A Dangerous Legacy

by Elizabeth Camden

  He couldn’t resist drafting a response.

  My birds are indeed impressive. Please note: They were born and raised in England, so they are British. The American pigeons I see in Central Park have lost all drive. A tragedy, but not unforeseeable.

  He would send the message as soon as he had something else noteworthy to report from Oakmonte. He coaxed Beatrice onto his finger.

  “How are you this evening, love?” He stroked the downy feathers on the top of her head, listening to the warbling coo of her barely audible call. He loved that sound, which signaled perfect contentment. He continued stroking her head to coax it out again.

  The door of the room next to his opened, and Dr. Schroeder stepped outside to join him on the balcony. “It seems we are neighbors for the weekend,” he said.

  Colin put Beatrice inside her cage. “Indeed. You are a frequent visitor here?”

  “Several times a year. My wife likes the countryside, so it’s an enjoyable trip for her.”

  Colin braced a hand against the railing. Crickets chirped in the distance, and the soft rustle of leaves came from the nearby forest. This might be the best time to ask Dr. Schroeder’s advice without others constantly underfoot to divert the conversation. He glanced both directions down the darkened balcony, as well as at the porch area beneath them. They were alone.

  “I found your insight into involuntary responses of the brain very interesting,” he began.

  “You did?”

  “Yes. I have a friend who served alongside me during the Boer War.” He couldn’t admit his own mortifying weaknesses, but by attributing the symptoms to an anonymous friend, perhaps he could learn what he needed to know. “My friend was trapped behind the lines while a battle raged. There was no escape, and the sound of gunfire and shelling went on for days. It was impossible to sleep or seek shelter from the barrage. The fear was the worst part, I gather. It went on for over a week with no let up.”

  Even discussing this made the night air stink like that hot, fetid battlefield. Overwhelming thirst descended upon him, and he wished he had something to drink, but this conversation was too important to walk away from. He forced his tone to remain casual.

  “Everything turned out well in the end, but I continue to have—I mean, my friend continues to suffer.” He glanced away, hoping Dr. Schroeder hadn’t noticed his slip of the tongue. He swallowed hard and continued. “If something catches my friend by surprise, he panics and finds it difficult to breathe. A loud noise or even certain odors cause the anxiety to take over. He once vomited at the scent of gunpowder.”

  He clenched the balcony railing, unable to look at the doctor as he spoke, but to his relief, Dr. Schroeder’s voice was calmly professional.

  “We saw this following the Civil War,” the old doctor said. “Sometimes soldiers suffered from acute mania for years following the war, even after the physical wounds were treated. Psychology was in its infancy then and very little could be done for such men, but I hope you assure your friend that his stress reaction is no reflection on his character. We have modern and effective treatments now.”

  Tension drained from Colin’s neck and shoulders as hope took root. This visit to Oakmonte would prove to be a godsend if he could find a way to cure his mortifying weakness. “What sort of treatment?”

  Dr. Schroeder had the kindly face of a grandfather as he gave a sad smile. “It all depends on how badly your friend wants to heal. A course of therapy in an institutionalized setting would be best, for the cure is not easy, and the patient may try to escape. Personally, I always secure them in a private cell to better monitor the situation. A straitjacket is standard in order to ensure the safety of the staff. Then a course of exposure therapy in which the patient is regularly subjected to the source of his fear. If his fear is gun blasts, that is easy enough to arrange. We’d secure the patient to a chair, then begin a series of gunshots to encourage gradual adjustment to the stimulus.”

  Colin’s eyes widened at the barbaric images, but the doctor had not stopped speaking.

  “Over time, we would expose the patient to traumatic situations when he least expects it. While sleeping or dining. These periodic exposures will gradually accustom the patient to the stimulus, at which point we would broaden his exposure to a variety of stressful situations that will train his brain to cope with trauma. I’ve had success with ice water baths and courses of electric shock. Now, now . . . no need to look at me like that. I would never subject the patient to this all at once. We are talking about a course of treatment over several weeks, during which he will be safely confined in Ridgemoor, where he would have the opportunity to strengthen his resolve and overcome his weakness.”

  Colin’s face froze into a mask. At all costs, he would maintain his composure. What an irony that decades of good breeding prevented him from lashing out and telling Dr. Schroeder his true opinion of this sadistic cruelty.

  Dr. Schroeder put a fatherly hand on his arm. “I hope you send your friend to me. With a few months of confinement at my facility, I am certain I can help him.”

  Colin withdrew to the door leading to his bedroom. He wouldn’t send a dog to Dr. Schroeder, but he nodded politely. “Thank you for your insight. It was most enlightening.”

  Chapter

  Fifteen

  Lucy had never seen Nick descend into such grim resolve, but ever since discovering the satchel with the horrifying photograph of their father, he was like another person. A tougher, meaner person. They stayed up late that evening, strategizing.

  “I’m going to hunt down every person who had anything to do with this photograph. Hunt down, incapacitate, and destroy them. The doctors, the photographer, even the nurses who tended him. There won’t be enough to wipe off the floor for burial.”

  “Easy, Nick. We’ve got enough time to plan this carefully.” They’d been patient all their lives in doggedly chipping away at this lawsuit. She wasn’t going to let Nick lose his head now.

  The first step was finding out who was breaking into their apartment and why. Lucy had a good hunch, which was why she and Nick now sat beside the window, the lights in the apartment darkened in the hour before dawn. The last time she saw him, the lamppost leaner had arrived in the early morning, the glow of his cigarette tip visible even from up here.

  Sure enough, at five o’clock in the morning, he strolled along the empty, predawn street, a cigarette already dangling from his mouth. He glanced up at their apartment, and Lucy instinctively slid out of view, hugging the wall and holding her breath. Had he seen them?

  Nick wasn’t so timid. He stood behind the lacy drapes and squinted through the fabric. “He’s making notes in a journal. Come on. I want to see what he’s writing.”

  “Are you sure? He might be dangerous.”

  Nick opened the sideboard drawer and lifted out a revolver. “So am I.” Popping open the cylinder, he checked to be sure it was loaded.

  As soon as Nick stowed the gun in his coat pocket, he strode to the door. There was no stopping him, so Lucy followed, hurrying down the staircase after him. “Why don’t you let me hold the gun? I’m less likely to lose my temper.” After all, she’d suspected something shady about the lamppost leaner for months, but it was all new to Nick.

  He paused at the second floor landing and gave her a quizzical look. “Do you think I’m stupid, Luce? I’ll be calm and cold when necessary, but I’ll scare the living daylights out of him if the time is right.”

  They left the building through the back door and headed down a block, then back up to the main street, and approached the lamppost leaner from behind. He was still making notes in a journal as they approached.

  Nick grabbed him, hauling him up and two inches off the ground. The notebook splatted onto the pavement.

  “Grab it, Luce,” Nick growled. She prayed they weren’t making a horrible mistake and attacking an innocent man. Nick whirled him by his shirt collar and slammed him against the lamppost.

  She needn’t have worried about
the lamppost leaner’s innocence. One glance at the notebook showed it to be full of references to the Manhattan Drakes’ activities. Notes listed when they came and left the apartment and descriptions of their visitors. She read a few passages aloud to Nick, whose smile turned grim.

  “Let’s go behind the building and have a little chat,” he growled.

  “No need to be so hasty,” the lamppost leaner stammered. Now that she could see him up close, he didn’t look so threatening. Although he and Nick were the same height, Nick was all brawny muscle, and this man was skinny and soft. His bulging eyes had a spray of age lines in the corners.

  Lucy casually stepped on the smoldering cigarette he’d dropped, extinguishing it before she followed Nick, who strong-armed the stammering man down the alley and behind the building. Once they were off the main street, Nick rifled the man’s pockets while Lucy continued skimming the notebook, looking at page after page of their activities, almost all of them focusing on Nick. To her surprise, there was a list of each time Nick had gone absent from work. Some of them were for court dates or meetings with their lawyer, but twice it was because Nick was sick, and once because of their father’s funeral. She turned the page, and her eyes widened as she read a list of books she’d checked out from the public library.

  “What’s this?” Nick snarled as he pulled something from the lamppost leaner’s pocket.

  “It’s nothing,” the terrified man stammered.

  “Funny, it looks like a key to our apartment.”

  “I never took anything,” the man said. “All I did was look around some. Honest.”

  “Why?” Nick demanded. When the man refused to answer, Nick gave him a mighty shake, pounding him against the brick wall. “Why?”

  “I don’t know why! I just do what I’m told.”

  “By who?”

  “Some crazy guy up in Albany. I don’t know his name. He wants to know everything about you, like where you eat and the names of the girls you squire around town. Look, this guy has the goods that could put my sister in prison for years. She’s a good girl, she just got mixed up with the wrong people for a spell. He said I wouldn’t have to do anything illegal, just watch the two of you and keep a record of things. That’s all I’ve done.”

  “Why were you sniffing around Mr. Garzelli’s tenement building?”

  “The crazy guy wanted to know what you were up to in that basement. He wants reports on everything.”

  It had the whiff of Uncle Thomas. That didn’t mean she trusted the lamppost leaner, but this was too good of an opportunity to miss. She stepped forward.

  “Let’s turn this to our advantage,” she said quietly.

  Nick’s white-knuckled grasp on the man’s collar eased. It was a tense few moments as he released the lamppost leaner and they both watched each other warily. They learned his name was Roscoe and his sister worked as a maid at a mental institution on the north end of the city.

  “Ridgemoor?” Nick asked.

  Roscoe nodded. “Yes. Ridgemoor.”

  Was someone trying to build a case for funneling Nick or herself into a straitjacket like their father? Her mouth went dry. Nick pressed, but Roscoe was reluctant to talk about the details of his association with “the crazy guy.”

  Nick wasn’t shy about applying pressure. He nodded to the notebook. “You’ve been following me close enough to see the men I work with. They are big, smart, and tough. We risk our lives every day down in those tunnels, and we look out for each other. I trust them, and they’ll back me up the instant I call. If you double-cross me, there won’t be a rock large enough for you to hide beneath if we go in search of you.”

  Roscoe swallowed hard. “What do you want from me?”

  Lucy answered. “We want to know how to get in contact with the crazy guy up in Albany.”

  And then they could take action against the man who had put their father in a mental institution.

  Colin began his day by enjoying the copious hot water in the spotless washroom attached to his bedroom. At Whitefriars, a morning shave required lugging lukewarm water from the kitchen hearth, then carrying it all back down once finished.

  As he dragged the straight razor through the foam on his face, he hummed a little and contemplated how to get Felix Moreno alone for a few hours. He needed to separate Felix from Tom, whose short attention span made it hard to focus on the probing conversation Colin needed to identify an association between Oakmonte and the NCC. Manipulating the conversation so that Felix would unwittingly reveal a motive for scuttling the Panama Canal would be a challenge, but Colin was good at asking questions. Most people loved the opportunity to talk about themselves, and he was more than willing to let them have the stage.

  It was pure luck that he happened to glance out the narrow washroom window and spot Tom Jr. heading off for a morning of shooting, with Felix and Dr. Schroeder in tow. After wiping the shaving cream from his face, Colin threw on a pair of trousers and made a mad dash downstairs and out the front door, his bare feet sliding a little on the damp grass.

  “Mr. Moreno!” he called as he loped across the lawn. All three men turned toward him, rifles slung over their shoulders. “I hear Mrs. Drake has a game of croquet planned this morning. Stick around and join us. I’m eager to hear more about practicing law in America.”

  Tom Jr.’s lip curled in barely concealed contempt. “Croquet is a girly game. Come on, Felix, let’s go find something to shoot.”

  Felix flashed Tom a message Colin couldn’t interpret, but whatever it was, Tom immediately backed down and wished them a good day, setting off toward the forest with Dr. Schroeder at his side. It was a relief to see the back of the doctor, for Colin suspected the man saw far too much.

  An hour later, Colin was deep into a six-wicket croquet game. Margaret had to return to the house to handle a crisis in the kitchen, leaving only himself, Felix, and Mrs. Schroeder to enjoy the match. Mrs. Schroeder displayed a shocking amount of competitive spirit, and Colin had to admire her zeal as she lined up each ball before smacking it through the wickets.

  He turned his attention to Felix. “How did you become acquainted with Tom Jr.?” he asked as he prepared for a shot.

  “Tom and I go back years,” Felix said. “Our firm has handled an ongoing lawsuit for the Drakes for decades, so when Tom Jr. ran into a bit of trouble at Princeton, I was called in to help. It was all hogwash and easily settled, but I’ve always been very impressed with the young man. He has a bright future in politics but needs guidance learning the political ropes. He’s got everything—intelligence, drive, ambition. If he can medal at the Olympics, it will give him credibility on his own merits instead of simply inheriting a fortune.”

  Colin phrased his questions carefully as the morning unfolded. As suspected, Felix shared freely, supplying all the details of how he guided Tom in preparation for a congressional run, coaching him in debate, public speaking, and how to defuse the arguments of an opponent. He instructed Tom to read the New York Times daily in order to keep abreast of all current events.

  “That explains your interest in the Panama Canal,” Colin said.

  Felix took the bait. “Absolutely! It is essential for Tom to have opinions on all contemporary events and be capable of defending his positions. We both agree that the Panamanian route is foolish and unlikely to succeed. The Nicaraguan route is longer but easier to dredge. Of course, that would rob our president of the chance to meddle in another nation’s private business.”

  “Oh my, we’ve just veered into an awkward political discussion,” Mrs. Schroeder said.

  Felix gave a nod of appeasement. “My apologies, ma’am. I had forgotten you are an ardent supporter of our young president. Nevertheless, we must quell this reckless march through Panama.”

  They were getting to the heart of the matter, and Colin refused to let the topic be diverted. “How precisely can you quell the march?”

  “In the long run? By getting men like Tom elected to Congress. But there are plenty of
behind-the-scenes ways to convince current congressmen to see reason. It’s why I’ve encouraged Tom to cultivate friendships among the political class.”

  Colin’s insatiable curiosity got the better of him. “Why mentor another man for Congress? Have you never thought of running for office yourself?”

  Felix snorted. “A man can become a millionaire through the practice of law. Not so by sitting in Congress. Having Tom win a seat would be the best of both worlds. I can still earn a lucrative living as a lawyer but guide Tom on how to cast his vote on important political decisions.”

  Mrs. Schroeder’s smile was wistful. “Money can buy security and a few baubles, but it can’t buy happiness. If your passion is in politics, you should run, not try to turn Tom into a puppet to do your bidding. Such a course will frustrate you both.”

  “So says a woman who has always had money,” Felix said, not unkindly. “Money can disappear like that.” He gave a brisk snap of his fingers. “I’m not so rich that I can afford to weather a financial tsunami just because we have a reckless young man sitting in the White House. It’s only natural for a man to protect his investments, whether that is in a courtroom or by using influence in Congress.”

  Or by hiring a team of assassins to take out men on the verge of authorizing the Panama route. Colin blocked any hint of emotion from showing on his face, but inside a sense of triumph gathered momentum. It looked as if he’d just identified the person with a huge financial investment in making the Nicaraguan route succeed. Now all he had to do was find proof in order to convince Sergeant Palmer to take it seriously.

  It was nearing lunchtime when the croquet game ended. Colin rested his mallet on his shoulder as he strode toward the back terrace where the family gathered in a tight cluster. Dr. Schroeder and Tom Jr. were there, as were both of Tom’s parents. Whatever had them enthralled must be terribly interesting, for Tom was squatting on the slate tiles, and a good deal of laughter trickled up from the group. Colin’s smile froze as he drew closer.