Sundance (34 page)

“Etta—”

“You didn't want me waiting. You gave me permission to live. I knew you'd catch up when you could.”

“Damn it, Etta.” He closed his eyes. “You could always charm me.”

“I should certainly hope so.”

He had yet to tell her about his promise to Siringo. He didn't trust himself to share that just yet, as if he hoped to find some way out of it. But now more than ever, he had to find a way to keep her safe. He could not face the prospect of returning to Wyoming in custody if she was still in danger. He was going back to face a murder charge. He would never be able to beat that. If he had to kill Moretti or Hightower to keep her safe, he would. A second murder charge would make no difference now.

“One thing. I think I have most of it. But there's a loose end. You learned about Moretti and Fedgit-Spense from Queenie.”

“I thought I was helping her. Lord, I was naïve.”

“But why use Prophet to get to Fidgy?”

She looked utterly confused until she put it together in her mind. “Oh. You've got it backward. I knew Jonah, Prophet, through that awful Mabel, and only hid out with him because Moretti's people were so close. Nobody disappears like an anarchist. I was after Fidgy before that. I thought I could get to him through his antique gun collection. Then I realized he'd never trust a woman about guns. Soon after that I heard about this exhibition. An attractive woman in the art world? That got his attention. Fidgy would never give Jonah the time of day. I didn't get to Fidgy through Jonah, I introduced Jonah to Wisher.”

“But Jonah, Prophet, he was jealous of Fidgy.”

“That was all his imagination, he assumed there had to be something between us. He wondered how I could even think of leaving him.” She grew quiet, knowing how it sounded, and looked in his eyes. “My darling. You keep their attention when you give them nothing. Then you're mysterious. You give them any more, and you're used goods.”

“Why Fidgy? I mean, I know what he does, but why go after him?”

“He stands between countries with more power than any individual should have. And I think he's trying to do something quite despicable. As it is, I'm not sure anyone else knows about it.”

“Why do
you
have to be the one to know about it?”

“I was there, showing him a piece of art, and we were joined by a visiting member of Parliament. He had a very frank conversation with the man while I was standing there. I think he wanted to impress me. He did, just not in the way he hoped.”

“Can this one man really be so important to world politics?”

“No. Not so important. He's one more small piece of what seems to be a universal march to war. But it's the only part I can affect.”

“What makes you think you can expose him?”

“I have Lillian Wald. She has access to most everyone, including presidents of the United States. I haven't seen her in two years, but she'll be here tonight.”

He was amazed. He had so many questions that he had essentially hit a dead end.

He shrugged and shifted the subject entirely. “So. Where are my letters? You've got more letters for me, and I want them.”

“Back at my place.”

“Good. You can read them aloud.”

She fit her body up against his and moved in close, her warm, sweet breath filling his mouth and nose. “Pillow talk.”

They held each other close again, remembering what they had missed and what was yet to come. This time it was different, quieter, as they were no longer in a hurry to confirm their connection. They eased up in their embrace, her nose nuzzled against his neck, as they took one last, quiet moment together.

He spoke seriously. “If we're going back up there, you need to stay close. He won't hesitate, he's coming, he's mad, and when he sees you, he won't give you a chance.”

“Why do you think I married you. Nobody better than the Kid.”

•   •   •

L
ILLIAN
W
ALD
was under the main arch as they came up the stairs hand in hand. She was delighted to see Etta, and Longbaugh saw the strong mutual affection they shared. Lillian took Longbaugh's hands in both of hers, knowing what it meant to him to be with Etta again.

Etta spoke quickly to Lillian, as a great deal had happened since they had last seen each other. Longbaugh listened with half an ear. He had been away from the exhibition for too long, Hightower and Moretti might already be in the crowd. It was difficult enough to find someone in a small room. The Armory was an enormous space, and it continued to fill up. But Moretti had an edge—he would have no trouble finding her once she met up with Fedgit-Spense. Longbaugh watched the entrance, trying at the same time to also scan the big gallery and beyond.

Etta mentioned anti-preparedness. Lillian nodded. Etta said Lillian had been right about Fedgit-Spense.

Between bodies in the crowd, there was a momentary space, and his eye caught someone familiar. Then the space closed and Longbaugh doubted his eyes. It seemed unlikely he would have come, but Longbaugh leaned, craning his head to see around fancy hats. No luck. Lost to him. Probably imagining things. He ran his eyes from entrance to gallery.

Etta speculated on why Fedgit-Spense so often traveled back and forth across the Atlantic. She had noticed an oddity, possibly coincidental, that he traveled only on American ocean liners. Lillian did not grasp the importance. Etta grew more passionate as she said he was transporting crates, as if moving oversized furniture. Lillian thought the information interesting but did not understand the connection. Etta pressed harder, determined to make Lillian follow.

“I think he's transporting the same crates back and forth without bothering to open them.”

At that, Lillian straightened up. “It's not important what's inside. It's the fact that he's transporting his goods via an unexpected venue—he's using passenger ships for oversized cargo.”

Etta nodded vigorously, pleased to be understood. “In time he'll stop traveling, but his ‘luggage' will not.”

Lillian cocked her head, looking off as she thought it through. “He wants someone
else
to know what he's doing.”

“He wants the
Germans
to know what he's doing.”

This time Lillian nodded. “So that the Germans will fire on American ships carrying American citizens, because they're also carrying enemy ordnance.”

Etta's anger animated her words. “Which will infuriate America and bring another paying customer into the war. He's a dangerous war profiteer, Lillian, and I need your help to stop him.”

Lillian patted Etta's hand and nodded. “Yes, we'll do it together.”

Longbaugh saw him again through a hole in the crowd, and this time there was no doubt. Charlie Siringo. Son of a bitch couldn't wait. He turned his back as Siringo looked in his direction. This could further complicate matters that were already complicated enough.

“How close are you to proving this?”

“I overheard a conversation. I can't prove it. But this isn't just Fedgit-Spense. He's not doing this alone. This is bigger than that.”

“Yes,” said Lillian, “it is.”

Longbaugh casually took both their elbows and escorted them through the galleries toward the back, away from Siringo.

Neither Etta nor Lillian seemed to mind. Etta leaned her head forward and addressed Lillian on the other side of Longbaugh. “I didn't say anything to him on the way over. I wanted to speak with you first.”

Lillian craned her neck to answer. “Learn what you can, see if you can get him to brag to you.”

As they reached the large gallery under the clock, Lillian nodded toward where Fedgit-Spense was standing in the breezeway between Gallery H and the Cubist Room, speaking to a man in a tuxedo.

“Straight off the ship and he's already working,” said Lillian. “Chatting with Garrison.”

“That's Lindley Garrison?” said Etta. “He's here?”

“Yes, my dear, the secretary of war is pretending to be interested in art. And if you're correct, Mr. Spense is no doubt urging him to prepare for the worst. Or, in his case, the best.”

“You think Garrison knows what Sydney is up to?”

“Perish the thought. Mr. Spense would never let the Americans in on that sort of thing, and it's way too soon to show his cards. I imagine he's partnering with some sympathetic American entrepreneur. No, Mr. Spense is just watering the dirt to keep it moist for future seeding. We're Americans, after all, we don't acknowledge the threat of war. That's way over there with a great big ocean between us.”

Roosevelt came in from another gallery. The moment he saw the secretary of war, a spring came into his step and he went right for him.

Lillian put her hand on Etta's arm to hold her back. “Wait, here comes Theodore. You won't get a word in edgewise. He wants a military commission so he can go fight the Hun.”

Hightower emerged from the middle of the crowd that surrounded the Duchamp in the Cubist Room. The moment was so natural, and
Hightower so familiar that it was an instant before Longbaugh recognized the danger. Longbaugh now looked for Moretti, eyes scanning the room, trying to see through the patrons, ready to move Etta quickly in the opposite direction. But Moretti was nowhere to be seen. Hightower appeared to be alone. Longbaugh kept Etta beside him, still watching, not choosing an escape until he knew from where the Black Hand would come.

Fedgit-Spense graciously backed away from Roosevelt and the secretary of war to let the former president have his moment.

Etta saw Fedgit-Spense moving, momentarily alone. This was her chance. She started toward him, and Lillian's hand came off her arm and fell to her side.

Hightower crossed the room, working his way around the crowd, and went to the exit door, pushing it open. Moretti came in from the rain.

Longbaugh reached for her arm. “Etta,
now
.” His hand found only air. He was startled, he looked, and she was halfway to Fedgit-Spense, moving in the direction of the Cubist Room, in the same direction as the leader of the Black Hand.

Longbaugh went after her.

Hightower stood beside Moretti and scanned the gallery as Moretti shook off the rain. Hightower was astonished at his luck, because right then his eyes met Longbaugh's. He smiled, shook his head, clearly wondering how Longbaugh had gotten away from Siringo.

Hightower yelled over the band. “Place!”

Etta's head came around at the sound of her name.

Hightower caught the motion of her head turning and he could not believe the magnitude of his luck. Longbaugh watched Hightower's surprised, and then exultant, eyes. Hightower was a prescient genius twice in a matter of seconds. He could not have planned it more perfectly. Longbaugh's hope of keeping her safe blew up around him. Hightower beamed.

Hightower's hand came up and his ecstatic finger pointed her out. Longbaugh reached Etta's side, arm around her waist, but when he looked back, he had lost Moretti in the crowd. He had to get her out,
but which way? Moretti had been right there, how in the hell did he vanish? Which way had he gone? Longbaugh had no plan this time, he was on his own and the ground was crumbling beneath his feet. Standing by his side, although she hadn't seen Moretti, Etta understood the danger. But she knew her husband in these moments, knew how he was with danger near. She had seen Hightower pointing, so Moretti had to be there . . . and yet they still weren't moving. Something was wrong, but she knew to trust him. Her breath caught in her throat, she leaned in close, looked at him. His eyes scanned the crowd, but where was Moretti? Then Longbaugh realized he had been scanning the far edge of the crowd, where Hightower was standing—he'd been looking too far away. Had he focused in closer, he would have seen him, because Moretti had come around a cluster of people and was charging from his right, pushing through the crowd, rushing at them, automatic pistol rising in his fist, eyes full of fury and satisfaction, scar pulsing deep blood purple, a human arrow flying at Etta, close, way too close.

Longbaugh reacted, shielding her, turning his back to Moretti, making his body wide, driving her to the floor so that he could cover every inch of that red dress. He heard her breath go out of her as her back hit the floor. He went for his gun then, twisting to fire, hearing Etta's voice close in his ear, “Don't kill anyone.”

A booming gunshot stunned the air, choked the voices, tripped the band, stopped the music. Spectators went down, dominoes flattening in every direction from the center point of the blast. The ensuing silence brought more fear than the original bang.

He looked at the gun in his hand and saw he had not fired. He felt nothing—if a bullet had hit him, he didn't know it, didn't feel it. He came up on an elbow, met Etta's gaze. She stared at him, clear-eyed and surprised. She said nothing. He thought she might have been in shock but he saw no pain, no blood, although her dress was that rich deep red. He ran his hands down her, feeling for wetness. Her palm came up to lean against his chest.

“You hit, you hurt?”

“No, I—don't think so.”

Longbaugh turned, gun firm and steady, keeping his body between Etta and the shooter. He saw him then, Moretti on his knees not twenty feet away. Still dripping rain, a small puddle collecting on the floor. Standing directly behind him was Siringo, smoke leaking out the end of his gun barrel. Moretti was motionless, pistol aimed at Longbaugh, but soft in his fingers. His eyes were dull, fury greeting surprise. Longbaugh saw no blood on Moretti's shirt, but behind him the puddle pooled red between his legs. Moretti's arm dropped to his side and he went over onto his face. A bloodstain spread wide across his back already wet with rain.

The spectators stayed down in a mass cower. A few tentative heads peeked up from the floor. Others outside the room crowded in to get a look at what had happened. The secretary of war's arms were over his head, elbows protecting his nose. Sydney Fedgit-Spense's back held up a wall, his hands straight in front of him as if his palms could deflect bullets. The only man on his feet other than Siringo, the only one unmoved, standing there in the middle of the room, was Roosevelt. He rubbed the lens of his glasses and squinted at the scene.