The Pinkerton Files Five-Book Bundle (18 page)

I didn't feel all that bad. The fear of how much something might hurt was worse than the actual pain.

“No.” I said. “Let's go have a look at that equipment you purchased.”

*   *   *

Ernie Stark

July, 1861

The town of Helena, in the Montana territory, was as far removed from the health and liveliness of Geneva as I could imagine. There were no businesses to anchor the community, no schools for the children. If there was a theatre, it was sure to be burlesque.

Of all the blights in Helena, the worst was the sight of mud spattered slaves tromping through their miserable lives. My thoughts turned to Ray. I could not let him disappear into this backwards world again.

I told myself to focus on the plan. That was the best way to help Ray.

After the bank robbery, Newton Edwards shipped a crate from Geneva to a woman named Norma Ellis in Helena. I checked the church registry. Ellis was her married name. She was born Norma Edwards, Newton's sister.

Sticking to the plan, I visited to the local courier and paid to use his telegraph machine. I said that I had several messages to send, and expected to receive replies to them all. I would be spending a lot of time in their office over the coming days.

Prior to arriving in Helena, counterfeiters charged me a thousand dollars to prepare a set of documents. Some were intended for Norma Ellis. The rest were to help me rescue Ray.

If William Hunt tried to go south with Ray, he would need to prove his ownership. Otherwise, police down there could accuse him of trafficking in free men from the north and take Ray away. Not that Ray would be freed under those circumstances. He would be resold to a new owner. Hunt, however, would end up with nothing.

Knowing this, I had the tattoo faces create a set of false papers declaring me to be Ray's owner just like before. They also drafted a legal petition claiming that my slave had been stolen and threatening to sue any trader that profited from my property.

I used the Helena courier to telegraph these petitions to every major slave auction house in the south. It was the sort of claim southerners took seriously. If Hunt tried to reintegrate Ray into the society of slaves, I stood a decent chance of finding out where they were.

My first few days in Helena were spent at the telegraph machine. I lost track of how many I sent. Every few hours, I asked to look through my old messages and read every new transmission received by their office.

This was part of the ruse. Being an annoyance made it excusable, even expected, when I ventured into secure areas of the courier depot that were supposed to be off limits.

I saw that the express delivery from Geneva was still unclaimed. It had to be the money. I was sure of it. Newton Edwards would have wanted to get the loot away as fast as possible.

He trusted his sister enough to have her hold the cash. Living in Helena, she was desperate enough to agree. What tripped them up was the need for her to sign for stolen goods.

The fastest way for me to get back on Newton Edwards' trail was to force Norma to do whatever her brother originally asked. She knew where Newton was and would lead me right to him but, first, she had to accept the delivery.

This was the sort of moment that made it half tolerable to be a Pinkerton. It was easier to lie when it was for the Agency.

I visited Mrs. Ellis. The house was so run down that the knocker almost fell off in my hand. Norma answered. Her finger nails were black with dirt, though I could see no signs of a garden on the property. This was a life spent in true squalor.

Time spent at the courier depot showed me how to dress like one of its staffers. I handed her a notice advising that, if she did not claim the Geneva delivery within 24 hours, the crate would be confiscated. It never occurred to her that it was all fake.

To make the swindle cut deeper, I made sure that another paper found its way into her hands. It was little more than a scrap. All it showed was the watermark of New Orleans Police and a subject header with Newton Edwards' name. The counterfeiters had lifted it from the missing person notice. Norma Ellis would assume the law was closing in.

She reacted the way I hoped. The next morning, she rushed to the courier office and sent a telegram, emphasizing to the teller that it was an emergency.

I was there, like always, surrounded by a mountain of paper. Responses to my petition had been flowing in for days. When the reply to Norma Ellis' telegraph arrived, I was reading through incoming messages. I saw what I needed:

Northern Central # 47-A–21. Forward package. Thomas Duncan. Manassas, Virginia.

There were two men at the Geneva robbery. Newton Edwards was one. Thomas Duncan must have been the other. They fled to the trains after the heist. That was smart.

I needed to get back on the rail network in a hurry if I hoped to intercept Edwards and Duncan on their way to Virginia. I swept the telegraph messages aside and called for the clerk to issue me a bill. I paid my tab and left.

In my rush, I almost forgot to bring the one transmission that mattered out of all the pointless telegraphs I sent and received. It arrived the previous day:

Sir—Thank you for contacting us. Your property is on record at our auction house. Please speak to our legal department to pursue your petition.

-Heritage Estate Brokerage—Shreveport, Louisiana

Ray was in Louisiana. Edwards and Duncan were going to Virginia.

I mulled this over a glass of moonshine in a dingy saloon on a train connecting with the Northern Central line. I had no trouble locating 47-A–21 but found it impossible to justify pursuing these men any further.

I had no real allegiance to William or the Pinkerton brood. Let them try to send me back to Ryker's Island. If I didn't reach Ray soon, I never would.

A pair of counterfeiters approached. I had spent so much money that now they came looking for me now. They were everywhere.

I had asked these two to find out which car Edwards and Duncan rented on the train to Virginia. I also ordered a draft legal document that I could send to Shreveport demanding to know the whereabouts of my slave.

“Two thousand.” One of the dealers said.

It was more than any of the others charged. I had seven hundred dollars left.

“Be reasonable.” I said.

The second man tapped his partner's shoulder. I could never tell which of these traders I had dealt with face to face. The effect of the tattoos was so confusing. I felt like maybe I had seen him before. The one in charge dismissed him with a wave.

“Two thousand.” He said.

“Take the seven hundred.” I insisted.

Our negotiation ended. They turned without another word.

I leapt from my chair and grabbed the one who set the price. The second twisted my arm and pressed me back down on the table. There was nothing to be gained by fighting with them. I was on my own again.

The saloon operator asked me to leave. Other customers thought I might be police. He didn't want any trouble.

I reached into my pocket for money to pay for my drink. I found the stub of a train ticket that did not belong to me. Train 47-A–21, Cabin D–4.

I did know that man. He helped set Ray free on the trip to Philadelphia.

I was closing in on Edwards and Duncan but no nearer to pulling Ray out of the south. If I went to Shreveport, I could find him. If I went right away, there might be time.

We connected with Northern Central. A porter led me to the car marked on my stub. The hall was packed with people. They crowded around an open cabin door: D–4.

I shoved past the jostling mass and stepped into the room. A man was on the floor, his back against the wall. The front of his shirt was stained with blood from a gunshot.

“You must be Newton Edwards.” I said.

“Are you a doctor?” The man asked.

“No. I'm a Pinkerton.”

“Oh God.” The man looked like he had just accepted he was going to die. In desperation, he stammered on. “You have to help me. Okay? It was a con. Duncan never wanted the money. Look out the window. He paid for some sort of machine.”

Up ahead, in a section reserved for factories and heavy industry, I saw a man hang over the side of the train to inspect straps that held a massive vehicle in place. It looked like many machines rolled into one.

I assumed that man was Thomas Duncan. He looked back at the window. It was one of the baseball players from the Golden Circle.

“What did you get yourself into, Edwards?”

“I wanted a new start. That's all. I trusted Duncan.” He said. “Help me.”

Every second I spent with this man was a second I stole from Ray. William sent me to find Newton Edwards. Here he was. Whatever connection existed between the Geneva robbery and the Golden Circle, I didn't care. I took a piece of paper from the desk and wrote a note:

Newton Edwards. Shot dead by Thomas Duncan. Geneva bank robbery. Accomplices at large.

-Ernie Stark, Pinkerton Detective Agency

I slid it into Edwards' jacket. His legs shook and he complained of feeling cold. I left to find a train for Louisiana.

*   *   *

Robert Pinkerton

July, 1861

Felton guided the airship down the coast. Winds off the Atlantic jostled us as we descended toward Virginia.

“You were right.” Felton said.

I pulled a face plate off the pilot console to examine the controls behind. There wasn't anything complicated about keeping the dirigible afloat.

“What was I right about?”

“The war won't end until the north shares its technology.”

I made that comment at a meeting in Philadelphia. Papa and I visited Felton's office with Kate Warne to discuss the threat of sabotage against PWB railway. Felton was already in league with Kennedy at that point.

They embezzled funds for rebels in the south. They tried to have the President killed. Timothy Webster died. Kate was assaulted. I lost Stark at Ryker's Island. Ray was captured by William Hunt. It was all because of them.

“Just keep heading south.” I said.

I was reluctant to attach my switchbox to the controls. There was no question that it could maintain the airship's speed and altitude but, after I left, the ship would crash.

That was why I hesitated. I didn't want to lose the switchbox.

“My engineers stamped a plate into the switches before lending it to your father. I couldn't bear to destroy it.” Felton said.

“I don't want to destroy it either.”

“Then let me turn this ship around, Robert. You don't know what's about to happen.”

I showed him the mining explosives and detonator.

“Your little conspiracy is about to go up in smoke.”

Felton trembled. He was caught between laughing and yelling.

“You have to listen. The Union is planning a surprise attack but we have a person in Washington. Do you understand? We know they are coming. That bomb is nothing. The trench cutter will lay waste to an entire army. Look at yourself. We must go back.”

I could barely stand on my septic leg. The pistol wound had stopped bleeding, which was good, but I was weak. I was fairly sure I could poke a finger through the gash my neck.

It was a mess. I hated the thought of Felton being right.

The switchbox was in place. I pushed Felton away from the controls. The airship dipped at first, then corrected its bearing and continued on course.

“You can leave now.”

With the dragline pointed at his back, I forced him down to the belly of the ship. I handed him a parachute and opened the drop portal. He pressed into the straps, took a last look back at me and jumped.

I didn't see whether he landed safely. It made no difference.

In the fields below, the Union army marched toward Bull Run. They were headed into a trap. President Lincoln did not want to use modern weapons against the south. His enemies had no such reluctance. Whatever nightmare Felton, Kennedy and William Hunt dreamed up, fifty thousand of Union soldiers were about to face it unaware.

Felton was right. There was little chance of me stopping his machine with one pack of explosives. I might do enough damage for the Union army to survive, though. I could win them time to regroup. There was value in that.

I brought the airship down low. The switchbox held us steady. I saw the trench cutter in the distance and was struck by its power, by the ingenuity of the thing.

I climbed into the parachute. Feeling guilty, more than I ever had lying to my father, I watched the switchbox undulate on the pilot seat. I jumped from the portal into a battlefield.

*   *   *

Kate Warne

July, 1861

When Robert fell from the dirigible, I thought I was hallucinating. Trapped between two advancing armies, helpless in a pontoon hospital with no weapons, I could not imagine the situation getting worse. Robert always showed me something new.