“Send you straight to hell, may God guide my hand.”
Lester crouched to strike, lifting the blade as he did. Mike didn’t think, he just kicked out as hard as he could. He caught Lester in the stomach, pushing him back. Off balance, he stumbled half out of the elevator, falling on his back. The operator, who had regained his senses, kicked his feet away and slammed the brass gate closed. With a blood-slicked hand he slammed the lift mechanism to the down position and the little room started to lower.
Mike pulled himself up, hanging onto the gate, the pain in his side so intense he could hardly stand. But Lester had regained his feet, too, much faster than Mike imagined he would. Lester dove at the gate, first trying to wrench it aside, then plunging his arm through. He cut the operator’s hand, sending blood splattering across the car as the man yelped and pulled it away.
The car was small and Lester’s blade almost reached Mike as well, but the elevator was half down and Lester was crouching to reach them. Mike pulled the pistol from the back of his pants, suddenly remembering he had it. But he held his fire as a strange thing happened. The elevator operator put a foot against Lester’s arm, pinning it within the gate. Lester yelled and cut at the leg, but couldn’t manage to get it off, despite the gash he inflicted. The operator gritted his teeth and braced himself against the wall. The elevator descended. Lester went from his knees to his belly as he tried to pull his arm out, panic making his eyes big as saucers.
“No! No! Lemme go! Damn you!”
The operator paid him no mind. He ground his foot against Lester’s arm as the gap between the car and the floor narrowed to a couple of feet, then a foot. The knife dropped, clattering into the car.
“Stop!” Mike yelled. “Let him go!” But it was too late.
Lester’s scream echoed through the deserted hallways as his arm was crushed in the narrow gap. It disappeared through the brass grate. Blood followed the elevator down. Lester could no longer be seen, but his screams followed them, echoing down the shaft. They turned to howls, then ceased altogether.
Tom didn’t hear the screams. He was out in the storm by that time, the rain pelting his shoulders, thunder shaking the ground beneath his feet. He didn’t find Owens in the bunkhouse, nor did he find anyone who claimed to know where he was. He circled around toward the rear of the hotel, not knowing where to look first, but feeling it was wise to check the outbuildings, structures that Owens would be likely to know well and be more comfortable using.
It was as he was checking the icehouse that Tom saw a figure in the distance enter one of the buildings behind the hotel. It was too dark to see who it was. It was even difficult to make out exactly what building it was. They seemed to huddle together in the dark, their outlines indistinct.
He thought he heard a shot, but the thunder and pelting rain made him uncertain. It took a few minutes for Tom to locate the small building. He padded around the outside, peering through the windows, but finding each of them covered from within. None of the other utility buildings had coverings on the windows of any sort.
There was light, but visible only as bright slashes on either side of the curtains, or whatever they were. There may have been a voice, too, but the pounding rain made it all but impossible to tell. Tom didn’t know what building this was but he approached the door with caution.
He felt the latch, finding it unlocked. Tom stood in the rain for a moment, collecting himself, taking a few deep breaths and checking his pistol. He figured he’d go in hard, try to surprise whoever was inside. If it wasn’t Owens the worst that could happen was that he’d scare the bejesus out of one of the help.
Tom kicked the door open, rolling across the threshold and coming up in a crouch, his pistol ready. The light was in his eyes, leaving the back of the room in darkness. The only thing he saw clearly was Mary and Rebecca, tied to chairs, the light on them as if they were actors on a Broadway stage. Tom saw movement in the dark, but a moment too late.
The thuds of a pistol and the impacts on his body were indistinguishable. His arm went numb and blossomed in red. His pistol clattered across the floor. An instant later he was doubled over by a blinding impact in his stomach. He dropped to one knee, gasping for air, not even certain what had happened. He heard a click and looked up to see Owens standing a few feet away, a towel-wrapped pistol in his hand.
Mary was trying to scream. Here eyes were wide and the veins in her temples stood out with the strain. Rebecca was screaming, too, but behind their gags they sounded so distant, so very far away, as if they were in a dream. Owens took another step and Tom heard the pistol click on another empty cylinder. Owens seemed confused, but not concerned. He threw the pistol aside, keeping the towel. He started to reach for the gun in his belt. He was sure of himself, in no hurry.
Tom didn’t think. He was dead already. He charged at Owens, hitting him low with a shoulder under the ribs. Owens’s pistol skittered off into the darkness as he crashed into the wall. The building shook and wood splintered.
Owens let out a gasp, but tried to grapple. Tom was operating on instinct. He wanted to drive his fist through Owens’s head, break every bone that could be broken. Tom drove a left into Owens’s jaw that snapped his head half around. He instinctively threw a right, but he pain was blinding, stealing what little breath he had. He kicked at Owens’s leg, crumpling him backward, but Owens was caught by the wall and somehow remained on his feet. A rain of lefts poured down on Owens’s head as lightning flashed at the windows.
Owens’s head bounced like a rag doll’s. His nose was smashed. Teeth tumbled from his mouth like red and white kernels of corn. He flailed back, dazed. Tom felt nothing. Another left crushed Owens’s cheekbone and eye socket. Tom felt the bone collapse under his fist. Owens went down on one knee and Tom bashed him with a knee to the face, snapping his head back into the wall.
But Tom was barely able to stand himself. Each breath was an agony, and his vision was down to a small circle of light, surrounded by blackness. He could hardly breathe, feeling his stomach might burst if he did. He reeled, finding himself falling against the wall above Owens.
He somehow caught himself and was about to stomp down on him, when Owens hit Tom with a piece of firewood, the piece Mary had dropped. It hit Tom on his wounded arm, and for the first time he screamed. Something hit him in the stomach as he staggered back, his vision black and starry as an Adirondack night. He was hit again, though he didn’t feel it. Mary screamed behind her gag as Tom fell at her feet. She stared down as his eyes rolled back in his head, showing nothing but white.
Mary rose up, throwing herself forward on top of Tom, her only thought to cover his body with hers.
Owens stood over them, sucking air, gasping for each bubbling breath. Mary felt his blood spatter her back. He said nothing. His face was a jellied mass of red and he labored for each breath, his hands braced on shaking knees. Glacial minutes crawled past.
Mary heard him above her, expecting to feel the bayonet plunge through her skull. She could feel Tom breathe beneath her and knowing there was still life in him gave her strength.
“Wanna die t’gether, huh?” Owens gurgled above them at last, his broken face making the words come out in a slurry of blood and spit.
Mary heard Owens turn and lifted her head to watch him stagger off, looking blindly for a weapon. Mary saw something else out of the corner of her eye. Tupper’s boot moved.
“Get yer wish. Promise,” Owens slurred. “Watch little ’Becca get it first.” He spat blood and it ran down his chin. “Whersh foockn’ pisto?”
Mary saw Tupper rise until it seemed he towered above her. His head and shoulders were covered in blood and one ear hung off, dangling by a thread of flesh. His left leg was dipped in red too.
“Dere,” Owens grunted as he bent for the pistol. Tupper stumped after him. Mary heard him mumbling something she could not understand. It sounded like a chant, the words coming in a definite cadence. Owens heard him too. He had gone down on one knee to pick up the
pistol. Owens turned and fired as he stood on wobbling legs. Point-blank, he blasted at Tupper, the shots sounding impossibly loud in the enclosed space.
Tupper kept coming. He didn’t slow, didn’t seem to feel the bullets ripping into him. Mary swore she could hear him chant, even after he’d been hit. Tupper rushed the last few steps, crashing into Owens and carrying them both into the Long-waisted Maryann. The dynamo rocked. Sparks flashed. Blue arcs of electricity leapt out of its coils and terminals. Tupper and Owens went stiff, like insects, electric pins skewered them in place.
Tupper’s shoes began to smoke and blue flames jumped from his fingertips, disappearing into Owens’s twitching flesh. Low moans escaped them, as they stood, locked together. The steam engine thumped its relentless rhythm, eating the forest a stick at a time, feeding power to the dynamo. Wood become electric. The light in the ceiling went out.
Mary rolled off Tom and watched as the two men sizzled. Tom stirred. Tupper fell first. Smoke leaked from his eyes and hair. Owens fell too. He seemed to melt into the floor as if his bones had turned to jelly. For a long time nothing moved. The smell of burnt flesh and singed hair hung heavy, settling in a low mist along the floor. In the occasional flashes of lightning, Mary could see the bodies by the dynamo. They did not move.
Mary began working on her bonds, working her hands back and forth. Her wounded arm screamed with every movement. It seemed to take forever, but it was only a few minutes before she got one hand loose. A moment later her gag was gone.
“It’s over, ’Becca. It’s over, sweetheart,” she said. “I’ll untie you in a second.”
At last she got the second rope loose, and she reached for Tom, slapping his face and calling his name. “Tommy! Tommy! Stay with me. Hang on. You’re gonna be all right.”
His eyes flickered. He could barely see Mary, but he knew she was there. “Sorry,” he said.
Mary laughed and cried and kissed his cheek. “Save your sorries for someone who needs them. You just hold on, I’ve got to get ’Becca loose.” Mary rushed to her, pulled off her gag and hugged her.
“You are so brave. Such a brave little girl!” Mary said in her ear as she hugged her tight. Rebecca cried, unable to say anything. Mary worked on her bonds. The knots were tight. She got one off and was pulling at the other when Rebecca’s eyes went wide. She shrieked and pointed with her free hand.
A black shadow oozing gray smoke swayed in the dark. Owens staggered, then went to pick up something from the floor. A shot split the darkness like a bolt of lightning. Tom had somehow gotten to his backup pistol and was firing from the floor. Mary didn’t know if he’d hit anything.
Tom’s arm was waving around like a reed in a storm. He fired again, but Owens seemed to pay no attention. He stood slowly, the length of steel glinting in his hand. Mary dove for the floor as Tom’s pistol cracked again. Owens stumbled, then regained his footing; but when he did, Mary was there with Tupper’s Winchester thrust up under his chin. She pulled the trigger.
Thirty
Perhaps when earth, fond mother, has called us to her bosom,
When night has drawn the curtains and we no longer roam,
When unto each is given Earth’s unfilled desires,
We may find in some Nirvana our Adirondack home.
—OLIVE GOOLEY
Mike and Mitchell were at the door when Owens went down. Mary came close to shooting them, too, when they pounded into the room. She screamed, but then Mike was there holding her, and suddenly the room seemed to be filled with people, waiters, maids, guides, and guests all jostling at the door and trying to peer in at the windows. Mary fell beside Tom, and Mike scooped Rebecca into his arms where she buried her face in his shoulder.
“Tommy. It’s over,” Mary whispered. “Can you hear me? He’s dead.”
“Oughta be,” Tom wheezed. “Blew his fucking head off.”
Mary laughed gratefully, hysterically, like a string of Chinese firecrackers exploding.
“He’ll live, I think,” Doctor Whelen told Mary sometime near 1 A.M. The doctor had been working on Tom for hours. He ran a hand through his hair as he spoke with her and blinked the fatigue from his eyes. “I’ve done about all I can for now. He’s unconscious but stable.” He looked at Mary from under heavy brows, as if measuring her.
“I can see there’s more,” Mary said. “Tell me. What is it?”
Whelen shrugged. “He’s in a weakened state, Missus Braddock. He can’t be moved. In a few days perhaps we’ll see, but right now he would not survive the trip to North Creek, let alone Albany, where he’d be able to get the best of care. And…,” the doctor hesitated a moment before continuing, “if an infection sets in, well there’s limited resources at my disposal, as you might imagine.”
“So he might still die?” Mary said.
“I’m afraid so,” the doctor replied, not looking Mary in the eye. “He’s a strong man, though, with a vital will, so I am hopeful.”
Mary shook her head. “You have no idea, Doctor. No idea.”
As he described it to Frederick and General Duryea at an early breakfast many hours later, “Though I’m certain he was in the utmost pain imaginable, he hardly showed it.”
“He’s still alive then?” Duryea said.
“Oh yes. Quite, though I’m damned if I can say how, gentlemen. Surely, he might not survive much longer. The man has been through hell. He was in a weakened state to begin with. I’m certain he had a concussion, probably sustained from before the fight last night. He was dehydrated and about as close to exhaustion as a man can be. He’d lost almost half his blood, or I’m a veterinarian, yet he was talking to me while I worked. Remarkable!”
“Indeed! I told you,” Frederick said. “The man is as tough as roots.”
Doctor Whelen nodded. “He’s so full of opium, he’s not aware of much pain at this point. But when he awakes, well…” Whelen shrugged. “We’ll just have to keep him dosed.”
“Did you see Owens?” Duryea said with a shudder. “Not even an animal deserves such a fate.”
“Normally I’d agree with you, General,” William West Durant said as he sat down with them. He’d traveled through the night to lend whatever support he could to Tom and Mary and had just come from Tom’s bedside. He’d seen Owens as well. “But, in this case, I’d have to say that Exeter Owens received exactly what he earned.”
Within a few days Tom seemed well enough to travel, although he was in a great deal of pain. Still, he managed to sit up in bed and sip the clear broth that Mary fed him with her good arm. The doctor had seen to her as well, finding the wound to be a clean puncture through the bicep.
“You were fortunate, Missus Braddock,” Dr. Whelen told her as he fixed a sling for her arm. “There appears to be no nerve damage and relatively little blood loss. This could have been much worse. Your son was lucky, too. He’s got a nasty cut, but apparently, when his ribs were set in that lumber camp, the woman bound in some whalebone for stiffening.”
Mary smiled. “I almost took them out, but Mike wouldn’t let me, said they helped ease the ache, especially when he slept.”
“Be glad of that. The bandages and the whalebone deflected the worst of the blow. He might be dead right now, if not for that.”
The decision was made to try to get Tom to Albany, or at least to Saratoga. He was given an extra dose of laudanum that had him seeing double but feeling little pain. He was bundled in blankets against the autumn chill, which had gripped the region after the rain.
Mitchell was there as they loaded Tom into a carriage that William had provided. He stood to one side, his shotgun leaning against his side like a third leg. His hat looked as well-used as ever. Mitchell’s deep-set eyes sparkled when he saw Tom, and the creases at the corners of his mouth deepened into a smile.
“Mitchell,” Tom said, extending a hand from under his blanket. “Good to see you.”
The old Abanaki Indian took Tom’s hand. “And you too,” he said with a small grin. They clasped hand
s for a long moment until they both felt awkward.
“Be back come spring,” Tom said through the opiate haze. “I’ll write.”
“Good,” Mitchell said with a nod. “Next time we just go fishing.”
One by one, Frederick, General Duryea, and finally William said their good-byes, wishing Tom well, making him promise to write, saying that he must come back when he was well, and many other things he figured they mostly didn’t mean, but said because they were gentlemen.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll call on you in a month or so, when I’m back in town,” William said. “We are all in your debt, Tom and I hope you don’t mind if I look into ways of repaying you in some small way for the good you’ve done.”
Tom just smiled. He’d been fed so much laudanum that he wasn’t at all sure what William was saying. But he gripped Durant’s hand and managed, “Thanks,” though he wasn’t sure for what. They put him in the carriage then and Tom closed his eyes. He didn’t know about coming back, or fishing, or anything. He wasn’t sure even he’d make it home, though he tried not to show it to Mary.
They all shook Mike’s hand, too, and they all said how happy they were that he’d been cleared, and how they’d never believed he’d done such a terrible thing, and that they hoped he’d not remember them unkindly. Mike held no grudges. That surprised him. He thought he probably should, especially against the doctor; but, somehow, he just did not feel that way. What he felt, now that he had the time to feel was a slow sadness.
He mourned Lettie Burman still. The pain of losing her had withered to a dull ache, a suit of sadness he put on each day with the opening of his eyes. But that sadness did not rule him, not as it would have a month before, a lifetime before. He tried to bear it as he figured Tom would, or as Mitchell bore things.
He felt no less deeply. He simply carried the hurt in ways he hadn’t before. He could not have explained how that came to be. It simply was. When he shook hands with Mitchell, the old guide held him with his ancient eyes, his small hand gripping Mike’s like roots on rock.
The Empire of Shadows Page 37