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“Is that where the worst of the damage is?”
“No, it’s where the machine is. The worst of the damage is at the other end of the room, but we’re running out of time. ”
“We’ll do the best we can, and it’ll be enough,” Wellers said, insisting to himself—or maybe to Gideon, who couldn’t see him and only halfway believed him. “I’ll start unloading. Wait. ”
“What?”
“Wait,” he said again, low and quiet, directed down the hole above Gideon’s head. Then, to someone else: “Who goes there, eh? What can I do for you fine gentlemen this … afternoon, I suppose. Though it looks rather like evening, more so every minute. ”
“That it does,” came the response. Gideon didn’t recognize the speaker. “We’re looking for Gideon Bardsley, and have reason to think he might be here. ”
Wellers hesitated, but only for the briefest of moments. “Gideon? No, he’s not here right now. He’s back at the Lincoln place, I believe. ”
“You believe wrong. ”
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” the doctor said coolly. “What do you officers want with him? If you don’t mind my asking. ”
Officers? Policemen, Gideon assumed. Couldn’t be good. Why were they here? Could they be charging him with libel, over the editorial he’d written? He smiled darkly, thinking of the piece’s reception; he’d heard that countereditorials were being drawn up and printed up even as he stood there. He’d already read one or two. But more than rebuttals, he saw calls for action. Statements of concern. Demands for answers. And the demands were growing louder with every passing hour, much to his grim delight.
“He’s wanted for murder. ”
Ah. Something else then. Something untrue. More untrue than libel, anyway. They weren’t supposed to convict a man who spoke the truth, not that it necessarily stopped anyone. And as for murder? Innocent men were convicted every day.
So Douglass had been right. They were disgracing him, since they couldn’t silence him any other way. He might’ve been flattered if he didn’t feel so inconvenienced.
Nelson Wellers replied with a simila
r disbelief. “Murder? You can’t be serious. Gideon never murdered anybody, and I’d very much like to see whatever evidence brings you out here to arrest him. ”
“Two witnesses have independently and confidently identified him, and the dead man himself wrote ‘GB’ in his own blood, right beside his body. Besides that, part of his laboratory coat was found at the scene—a pocket, torn off in the victim’s struggles. ”
Laboratory coat? Gideon shook his head. He almost never wore a coat in the lab, only the occasional apron or belt for his tools. To call the charges trumped up was to give them more credit than they deserved.
“That’s preposterous!” Wellers said with exasperation. “You have no way of knowing whose coat, whose pocket…”
But one of the policemen snapped, “The specifics are none of your concern, unless you’re giving quarter to a known fugitive. In that case, it’s absolutely your concern, because it’s evidence against you, as well. Now, where is he?”
“I surely have no idea. ”
“According to our sources, he left the Lincoln household with you. To come here. To do … what are you doing, anyway?”
“You don’t care, so what does it matter? You’re looking for Gideon, and I haven’t seen him. We parted company in town when we realized we didn’t have enough supplies to perform our task. You might stop by C. T. Helman’s shipping supplies. ”
“And why would we do that?”
“Because,” Nelson said with an exaggerated note of impatience. “That’s where we got the waxed canvas over there. ” He must have gestured at the cart. “And I’ll answer your other question truly and on the house: We’re trying to prevent damage to the basement level, where some very sensitive scientific equipment is presently exposed to the elements. If you take a look at the sky, you’ll see we have some elements pending. Any minute now. ”
“You’ve got a point. Maybe we should take a look at all this … sensitive scientific equipment while we still can. It could be important to the case. ”
“I assure you, it isn’t. ”
Gideon thought fast. Getting out of the basement, that was the first priority. On the one hand, he wanted to swear at Wellers for bringing up the machine, but he couldn’t stay there anyway, so the sooner he was out, the better.
He glared at the Fiddlehead, source of and solution to so many problems. Could it survive the night without being covered? Maybe. It’d held on this long, hadn’t it? A week, plus a couple of days. But there had been no rain, no ice. Water might be the end of it. Simple moisture destroying the most complex machine a man had ever made. He was certain that said something about Mother Nature, or God, or fate, but he didn’t give a damn about any of them, so he seethed without remorse and didn’t wonder after a deeper meaning.
But he couldn’t save the machine if he was imprisoned or dead, now could he?
He seized a bit of waxed cotton canvas—the only bolt he’d brought down. He wrapped his hand in one corner and used it to snap his lantern in half, removing the simple circuitry from the bulb and examining it.
