There had been no time to waste, nor time to wait for streetcars or hacks. Bradshaw had grabbed his bicycle and made the arduous four-mile ride, over bridges, up lung-bursting hills, and down neck-breaking streets to the waterfront, where he’d abandoned his bicycle to the tangle of traffic and raced on foot to the Marion Street dock and this very ferry, leaping aboard as the boat had pulled away from the dock.
And now, more than two years later, the ferry was pulling away again. Bradshaw recalled the pain in his lungs, the numbness of his limbs as he’d struggled to move along the deck. He retraced his labored steps and Taylor moved with him, his stopwatch ticking, his sextant at the ready in his other hand. If passengers eyed them curiously, Bradshaw didn’t notice. He kept his focus inward on his memories.
He sprinted forward, as he had done then, when forcing his strained muscles to move, through the dim interior, and out into the sunshine of the forward deck, then he slumped against the bulkhead. In his mind’s eye he saw them, Oscar Daulton and Artimus Lowe, sitting on the ledge of the bulwark, the picnic basket between them. He hadn’t had the strength to move or speak. For how long? It had seemed an eternity, but as he panted and his head spun, Artimus Lowe had begun to speak. Yes, it had been very soon after Bradshaw propped himself here that Artimus spoke.
He’d said, “To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Professor?” And then, “We’ll give you a moment to compose yourself. No fun getting old.” He’d then launched into a diatribe about Bradshaw’s abandoning him in jail, saying that Daulton was a good friend and had saved him from despair.
Lowe had been a law student, long-winded, eloquent, barbed, and clueless to the fact that he was sitting beside a murderer. By the time he was done, Bradshaw had been able to begin to question Daulton. “Tell me about the Philippines,” he’d begun. Understanding had flashed in Daulton’s eyes. Bradshaw could see the young man knew he was caught, but he still defended himself, talking of the horrors of war and the hypocrisy of a nation that boasted of freedom and equality.
“How did you learn about anarchy?” Bradshaw had asked.
“You say it like it’s something bad, Professor. They’ve got you fooled, too.”
“Who has me fooled?”
“The people with power. The newspapers, the people with money, the military, the government. That’s how they keep control. They get everyone believing what they’re doing is right or noble, for the greater good. Manifest Destiny. A load of lies, Professor.” Daulton’s words came back clearly now, and Bradshaw listened to them, feeling anguish as he had then for this brilliant young man who truly believed his murderous actions would ultimately bring world peace.
Finally, Bradshaw had asked, “Can I have the basket, Oscar?”
Oscar shook his head and curled his fingers around the basket handle, saying, “You taught me about resistance, Professor. You taught me that unimpeded current has no limits. But resistance draws heat and light. Resistance draws attention. It eventually destroys the circuit path and the current ceases to flow. My fellow anarchists are foolish and vain to boast of their accomplishments. They leave their symbols blatantly as a signature of their work, but bragging only draws resistance. Feeds resistance. Silence is an anarchist’s friend.” Daulton’s eyes had glazed as his vision turned more deeply inward. He’d said reverently, “Silence is his unending line of power.” He’d closed his eyes, and thrown himself backwards.
Bradshaw sprang forward, both in memory and now in reality, reaching out to grab hold of Daulton. And then he became Daulton, spinning on his heel and hurling the heavy picnic basket overboard, high into the air. The lid flapped open, dropping the contents—several shiny white-lacquered objects—into the sea. He leaned over the rail and saw they were approaching the landing, a couple hundred yards from shore.
“Could be anywhere from eighty to maybe a hundred sixty feet here,” said Taylor. “According to the charts I studied.”
Bradshaw looked toward the Beverlee B, which had followed the ferry at a safe distance. The captain stepped from the wheelhouse trailing a wire attached to the headphones he wore, and he lifted his hand high in the air, giving Bradshaw a wave. The ship had been outfitted with two of Bradshaw’s waterproofed microphones wired to a telephone receiver. The captain’s signal meant they were picking up the ticking.
Bradshaw returned the wave then sat heavily on the bulwark as Taylor held up his sextant to take measurements, jovially telling astonished onlookers that they were merely performing a scientific experiment.
“Take this down, Bradshaw,” said Taylor, and Bradshaw pulled his notebook from his pocket and recorded Taylor’s findings. Once completed, Taylor sat beside him.
“So what was Daulton’s plan that day?”
“He was going to shock Lowe with his device, then tip him overboard.”
“Why did he throw the basket?”
“Because he knew he was caught and he didn’t want the world, his enemies, to get hold of his invention. He tried to go over, too, but I stopped him.”
Bradshaw imagined the contents of the picnic basket sinking. Three batteries and the cigar box, the contents encased in molten sulfur, as he believed Daulton’s invention to be. He’d painted them all with a heavy coating of shiny white lacquer to make them more visible in the dark depths.
Taylor asked, “Seattle Salvage will keep track of the ticking to see if the currents or tide move them?”
“Yes, and if there is no movement, and it’s not down too deep, the divers will go down on Monday.” Troy Ruzauskas was scheduled for a test dive with the company on Sunday. Bradshaw had offered him a handsome wage to take part in the search. “Will you join us for the day?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. You realize we’ve had witnesses to our odd little experiment. Someone else might beat us to it.”
“I know.” He wasn’t sure he cared, as long as it was found, and the violence ended.
Chapter Eighteen
At ten and three-quarters, Justin Bradshaw was old enough to know that the white-bearded man in the red suit on whose lap he now sat was employed by the Leader Bargain Store, but he’d insisted on visiting him. Bradshaw had chosen Leader’s rather than the Bon Marché because he hadn’t wanted to enter the big store today. He was taking the entire day off from work.
“And what is it you want for Christmas? A fine red wagon? A shiny new bicycle? Or are you a musical lad? A piano or violin to make merry?”
A piano? thought Bradshaw. Did this Santa work on commission?
“No, I don’t want anything from the store.” Justin put a hand to his mouth and whispered. Santa’s eyes opened wide and he looked at Bradshaw questioningly. “Well now, I will see what can be done. How about I have the elves make you something special, a model train set, just in case, eh?”
“No, thank you. That’s all I want.” He stood up and relinquished the jolly man’s knee to the next child, a girl of about four, with a massive pink ribbon on top of her head, who didn’t seem sure she wanted to sit there.
Bradshaw asked Justin, “What next? The lunch counter?”
“Really? But it’s Advent.”
“That’s true, I hadn’t forgotten.” While Catholic children didn’t fast during the season, they were expected to perform works of penance, just as they did at Lent. The penance usually included giving up some favored treat, such as candy, and the practice made Christmas morning all the sweeter. “You’ll have to abstain from soda, but a modest meal at your favorite lunch counter is within the spirit of the season. It’s part of the preparation for celebration. As long as we don’t overindulge, we get to do anything we want today.”
“Anything?”
“Anything that won’t put us on Santa’s naughty list. Or Mrs. Prouty’s.”
Bradshaw did his best to make it a jolly day. It was a distinct effort to set aside his worries, but the happiness on his son’s face ma
de it worthwhile. He had no appetite and was grateful that Justin didn’t seem to notice. As he’d explained to Justin, in keeping with Advent their day was one of preparing for the holiday to come. They purchased a few gifts at the stores to supplement the most treasured gifts they would exchange, those that were homemade. They each dropped a coin in the Salvation Army kettle, and Justin chose the toys, which they purchased and delivered to the Women’s Society, which was collecting them for the city’s poor children. They strolled through McCarthy’s, Spelger & Hurlbut, and every other store but the Bon. They marveled at all the decorations, stopped to listen to music played by musicians on street corners and inside the stores, and they examined all the latest novelties. At Bartell Drugs, Justin became serious and asked his father to wait outside for him, and he emerged with a small brown-paper bundle, which Bradshaw knew not to ask about. Their final purchases were from a farmer off his wagon. They selected a wreath for the front door that Justin would decorate, boughs of greenery, a canvas sack of prickly holly, and a Christmas tree—a Douglas fir—which, they were promised, was freshly cut that very morning. All to be delivered before the end of the day.
By early evening, the tree stood on the back porch in a bucket of water where it would remain until Christmas Eve, being subjected to Mrs. Prouty’s vigorous shakings to rid it of spiders. The decorations waited in a box in the corner. Delicate glass ornaments in a variety of shapes and colors. Handmade ornaments of paper and ribbon that Justin had made, more delicate ornaments of silk and glass made by Mrs. Prouty and Missouri, and a few small wooden birds and angels, carved by Henry.
Bradshaw was pleasantly exhausted. A day with a child, no matter how enjoyable, taxed a man’s physical and emotional energy. After a meal of leftover beef stew, Justin gazed through his stereoscope at his collection of slides of Christmas scenes from around the world before settling on the rug before the hearth to string a popcorn garland for the tree. Bradshaw now sat gratefully with the evening paper, skimming the articles, wondering when the Wright brothers’ success would be brought to light. Wondering where Missouri was at this very moment. Imagining her in a dim compartment in a speeding train. Wishing his thoughts had not gone there. He turned his mind away and found himself lost in the case of Doyle’s death, and there his thoughts churned dismally for a good long while. It might be the first case he never solved.
When he became aware of his surroundings again, the fire had dwindled to embers, and Justin was no longer sprawled on the floor before it, although the bowl of popcorn and string were still there. The house was too quiet. It was Mrs. Prouty’s night off, and as usual she was out with her cousin, who was also in domestic service.
“Justin?” He called, but there was no answer. The boy had been very quiet the past hour or so. Had they overdone today? Was he coming down with a cold after all? Bradshaw climbed the stairs and found Justin’s bedroom door ajar, the room alight. He tapped lightly with his knuckle, then called out again. When no answer came, he pressed open the door and looked in. Justin’s bed was neatly made, the dark blue spread flat against the mattress, the pillow fluffed and propped against the wooden headboard. A glance around revealed an unusually tidy room, the dresser drawers all closed with nothing protruding, the books on the shelf neatly arranged, toys stowed in the closed toy box. This state of order was a holiday gift, the result of a boy skeptical of the naughty and nice list, yet taking no chances. The closet door stood ajar.
“Justin?”
There was no answer, but Bradshaw felt the boy’s presence. He opened the closet fully to find the clothes pressed aside on the wooden rod, revealing the back wall and the little door that accessed a cubby space. This door was also ajar, spilling a meager light.
“Justin?”
There was a short pause before he heard, “Yeah?”
“Can I come in?”
“You won’t fit.”
Bradshaw got down on his knees and pulled open the door. Justin was inside, seated on pillows, a battery-powered lantern beside him. Bradshaw had squeezed in a few times before, but the boy was right. He had modified the space since Bradshaw last visited and a small shelf with books and gadgets prevented him from doing so now. He could only kneel in the closet looking in. Justin was hiding something, but the look of apprehension on his face didn’t indicate it was a gift.
“Best show me and get it over with,” he said gently.
“Promise not to get mad?”
“Yes, but I won’t promise not to lecture if appropriate.”
Justin reached behind his back and pulled out a small dark glass bottle. He sat very still, holding the bottle on his lap. When he looked up, his eyes were filled with anguish.
Bradshaw didn’t need to see the label to know what it was. Carbolic acid.
His heart stopped. The closet floor tilted beneath him. He felt as if an ice cold washcloth was draped over his face. He knew he needed to be strong, and wise, but first he knew he needed to breathe. Second, he needed not to vomit.
He managed both, and he heard himself say in a surreally calm voice, “Can you come out so we can talk?”
Justin shook his head. Bradshaw didn’t push. This was his son’s place of safety, a concept he understood all too well. He moved to a seated position before the door, marginally more comfortable and stable.
Justin’s young innocent face was awash with confusion.
“I just wanted to know,” he said, “what it was like. It smells sweet.”
“Yes, it does. It’s rather deceptive, though, because it doesn’t taste or feel sweet.”
“My mother swallowed it.”
Bradshaw felt numb. He’d dreaded this moment for a decade. He’d prayed it would never happen, or if it did, that it would be when Justin was much older, much stronger. He was a boy. A boy shouldn’t know such things.
“Yes. I’m very sorry. How did you learn?”
“It wasn’t hard to figure out. You always hide the paper on days when there’s articles about someone drinking it.”
If it were possible for him to feel any worse, he would, but he could spiral no lower.
Justin asked, “Did she think it would cure her?”
“Not cure her, no. But I think she believed it would end her pain. She had the sort of illness, an illness of the mind, that doctors don’t yet know how to cure.”
“You mean she hoped she would die.”
“I’m not sure. She wanted her life to be different. She found the pain unbearable.” It had not been a physical pain, but a mental one. She’d been unbalanced, with a desperate and sick need for attention masked by her loveliness and acting ability. Her parents had known and not told him. He’d not understood until too late, until the wedding vows had been said. And then she’d revealed her true self. It had come as a shock to him. He’d courted a charming, lovely girl, but married a monster. Each day, she had grown steadily worse, demanding, threatening, until she discovered she was with child. And then she’d been furious. He’d spent the duration of her pregnancy doing her bidding to keep the child safe, and after the boy was born, and she rejected him, refusing even to hold him, Bradshaw became both mother and father. But these were truths Justin need never know. They weren’t publicly known, they were his secrets, shared with only two people in the world, Henry, and Missouri. And they would all take the secrets to their graves.
Justin stared at the bottle, his pale slender hands wrapped around it.
“Is that what you bought at the drug store?”
The boy nodded.
He’d forbidden Mrs. Prouty ever to bring it into the house. It had never occurred to him that Justin would bring it home himself.
“It cost two bits. They’ll sell it to anybody.” He said the last as if surprised by the fact. “Even me.”
“Because it’s a household cleaner. It’s made from coal tar. It has antiseptic properties. Many people use it diluted for
cleaning when there’s sickness in the house. Doctors use it in their offices. In very small doses it can even be used in medicine, but too much is very dangerous.”
“But it’s a poison.”
“It can be, yes. There are many things like that. When used one way they are dangerous, used another they are helpful. Most everything can be used to cause harm, that doesn’t make everything inherently bad.”
“Do you think—I mean, it’s one of the Ten Commandments, isn’t it? That you’re not supposed to do? You’re not supposed to kill anyone, not even yourself.”
“That’s true.”
“People who break a commandment, it’s not like fibbing or something. If you break one of the commandments, you don’t go to heaven. Do you?” His innocent and distraught blue eyes begged for comfort.
“For a very long time, I believed that. I was angry at your mother for leaving us. I didn’t understand her illness, and I couldn’t forgive her. But over time, I came to realize that life isn’t always clearly divided into right and wrong. We are none of us born with perfect minds or bodies and we are often faced with very complicated choices. Your mother was faced with something beyond her ability to control, and she made a mistake. Her death still makes me sad, but I’ve forgiven her.”
“So you think she’s in heaven?”
“I do. A life is judged by more than one act. And she did give the world something very special.”
Justin gave a half smile. “Me?”
“There is a theory about the conservation of energy. Very simply, energy is never lost. It simply transforms from one state to another. People are a form of energy, and your mother passed on some wonderful energy I see in you. You’re musical like her, and artistic. I’m sure she’s very proud of you, and she wants you to be happy and live a full life. And do your homework.”
Edison Effect, The: A Professor Bradshaw Mystery (The Edison Effect) Page 19
