The Empire of Shadows Read online

  “Don’t tell me. Let me guess.” There was a long silence as he pretended to think. “Time to go fishing?”

  “No,” Mary answered with a poke at his ribs. “It’s time for you to spend some time with that boy of ours.”

  A grunt came from under the pillow, managing to sound guilty and reluctant at the same time.

  “What time is it really?” he asked, throwing the pillow off and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  “It’s after nine.”

  Tom groaned as he rolled his feet out onto the floor and sat up. “This is supposed to be a vacation, right?” he said as he hauled himself to his feet and stretched. “Damn! I’m sore from all that riding yesterday. Got a bruise on my ribs from the seat on that stage.” He rubbed the spot on his back with a grimace.

  “No sympathy from me. Now get moving, soldier,” Mary said in mock command. Tom grunted as he stood for a moment looking out their window at the morning lake, sparkling in blue-sky reflections. Perhaps it was her pretending to give Tom an order, or the way he looked as he stared off over the water, but Mary found herself asking, “What happened at Chancellorsville, Tommy?” wishing as soon as she said it that she could take the question back.

  Tom stood still, silhouetted against the morning light that poured in the window. Mary’s question had ambushed him, taken him by the flank, rolling up any resistance before he could mount a proper defense. He found himself back at Chancellorsville, his mind replaying it in fits and starts, the noise and confusion, the smoke thick and stinging in the back of his throat. The volleys crashed over them, clipping branches and throwing up showers of earth. He knew he was telling Mary how it was, but it wasn’t him telling it. Some other part of him was there in the hotel room, the rest was back in Virginia, ducking a thundering hail of bullets, so scared he could hardly think. Tom began to sweat as he told her how it was.

  He told her how they got into position along the creek. They’d surprised the first assault, cutting down a hundred or more before they knew what hit them. In the lull before the second rush they’d slipped by their left flank along the creek, staying low. When the charge came most of the rebels’ first volley tore harmlessly into where they had been.

  Again, Tom’s men had thrown them back but their losses were mounting. Though they shifted position once more, it didn’t help.

  “Ran right over us. Got in the creek by our right flank. Shot us all to pieces,” he told Mary, seeing the small stream running bright red in his mind’s eye. The noise and the cries and the splashing of the red water flashed in his head in staccato bursts of sight and sound.

  “That’s when I got wounded,” he said absently. “This scar on my arm,” he said, holding up his left forearm. She knew where it was. “Bayonet,” he said, rubbing it as if it still hurt.

  “He came out of the smoke, running right at me. Held up my arm. I was reloading. Wasn’t ready. Bayonet went right through and hit my chest. Bounced off a rib.” Tom took a deep breath before he went on. “My Spencer went off under his chin.”

  There was a long silence. Mary said nothing. The image she had of what that instant must have been like was almost mesmerizing in its horror. Tom just stared out the window at the shimmering blues and greens of the Adirondacks. Mary watched in silence. She knew there was more but dreaded its telling almost as much as Tom.

  “You can’t imagine what a bullet can do to a boy’s face,” Tom said at last. “Pieces of bone and blood all over me. Mouth just a big hole. Jaw shattered—hanging. Nose gone. One eye out—like a bloody grape.” Tom put his hands to his face as if trying to imagine what it must have been like to be so suddenly and horribly transformed.

  “Worst part was it didn’t kill him. Stood there face to face, him screaming, holding his face.” Tom shivered visibly. “He couldn’t have been more than sixteen or so. I ran. Looked back once. He was on his hands and knees in the creek, splashing that red water—screaming.”

  “Tommy, you were soldiers. He almost killed you,” Mary said with perfect logic.

  “Oh yes,” Tom answered in a low voice. “He would have killed me. I know that,” he said turning toward her with a grim smile of gratitude at her try. He was silent for a time and Mary could see he was trying to put words to the things he felt.

  “I should have killed him,” Tom said slowly. “I should have but…” Tom looked at her in a silent appeal for understanding, not of what he’d done but what he hadn’t. “What if he lived? He could have, you know. I’ve seen men survive things you wouldn’t believe.”

  “I don’t see how it’s possible, Tommy,” Mary said gently. It was strange trying to comfort him with the certainty of the death.

  “Can’t imagine life like that,” he mumbled.

  “You’re a good man, Tommy,” Mary said softly. She had gotten out of bed and now pulled him close, cradling his head on her shoulder. “Bad things sometimes happen to good men,” she said with the voice of a mother.

  But to her it didn’t sound comforting. It sounded trite and patronizing and superficial, a shallow attempt at true understanding. She knew then why Tom had never spoken of these things. She understood for the first time the burden they put on all who heard them. Mary wished she had never heard Tom’s story, wished she could unhear it, just wipe it away. Some burdens are best born alone.

  Ten

  I’ve always had a great love for the woods and a hunter’s life ever since I could carry a gun and have had a great many narrow escapes from being torn to pieces by bears, panthers, wolves and moose

  —JOHN CHENEY

  Chauncey Busher was a teller of tales. They rolled off his tongue in an endless string, like an unraveling ball of yarn. In his slow and easy style he wove that yarn into one story after another, tales of intrepid guides, packs of hungry wolves, prowling mountain lions, giant fish, foolish sports, and most everything in between.

  He worked the long, slender oars of the guide boat like a metronome, timing his delivery with his strokes as Tom and Mike trolled for lakers. The big brown trout that prowled the lightless depths of Blue could go fifteen pounds or more. According to Chauncey, who seemed not to take more than a breath or two between stories, there was a laker in this part of Blue that had once towed a boat for hours.

  “Fella hooked into ’im and for near three hours he got drug aroun’ this lake. Give up at last an’ cut the line.”

  “Really?” Mike asked. “I’d never have done that. Give up on a damn fish? No, sir.”

  Busher spat a dark stream of tobacco into the tea-brown waters. “Don’t know about that,” Busher ventured. “Take a damn big fish to tow a boat aroun’ this lake. They got teeth, ya know. Not big ones, mind, but they’s like needles. Give ya a nasty bite, even the middling ones.”

  “Guess I know something about bein’ bit,” Mike replied, chuckling. Tom and the guide laughed too.

  “Guess you do at that, son. But you notice there ain’t no ducks this side of the lake?” he asked with a more serious edge to his voice. “Well, there ain’t. They’s skeered. That laker eats ’em. Seen it once myself. Sucked a big, fat drake down with but one feather left. Fish like that’ll bite you like you never been bit.” Busher paused for emphasis. “And maybe he just never’ll let go, neither,” he added in a voice that had Mike thinking of being pulled down to the murky depths by the monster of Blue. He laughed a little too loudly.

  “Guess I’ll let you gaff that one, Mister Busher.”

  Tom grinned and turned to the guide. “That goes for me too, Chauncey. One thing though,” he went on, “why aren’t we be using ducks for bait?”

  The day flowed by on and endless stream of stories, interrupted from time to time by fish. One was so big it bent Mike’s pole nearly double. When it finally gave up and was brought to the net it wouldn’t fit, and the guide had to grab him by the gill to drag him in flopping and gasping, “That’s a fine big fish,” Chauncey said. “Fought him good, too. You got the touch.”

  Tom and Mike grinned at eac
h other until Mike seemed to remember himself and looked away.

  It was late afternoon when Busher bumped the bow of the guide boat into the Prospect House dock. Tom and Mike were tired and sunburned, but neither cared. They’d caught fish and swapped stories. They’d swatted flies and taken turns at the long oars, even though Busher said he’d like it just as well if they didn’t. There had been silences too, but the shared kind that grow out of knowing where you are and who you’re with and liking it. Tom settled up with Busher and made plans for the next day. Busher took their catch to the kitchens.

  “Guess you’ll be having trout tonight, Cap’n,” Busher said. He’d started calling Tom “Cap’n” as soon as he’d found out what Tom did back in New York. Tom grinned.

  “You keep a couple for yourself, Chauncey. We’ll see you tomorrow at nine.” Tom and Mike walked up the hill to the hotel, noticing how dirty they were once they were among the other guests.

  They were in the elevator with a couple of other people that Tom hadn’t paid much attention to, when he noticed a furtive glance and a shy smile from Mike. Tom didn’t look around until they got off. She was damn pretty in her maid’s uniform he had to admit. He recognized her as the one from the pharmacy the day before. She was the only one Mike could have been smiling at, so it didn’t take a detective to figure.

  The elevator door closed on her sparkling eyes as Tom wondered if he should be concerned. He shook off the thought and put his arm around Mike’s shoulder as they headed to their room. “Down, boy,” was all he said.

  Mike looked surprised. “Huh?” he asked in a puzzled voice. Tom just laughed.

  “I’m a detective,” he said with a slap on Mike’s shoulder. “Once upon a time I was a tomcat too. Before your mother, that is.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Mike mumbled as he rubbed his sunburned shoulder.

  Mike and Tom got cleaned up and an hour later they were ready; and, as usual, they waited for Mary, and for Rebecca, who had been fussing about her hair and crying bitter tears over the pigtails Mary had tied. Tom and Mike beat a hasty retreat.

  They could hear shooting clearly from the piazza of the Prospect House. The shots thumped and echoed across the lake, the sound bouncing off the mountains beyond. The shooting had started about ten minutes before and hadn’t let up. “Sounds like a war,” Mike said.

  “Sounds like a lot of shooting and not much aiming,” Tom answered, saying a silent prayer that Mike would never know what war really sounded like.

  “We can take ’em,” Mike said to Tom. Tom hadn’t wanted to get into a shooting match, but he could see already that it was going to be hard not to. Mike had Tom’s Winchester cradled in the crook of his arm and stood at the railing of the piazza for all to see. Tom realized with a start that Mike was posing, probably hoping that little maid would be impressed with his manly handling of firearms. Tom heaved a sigh.

  “Don’t know, Mike. Sounds like those Duryea boys’ve been getting plenty of practice. They might give us a run for our money.”

  Mary, with a sulking Rebecca in tow, came bustling out of the hotel just then and with hardly a pause said, “We’re going to be late if we don’t get moving, Tommy,” as if it had been he who’d held things up. She headed down the broad staircase while Tom and Mike exchanged bewildered frowns.

  They walked behind the hotel and up the long hill to the Durant residence. Frederick kept a large but unpretentious house just a few hundred yards away, spending a good deal of his time there during the tourist season. Frederick and his wife greeted them warmly, shooing away Mary’s apologies for being late. Frederick introduced his wife, Clara, a charming, cultured woman, well-schooled in the social graces, yet still reserved. Tom and Mary were not members of their social circle after all. Until they proved worthy, a certain polite distance would be maintained.

  The general came out to greet them, too. “Ah, wonderful,” he said when he saw that Mike had brought the Winchester. “I’m afraid my boys have started without you, but that’s alright. They’ll love to have someone to shoot with.” He turned to Tom, saying, “And you too, of course, Sergeant. Oh,” he caught himself. “I suppose I should call you Captain now, eh?”

  “I’d prefer Tom, if it’s all right with you, General.”

  “Of course, of course. And I’m no general any more either,” he replied. “It’s Hiram from here on, but my friends call me Hi.”

  Tom somehow didn’t feel comfortable with “Hi,” but said, “Fine by me” as he pumped Duryea’s hand.

  The firing had stopped. The Duryea boys came slouching in to greet them. Chester and Harry appeared to be about the same age as Mike but seemed to have a bit more of a swagger to them, especially Chester. He wore the shadow of a smirk, as if he knew something everyone else didn’t. He was well-mannered, though, and well-spoken, too.

  “I see you’ve brought your rifle,” he said with an almost fox-in-the-henhouse kind of grin.

  “Prepared for a bit of a match? I must warn you, Harry and I have been practicing.”

  “I heard,” Mike replied.

  Chester just grinned. “We do enjoy shooting. That a thirty-forty Winchester? We have one, too, but that looks like a newer model. I must have a turn at it.”

  “Sure,” Tom said. “Give it a try.”

  Mike didn’t seem all that happy with letting anyone use his rifle, even if it was really Tom’s.

  “I think you’ll like the balance,” Tom went on. “Better muzzle velocity and flatter trajectory than the forty-four forty, but not as much punch. Still plenty good for deer.”

  “Mister Braddock is a captain in the New York City Police Department, boys,” Duryea broke in. “I imagine he knows one end of a pistol from the other as well.”

  Tom chuckled. “Been on the wrong end of one once or twice, too.”

  Duryea clapped a hand on Tom’s shoulder, steering him after the women, who had headed toward the back of the house. “Never did have a paper target shoot back at me. Prefer it that way.”

  William West Durant and his wife, Janet, arrived fashionably late. The trip from Raquette Lake was long enough, even by steamboat, that they’d had to start out just after lunch to make it by dinner. No one minded. Once they all settled around the dining table, the talk started to turn to Mary. Frederick, who spent a good deal of time in New York, said with a frown, “You must forgive me, Missus Braddock, but ever since we met last night I have had the feeling we’ve met before. I really can’t place where.”

  This was just the sort of thing that Tom and Mary lived in dread of. Mary was the sort of woman men remembered. Her long, black hair framed an exotic face that was a blend of her Irish and Cherokee heritage. Her figure and carriage were nothing short of superb, and, as Tom was fond of reminding her, every bit as stunning as before Rebecca was born. She was also a successful woman, one of the few who owned a respectable house, and in her case two.

  Many madams fronted for the real owners, who were of course men. Mary ran her own places, and in a twist that she relished had a few years before hired a man to front for her. Tom had insisted on it once they were married. Still, she was at her houses on West Twenty-sixth Street nearly every day. These days, she mostly played hostess in the gaming room.

  That had been another change since she and Tom were married. They’d added a large, tastefully appointed gambling operation to the already successful entertainment that Mary’s girls supplied. There were a couple of roulette wheels, tables for dice and faro, and private rooms for high-stakes poker. This was where Mary spent most of her time now, distancing herself from the operation of the “den of iniquity” she’d run for years. This was just for the public.

  In reality she was every bit as involved a madam as she had ever been, with the one exception that she no longer entertained clients. She did, however, choose her girls, provide them with the proper clothes, and medical care, and in some cases training. Some in whom she saw potential were schooled in the social graces, the better to cater to her wealthier clie
ntele and out-of-town businessmen seeking a hightoned escort for an evening or two.

  It was quite possible that Frederick Durant had been to her place. It was well known amongst the wealthier sporting set, dandies, and fancy men. Perhaps he’d been there to gamble, perhaps more.

  “The theater, possibly? Tom and I went to the Grand Opera House just a few weeks ago.”

  “No,” Frederick answered. “That couldn’t be it. Haven’t been to a play in months. We’ve been up here since May.”

  “Delmonico’s, then,” Tom said. There was just the faintest hint of finality in the way he said this, a whiff of a warning to let the subject drop. Whether Fred picked up on it or not, Tom couldn’t be sure, but Frederick said, “Yes, that’s probably it. Del’s is quite the place to be seen isn’t it, darling?” he asked, turning to his wife. Still, Frederick cast a quick glance at Mary, just the corner of an eye, really. Nothing more was said.

  “This is a sportsman’s paradise, Tom,” William said, changing the subject. “Mike here tells me you were out fishing today. Did pretty well, I hear.”

  “That we did. Mike caught the fattest lake trout I think I’ve ever seen.”

  “Really?” Durant asked. “I’ve been told lately that Blue’s fairly fished out. Too many tourists, eh, Fred?”

  Frederick didn’t rise to the bait. He took a thoughtful bite of trout and pointed his fork at his cousin.

  “It’s not the number of fish caught, Will, at least that’s not what I hear from my chefs.”

  “Your chefs?” Mary interrupted. “Are they the ones depleting the fish?”

  Fred chuckled. “No, no, but they cook them often enough. The guests bring in fish that are barely big enough to fillet.”

  William grunted. “They catch too many. I’ve seen whole strings of them thrown away because the sports had more than they could possibly eat.”

  Fred nodded. “The bears don’t seem to mind,” he added with a sarcastic grin. ‘They come prowling almost every night.”