I am so lucky, she thought.
Isaac took Marion’s hand.
For a long moment, he found it difficult to speak. Her beauty, her poise, and her grace never failed to move him. Staring into her green eyes, he finally said, “I am the happiest man in San Francisco. And if we were in New York right now, I would be the happiest man in New York.”
She smiled and looked away. When she looked back to meet his eyes, she saw that his gaze had shifted to a newspaper headline: DITCHED!
Train wrecks were a part of daily life in 1907, but to have a Los Angeles flyer crash and knowing that Isaac rode trains all the time was terrifying. Oddly, she worried less about the dangers in his work. They were real, and she had seen his scars. But to worry about Isaac encountering gunmen and knife fighters would be as irrational as fretting about a tiger’s safety in the jungle.
He was staring at the paper, his face dark with anger. She touched his hand. “Isaac, is that train wreck about your case?”
“Yes. It’s at least the fifth attack.”
“But there is something in your face, something fierce, that tells me it is very personal.”
“Do you remember when I told you about Wish Clarke?”
“Of course. He saved your life. I hope to meet him one day to thank him personally.”
“The man who wrecked that train killed Wish,” Bell said coldly.
“Oh, Isaac. I’m so sorry.”
With that, Bell filled her in, as was his custom with her, detailing all he knew of the Wrecker’s attacks on Osgood Hennessy’s Southern Pacific Cascades Cutoff and how he was trying to stop them. Marion had a keen, analytical mind. She could focus on pertinent facts and see patterns early in their development. Above all, she raised critical questions that honed his own thinking.
“Motive is still an open question,” he concluded. “What ulterior motive is driving him to such destruction?”
“Do you believe the theory that the Wrecker is a radical?” Marion asked.
“The evidence is there. His accomplices. The radical poster. Even the target-the railroad is a prime villain to radicals.”
“You sound dubious, Isaac.”
“I am,” he admitted. “I’ve tried to put myself in his shoes, tried to think like an angry agitator-but I still can’t imagine the wholesale slaughter of innocent people. In the heat of a riot or in a strike, they might attack the police. While I will not condone such violence, I can understand how a man’s thinking gets twisted. But this relentless attack on ordinary people … such viciousness makes no sense.”
“Could he be a madman? A lunatic?”
“He could. Except that he is remarkably ambitious and methodical for a lunatic. These are not impulsive attacks. He plans them meticulously. And he plans his escape just as carefully. If it’s madness, it’s under fine control.”
“He may be an anarchist.”
“I know. But why kill so many people? In fact,” he mused, “it’s almost as if he is trying to sow terror. But what does he gain by sowing terror?”
Marion answered, “The public humiliation of the Southern Pacific Railroad Company.”
“He is certainly achieving that,” said Bell.
“Maybe instead of thinking like a radical or an anarchist or a madman, you should think like a banker.”
“What do you mean?” He looked at her, uncomprehending.
Marion answered in a clear, steady voice. “Imagine what it is costing Osgood Hennessy.”
Bell nodded thoughtfully. The irony of “thinking like a banker” was not lost on a man who had turned his back on an obligatory career in his own family’s powerful bank. He touched her cheek. “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve given me a lot to ponder.”
“I’m relieved,” said Marion, and teasingly added, “I’d rather you ponder than get into gunfights.”
“I like gunfights,” Bell bantered back. “They focus the mind. Though in this case we may be talking about sword fights.”