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“What did he die of?”
“God knows. Even a simple cold will kill at his age . . . The upshot is, Mr. Bell, we’ll be seeing a lot of each other in weeks to come.”
“How is that, sir?”
“That was Mr. Rockefeller on the telephone. With Comstock gone, the president has asked me to accompany him in his travels. He mentioned you will be his bodyguard.”
“You poor things,” said Nellie. “I would rather die than be stuck all summer in Cleveland. The heat! The humidity! The neighbors!”
“Mr. Rockefeller summers at his estate in Cleveland,” Edna explained to Bell.
Matters gave Bell a significant look. “I suspect we’ll create the impression he’s in Cleveland than range farther afield. Wouldn’t you say, Mr. Bell?”
“I cannot say, sir,” Bell replied stiffly. “As his bodyguard, if Mr. Rockefeller confided our destination, it would be indiscreet, not to mention reckless, to repeat to anyone where we are going.”
—
The First Regiment of Newark was billeted in a sturdy National Guard armory, four stories of slab-sided brick walls, relieved only slightly by rounded turrets, and crowned with a parapet. The sentries guarding the arched Jay Street portal remembered Billy Jones warmly but expressed bafflement when Isaac Bell asked why the champion marksman had deserted right after winning the President’s Medal.
“Happy guys don’t take French leave,” the corporal put it.
“Big fellow?” Bell asked.
“Skinny little guy,” said the private.
“Any guess where he lit out to?”
“No. No one figured him for lighting out. Kept to himself except for one pal, Nate Wildwood.”
“Is Nate around?” asked Bell.
“Nate got killed,” said the private.
“In the Spanish war?”
“Never made it to the war,” the corporal answered. “Poor Nate fell under a train. Before Billy lit out.”
“Really? Tell me something. How short was Billy?”
“I don’t know. Maybe five-three?”
“Little guy,” said the private. “Short.”
“What color was his hair?”
“Brown.”
“What color were his eyes?”
“Green.”
“Not really green,” said the corporal. “Gray-green.”
The private reconsidered. “Yeah, you could say gray-green. They got kind of dead colored, sometimes.”
“Dead?” scoffed the corporal. “What do you mean dead?”
“I mean dead. I was next to him on the firing line more than once. When he started shooting, his eyes looked dead.” The young soldier turned to Bell and explained earnestly, “What I mean is, after I saw that, I never wondered how Billy Jones could be such a great shot. It was like he could stop every thought in his brain when he pulled the trigger.”
