The Empire of Shadows (28 page)

The artist cocked his head and gave a slight smile. “A bit out of your bailiwick, aren't you?” He extended a hand. “Homer. Winslow Homer.”

A light of recognition went on in Tom's eyes. “You worked for
Harper's
during the war,” he said. “I remember your work, the picture of the sniper, the Confederate prisoners, you'll forgive me if I don't recall the names.”

Homer nodded. “Yes, those were mine,” he said with no visible reaction at being recognized in the middle of the wilderness.

“Oh, and my favorite is the one of the veteran in the field cutting wheat,” Tom said. “But that was after the war, wasn't it?”

“Right again. Good of you to remember,” Homer said. “One of my favorites, too; but, listen, about this murderer thing—I've come to paint,” as if that fact somehow excluded him from all earthly concerns. “I'm not going anywhere. Barney here is armed, so am I, for that matter,” he said, pulling his vest up to reveal a small Stevens single-shot .32 poking out of his pocket.

“I'll be fine.” He stuck out his hand to Tom. “Pleased to meet you, I'm sure, and, ah, thanks for the warning,” he said almost dismissively, then strode off toward the base of the falls. His guide shrugged and followed.

“Barney knows how to look after himself,” Mitchell said as he turned to pick up the boat.

As they walked downriver Tom saw Homer unfolding his case as he sat on a large rock.

He had an excellent view of the falls.

It was near noon when they reached the small hamlet of Long Lake.

“Stop at my place,” Mitchell said as they rowed up the lake, a narrow body of water not much more than a mile wide. It was nestled between undulating hills on the left and a mountain on the right. Ahead it disappeared, with no end in sight. The hills near the scattered buildings that Mitchell called the town were bare, except for an army of stumps and little plots of garden, none more than an acre or so.

“Telegraph here?” Tom said.

“Uh-huh. Been in a few years now. Not the most reliable, though,” Mitchell said. “Not more 'n twelve miles to Blue. Only takes half a day to deliver a message in person.”

“But we rowed for days, forty, fifty miles, I'd guess,” Mike said.

“You'd guess,” Mitchell said.

“We started off heading more or less west from Blue, Mike. But now we're heading northeast. Came in a big circle,” Tom said. He'd been studying his map as they went, a somewhat sketchy thing based on the Colvin survey of '76. Turning to Mitchell, he said, “Need to get word to my wife.”

Mitchell nodded and said, “Busher?”

Tom had been worrying about that. Sending word of Busher back to the Prospect House but not coming in person would only raise more suspicions; yet, in going back Mike would surely be arrested, assuming the sheriff had arrived. And if they went back, Tupper's trail would go cold as a lake in February. There seemed to be a choice only between lesser evils.

“I'll take care of Busher,” Mitchell said. “Send some men to fetch 'im back.”

Tom looked at Mitchell and nodded. “I thank you for that,” he said. Mitchell nodded, then looked over his shoulder at the smoke drifting from the chimney of a modest house set well back from the lake. “Wife's been bakin',” he said with a deep pull at the air.

“We can afford to take a bit of food. If Tupper comes, it won't be till late. He's hours behind.”

“What makes you so sure he'll come this way, Mitchell?” Tom asked. “He could just go into the woods, right?”

“He could, sure. But that's rough goin', even for somebody who knows these woods. This lake, it leads to the Raquette River on the other end. That goes on up ta Tupper Lake an' even further.”

“Tupper Lake?” Mike said. “How'd he get a lake named after him?”

Mitchell smiled. “Other way around. His family took that name 'cause they been hunting there for generations. When havin' an Indian name got cumbersome years ago, they just started callin' themselves Tupper.” They beached the boat then and walked on up to the house.

The Sabattis house smelled of bread fresh from the oven, of cakes and pies set out on windowsills to cool. They were welcomed by Mitchell's wife, a small woman with a round face and dark eyes who came to the back door when she heard them coming through the yard. She didn't appear surprised to find her husband home unexpected and in the company of two strangers.

A few words with Mitchell in a tongue Tom had never before heard was all that passed between them, that, and a short introduction for Tom and Mike. She bustled off moments later, wordlessly setting the table and getting up a quick meal for the three of them. Mitchell fetched an enamelware bucket and a bar of brown soap from under the dry sink, and with a nod toward the backyard said, “Pump's out back. There's rooms up the stairs.”

Simple though it was, Tom couldn't remember a better meal. It was eaten in haste though, gulped down with cider and cool spring water.

“No time to dawdle,” Mitchell told them. “Tupper'll be on the lake tonight.” With that Mitchell went out the back door with Tom's note to Mary stuffed in a pocket and a promise to have it in her hand by nightfall. Tom had decided against the telegraph. He didn't want to share his message with any loose-lipped operators.

“I'll see if my brother's free,” Mitchell said. “He'll take this to your wife.”

Tom nodded. “Thanks.”

Mitchell returned an hour later, nodding to Tom that he'd seen to the chore.

As the day died, bleeding across the sky in pastels of orange and yellow and salmon and blue, the guide boat bumped ashore. The lake was narrow near the southern end, a couple of miles below the town. An island split the lake, leaving relatively narrow channels on either side not more than a couple hundred yards wide.

“Moose Island,” Mitchell said. “No moose now. Hunted out,” he said as they hid the boat on the north shore. Sabattis threw some branches on it to hide its outline. Mitchell had said this was the best spot on the whole lake to cut Tupper off. If he took this route he had to pass the island. “Might be tonight. Might be tomorrow, but I'd bet anything he's heading this way.”

“Hope so,” Tom said. “Any luck, we'll spot him in the narrows, then be in position to cut him off. Either way we've got him.” Tom looked back down the lake to where the Raquette flowed in, about a mile off.

“How long is this lake anyway?” Mike asked, craning north. “Can't see the other end.”

“Some fourteen fifteen miles, give or take. Plenty o' lake,” he said with a wave.

They settled in to wait, picking their spots while they could still see well enough and making sure of their route to the boat. They were all on the south end, Mitchell in the middle, Tom off to the west and Mike to the east. Mitchell accepted Mike's role in the hunt without a word, never questioning his right or ability to be there.

The night was long. Minutes crawled like hours and hours didn't seem to move at all. Though they were all rested, the night lulled them. The lake, as smooth as black glass, stretched into the distance, merging into the deeper black of the forest. Off to the north a light or two twinkled between the trees, but soon even those died. All that was left was the night sky, the stars, and ghostly, motionless puffs of cloud. It didn't take long for Mike's thoughts to turn to Lettie.

He never had time to grieve. Things had happened far too fast. It was all still unreal, her death, the suspicions surrounding him, Busher's murder; all of it felt as if it had happened to someone else. The image of Lettie's blackened corpse laid out on the ice seemed to float to the surface whenever he thought of her, blotting out everything else. Try as he would to remember her flowing hair or the soft porcelain of her skin, it would not last. A corpse was all she had become. Mike shuddered, though the night was warm.

Tom had been right. He should not have gone to see her that last time. Tom had been right about a lot of things.

Mike looked up at the blue-black sky. The Milky Way stretched away in points of light uncountable. He imagined that from somewhere beyond the moon Lettie could see him, and that some part of her was with him. Mike smeared tears from his cheeks with the sleeve of his shirt. Through one clouded eye he saw movement. Rubbing his eyes, he looked at the twinkling canopy. A silver streak slashed across the sky, then another, and a third, burning so briefly he almost doubted what he'd seen. More came in ones and twos. He was dazzled. It was a sign, a shower of stars for him alone. His eyes ran again at the thought.

As he wiped away the tears he almost missed Tupper.

Mike pulled a kerchief from his pocket. He turned as he did, reaching back and twisting half about. It was then he saw the movement on the shore, a brief black-on-black thing he couldn't identify. It was some distance north of the island. He thought at first it might be a deer, but when the shape separated from the shore he knew it was no deer, not unless deer had oars.

“Tupper! Dad, he's got 'round us!”

Mike brought the rifle up when he saw the man double his strokes, putting his back into it. The boat shot away, so that even from over two hundred yards he could see the lake turn white at the bow. Mike fired once, twice, jacking bullets into the chamber as fast as he could work the lever. He couldn't see his sights, couldn't see where his shots went. The rifle cracked again before Tom and Mitchell came up, crashing through the woods.

“There he goes!”

“Where? I don't see a—”

“There. There!” Mike said, pointing at the swiftly diminishing boat. Mike was about to take another shot when Mitchell said, “Waste of lead. Come!” Sabattis took off through the wooded island, dodging trees, branches, undergrowth, and logs with uncanny ease. Tom and Mike stumbled behind. Soon all they could do was follow the sound of his running.

The boat was uncovered and ready to shove off when Tom and Mike got there. Mitchell waited at the oars. He sat, saying nothing while they clambered in. Then Mitchell Sabattis started to row. Tom had never seen anything like it. The small, brown guide seemed to have the power of ten men. The boat surged forward like a thoroughbred charging from the gate. The lake foamed at the bow, sending up a small fountain on either side. The oars dipped and rose, reaching back in graceful arcs before dipping again. They made hardly a splash but dug deep into the water, leaving swirling, black whirlpools in their wake. Mitchell worked the long oars in silence, his breathing falling into cadence with his strokes. Mike sat behind him in the middle, Tom at the stern.

“Carried his boat right by us,” Tom said. “How in hell he figure that?”

“Hell of a lead, too,” Mike said, craning around Mitchell for a better look. “Three, four hundred yards, but damned if we aren't gaining.”

“Won't catch,” Mitchell said between strokes. “Too much weight.”

They'd gone over a mile by then, and even in the dark they could see the sweat shining on Mitchell's face. “Switch when we get to the bridge. You row,” Mitchell said to Tom.

There was a narrow point a couple of miles up the lake spanned by a floating bridge. Tupper would still be out of range by the time they got there, but it was a perfect opportunity to switch at the oars. Tom was still fresh, while Tupper would be starting to tire. Mitchell slowed some from the inhuman pace he'd set, but he still worked the oars with vigor and efficiency. He showed little sign of fatigue beyond the running sweat on his leathery features.

Nearly another mile went by before Mitchell said, “Take shotgun.”

Mike picked it up. “Why not the rifle? He's in range and…”

They'd narrowed the gap to maybe two hundred yards, but at night, with a single shot, the odds of hitting anything were remote at best.

“Shotgun!” Mitchell said again. “Fire when we stop. Maybe get lucky.”

Mitchell took another series of strokes, pulling with everything that was in him. The loaded long-laker seemed to leap half out of the water and the gap narrowed further. With a flick of one oar he turned the boat nearly half around, slowing it at the same time so it hit the bridge with a glancing blow, stopping almost immediately. Mike jumped out and knelt on the floating bridge, which bobbed and rolled under him.

“Both barrels,” Mitchell said, gasping out the words. The old shotgun boomed twice, sending out sheets of flame and smoke. None of them could see if they'd hit anything. They didn't take the time.

Tom and Mitchell dragged the boat across the rough log bridge and jumped back in, Tom at the oars, Mike in the middle again, and Mitchell at the stern. Tom laid hold of the oars. Mitchell took up the paddle.

“Pull! Pull like the devil!” Mitchell shouted. “Pull!”

Tupper cursed. His wounded side had opened up, the scab cracking and oozing with each stroke. How had they seen him? He'd been so fucking careful, carrying the damn boat until he could carry it no more. Still they'd seen him. He'd expected a trap at every narrow spot on the river, and especially at Moose Island, and had gone well around; but still they'd seen him. When he neared the bridge, he was sure there'd be men waiting there to stop him. When he saw there weren't, he was grateful for at least that small stroke of luck.

His grandfather could not explain it. He sat in the stern, not looking back or to either side.

Tupper fought through the pain and weariness. He'd rested all the day prior, watching from his perch atop the ridge by the outlet of Raquette Lake, but it was still not enough. He'd been on the move since sundown, carrying the boat down from his hiding place, rowing for miles downriver, carrying again around rapids and falls, and finally past the island at the south end of the lake.

He was bruised, blistered and bleeding but he went on, knowing the lake was his best hope. If he'd been able to slip by, a highway of rivers and lakes went clear to the St. Lawrence. But that chance was gone. He was in a race now, a race he was losing.