Dawn's Early Light (18 page)

Eliza tucked her thumb underneath the silver dollar, sent it skyward, and then caught it on its fall. She slipped it underneath the small metal box connecting all the sticks of dynamite to the relay. The box's internal metronome continued to tick, but now the coin vibrated in time with the ticking.

Wellington beamed. “Fantastic.”

“What?” Felicity asked—completely out of her depth in this situation—and glancing at Wellington and Eliza for clarification.

It really was most satisfactory to have all of his attention in this way. “The kill switch works on the principle that a second signal must continuously send a sequence that keeps the fuses dormant. Without that second signal, boom.” She then turned to Felicity. “I've created with that half dollar a false signal. When the relay attempts to detonate the bomb, the coin disrupts the sequence, resets the timer, and the sequence begins anew.”

Felicity looked back and forth between the two of them, but stopped on Eliza with a decided glare. “You did what?”

“I gave the bomb a bad case of the hiccups.” Eliza motioned to Wellington. “So have a look at your clockwork, Welly.” She then began to remove the fuses from each stick. “Take all the time you need.”

Her victory over the librarian, she discovered, would be a short-lived one since Felicity nuzzled in closer to Wellington as they studied these modified inner workings of the Currituck Light.

“This is all rather ingenious,” Wellington said as he flicked open his journal and began to sketch. “The targeting works with the timing of the lighthouse itself, and the beam powers up from this source.”

Felicity narrowed her eyes on the generator. “A rather small generator to carry such output, don't you think?”

Eliza seethed quietly as she stepped away from the clockwork engine, giving Wellington and Felicity more room, but neither one taking it.
Of course he knows it's a small generator. I'm sure Wellington is smart enough to deduce how Edison was able to focus more power for the beam.

“Well, yes, but do you not see these additional optics? I believe that assists in creating a more narrowed, focused output,” he said, motioning to a configuration of two large glass lenses mounted on arms, lowered to the right and left of the main clockwork chassis. He continued to scribble notations and draw rough sketches of the device as he added, “I'm certain this is the death ray's targeting system.”

See?
Eliza thought proudly.
I knew Wellington would have the answer.

“There is something in this array,” he whispered, gesturing to the extra lenses, “that is completely different than what one would find in a typical design of Edison's.” He pressed his lips together, and stared off into space in a rather charming gesture. “Good Lord, what's the word I'm looking for?”

Felicity considered both the targeting time and power source. Then, on looking at the lenses again, she stated, “Economical.”

He looked down at her, and Eliza was alarmed at how his eyes sparkled at the librarian. “Brilliant. Yes, that is exactly the word. Economical.”

When the archivist returned his attention back to his sketching, Eliza snapped a look over at Felicity. The American was smiling far too appreciatively at Wellington, before happening to catch Eliza's eyes. She crooked an eyebrow ever so slightly at her just before she returned her attention to Wellington and the death ray.

That little strumpet,
Eliza raged inwardly,
she's playing Wellington like a Stradivarius!
If not for being in this peculiar situation, Eliza would demand the American's guts for her finest garters.

“Most of Edison's designs are quite complicated, both inside and out,” Felicity continued. “This, you can tell, is so wonderfully simple.”

“At least on the outside,” Wellington added. “If this is truly one of Tesla's designs, it could be a rather complicated enigma on the inside.”

Amazing no one was pointing out the obvious. “And Edison wanted to blow it up?” Eliza asked.

Wellington and Felicity looked at one another, back to Eliza, and then to Edison's invention. “Well put, Eliza,” her partner answered.

Eliza happened to catch Felicity's gaze. She made sure the smile on her face was not too proud, but definitely self-assured.

“It's a prototype,” Wellington said. “Build it to see if it works in the first place. Test it. And then . . .”

Felicity finished the thought. “Rebuild it. With improvements.”

Sinking down to the floor to get another perspective on the device, Eliza looked at the array's housing, then at the device's base. “Any idea if we can help ourselves to this prototype so we can understand what we're dealing with?”

Wellington looked back at Eliza for a moment, then pushed his spectacles up higher on his nose as he leaned closer to the moving mechanisms. “It would make sense that the device would be portable. This was built, after all, as an addition to what was already here.”

Eliza's hand immediately went to the waistband of her trousers as she remembered what she had found on the henchman. “Wellington, I found this key . . .” She ducked under the low-hanging lens and ran a hand along the pedestal underneath the machine. Her fingertips slipped over a crack in the base. “Here's where it splits.”

“So we need to find a keyhole?”

“Exactly.” She looked on either side of the optics' base. “It doesn't appear to be here.”

Felicity tapped Eliza on the shoulder and pointed to a small indention by Eliza's left foot. “What about there?”

Eliza looked at the key, then back at what appeared to be a matching keyhole. She fixed her grip on the key, slipped it into the slot, and turned. The sounds that softly echoed all around them suggested some kind of large and intricate pulley-lock system built within the lighthouse. A loud hiss emanated from beneath them, and the agents scampered back as the base slid away, parting in two. With a slight clang, it stopped, and then retracted into another segment that widened the part in the pedestal. This pattern repeated twice more, leaving the death ray optics and targeting system mounted on what looked like a reinforced crescent-shaped base. With the pedestal open before all of them, they could see a metal column, no more than two feet in height, perhaps a foot thick, decorated with tiny valves, pipes, and gauges.

This was Wellington's domain, but Eliza had some experience with mechanics. She could easily read not only boiler pressure on the gauges, but could make out there were also stored volts and amperage displayed, as well as firing solution and estimated range. Mounted on top of this pillar was the firing mechanism. She had rather a lot of experience with firing mechanisms.

Another loud groan and the floor beneath the targeting device opened. Slowly, the lighthouse mod began a slow descent on pulleys towards the base of Currituck Light.

“And now we know how they intended to transport it,” Eliza said, watching it lower to the ground. “Shall we see if Bill's found out anything new?”

With a final look at the progress of Edison's creation, Eliza led them back to where Bill had remained. He looked cold, but still not as miserable as the Usher henchman, who had his hands now bound behind him. A gust of wind attempted to claim Bill's Stetson and send it off into the darkness; but the quick gust only toyed with the flaps of his duster.

“I got to admit,” he said on seeing the three of them, “Cornwich's crew jackets are pretty good at keeping the wind off you.”

“How's our guest here?”

“This cuss really hasn't been good company,” Bill said, giving him a nudge with his boot. “Not pleasant company at all. Got quite the mouth on him.”

Eliza's gaze narrowed on the prisoner. “Why don't we all go back to the resort together then? Maybe a nice warm fire and some time alone with me will make him more social.”

“Do take care, Eliza,” Wellington said, pinching the bridge of his nose, “we need him to be able to tell us as much as he can about the weapon. If his jaw is broken that might prove difficult.”

Even with as dark as it was, Eliza could see the henchman's face grow paler. “You have the death ray?” he asked.

“Not the optics, sadly. Those are built into the proper mechanisms of the lighthouse.” Wellington motioned back to the Watch Room. “At least with the targeting array confiscated, you shouldn't be able to fire it again.”

“I'm certain the residents of the Outer Banks will be pleased with that,” Eliza said, turning to her partner. “Just as I'm sure the science behind it will keep you—”

The Usher agent pushed hard against the balcony, catching Bill off-guard and sending him against the railing. What happened after that, none of them could move fast enough to stop. The henchman, with his hands still bound behind him, stepped back and then jumped, his waist catching the top of the Gallery's railing. He thrust his torso downwards while kicking his legs behind him, propelling himself feet over head out into space. His head clocked against the outer railing with a sickening, dull thud before he toppled silently into the darkness.

Eliza, Wellington, and Felicity leaned over the railing just as the Usher operative impacted against the ground, sending sand and dust around him in an odd halo effect. Felicity stumbled back from the railing to brace herself against the lighthouse, her bosom heaving as she tried to catch her breath.

“All right,” Bill groaned as Eliza pulled him up from the iron platform, “this evening has officially stopped bein' fun.”

“Suicide?” Wellington managed to gasp out. Eliza glanced at him, noting he was now looking as ashen as the Usher henchman only moments before. They had seen many things in their adventures together, but this had shaken him to the core.

“Since he'd failed on a mission,” Eliza said, stepping away from the railing, “there would be retribution. It was quite obviously a retribution he didn't care to face.”

Bill slapped his hand against the railing, then turned back to his partner. He placed a hand on her shoulder and spoke softly, “You gonna be okay, Felicity?”

“I—” She covered her mouth and screwed her eyes shut. When they flicked open, her eyes looked glassy. “I don't know.”

“Well then, let's get a move on,” Bill said. He looked over his shoulder to Eliza and Wellington. “We got a mad scientist to catch and not a whole lot of time to do it.”

Bill was right. They couldn't afford to dillydally over one man's final choice. Eliza watched Bill whisper a few choice words to his partner, put his arm around her, and lead her to Currituck's stairwell.

With no horse cart or motorcar in sight, it looked as if it rested on the four of them to carry the targeting array back to the Retreat. A good deal of walking was in store for them. She anticipated there would be sore arms and legs by the time the sun came up. They would have to follow the causeway to shore, and then follow the beach back to the Retreat. It made the most sense, and if Edison were the showman he prided himself to be, the dazzling light display would still be on, eventually guiding them back to the resort. It would be pretty, at least. However, if the Americans thought they were getting away without doing their fair share, then they were in for quite the nasty surprise.

Eliza looked over at Wellington and managed to squeeze out a smile. For his first sanctioned mission, her partner was managing quite well. Since their shared free fall from the Culpeppers' airship, she had suspected his talents were wasted in the Archives.

“You all right there, Wellington?” she asked softly.

“I will be,” he said, his mouth setting into a grim line. “Quite a notion, this fieldwork.”

“That it is, Welly, that it is.”

She stood there for a moment, the words hanging in the air. Was that all he had to say? It was a moment's peace alone between them, and this was all he had to say?

“What is it, Eliza?” he asked, his expression blank.

Eliza went to say something, paused, then began with, “While I was up there, tumbling to what I believe could have been a certain death. . .” This was harder than she thought it would be. “I was—”

He just stared at her. Confused.

She shook her head and smiled. “I'm just tired, so the sooner we get that back to the resort, the sooner we can get some proper rest. Come along, Welly,” she said, turning towards the stairwell.

Once down the spiral staircase of Currituck, together with the Americans, they lifted Edison's targeting system with only the slightest of grunts. It was not as heavy as she first feared, but hefting this thing for miles was not her idea of a good night out.

Outside the lighthouse, the four set off to the sound of the crashing waves on the shore. Eliza and Wellington did not share any words on their long walk back to Swan's Retreat, although she watched him march ahead of her, his hand wrapped around the handle for the longest time. Was he even happy to see her alive, after the mad ride she and Bill took amongst the stars? Could he not have spared a quick kiss, a hug, or even just a pat on the back?

Eliza turned her eyes back towards the direction of the Retreat. Perhaps for a moment like this—carrying a targeting array for a death ray along the shores of the Carolinas—silence between them was best.

W
ellington Thornhill Books had never expected to see the great lakes, never imagined that he would see the very north of America, so as their train pulled into Detroit he was, despite everything, rather excited. He leaned forwards in his seat and peered out the window.

New places were always a delight to him; it was just that he didn't show it as much as his partner. He was enjoying this quiet time in the dining car, watching the sun sink below the horizon while he wrote in his journal.

When a woman took the seat opposite him, and it was not Eliza, he was somewhat relieved. Felicity with her sweet smile was far easier to understand than his partner, who had of late become rather volatile.

“Anything of interest?” the librarian asked, folding her hands on the table between them. “Anything about me?”

With a dismissive wave of his hand and a light chuckle, Wellington shrugged. “Just some general observations on America and my experiences here. I've only visited New York before, so this mission has been quite an immersion into your culture. The things I have seen already.”

She looked faintly disappointed. “Like what?”

He was caught out for a moment. “Oh, well . . .” And then a recent memory popped into his head. “Back in North Carolina, I caught sight of a lady who had just missed the train. She was a priest. A woman priest. Fascinating! Particularly as she gave chase with the train. A shame. I would have loved to hear about her parish and diocese. Quite revolutionary.”

“That was rather funny,” Felicity replied. “Still, not a whole lot of trains running out of there.” She leaned back. “I hope she didn't have to wait too long to catch another.”

“But in between the case-sensitive matters, I've been enjoying the countryside. America is a nation of layers, isn't it?”

“Indeed.” Her smile widened. “Perhaps, if time allows, you can take in a few of our other fair cities. Boston, perhaps?”

“Anywhere but San Francisco. Apparently, Miss Braun has suffered there and would prefer not to return and tempt fate.”

Felicity nodded. “I know San Francisco very well. Lovely city. I would love to show you its wonders.”

She was very charming, and Wellington couldn't help but smile back. Perhaps he could convince Eliza to stay for just a few days longer, or perhaps his new colleague would offer to sponsor him.

That was the moment Eliza chose to reappear, with Bill close behind her.

His partner's smile was by contrast a little forced. “We're pulling in soon, so I hope that automobile of yours is ready.” And with that she strode off. Bill only grinned and followed in her wake, and Wellington could have sworn he was chuckling to himself.

Further down the carriage they began talking in low voices. Wellington had observed that ever since they'd fallen from the sky, Bill and Eliza had become as thick as thieves. He barely got two words out of her since that night, which maddened him to no end. He had been so relieved to know they were leaving the Outer Banks safe and secure, and that she had walked away from such a harrowing ride. But with her new-found compatriot, Wild Bill Wheatley, there were no secrets. Never a dull moment.

It was not a development he found himself very comfortable with.

When the train pulled into the station, Felicity followed him out chatting non-stop about things he didn't really listen to. On his mind was the rather rude manner with which his partner was treating him. Wellington was more than accustomed to her dismissive attitude, but this silence that seemed to border on anger was something that had seldom been between them.

Further down the platform Bill and Eliza appeared once again, though this time in coats and undoubtedly better armed—if the bulges were anything to go by.

When Eliza strode over to him, Wellington worried for a moment she was going to punch him, but instead it was Bill that spoke.

He looked quite happy with the turn of events, and even with the air itself. “Miss Braun, Johnny Shakespeare.” Wellington flinched. He was now missing Eliza's pet name for him. “Welcome to Detroit, Michigan, the Paris of the West. You folks are in for quite a treat. Detroit is one of the prettiest, most modern cities in America.”

“I hardly think we are here for fun,” Wellington replied, pulling his coat tighter against the cold. This continent certainly had all the seasons in abundance at the same time. He was sure March ushered in
spring
.

“Bill was born in Detroit,” Felicity chimed in. “He likes to play at being a cowboy but really . . .”

“These folk don't want to hear about that,” Bill said, hooking his thumbs in his belt, and seemingly embarrassed by his partner exposing his origins. “The first order of business—hell, the
only
order of business—is getting handcuffs on Mr. Edison.”

Eliza's smile deepened as if she knew a rather unpleasant secret. “That is why we're going to catch a carriage and scout out his company. Since he's in Chicago tonight, this might give us some time to watch his base of operations.”

“Just a moment,” Wellington began, his eyes jumping between her and Bill. “You and Bill are going ahead?”

“Considering the eyeful Edison got of you two at Swan's Retreat”—and for an odd reason, her gaze lingered on Felicity in a somewhat accusatory fashion—“he'll be up and away if he spots you here. So Bill and I will go on ahead, wait, watch, and see how the mice are running things when the cat's away.”

A simple enough plan. A shame she had not shared any details of it with him. “And what of Felicity and myself?”

“Having you two in such a hostile environment, Wellington, could serve as a hazard. Just check us into the hotel and pick us up later tonight, there's a good chap.”

She called him “Wellington” but this time she wasn't angry. Eliza was pulling rank.

“Understood,” he conceded, but then added, “considering my lack of hostile environments. After all, the Phoenix Society was nothing more than a posh outing in the country. Provided you looked beyond the underground weapons factory, mad scientists, and—”

“Just—”
Eliza pursed her lips, took in a deep breath, and began again, her tone softer now. “Have the automobile ready to go.”

“What if you need something better to back you up that doesn't involve bullets?” he asked her.

“You English aren't the only ones with the gadgets,” Bill said over his shoulder and down to them. “Our own R&D haven't sent me into the field without a few mechanical tricks.”

“What a pity,” Wellington quipped. He turned back to Eliza. “What if we find ourselves in need?”

Her patience, from the tightness around her eyes, was thinning.
Welcome to my world, Miss Braun,
he thought with a smirk.

“We're in the Americas. Send up a smoke signal.”

Wellington did not care for her tone, but liked even less when Bill handed him a map and gave him instructions as though he were a chauffeur. “Pick us up here. It's on the corner of Washington and State, pretty easy to find. Look for a building a block or so away with the name Edison on the side.”

“Really?” Wellington asked pointedly. “Guess I can't muck up something that elementary, now can I?”

Bill shrugged. “Day's still young.”

With that the two of them strode away, and it was not lost on the archivist that Eliza slipped her hand under Bill's arm as they went. Wellington felt a cold, familiar knot in his stomach start to build—and it had nothing to do with the chilly weather. He was also half expecting the ghost of his father to give him a warning.

Nothing.

Bloody good,
Wellington seethed.
The dead are best when silent.

As if mimicking them, Felicity put her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow and patted his arm. “Don't mind Bill, Wellington,” she whispered, “he's just excited to be home I bet.”

“Perhaps,” he grumbled.

“And I think it quite charming how Miss Braun has put her differences with him behind her. They are two peas in a pod, they are,” she tittered.

Wellington stiffened at her implication, yet he couldn't be consumed by thoughts of Eliza. He had important duties too. “I do hope your American porters handle our cargo with care.”

The archivist led the librarian to the rear of the train so they could supervise the unloading of the car, with particular attention paid to the large crate that had conveyed the prototype with them from the Outer Banks. It was well packed and nailed shut, but Wellington was a little nervous as they lowered it down to the platform.

“The vehicle we will take,” he told the admittedly competent-looking stationmaster, “but I will need the crate stored at the station until we call for it.” He paid the fee, took the green docket, and watched as the array was wheeled away by a Portoporter.

“It will be fine,” Felicity assured him, gently caressing his arm. “We can hardly be very covert lugging that huge crate with us.”

He nodded stiffly, but found once he got behind the wheel of his automobile, he felt better and more relaxed.

As they entered the city proper, Wellington was quickly educated on why Bill referred to this American city as the Paris of the West. Towering high above them were breathtaking works of masonry art. In the distance, he could see one impressive building—or “skyscrapers” as the Americans coined them—reaching ten stories easily. Felicity cracked through the quiet of their car to point out the Queen Anne–style Schwankovsky Temple of Music, which featured an electric elevator.

“Since we are not on duty as it were,” Felicity said, “perhaps we could pay a visit to Randolph Street. From what I've read, they have some wonderful architecture from the antebellum period.”

“As lovely as it would be to take in the sights, we are still on a mission. Now where exactly are we staying?”

“A few more blocks. We're nearly there.”

Wellington eventually found himself on Monroe Street. Felicity pointed ahead at yet another splendid work of art, this time constructed in a European Renaissance Revival style. Reaching eight stories and decorated with iron balconies, the Hotel Ste. Claire was quite a picture of luxury. Once his motorcar came to a halt, a team of valets appeared to open both his door and Felicity's. His eyes glanced down Monroe and Randolph, noting restaurants of various cuisines, all of which looked busy for a crisp afternoon in the city. When the front doors opened for them, Wellington caught details of bird's-eye maple, marble accents, and the finest crystal everywhere in the interior. The Hotel Ste. Claire believed heavily in making a lasting impression.

“Will this suffice?” Felicity asked. “The Russell was all booked up.”

“Paris of the West, indeed,” Wellington said with a nod.

Felicity led the way to the main lobby where, as dutiful agents to their colleagues currently in the field, they checked themselves in and secured their luggage. Agreeing on a time to meet in the lobby, and refusing yet another kind invitation to venture out and see what was playing at the Detroit Opera House—tempting as that was, considering the last time he'd attended a performance—Wellington stretched out on the queen bed he had reserved for Eliza, and let his mind wander.

Did it really matter if she was off on her derring-do with the American agent? After all, he'd protested mightily when she'd dragged him into the brouhaha with the Phoenix Society, not to mention the business with the Culpepper sisters . . . So he should be happy he wasn't included in her exploits now.

Shouldn't he?

When he was awakened by Felicity knocking on his room door, Wellington realised he had nodded off.

Rousing himself, he donned his bowler and jacket, and joined his counterpart, who was waiting in the hotel lobby. Navigating the city streets turned out to be not nearly as fearsome as he might have thought because of a series of wonders that were a delightful union of architecture and science. In fact, it was his consistent craning of his neck that nearly made Wellington wreck his prized possession.

“Eyes on the road, Books,” Felicity snapped.

Twice.

The moon had hidden her face, but a line of tall towers punctuating the city brought light to the streets. On his third near miss, Wellington decided to pull the car over to admire these local marvels.

“I've read about them,” he muttered, “but never thought I'd see them.” He wished Eliza was here to enjoy them with him. He doubted Bill could possibly appreciate such wonderful constructions.

“The moonlight towers?” Felicity said, holding on to her hat and peering up the length of the tower reaching nearly one hundred and fifty feet into the sky. “They are impressive, aren't they? Thanks to them, Detroit is one of the best-lit cities in America.”

“A marvel,” Wellington agreed, but knew very well that his chances of examining the arc lights was minimal given the current urgency of finding and apprehending Edison.