“Throw him back, Mister Owens,” Mary said. “Maybe he’s sad at that.”
Owens smiled and let the fish slip into the water.
The hours passed, marked by stories and fish. Owens told how Robert Rogers made his slide down a cliff on Lake George to escape the Indians; how three men in a jamboat got swept away by a river full of logs, and then dug out of a sandbar days later and miles downstream; of how a famous Indian guide from Long Lake chased a mountain lion out of hiding, prodding him with a stick till his sport could get a shot, and when the sport missed, how he killed the lion himself.
“Every word’s true,” Owens insisted more than once. There were tales of bears shot, fish caught, and men lost in logging accidents. Not once did Owens talk about Tupper. He never mentioned Mike or Tom. Mary was glad of it. For a few hours she had been made to forget. Rebecca had wonderful fun, even though they released almost all the fish they caught.
And Owens was a charming companion and storyteller. He had an eye for Mary, of that she was certain; and when, at the dock he gave her his hand to help her out of the boat and she’d slipped, he’d caught her waist. His hands had lingered ever so slightly. And when Mary raised her dark eyes to thank him for the day, he’d not looked away.
“Mary!” someone called. A waving figure from up on the verandah caught her eye. A moment later Chowder Kelly stumped down the lawn.
“Uncle Chowder!” Rebecca cried as she ran to him.
“’Becca. How’s my favorite little daisy?” Chowder picked her up like a feather and whirled her about, skirts flying. “Oh, but you’re gettin’ so heavy. What’re they feedin’ you up here?” he said as he put her down. “Looks like you sprouted another inch, or I’m an Orangeman.”
“I eat pancakes every day,” Rebecca said. “They make them sooo big, and I can have as many as I want.”
“Chowder,” Mary said as she came up to them, “you are a sight for sore eyes. I’m so glad you’ve come.”
Chowder shrugged. “Gets me out of the city and away from the chief.”
Mary gave him a hug and a peck on the cheek.
“Are you going to find Mike, Uncle Chowder? He’s with Daddy you know, and Daddy always knows where he is.”
Owens came up just then. Mary wondered with a start whether he’d heard what Rebecca said about Tom and Mike. Owens’s expression didn’t give anything away if he had. He carried Rebecca’s bonnet in one hand, a string of trout in the other.
“The little miss forgot her bonnet,” he said, handing it to Rebecca. “I’ll see these fish ’re ready for dinner.”
Mary thanked him and turned to Chowder, who Owens had been eyeing.
“Detective Sergeant Kelly, at your service,” Chowder said, extending a hand.
“Owens’s the name. You’re up from the city to help find the killer, then?”
Chowder nodded.
“Yeah. Wish I could help s’ more, but this is our busy time. Have to be off for Long Lake this evening. Got work up there tomorrow.”
“Mister Owens has been very helpful already,” Mary said to Chowder. “He helped Tom when they first went after Tupper.”
“Oh? You are to be thanked then, Mister Owens. I’m sure I speak for the commissioner himself when I give you your due on behalf of the department. It’s a fine, hardy man who pitches in on the side of the law when there’s a pinch.”
“Nothin’ at all, Sergeant. Wish I could help more, like I say, but my idle afternoons ’re scarce as hen’s teeth now,” he said with a nod toward Mary, “but none more pleasantly spent, ma’am.”
They parted, Mary, Rebecca, and Chowder heading for the verandah. “Hell of a place, this,” Chowder said. “The very devil to get to, though.” He looked down the length of the verandah, then out at the lawns, the lake, and the boathouse. “Hardly a soul about. Them guides,” he said with a nod toward an idle group by the boathouse, “they don’t look overbusy. Stage was near full heading out, too.”
“Can’t blame people,” Mary said. “Everybody’s jittery over the murder.”
“Oh, to be sure. I just wonder what’s keepin’ Mister Owens so busy, is all.”
Mary laughed. “Not here two minutes and you’re busy detecting. Relax Chowder. Owens isn’t your man.” The laugh faded, the smile too. “It’s that lunatic, Tupper,” she said. “That’s why nobody’s around. Everybody’s scared to death. Tommy would be, too, if he had any sense, which we both know he doesn’t,” she said with a rueful smile that was still part pride.
Before Chowder could ask the obvious question, Mary answered it for him. “Mike’s with him, just like ’Becca says,” she said in a low voice. “You don’t know that, and I didn’t tell you, but he is.” She fingered the swatch of cloth in her pocket. “Hmm,” Chowder rumbled. “We obviously need to talk.”
In low tones, Mary told Chowder all she knew. She even told him about the piece of cloth.
“I suppose you should have this,” she said, handing it to him.
“Bit it off the attacker?” Chowder mumbled, examining it closely. “Arm about the neck, she struggles, bites.”
“That’s what Tommy thought.” Mary turned and called out, “’Becca! Stay where I can see you.”
Rebecca had strayed on the lawn while Mary and Chowder sat talking.
“I am, Mommy.”
Mary waved back.
Chowder waved too. “That sheriff you told me about, he doesn’t know about this?”
“No. He hadn’t arrived when Tom went after Tupper, so Tom left it with me. Tom didn’t trust that doctor.”
“Where’s the sheriff now?” Chowder wanted to know.
“Haven’t seen him today at all. Out searching, I suppose.” Chowder stretched and got up from his chair. “Think I’ll just go an’ ask.”
Chowder came back a few minutes later, clumping fast down the echoing wooden verandah. “He’s gone someplace called Long Lake with a party of deputies, according to the clerk at the desk. Got word there was lots o’ firing on the lake last night, a regular battle.”
Mary jumped up. “I’m going with you!”
Chowder was about to protest, but hesitated a moment then shrugged and said, “Better pack some things.”
They had bushwhacked for hours since their early lunch, a stop that hadn’t lasted more than ten minutes.
“He wasn’t wounded bad,” Mitchell said. “No more blood on the trail.”
“How far ahead you think he is?” Tom asked. “We must’ve made up some distance on him.”
“Maybe,” Mitchell said. “A trail don’t change much in a couple hours. Couple days is another tale. We’re close, though.”
“Close enough to catch him today?”
Mitchell shrugged. “Depends. He’s heading for an area that’s seen lots o’ logging. We’re lucky, he might get spotted. If we’re not, we might lose his trail. Logging chews up the forest. Could be tough tracking.”
“Great,” Tom said, spitting out the word. “Let’s go.”
A few minutes more and Mitchell stopped dead. Tom ducked down on one knee. Mike stood watching, too tired to recognize the danger. Tom waved him low. Mitchell bent and circled in a widening radius. When Tom felt it was safe, he advanced to where Mitchell was searching.
“He stopped here,” Mitchell said, not taking his eye from the ground. “He’s careless.” Mitchell poked at some leaves with his toe, turning up a mason jar buried there. He picked it up and sniffed at the open lid. “Peaches.”
“Peaches?”
“Peaches. See for yourself,” Mitchell said, holding the jar for Tom to inspect. “Probably doesn’t know we’re behind him. If he did he would’ve been more careful.”
Tom didn’t see how. The jar had been buried. Mitchell seemed to sense his skepticism. “There’s other sign he didn’t bother to cover. Crumbs there by the log,” he said, pointing them out, “and this.” He held up a piece of brown paper no bigger than a postage stamp.
“Need to be careful, but move fast. H
e’s not more ’n a mile ahead, maybe less. Run when we can.”
“Let’s go,” Tom said, waving Mike to follow.
They moved at a grueling pace, walking fast most of the time, and running when the way was clear. Mitchell didn’t seem to tire, though he went fast enough that he slowly widened the gap between him and Mike. They were going at a jog, Mitchell well ahead, when something caught his eye and he skidded to a stop. He peered at a large hemlock just to the right as Mike and Tom jogged up.
Mitchell cocked his head and was frowning, when suddenly he called out, “Stop!” Mike skidded on the leaves, his feet going out from under him. He felt his foot hit a root under the leaves, felt and heard something snap. There was a whoosh as a limb of the hemlock swept above him like a scythe.
“Sonofabitch!” Tom said, the big branch just missing him. “You all right?”
Mike got up as the branch swayed back and forth above him. He brushed himself, unhurt but scared.
“Sorry,” Mitchell said. “Moving too fast to spot it. You okay?”
Tom examined the branch, which had been held back with a length of rope rigged as a tripwire and buried under the leaves. “Damn lucky, I’d say. Might not have killed, but it sure would have done some damage, enough to slow us down at least.”
“He knows we’re here,” Mitchell said, “or he’s just being careful. We’ll need to go slower. Gotta be close.”
By the time they took their next break they were all breathing hard and dripping sweat onto the brown carpet of leaves.
“Holding up okay?” Tom asked when he saw Mike shuck off his pack and drop onto a log.
Mike wiped his forehead with a damp kerchief. “Sure,” he said with a gulp of air. “Besides, can’t let a couple of old guys get the better of me.”
Tom laughed but kept it low, just a rumble in his chest. “Got news for you. Mitchell could run us both into the ground.”
They took a quick drink and started again. The terrain became more rolling, the forest thicker, spotted with pine and spruce. The forest floor was cooler, the air more fragrant. They jogged, the packbaskets bumping on their backs, straps chafing shoulders. Mitchell stopped once more, Mike and Tom after. He stood listening, head cocked to one side.
“What is it?” Tom asked when he came up.
“Loggers. Thought I heard axes. We need to close up on Tupper if we can,” Mitchell said. “Keep spread out. Have a care.” He started again at a trot, following Tupper’s invisible trail along the side of a long ridge.
The pines were thicker, their needles sometimes slippery under foot. As they went, the sound of lumbering became louder. They could hear the chunk of axes and the calls of men from somewhere above them, up on the ridge. Still, the trail they followed seemed to skirt the logging, keeping within earshot but out of sight. Then a shout echoed from above. It carried like the ringing of a bell.
“Timber, timber, timber!”
They heard a long creaking groan as some giant of the forest went over. There was a whoosh, an impact, and a second, long, groaning shriek, another whoosh, an impact and another groan of tearing wood.
Each falling tree seemed closer than the last, marching down the ridge. Tom, Mike, and Mitchell stood frozen as the shrieking wood and crashing limbs thrashed toward them. They gathered speed. The third tree, then the fourth rocked the trees above and shook the ground beneath their feet. A wind went before, like a tornado it whistled around them.
“Run!” Mitchell had to shout over the noise. “Run!”
Tom followed Mitchell as he bounded ahead. They ducked behind a huge maple. The forest erupted behind them. Branches, bark, leaves, bunches of needles and pinecones rained down as an enormous white pine exploded where they had been. A cloud of dust rolled over them. Shafts of light stabbed through the forest canopy. “Mike!”
Tupper heard the crashing of the trees behind him. He grinned. With luck his trail would be lost in the carnage. He wasn’t sure he’d been followed, but he’d expected it and had moved as fast as he could despite his wounded leg. He told himself that only an expert, a man born to the woods would be able to pick up his trail. But such men could be found and were maybe already behind him. It was wise to go and go quickly.
As his grandfather had reminded him, “The rabbit does not stop to see if the fox still follows.” Like a ghost, Tupper flitted from tree to tree, until the noise of the loggers was lost in the distance.
Twenty-Four
One mornin’ ’fore daylight, Jim Lou he got mad
Knocked hell out of Mitchell and the boys was all glad
His wife, she stood there, and the truth I will tell
She was tickled to death to see Mitchell catch hell
Derry down, down, down derry down.
—“THE RACKETS ’ROUND BLUE MOUNTAIN LAKE”
“Are we there yet, Uncle Chowder?” Rebecca asked in a weary little voice from the back of the shay.
“Pretty soon I think, ’Becca,” he said, though he wasn’t all that sure.
They’d been on the road nearly three hours. The sun was strong, the road rutted and dusty. Like brown talcum power, it rose up as they passed, settling on everything. Their throats were dry. In their haste, they’d forgotten to bring water. Rounding a bend in the road they saw the silvery flash of water and a lone house amid a field of stumps.
“Hey there,” Chowder said. “See, what did Uncle Chowder tell ya? There’s the town.”
Rebecca jumped up. “That’s not a town. A town has lots of houses, lots and lots.”
She was right. They drove another mile and more before they came to anything that looked like a town, passing a few cabins and houses on the way, none of which looked too prosperous.
Cresting a rise in the road, they saw a scattered cluster of houses, a church in the distance, and what appeared to be a general store.
The town did not hold their attention, though. A small group of men were milling about the shore of the lake. Two seemed to be examining a pair of boats.
“Oh,” Mary said, putting a hand on Chowder’s arm, “that’s the sheriff, MacDougal, the one in suspenders, with the high boots. Sol Sabattis, the one I told you about, he’s the one kneeling.”
They pulled to a stop a moment later. The sheriff walked toward the shay, squinting at Chowder once he’d recognized Mary.
“What good you think you’ll do here, I’ll be damned if I ken,” MacDougal said to Mary.
“It’s no help you’ll be, that’s certain.”
Rebecca gave the sheriff a sour look.
“Och, an’ ye brought your little missy with ya, too. Ain’t that just grand.”
“It’s my right to be here,” Mary said. She had her hand on the whip and looked as if she might use it.
MacDougal ignored her. Looking at Chowder, he said, “And you’d be Sergeant Kelly.” He extended a hand as he looked Chowder up and down.
“At your service, boyo,” Chowder said with a smile that was no smile at all.
“A Mick! Don’t that beat all. Come to show us rustics how things’re done,” MacDougal said with a wry grin. “Suppose I won’t hold that agin ya. Glad of the help, if ya gotta know. Not much of a pool o’ trained detectives up this way,” he said, throwing a thumb over his shoulder at the deputies behind him.
“Detective Sergeant Kelly,” Chowder said, trying figure whether or not he should take offense. “Here to help. That’s all. What’s your interest in those boats?”
MacDougal hooked his thumbs behind his suspenders and set his legs apart.
“Well, Detective Sergeant Kelly, this is how matters stand. Missus Braddock’s boy is on the run. There’s those that say he killed a pretty, young maid, but I suppose you ken that.”
MacDougal paused, but when Chowder said nothing he went on. “Seems he’s joined up with his father an’ Mitchell Sabattis. Don’t suppose you knew that. The three o’ them’re chasin’ this Tupper fella all over hell’s half acre. Was a gun battle on the lake last night. Found one boat
shot up, the other bashed, an’ three kinds o’ shell casings. That’s how I know Mike was there,” MacDougal said, as if this were proof of his detective skills.
“Exemplary police work,” Chowder said, as if he meant it.
MacDougal huffed. “Well, it sure didn’t come from Sol. He can be one dumb Indian when it suits ’im.”
“I’m sure,” Chowder said without inflection.
“An’ another thing, Chauncey Busher’s dead. He’s the guide Braddock set out wi’ after Tupper.”
“Mister Busher’s dead?” Mary said. She tried to sound shocked, but wasn’t sure she pulled it off. She’d certainly suspected as much.
“He told me the beaver poem,” Rebecca said. “He’s not dead. I saw him last week.”
She looked up at Mary for confirmation, but all Mary could do was offer a distracted frown. Though Mary knew that going after Tupper was a thing fraught with danger, she somehow never believed that anyone but Tupper might be losing his life because of it.
“When did it happen? How?” Mary asked.
“Not real clear on the details. Don’t have the body yet, just the report. Sol tol’ me that much.”
“Tupper’s a maniac,” Chowder said. “You should be grateful Braddock’s taking a hand in this.”
“Braddock’s got his son in mind more ’n anything about catchin’ Tupper, with all due respect, ma’am,” he said with a nod toward Mary. “Not that I blame him. Done enough pokin’ around the last day or so to know a thing or two. I ken that your son an’ Lettie were not alone that last day when they were—” MacDougal caught himself, then thought of a more delicate way to phrase it, “when they went for a walk. I ken there was someone spyin on ’em, and not one, but maybe two.”
“What do you mean not alone? Who else was there?” Mary said, frowning.
“Have a good idea it was Tupper. Matched a wagon track to the one he left at Merwin’s; got a big nick in the rim. But someone else maybe was watchin’, maybe somebody even Tupper didn’ ken was there. Hard to tell.”
The Empire of Shadows Page 30