The Empire of Shadows

  “Wouldn’t the rain have washed things away,” Mary said, “tracks and whatever?”

  “Most likely,” Tom said, “but I feel like I’ve got to do something. I’m gonna go crazy just sitting around waiting for some hick cop to show up.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Mike said. “You’ll never find it otherwise.”

  They walked out the road a mile or more. They made no secret of what direction they were headed, and no one seemed to pay them any mind. They reached the spot where the old maple stretched across the road and Mike stopped.

  “The path’s here someplace. It’s hard to spot.”

  “Hold up a second,” Tom said, putting a hand on his arm, the first words he’d said since they left the hotel. “Let’s take a look at the ground first.”

  The side of the road was still a little damp from the rain, the grass retaining some moisture. Tom got down on his knees. There wasn’t much to learn from the dried-out roadbed, but he hoped that the earth along the edges might still hold some evidence of Mike and Lettie having been there. Tom grunted as he examined the grassy margin. “Wagon been here,” he said. “If you look this way you can see the track where it bent the grass.”

  Mike looked too. “Pretty well washed away,” he said.

  Tom got up. “Yeah. Couldn’t say whether it stopped here or just went off the side of the road a bit, maybe passing another wagon or something. You don’t remember seeing a wagon, do you?”

  Mike shook his head.

  “Might be nothing,” Tom said. “This the path?” He pointed to a faint trail that disappeared into the woods.

  “Yeah. I think so.” Mike squatted down, looking at the ground as Tom had. “See this?” he said. “I think that’s me, my footprint I mean. Rain’s washed it mostly away. And that’s Lettie.”

  Tom had a hand on Mike’s shoulder, looking where he pointed. “Good work,” he said. They’re faint, but I think you’re right. Hold your foot next to that one.” Mike did, and it was a clear match. Tom just nodded, but then he looked closer.

  “So, who in hell was that?” he said, pointing to a third track, larger and broader than the other two. It was a few feet further on. “See how the grass is bent under the footprint, the way the dirt’s washed away at the edges just like yours? I’d say this was made the same day.”

  “A fisherman or something,” Mike said. “We didn’t see anybody though, not all afternoon.”

  Tom just made a low sound, deep in his throat as he stood up. He looked about, staring up and down the road and across at the woods on the other side. He shrugged his shoulders at last and said, “Let’s go look at where you two…” He let the words trail off as Mike led the way into the forest.

  Tom tried to follow the bigger tracks, but it was next to impossible on the forest floor. They went slow, but all they could see was an occasional ghostly depression, while Mike’s and Lettie’s prints were somewhat clearer in the center of the faint trail. At last the third set of tracks disappeared entirely.

  “You sure you didn’t see anyone?” Tom asked, looking about on his knees.

  “Nope,” Mike said again. “Certain,” though he scratched his head and shrugged.

  Tom got up. “You were over that way, under those big pines?” he asked, guessing by the pretty look of the spot where Mike and Lettie had gone.

  “Yeah. It was nice there. Smelled great. You can see all down the lake from there,” Mike said.

  Tom didn’t say anything. He just moved forward toward the stand of pine. They looked it over carefully, going over the ground on their hands and knees.

  “I lost a button here,” Mike said after a minute. “Looked for it but didn’t find it.”

  “Where from?”

  “My pants,” Mike said, not looking at Tom.

  “Not here,” Tom said. “Must’ve lost it someplace else.”

  “No. It was here. Lettie, she…” Mike stopped, embarrassed.

  “Uh-huh. Well, it isn’t here now,” Tom said, amused at the color in Mike’s cheeks. “Mike, do you know why Lettie wasn’t wearing any ah, well any underclothes? I noticed it last night when I looked.” Tom stopped, not wanting to give Mike too many details of his examination. “There were remnants of her dress still intact but no pantalets, or—anything.”

  Mike didn’t look directly at Tom. He just shrugged and said, “Maybe whoever killed her—maybe he…”

  “Yeah,” Tom said. “That’s probably it.”

  After a while longer they retraced their steps out to the road. Tom took another look at the wagon tracks, going further up and down the road to see if he could tell anything about them.

  “Appears as if the wagon pulled off here. I can’t be sure, but I think it stopped. The hoofprints are different here than they are back there. Not as kicked up, like the horse was standing still.”

  “You can tell that from these tracks?” Mike said, his brow knitting into a frown.

  “I’m no goddamn Daniel Boone, if that’s what you’re asking,” Tom said with a wry grin, “but I think it’s a fair guess.” He showed Mike what he meant about the hoofprints, then looked again at the other side of the road. “May as well check over there, too,” he said.

  They looked at the margin of the road, not finding anything, then plunged into the verge of trees, checking the ground for any prints. “I don’t know why we’re doing this. I told you we didn’t see anybody else,” Mike said after a while.

  “Well, you’re probably right. Who knows, that wagon could have been here hours after you were gone. No way to be sure. One thing I can tell you, though, is if you find a piece of evidence that’s out of place you have to check it. Hardest thing about doing an investigation is keeping an open mind. You gotta let the facts lead you, not the other way around.”

  Mike shrugged and looked around in a disinterested way. He started to walk out toward the road when he stopped. “What’s this?” he said.

  Tom saw him point to a tree and he walked over to get a better look. There, on the trunk of a young, smooth-skinned oak, was a series of small holes, the yellow wood below the bark showing through. Tom put his nose to the marks.

  “I can smell the sap. It’s fresh,” he said. He looked at the ground and could see a number of footprints at the base of the tree and behind a bigger tree a foot or two away. “Somebody was here,” he said.

  “Doing what?” Mike said, looking around.

  Tom stood behind the tree and looked at the road. There was a clear view, though it was plain that anyone behind the tree would have been hard to spot from the road. “Watching. Maybe watching,” Tom said.

  He took another look at the marks on the tree.

  “And killing time. He stuck his knife into this tree. Bored,” Tom said to himself. “Tracks say he was here for a while. How long were you and Lettie over there, Mike?”

  “Couple hours, I’d guess.”

  “Couple hours,” Tom said, running a hand through his hair. “He’s bored. He’s hiding. He’s sticking his knife into this tree. Maybe the tree’s not the only thing he sticks his knife into,” Tom said, regretting it as soon as he saw a dark cloud pass across Mike’s face.

  “Sorry,” Tom said.

  “But why? None of this makes any sense. You’ve got what, two men now—following me and Lettie around, looking to kill us—or her, or what? Why? Nobody wanted to kill her, and I know nobody wanted to kill me, so what the hell would somebody be following us for? This is all just guessing. This stuff,” he waved his hand at the tracks and the trees, “it just happens to be here. Who knows why? But it don’t have anything to do with me and Lettie.”

  Tom shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s nothing to this,” he said, looking closely at the marks on the tree while he talked, noticing for the first time their slightly triangular shape, “but, in my experience, coincidence is just a cover for the guilty.”

  Late in the afternoon Frederick Durant knocked on Tom and Mary’s door, apologizing for the intrusion. />
  “I just wanted to inform you that in all likelihood a sheriff won’t be able to get here until tomorrow at the earliest,” he told them. “It seems our closest was at Lake George, and he’s on a fishing trip somewhere up the lake.”

  “Hmph,” Tom grunted with an annoyed shrug.

  “I know how hard this is for you both,” Durant went on. “But there’s no helping it. I’m truly sorry,” Frederick added with formal awkwardness.

  Tom nodded, saying nothing at first, but finally he said “Doesn’t make me like it any better. That doctor of yours is jumping to conclusions. A man gets a thing fixed in his head in such a way he’ll only see things that fit with it.”

  “I understand, Tom,” Frederick replied. “I, too, am more than a little concerned with that. I worry about the, um, how shall I put this—the objectivity of local authorities, if you understand me.”

  “I do,” Tom said. “Your doctor may carry a lot of weight up here, and it seems his mind is made up. God knows what kind of sheriff you’ve got. And judges, let’s face it, backwoods judges are always a roll of the dice, from what I hear.”

  Frederick nodded. “I’m not without influence, Tom. My cousin also has friends we can rely on for fair treatment before the law.”

  “That’s good to know,” Mary said with an appreciative but worried smile.

  Frederick nodded, turning to go. “Oh, I almost forgot. You have another telegram.” He handed it to Tom. “Came in just a little while ago, I understand.”

  Tom sat by the window a minute later and read the message.

  “What is it, Tommy?” Mary asked, watching him closely.

  “Message from Chowder. About that prisoner that escaped the day we left. May be coming our way. Says he mailed me all the information he’s got on the case and the magnifying glass I asked for.”

  “What do you mean? Coming to the Adirondacks?”

  “Well, the prisoner, he was an Indian called Tupper, and he used to live up here somewhere, according to Chowder. Chowder thinks he’s headed north.”

  Mary looked increasingly concerned as Tom told her this. It seemed to her that he was taking this telegram too seriously. “You’re not thinking of going after him, are you? What are you supposed to do, go off chasing this man and leave Mike to fend for himself?” Mary said.

  Tom looked at her in surprise. He hadn’t thought to act on the telegram. He’d simply thought it interesting. He could understand her reaction, though. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d dropped something for the job. Tom shrugged.

  “Normally, you’d be right. There’s nothing normal about this situation, though. Mike’s my first priority. That’s all there is, plain and simple,” Tom said, laying the telegram aside. “Besides, there isn’t enough here,” he added with a nod toward the telegram, “to do much of anything about.”

  Mary sighed. “I’m sorry Tommy,” she said. “I’m just—I mean, this whole situation has got me at sixes and sevens.” She came over to him and gave him a quick kiss. “Forgive me?”

  “Of course,” Tom said. “I’m on edge, too. Who wouldn’t be?”

  Mary nodded. Still, she had a bad feeling about that little sheet of paper, and was curious about something else.

  “What was that about a magnifying glass? Have you been in touch with Chowder.”

  Tom had held off telling Mary about what he’d found. He wanted to take a closer look and find out more before he told her anything that might raise her hopes prematurely. He abandoned that plan now. “Mary, last night I…” He hesitated for a moment, uncertain if he should tell her how he’d found Mike in the icehouse. “Well, I suppose you’ll find out anyway,” he said.

  “Find out what?” she said.

  Tom walked her out onto their verandah, where they sat and were able to look out over the lake as they talked. He told her everything of the night before, how he’d searched for Mike and how he’d found him, as well as what his examination had turned up. Mary put her hands up to her face as though she could hold back the image that Tom’s words had conjured.

  “He was in there—alone with the body—with her? Dear God. Oh, dear God,” she said, almost sobbing the words. Turning red eyes to Tom, she said, “I hardly thought I slept at all last night. I should have been—I should have known, or something.”

  Tom put a hand on hers. “You were exhausted. The climb, and then this. I don’t know why I went to check on him myself. Listen to me. This is nothing to worry yourself over. What’s done is done.”

  Mary took a deep breath and looked out over the lake.

  There was laughter on the broad lawn in front of the hotel. A group of girls played at some game or other. Mary wanted to scream at them. She dabbed at her damp face and asked in as calm a voice as she could muster, “What did you find out?”

  He told her all there was, the fact that he’d found no pantalets on the body, and of his other discovery, a piece of plaid cloth that was not part of her clothing.

  “I’ve got my theories about that, of course. That’s one reason I wanted a magnifying glass. I need to examine her more closely, scrape under her nails, look at the head wound, and give this a closer look, too,” he said.

  “There’s always something, some piece of the attacker that is left behind—blood, a broken fingernail, flesh scraped off by a nail, something. I can learn more about the weapon, too. I’ve been trying to work it out, fit the pieces together, and at the same time handle how I’m going to use it once I’m sure. I worry about that doctor. If I tell him things too soon, I mean before I know more, he could dismiss it or invent his own theories, even destroy evidence. Anything’s possible.”

  “You found this in her mouth?” Mary said with a queasy turn of her lip.

  Tom nodded. “I think she bit it off in the struggle,” he said, looking closely at the piece of cloth in his hand. “You have a better theory on how it got in her mouth?”

  The sun sank as Tom and Mary talked. The mountain, towering to their right, glowed orange. A steamboat rounded the point, tooting its whistle and setting the white buck charging about his pen.

  “It seems ages ago that Mike got bit,” Mary said half to herself.

  “Strange how things work out,” Tom replied.

  “If he hadn’t been bit, perhaps he’d never have met that girl.”

  Mary gave a little start. “I hadn’t thought about that. It’s true,” she admitted, looking down at the animal bounding about his enclosure. They sat and watched the white buck, the blue water, and the orange mountain.

  The crack and echo of shooting jolted them out of their thoughts.

  “Sounds like the Duryea boys are at it again,” Tom said. “Those two do more shooting than any ten men I know, me included.”

  Mary seemed to be only half listening as the shooting echoed across the lake, bouncing off the mountain in answering volleys.

  “We have to talk to him, you know,” Mary said at last.

  Tom sighed. “I know. I’ve been putting it off. It’s been hard enough on him as it is,” Tom said.

  “In a way, we’ve been lucky there’s been no sheriff close by. He’s had some time to mourn without having to deal with, well—whatever.”

  “Charges,” Tom said, finishing her thought in a grim, low voice. “You’re right. We had a pretty good talk today. We’ll have to go over it all, though, learn whatever we can.”

  Mary turned away for a second in a gesture Tom had come to know well. “I don’t think I should be there, Tom,” she said. “I think he’ll be more open with you. I mean about the girl and…”

  “You’re right,” Tom said. “He’s more likely to tell me about the girl,” Tom said. “There’re things a boy doesn’t tell his mother.”

  Sixteen

  Once again, returning to find in nature’s bosom,

  A healing for our sorrow, a solace for lost years.

  We come Oh Mother Nature as wanderers to the homeland,

  Oh grant us benediction, Oh give us peace for te
ars.

  —OLIVE GOOLEY

  The men had talked of the fire for most of the day before. In a place where things seemed to move as slowly as the seasons, news of a fire was worth at least a day’s conversation. Tupper was amazed the news had traveled so fast. Somehow, he’d never thought of the telegraph. It was Durant’s connection to the outside world, a convenience he’d insisted on, running wire all the way from North Creek to Blue, and then on to Raquette some fifty miles or more. Jim couldn’t begin to imagine how much it must have cost. It was beyond his reckoning.

  Tupper hadn’t volunteered much to the talk about the fire, though he’d been asked plenty. Everyone knew he’d been there that day and everyone seemed to think he’d have something to say on the matter, even though he’d been back at Pine Knot by the time the blaze was discovered.

  “Barn was standin’ when I left,” he said when anyone asked, which was quite true. He never spoke of the couple he’d watched. It was one part of his trip to the Prospect House he didn’t mention.

  He’d settled into a comfortable routine the last couple of days, working and bunking with the rest of the men in a tent camp that moved with the new road as they cut it through the forest. Tupper had no idea where it was going, other than the fact that it would probably not get there for as long as a year. He was content with that and looked forward to the feel of cash in his pocket.

  The food was plentiful, the work hard enough to keep his mind from his troubles in the city and from Segoewat’ha. “The tormentor,” his grandfather used to say, “is in all men. Treat him as you would a serpent. Lock the devil in his cage and let him out only in the face of your enemies.”

  His grandfather had been wise in the ways of Segoewat’ha. His grandfather had once met Handsome Lake, the great Seneca prophet and preacher of the Gaíwiio, the code by which all true Iroquois lived. Grandfather had been a young buck of barely sixteen summers in 1814 when Handsome Lake came to his village. Though Tupper had never seen the great Handsome Lake in life, he knew much of him and remembered times when he was young, when preachers came to chant the Gaíwiio in his little village. Thinking of Handsome Lake and the code he preached was calming for Jim. He was contented remembering the ceremonies, the throwing of tobacco, and the ritual response, eniáiehuk.