by Alex Myers
“Really?”
“Pink, I’m just kidding,” Jack said.
Pinkerton didn’t smile. “There are about three hundred lunatics at any one time at the asylum, and that number seems to be constant. The asylum has been shipping their most violent patients here, even before this new section was built.” He gestured at the prison part of the plant.
“And no one ever comes out, no one ever leaves?”
“Not one lunatic, not one prisoner, not one slave.”
“Like they used to say about the Hotel California,” Jack said.
Pinkerton shook his head and looked back toward the plant.
They were on the high ring of land that surrounded three sides of the prison like a horseshoe. The height of the ridge ranged from fifty to seventy-five feet high, and its inside cliff of granite fell to within a mere fifty feet of the building. It was the highest piece of land on the Peninsula.
Each of the three sides had a guard positioned at the inside corner and two guards manned the gate. The gate was in between the two wings and had an interior courtyard that served as a loading dock for both buildings. There was a covered walkway between the second floor of the factory and the top floor of the prison. Underneath the walkway was an enclosed storage area and stables.
They hid their positions on top of the ridge by ducking from one giant boulder to another. The guards down below never once looked up, having resigned themselves that the cliff was an impenetrable barrier. There was one door where a stairwell exited to the rooftop. One more guard, one that appeared rather fat and rather sleepy, sat unmoving, staring down at the gate section.
“I think he’s snoozing,” Jack said.
“Um-hum. And do you have a way to get from here to there and there to here?”
“Yep, and funny things are everywhere.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s Dr. Seuss, from One Fish, Two Fish.”
“I don’t really see how a Doctor and fish are going to help,” Pinkerton said.
“It’s just a joke, I’m trying to lighten things up. I killed people yesterday; this is a prison where they are experimenting on lifers, slaves, and psychopaths. I think I might be having an allergic reaction.”
“Does this have anything to do with where you’re from?”
Jack stopped cold in his tracks. “Where I’m from? What do you mean, where I’m from?”
“Let’s don’t kid each other. My job is to observe. Am I just supposed to ignore all the little odd things about you, your vernacular, your gestures, to say nothing about your revolutionary ideas and inventions. I just don’t know why you try to hide it.”
Jack turned his head and looked at Pinkerton. “Really?”
“Really, it seems like you would shout it from the rooftops.”
The Dr. Seuss comment had to be what gave it away. He completely trusted Allan; maybe it was time to come clean. It would make some things easier. Like explaining the Rogallo Wing could carry more weight. “Okay, I’m going to get to that rooftop by flying over there with a flying wing I developed.”
“I’m not surprised.”
Wow, Jack thought, this was a lot easier. “Not surprised because of where I’m—“
“From, yes, because of where you’re from.”
He should have told Pinkerton a long time ago. He couldn’t wait to tell him about the future…
“Because you are an alien.”
What! Pinkerton thinks that I’m a spaceman?
“I just can’t figure out if you’re from Europe or Scandinavia.”
Relief. Wrong kind of alien. Darn.
“Pink, I’m from here in Virginia. I’m just an American.”
“If you’re being honest, okay, but I thought I was on to something.”
“So did I.” Jack said, and then to himself, So did I.
“This flying wing, will it work? And you can fly Kazmer and Sam back?”
“No, we’ll probably need to work something else out for our getaway.”
They heard a noise coming from the other side of the ridge. They crossed the twenty yards to the other side. Pinkerton pulled out his pocket watch. “Right on time.”
A covered coach with bars over the windows and door came rattling down the road from Williamsburg. It came straight at the ridge, got to it, and rode parallel all the way to the gate between the two buildings. One elderly driver with great wads of wiry gray hair looked half asleep as he pulled the wagon to a stop.
“It’s the same routine, same driver and coach that Murphy and I saw last week.”
“It takes them one hour to get from the asylum to here,” Pinkerton said.
“That driver looks so bored, he’s paying about as much attention as this slacker on the roof here.”
They moved to the edge of the cliff so they could watch the patient transfer procedure.
“Same way every time?” Jack asked.
“An exact copy.”
Without even inspecting it, the two guards at the gate waved the wagon through. It bypassed the loading dock and went right into the storage area under the covered bridge that connected the two buildings together.
“This is better than we could have hoped for, right?”
“It’s even better than that. In between the two buildings they have a weapons bunker under the walkway. That’s where they store the black powder and another explosive powder, Astalite?”
“Astrolite.”
“Astrolite, that’s one of yours?”
“Yep, that and the black powder, but they figured out how to make the stuff here.”
“They store the explosives under that bridge so if there was an accident it wouldn’t destroy either building.” Pinkerton said.
“It would definitely create chaos, and that’s what we are hoping for.”
They were about to leave when a wagon full of black men came down the factory road. They were shackled together in the back of an open wagon. Two white men sat in the front seat, one driving and the other with a large gun.
“I know those two ass-wipes. They’re slave traders, Brose and Bolton,” Jack said.
“Evidently they are slave thieves also, because you can bet they don’t have papers for any of those men.”
“What do they do with them?”
“Not sure. Taking in slaves is something new, possibly an Abner Adkins contribution. Massingale said the people over here on this side of the plant were getting too dangerous—remember, that’s why he quit—and they were going to start using slaves to care for the other men. They have always used strong younger men, but half those men on that wagon look older than sixty.”
“And nobody ever comes out? What the hell do they do in there, chop people up and make dog food?”
Pinkerton looked solemn.
“Stop it Pink, I’m just kidding.”
“I’m not kidding. This is really bad.”
CHAPTER 25
Sunday, July 5, 1857
“You don’t think I know you, do you? You crazy old son of a bitch.” Abner Adkins said to Murphy McCord.
Hercules looked up and down the back alley street, cursing himself for suggesting to Murphy they take it in order to save time. He remembered Adkins and he knew what he was capable of doing. He looked around for any living soul to lend a hand. There was none.
“I talked to Dale Dudley, and he told me he talked to you. Seems you convinced Dudley that the SAC would be better off without me. And then I heard that you’ve been asking around for Augie Overstreet? You think you are going to squeeze me out? I’m the Juiceman, you crazy hermit!”
Hercules took two steps back and became one with the dark shadow in back of a building. He had spent his whole life not being noticed.
“I served with Senator Dudley in Congress. He was my esteemed colleague. I’m the former Senator from Texas, Murphy McCord.”
“Like hell, you’re that crazy old fart that used to live with the pigs out on Broad Creek. I never forget a face.”
“I’ve worked too long and too hard to have it taken away from me now.”
“Mister Adkins, I would hope you would see the error in your ways. Trying to keep the colored man in chains is like closing the barn door once the horses are out.”
“Those are pretty fancy words, considering they’re coming from a man that has his very own nigger.”
“What?” Murphy looked around, didn’t see Hercules, and turned back to Adkins. “He’s not my—“
“Shut it. I don’t need you talking to my people; I don’t need you veering them away from our mission. A mission that is a vision of my mentor, Winston Creed, and one he and I plan to present to the masses.”
“Ooh, there could be a bit of a problem there. Mr. Adkins, I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, but you won’t get much help from Winston Creed, unless you’re looking to feed fish. Winston Creed is dead.”
“No! You are crazy!”
Hercules didn’t understand what Murphy hoped to gain by making this enraged armed man even crazier. He took another step backward and backed into the wall.
“And that big oaf Miles Drake, he and Winston are playing pinochle in hell ‘bout right now.”
“No, they sent the first message last night, the first of many to come. The abolitionists in the South, and soon to be the North, will know not to gather. They will see the error of their ways,” Adkins said.
“Nothing happened last night. They killed Miles and then Creed before they had a chance to set off the bomb.”
Abner was wigging out and didn’t seem to be paying attention to Hercules at all. Hercules was going to run, like he always did. His new friend Murphy McCord was certainly angering this very bad man. But Murphy had accepted him as a human being, not as a piece of property. Plus Murphy was a friend of Jack’s, the man who had given him his freedom. He had to do something. He looked for a loose rock to hurl.
Abner Adkins pulled the pistol from his waistband and pointed it at Murphy. “No, I don’t believe Creed is dead, Miles would have told me.”
“Dead too. Intimidating people, hurting people, killing people, it’s not going to change people’s minds. You’re not going to win people over.”
“You are wrong, old man.” Abner cocked the pistol and aimed at Murphy’s head.
Hercules found a quarter piece of brick on the ground. He picked it up and hurled it at Abner. The rock hit him hard on the hip. Abner let out a surprised cry of pain and lowered the gun to his side. He saw Hercules for the first time, just as he was trying to meld back with the shadows. Abner winced, stood straight, and fired.
Brick and mortar exploded near Hercules’s head. He hunched over and scooted along the wall of the alley.
Abner reloaded and prepped the pistol for the next round and Murphy, all flailing arms and legs, rushed him. “Run, Hercules, run!” Murphy said as he closed the distance to Abner.
All thoughts of running instantly left his mind. His new friend Murphy was trying to save his life. That was something no man had ever done, black or white. He stopped and scanned the ground for something to throw. He saw the other three-quarters of the brick he had thrown earlier. He dove for it, but not fast enough.
Murphy was less than ten feet away and closing in fast.
“Old man, you can’t stop progress.” Abner swung the gun from Hercules’s direction and once again took aim at Murphy. Abner aimed at Murphy’s head and then lowered his target to Murphy’s middle.
“Killing you quick would be too easy, I want you to suffer.” Abner aimed the pistol point blank at Murphy’s chest and fired from five feet away. “And your nigger can know it’s his fault as he watches you die.”
The gun kicked with a huge explosion and Murphy’s eyes popped wide as the bullet entered his body. The impact from the .41 caliber Volcanic lever-action pistol knocked Murphy to the ground. At the entrance to the alley, a woman screamed. Momentarily distracted, Abner turned at the sound.
Hercules flung the three-quarter brick with every bit of strength his body could muster. The brick hit Abner between the shoulder blades. Abner’s arms flew forward and the gun went flying. The force of the impact pounded him forward and he struggled to keep from falling.
“Hey, you there!” A man yelled, coming to the rescue of the woman’s scream.
Abner turned in the downed man’s direction. Murphy’s hands were twitching and his body was shaking uncontrollably. Two other people joined the man and woman at the entrance to the alley. Abner looked around quickly as if searching for the gun, threw a scowl in Hercules’s direction, and ran for the end of the alley opposite the gathering crowd.
Hercules reached Murphy just as his heels were tapping a faint staccato onto the ground. Hercules bent over to gather Murphy into his arms and Murphy said, “No, don’t move me.”
“Mr. Murphy, let me be gettin’ you to a doctor.”
“No, let me rest, I can’t catch my breath, the pressure on my chest.” Murphy opened his mouth to breathe. “It’s like a giant hand, crushing me.” He coughed up pink froth.
Hercules looked up and saw Abner Adkins laugh, give him a rude gesture, and disappear around the corner. “I needs to be getting you a doctor,” Hercules said to Murphy, then to the gathering crowd he shouted, “Somebody fetch this man a doctor.”
“I don’t want to die,” Murphy gasped. “I just started to live again.”
“You not be dying, Mr. Murphy!” But Hercules knew that he was. “Just don’t be talking. Every time you do, you be losing lots of blood.”
“Things are just starting to get exciting, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they be. No more talking ‘til the doctor be here.”
“Can you get Jack?” Murphy coughed up bright red blood.
“Sho enough, soon as I get you some help.”
“I want him to meet my wife and daughter…”
CHAPTER 26
Sunday, July 5, 1857
Ken Barnett was riding hard and quickly approaching Jack and Pinkerton. He waved his hand back and forth. Jack and Pinkerton were returning to town in the rented wagon.
“What is it?” Jack yelled and he recognized him approaching.
“It’s your friend Murphy, he’s been shot.” Barnett was still fifty feet away and just starting to rein in the horse.
“Where? How?”
“The negro said it was Abner Adkins. He’s in pretty bad shape, it might already be too late.”
“Do you mind if we switch and I take the horse back?”
“That’s why I came, I thought you’d want to be there.” Ken dismounted and Jack jumped from the wagon.
“Where is he?” Jack asked as climbed on to the horse.
“The Doctor’s Office is three buildings past our hotel, on the same side of the street,” Ken yelled, but Jack was practically out of sight.
The doctor’s office was in a structure that was a cross between a small house and a large shed. Jack missed it the first time. It was not part of the row buildings on the street, but a small freestanding cubbyhole. It was all white, twelve feet high, twelve feet wide and twenty feet long. It had one unadorned window with the plainest white curtain and an entry door two steps up with the word “Entrance” written above it. Next to the door, in the same lettering, was the proclamation ‘Dr. Erik Eckel’.
Jack burst into the room as Dr. Eckel was cutting away Murphy’s blood-soaked shirt. A dark fissure of blood flowed from a black hole just to the right of his sternum. With each labored breath, bloody foam gurgled out of the bullet wound.
Dr. Eckel was in his mid-fifties, had a giant mat of curly salt and pepper hair, heavy brow, and big, bushy, in-your-face sideburns. The doc
tor held a rag over Murphy’s injury. Without ever turning to look he asked, “Are you Jack?”
Jack moved forward, getting his first good look at Murphy’s clammy, colorless face. “Yes, I am.”
“He’s been asking for you, he’s also been having a disturbing one-sided conversation with his wife and daughter—are they anywhere around?”
“They’re dead, been gone a long time.”
“Not as far as he’s concerned.” The doctor stood from a stool next to the examination table and made way for Jack. “Here, press this down on the wound.” He looked Jack in the eye and said in a whisper, “He’s dying quickly, I’m sorry, there’s nothing more I can do.”
Through the sticky, warm rag, Jack could feel the struggle, the hitch and the gurgle of Murphy’s ragged breathing. He leaned close to his face and said, “I’m here.”
The old man’s eyes flickered open one at a time and a trembling smile came to his face.
“I’m sorry,” Jack said.
“Sorry for what?”
“This.” He gestured around the doctor’s office and then toward the wound. He saw Hercules for the first time, sitting in a corner on the floor, racked with tears.
“Bullshit!” The strength of Murphy’s voice caused both Jack and Hercules to look up in surprise. The effort caused the sucking chest pit to overflow with blood foam. “I was already dead. You helped me live again.” Murphy started coughing and splattered blood onto Jack, covering the front of Jack’s white shirt.
“Save your strength.”
“For what? I’ve lost a lung and I can feel the bleeding from the inside out. The buzzards are already circling.” To punctuate his words, rivulets of blood coursed from both corners of his mouth.
Hercules let out a moan. Jack got his attention, pointed to the basin of water and clean towels, and nodded toward Murphy’s sweating forehead.
Murphy stirred as if awakening from a dream. He looked first to Jack, and then to Hercules. “Jack, you have been like a son to me, the son I never had but always wanted.” There was such a long pause Jack thought Murphy died. But then his eyes opened, he looked at Hercules, and said, “Given a while longer, I think we could have become good friends.”
