The Titanic Secret (Isaac Bell 11)

There was no need to check if the injury had been fatal. Nobody could have survived a shot like that.

The man knew where Bell was and exactly where he’d likely show himself. Bell couldn’t just charge in. His foe had the high ground, the superior weapon, and all the time in the world. Rather than chase directly, Bell scrambled out of the hillside gulley and atop a ridge that rose up the flanks of the foothills. He stayed in a crouched position to reduce his silhouette and started running uphill after the shooter. He could see the man racing back up his own little ravine toward his sniper’s nest. For such a big man, carrying slabs of muscle around his shoulders and back, he moved swiftly, eating ground at a pace Bell could barely maintain.

The erosion-worn gulley split into two channels just ahead, and when the man reached it, he spun around and started back down the mountain in the new channel. Bell completely lost sight of him and had to rush back down into the gulley and try to work his way back up the other side in order to emerge above and behind the gunman again.

He’d just started climbing the far bank of the valley when he heard the sound of machinery. Not an engine but mechanical noises, and they grew both louder but also receded.

Bell cursed and redoubled his effort. But it was no use. Even before he reached the top, the assassin had built up enough speed coasting downhill in the vehicle they’d driven here to pop the clutch and force the engine to life. Once lit, the truck roared off, accelerating down the mountain with each second. By the time Bell was high enough on the bank to spot the machine, it was a hundred yards off, trailing a fine plume of dust. He hadn’t gotten a close enough look to identify its color, much less its make and model.

He jogged back the way he’d come to check on Tony Wickersham. On the way, he’d check the dead body for clues. He reached the bouldered area where he’d left Tony only to find the young Englishman gone and a stranger in his place. Bell had his pistol trained on the interloper in an instant.

“Easy there, I’m not your enemy.”

“Who are you and where’s Tony?”

“I’m Buck Tompkins. I’m a miner down at the Satan. We heard the explosion and realized the water had stopped gushing into our camp, so a couple of us came up to check things out. We found your man. The others took him back to our camp and I waited here for you.”

“I recognize you now. You helped with drilling the holes.”

“Yes, sir, I did.” He eyed Bell’s strange attire but didn’t comment.

“Thank you for looking after Tony. He’s in a bad way.”

“We’ll get him warmed up and into town real quick. Central City has a fine doctor.”

Bell thought for a second. The men from the Satan Mine knew nothing of the attack and how the blast had meant to seal them in the mountain for all eternity, and there was no need to tell them. “I need to change and do some things at our camp. If you have transportation out of here, take Tony into town as soon as you can, and I’ll catch up at the doctor’s office. It’s all my fault. I dropped my pistol handing it to Tony. That’s how he was shot.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over an accident. That’s part of life. We’ve got a truck, so it’s no problem.”

Bell shook the man’s hand, thanking him, before turning back to climb up to the camp that had been half buried in debris from the blast. One thing was for certain. Isaac Bell owed his friend Alex Hecht for what had to be a thousand dollars’ worth of experimental diving equipment.

Bell rummaged through the mess until he found his clothes. He shed the diving suit and his wet drawers and donned the overalls and work boots. He rekindled the fire to make himself some coffee and wolfed down three prepacked sandwiches.

A half hour after finding Tony in good hands, Bell returned to the dead man left in the remote erosion channel. He remained facedown, and because his heart had stopped at the instant the shot came, there was very little blood staining the ground when Bell turned the body over.

Bell grunted. He recognized the victim. The man had called himself William Gibbs and said he was a reporter with the Rocky Mountain News. Bell had to hand it to the guy—he’d told that lie quickly and convincingly after being discovered tailing him and Wickersham. Though now he was at a loss as to how this man came to be tailing him in the first place.

He went through the man’s pockets and checked the labels on all his clothes, including his shoes. None of it told him a thing. It was all nondescript and ordinary, and the only labels were for stores with Denver addresses. The man’s black leather wallet initially revealed just a couple of dollars but, on closer examination, he saw a hidden compartment with a photograph preserved between pieces of stiff paperboard.

It showed an even younger version of “William Gibbs,” barely out of his teens, with a dark-haired, morose-looking girl of about the same age. They stood on the plaza right in front of the Eiffel Tower in Paris.

Bell had an identical photo, only in it his wife was beaming at the camera.

He turned it. In faded ink was written Theresa et moi 6/12/99.

Bell chuckled. On the back of his Eiffel Tower picture he’d written Marion et moi and the date of their visit. He realized he wasn’t as clever as he’d thought since this guy had added a dash of French to his souvenir too. Bell looked again at the couple in the photograph, and the date once again, and quickly knew why Miss Theresa looked so miserable.

Bell stood and dusted off his overalls. And heard whistling. Close by. He drew his pistol and turned in place. It was a man, and he was walking down the mountain above where Bell stood. He moved casually, hands swinging easily at his sides, though his spine remained ramrod straight. Bell didn’t need an introduction to guess this man was current or former military. He’d started whistling so his approach didn’t startle Bell, as a sign of good faith. Bell lowered the pistol, though he kept it cocked. He let the man approach, saying nothing.

The stranger said, “I think they would have let you leave unharmed had you not brought that fancy diving gear.” He was in his fifties, with weathered skin, a squint to his blue eyes, and silver stubble on his chin and cheeks. He was a cowboy out of central casting, but the real deal and not a Hollywood facsimile. His accent was pure Kentucky honey.

“Who were they?”

“Big one’s named Foster Gly.”

“And the Frenchman?”

The newcomer cocked his head and his eyes narrowed further. “How could you know that? I saw the shot. Gly shot h