A Study in Revenge (49 page)

“Sorry, Mr. Grey. Is Archie in some sort of,” she asked as she turned back to the door and saw Grey already down to the sidewalk and climbing back into his carriage, “trouble?”

R
ASMUS
H
ANSEN URGED THE HORSE ALONG
W
ALNUT
S
TREET
toward the intersection with North. The Munjoy Hill Reservoir rose up in the moonlight at the far corner. It was set back slightly from the street front, leaving enough room for two small houses to squeeze in at the immediate corner. Farther down, past the impressive embankment, three stories high, stood two more houses. Otherwise the massive structure, holding twenty million gallons of water, dominated that block. Grey ordered Rasmus to slow as they reached the intersection. He peered down North Street, looking for any sign of Lean or other suspicious activity. In that direction the reservoir’s steep embankment transitioned briefly to a more gradual slope that ended at the sidewalk. Across the street were a row of houses and a lamppost. That scene was too obvious and open to view. If trouble lurked, it wouldn’t be near either North or Walnut Street but away, hidden from view on the vacant north or east side of the giant reservoir.

“Let’s get a look ahead. Past the far wall of the reservoir,” Grey said.

The carriage jolted and sped forward, then slowed after it passed by the few houses farther along, approaching the Eastern Promenade.

“Drop me at the corner. Then wheel about back to North Street. Wait there and keep your eyes sharp for Lean’s arrival,” Grey said as he slung his leather satchel over his head so the long strap ran across his torso. He hurried past some bushes that lined the sidewalk, leaving the greenery of the Promenade and the scenic but unappreciated moonlit vista of Casco Bay behind him. He skirted the two houses, one of which still had lights shining, along with a shed and a large barn. It wouldn’t do to have the homeowners coming out their back doors and shouting at him as a trespasser or thief. He didn’t wish to lose his only current
advantage: that Phebe, along with any possible accomplices, thought he was still shackled on the floor of the water closet.

He passed through a scant grouping of trees and paused at the edge to consider the reservoir and its surroundings. The natural lay of the land sloped up slightly toward the reservoir before meeting the steeper sides of the massively thick retaining wall. That embankment rose at least thirty feet above the surrounding terrain. Grey listened but heard no voices or other sounds of activity at the reservoir. He was tempted to make directly for where a set of earthen steps was cut into the embankment not far from Walnut Street. They led to a five-foot-wide graveled walkway atop the wall, which circled the entire four acres of the water’s surface. It would give him a commanding view but also instantly reveal his presence and make him an outstanding target. He abandoned the thought, opting to keep low to the ground while searching for the location of the night’s threat.

If there was to be an explosion, it made sense for it to happen slightly to Grey’s right, closer to the northeastern corner of the rectangular structure. There were no houses that way. Fields and trees alone would bear the brunt of any debris or destruction. This large and irregular city block was mostly undeveloped, virtually the last such open space on Portland Neck. It thinned to a narrow point above where the Eastern Promenade and North and Washington streets all merged in a triangle at northernmost tip of the peninsula. Below there, down the slope leading to the ocean, Tukey’s Bridge stretched over to North Deering, across the outlet of Back Cove. Anyone mad enough to dynamite and potentially breach the reservoir would logically choose that direction, allowing the water to escape to the ocean unimpeded, with no danger to nearby houses or untimely pedestrians.

Grey walked slowly toward the rear of the reservoir. The moon was about half full, providing enough light to allow him to see any obvious movements. He stayed close to the edge of a line of bushes and trees, cautious and stooped in an effort to reduce his profile and make as little noise as possible. He alternated between watching the ground before him and keeping an eye on the reservoir as he walked. Halfway to the northeastern corner, he felt his foot snag on something, and he stumbled forward to his knees. He glanced about and listened for any reaction to
his fall. There was nothing, but instead of spying any offending root or fallen branch that tripped him, he saw a thin wire stretching across the ground.

Kneeling there, he lifted it to his eyes. The wire ran off in both directions, the angle of its path indicating that it stretched from a thick stand of trees and brush directly toward the center of the eastern embankment of the reservoir. Grey took his satchel strap from around his neck and set the satchel on the ground. He searched through the various interior pockets that held his multitude of tools and all his equipment. His hand settled onto a thin metal file.

Grey bent the wire into a loop, slipped it over the edge of the file, and started sawing at the line. Within ten seconds the wire snapped. He stood up, still holding one end of the wire. He was about to trace it to its source, its detonation device, when he heard a distant voice. He dropped the wire, whirled about, and listened. He heard the voice again, off to his right, around the northeast corner of the reservoir wall. He sprinted forward toward it. Upon reaching the corner, he skidded to a stop. Forty paces in front of him, he saw a figure standing with his back to Grey, broad-shouldered and wearing a bowler. Another man, slender and all in dark shades, faced the first man, separated by only two steps.

Grey peered at the two men a second longer before recognition flashed into his mind. Just then he heard sounds of quick footsteps behind him. A shadowy figure was sprinting across the open grass, from where the detonator was hidden among the trees toward the reservoir’s embankment.

L
EAN STOOD AND WAITED, A THIN RIBBON OF CIGARETTE
smoke drifting past his eyes. He kicked at the ground on the back side of the Munjoy Hill Reservoir, close to the exact spot where they’d found the body of Frank Cosgrove weeks earlier. There was the occasional sound of foot or carriage traffic floating around the bulk of the reservoir, but all in all the midnight air was quiet and still. A single lamppost was visible over a hundred yards off on North Street, too far away to aid the limited visibility granted by the moon.

At long last he saw a man cross over the street, glance about, then continue on across the grassy slope just behind the reservoir. From the handwriting on the note he’d received, Lean had been expecting a woman. Since he’d made no effort to conceal himself, Lean now assumed, however, that the man was heading toward him with a purpose. He tossed his cigarette aside, readying himself for whatever the encounter would bring. The man stopped five paces short. He was slender and walked with a formal gait, as if he meant to be seen making an arrival, rather than just going somewhere. Lean guessed he was an older man, though the fellow was dressed darkly and the brim of his hat hid his features.

“Good evening,” the man said. “Where’s she at, then? Let’s see what this big problem’s all about.”

The man sounded peeved and anxious, but Lean’s ear still caught the underlying tones that indicated a very well-spoken gentleman.

“Just who is it you’re looking for?” Lean asked.

The man recoiled and loudly demanded, “Who are you?”

“Deputy Marshal Lean. And who might you be?”

“That’s none of your concern. I don’t need to be accosted by the police, simply for being out having a walk.”

The man backed away a step and started to turn. Lean drew his revolver. “Stop there, mister. I’m afraid you’ll need to answer a few questions.” He took two steps closer, wanting to get a better look at the man.

“I’ll do nothing of the sort! Leave me be this instant, or I’ll see you’re relieved of duty permanently.”

The man slipped his hands into his coat pockets.

“Afraid not. Hands over your head. Now!” Lean ordered. “And for the last time: your name?”

“Jason Webster,” the older gentleman said through an indignant snarl.

“Lean! It’s a trap!” The shouted warning rang out from a distance behind him.

Lean recognized the voice as Grey’s, and his head and shoulders swiveled in that direction. In the faint moonlight, he spotted Grey at the corner of the reservoir embankment. As he started to turn back toward Jason Webster, something hard connected with the base of his skull just below his right ear. The few faint lights in his field of vision all exploded. He dropped to one knee and braced himself against the ground with his left hand. With the last strands of surviving consciousness left him, Lean focused on not letting go of his gun. He felt his body slouch forward and knew that his head was now pressed against the earth. There was no other attack. No other feeling or sound reached him. He wasn’t sure how many seconds passed before his vision cleared and he raised himself up onto his knees again.

He moved his gun to his other hand and reached for the back of his head. He felt a large bump and the warm, slow oozing of blood. Groaning, he forced himself to his feet. Jason Webster was nowhere to be seen. Lean caught sight of the distant lamppost and used it to gain his bearings. He turned around and stumbled toward the spot where he’d seen Grey. He tried to move quickly, but he was still dizzy and found it necessary to keep his head bent forward, focusing on where he was planting each step.

He paused when he reached the corner of the reservoir. From atop the wall, quite a distance from Lean, came urgent voices. After a moment Lean’s eyes picked out the dark shape of Jason Webster, equally far away. The man was scrambling, unsteadily, up the slope of the embankment. Webster was only halfway up the side when the whole ground
shuddered. A loud boom shook the air. Lean kept his feet under him but watched Jason Webster get pitched back through the night to land and tumble head over heels down the slope.

As the rumble subsided, Lean heard Grey’s voice shout something. He rushed forward in the darkness.

A
FTER SHOUTING HIS
warning to Lean, Grey had turned and raced back along the base of the reservoir wall. Ahead of him the runner covered the last few yards of open space to reach the corner of the reservoir close to Walnut Street. The figure was dressed like a laborer, but short and slight. If he hadn’t known that Phebe was disguised, he might have been fooled. Grey was only halfway along the base of the wall, and she was already at the corner, climbing the steps chiseled into the hard-packed earth embankment. Grey veered to his right, trying to use his momentum to carry him up the slope of the reservoir’s outer wall. After a few lunging paces, he leaned forward and continued scrambling upward on all fours, thrusting with his legs, scratching and clawing with his hands.

He gained the level edge atop the wall and pulled himself onto the five-foot-wide surface that ran along the entire course of the reservoir. He glanced to his right, assuming that Phebe had already raced past, headed to the northeast corner, but that way was empty. Grey turned back to his left, surprised at the sight of her bent down and handling some small contraption hidden from his view. It made no sense; he’d misjudged the location of the dynamite. Phebe was too close to the street. There were houses nearby, far too close for any sudden release of the reservoir’s water. He sprinted forward.

“Don’t!” he yelled.

Phebe looked up, paused, and then her right arm made a sudden movement. Grey saw a small spark near the ground. He watched her stand as he slid to a halt on the gravelly pathway. He was still five or six strides from her. His mind hadn’t settled on what exactly to expect, but it wasn’t this, an eerie stillness. A long second passed, then another.

Phebe turned back to the steps. Grey started toward her. The device may have malfunctioned, he could still disconnect it. In his second step
forward, the ground jumped. A sound like a cannon blast filled Grey’s ears as he fell to his side. He landed on his right knee, perilously close to falling into the reservoir. The broad expanse of water that had been deathly still now rippled angrily. Grey looked for Phebe. She’d fallen face-first on the pathway but was starting to get up.

The blast had been forceful but not devastating. It didn’t feel strong enough to puncture all the way through the wide embankment. Maybe it was only meant to weaken the wall after all, to force the city to drain the unsafe reservoir, and thus provide access to the bottom and the imagined treasure lying beneath. Even as he exhaled, Grey realized that made no sense. Phebe’s plans wouldn’t be satisfied by a small explosion. She’d already admitted to increasing the intended blast. Euripides Webster’s words, the day at the granite quarry, came shooting back into Grey’s mind. Not a single explosion but a series of smaller bursts, expertly placed, could inflict the same amount of power as a single, large blast.