The Lincoln Deception (14 page)

When Fraser didn't say anything, Cook added, “So what's this going to prove? You figure it's your turn for the next beating?”

Fraser clenched his jaw but remained silent. He had made up his mind to go.

“I can't be there to protect you,” Cook said. “I ain't up to it. You'll be on your own.”

“Speed, the man's seventy-five years old if he's a day, I'm meeting him in an office, and he doesn't even know my real name. He thinks I'm Dr. John McIntire. What can happen?”

It was like, Cook thought, nothing bad had ever happened to the man. He always thinks things are going to be fine. Must be nice.

F
raser wore his other new suit, pearl gray, to Barstow's office, arriving promptly at five. The tycoon met him in the anteroom, a cadaverous-looking attendant at his elbow. “Dr. McIntire, we must fly.” Shaking hands, he pulled Fraser closer and confided in a low voice. “It's the Williamsburg Bridge to Brooklyn. A few friends and I have a large position in the company building it, and there's a splendid opportunity with the bridge bonds. News of faulty cable from the Roebling company is driving the bonds down, quite erroneously. They will recover handsomely. We can talk on the way. It's a magnificent sight.”

On the street, Fraser tried to appear decisive as he stepped into Barstow's carriage, but Cook's cautions ran through his mind. He gauged that he could climb over the carriage side in the event of some ill-seeming development. Barstow certainly couldn't restrain him, while the gaunt attendant was seated next to the driver, on the front bench. In any event, they were in the middle of the city on a late afternoon in August. What could happen? He began to relax when the carriage rolled in an unremarkable fashion to the north, toward the East River crossings.

Barstow pointed out the lines of wagons, carts, and carriages snaking onto the Brooklyn Bridge next to City Hall. “Ever since they brought Brooklyn into the city two years ago, the demand for this second bridge has increased daily. It's desperately needed. It will prove, I'm quite sure, a brilliant investment.”

When Fraser reminded Barstow that his partners in Ohio would have to review any venture that did not involve cotton, the other man was unconcerned. “They cannot fail to appreciate this opportunity. They are men of business, are they not?”

“Of course.”

Barstow shifted the conversation to politics, inquiring whether Ohio would vote for McKinley. Fraser used the opening to ask about Barstow's suppertime banter with Senator Smith—specifically about being involved in the McClellan presidential campaign of 1864, at a time when he wore a Confederate uniform.

“Sir,” the tycoon said amiably, “don't be misled by a joke between two former rebels. Of course, General McClellan's loss was a matter of regret to us. He could have made a peace that brought the nation together. If the Southern states had been able to vote, McClellan would have won in a landslide!”

“It was the choice of the Southern states not to vote that year.”

Barstow allowed a silence to collect. Looking out his side of the carriage, he said, “I suppose I should expect no less from the son of a Union Army captain.”

The hair on Fraser's neck prickled. Was Barstow referring to the father of Dr. John McIntire? Or was he showing that he knew that Dr. McIntire was a phantasm? Barstow was trying to put him on edge. He was succeeding.

At the bridge construction site, a watchman waved them through the gate. Huge girders and spools of cable, the playthings of titans, lay on either side of the passageway, but the site was quiet. The crews were gone for the evening. Since it was Saturday, they would not return until Monday morning.

The breeze on the riverbank was welcome. The carriage drove directly to the bridge's steel tower, which loomed 300 feet above them. Fraser stared up.

“Extraordinary, is it not?” Barstow waved toward the monster. The daring of it flooded Fraser's mind. It was the work of puny men, thousands of them, abetted by the skill of the few who could imagine and design it. He loved its presumption, extending the land from one shore to the next.

“I must speak with a man for a moment.” Barstow alighted from the carriage. “Mr. Brown, can you point out the finer points until my return?”

The skeletal Mr. Brown stood by the side of the carriage. “Sir,” he said, in a surprisingly deep voice, indicating the few steps to the tower.

Fraser stepped down warily, stealing glances at the peak of the bridge tower. “It's a suspension design, of course,” Mr. Brown said, pointing to a companion tower rising from the Brooklyn shore. “The road and railroad tracks will hang from cables strung between the two towers.” The project's immensity dazzled Fraser. Mr. Brown pointed to a massive spool of cable that sat on a barge, ready to be lifted to the top of the tower. Steel bars and wood lay in heaps.

“Two thousand men work here,” Mr. Brown continued. “Only four deaths so far. See here”—Brown pointed to the tower's base—“the riveting is essential. If we step over here, you can see the engine they use to drive the cable across the river.”

“I'm not a great one for heights,” Fraser said.

“Oh, just see this engine housing here, shipped all the way from Scotland.” Mr. Brown held up a bar to a platform and Fraser stepped onto it. The other man flipped a switch and the platform began to rise. The motor accelerated. Fraser looked around. Mr. Brown was not on the platform. Fraser looked down. He was already fifteen feet off the ground. His heart raced. He couldn't jump. He reached for the lift switch and flipped it down. Nothing. He flipped it up and down. Still nothing. He turned it up and down, over and over. He gripped the railing with both hands, squeezing it until his fingers ached.

Too late, Fraser thought to call for help. He was a hundred feet up the tower. When he shouted, the breeze swallowed his voice. As the platform rose, the breeze became a low roar in his ears. He forced himself to look down at the work site, though the view made his stomach flutter. Barstow's carriage was moving toward the gate. He had brought Fraser here to be abandoned. A guard might stay at the yard through the night, but that promised no relief. Even if the guard could hear Fraser's voice, he would be part of Barstow's plan to strand Fraser.

The lift continued to rise. Every twenty feet, its wheels ground noisily, setting off shudders on the platform. Fraser forced himself to look at the vertical rails where the wheels turned. The shaking came from the joints between rails, as the wheels bumped from one rail to the next.

Helpless, hopeless, Fraser rode this open contraption into the sky. He fought off waves of panic that locked his muscles. All that stood between him and plunging to his death was a simple iron bar about three feet high on each side of the platform. What was most terrifying was the perverse pull he felt to the edge of the platform, the fantasy of stepping into thin air, if only to end the anxiety that screamed in his head.

The lift stopped just below the top of the tower. He could see a wooden platform at the top of the tower, beyond his reach. The wind was strong, gusting and blowing.

Fraser was ashamed at what a fool he'd been. Barstow knew far more about Fraser than Fraser ever would know about him—not only knew about Dr. John McIntire and about Fraser's father's military service, but also that Fraser was terrified of heights.

 

Unsteadily, Fraser sat down Indian style, as close to the center of the platform as he could calculate. He had to control his mind, to still the fear echoing inside. If he could get his mind to work, perhaps he could gain control over his arms and legs.

Was there anyone who might help him? The construction site was deserted. He peered over the platform edge to confirm it. Yes, deserted. He could not expect anyone to notice that the lift was out of place, frozen almost 300 feet above the ground. For the next thirty-six hours, until Monday morning, no one other than a watchman or two would be on the construction site. It was hard to believe that Barstow arranged to leave Fraser at the top of this tower without making sure no workman would rescue him.

In fact, Fraser could think of only two people in New York who might want to help him. Cook was in no condition to be useful, and had no reason to look for Fraser at the bridge site. Nor would Eliza think Fraser was anywhere but the Miller Hotel on Madison Avenue. The thought of that decrepit lodging triggered a powerful longing for its shabby safety. He would never again complain about their hotel rooms.

If he was going to get down, he had to do it himself. Fraser realized his panic had slackened a notch. He had passed several minutes without falling off the platform. The wind still blew, but it was becoming familiar. The platform was holding in its place. Presumably it was used to transport large work crews, not to mention equipment and tools, so it should be solid. Fraser resolved to make a more active review of his situation.

He looked around the platform, moving only his eyes, then rose to his knees and pivoted in place. He examined every part. It was larger than it seemed at first, perhaps fifteen feet deep by twenty feet across.

Fraser found it more difficult to think while up on his knees. He felt exposed. He resumed a cross-legged position. The wind, he told himself, could not sweep him off his perch. The day had at least two more hours of light.

He could stay where he was. That would mean thirty-six hours without food or water. He had trouble imagining going to sleep up there, what with the distressing prospect of groggily rolling over and tumbling off. If he did not go insane, he might make it through thirty-six hours at the top of New York City.

Could he get down on his own? He stretched out on his belly and wriggled to the edge nearest the tower. He kept his eyes on the solid tower and away from the void that yawned on the other three sides.

The gap between the platform and the tower was narrow, no more than six inches. He couldn't fit between the two. To get off the platform, he would have to . . . he felt dizzy to think of stretching an unsupported leg off the side of the platform.

The tower consisted of two steel beam structures, each built with girders in an “X” design and leaning into each other. A horizontal girder about three feet below the platform crossed from one of the steel beam structures to the other, joining them. That cross girder was about ten inches wide.

Fraser would have to drop to the cross girder and slide along it for fifteen feet to the corner of one of the steel beam structures. Each structure seemed to have hand and footholds affixed to its outer edge. He could try to swing his legs around to the handholds and footholds, then climb down hand-overhand. A confident, agile man could do it.

A spell of vertigo made him tremble. Fraser closed his eyes, took a breath, and looked at the situation again. That settled it. He could last thirty-six hours atop the tower.

As the panic receded, he slid back toward the center, staying on his belly. He remembered something he needed to look at. The world had darkened. The sunlight was gone. Lifting his head, he looked to the west, over Manhattan. There they were. Black clouds piled up at the horizon. They were taking over more and more of the sky, racing toward him. At the leading edge, lightning flashed.

Fraser's stomach churned. Could he sit out a thunderstorm in this eagle's nest, when the winds would howl? Or did he have to get down now, right now? If he was going to beat the storm down, he had to move. Clenching his jaws, squinting at clouds that seemed larger every second, Fraser decided. He didn't want to be there through the storm, a human lightning rod.

He slid on his front until he was next to the tower. A steel upright at each corner of the platform supported the rail that ringed his little world. He could hold on to the upright as he reached for the cross girder. Grabbing the upright, he turned backward on his knees. The black cloud bank was speeding across the sky. He forced himself not to look.

Slowly, he pushed his left leg back into space, angling it down. First the foot, then the knee. His toe strained for contact with the crossbeam. Where was it? Had he stretched it too far back? He tried a little lower. There. Firm against his foot. He put weight on it, then a little more. Dropping to his belly, he did the same with his right leg, this time knowing how far down to reach. The platform lurched from the tower with a sickening jolt. It was his weight shifting off. With both hands, he clung to the upright, then lowered to his knees on the crossbeam. He was going to have to let go with one hand, then reach down and grip the crossbeam. He would bear-hug the crossbeam and do the inchworm to the corner of the tower. To his dismay, he couldn't touch the crossbeam with his free hand while holding on to the upright.

With a lunge, he let go of the upright and fell down to the crossbeam. He gripped it with knees and feet and arms. His momentum swung to the far side of the beam, but he righted himself. He realized his eyes were squeezed shut. He opened them and began to inch. No time to lose. He kept his focus on the tower, looking neither left nor right, neither up nor down. The wind blew harder, roaring into his ears in bursts.

When he reached the edge of the steel structure, the panic stirred again. His muscles froze. He wanted to cry. He could let go and end this torture. How bad could it be?

He pushed up as close to the structure as he could get. He would have to reach out for the first hand grip. Then he would have to swing over empty space until he found a foothold to steady himself. He couldn't do it. He cursed himself. Why had he left the safety of the platform? What was he thinking, taking this kind of risk? Then he cursed himself as a coward, frozen with fear when he needed to act. A sharp gust broke into his terror. To his left, the cloud bank had advanced to the middle of Manhattan. Thunder growled. He could see rain pelting down. No time. He had to go.

He could reach a grip with his right hand. He would hug the cross girder with his left and bring his legs over with one movement. He could not afford to swing. He had to control his momentum, not allow it to strain his grip. And he had to do it before the steel became slick with rain.

For a moment, he felt calm. He moved. His right foot pawed the upright, desperately seeking purchase. It was smooth, nothing to wedge his foot against. He would slide all the way to the ground. His right arm, clinging to the hand grip, began to ache. Where was the next grip? He pulled his leg back and squeezed the girder with his knees.