“I don’t.” His squint and tone sharpened. “I’m good at what I do. You know that, don’t you?”
She stared across the park.
“Nev?”
“Yes … of course, dear. It’s just a big bite to swallow.”
“Was I wrong to tell you?”
“Of course not,” she said, still distant. “Thank you.”
“I won’t take the blame for this.”
“What?” She considered him. “Why would you? You dear man, who’d think—” She studied his eyes. “Bill?”
“If this gets caught in the wind— If it gets away from me— If the members find out— It could be bad. Very bad. And we both know Bill won’t say ‘My apologies fellas, here’s your money back.’”
“He’ll blame the Pinks. Where the blame probably should be.”
“He’ll blame me, Nev. He’ll blame me.”
Her eyes glassed. “I would never let that happen. Not to you.”
“You couldn’t prevent it.”
“I’d tell. I’d tell everyone.”
“It would appear as you protecting me, not him, which would—”
“I would be!”
“—which would lead to a scandal about … a number of things. We wouldn’t want that.”
“Hell’s bells, George. This is really terrible.”
“I know.”
“What can we do?”
“The truth will set you free, but ... with Bill, maybe not.”
“I’d kill him. I truly think I would. His dung—sorry, but that’s what it is—shouldn’t get put on you.”
“I’m probably already covered in it. I just don’t know it yet.”
<><><>
Detective McParland was correct: the Idaho State Penitentiary, a little over a mile southeast of the capital building, was so cold it had teeth. It was also noisy—its stone and steel ossature capturing the shouts, cries, bellows, and loud ramblings of the over three hundred inmates—garbling them, then bawling them back in some mashed-up roar of human despair, timorous bravado that flooded the hallways, reverberating among the phalanxed tiers of cells, pushing out across the courtyards only to echo back again. Perhaps noisiest was death row, the third tier of the cellhouse closest to the administration building and adjacent to the hanging yard. It was inhabited by seven men awaiting execution—plus one more, the only one who’d yet to be convicted, or even tried: Harry Orchard.
McParland had selected that particular death row cell for Orchard, replacing the two wood bunkbeds with a chair and one narrow steel bed. He left the plumbing as it was: a bucket. Though he claimed he did it for the prisoner’s protection, it was quite the opposite. Through the grated door, beyond an eight-foot gap of open air, was a high window giving Orchard not only a view of the gallows, but of the nearby hills beyond. Thus far, the intimidation of the gallows had failed. Orchard had maintained his story of selling sheep, winter fishing, and cheating with dice.
“Look here, ol boy, I’ve made my own set of loaded dice,” said McParland, his voice rolling in and out of his Irish brogue. He was sitting in the chair in Orchard’s cell, his hat perched atop his cane that leaned against the steel-latticed door. “Want to see em?”
Orchard sat motionless on the bed, bear coat draping his shoulders, a week’s growth of beard under his sunken eyes. “No.”
“Come, Harry, ya said ya’ve got a pair. Though, so far, I’ve reason to doubt it.” McParland’s mustache curled at his own humor. Seeing it was lost on Orchard, he continued, “You make loaded dice. Ya say you do. I wonder if you think my men can make a set as good as yours.” McParland pulled two dice from his vest pocket and presented them to Orchard. “They made these.”
Orchard ignored the dice but grumbled, “Why do you got me in this cell? I ain’t done nothing. We could talk downstairs at least.”
“I assure you, I hate the stink of this place worse than you,” said McParland, squinting, pulling his face away as if the stench had assumed a looming, visible form. “But I’m too concerned for your safety to move you. You should be as well. You may be mad, but you’re not stupid. Once Haywood learns I have you … Wooo, what that man will do. He already knows you’re here, I’d wager.”
Orchard looked away. “Don’t know the man to see him.”
McParland silently counted to four, then again offered his prisoner the dice. “My man any good?”
Orchard took them, assessed them swiftly, and handed them back. “They’re hinky. They’d be spotted.”
“Spotted?” McParland chuckled, noting the dots on the dice.
“First toss, they’d be seen for what they are.”
“Ya might have me there. Some things are just what they seem, and nothing more.” He held the dice in one hand, letting them clink dully against each other. With the other hand he smoothed his mustache while looking directly into Orchard’s eyes. “But see there, Mr. Orchard, ya’re not as stupid as you’d have me believe. You can spot a bad effort to cheat. Same as I can spot a liar—someone set on hiding the truth. To obfuscate, as it were.”
“Don’t know bout that.”
“Aye, but ya do.”
“Those dice ain’t been cast right—’sall I’m sayin.”
“Nah, you’ve been sayin plenty. Except so far, it’s all been a sack of shite-n-lies. You’re no better than these dice.” McParland considered them, his temper rising. “Godforsaken liar.”
“Ain’t lying—ones I make are better. Get me the makings, I’ll show you.”
When McParland spoke again, it began as a whisper and grew. “Not one damned word from your bloody mouth carries even the ring of truth. Not one word. You’re lying about making dice. You’re lying about who you are. Lying about what you did. You’re an assassin! You were hired by William Haywood to come up here and murder the governor—to blow him up. You’ll lie for Haywood, but why you’d die for him, I don’t know. He’s the devil. He’s a demon from the pages of Revelations, and I think you know it. No, I know you know it. In fact, you probably know it better than I do. I’ve spent three years in Denver, tracking that son of a bitch. And, aye, I’ve seen you there many times in that span. I know him. I know what he’s capable of, and so do you.” McParland took to gesturing with his cane, sometimes poking it toward the prisoner.
“Leave me be,” muttered Orchard.
“I know who you are, Mr. Orchard. You’re a man at least … I think. I want to believe so, I do. But I don’t know. Time will tell. But I do know William Haywood is a demon walking the face of this earth. He needs to be removed from this world, shot down like a diseased dog. And yet you sit in here, in this fetid cell, day after day, playing the fool—lying for him!”
“No, I ain’t.”
McParland stood, his gaze on Orchard, his mind sharpening, honing, preparing to debone the man. “You’re in here, speaking nonsense, while he has men in this town, perhaps already in this prison, who’d cut your throat fast as wish ya good morning. Yet you continue to lie for him. This farce. You sit here and lie. You know what you did. And you damn well know who ya did it for. You stalked Governor Steunenberg like a panther on a goat. You set your bomb. You had your man, Steve Adams, go talk to the governor. He wore this coat, for godsakes!” McParland jabbed at the bear coat around Orchard’s shoulders.
“Ain’t true.”
“You had Adams go get Frank Steunenberg out of his house, out to that gate. Only the governor went out the back door, so you had to wait till nightfall. Or maybe you planned that too.” McParland returned to the bench, sat, and let his volume settle. “But you got him, didn’t ya? Aye, you earned Haywood’s blood money. How much did he pay you? How much? You blew up that man in front of his children. Blew glass in the face of his wife. They were still picking it out a week after. And you watched him die, didn’t you? You saw it all from those hedges sixty-six feet away. Y
ou yanked that fishing line, pulling the cork from that bottle of acid, and you saw him die. Then you ran. A coward. You ran off, leaving that man in pieces on his yard. His young children to see. And you did it for Haywood. Why, I ask you? In the perverted name of that damnable union? Some obligation I cannot fathom? Or did you do it just for the money? Or just for the special delight of seeing a man dismembered in a second”—he snapped his fingers—“by your own hand? Was that it?”
“Don’t know what you’re going on about.”
McParland took a few breaths before summing up softly, “Whatever your reasons for the murder, you’ve no reason to protect Haywood now. You killed the governor. And you know it to be God’s truth. Aye, I’ve grown weary of you, Sir.”
“Fine! I’m weary of you!” Orchard erupted. “All you Pink bastards. But you can’t make me be somebody I ain’t. You can’t make me say I did something I ain’t done.”
McParland continued to rattle the dice in his fist. “Yeah, these dice are liars too. And rotten liars at that—just like you. Made of nothing. Nothing! Only good for doing harm. They aren’t just lying about what they are, like you are, but they do a shite job of it—like you do!” With that, McParland hurled the dice hard at Orchard’s head. One hit the man in the face, ripping a small cut along his cheek bone. The other flew straight into the cell’s stone wall where it exploded, fragments ricocheting through a plaster poof.
Orchard clasped his cheek, recoiling. “Jesus Christ, Detective!”
Alerted by the clatter, a guard appeared at the door. “Everything alright here, Sir?”
“Aye,” replied McParland. He regarded a shard of the shattered dice near his right boot. Noticing the guard was still there, he added, “Leave us be.” He picked up the piece, considered it, then touched it to his tongue.
“Damn you,” said Orchard, wiping blood from his face with his dirty handkerchief.
McParland set the chip back on the floor, stood and ground it under his heel. Then he sat again and pinched the powder, thumb to middle finger, feeling its texture. He returned his gaze to Orchard. “If I was you, Harry, I’d tell me the truth right away,” he said, his voice having returned to a solemn brogue. “Mr. Haywood’s men are already here.” He opened his plaster-dusted hand toward Orchard. “They gave ya up to me. Which means they made a mistake. They intended you to die before you could tell the truth. I know that now. So be assured, they’re sore about this going haywire.”
Orchard shook his head.
“Definitely,” McParland continued. “So, if they were intent on killing you before ... well, they’re certainly set on it now. Like I said, Haywood might already have a man in this prison. Maybe that guard out here. Maybe the one that comes with your dinner tonight. He might poison it. Or maybe they’ll wait till we transfer you next. One thing’s for certain, they’re already here in Boise. I assure you.” He then used his cane to point through the door toward the far window. “Maybe a marksman is taking a position on that hill—right now, as we speak.”
“You don’t know that,” muttered Orchard.
McParland kept looking toward the hills. “It’d be a difficult shot, I agree.” Turning back, he continued, “But it won’t be difficult next time you’re in the street. I’ll tell you what, I’m going to transfer you, walk you over to the Ada County Jail, unless you tell me true. By God I will.” He wiped at his nose and again smoothed his mustache. “But if you give me your confession, and tell me true? I’ll have it written just as you say it, and you sign it. Then I’ll keep you safe. But lie to me more—”
“You’re full of shit,” Orchard said softly.
“Am I? Alright, Mr. Orchard. How many blocks do you figure it is from here to the county jail? What do you think? And how many sharpshooters does Haywood already have in town? He just needs one.” He held up a straight finger. “He just needs one.”
Orchard remained silent.
“You think on it. I’ll be back tomorrow, perhaps the next day, to walk you to the county jail. But if you wise up and want to talk before then, let a guard know. Deal?” Getting no answer, McParland donned his hat and left.
<><><>
– 22 –
THURSDAY
January 17, 1907
That afternoon, Wade Farrington strolled up the steps of Boise’s new Carnegie Public Library on Washington Street and pulled open the thick wood-and-glass doors. Inside, his steps resounded as he crossed the marble entrance, and then onto the wood floor to a central position where he could consider his surroundings. It was silent, save only a conversation drifting from a distant, unseen office. He moved further, past the unattended front desk, through shafts of sunlight slanting across books, by a number of wood tables surrounded by chairs under suspended electric lamps, and alongside bookshelves and oak filing cabinets. Seeing the broad stairwell, he progressed up to the second floor and down a corridor at the end of twenty-four tall rows of shelves, glancing down each row as he passed. At the end of the second-to-last row he stopped, turned, tipped his hat and grinned at the dark-haired splendor standing there, perusing a book from under a pheasant-quilled hat.
Carla responded with a smile that unleashed her dimples, their power devastating to the truly weaker sex. They moved toward each other, embraced, plunging into a boiling kiss that soon engulfed them. His hand slipped under her plaid frock coat, then down her back. She snorted a laugh when he began gathering her skirt, lifting in from behind. “You can’t undress me here,” she whispered playfully.
“Where can we go?” he breathed, his voice more air than tone. “A week is too long. Shame on you. I don’t like being teased.” He kissed her again, his tongue finding hers as he placed her hand against his trouser front, solid against her palm. “I need you—now,” he insisted, pulling away to peer around the end of the shelves. Seeing it vacant, he returned to her.
“No one?” she asked.
He shook his head and they stood for a moment, hearing only the clops of hooves and the laughter of a child outside.
“I need to talk to you first,” she said. “Mr. Haywood is upset.”
“I know, I know. I didn’t get Orchard before we—they—the Pinkertons got him,” Farrington replied. “Tell Big Bill I did what he asked. I tried. But I ain’t getting myself killed on account of nobody.” He pulled her close. “Kiss me again and let’s—”
“He wants you to do something else. He sent a rifle.”
“A rifle?”
“Yes. Come by my room tonight.”
“I’m to shoot Orchard?”
Carla blinked. “Something else. Mr. Orchard has a hat that—”
“All that can wait,” he said. “This first, then I’ll do whatever you need me to. Whatever he told you. Swear. I haven’t been able to think about anything but you. Don’t torment me longer.”
She paused, sniffed a quick breath and considered him. “Ok,” she said with a sigh, slipping to her knees. She carefully removed her plumed hat and placed it on a row of books within the shelves.
Seconds later, he was muttering, “Oh God,” his eyes fluttering.
When Carla had him as she wished, she stood, turned and braced herself against the nearest shelf, pressing back against him. She needed this to be done with, regardless of how good it felt. He was too volatile. Too possessive. She couldn’t trust him. But she needed him to do one more thing. Actually, two more things. Her heart wound up, her face heating. But then that other Pinkerton, Jack Garrett, came to her mind. Maybe she shouldn’t do this. Maybe— She felt her skirt rise, her slip lift, her drawers fall, and cool air waft her rear.
Farrington’s mind flooded. He could think of nothing else. No longer checking that anyone might discover them—he didn’t care. Not thinking about the Pinkertons—he didn’t care. Not a concern for selling his loyalty for this amazing body, this extraordinary girl. He saw her hat on the shelf. What did she say about
Orchard’s hat? Did she mean that bowler they found in Orchard’s room? The one he’d been instructed to collect and bring to McParland’s office? His mind shouted: Don’t think about that!
Carla covered her mouth with the palm of one hand, her other against the shelves, bracing with each thrust. She felt his hands grasp her hips, his strong fingers digging in. Suddenly her outstretched hand slipped, shoving books through the shelf to where they crashed on the other side, tumbling her hat as well. She laughed. “Look what you made me do.”
The commotion not only pulled them apart, but it returned his attention to her hat. “What was that you said?” he muttered. “About Orchard’s hat?”
She sat on the floor, her back to the shelf, undergarments at her ankles, skirt scantly covering the rest. “So we’re talking? Now?”
“No, but …”
She smiled. “There’s a piece of paper in the band. Get rid of it.”
“The hat?”
“The paper. Or both if you want. But the paper is what I was told.” She slipped her underdrawers from around one of her shoes and laid herself fully on the floor.
<><><>
Detective McParland was in his office on the first floor of the Idanha Hotel, with Jack standing beside him. On the poplar-planked table before them were a few papers, the fishing line, the acid bottle, the WFM flyer found in Orchard’s room, a small tin holding the plaster found there, the shard of plaster found at the bomb site, and a shard of the dice broken in Orchard’s cell. Alongside those items: a map sketched on a large piece of butcher’s paper showed Governor Steunenberg’s house and street, the location of the bomb, where the fence and gate would’ve been, the path of the trigger line, and a stick-figure of a man standing on the far side of a row of poorly drawn hedges—the name Harry Orchard written beneath it. “This is all we have, Agent Garrett. What does it tell you?”
Jack had noticed the chief referring to him lately as Agent Garrett. Was it just a substitute moniker, or did it carry meaning? Only now, when they were alone in the chief’s office, did it seem right to ask. “Not Twenty-One, Sir?”
American Red Page 19
