A Golden Grave

by Erin Lindsey

  “That wasn’t my doing. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “You just want to kill hundreds of innocent people.” A short-handled shovel stood propped against the boiler. It wasn’t much, but it might keep Foster at bay long enough for me to think of something else. Discreetly, I took another step back.

  “Innocent?” He tilted his head. “Innocent like the robber barons out there, who grow fat off the blood of the poor? Innocent like the politicians they’ve bought? Innocent like your friend Inspector Byrnes, who earns five times his annual salary in bribes?”

  “Byrnes is no friend of mine.” Another small step. “My friends are people like Mr. Burrows and Miss Islington, whose only crime is belonging to a wealthy family. They’re out there, too. So is Thomas Wiltshire. A good man, the best I’ve ever known, and you tried to murder him just because he dared to interfere with your killing spree. How do you justify that to yourself?”

  “This is war, sister. There will be casualties.”

  “I’m not your sister, and you don’t fool me for a second. I saw the look on your face when you tried to kill Thomas. The hate. There’s nothing righteous in that. You’re a murderer, plain and simple. You killed six people in cold blood, and for what? Roosevelt was nominated anyway.” I dared another fleeting glance over my shoulder, making sure I knew exactly where the shovel lay.

  “Yes, he was, and he’s even more dangerous than we imagined. Using his luck and his Knickerbocker name to charm the weak-minded, convince them he’s a friend to the workingman. He’ll win. All the papers say so.”

  “And that’s worth killing over?”

  “Don’t you see?” he cried, his composure cracking at last. “For once, we have a chance to be led by one of our own! The first-ever Labor administration! But that won’t happen unless we make it happen. Roosevelt will win, and then it’s back to the trough for every one of those plutes out there.” He shook his head darkly. “No more. They’ll yield to the people or they’ll suffer the consequences. Tonight they learn that the common man will stand idle in the face of injustice for only so long before he takes up arms.”

  Speaking of taking up arms … Whirling, I snatched up the shovel and brandished it. “If you come anywhere near this boiler, I’ll open your skull.”

  Brave words, but I don’t think he quite believed them. He stood there for a moment, eying me as if to gauge my resolve. I hoped my knuckles weren’t white, that he couldn’t see the way my shoulders heaved with every shallow breath. The heat of the boiler was intolerable. A trickle of sweat worked its way down my spine.

  Foster sighed and set the toolbox at his feet. “I don’t need to come any closer. You must realize that. The dynamite is just the tinder. The real explosive is right behind you. A boiler that size, all that pressure … It won’t need much encouragement.”

  I did realize that, which was why I was uttering a silent prayer at that very moment.

  “Last chance,” Foster said. “Drop the shovel and run, and I won’t try to stop you.” He drew a box of matches from the pocket of his coveralls.

  I was out of time. I did the only thing I could, charging him and swinging the shovel. But he was ready for me, arresting the swing with one hand while he made a grab for me with the other. I kicked his feet out from under him and we both went down, but I couldn’t scramble away fast enough; he brushed the bare skin of my forearm.

  It wasn’t much—not even as strong as what he’d done to me at the hotel—but it was enough. My heart bucked, sending a dizzying rush of blood to my head. I managed to haul myself up to my hands and knees, but it was too late; I could hear the match being struck, the fuse hissing to life.

  “You’ll be all right in a moment,” Foster said with disturbing gentleness. “I’ve barely touched you. If you hurry, you might make it out of here.”

  Pinpricks of light still swirled in my vision, but I grabbed the shovel and swung in the direction of the voice, and I felt it connect. Foster grunted in pain. I staggered to my feet and swung again, aiming for the blurred golden glow of Foster’s head. He went down without a sound and didn’t move again.

  I dropped the shovel and propped my hands on my thighs, taking great gulps of air and blinking furiously to banish the dizziness. I could hear the fuse hissing, but if I didn’t give myself a moment to recover, I’d be as good as useless. I tore off Mr. Tesla’s spectacles and jammed them in the breast pocket of my dress, freeing myself from the disorienting glow. Even unconscious, Foster shone like an angel.

  After a few seconds, my vision cleared, and my breath evened out. Foster had told the truth: He’d only incapacitated me long enough to light the fuse and make his escape. He’d managed the first part, anyway: The bundle of dynamite lay on the floor, sparking away. It was a long fuse, but not long enough to take the bomb someplace safe, not here in crowded Lower Manhattan. I had to defuse it, but how?

  I grabbed the shovel and tried using its blade to cut the fuse, but it wasn’t sharp enough. Swearing, I tossed it aside and glanced desperately around me. It was dark in there, and the back half of the room was a maze of pipes. I stumbled about aimlessly. A roar was building in my skull; whether it was the boiler or the blood in my ears, I couldn’t tell.

  No time. There’s no time …

  A glint of metal caught my eye. A fire ax hung on the wall. I snatched it down and whirled back to the bomb, but there was barely an inch of fuse left now, and I’d never wielded an ax in my life. If I missed, I might strike the bomb, and the metal blade against the stone floor could easily send up a spark.

  Panic gave way to cold, hard dread. The roar in my ears receded, replaced by the hiss of the fuse, the hiss of the steam pipes overhead …

  Steam.

  Water.

  Coursing through the intake pipes right in front of me.

  Taking the ax two-handed, I swung. The blade rang uselessly off the metal. I swung again, with the same result: a spark and a scratch in the pipe, but nothing close to a crack.

  I paused. Drew a breath. Focus, or you die.

  With a shrieking cry, I swung the ax with everything I had. This time, the blade left a dent. I went at it again and again, my swings wild but powerful, and the more I hacked, the more the metal buckled, until—

  The pipe split, sending a hard jet of water over me. Throwing the ax aside, I snatched up the bomb and held it under the spray until every inch of it was soaked. Then, for good measure, I grabbed the toolbox and filled it with enough water to submerge the bundle of dynamite entirely. By the time I was sure the bomb was well and truly defused, I was soaked from hairline to hem.

  It was only then that I realized Jack Foster was gone.

  I raced back to the Great Hall. When I got there, I reached for Mr. Tesla’s spectacles in my breast pocket … and gasped in dismay when I saw the state of the lenses, pocked and warped and utterly useless. The inventor had warned me that water would dissolve the rare and delicate minerals coating the glass, but in my panic, it hadn’t occurred to me to stash the spectacles someplace dry. Now they were ruined, leaving me no quick way of picking Foster out of the crowd.

  My gaze raked the seats. Still no sign of Thomas, or Foster. The silver-haired chairman, Acton, was onstage, addressing the assembly.

  “You are called here tonight to ratify the nomination of the youngest man who ever ran as a candidate for the mayor of New York…”

  Any minute now, Mr. Roosevelt would take the podium. Foster’s bomb had failed, but the man himself was dangerous enough.

  I spied F. Winston Sharpe near the platform and waved frantically. He saw me and frowned, motioning me to come down to him.

  “The Cowboy of Dakota! Make the Cowboy of Dakota the next mayor!”

  The crowd erupted in cheers, delegates leaping to their feet. I tried to elbow my way through, but they pressed into the aisles, shaking hands and thumping one another’s backs, oblivious to the frantic, soaking-wet woman in their midst. On and on the applause went, so long that the band struck up a tu
ne.

  “Mr. Sharpe!” I cried, but it was useless; there was too much noise.

  A hand seized the sleeve of my dress. I whirled. Foster loomed over me, eyes blazing, cheeks blotched with fury. There was no hint of human decency left in those eyes. Twice he’d let me live, and twice I’d made him regret it. There would not be a third time. He reached for the bare skin of my neck …

  … and went rigid, eyes wide, before pitching onto his knees. Thomas stood behind him, derringer raised. In the clamor, I hadn’t even heard the shot.

  Foster slumped to the floor. Thomas hesitated warily before tucking two gloved fingers under the man’s jaw. He glanced at me, gave a short shake of his head. Then he tore off his glove and dared a fleeting touch, skin on skin. Satisfied that Foster’s luck was no longer a danger, he heaved the body into a sitting position. All the while, the brass band played on.

  By this time, some of the delegates had begun to stare, but before anyone could comment, Mr. Jackson appeared beside Thomas, and the two of them slipped their arms under Foster’s and started dragging him like a drunkard, smiling apologetically and murmuring excuses as they made their way to the back of the hall. I followed on shaky legs, and by the time we reached the back row, Mr. Sharpe was waiting for us.

  He wasn’t the only one. Inspector Byrnes stood near the rear doors, watching with a scowl. He must have seen Foster go down, but with F. Winston Sharpe standing between him and Thomas, he didn’t dare interfere.

  “So this is Jack Foster.” Mr. Sharpe looked the dead man over. “Well done, Wiltshire.”

  “It was Miss Gallagher who found him,” Thomas said, his expression a mixture of relief and anger. “Where the devil did you go, Rose? You gave us an awful fright.”

  “I lost sight of you when I realized what was going on. Foster had…” I swallowed a sudden rush of nausea. “There was a bomb.”

  “What’s this? A bomb?” Mr. Sharpe tugged his mustache fretfully. “Where is it now?”

  “In the boiler room. Defused.” I gave them a hasty version of events, practically shouting to be heard above the band.

  “Well, thank God you stopped him,” Mr. Sharpe said, clapping my shoulder so hard that I flinched. “Now, we’d better disperse before we draw too much attention to ourselves. Wiltshire, Jackson, get Foster out of here before he bleeds all over the floor and gives us away. I’ll return to my seat. Miss Fox will be looking for me there.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and headed back down the aisle.

  “We’ll be back as soon as we can,” Thomas told me, and he and Mr. Jackson dragged Foster’s body away.

  At last the band fell silent, and Theodore Roosevelt bounded up to the lectern, color high and teeth flashing, clearly enjoying his moment. His speech was brief and apparently very witty, judging from the laughter, but I honestly couldn’t give you a word of it. I was too numb with shock to process anything he said. It was like watching a play with cotton stuffed in your ears, everything muted and unreal. I was shaking, and not just because I was soaked through; I couldn’t help looking over the crowd again and again, wondering if any of these people would ever know just how close they came to being blown sky-high.

  By the time Thomas and Mr. Jackson joined Mr. Sharpe near the stage, the speeches were done, to much cheering and waving of handkerchiefs. Mr. Roosevelt’s aides, including Viola Fox, gathered in the wings while the candidate shook hands onstage. I could see Mr. Sharpe and Thomas hovering nearby, waiting impatiently to take Mr. Roosevelt aside and tell him what had happened, but the tide of well-wishers showed no sign of ebbing. I watched them detachedly, my gaze skipping from one to the next like a stone over smooth water.

  To this day, I don’t know how I picked him out. Something about the fit of his suit, maybe, or the expression on his face. Maybe he moved with a little too much purpose.

  Whatever drew my eye, I knew the moment I saw the fat man in the bowler hat that he meant Theodore Roosevelt harm. He reached into his pocket. Metal flashed; I recognized the compact form of a derringer. I cried out and waved my arms—just one among many well-wishers clamoring for the candidate’s attention. But somehow Viola Fox saw me, and she moved faster than I would have thought possible, rushing across the stage and flinging herself into Mr. Roosevelt’s arms, putting her body between the candidate and the gunman. And then Thomas was there, stealing up behind the assassin and dropping him in one swift, discreet motion. It looked for all the world like the man had simply tripped and was helped to his feet by Thomas and Mr. Jackson. Meanwhile, Viola Fox simpered and blushed like a schoolgirl, doing a masterful job of playing the overenthusiastic aide. It all happened in moments, and no one, not even Mr. Roosevelt, was the wiser. Sergeant Chapman appeared and escorted the fat man out, and that was that.

  By the time Mr. Roosevelt had finished shaking hands and patting backs, my dress was nearly dry, and my nerves had settled into a dull buzz. As for the candidate, he beamed with satisfaction. “That went rather well,” he said brightly as Mr. Sharpe approached. “I could not have asked for a better birthday gift!” I couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, watching how quickly he deflated as Mr. Sharpe discreetly related the events of the evening. “Good God,” I heard him murmur, his glance cutting to me.

  They exchanged a few more words in private before Mr. Sharpe waved Thomas and me over.

  Mr. Roosevelt took my hands in his, sending a familiar tingle up my arms. “The city owes you a great debt, Miss Gallagher, as do I. You have my profound thanks. You all do,” he added, his gaze taking in Thomas, Mr. Jackson, and Viola Fox. “I only wish we could recognize your efforts properly.”

  Mr. Sharpe inclined his head. “No recognition necessary, sir. It is our lot to labor in obscurity. You know our creed.”

  “‘We never sleep,’” Mr. Roosevelt said, quoting the famous motto of the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.

  “‘And we never tell tales,’” Mr. Sharpe added, the second half being the particular addendum of the special branch.

  Thomas cleared his throat. “If there is nothing else, gentlemen, I would like to take Miss Gallagher home. She’s had a very trying evening. We all have.”

  Mr. Sharpe nodded. “We’ll conduct a full debriefing in the morning. You’ll have a copy on your desk by afternoon, Mr. Roosevelt, as will the governor.”

  “Good, good.” The candidate patted my arm. “Get some rest, Miss Gallagher. Heaven knows you deserve it.”

  “Our friends are outside,” Thomas said as we headed up the aisle, “but we can go out the back if you’re too exhausted. They’ll understand.”

  “It’s all right. They deserve to know what happened. But after that…”

  “After that, home.”

  Thomas helped me into my overcoat, and as his arms came around me, I found myself clutching them. He hesitated for half a heartbeat, then folded me against him, his breath warm against the nape of my neck.

  It lasted only a moment. Then, as if by some silent accord, we released each other and stepped out into the night.

  CHAPTER 33

  SLEEPLESS NIGHTS—THE DEDICATION OF LADY LIBERTY—AMENDS AND AMENS

  Exhausted as I was, I doubted I’d sleep a wink that night. Beneath the weariness lay a strong undercurrent of jitters, so when we arrived at Number 726 and Thomas offered me a glass of sherry, I accepted readily.

  He’d been quiet on the ride home, and his movements as he poured the sherry were oddly stilted, a manner I’d come to recognize as a sign that he was struggling with something. He handed me my drink and drifted over to the fireplace, avoiding my eye. “Another close call,” he said.

  “Too many. But what can we do? It’s part of the job.”

  “It is.” He took a sip of his sherry.

  I did the same, savoring the warmth as it hit the back of my throat.

  “It’s fortunate Foster didn’t attack while you were defusing the bomb. Why do you suppose that is?”

  “I imagine the ax in my hands had something to do with it.
I was swinging it pell-mell and shrieking like a barbarian. I guess he didn’t like his chances of getting close enough to touch me. Figured it would be easier once I’d gotten rid of the weapon.” He hadn’t been wrong either. If it weren’t for Thomas … I shuddered and took another sip of sherry.

  “What you went through tonight…” Thomas shook his head. “And not just tonight. How many brushes with death since all this began?”

  “I’m trying not to think about it.”

  “As for me, I can think of little else these past few days.”

  I paused, sensing a turn in the conversation. Tentatively, I asked, “Is that what you meant by processing?”

  He nodded, meeting my gaze at last. I saw hesitation in his eyes, but determination too, as though whatever he had to say couldn’t be put off any longer. “I’ve been asking myself some very difficult questions. Questions I’ve feared all along I would one day have to confront. That’s why I hesitated to involve you in this business in the first place.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “Watching you develop as an agent has been my singular pleasure. Having you as a partner, my great privilege. I am so very proud of you, Rose. I hope you know that.”

  I swallowed hard. “But…?”

  “But it comes at a cost, as has been made vividly clear to me this week. Having you as my partner means watching you put yourself in harm’s way again and again. Because you’re perfectly right, it is part of the job.” He set down his glass, his pale eyes fixed on me. “And so I must ask myself, is it a cost I can bear? Do I have the strength to fear for you? Or, God forbid, to lose you? If the answer is no, what does that mean for our future as partners?”

  My heart was beating fast now, the blood rushing to my face. He’d opened the door. It was time to walk through. “And what about our future as Thomas and Rose?”

  I’m not sure what I expected, but I was completely unprepared for the look of quiet torment that flickered through his eyes. “There the dilemma is no less real, as you must know.”