The Empire of Shadows

by Richard E. Crabbe

  “He’s alive!” he said as he rushed into the room. “Or at least he was. Found a blood trail down to the lake,” Tom said as he grabbed some things and threw them into a small satchel. “Must have missed it in the dark last night.”

  “You’re going after him?” Mike said, the excitement in his voice crackling. Before Tom answered, he said, “I’m coming!”

  That brought Tom up short. Tom and Mary rounded on him.

  “Whoa, son. I can’t allow that!” Tom said.

  Mike was ready for the objections. “Dad, you’ll need me. I’m good with a gun. I’m tough and I won’t slow you down any more than those Duryea boys.” Tom didn’t have an immediate response to this, nor did Mary, so Mike added, “And I need to do something, you know, for Lettie’s sake.”

  “Mike, you can’t,” Mary said. “It’s precisely because of Lettie you shouldn’t go. If you take off into the woods now, even though it’s with your father, it’ll only raise suspicions. That doctor has it in for you. He’s already shown he’s willing to jump at straws. You can’t give him more ammunition. Suppose you did find him? Suppose you kill him? What’s it going to look like, like you’re trying to erase your crime with this man’s blood.”

  “Mom! That’s not…”

  “That’s what it’ll look like to them, to that doctor and maybe Durant, too.”

  “Mike, listen to your mother,” Tom said. “She’s talking sense. You aren’t.”

  Mike was good with a rifle and a tough kid, hardened by his years with his gang on the Lower East Side. But this wasn’t the old neighborhood, and the man Tom was after was no ordinary man. The fact that he’d survived the jump from Castle Rock spooked Tom, though he would not admit it.

  Beyond that, he still thought of Mike as a boy, regardless of all evidence to the contrary. He could not accept that Mike was ready for something like this. He wasn’t so sure about himself, for that matter. Without a guide like Busher or Owens he wouldn’t attempt it.

  “This man, I don’t know what he is,” Tom said. “He’s insane, a lunatic, capable of God knows what. He’s butchered people, escaped from five men with dogs, and jumped off a goddamn cliff, for Christ sake,” Tom said, shaking his head as he stuffed socks into his satchel.

  “I know all that, but—”

  “Mike!” Tom shouted. The lack of sleep, exhaustion, and his still-throbbing head had Tom at the edge. “No, goddamnit! No! Are you crazy, too?” he growled. “All you’d do is get yourself killed, maybe me, too. That what you want?”

  He tried to erase the glare from his eyes, but it was too late.

  Mike’s expression went from shock to hurt to rage in the space of a few heartbeats. Tom caught Mary’s look of reproach, saw Mike’s cheeks redden and his eyes water. He wished immediately that he could take back what he’d said. He knew the damage he’d done. Before his eyes Mike seemed to retreat, turning back into the sullen young man of a week before. Mike turned without a word and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. The silence was not even broken by Rebecca, who stood tight-lipped in one corner, fingering the corner of her dress. Mary didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to.

  “Be careful, Tommy,” Mary said as they parted in the hallway. “Don’t worry about Mike. I’ll talk to him. You just worry about yourself. I want you coming home to me, and in one piece this time,” she said with a forced smile.

  Tom grinned. “The only one coming back in pieces is Tupper,” he said. He kissed her hard and added, “Don’t worry. And listen—tell Mike I’m sorry, okay? Promise you’ll do that for me? I don’t think he wants to hear it from me right now.”

  As he strode through the lobby he noticed a crowd at the front desk. There was a quantity of luggage piled about and some raised voices among the guests. Tom distinctly heard the words “checking out.” As he walked down to the boathouse he glanced back at the verandah outside their rooms. Rebecca and Mary waved goodbye.

  “Let’s go, Chauncey,” Tom called as he neared the dock. Busher was talking to Owens and some others who made no move to follow. Tom figured the only reason Busher was going was because he’d been promised double his rate to do it. Tom knew the chief would approve the expense.

  Tom threw his gear into the guide boat and lay his rifle near the stern. Busher’s gear was already stowed. They set off in silence, the guide pulling the oars in a slow rhythm that still seemed to propel the craft at a considerable speed.

  “Guess we’ll check the islands,” Busher said. They had already searched the shore around where Tupper’s trail ended. It was possible that Tupper had thrown them off by wading around the shoreline and taking to the woods again somewhere on the far side of Blue, but, for some reason, Busher didn’t think Tupper would have done that.

  “A man crazy enough to jump from that cliff might make the swim,” Busher said. “Oftimes parties camp on them islands. Besides, this lake’s got maybe twenty miles of shoreline. We go searchin’ the whole thing, it’ll take all day. That big island,” Busher said with a jerk of his head over his shoulder, “it’s got caves. Hardly anybody knows that. He might try to hide there.”

  Busher wasn’t heading directly to the island, though, but skirting to one side, coming at it from the side. Busher saw the question in Tom’s eyes. “Can’t go straight across. Rocks all around there. Seen many a boat busted up out there. Besides, we can check a couple of the smaller islands on the way.”

  Tom sat in the stern in silence as the dark waters swam by.

  “Somebody’s camped out there,” Tom said as they approached one of the two islands nearest where Tupper’s trail had disappeared. Busher craned about, holding the oars up out of the water.

  “See the smoke?”

  “Yup. Ain’t our man, but whoever it is might be a help,” Busher said as he started to pull toward the smoke. They were still two hundred yards from the island when they heard shouting and saw two men emerge from the trees at the shoreline. Tom put his rifle across his knees. As they drew closer the men called to them.

  “Stole our boat!” one shouted. “And most of our gear,” the other added.

  “Sonofabitch!” Busher said with a violent shake of his head. “Ain’t that a fine mess o’ beans. Damn it all to hell.” He stopped rowing, dragging the oars so the boat eased to a stop a hundred feet from shore.

  “When you notice the boat gone?” Tom asked.

  “An hour or so back. Searched the whole damn island. It’s gone for sure,” was the reply.

  “What’d it look like?” Busher put in.

  “Same as yours ’cept dark blue.”

  “Let’s go, Busher,” Tom said in a low voice. Busher just stroked with one oar, turning the bow away from shore. He said nothing.

  “Say! Ain’t you gonna help us?”

  “We’ll have somebody pick you up,” Tom called back across the widening distance. “Hey!” he added. You didn’t have your rifles in that boat, did you?”

  “What you take us for, mister? We ain’t fools,” one answered.

  Tom said nothing, but when they were almost out of earshot he called, “Got enough food?”

  The two just waved in reply.

  As their boat left the men in its wake, Busher said, “You know, Tupper could’ve stole that boat maybe ten, twelve hours ago.”

  Tom looked at his pocket watch. It was 10:10. He snapped the case shut as if shutting out the import of Busher’s words.

  “You know how much distance one o’ these boats can make in that kinda time?” Busher said.

  Tom looked about them at the long, unbroken expanse of water and its dense border of trees. He thought not of Tupper or of how far he might have traveled, but of Mike.

  For a long moment Tom considered turning back. He thought of taking Mike with him or of somehow building a bridge over the gap between them. He wanted to do it, wanted to go back and set things right. How he might do that, he didn’t know. And what good would it do, if Mike wasn’t cleared of the cloud he was under? Tom had
his limitations. He was no magician. Tom trusted in the kind of magic born of muscle and steel and determination, the kind that could move mountains or bring a man to justice no matter how far he’d rowed in the night.

  “I don’t want to know,” he said at last.

  They’d been rowing for maybe ten minutes before Tom asked, “How long you figure it’ll be before somebody finds them?” with a nod back toward the island.

  “Not long,” Busher said. “Today sometime, likely enough. T’morrer fer sure.”

  “So, where we headed?” Tom asked. It was clear that Busher had no doubts, from the steady way he pulled at the oars.

  “If’n it was me got that boat, I’d been rowin’ till sunup.”

  “Hide out during the day,” Tom said.

  “About the size of it. Reckon he wouldn’t take to bein’ seen much.”

  Tom did some quick figuring. “He’d be somewhere in Raquette Lake then, right?”

  Busher just smiled.

  “Let me know when you need a break at the oars,” Tom said as he eased back on his hard caned seat.

  As it turned out, Tom was in luck. He didn’t have to row a stroke all the way to Raquette. The Killoquah, one of Durant’s little steamers, overtook them in the channel between Blue and Eagle. They hailed it and within minutes had their boat stowed on the roof and their gear at their feet. Tom and Chauncey dozed most of the way, with just an hour’s interruption to change steamers at the Marrion River carry. They were both well-rested by the time the silvery expanse of Raquette opened before them.

  A brief stop at Pine Knot revealed nothing at first, except how nervous William was. He was expecting an important guest in the next few days, he told them. It was a man whose name was never mentioned, an omission not lost on Tom.

  Tom had seen Erskine for a few minutes before he left the hotel. They’d had a private chat in the empty dining hall. Erskine didn’t tell him much about Lettie Burman that he didn’t already know, except for the interesting fact that the doctor had been “pining” for her, according to the girls she worked with. Perhaps even more interesting was what Erskine told him about the Durants, particularly William.

  “They say he cheated his sister outa big money. Say she’s gonna sue, maybe. Not the first time Mister William’s had trouble neither. Had land troubles on an’ off. Bought some land around the Raquette, an island an’ such, for back taxes. The folks that owned it didn’ wanna go. Lot o’ bad blood over that. The Owens clan.”

  “Exeter Owens?”

  “Sure ’nough. Him an’ his dad’s family. His daddy owned the land.”

  Tom had had to hurry, so he wasn’t able to get into the details of what Erskine had told him. It was interesting to know that William West Durant was not exactly the patrician father of the Adirondacks that he appeared to be.

  Tom thought about this as William told him what he’d heard concerning Mike and Tupper. Durant had seen copies of the telegrams and knew of the suspicions surrounding the death of Lettie Burman.

  “Tom, I’m sure there’s nothing to this doctor’s accusations,” William told him. “It’s this maniac, Littletree, or should I say Tupper, who’s obviously to blame. For that I blame myself. If I had known somehow,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “My foreman didn’t want to hire the man. Did you know that?”

  “Not your fault, William.”

  Durant nodded in appreciation then offered, “Is there anything I can do for you, Tom? Do you have enough provisions, food, ammunition? Name it and it’s yours.”

  At first Tom declined, but then remembered that he had but one box of ammunition for his rifle.

  “Easily remedied,” William said. “Follow me.”

  They went to Durant’s cottage. Tom waited in the front room while William went to his gun rack in the bedroom.

  “That was a thirty-forty, right, Tom?” William called. But before Tom answered he heard William mumble, “Damned odd,” followed by the sound of drawers and doors opening and closing in a hasty clatter.

  “William?” Tom called, taking a step toward the door.

  William West Durant appeared in the doorway, two boxes of cartridges in his hand. He wore a puzzled expression.

  “I’m afraid I have only two to give you, Tom.”

  Bradock shrugged. “That’s more than enough. I—”

  Durant interrupted him. “It seems I’ve been robbed.”

  Busher was glum as they rowed away from Pine Knot a while later. He’d been a good deal more enthusiastic when he thought they were chasing an unarmed man.

  “Gotta have a care, now he’s got a rifle,” Chauncey said. “That feller could pick us off from the shore like we was birds on a wire. Gotta have a care.”

  Tom didn’t disagree. Tupper had proven dangerous enough armed only with an old bayonet. Now, as the dense wall of trees and brush stalked by, Tom began to imagine how easy it would be to lay in wait. The thought sent chills down his back. It was not striking back that worried him, but the thought that his fate might not be of his own making. He dreaded that above all else. Tom wiped his palms on his pant legs and gripped his rifle a bit more tightly.

  Tom and Busher settled on a plan after a bit of discussion. They’d keep well out from shore, two hundred yards or so. It was a distance that would make any shot chancey, yet close enough so Tom could scan the shore with his field glasses for anything suspicious. The glasses would bridge the gap; not perfect, but close enough.

  “Trouble is this lake’s got—maybe ninety or more miles o’ shoreline,” Busher said. “’Course we ain’t gonna search her all, just the likeliest spots.”

  Tom just grunted.

  “You’re gonna have to spell me on the oars,” Busher added, then, almost as an afterthought, said, “And about my time,” he stopped rowing as he said this. “You know it’s a sight more valuable now Tupper’s got that rifle.”

  Tom heaved a sigh and said, “Six dollars a day. How’s that fit?”

  Busher just nodded and started rowing again. It was more than double his regular rate. Tom picked up the glasses and watched the shore. “Looks like it’ll be a longish day,” he said to the trees.

  Nineteen

  Darkness falls suddenly. Outside the ring of light from our conflagration the woods are black. There is a tremendous impression of isolation and lonesomeness in our situation. We are the prisoners of the night.

  —CHARLES DUDLEY WARNER, IN THE WILDERNESS

  Mary didn’t know precisely when Mike left his room. She had gone out with Rebecca some time around ten, killing time and trying to keep the girl happy. They had searched the shoreline for frogs, which ’Becca begged Mary to catch but wouldn’t touch when she did. They’d gone bowling, too, and stopped back at their rooms just before noon. Mary didn’t think much of it at first, figuring Mike had just gone out for a bit of air. Where could he go after all, she’d reasoned.

  She took a quick walk around the grounds before lunch, hoping they could eat together; but he was nowhere to be seen. She went down to the dock where she saw Owens loading his guide boat on a steamer. He tipped his hat and Mary waved back.

  “Have you seen Mike?” she said.

  Owens said no, but ambled over to chat for a moment.

  “Been getting set for a trip over to Raquette. Got a client wants to fish,” he said. Mary smiled and made small talk.

  Owens drank her in as she walked back toward the hotel. The low-waisted summer dress she wore, a rose-colored thing, just a bit tighter and thinner than strictly proper, swayed with each step up the rolling lawn. Owens turned back to his packing, but his mind wasn’t in it.

  Mary and Rebecca went to lunch. It was nearly two by the time they were back in their rooms and well after three once Rebecca got up from her nap. Though Mary laid on the bed in only her light shift, letting the cool lake breeze wash over her, she could not sleep. She thought of Mike.

  After the way Tom had acted she could understand how he might want to be alone. She bit her lip i
n frustration. Mike had begun to show much of his old self, but now the gulfs were back and wider than before. The more she worried the blacker her thoughts became. She imagined he might not return, that he’d drowned or was lost in the wilderness. And what if the sheriff arrived and Mike couldn’t be found? She did not want to entertain those thoughts, but they came nonetheless, playing over and over in her head like scenes from a penny dreadful. None turned out well.

  Late that afternoon Mary and Rebecca again went out searching. The hotel, the little town with its scattered buildings and tiny church, the other hotels; all showed no sign of him. They were out for hours.

  Heading back toward the Prospect House, Mary debated whether she should notify anyone. Mike could be in desperate trouble, lying injured in the forest. In her imagination, he’d tripped over a log or fallen in some rocky streambed. His leg was broken. It was cool in the woods despite the late August sun and the sweat of his pain turned to a deathly chill. He was hungry and scared and the night was coming on fast. His calls went unanswered, attracting only the attention of hungry eyes as the darkness engulfed him.

  She was torn. What if she did notify someone, what would they think? Surely they’d figure he was on the run, that the evidence pointing to Tupper was a sham by a big city cop to pull the wool over their rustic eyes. They’d search for Mike, but it would not be the sort of search she’d want. Mary decided to wait until around supper, and then to tell only Frederick, relying on him to handle the situation.

  With Tom gone and out of reach for God knows how long, she didn’t see an alternative. She’d take her chances with the Durants. Regardless of where that decision might lead, finding Mike had to take precedence over all else.

  As she neared the hotel with a sulky, complaining Rebecca in tow, Mary was brought up short. Two men were on the broad steps leading up to the verandah. One was the doctor. The other she didn’t know, but something in his manner put her on alert. It wasn’t anything she could put a name to, but she knew that this was not someone she wanted to meet just then. Turning, she steered Rebecca toward the back of the hotel. “’Becca,” she said, “wouldn’t you like to go bowling?”