Coal River

  “I’m so sorry to hear about Levi,” she said. “I mean that with all my heart. He didn’t deserve to die. But I—”

  “Don’t say another word,” Frank said. He put a key in the lock, opened the cell door, and waited for her to come out.

  Bewildered, she stepped out into the cellblock. Was he letting her go? Before Frank could stop her, she darted over to the next cell. On the other side of the iron mesh, Clayton was lying on his back on a cot, his eyes closed. She rattled the door.

  “Clayton!” she cried. “Wake up!”

  He didn’t move.

  Frank grabbed her by the arm and pulled her away. “Let’s go,” he said.

  “Please, just let me talk to him for a minute!”

  Ignoring her pleas, Frank dragged her across the jailhouse, his plank-thick fingers digging into her skin. The cavernous cellblock was cold and damp, and smelled like wet stone. At the far end, a set of iron stairs led two stories up to a walkway with an oak railing. The walls along the second level were lined with more cells. Five guards stood around the perimeter of the upper walkway, rifles in hand. A vaulted ceiling soared two more stories above their heads.

  Frank noticed her looking up. “Our jailhouse was built to have indoor hangings.”

  Emma shivered. No wonder this place had always made her uneasy. And now that she was inside, the oppressive shroud of misery was a thousand times worse. The air was thick with the memories of human suffering, as if every square inch was filled with the ghosts of past prisoners. It made her anxious and nauseous. Frank took her through a locked metal door and down a short hallway into an office. He ordered her to sit in a chair, closed the door behind him, then stood over her, his arms crossed. He wasn’t letting her go.

  “I’m going to give you one more chance to tell me the truth,” he said. “If you admit Nally and Clayton talked you into this, I might be able to protect you. Otherwise, I’m done asking questions. What were you doing in the mine? And where have you been staying? You told me you were leaving Coal River.”

  “Will you let me go if I tell you?”

  His face went dark. “You know I can’t do that.”

  Emma’s mind raced. Why did he bring her into an office where no one else could hear? Did he really think she would point the finger at Clayton to save herself? And what if she did? What then? Did he hope she would feel obligated to him for helping her? Was he still trying to prove he could protect her? Frank knew her well enough to know she didn’t have anything to do with shooting Mr. Flint and Levi, didn’t he? Regardless of his motives, this could be her last chance to get him to listen. He wouldn’t go against Mr. Flint and release her, and he might not be able to save her from the hangman’s noose, but at the very least, maybe she could get him to help her another way. If she was going to be punished for a crime she didn’t commit, she might as well try to finish what she’d started. She refused to believe it had all been for nothing.

  “Where’s the camera?” she said.

  “Jesus Christ, Emma,” he said. “You’ve got bigger problems than losing a camera! Haven’t you heard a word I said?”

  She clenched her fists in her lap until her knuckles turned white. “It was you.”

  He frowned, confused. “What was me?”

  “You were the one who threw my locket out on the ice.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about my brother, Albert. You remember him, don’t you?”

  Frank unfolded his arms. “What does your brother have to do with this? And why in the world are you bringing that up now?”

  “You owe me.”

  “You want an apology? Now?”

  “That would be a good place to start,” she said.

  “Emma . . .” he said, shaking his head. “That was the past. You’re in trouble here. Now. Today. You need to—”

  “No,” she said. “It’s not the past. I live with it every day. And I wouldn’t be sitting here right now if my brother were still alive.”

  Frank sat on the edge of the desk, and his eyes dropped to the floor. “I was just a boy.”

  “Albert was just a boy too. Two or three years younger than you as I recall. You knew that river ice was dangerous because you grew up here. Albert didn’t. He thought it was safe.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know he would go after the locket. I thought. . . I don’t know what you want me to say. If I could go back and change things, I would. It was an accident.”

  “No,” she said. “It was your fault. And still, even after what you did to Albert. Even after everything you’ve put me and my family through, I risked my life to save yours, twice. I even took a bullet for you.”

  “I know,” he said, his brow furrowed. He went around the other side of the desk and sat down. “All I can do is offer to help you now, if I can. What more do you want?”

  “You know I didn’t do anything illegal.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But that’s not going to get you very far during a trial. Nally is a member of the Molly Maguires. He’ll hang without a formal trial. There were a lot of witnesses, so there’s no way he’ll get off. And I’ve never seen Mr. Flint like this. He’s so broken up over losing Levi, I thought he was going to need to be sedated. He’s lost everyone now. First the nursemaid kidnapped his second son, then his wife committed suicide, and now Levi has been murdered.”

  “Don’t ask me to feel sorry for him.”

  “I’m not, but Mr. Flint wants someone to pay. And unless you want to be hanging from a rope next to Nally, you better tell me what you were doing in the mine. The only way I can help is if you tell me the truth.”

  “I’ll tell you the truth if you promise to do something for me.”

  He looked doubtful. “What?”

  “Promise me first.”

  “I’m not promising anything until I know what you’re asking.”

  “I just need you to mail something for me, that’s all.”

  “That’s it?”

  She nodded.

  He stared at her for a long time, clenching and unclenching his jaw, his temples working in and out. Then he leaned back in the chair, eyeing her suspiciously. “All right. I’ll do that for you. Now tell me what happened.”

  “I was in the mine taking pictures,” she said. “There was a cave-in, and Nally dropped the torch I was using for light. I didn’t know he had a gun, or that he was planning on shooting anyone. I just used him to get into the mine. Clayton knew I was going into the mine, but he didn’t know Nally had a gun either. That’s the truth. I swear on Albert’s soul.”

  “So you cut off your hair and dressed like a miner just to take pictures?” he said. “And I’m supposed to believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you taking pictures of?”

  She chewed on the inside of her cheek, unsure of how to continue. She couldn’t think of a lie that sounded believable. It wasn’t likely that she’d cut off her hair and risk her life for a photography hobby.

  “It’s Uncle Otis’s camera,” she said. “I stole it so I could take pictures of the breaker boys and the nippers and spraggers.”

  “Why?”

  She moved to the edge of the chair. “Please, I just need you to mail the film for me. That’s all.”

  He shook his head. “Not until you tell me the rest.”

  “It’s for a good cause, I promise,” she said. “And we had a deal, remember? Just do the right thing for once, will you?”

  “What did you think? That you could help the miners get what they want by sending pictures to your friends in New York?”

  She kept a straight face, despite the fact that he’d figured everything out so quickly. “No,” she said.

  “You’re being naïve if you think anything is going to change around here.”

  “Then it won’t matter if you help me.”

  “Where have you been staying?”

  “Why does it matter?”

  “You said you’d te
ll me the truth.”

  “With Clayton.”

  He swore under his breath, and red blotches bloomed on his face.

  “Please,” she said. “Just mail the film for me. No one has to know.”

  He exhaled heavily. “To who?”

  She dropped her eyes and picked at the blackened skin around her thumbnail.

  Frank sat forward. “Quit pussyfooting around and just tell me what the hell you’re up to. You might not believe this, but I don’t want to see you strung up by the neck any more than you do.”

  Outside the office door, the front entrance to the jailhouse opened and closed. Heavy footsteps tromped across the wooden floor.

  “Captain Bannister?” a man called out. It was Hazard Flint.

  Moving fast, Frank yanked open the desk drawer and pulled out a sheet of stationery with the jail letterhead. He dipped a pen in an inkpot and poised it over the paper, ready to write. “Where do you want me to send the film?” he said.

  “To the editor of the New York Times.”

  He hesitated, scowling. “Why?”

  “You said you’d help me.”

  “What’s the address?” he said impatiently.

  “One Times Square,” she said, starting to shake. “New York, New York.”

  Before Frank could write the information down, the door handle turned and the door started to open. He dropped the pen, hurried around the desk, and stood over Emma. Mr. Flint entered and closed the door behind him, leaning hard on his cane, his left arm in a sling. He looked shriveled and sick.

  “What the hell is going on in here?” he snarled. “Why is she out of her cell?”

  “I’m questioning her,” Frank said. “She was just getting ready to tell me what she was doing in the mine.”

  Mr. Flint made his way into the room and stood at the end of the desk, his face drawn with anger and misery. “You’re not a lawyer!”

  “I’ve had previous run-ins with this prisoner,” Frank said. “I’ll get the truth out of her. Just let me do my job.”

  “Do whatever you want to her then,” Mr. Flint said. “Just make sure she’s alive when it comes time to string a rope around her neck.” He squeezed his eyes shut as if he were in pain, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and finger. “What a hellacious mess we’ve got on our hands.”

  “Any progress at the mine?” Frank said.

  Mr. Flint shook his head. “Twenty-four men escaped with minor injuries, but we can’t get the fire out to reach the others.”

  Emma took a deep breath and tried to stay calm, overwhelmed by a strange mixture of relief and despair. Twenty-four were now safe, but how many more were going to die?

  “Miss Malloy knows how it started,” Frank said. “And she was just getting ready to tell me what she knows about Nally.”

  “Save it for the trial, if there is one,” Mr. Flint said. “You don’t want to give her any ideas on how to change her story!”

  “But she could lead me to other Mollies through Nally’s cohorts,” Frank said.

  Mr. Flint stood silent, as if trying to decide what to do. “All right, but write down every damn word she says!” Then he swayed and grabbed the edge of the desk. Frank pulled the chair around and helped him into it.

  “You all right, boss?” Frank said.

  Mr. Flint leaned back in the seat, breathing hard. “I’ll be . . .” he started. But then his lip trembled and he shook his head, unable to speak.

  Despite her hatred for the man, Emma’s throat tightened. She knew the agony of grief all too well, and seeing it break down this tyrant only proved its power.

  “I know you don’t believe me, Mr. Flint,” she said. “But I’m truly sorry about Levi. His death was a tragedy. He seemed like a good man.”

  Mr. Flint blinked at her with crusty, bloodshot eyes. He looked as though he might scream, or yank out a gun and shoot her dead on the spot. But to her surprise, his face crumpled in on itself. He took a handkerchief out of his vest pocket, his shoulders convulsing.

  “Yes,” he said. “My son was a good man. A better man than I’ll ever be. And I never told him. . . .” His voice caught, and he couldn’t go on.

  Emma swallowed. Now that Mr. Flint had lost his son, maybe she could reason with him. If there was one thing she knew for sure, grief had a way of changing people. Maybe he would finally see that putting other people’s sons in danger was wrong. “I know it’s not the same as losing your child,” she said. “But I have some idea how much pain you’re in. I lost my brother. And my parents. That’s why it’s so hard for me to understand what’s happening in Coal River.”

  As if suddenly coming to his senses, Mr. Flint shook his head. He wiped his cheeks and pushed himself to his feet. “You should have thought about that before you brought in a radical mine striker,” he snarled. Then he stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket, brushed past her, and started toward the door.

  Emma clenched her jaw, berating herself. What was she thinking? A heart made of stone could never be changed. She turned in her chair. “Now you know what the parents of dead breaker boys suffer,” she said. “You’re feeling the same pain. The same grief.”

  Mr. Flint froze midstride and spun around. “Was that your plan? To teach me a lesson?”

  “No,” she said. “I would never wish the death of a loved one on anyone, not even someone as greedy and vile as you.”

  “How dare you?” he yelled. “My boy is dead because of you!”

  “Have you ever asked yourself how many mothers and fathers have lost their boys because of you?” she said.

  With that, Mr. Flint stormed toward her, his face wild. She leapt to her feet and backed away, her heart kicking in her chest. He herded her into a corner and raised his cane to strike her, his lips pulled back, his teeth bared. She lifted an arm to protect herself, cowering between the wall and a wooden cabinet.

  “Stop!” Frank yelled.

  Mr. Flint brought down the cane, aiming for Emma’s head. Frank grabbed the cane and stopped it in midair.

  “She’s not the reason Levi is dead,” Frank said. “And that won’t help us find out the truth.”

  Lowering the cane and breathing hard, Mr. Flint glared at Frank for a long time. Then he grunted and staggered across the office, grabbing the desk and chair to steady himself as he went. Finally he disappeared through the door and Emma breathed a sigh of relief.

  Frank gaped at her. “Are you out of your mind? That man can hang you without a trial! Do you understand that?”

  On wobbly legs, Emma left the corner and went back to the chair. “Then I don’t have much time. Give me a piece of paper. I need to write a letter to send with the film.”

  Frank gave a frustrated shake of his head. “It’s not going to do any good.”

  She sat down and looked up at him. “Are you going to help me or not?”

  He swore under his breath and fetched a piece of paper from the drawer. Emma calmed her trembling hands and wrote as fast as she could without smudging the ink as Frank watched from the other side of the desk. In the letter, she explained where the pictures were taken, and that Hazard Flint was breaking Pennsylvania child labor laws. She said he was taking shortcuts in the mine and murdering anyone who opposed him. She described how she had gone undercover as a breaker boy and miner’s butty. Then she paused for a second, remembering that Levi was trying to change things. She added that to the letter, not wanting to sully his name. But Hazard Flint wasn’t the only guilty one. Some of the other bosses, including her uncle, had broken the law too. She signed her name at the bottom, picked up the letter, blew on the ink to dry it, and folded it in thirds.

  “I need an envelope,” she said.

  Frank reached for the letter. “Let me read it.”

  “No,” she said. “You’re doing the right thing this time, remember?”

  For a moment it looked like Frank would refuse, but then he dropped his arm with a grimace, and searched in the desk for an envelope.

&n
bsp; CHAPTER 28

  At dawn the next morning, the rattle of a key in a lock startled Emma awake in her cell. She sat up and looked toward the door. No one was there. The cellblock was dark except for a thin, yellow glow coming from a single ceiling lamp at the far end of the corridor. Briefly, she wondered if she was dreaming. She had been dosing in fits and starts all night, alternating between furious nightmares and dreams of her parents and Albert. At times she felt like she was drifting in and out of consciousness, not sure where the dreams ended and the all-too-real nightmares began. Then she realized the sound of keys was coming from the next cell. Clayton’s cell. She swung her legs over the cot and rushed to the door. The only thing she could see was the back of a guard from one side. An iron door screeched open, and the guard disappeared into the cell.

  “Is that you, Frank?” she called.

  No one answered.

  Heavy footsteps crossed the cell floor, a metal cot creaked, and it sounded like a body was being moved and lifted. Then the guard reappeared, a man’s bloody arm draped over his shoulders. Boots scraped across the floor, and a man groaned. Two guards half carried, half dragged Clayton past Emma’s door. Neither of them were Frank.

  “Clayton!” she cried.

  He didn’t answer. The cold fingers of fear clutched Emma’s throat.

  “Where are you taking him?” she shouted.

  Then Frank appeared in front of her cell, making her jump. “Mr. Flint wants him moved to the infirmary.”

  “How come?” she said.

  “He wants the satisfaction of seeing him hang at the end of a rope.”

  “Are you saying there’s a chance he might die from the gunshot?”

  “Hard to tell,” Frank said. He sounded deflated. “Depends on how hard he’s willing to fight, I guess.” He started to walk away.

  “Wait!”

  He came back. “Now what?”

  “Did you mail the film?” she whispered.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, and disappeared from view.

  Frank’s footsteps echoed across the stone block, then a heavy door screeched open and slammed closed. Emma turned back into the cell, fell onto the cot, and put her face in her hands. Clayton had to survive the gunshot. The alternative was unthinkable. Then again, what was the point of surviving if he was just going to be hanged? She closed her flooding eyes and tried to quiet her racing thoughts. But once her tears started, she was helpless to stop. She pictured Albert and her parents, and sobbed out loud. She wept for the orphans, for the mothers and fathers who had lost children, for the miners still trapped in the mine, for the dead and maimed breaker boys, and for all the others suffering in this town to satisfy Hazard Flint’s greed.