by Tim Champlin
“There’s no freight agent there?” Hughes interrupted.
“Only during the day. The Wells Fargo messenger has a key to the shed. We’ll just set the crate on the platform, like the freight agent hauled it outside for quicker loading. By daylight our crate of harrows will be across the Mississippi River into Hannibal. Before the country wakes up to the news on the telegraph wires, the body will be well on its way across Missouri. One of us will go east of here about thirty miles, buy a ticket, board the train, and ride all the way to keep an eye on things.”
“Where will it go from Saint Joe?” the stocky McGuinn wanted to know.
“Haven’t quite decided yet,” Kinealy said smoothly. Too smoothly, Packard thought. Anyone as meticulous as this man would have already figured out the final destination and hiding place of the body while ransom demands and negotiations were being made. He was probably keeping this last detail to himself as a hedge against any leaks or betrayal. But the others seemed to accept his answer.
“Whoever is riding the train will rent a rig in Saint Joe and claim the crate when it’s off-loaded,” Kinealy continued.
“I don’t know.” Hughes frowned, black eyes narrowing to mere slits behind the curling cigar smoke. “With all that handling of the body and all those connections to be made, it seems like there are just too many things that could go wrong. I think we should keep it simpler and hide the coffin somewhere nearby.” A very cautious man, Hughes liked to brag that he’d never been in jail. Packard had him pegged as the smartest one of the bunch, next to Kinealy.
“You can back out, if you want to,” Kinealy replied. “We all knew this was not going to be a completely safe operation. But big rewards require big risks.”
Hughes nodded grudgingly, although Packard could see he wasn’t really satisfied. “I’m in.”
The dull Mullins and the former boxer, McGuinn, raised no objections.
“As a matter of fact, Hughes, you can ride the train if you want to, and the rest of us will do the hard part,” Kinealy said. “You and my wife can appear to be traveling together as an innocent married couple. Once you’ve claimed the crate and have it stashed safely in Saint Joe, or wherever I decide to take it, I’ll wire the governor and open negotiations for its safe return. If anything goes wrong with the plan before you get to Saint Joe, then the two of you can just go on your way as if you are completely ignorant of the whole thing. Couldn’t ask for a simpler assignment than that.”
A sly smile crept over Hughes’s face at this prospect.
“And, speaking of my wife, here she is, right on cue,” Kinealy said as they all turned toward the sound of footsteps on the stairway at the end of the room.
Chapter Two
If every man has his Achilles heel, Packard’s was Janice Kinealy. As she gracefully descended the stairs, carrying a tray of sandwiches, he felt that old familiar twinge in his stomach as his heart began to beat faster. It was a completely involuntary reaction but one which, to his dismay, occurred every time he saw or spoke to her.
“With all this talk, I thought maybe you were getting hungry,” she said, sliding the bottles and glasses aside to make room for the tray on the table. “Hello, Rip...Stan...,” she nodded as she spoke to each of them individually. “Jack.... How are you, Sterling?”
“Thanks, Janice. You think of everything,” Kinealy said.
“I hope you’ve thought of everything,” she returned, giving him a forthright look. “Once we start this business, there will be no turning back, you know.”
She spoke matter-of-factly since she would be as fully involved as the rest of them. Packard thought this was one of the things that he found so alluring about her — she could be coy and flirtatious, or she could, as now, look a man in the eye and speak simply, but with a confidence that somehow never crossed the line to bossiness or nagging. There was no formality among them, and she was completely at ease in the company of men. Moreover, she was a willing participant in the preparations and gladly took on any job, however menial.
As she moved toward the steaming coffee pot on the stove, Hughes hastened to find a cup behind the bar for her.
“Well, have you got it all sorted out?” she asked, taking the chair Mullins offered her.
“I believe so,” Big Jim replied. “Let me fill you in.”
Still standing, Packard was munching on one of the ham sandwiches and wondering why his mouth was so dry as he stared at her. It wasn’t as if her beauty were striking him for the first time. It had been thirteen years since he had first met her and Kinealy during the war, but he hadn’t seen her again until about four months ago when Kinealy, on the recommendation of that underworld contact, had commissioned Packard’s services as an alleged grave-robber. Both of the Kinealys remembered him, which helped in gaining their confidence. They assumed he had also followed a road outside the law in the years since the war.
Working off some nervous energy, Packard went behind the bar and drew himself a beer to wash down the sandwich. Janice Kinealy had lost none of her charm. Time had traced some very fine lines in the skin of her neck and face, and a few silver threads now shone in the brown wavy hair. She wore her thick hair touching her collar instead of the sweeping chestnut tresses he remembered so well from their first meeting years ago. While no longer the stunningly gorgeous young woman who could turn any man’s head, she still retained the graceful, classic beauty and personal charm that tugged irresistibly at him. Janice was probably in her late thirties, Packard guessed — close to his own age and several years younger than Kinealy, whom he knew from Secret Service files to be forty-five. It was fortuitous the Kinealys were childless, considering their life style, he thought as he continued to stare at her. Suddenly, beer was foaming over the top of his glass and down his hand, and he hastened to shut off the tap, wiping his fingers on his pants leg.
When Kinealy told his wife he wanted her to accompany Rip Hughes on the train from Decatur, Illinois to St. Joseph, Missouri, she slowly nodded, looking at Hughes, and then turning her eyes to Packard with a glance that pierced to his core. It was a look that, as much as any words, said she would prefer that he accompany her. Pretending not to notice, he tipped up his beer and prayed that Kinealy had not seen and interpreted the look as well.
Packard heard nothing of the next few minutes of conversation while he tried to get his emotions under control and Kinealy briefed her on what had been discussed and decided.
* * *
The meeting finally broke up sometime after midnight. A few details still needed to be worked out, but Kinealy was feeling the strain of a long day and decided to call a halt.
McGuinn!” Kinealy called, the germ of an idea sprouting in his mind. “You and Hughes hold up a minute.”
The two men paused from shrugging into their overcoats as the door slammed behind Mullins and Packard.
Kinealy looked toward his wife who was collecting the empty glasses and setting them on the bar. “Go on to bed, Janice. I’ll finish cleaning up.”
“Oh, I don’t mind.”
“I said...go upstairs!” he repeated more forcefully.
He saw her flash a defiant look at him, but then she glanced at McGuinn and Hughes, and started silently toward the stairs.
Kinealy waited until she had disappeared before turning to the waiting men. “You know what this operation means to us. If it succeeds, we’re set up for years to come. If it fails, we might spend the next twenty years or more behind bars.”
They nodded, somewhat impatiently he thought.
“I’m repeating this to you two because I don’t want another foul-up like that thing with Mullins. Keep an eye on both of them. Packard was recommended to me by someone I trust, but I don’t really know anything about the man. Don’t say anything to him, but just report to me if he says or does anything unusual. Janice wanted to....” He broke off “Well, never mind. That’s all.” He decided not to mention the fact that he would not have taken Packard into the fold but for Janice’s urgin
g. He felt sure her interest stemmed from the fact that she had saved Packard’s life during the war and probably found him an attractive diversion. And he usually let his wife have her way, if he could, just to keep her happy. For the same reason, he had reluctantly agreed to make her part of this mission which was outside the normal realm of his counterfeiting activities.
“I’m sure he’s probably O K,” Kinealy went on. “This is just a precaution. We’ve all got to pull together on this. Understand? I don’t want any dissension in the ranks. Just keep your eyes and ears open.”
“You bet, boss,” McGuinn said.
Hughes merely nodded.
The two men disappeared into the darkness, and Kinealy turned the key in the lock behind them. For several long minutes he stood by the door, hearing the late autumn rain beating at the front of the building. But he wasn’t listening to the storm. Thoughts of the upcoming burglary filled his mind, just as it had for the past several weeks. He had no misgivings about it. He was the type of man who, once he put his hand to the plow, did not look back. Mentally reviewing his own words at the meeting, he was satisfied his performance had been convincing. At least, it was good enough to deceive slow-witted Mullins and the plodding McGuinn into thinking they’d actually had some rôle in deciding the details of the plan. Hughes and Packard probably weren’t fooled, but they were the smarter ones.
He knew he probably wouldn’t sleep this night. The prospect of such an outrageous and dangerous scheme filled his mind and excited him like nothing had in twenty years. He felt his heart beating faster and, without thinking, began an agitated pacing. This was the stuff of life. Some men fought duels, others gambled their lives in battle, or risked death driving a schooner to windward around Cape Horn. A few of those who willingly dared such things felt truly alive only when their earthly existence was in imminent peril. He had never thought of himself as a thrill-seeking risk-taker. But when he took time to reflect on it, he recognized the attraction of the heightened sensation, the keener perception that came with danger. Long periods of selling counterfeit bills had become relatively safe and boring. So much so that he felt he was aging before his time and accomplishing little. He needed a change, something big to stretch his capabilities.
He turned to pick up the half-empty bottles and stash them behind the bar. He poured himself one last drink, hoping this would serve to calm him enough to sleep. He stared into the amber-colored liquid, and then sniffed its slightly sweet aroma. Although basically a man of action, he also fancied himself a gentleman of refinement, having acquired a taste for fine Kentucky bourbon and several kinds of imported champagne. He could even distinguish between a Mozart composition and one by Bach. True, this had come after numerous trips to the concert halls with a favorite mistress while he was in St. Louis on business. He smiled at the thrills and pleasures of the good life, as he toasted his reflection in the back-bar mirror before throwing down the shot. A small glow warmed his insides. He set the glass on the bar and cocked his head, listening for any movement upstairs. Perhaps Janice wasn’t asleep yet. He hoped not.
* * *
When Sterling Packard took his leave and stepped out into the blustery night, he welcomed the cold wind that quickly cleared his head of the cigar smoke and whiskey fumes. As he walked along the dark Springfield street toward his boarding house several blocks away, the alluring presence of Janice Kinealy went with him, even as he berated himself for being emotionally drawn toward another man’s wife. It was an unhealthy temptation that he could have resisted much easier had he thought the attraction was only one-sided. He’d tried various ways to shake the feeling as being morally wrong and also dangerous and unprofessional. Maybe his feeling for her was a result of the way they had met, he reflected, as he climbed the steps to the porch of his boarding house, shaking the rain and sleet from his hat and fumbling for his key. Chickamauga Creek, Georgia, 1863. The long-healed wound in his left side that was now beginning to ache with the advent of cold weather was an enduring reminder of that time and place.
He went quietly to his upstairs room, undressed to his long johns, and lighted the lamp beside the bed. Then he climbed in and pulled the covers up, vaguely aware of the wind moaning around the eaves of the dark house. He picked up a novel from the night stand and made a half-hearted attempt to read, but his mind’s eye kept drifting away from the printed page to a scene much more vivid — a green Southern forest thirteen years earlier. Many a day after that miraculous rescue he had thought about and prayed for the woman who had saved his life.
After a few years, the classroom lost its appeal, and he’d left teaching in 1870 to take a job with the U. S. Secret Service. Through the newspapers and his agency’s internal correspondence, he had followed the growing reputation of James Kinealy’s counterfeiting activities. He had often wondered about Janice. Was she still with him? If so, what kind of a life did she have?
Last year he’d been transferred from St. Louis to Chicago to help trace the source of the phony currency that was flooding the country and playing havoc with an economy weakened by the financial panic of 1873. And four months ago, through a paid underworld intermediary, he’d been recommended to Kinealy as an expert, experienced grave-robber. Under the guise of a grave-robber who supplied illegal cadavers to medical schools, he had again met Janice and James Kinealy. It was then he knew he’d carried feelings for her all these years. It had to be only a patient’s infatuation with his nurse, since he’d barely gotten to know her during those few days in Georgia. But that realization still didn’t lessen the intensity of the sparks that seemed to arc between them at their re-acquaintance.
He tossed restlessly in his bed, knowing it had to be after one o’clock. He was tired from a strenuous day and from reliving the old battle in his imagination. There was an emptiness in the pit of his stomach, when he realized that the real battle lay ahead. His job would force him to betray the woman who had saved his life and see to it that she and her husband were sent to prison. The additional fact that he was attracted like a magnet to her was going to make his job supremely difficult.
Chapter Three
“You are all doomed to perdition! Look upon the never-ending fires of hell all you sinners!” the street preacher thundered. “You men who swear and blaspheme, you who are drunkards and whoremongers, you who seek to pile up earthly riches, you who cheat your fellow man...all of you will be damned to eternal punishment unless you repent! Repent and abandon your evil ways, or damnation will follow as night follows day!”
The bellowing of the fire and brimstone preacher could be heard nearly a block away. An amazingly powerful voice coming out of a man who was probably less than five and a half feet tall, Packard thought, as he sidled up to the back of the crowd of a hundred or more who had collected to listen. It was near the supper hour of a very mild October 30th in Springfield, and the man who was exhorting the passers-by was standing on a two-foot high stone retaining wall so he could be seen by everyone in the audience. The westering sun was dropping rapidly, but its late rays were illuminating the fiery orator as if with a halo of divine light.
“You who harbor secret lust in your hearts, you who covet your neighbor’s wife, you who bear false witness....”
At the mention of coveting his neighbor’s wife, Packard felt a twinge of conscience. This red-faced street preacher who wore his hair long and parted in the middle had struck a nerve. Packard squirmed inwardly, telling himself the feeling for Janice was only a temptation he was trying to resist.
“If your eye offend thee, pluck it out! If your hand scandalize thee, cut if off!” the preacher boomed, warming to his subject. “For it is better to enter the kingdom of heaven maimed than to be thrown into the pit of hell with all your parts,” he yelled, paraphrasing the New Testament’s sobering admonition.
“I hear he’s done that very thing.”
“What?” Packard was startled by a man standing at his elbow.
“Mutilated himself.”
He turned
to face a man about his own height and age, dressed in a black topcoat and hat. He sported a black mustache and no-nonsense steel-rimmed spectacles.
“You know this man?”
He nodded.
“What do you mean...mutilated himself?” Packard continued, looking with renewed interest at the preacher. He seemed to be intact.
“The devil in your hearts must be driven out! Give glory to God!” the short, stocky preacher extolled all of them.
“He castrated himself,” the man beside Packard stated matter-of-factly. “After a couple of whores approached him.”
Packard cringed inwardly at the vision of such a thing.
“At least, he practiced what he preaches,” the well-dressed man added.
“Who is he?” Packard asked, fumbling for something to say.
“Thomas Corbett. But the world knows him as Boston Corbett. He took the name of the city where he got religion.”
The name rang a distant bell in Packard’s memory. “Boston Corbett?” he repeated aloud.
“The sergeant who shot and killed John Wilkes Booth.”
