The Eterna Files (32 page)

Miss Everhart passed along the latest message. Decoded, it briefly described kidnapping Eterna associates and conducting a séance. A detailed account would be wired when time provided.

Spire didn't trust a word of it. “Absurdity of the premise aside,” he said, shaking his head, “kidnapping several operatives and keeping them in a room together … Who was he working with?”

Everhart shook her head. “This says alone. I'm sure when he sends the full account there will be more details. Only so much can be done over telegraph wires.”

“He couldn't have managed that alone, no matter how talented he or Black think he is,” Spire said, looking at his team, gathered in full in their Millbank offices. “So why specify working alone if it's implausible? Who else is he protecting? What other operatives do we have there?” he asked, exasperated. “Is there more Lord Black is withholding from me?”

“I truly do not know,” Everhart replied.

Spire stared at the second half of the decoded message: “Material in hand will be sent by swiftest packet. Please advise route.”

“Is the material safe to possess or transport, whatever it is?” Mrs. Wilson asked. “It obviously didn't bode well for the Americans that engineered it. Are we putting British lives at stake by bringing it here?”

“Brinkman survived to send the message,” Knight countered with a shrug of red-satin-decked shoulders, “so whatever it is, it is somehow contained.”

“Well, we need to work out a route to ensure the safe arrival of whatever is sent to us,” Spire said.

“Concerning the route, if you would, Mr. Spire, give us somewhere with height,” Mr. Wilson requested politely.

Spire nodded, already thinking how to accommodate their skills. Their “circus act” aside, he remembered something about the Wilsons' legendary exploits as reported in the papers; a particularly impressive extraction of an operative using rappeling.

“Living there, we know Longacre like the back of our hand,” Mr. Wilson suggested.

“Awfully busy,” Spire stated.

“Midday, between lunch and close of businesses,” Mrs. Wilson countered. “It's busy but manageable.”

“All right, then, but I want everyone there. The Americans may be aware that there is material coming, and surely after the abduction we're on far less friendly terms than we were. We'll be lucky if there is not a forthcoming diplomacy issue.”

“That's the beauty of their own secret development team,” Everhart stated. “They don't want anyone to know about it either.”

*   *   *

In New York City, on a pallet in one of the empty rooms he kept about the island and used in an unpredictable rotation, Brinkman awoke alive and with all his limbs intact. Because of this, he was granted permission to proceed from the greater of two masters. From the lesser he would be receiving his next instructions.

As far as his supervisors knew, his mission would unfold from here as planned.

To have called himself Faust was not inaccurate. He was beholden to the devil. The beast's crafty claws had dug deep into the only thing that he cared about in this whole world. Shirking off both the chains of guilt and the paralyzing reason why he was constrained into this double-agent capacity in the first place, Gabriel went to work.

Dressed as if he were a middle-class merchant, he left his temporary lodgings on the Upper East Side, carrying with him two small packages bound with twine. Inside, painstakingly packed, were the securely closed vials he'd filled on Tenth Street.

One vial would be sent to London via the channels Lord Black and his company would provide. As far as they knew, it was the only sample taken at the disaster site.

The rest of the vials would go to a factory in New Orleans that neither the Eterna nor the Omega office knew of.

The long stroll down Lexington, accompanied by the screeching music of the elevated rail, terminated in a telegraph office near Union Square. A new clerk, whom Brinkman didn't recognize, handed him a waiting message. Brinkman tipped his wide-brimmed hat and stepped again onto bustling Fourteenth Street, maintaining his casual, strolling pace, one that was more measured than that of the average bustling New Yorker.

To send packages, he used any of several post offices scattered about the city, where British agents were in place. Today was all about efficiency, so he went to the closest one, eager to get the material out of his hands. While he was not a superstitious man, there was enough empirical evidence to suggest that his current business came with some cost. He'd decided to limit his exposure.

Brinkman gave his contact the transportation information he'd received from Black's people, and warned the young man with all proper doom and gloom that if he bungled the job he'd likely die. Mr. Brinkman then washed his hands of the whole ugly business for a while, off to investigate a few matters of his own interest that bore no country's allegiance, just that of his own burdened heart.

CHAPTER

FOURTEEN

Clara slept for nearly an entire day after the abduction, a fact she learned from Miss Harper when she finally awoke, feeling very disoriented, after a sequence of restless dreams filled with shadows. She asked the housekeeper for tea and something simple to eat, and the woman seemed happy to make quite a fuss over her.

It seemed to take forever to dress, even in garments suitable for home. Her mind seemed reluctant to work and only slowly cobbled together full memories of the abduction and its aftermath. She felt hollow, lonely, and confused.

She suspected Bishop would watch her closely for a while, which would make it difficult to return to Smith's office, but Clara could not come up with a plan to evade him. At length she drifted down to the parlor with a novel in hand; Harper kept bringing her tea and plates of food, some of which she nibbled on.

The bright spot in the day came when Bishop came home and attended to her wrists. As he approached, supplies in hand, she smiled at him gently. Her wrists bore nasty burn marks and cuts, but thankfully hadn't become infected.

He knelt before the cushioned chair where she sat in a diffused ray of sunlight through floral lace curtains and began tending to her with careful, sure hands.

“Thank you for your ministrations, Rupert,” she said after a long moment. “I know you've so much to do with the legislature soon in session, so I appreciate—”

The look he gave her was so intense, eviscerating, so pained, it cut her breath from her. “If anything ever happened to you, Clara, I don't know what I'd do. The abduction … made me wonder. I pray to your father every day, I ask his spirit if I'm doing right by you. He's never once responded to me. How do I know, then, if I'm—”

It was her turn to stop him short by swiftly leaning down to kiss his forehead, her breath glancing off the gentle creases of his brow. Her lips lingered there as she murmured:

“Wonderful, you're
wonderful,
Rupert. I am
so
lucky to have you.”

He released his kept breath and leaned his forehead into her, the slope of his nose pressing against her chin. For one paralyzing moment, Clara wondered if he would tilt his face up further, meet her mouth with his … but they both remained still, though Clara could feel his fingers trembling where his bandage dressing had paused.

She was overwhelmed. She thought of Louis and the lingering pain of her wrists was nothing compared to the whole of her ache for him. Yet the energy between her and Bishop in this lifetime had never been so charged. For an instant, she truly let herself wonder for the first time why he hadn't courted and married someone during the nearly two decades they had known each other.

They both pulled back at the same time, as if breaking from a reverie.

“Just … promise me that you won't keep secrets from me again,” he said, keeping his voice neutral as he finished with one wrist.

“Can you promise me the same?” she countered softly.

He looked up at her again, his gaze steeled now, vulnerability gone. He slightly shook his head. She tilted her head to the side with a gentle look that spoke of their impasse. He finished her second wrist.

There would have to be secrets.

She owed it to Louis not to betray his wishes, to find the rest of Smith's material and keep quiet about it. Tying off the plaster, the senator rose and bowed his head to her, preparing to exit.

“I need to know what's happened,” Clara called after him, rising from her chair. “If Franklin has found Allen, Rupert, you can't cloister me here.”

“You need a day to rest,” Bishop countered, trying to maintain a gentle tone, but his insistence made it strident. “I cannot have you in that office until further safety measures are installed.”

She reached out a hand and touched his shoulder. “You did promise not to exclude me.”

Bishop sighed. “Once I've confirmed that Franklin has returned safely, I suppose … If I know you won't be alone there, I won't palpitate with worry. Come along, then. I know I can't dissuade you. We'll have a look. I need Franklin's update as much as you do.”

Clara smiled and nearly dragged Bishop down the street. Lavinia's chair was empty—the young woman had been instructed to stay home and her infamous actor fiancé had even stopped touring to be by her side.

“Thank goodness you're here and all right,” Bishop said upon catching sight of Franklin at his desk. “I'm sure you've some tales to tell.”

Fred Bixby was also present, waving at them from his small desk that was covered in papers. “Good to see you, too, Bixby,” Clara said.

Bixby nodded then returned to his work, using one finger to stab at a ledger line and follow it across the page.

“Indeed I do,” Franklin replied, then brought a cup of coffee to his lips. He looked like he hadn't slept since the abduction.

No matter what she decided to do with Smith's information, Clara felt it was now more important than ever to tie up loose ends. To arrest those who had abducted them, to keep further plots from brewing. One by one, all Eterna's ghosts, living or dead, would either pay for their misdeeds or be set to rest.

Franklin spoke quietly, having a hard time looking at Bishop. “Is Lavinia all right?”

“Recovering in the arms of her dear Mr. Veil, so I hear,” Bishop replied. “He made quite the dramatic entrance into Evelyn Northe-Stewart's home, asking after her. I'm sure he'll incorporate the incident into one of his shows. How is Allen?” Bishop pressed.

Franklin's jaw clenched. “Dead…”

Bishop and Clara both made exclamations. “Those bastards,” Bishop cried. “They killed him?”

“No,” Franklin said quietly, a bit dazed. “At least, I don't know. He's said to have died in an asylum.”

“Beg pardon?” Clara asked. Only a few months ago she'd seen the man at one of Bishop's campaign events, as kind and boring as ever.

“Committed!” Bixby cried, startling them. “Just like I'll be if I don't find out something about that damned house you all were dragged to! It's like it's not even
there
!” Ascot undone about his neck, mustache unkempt, he jumped up and darted to the office door. Not finding records of things that should be recorded was Bixby's worst nightmare. “I've another hall of records to examine,” he called over his shoulder as he headed down the stairs. Clara and Franklin blinked after him a moment.

“I guess that's where we stand on the mansion investigation,” she said.

“Go on,” Bishop barked. “How did Justice Allen die?”

“Found him hanging in his cell this morning,” Franklin murmured with a shudder. “Having tied pieces of his clothes together for a noose. Seems Allen suffered a breakdown directly after the Eterna incident. No one was informed, he lived alone with only his housekeeper and I haven't found any relatives who either knew of the breakdown or who would have had him sent to that dreadful asylum. The staff there said he'd come in voluntarily.”

Stunned, Clara managed to ask, “And what of our paperwork? The files, whatever the British would be looking for?”

“I searched the house, at least in all the visible areas, while the poor distract housekeeper was trying to be helpful. I told the precinct officer who arrived to watch the house for activity. The housekeeper said that the judge had burned many things in the fireplace. Surely whatever he had of Eterna went up in smoke. There was a file on his desk that I believe pertained to us but it was covered in overturned ink and entirely illegible.”

Clara sighed. “Did you see his cell … were there any signs…”

“His body had been taken down by the time I got there. Nothing obvious in his cell. Nothing I could derive from the guards. I asked to see his body in the morgue and was denied.”

“Is there even a body at all then? Could it have been a ruse?” Bishop asked.

“That would be my hope, sir,” Franklin replied. “I just don't know what to make of it all. I put the local authorities on the alert and asked them to let us know what they find.”

Clara wondered, morbidly, if everyone around Eterna suffered an ill fate … How long before all of them met their ends?

“I've got to get to work. And get to the bottom of what happened,” Bishop growled, storming off. He turned at the threshold, staring from Franklin back to Clara. “Don't let each other out of your sights. That's an order.”

“Yes, sir.” Franklin bowed his head. “And I am sorry about Justice Allen.”

“Thank you,” Bishop said, his cold tone softening as he glanced at Clara. “Loss is epidemic these days.” She looked away. “So we must be more kind and gracious than ever to those who remain.”

She offered the senator a soft smile and he exited.

Thanks to Franklin, Clara soon had a cup of coffee in her hand. She sank deeper into her chair, layers of muslin, ribbon, and lace rising up around her like the crest of a wave. Franklin rubbed his fingers against the firm line of his jaw.