Man in the Shadows (31 page)

He reached the top of the hill and inspected the scene. There was one guard at the top of the slide. It looked as if he was the only one. The fools. At least he wasn’t marching back and forth like a sentry; that would make
him laugh, and this was no time for a chuckle. He casually walked up to the man and slit his throat.

“I am not defeated. Nobody can stop me.”

He had a pack of food and plenty of water. He had learned how to make an enclosure of snow to stay warm. It made him seem to disappear. He would appear when he needed to.

T
he sun had set by the time Thomas and Conor O’Dea left Conor’s room and headed south toward Daly Street. The snow had stopped, leaving the city soft and white; the sky was a vivid dark blue, the stars sparkling brightly. It was the kind of crisp, clear night that made you feel you could see into the future. Or wish you could.

Everything was different about Thomas now: the way he talked, even the way he looked. He exuded a new sense of confidence and power. It made Conor beam with pride.

“Da, why the change?”

Thomas smiled and answered thoughtfully, “When I looked into the cruel eyes of that man, everything came into focus. I kept thinking, An eye for an eye, another eye for another eye and another … and you know what? I realized how bloody blind I have been.”

Conor thought it was the kind of thing D’Arcy McGee might have said. He kept the thought to himself.

“No true Irish revolutionary would shoot a man in the back,” Thomas said in disgust. “I don’t really trust that Macdonald rascal, but he doesn’t deserve to die. And if I can stop it, I will.”

They walked silently for several blocks. Thomas was always a man
of few words. “Conor, it’s grand to be with you again.” That was really all that he had to say.

One lonely light flickered upstairs on Daly Street. Conor could picture the prime minister poring over papers and pouring himself “another wee one.” Conor and Thomas were met at the door by Hewitt Bernard, Sir John A. Macdonald’s principal secretary.

“What do you two want?” he barked. Stuffy and stuffed up.

“And hello to you, too,” Thomas said. His voice was pinched and nasal because of his broken nose. “I assume the prime minister is in. We need to see him right away.” Conor thought his father might be exaggerating his Irish accent, perhaps to see how Bernard would react.

“What can be so urgent that you arrive at this hour of the night?” Bernard asked.

“The prime minister’s life.”

Hewitt Bernard looked at Conor, as if for validation; Conor nodded. Bernard was Lady Macdonald’s brother, and Conor had met him a number of times on Parliament Hill. He knew he would have more credibility than his father, the barman, but he wanted Thomas to stay in charge.

“It’s too cold out here to chat,” Bernard said finally. “Follow me.”

As they walked the few steps to the door, Bernard turned to Conor and said, “By the looks of you, you’ll be needing a better barber.” He turned to Thomas and added, “And by the looks of
you
, you’ll be needing a doctor.”

“Yes,” Thomas answered, “but I suggest you send for a policeman.”

SIR
John A. Macdonald was working in his study—adding, subtracting, multiplying, building railways in his mind. If he was ever
going to talk the colonists in the West into joining Confederation, Canada would have to build a transcontinental railway. Connections. Communications. A link from east to west. Nation-building. That’s what excited him. Not failing banks in Kingston, and certainly not fanatical gunmen in Ottawa.

Hewitt Bernard informed the prime minister that he had visitors. Macdonald sighed. Railways could wait for an hour. It would be the making of someone else’s fortune, anyway. When Conor and Thomas were ushered into his study, Macdonald said coldly, “You keep the strangest hours.”

Conor felt he should speak first. He knew the prime minister better than his father did, and more important, he knew the language and grammar of power. “It is very good of you to see us, sir. I believe you know my father from Lapier—”

“Yes,” he interjected. “Yes, I do. Mr. O’Dea, could I interest you in a glass of sherry or a dram of whisky?”

“No, thank you,” Thomas answered politely.

Sir John poured himself a glass from the crystal decanter. Conor noticed the quality of the vessel—cut glass, handcrafted. A gift, he assumed. He was more aware of these things when he was with his father, knowing how hard Thomas worked for so little money.

Macdonald looked at Thomas O’Dea, his nose broken and arm in a sling, and asked with a devilish grin, “Are you going to say, ‘You should see the other fellow’?”

“No, indeed I am not.”

Macdonald shrugged and sat down behind his large cluttered desk, gazing at Conor with a pained expression. “Sit down, the two of you, and tell me: Why do I think I’m not going to enjoy this conversation?”

“We have some very distressing news for you, Prime Minister,” Thomas began.

“See what I mean,” Macdonald muttered.

“The man who killed McGee is still at large.”

“The man who killed Mr. McGee,” Macdonald barked, “was hanged this morning.”

Thomas stood his ground. “Mr. Macdonald, this is too important to dismiss. You must listen to us.” Conor watched his father proudly. He noticed that Thomas never called the prime minister “sir.”

“A man is planning to assassinate you this weekend.”

Macdonald stopped short. “How do you know this?”

“It’s a long story, but I suggest you trust us.”

The prime minister looked around for support. It was a nervous gesture he was using too often these days. As always, he found himself alone. He glared at Thomas suspiciously. “Why should I trust you?”

“Because I’m offering to help.”

Macdonald assessed the situation. This is what I have for support, he thought. An Irish immigrant family. A smart young man who is more bookish than rugged and a dispirited lumberman who sells cheap whisky in a common Lowertown bar. Even behind a broken nose, Thomas carried himself with greater authority than he ever had at Lapierre’s, but he was hardly the stuff of heroes. The prime minister was a shrewd judge of character, but like anyone, he made mistakes. Would it be a mistake to trust Thomas O’Dea? He couldn’t tell. So he went on the offensive.

“I’m not sure, Mr. O’Dea, that there is not a lot that you should be held accountable for. I’m not sure I shouldn’t summon the police and have you arrested.”

Thomas looked at Conor as if to say, Do you see what these people are really like? “I have asked your brother-in-law to send for a policeman,” Thomas answered. “He should be here soon.”

Macdonald walked over to the window, refreshed his glass and
looked out. Yes, McMicken was marching up the front steps. He wasn’t really a policeman, but on Irish matters, he was Macdonald’s man.

“If you want to have me arrested,” Thomas said defiantly, “I will not resist. It won’t be the first time.”

“I’ve never understood you Irishmen,” Macdonald whined. Conor was aghast, but Thomas allowed a smile. “McGee, you, the whole lot of you, you’re as stubborn as—”

“As you can be, Prime Minister,” Thomas interrupted. “I am telling you that a man intends to kill you, and you refuse to listen. No one can be more bullheaded than that.”

For a few seconds, Sir John A. Macdonald glared at Thomas O’Dea. How dare he speak to me like that? he thought. The effrontery! He weighed his options and judged this man. Thomas O’Dea looked a wreck but sounded convincing. It took gall for him to come here. Macdonald concluded that trusting this barman was his best option. His
only
option. He smiled grudgingly and got down to business.

“This weekend, I’m going to a public reception at Rideau Hall,” he said. “The new governor general, Lord Lisgar, is opening up a toboggan slide, of all things. There will be hundreds of people there. I guess it’s a possible opportunity for someone to strike …” Macdonald stopped in mid-sentence. He said nothing for a moment, and then looked at Conor. “You have always thought Whelan was innocent.”

“He was guilty of something,” Conor answered. “Conspiracy, I think. Maybe he helped him escape, I don’t know. But I do know someone else was in charge.” He looked at his father and added, “
We
know it.”

There was a knock on the door. Out of the corner of his eye, Conor thought he saw the prime minister jump with fright. It was Lady Macdonald.

“What is happening here?” she demanded. She walked gingerly. It was still just days since she had given birth, and she was in pain.
But her fury gave her strength. Behind her, Gilbert McMicken stayed safely in her shadow.

“Why have you called for Mr. McMicken? Something horrible is going on, I know it.”

Conor gallantly offered her his chair. She accepted it without comment. However weak and tired she felt, she was not going to sit back. There was trouble in her house, and she wanted to know what it was. She looked at Thomas’s bruised face and shuddered. “It looks like the day after a drunken brawl in here.”

Macdonald smiled.

“John, what is going on?” she persisted.

“Yes, Prime Minister,” McMicken asked, “what is the problem?”

Macdonald knew there was no sense in trying to shelter his wife from this, but how he wished he could. “Gilbert McMicken,” he said, “meet Thomas O’Dea and his son, Conor. Agnes, I think you’ve met both gentlemen. Certainly, you know young Conor from D’Arcy McGee’s office.” He seemed to enjoy not getting to the point. “The O’Dea family has come forward with information about a plot to kill me.”

“When?” McMicken asked the question directly of Thomas.

“This weekend.”

McMicken turned to the prime minister. “What is your schedule this weekend?” Ever practical, he spoke without a hint of sympathy.

“On Saturday, I am making a speech on the grounds of Rideau Hall. They are opening a toboggan slide. The public is welcome, so it’s an ideal time to—”

“Cancel it,” Lady Macdonald begged. “Cancel it, John.”

Nobody in the room dared challenge her until, to his astonishment, Conor heard his father speak. “With respect, ma’am, I think that would be foolish. He would just strike again, and no one would know when.” Thomas turned to the prime minister. “You would forever live
in fear. I think you should go ahead and make that speech, and if the good policeman here guards you well, we can get the murderer first.”

“We don’t know what he looks like,” McMicken protested.

“I do, and so does my son.”

McMicken lifted himself to attention. “You know the supposed killer?”

“I have met him, yes.”

“And he told you he was going to murder the prime minister?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, Sir John, I think we should arrest them both right now. If there is a plot, they are certainly involved. Arresting them might flush out their partner.”

Macdonald said nothing.

“We have to be careful here,” McMicken continued. “You never know which way these Catholics may go.”

Thomas glanced at Conor and raised an eyebrow. This was the kind of talk he had heard all his life. Conor expected his father to stomp out of the room. He wouldn’t blame him if he did. In fact, he would follow him. But it didn’t come to that. The prime minister spoke first. “I think Thomas O’Dea is not only a loyal Canadian but a very brave man. I’d be more apt to arrest your people for ineptitude.” Gilbert McMicken stood erect, thinly disguising his fury. “But he said he knows this man. He may be part of some plot.”

Macdonald had conveniently forgotten that just minutes before, he too had questioned Thomas’s loyalty. “I not only trust Thomas O’Dea, but trust that you will apologize to him.”

“I will not.”

“Then leave my house.”

“Stop bickering, for God’s sake,” Lady Macdonald shrieked. “If what Mr. O’Dea says is true, John, you should go away tomorrow, leave Ottawa, leave all of this.” She broke down in tears.

His critics accused Sir John A. Macdonald of indecisiveness, preferring to let problems sit and settle themselves, but there was no way Old Tomorrow could hide from the next day. He stood, walked across the room and rested his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Mr. O’Dea, why are you so certain this man will strike this weekend?”

“He wants to create what he calls ‘a reign of terror.’ That means he needs this done close to Whelan’s hanging. I also think that once a plan is in motion, he won’t change. He’s too sure of himself, too single-minded. I don’t think he’ll stop now.”

The prime minister was impressed. “All right, I will go to Rideau Hall,” he said. “I will deliver my speech, smile appropriately, act like the happy, confident politician. I will even ride down the governor general’s silly toboggan ride. And you, Mr. McMicken, will have an army of men in plain clothes there to protect me.”

McMicken gestured as if he was about to speak. Sir John did not let him. “You will listen to Thomas O’Dea. He knows what this man looks like. You don’t.” McMicken made no attempt to hide his offence, but Macdonald simply stared him down. “You will get this man before he gets me.”

Painfully, and carefully, Lady Macdonald rose from her chair. Before she could speak, her husband said, “I’m sorry, Agnes. You will stay here. You are far too weak, and I wouldn’t put you in danger in any event. It seems my duty is to be the decoy.”

Lady Macdonald turned to Conor. “Will this be the end of it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, with as much courage as he could muster. And he surprised himself by adding, “God willing.”

MEG
Trotter arrived at the Ottawa train station early Friday evening. She had taken the long train trip from Toronto. She hated to defy her mother, but she simply had to see Conor again, if only to say a proper
goodbye. She didn’t know what the trip held in store. She wasn’t even sure how she would react when she saw Conor. She might fall into his arms, or she might resist. She burned with confusion.

She still respected his ambition and his eager mind. She was so impressed the day he saved her when they were swimming. Admiration had blossomed into love. But that was a million years ago. There was the stinging memory of the hands grabbing her, the scissors in her hair, and Conor unable to help.