Beyond All Dreams (14 page)

Congressmen and wealthy people often made gifts to the library, and it was embarrassing that she'd mistook the map as a personal gift, even for a second. She would arrange for it to be prominently displayed on the wall of the map room with a proper acknowledgment on an inscribed nameplate beneath the map. The catalog record would cite Mr. Callahan's name as the donor, and Mr. Spofford would send a note of confirmation.

Still, it was a thrilling donation, and she was sure it wouldn't have happened but for the relationship she and Mr. Callahan had formed over the previous weeks. The map was a magnificent work of art. The characters were whimsical but accurate nevertheless. Cape Horn was called “the sailors' graveyard” because it was notorious for treacherous waters, and the angry sea god looked perfectly at home in the dangerous stretch of ocean. The depiction of the dragon bellowing a mighty wind was an accurate portrayal of the Gulf Stream, one of the strongest ocean currents in the world.

The smile froze on her face.

Staring at that ferocious dragon, another detail clicked into place. How blind she had been! For a mapmaker's daughter, how could she have overlooked such a huge, obvious clue about what had happened to the
Culpeper
?

The navy's report claimed that wreckage from the ship washed ashore on the east coast of Bermuda. She was no oceanographer, but given the strength of the Gulf Stream, it was unlikely the wreckage from the ship could have drifted backward in the current to end up in Bermuda.

She knew exactly where to go to confirm her suspicions.

A leading expert on ocean cartography, Howard Clover worked in the navy's Hydrographic Office and had known her father. He'd even mentored Anna in the basics of map librarianship. She used her lunch hour to escape to the War Building, where the Hydrographic Office was located in the basement.

The War Building was as imposing as its name. The building's granite exterior featured hooded windows, carved mantles, and was topped with a mansard roof. Inside, ornate gaslight chandeliers lit the spiraling staircases and tunnels of vaulted sandstone.

Anna hurried down the staircase as it curved into the basement. Going to see Howard wasn't violating the navy's demand that she steer clear of the
Culpeper
. All she wanted was the answer to a scientific question, and Howard would be the perfect source to confirm Anna's suspicion about that old hurricane.

Howard's office was crammed with map cases, the walls covered by nautical maps. He stood over a table-sized map of the Pacific Ocean, leaning over to study it through a magnifying glass as she stepped through the open door.

“Have you got time for a question?” she asked. Howard's thin frame straightened.

“Of course I've got time for you, my girl.” Anna had always
longed for grandparents, and Howard Clover embodied every quality she could hope for in a grandfather. His narrow, careworn face always had a gentle smile, and every sentence he spoke seemed laden with wisdom and insight.

“I'm trying to figure out the strength of the Gulf Stream,” she began.

“Easy. One of the strongest in the world.”

“Is that true near the Bermuda islands?”

He nodded.

“What about during a hurricane?”

Howard paused, setting down the magnifying glass. His brows lowered. “Would this have anything to do with the sinking of a certain ship about fifteen years ago?”

Anna moved farther into the room, resting her hands on the cold metal map case. “A new map of historic hurricanes has just been issued from the weather bureau. They say the hurricane that sank the
Culpeper
tracked east of Bermuda, not west like we always thought. The navy's official report claims wreckage from the
Culpeper
washed ashore in Bermuda. That would mean the wreckage drifted
backward
in the Gulf Stream. I can't imagine such a thing is possible.”

Howard folded his arms across his chest and stared into the distance while he thought. He scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “You're right,” he finally said. “It would be more likely for the wreckage to end up in England rather than Bermuda. No one has been able to get accurate measurements on ocean currents during a storm that bad, but I'll pull together what we know. It will take a few hours. Can you come back later this afternoon?”

“I'll be here,” she replied.

If Howard could back up her assertions about the implausibility of wreckage drifting backward in the Gulf Stream, it would be one more detail convincing her that the navy was
wrong. Anticipation tingled through her, and it was hard to concentrate for the next couple of hours.

But when she returned, Howard was locking up early for the day. “We're closed,” he said as he pulled the door shut. His keys jangled while he fumbled with the lock.

“Oh,” she said. Was he angry with her? How strange that he wouldn't meet her eyes as he worked the lock. “Can you at least tell me if you found anything about the effect of hurricane winds on the Gulf Stream?”

Howard froze, then glanced up and down the hallway. A few men were leaving for the day, but no one was paying them any mind. A moment later, the clatter of the keys resumed and he unlocked the door.

“Come inside,” he muttered impatiently. “We need to speak quickly.”

She followed him, surprised when he pulled the door shut again, the snick sounding loud in the silence of the darkened office.

“You need to let this go,” Howard said.

“Let it go? But either the weather bureau's research is wrong or the navy's report of the
Culpeper
needs to be corrected. One of them is clearly wrong, and I'm not the type to let things go.”

Howard stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Admiral Channing came by the office less than an hour after you left. He got word you'd been here and reminded me that I answer to the navy, not librarians from the Capitol.”

The breath froze in her lungs. If others in the navy were angry at her for poking into their report of the shipwreck, perhaps Lieutenant Rowland hadn't been issuing idle threats. And if word of this got to Mr. Spofford . . .

“All I asked was a simple research question,” Anna stammered. “Government offices help each other all the time. Why should this be any different?”

Howard's expression didn't waver. “In my thirty years working for the government, I've never had an admiral in my office directing my work. Whatever you're doing, stop. Just stop.”

“Maybe I could come in and do some research while you're at lunch someday?”

Howard sighed and looked away. “Anna, I'm three months away from drawing my pension. It will be the only form of support for my wife and me. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

He was saying he couldn't help her. His face was regretful, but firm. “Okay, I understand,” she answered.

She walked back to the Capitol alone. It would have been faster to take the streetcar, but she needed time to organize her thoughts. The navy was trying to browbeat her. When she'd been teased and bullied as a child, she'd hunkered down and endured it. She wouldn't tolerate that anymore. There was something wrong in the navy's report about the
Culpeper
and they knew it. She didn't want to stir up trouble; all she wanted was to ensure that the story of the
Culpeper
would be remembered accurately. But it seemed she'd turned over a rock and exposed something that wanted to remain safely hidden in darkness.

As she began climbing the dozens of white granite steps leading up to the Capitol, a sense of resolve gathered inside her. She was a librarian. It was her job to know how to seek out and uncover information. If one avenue closed, she'd keep searching until she found another.

“I will find a way, Papa,” she whispered. “I'm not sure how I'll do it, but this won't end here.”

L
uke shifted in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position in the hard-backed chair. Packed onto the floor of the House of Representatives, this small oak desk and chair was the closest thing he had to an office. There had been talk for years of adding a building beside the Capitol where ordinary congressmen like him could have a proper office, but that funding had gone to the construction of a palatial new library that made Luke's thrifty Yankee soul cringe. He tried to ignore the congressman from Kentucky rambling from the podium about the growing hostility between Spain and Cuba while he scanned Anna's latest batch of budget reports.

Had she gotten that whimsical dragon map yet? A reluctant smile curled his mouth as he imagined her delight upon opening the brown paper wrapping. The map would appeal to her outlandish daydreams, and he'd buy dozens more silly trinkets if it would help soften her toward him.

A congressional page entered the chamber, sidling behind the wide semicircle of desks to deliver the mail. When Luke first arrived in Congress, he was shocked at the amount of business
that occurred while the House was in session. Congressmen answered their mail, vendors delivered sandwiches, and others dabbled in card games during boring debates.

Luke was dismayed at the short stack of envelopes the boy delivered to him. When he'd been a member of the powerful Budget Committee, he was flooded with letters from all over the country. Now he had three measly letters, one of which was from his sister.

He opened Julia's letter first. A slow burn began as he read the letter. His jaw clenched, his skin prickled with heat.

Julia reported that a challenge from within his own party was being mounted against him for the next election. She enclosed a political cartoon from a Bangor newspaper, showing him frolicking in the ocean with dolphins while the shoreline was filled with doleful Maine loggers consoling their hungry children.

Luke's jaw tightened, wishing he could get his hands on that cartoonist. Didn't anyone understand how impressive it was to arrive in Washington and land a coveted position on the Budget Committee? Luke sat on it for six solid years while that arrogant cartoonist scribbled pictures like a two-year-old.

And then Julia had the audacity to include a postscript.
When may I expect the $400 to secure our
brother's freedom?

Luke balled the letter into a wad. Jason could sit in jail until the next century as far as Luke was concerned. What he needed to worry about was winning the next election. He glared at the Speaker of the House, shrouded in a haze of cigarette smoke as he sat at the center of the rostrum. Cornelius Jones looked like a withered autumn leaf clinging to life as he rolled another cigarette the moment he snubbed out the previous one.

His temper ratcheted higher. He was mad at Jason, mad at Julia, and mad at the Speaker of the House. He was mad at the congressman from Kentucky who kept droning on and on. Most of all, he was mad at himself for losing his temper and getting
booted off the most powerful committee in Washington, all because he picked a reckless fight with the Speaker of the House.

There was only one person who could calm him down when he was in a foul mood like this. The instant the gavel banged to call the meeting to a close, Luke shot out of his chair. He plowed around congressmen lingering at their desks and darted out the door, dashing down the hallway and vaulting up the west staircase to the library.

“O'Brien!” he shouted as he rounded the stairwell onto the third floor. The door to the map room was open, and he charged inside. Anna didn't even look up from her paper work when he entered the room.

“Is the building on fire?” she asked dryly. “Otherwise I'm not speaking to you until you lower your voice.”

“I need you to find me a recipe for poison,” he snapped. “Something that can kill the varmints that riddle this town.”

“Animal varmints, or the human variety?”

She was so prim when she said it, earning a reluctant twist of his lips as he tried not to smile. “The Cornelius Jones brand of varmint. I've had it up to here with that desiccated husk of a human.”

Anna cocked her head to one side. “Is he really that bad? The people of Wisconsin seem to like him well enough to keep him in office for the past twenty-five years. How bad can he be?”

“He's ruining our country!
That's
how bad he is.”

Anna's face remained passive as she rolled up a map. “Mr. Callahan, what did your constituents expect of you when they elected you to office?”

His answer was swift and unequivocal. “To vote to keep the tariff rates low and protect the industries of Maine.”

“And have you been doing that?”

“Yes, but Speaker Jones has been blocking me at every turn!”

Anna rose, looking him directly in the eyes. “Don't you see?” she asked, her beautiful, velvety voice full of encouragement. “You're doing exactly what the people of Maine elected you to do, so why are you so upset? Shaking your fist won't change anything. Letting that man get beneath your skin is counterproductive, Congressman.”

Luke crossed his arms, forcing his breathing to return to normal. He rocked back and forth on his feet, the remnants of frustration still echoing in his blood. “Keep talking,” he ordered. “The sound of your voice calms me down.”

Anna rolled her eyes as she began filing map tubes in the bin. “You were pretty scary when you barged in here just now.”

“Scary?”

“Yes. The cords on your neck were standing out, and your voice could send lesser mortals scurrying.”

His father used to look like that. When Edgar Callahan was in a rage, the cords on his neck bulged, and a vein in his forehead throbbed. Luke looked away. His deepest fear, so deep that he could barely even acknowledge it, was becoming like his father. The seed of rage was within him, and he didn't need alcohol to bring it to life. He'd fled from Bangor to live in the marble halls of Washington precisely so he could work alongside other accomplished, rational men.

Now he was having shouting matches on the floor of Congress. Yelling at a perfectly charming librarian all because he was angry with his sister.

The heat drained from his body, his muscles sagging. “I'm sorry, Anna. Truly. It's been a lousy morning, but I shouldn't have barged in here to shout at you.” He glanced at the wall. His dragon map hung there beside a map of the mining districts in the Dakota Territory. She noticed his gaze.

“Thank you for the map,” she said. “Antiques like that are
wonderful for a library, but we can never afford them unless they're gifts from donors. A formal acknowledgment from Mr. Spofford will be sent to you shortly.”

“It was a gift for you . . . not the library.”

She looked confused. “Why would you give me a gift? Especially such an expensive one?”

He sighed. For an intelligent woman, Anna seemed remarkably dense when it came to reading the traditional signs of courtship. He needed to quit making excuses for coming here and be honest with her. He peered out the window toward the botanical garden that bordered the Capitol. “Will you go for a walk with me?”

“Not unless you calm down. I generally don't walk alongside men with homicidal interests in poison.”

She was doing it again—calming him with her cool wit and steady logic. She was like a balm on inflamed skin, soothing his frustration and making him think of wild, improbable things like autumn walks in sun-kissed gardens. He wanted to wallow in the sound of her voice, soft but with a fascinating patina of warmth and depth. He wanted to plop a book in her hands and coax her to read to him . . . he didn't care what. She could read the telephone directory to him for all he cared.

“Please,” he whispered, leaning closer. “Come for a walk with me.”

“It isn't the lunch hour yet.”

“The greenhouses in the garden will be packed at noon. Walk with me now, and I'll show you a new orchid that just arrived from South America. It's orange.”

“Orange?” She didn't sound impressed, but he didn't care.

“I'll bet you've never seen one of those before. Please, Anna.”

He breathed a sigh of relief when she rose to fetch her coat.

Anna was careful to maintain a respectable distance from Mr. Callahan as they walked to the greenhouse maintained by the Department of Agriculture on the opposite side of the Mall. Originally designed to showcase the variety of botanical life in the Americas, it had evolved to include exotic specimens from all over the world.

The orange orchid had dropped its petals and proven a disappointment, but Anna happily followed Mr. Callahan as they wandered the greenhouse. The warm air was perfumed by scents of verbena, oakmoss, and the memory of summer.

“Don't ever let me get away with shouting at you,” Mr. Callahan said, his voice uncharacteristically somber. “I hate it when I lash out like that. I know better, but sometimes it builds up inside and just . . . explodes. Like steam blowing off a valve. I hate myself when I feel it rising inside.”

The frustration in his voice reminded Anna of Neville when they were growing up. Neville had been helpless against the incessant twitches that seized his body. Sometimes he actually hit himself or lunged against a wall to stop the twitching. It never helped. He went through years of self-loathing before finally accepting his affliction.

“Mr. Callahan, you must learn to accept who you are. You're both a saint and a sinner. Beautiful, but broken. Aren't we all? God has endowed you with the intelligence and ambition to get out of rural Maine and into the halls of Congress, but that won't magically transform you into someone else. The anger you inherited from your father is there for a reason. It can alert you that something is wrong, a signal of righteous indignation that spurs you to fight for a noble cause. But the flip side is that it can corrupt you. I don't think you'll ever be able to extinguish that hot flame that burns inside you. All you can do is learn to control it. Didn't you once say your favorite passage from the
Bible was ‘Blessed are the peacemakers'? Perhaps there's a reason God has made that passage resonate with you.”

Mr. Callahan scrutinized her as though she were as rare and exotic as the orchids surrounding them. “Where have you been all these years?” he asked in a voice tinged with admiration.

She smiled and turned away. It was flattering, the way he looked at her, but she mustn't let it go to her head. A man like him probably had a dozen of Washington's socialites trailing after him, waiting for whatever scraps of affection he tossed their way. She had no desire to compete in a game she could never win.

“Let's step outside,” he said. “There are too many people in here.”

While the greenhouse didn't seem all that crowded to her, she followed him outside into the crisp autumn day. The breeze was chilly, and she drew her coat tighter.

“Let's head over to the chestnut trees,” he suggested, gesturing toward the Mall, where few people wandered. There were plans to tear out all these trees someday and build a huge grassy lawn, where visitors could see all the way from the Capitol to the Washington Monument, but Anna couldn't imagine how they would accomplish it. The Potomac Train Depot sat as an ugly blot in the middle of the Mall, and it would surely take decades to rip out the station and reroute the tracks. For now, though, there were clusters of leafy trees where a person could find some privacy. Mr. Callahan was silent as he guided her to an iron bench beneath the spreading limbs of a chestnut tree. The corners of his mouth were drawn down in an unusually somber expression. She sat, wondering at his strange silence.