n
bsp; Epilogue
Tom and Sam sat in the front room of Tom’s home on Lafayette Street. The evening was slipping in, as the day gathered her skirts to leave. It was June 2, 1883.
“Damn that woman’s got sand!” Sam commented over his beer.
“Believe it! She has more tenacity than any two men I know, and she’d walk through walls for the colonel.”
“Both barrels, point blank,” Sam said shaking his head slowly. “Must’ve opened a hole big enough to put your fist through.”
“He was not feeling well when I got there, I can tell you that. Drained out pretty quick. Didn’t last more than a couple of minutes,” Tom said. He took another sip of his stout, shaking his head slightly before he said, “Funny thing is—and I can’t get this out of my head—he smiled at me.”
“Sangree?” Sam asked, hardly believing it.
“Yeah. On his back, bleeding like a butchered pig … and he gives me this strange smile, like he was my friend or something. It was kind of … sad actually. I mean, for just a second there, he was … I don’t know … human.”
“He was a strange one,” Sam said slowly. “Who can say what might come over a man at the end?”
“Strange, yeah,” Tom mused, thinking of the scene at 110 Columbia Heights.
“Almost a shame it’ll never get told,” Sam said, shaking his head, wincing as he did and putting a hand to his bandaged neck.
“Nah, I don’t think so. Better it’s left to lie,” Tom said, leaning down to scratch Grant’s ear as the cat wound himself around Tom’s feet. “The Roeblings have had all the stress they can stand. If I told it the way it was, there’d be an inquest, reporters, pictures in the papers. They deserve to go out in triumph, the world singing their praises. Why put blood on Emily’s hands? Besides, Sullivan and Emmons could be just looking for an excuse to strike.”
The two hadn’t been found and as far as anyone knew, they were still a danger. Telegrams had gone out, of course, alerting police departments up and down the coast. Train stations were being watched. Still, Braddock figured they wouldn’t be found. He had a feeling too that they’d never be back.
Sam held up his empty bottle. Tom got the hint and got up. Sam did have an excuse. The bandage that wrapped his neck and shoulder was stained a brownish-red again, though he’d changed the dressing this morning. Mary walked out of the kitchen then.
She pushed Tom back into his chair. “I’ll get that. You two sit.” She disappeared back into the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, “I’ve got something special cooking for you two heroes.”
Tom grinned at Sam. She came back a moment later handing each of them a cold bottle. Tom got a small kiss with his.
“I am one lucky son of a bitch!” he said, shaking his head. Mary had been remarkably understanding of Tom leaving her as he had, once she found out what had happened. Chelsea had not been so lucky. She was in Bellevue, but she’d recover.
“By the way … you see Lebeau’s body?” Sam asked. “Hell of a way to go—crushed like that.”
“No sympathy for the likes of him,” Tom’s voice held a hard edge. “Eleven others … women and kids too, dead because of that mess. Who knows how many more hurt—hundreds probably.” Tom took another swig of stout, adding, “The shit! Hope he had time to think about it before he went.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Tom,” Sam said, holding up a hand. “Just a hard way to go is all.”
Tom just shrugged. He didn’t give a damn how hard Lebeau had it at the end. “The thing that gets me is the wires. Don’t understand it,” he said, looking up at the ceiling. “They could have blown the bridge easy.”
“Hard to say what might take hold of a man,” Sam observed. “If it was me, I’d cut the wires. Think of it. They’d worked on it for years, longer maybe than they’ve worked at anything else in their lives. Maybe it’s the one thing that they ever really accomplished. And it’s so beautiful that a hundred fifty thousand people come out on a sunny day just to admire it. I’m going to blow that to kingdom come?” Sam shook his head. “Killing wasn’t the problem. It was the bridge made them give it up.”
“When it comes down to it, I can’t say I much give a shit why Sullivan did what he did … though I suppose you’re right,” Tom said. “I’m just glad he did it.”
“Seems to me you had a hand in it too,” Sam said. Tom just shrugged.
“You read the manifesto?” Sam asked. It had been found later in the dynamo room.
“The chief says it’ll never see the light of day,” Tom growled back.
Sam nodded at the wisdom of that. It would only open old wounds, stir things up, raise old resentments just when the country was coming together again.
“When you’ve been hating for so long, I guess it’s hard to stop. Maybe you’ve got nothing else … I don’t know.” Sam said.
Tom frowned. “I suppose it’s something that sort of defines you—like a job or … I know it would be hard to just quit being a cop, for example. Maybe it’s like that.”
“Yeah, exactly. Suppose being a cop was bad. Suppose you knew it but didn’t know how to do anything else. You’d probably still do it,” Sam reasoned.
“Interesting example,” Tom said, looking at his friend directly.
They sat and watched the setting sun paint the top floor of the Astor Library in yellows and golds. The shadow of Colonnade Row crept up the front in a solid line. The bottom floors had lost their color, as if stolen by the fleeing sun. Tom and Sam drank their Clausen’s in silence for a while. They were avoiding what they needed to speak of most. It was hard to break the silence. Tom finally spoke but still he didn’t say what they both had been thinking … remembering.
“Fact is, I kind of hope we never find out,” Tom said, getting up to light a gas lamp. “Sullivan may have earned a second chance. Speaking of second chances, I got a report from Doc Avery. I sent Mrs. Bucklin to see him. She’s tubercular,” he said grimly.
“Tough break. What about the grandkid … Mike?”
“That’s what I’m saying about a second chance. Patricia asked me once, back when Terrence died, if I’d help with Mike if anything happened to her. Never thought I’d be in this position so fast. She hasn’t asked yet, but the boy’s got to get out of that shabby little tenement or he’ll be sick too. Hell … might be already.”
Sam didn’t say anything. This was something Tom would have to work out for himself.
“He’s a good boy, a real good kid. You’d like him.”
Sam smiled. “I’m havin’ trouble picturing you as a dad, Tommy-boy. Have you talked to Mary about this?”
“No.” Tom shook his head doubtfully. “I just found out this afternoon.”
Sam leaned forward in his chair. “So, what would you do, take him in?”
“I guess. Hate to see him in one of those homes for orphans or out on the street. Can’t let that happen.” Tom corrected himself almost right away, seeming to make up his mind right there. “Won’t let that happen. Gave my word.”
Sam looked closely at his old friend. “Seems to me you’ve made up your mind already. You’re going to settle in with Mary now, right? Sounds like you got yourself a family. ‘Bout time you settled down anyway. Been makin’ all us married types jealous for too long,” Sam said, grinning, his mouth full of stout.
“No apologies from me.” Tom laughed. “Had my fun.”
“I’ll drink to that, Thomas.” They slurped their beer together, the silence conspiring to resurrect the thing they’d been avoiding.
“Gonna be one hell of a funeral,” Tom said finally. Sam looked at the mug of Clausen’s in his lap, running his finger through the sweat on the glass.
“Never should have let him go first,” he said softly, shaking his head.
“Not your fault, Sam. Nobody’s fault. He was a good cop … wanted to do what he was doing. It was just—I don’t know, it just is,” Tom said, not knowing how to put it any better. “Could have been one of us just as well. Could’ve got shot
when Jacobs opened on us. Could’ve been a lot of things,” Tom reasoned, trying to ease both their minds.
Sam seemed to ponder this. He knew the truth of it, had seen it many times during the war. The war was history, though. It had been some time since he’d had to face a death like this, so close, so personal.
“Hate to lose the young ones,” Sam said, regret and sadness coloring his words. “He just bled out. Couldn’t stop it.” He looked at his hands as if he could still see Jaffey’s blood.
“Sam, it’s not your fault, you—” Tom started to say. Sam had done his best, going back up on the bridge, injured and bleeding to see to Jaffey.
“Held him in my arms,” Sam continued quietly. “Nobody could have done more for him, Sam.” Tom croaked, his throat tightening as he remembered how pale Eli had looked.
“I know. Tried to stop the blood but … he just slipped away.” They sat in silence, remembering. It was a long silence. The night slipped in, stealing the last of the day while they sat. Tom looked up at the spot on the wall where he’d fixed the bullet hole. With a sad smile he said, “I’ll miss him.”
Suspension Page 58