THE DEVILS DIME (36 page)

Jess reeled, stunned, blindsided by this charge that had come out of nowhere, and had no resemblance whatsoever to the truth. He’d nearly been killed when he got too close to exposing that evil den of child killers. And that’s what they were. More than half the children they stole and sold into sexual debauchery were dead within the year. The idea that he...that anyone could think...

He stumbled to the bowl atop the dry sink, his stomach heaving, clenching. They could accuse him of almost anything but this. Not this.

Slowly his breathing began to settle from its painful shallow shuddering as his mind trampled through the “why’s”. And in a flash of understanding his pulse calmed, his breathing restored itself, his stomach settled.

It was a smear. They wanted to discredit him, to make sure nobody believed another word he wrote. And who better to discreetly leak such information to a scholarly newspaper than the golden boy himself. Deacon Trumbull.

He had to print a rebuttal, and he had to do it fast. No time to get to the Times. He’d call it in from the corner exchange. Jess grabbed his coat and flew down the steps, across the street and sped to the glass-doored entrance of the New York City Telephone and Telegraph’s Park Row Exchange. He hurled himself through the doors and skidded to a halt in front of the low railing that separated him from ten operator cubicles. Eight were empty, and only two operators were hard at work routing calls at this time of the evening.

Jess whirled in a circle, and spied the bank of telephone cubicles lining a wall just around the corner. Four of them. All occupied.

He paced for what seemed like an hour, but in just under three minutes a young woman hung her earpiece back on the telephone box to disconnect her call, slowly and methodically collected her things, and exited the booth.

“PARK459,” Jess yelled into the mouthpiece when he’d snatched the earpiece from its hook.

“Park Row Exchange. What number are you calling, sir?”

Jess gritted his teeth and repeated. “PARK459, please!”

The seconds plodded by, and Jess kept the running words of his rebuttal circling in his head. He had just the right wording, and wanted to dictate it to someone in the typing pool exactly the way it had come to mind.

"New York Times here. To whom do you wish to speak?”

“Manager’s desk at the typing pool, please. Tell them—”

“Who’s calling please?”

“Tell them it’s Jess Pepper.”

There seemed to be a moment’s hesitation before the pleasant voice came back on the line. “Connecting your call, sir.”

He wondered who would be on duty this late in the day. But it didn’t matter, as long as they did exactly as he instructed and got his story to the press room and into Jake Mallory’s hands. Jake wouldn’t let him down.

“Jess?”

“What—who’s this?”

“It’s Gus. Jess, where are you?”

“I’m sorry, Gus, I asked for the typing pool. I have to get a story in fast. Could you—”

“Jess, hold on. You can’t...you can’t put a story in right now.”

“I have to, Gus, and Jake Mallory will switch it out for you, I know he will. He’ll pull what I submitted for tomorrow and substitute what I dictate to—”

“It’s already been switched out, Jess.”

“I don’t—what do you mean, already switched.” A slow cold dread inched down his spine. He knew what Gus was going to say before he spoke it. That was why the operator had put him through to his manager instead of to the typing pool.

He’d already been muzzled.

. . .

Ford listened a long moment, until the roaring in his ears from the gunshot so close finally diminished. Until it did, he couldn’t be sure if it was just part of the roar or if there really were footsteps circling his coffin.

His coffin.

The word pushed his heart to a sudden extreme that he was quite sure it could not survive. Long, trembling breaths became harder and harder, and shorter and shorter, and he knew again he was going to die.

And with the thought, his heart began to quiet.

As the panic left, the thunder in his ears began to dim, and Ford could almost feel the silence of the chamber.

At last he let his mind sink to a place he’d learned to escape to during those long months at Andersonville. Hunger and hopelessness could make a prisoner give up, unless he had a place like this to go.

When at last the clarity of silence began to restore him, he knew they were alone. He and Coombs.

“Coombs?”

His voice came out a hoarse whisper. The simple act of whispering burned his throat worse than two-day-old moonshine.

“Coombs?” Ford tried again, but feared the worst. Coombs was dead. Trumbull would be back to clean up his mess, or send his goons to do it for him.

There wasn’t much time.

Ford’s hands were still tied behind his back. Loosely, he thought, but they were numb from his weight on them. The heavy chains bit viciously into his ankles.

With the pine lid slowly smothering him, Ford knew he had to get out of the death box while he still had air enough to function. His feet would have to punch the lid off.

He lifted his feet, one with a shoe and one without, and poked at the lid. The foot without the shoe slid easily out of the chains, though there was no room to shake it off completely. He pushed his toes into the lid, but there was too little space to get a really effective upward force.

And the lid was nailed shut.

He needed to get the coffin on its side.

Ford had heard Coombs drop when Trumbull fired. His body had fallen forward onto the coffin, then slumped to the right, and probably lay alongside him now.

Ford began to slowly shift his weight from side to side, rocking longer toward the left than toward the right. As he picked up momentum, the coffin began to tip up on its left edge. The tiniest bit at first, then more and more.

After a dozen rocks to the left, the coffin teetered on its edge, about to roll on its side. Ford shifted his weight the smallest bit, encouraging the coffin to land on its side.

And it did.

But his shifting body in the tipping coffin sent it rolling on over onto its top. Now Ford lay face down in the coffin, his body pinning the lid to the floor.

He could play that rocking game all night, and he might manage to land on his side at some point. But now that Ford lay face down, he realized he had another option.

Slowly, painfully, he lifted his backside and brought his knees forward and out, wedging them against the sides of the casket. Like a giant inchworm.

With each gargantuan heave, he got his rear end higher, pressing against the bottom of the casket, which now had become its top. He heard the nails screeching as they began to slip their hold.

At last he’d worked his knees as far as he could, and his head was bent as far as it could bend against the boards at the casket’s head.

This was it.

Ford rested, curled into himself, regaining strength for his final surge. If this didn’t work, he was sure he’d run out of time. They’d find him like this, trapped in his wooden womb.

He felt the rage of Methuselah burning in his gut, and as the fire spread through his body and set every nerve tingling on a raw edge, Ford took a mighty breath and arched his back up against the bottom of the coffin.

The first splintery cracks gave him courage and he strained, willing his hamstrings to push harder, harder.

He gave one last, furious surge, bellowing like a wounded grizzly bear with the effort.

The nails groaned and squealed, a noise so loud it alone could wake the dead. And then the coffin box popped away from the lid and bounced like a child’s toy into the pit.

Ford gulped for air, kneeling on the floor of the room that had been his death chamber. The rage was slow to abate, and he bent his face to the cool stone, willing himself to think like a man again. His cheek absorbed the cool, welcomed it, as it traveled quickly to calm his fevered mind.

When he opened his eyes, he was inches from Coombs. Ford looked at the man who’d saved his life, and began to grieve.

And then he saw Coombs move.

. . .

Jess left the Exchange office and crossed the street. He had to have a plan, and it had to be good. It had to get Ford Magee out of jail, clear his own name, and dethrone the charlatan once and for all. It would be a cold day in hell before Deacon Trumbull would be looking at anything but prison bars. But first, he had to get Addie away to some place safe, and he knew exactly where he’d take her.

He cut across the avenue, headed back toward the stoop in front of his building, to check the hiding place where he’d told Tad to leave messages. He was just a couple of paces away when he saw a lone female figure darting across the street at the opposite corner, a violin tucked beneath her left arm.

Addie!

He straightened and took a step toward her, confused at her angry stride, her swinging arm with its gloved fist. But then she stepped into the yellow glow of the streetlamp, and her mass of red curls lit up like hot coals.

It wasn’t Addie, it was Cherise! He ran toward her, catching her off balance just as she swung toward his front door.

“Cherise, what are you doing here?”

Cherise bolted back a step, startled out of her fury for a second as she recognized Jess. But then the anger returned to spread across her face.

“Where’s Addie.”

She was angry, her voice tight, her lips pursed. Her statement was more an indictment than a question.

“Where’s Addie?” Jess echoed, now more confused than ever.

“That’s just exactly what I’d like to know. You tell that missy that I did
not
hire on to be the leader o’ the band, you hear?”

“Wh—you mean, she didn’t play tonight?”

“No sir, she did not. We waited and she didn’t come. We all figured she was—” Cherise stopped, her eyes seeming to take in his face for the first time. “Och, oh heav’n help us, we all but know’d she was with you! Now I feel awful! We were fit t’ be tied with her!”

“Have you seen her at all today?”

“Saints alive, Jess, I haven’t seen her since we played three days ago.” Cherise’s red cheeks drained of color.

“I was with her just last evening, Cherise. I’m sure she’s all right.” He had nothing upon which to base that assertion, and his gut told him he was dead wrong. But it wouldn’t do to get Cherise all upset. “I’ll send a message ’round when I locate her.” He turned and walked her back to the corner, then hailed a cab for her. The hike from the hotel to his place would mean she’d have twice the distance to cover to get back home. The least he could do was get her transportation.

He paid the driver and handed her up into the cab, wishing he hadn’t been responsible for the look on her face, but glad that her Irish temper was no longer directed toward Addie.

“Don’t worry, Cherise. I’ll find her.”

But as the cab pulled away, the tear that slipped down her cheek tore at his gut. Whether it was a tear of worry or guilt, he didn’t know.

His over-creative mind threw all kinds of awful scenarios at him as he ran back to the stoop. “Please let there be a note from Tad. Please let there be a note from—”

Jess tore open the tin and felt the bottom drop out of his world. There was nothing there but a stubby pencil and a blank piece of paper. Now Addie was missing and there was no sign of Tad. This wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.

He turned, heading for a stable where he could find a horse, but a strong, filthy arm shot out from the dark recesses, silencing him in one swift, urgent motion.