Cherie Priest - Fiddlehead

“Who is this guy?” Wellers asked. “I’ve heard Lincoln mention him in passing, but I’ll be damned if I know more than his name.”

A flash went through Gideon’s head—a memory of a very dark night, chosen for its clouds. A hushed caravan, including a baby that’d been given ether to keep it asleep. A boat waiting at the river’s edge, at Ross’s Landing. A searchlight, shining across the tar-black water.

Gideon cleared his throat, and with it cleared away memories that had never quite faded. “You remember the Liberation Rangers? The Union’s effort to meet the railroad in the middle, and lend a hand?”

“I remember it. Didn’t last long.”

“No, not long, but they freed a few hundred people when all was said and done, and it was work worth doing. But Grant, or someone in his administration, decided that the program was an inefficient allocation of funds,” he said, quoting an article he’d read on the subject. “Resources were cut down to the bones, and most of the rangers were sent home. For a while they remained a very small special operations group—only the very best of them, you know—and by the end they were little more than mercenaries. But they did good things, Nelson.”

“Were they the ones who brought you out of Tennessee?”

Gunfire and smoke. A baby who couldn’t sleep through it, not even with the drugs. A drowning. A bomb. A mad dash that left no one behind, even for all of that.

“Yes. A small team, hired by Mr. Lincoln. Led by a captain named Kirby Troost.” He let out a short laugh, right in time with a dip in the road that made the car lurch. His voice caught in his throat. “Funny little man. Not much to look at, but that’s partly why he was so good at his job.”

“Was? So he’s left the business? Did Lincoln bring him out of retirement?”

“Oh, I have no idea what he does these days. He got drummed out of the service, and the service closed down behind him. It was a bad story—made the papers around here; you might’ve seen it. He got caught up with the wife of a congressman, until she turned up murdered. Her husband tried to hang it on Troost, and had just enough money and power to make it stick. Never mind that all the evidence said it hadn’t been Troost at all.”

“This is ringing a bell,” Wellers said, scratching at a spot behind his ear. “Was this the Cartinhour scandal?”

“That’s the one.”

“The wife’s own mother wouldn’t have recognized her, or that was what I heard from the doctor who served as coroner at the time.” Wellers scratched thoughtfully at his chin. “Yes, I remember it now. The subject was quite the rage, if you’re the sort to watch for gossip.”

“And you’re not?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I knew about it through Mary. You know how she keeps up with these things.”

“Oh, yes. Mary. Well.” Gideon reclined more comfortably, away from the rattling door and against a sturdy pillow. “Troost didn’t kill the congressman’s wife, and I’d bet my life on that. Cartinhour either did it himself or had it done. As for Troost, he took one last trip on the railroad, out of D.C. into God knows where. And about a year later Cartinhour himself turned up at a card table with his throat slit.”

“Pure coincidence, I’m sure.”

“Oh, absolutely. But apart from that one coincidence, I haven’t heard so much as a rumor about Troost in half a dozen years.”

“You two will have some catching up to do.”

“Eh.” Gideon gazed at the countryside zipping past out the window. “He’s not much of a talker. But he’s a quick one, and slicker than you’d ever expect. I never worried about him too much. He’s the sort of man who always lands on his feet. It’ll be good to see him.” He surprised himself to realize that he meant it. “I wonder what he’s been up to all this time.”

Nelson Wellers shrugged. “Wait until Friday, and it sounds like you can ask him yourself.”

Maria arrived at Fort Chattanooga the next morning, having slept on the train and dreamed of dead cannibals who wouldn’t stop chewing. She awoke abruptly as the train shuddered to a halt. For a moment she was flooded with relief, then she remembered that her nightmares weren’t really nightmares—not the usual, impossible kind—and the half-sleeping horror rushed back to take its place. She shook her head and wished for a spot to wash her face, have a drink of water, and flush away some of the disorientation left over from the restless night.

But here was her stop. She needed to gather her wits and the nurse’s papers and get back to business.

Sleeping on trains was never something she enjoyed, and now, more than ever, she wished there’d been some alternative. She stumbled half awake down the steps and onto the platform, then went toward the station bleary-eyed, all the while watching to see if anyone had followed her here, or if anyone was waiting to pick up the chase. It felt like too many things to concentrate on at once. In the back of her mind she feared that an entire battalion of rogue agents could be on her tail and she might’ve slept right through them picking up her scent.

“Miss Boyd!” a familiar voice called.

It stopped her in her tracks. After a flash of panic, she saw the speaker and recognized him as a friend rather than foe. It surprised her enough to jolt her more fully awake. “Mr. Epperson?”

“Henry, please!” he suggested for what must have been the dozenth time. Jostling against the flow of the debarking passengers, he swam the short distance toward her—hand up, waving in her general direction. Upon reaching her, he touched the front of his hat and said, a little out of breath, “I’m glad I caught the right train. There are two others coming in from Richmond today, and I didn’t know which one you’d taken. I heard there was an incident at the hospital. What happened?”

She sighed wearily. “I’ll tell you over breakfast, if we can find a spot that’s quiet enough.” She glanced around the station and saw nothing promising, so she asked, “Do you know of a place where we could get a bite to eat? Perhaps some coffee? I don’t know the city at all.”

“I do know of a place, yes. It’s just across the street.”

As promised, across the street was a small café that specialized in tea and baked goods, but also offered a light breakfast. Maria attempted to make note of the expense in order to bill the Pinks later, but Henry wasn’t having it, and he bought the morning meal for them both.

At a small table in the big front window, they warmed themselves with coffee and waited for their food. The street outside was crowded with people, mostly train travelers and soldiers, for this was a military garrison, after all. In fact, if Maria remembered correctly, at least some portion of the city was walled.

Just like Seattle, the thought flickered through her head.

Since Henry was more familiar with the locale than Maria, she asked him. “I understand this fort has a wall around it. Is that right?”

“Most of it. The Tennessee River curves through the city, cutting it in half. There’s a wall around the south side—the military and industrial complex, where we are right now—that starts at one point on the river and ends at Moccasin Bend, near the foot of Lookout Mountain.”

She struggled to picture it. “So, basically, the southern end of the city is ringed by the river on one side, and the wall around the rest?”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s about right.”

“And Lookout Mountain…” Her question trailed off as a serving girl put two plates in front of them. Maria had eggs and toast. Henry settled for biscuits with honey and a side of bacon. “Lookout Mountain,” she began again, snapping her napkin open and placing it across her lap. “That’s where our friend’s family is taking vacation, correct?”