A Golden Grave

by Erin Lindsey

  Unwittingly, I glanced over my shoulder at the hundred-and-thirty-foot drop to the island below. My stomach flipped all over again, and a shudder ran down my spine.

  It was a very bad feeling indeed.

  CHAPTER 31

  MISS FOX SHOWS HER FANGS—A GLITTERING ASSEMBLY—COMING TO A BOIL

  The atmosphere at Cooper Union that evening did nothing to soothe my nerves. Bonfires blazed outside the hall, staining the bricks a bloody crimson and throwing furtive, shifting shadows along the archways. Rockets hissed into the sky and exploded in showers of sparks, each one sounding like a gunshot to my ears. Even the sky looked ominous, low and heavy, with a rumble of thunder in the distance.

  And the crowds. They just kept coming, in wave after endless wave, drawn by the fireworks and the glow of the bonfires, teeming along the avenues on either side of the hall. They felt oppressive, swarming around our little group as we huddled under a tree in the square.

  There were ten of us in all: five Pinkertons, four civilians, and a copper. Mr. Sharpe, Mr. Jackson, and Viola Fox were already inside, searching every nook and cranny for anything suspicious. Sergeant Chapman stood with his fellow officers near the doors. That left Edith and Mr. Burrows, Clara and Joseph, and Thomas and me to keep an eye on things outside. Clara and her fiancé had been a surprise, and I almost refused their help, but that would have been foolish. They weren’t likely to be in any real danger, and we needed every pair of eyes we could get. Besides, when Clara had pointed out that she and Joseph had a part in this now, too, I couldn’t argue. If it hadn’t been for them, we would never have known that Foster and his accomplices planned to strike tonight.

  Thomas and I had been here since dusk, blending in among the students while we kept an eye on the comings and goings. But as the hour drew near for Mr. Roosevelt to take the stage, it was time to put the rest of our pieces in play.

  “Does everyone have their copy of the sketch?” I asked, raising my voice to be heard over the pop of rockets and the excited babble of the crowd.

  Nods all around—except Clara, who was giving me a funny look.

  “What?”

  “Sorry. Just a little distracted by those.” She gestured at the spectacles perched on my nose.

  “You and me both.” I couldn’t stop staring at Edith and Mr. Burrows, mesmerized by the glow given off by their luck. Edith, especially, whose luck was never really off, burned so brightly in Mr. Tesla’s spectacles that I had to peer over the tops of the lenses just to make out her features.

  “We oughta split up,” Joseph suggested. “Clara and me can take Fourth Avenue.”

  “Splendid,” Thomas said. “Rose and I will take the rear of the building. Better if we’re not too visible, since Foster knows what we look like.”

  “I’ll take Third Avenue,” Mr. Burrows said.

  Edith flashed a tense smile. “Well, I guess that leaves little old me to watch the front.”

  “It’s probably for the best,” I said apologetically. “You’re more likely than any of us to pick him out.”

  “And if I do? Shall we tell the police?” She inclined her head at the row of coppers lining the front entrance. Inspector Byrnes was among them, growling out orders and doing his best to look important. I was fairly certain he’d seen us, but he pretended he hadn’t, which suited me just fine.

  “I don’t think so,” Thomas said. “We don’t know how deep this conspiracy runs, which means we don’t know whom to trust. If you spot Foster or anyone else who looks suspicious, do not on any account attempt to confront him. Find Rose and me at the back of the building, and let us take care of the rest.” He took out his watch. “Half six. Let’s reconvene by the doors in half an hour.”

  Our friends headed off to take up their posts. Thomas and I were about to do the same when I spied F. Winston Sharpe heading toward us, Viola Fox in tow.

  Wonderful. I’d managed to avoid Miss Fox for the past few days while she posed as Mr. Roosevelt’s stenographer, but I guess all good things come to an end.

  She was still using her cover, obviously; she wore modest, businesslike attire, and her dark hair was pulled back in a severe chignon. As for Mr. Sharpe, he glowed nearly as brightly as Edith. I knew he was lucky, though what his particular gift might be, I’d never had the courage to ask.

  “Miss Fox,” Thomas said, inclining his head. “Good to see you as always.”

  “And you, Mr. Wiltshire.” Then she turned to me with a coolly appended “Miss Gallagher.”

  “Jackson is keeping an eye on things inside,” Mr. Sharpe said. “We inspected every office and lecture hall and found nothing amiss. What about you two?”

  “Nothing to report,” Thomas said. “Miss Gallagher has picked out a handful of lucky individuals, but most of them were known to us. Senior figures in the party and so forth.”

  Miss Fox gave me a dismissive glance. “I wonder that you would delegate such an important task, Mr. Wiltshire. As the senior agent, shouldn’t the use of those remarkable spectacles fall to you?”

  “Miss Gallagher has my absolute confidence,” Thomas replied. “Moreover, it seems only fitting, given her role in helping Mr. Tesla work out how to power the instrument from afar.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of Bedloe’s Island, where Mr. Tesla perched atop Liberty’s torch with his transmitter, sending wireless energy out into the night. Thinking of the inventor, I felt a pang of guilt, imagining how damp and cold he must be up there.

  And speaking of cold, Miss Fox looked me over again and said, “I’m sure you’re right. Besides, with Miss Gallagher acting as the scout, that leaves someone capable to do the actual apprehending.”

  Heat flashed to my cheeks. Thomas started to reply, but Mr. Sharpe interrupted him, nodding at a silver-haired gentleman near the doors. “Look, there’s Acton. He’ll be chairing the meeting. Come, Wiltshire, the two of you ought to meet.”

  I don’t know if it was my frazzled nerves or the fact that my training at Newport was almost certainly over with, but in that moment, I didn’t care that Viola Fox was the senior agent. The moment Mr. Sharpe was out of earshot, I confronted her. “What exactly have I done to offend you, Miss Fox?”

  “Do you really wish to know, Miss Gallagher?”

  The way she was looking at me, I wasn’t at all sure that I did, but I couldn’t very well back down now. I lifted my chin defiantly.

  “Very well, I’ll tell you. That you were offered a position in the special branch, despite being a complete neophyte in all things paranormal, is galling enough. But what I find truly intolerable is that you have usurped the place of better agents as Mr. Wiltshire’s partner.”

  “What do you mean, usurped?”

  “There were half a dozen seasoned agents who would happily have stepped into that role. Who deserved that role, by virtue of their competence and experience. None more so than me. Have you any idea what it was like being the first female agent of the special branch? I had to work twice as hard just to be taken seriously by my male colleagues. And then you come along and undo it all with one flutter of your eyelashes.”

  I stared at her, baffled. “What are you talking about?”

  “Even now, there are those in the special branch who dismiss female agents as mere novelties. They suppose we were hired for the basest of reasons. And now you’ve proved them right, swooping into a plum role without any qualifications beyond a pretty face. I’d have thought Mr. Wiltshire above such things, but apparently not. Men will be men, after all.” And with that, she turned on her heel and walked away.

  I felt sick. Is that what they’re saying? That I seduced my way into the special branch? Could they really think so little of me? So little of Thomas?

  It was absurd, of course, but that was no consolation. Whether it was true or not, if my fellow agents thought I hadn’t earned my place, that I didn’t deserve it …

  “Enough,” I growled. “You have work to do.” Drawing a deep breath, I headed for my post at the back of the buildin
g. I’d have time to process Viola Fox’s accusations later. Right now I had bigger worries.

  Thomas joined me a few minutes later, and we spent the next half hour scanning the crowd, for all the good it did us. I didn’t spot a single golden halo, and as for the ordinary people, every face looked as suspicious as every other. Then we heard the muted notes of a brass band filtering through the windows and we knew it was time to head inside.

  “You don’t suppose he could have slipped by us, do you?” I asked as we made our way to the front of the building.

  Thomas shook his head. “Not with the spectacles to aid us. But with even a crude disguise, he could easily make it past our friends in this crowd.”

  The others were already gathered by the doors, looking tense. With less than an hour until the candidate took the stage, we were running out of time, and we all knew it.

  Sergeant Chapman separated himself from the other coppers and came over. “Filling up pretty fast in there,” he said. “You two better get going.”

  “Joseph and I will keep an eye on the street,” Clara said. “If that’s all right with you all,” she added, inclining her head at the coppers.

  “No objection here,” Chapman said. “The more eyes, the better.”

  I gave Clara a quick hug. “We’ll be just inside if you need us.”

  Jaunty music greeted us in the auditorium, tubas and trumpets bouncing along over the steady murmur of the crowd. Already the hall was filled to bursting. Gentlemen milled about the seats, greeting one another with grins and handshakes and enjoying the festive atmosphere. Banners of red, white, and blue wreathed the walls, and American flags hung over the platform, framing a large gilt eagle. At the center of it all, a huge crayon portrait of Theodore Roosevelt gazed down upon the assembly.

  “Subtly patriotic,” Edith observed.

  “There’s Sharpe and Jackson.” Thomas pointed to a pair of glowing figures near the front row of seats. They stood amid some of New York’s most prominent men: I recognized Astors and Whitneys and Rockefellers and Hendrikses, not to mention the editors of virtually every major newspaper. The golden radiance emanating from their little group of notables was so intense that I had to look away quickly, lest my eyes water and damage Mr. Tesla’s delicate spectacles.

  “Miss Fox will have joined Roosevelt’s aides in the wings,” Thomas said.

  Leaving the six of us to find Foster somewhere amid the throng. At least there were no balconies or shadowed corners to hide in. If he did mean to take a shot at Mr. Roosevelt, he’d have to do it in the open; the only obstacle would be the Corinthian pillars supporting the ceiling.

  “We should focus on the areas where a shooter would have a good line of sight,” Thomas said, echoing my thoughts. “But we’ll need to keep a close eye on the platform as well, including the band.”

  “Miss Islington and I can position ourselves on the flanks,” Mr. Burrows offered, gesturing toward the stage.

  “I’ll take up a roving position along the aisles,” Thomas said. “Miss Gallagher can point out the lucky individuals from up here, and I’ll go in for a closer look.”

  Thus decided, we dispersed once more.

  I stood at the back of the hall, scanning the seats one section at a time. Outside, I’d been worried about not spotting any golden halos; here in the Great Hall, I had the opposite problem. The angelic auras were everywhere, swirling about like sparks from a bonfire. It would have been difficult enough if they’d kept still, but of course they had to hobnob as if it were a cocktail party. It was impossible to keep track of them all. No sooner had Thomas checked the identity of one than I was waving him frantically toward another, even as I tried to keep tabs on those he’d already covered.

  All the while, the huge clock above the platform ticked relentlessly on, inching ever closer to the moment when Theodore Roosevelt would take the stage. If we hadn’t found Foster by then, I didn’t like our chances of stopping whatever came next.

  You’ve got to find him. You’ve got to. I’d given Mr. Roosevelt my word. I’d promised to keep him safe, to catch the monster responsible for murdering so many …

  Nearing seven thirty now, and the delegates began to take their seats. Mr. Burrows moved to the front row, taking his place among the bankers and railroad barons and steel magnates. This race is the very incarnation of Labor versus Capital, Mr. Clemens had said, and here was the proof. A veritable conglomerate of Capital, right there in the front row.

  What Johann Most wouldn’t give to get his hands on that lot, I thought darkly, remembering what the anarchist had said about hanging rich men from lampposts. All handily gathered in one place. Why, there wouldn’t be lampposts enough in the entire neighborhood to …

  I paused.

  The newspaper office Foster and his accomplices had been using as a hideout was littered with copies of Johann Most’s paper, Freiheit. A paper in which Most had famously called for the assassination of rich men. In which he had, even more famously, printed out a convenient guide to making bombs—just like the one they’d used at Haymarket.

  Propaganda of the deed, they call it. Turning murder into spectacle.

  Assassinating Theodore Roosevelt would certainly create a spectacle. But it couldn’t hold a candle to wiping out an auditorium full of New York’s wealthy, lucky elite.

  It would be so easy, I realized with dawning horror. The offices of the Journeyman were right next to the Hudson River Railroad freight line; I remembered the trains rattling the windows while we searched. There would be dynamite by the crateful in those warehouses …

  A cold weight settled in the pit of my stomach. I could feel the certainty taking shape there, nebulous instinct hardening into cast-iron conviction. He had his chance to take Roosevelt quietly and he failed. Now he’s going to kill them all in the showiest way possible.

  Frantic now, I scanned the crowd for Thomas, but I’d lost him in the throng. Mr. Sharpe was down there, and Mr. Jackson, but they weren’t looking my way; I’d have to wade through the clogged aisles to get to them. There wasn’t time. The delegates were already taking their seats. If there was a bomb, Foster might not even bother waiting for Roosevelt. He could set it off right now and accomplish his goal.

  Think, Rose. Where would he plant a bomb? He could throw it from back here, but Mr. Tesla’s spectacles weren’t picking out any lucky people in this part of the auditorium. He might be closer to the stage, but then he’d be in danger of blowing himself up in the bargain.

  Someplace he could plant a bomb without being seen …

  Moving purely on instinct, I quit the hall and raced out into the foyer.

  I found a side door and went through to some sort of utility hallway. I’m not sure what I was looking for, especially since I knew Mr. Sharpe and Miss Fox would have searched this corridor already, but I followed it anyway. A door at the far end stood ajar; the boiler room, judging from the soft roar issuing from within. As I headed toward it, a shadow moved along the floor, and a moment later, a flash of gold light flitted past the doorframe. Someone lucky was in there—and it probably wasn’t the boilerman.

  Swallowing hard, I drew my gun. Are we steady, Rose?

  I plunged inside, gun raised—and promptly tripped over a body lying near the threshold. My gun clattered to the floor and skittered away, disappearing under a thicket of pipes. I scrambled for it, but a blur of motion in the corner of my eye sent me rolling away instead, narrowly avoiding the boot aimed for my head. Springing to my feet, I crouched, righting my crooked spectacles and bracing for attack.

  Jack Foster stood near the door, the golden shimmer of his luck mingling with the angry red glow from the open door of the boiler. He wore the coveralls of a boilerman, just like the unconscious figure at his feet, and he carried a heavy-looking toolbox, clutching it to his chest as though it were worth its weight in gold.

  Or dynamite.

  A toolbox full of explosives ten feet away from a coal-fired steam boiler. I didn’t know if Foster had a g
un, but it didn’t matter. He held our deaths in his hands—Roosevelt’s, Thomas’s, mine. And of course his own.

  “Would you really do it?” I asked quietly. “Blow yourself up along with the rest?”

  “I would,” he said. “I will.”

  I looked into his eyes and knew he meant it. I also knew that all he had to do was touch me, and there would be nothing I could do to stop him.

  CHAPTER 32

  HATCHET JOB—THE COWBOY OF DAKOTA—AN ENCORE PERFORMANCE

  I had my back to the boiler. Already, it was uncomfortably hot against the fabric of my dress. Foster’s gaze went past me, measuring the number of steps to the burning coals. He had only to toss that toolbox through the door and we’d all be blown higher than the Statue of Liberty. Steam boiler explosions had been known to level entire buildings on their own. With a toolbox full of dynamite in the bargain … Slowly, I backed toward the boiler, cutting off his view.

  “That wasn’t the plan,” he said matter-of-factly. “Blowing myself up, that is. I meant to light the fuse and leave it by the door there. There ought to have been enough time. If not…” He shrugged.

  “And now?”

  I was stalling, of course, trying to give my frantic brain time to come up with a plan. So far, my mind was horribly blank. If I had options, I wasn’t seeing them.

  “No reason why we can’t both leave here intact,” Foster said, still eerily composed. I don’t know what I’d expected a zealot to look like, but it wasn’t this, a young man radiating calm along with the angelic light of his luck. “I’m not afraid to die for what I believe in,” he said, as if in answer to my thoughts, “but it wouldn’t be my first choice. You don’t need to die either, sister. I meant what I said that night at the hotel.”

  “Oh, really? The men who jumped me in the alley don’t seem to have got that message.” As I said it, I dared a quick look behind me, hoping to spot something I could use as a weapon.