M.C. Wheaton said that crime was easy to spot when you knew what you were looking for. A wink, a nod, a slight flick of a suit jacket, and Benny and Merinda knew who to follow and engage amid the milling men and women wearing boater hats and feathers. The people Ross had paid for their easy access inside.
Time ticked by and the Coliseum became overcrowded. Benny and Merinda were in their position as journalists, dignitaries, and men and women jostled in. The high arched ceiling made every lapping voice echo in a dizzying whirr. Jem was first inclined to think of the opulence she had read of in Rome—the lore of the gladiators and centurions—but Chicago’s assembly space was far more modern, if just as overheated.
Merinda smoothed her striped day suit, adjusting her smart spectacles to look the part of a lady reporter. Ross had secured her an identification card and assured her no one would think twice about a lady reporter from a Canadian women’s magazine. It was easy for her to make her way to the front. Benny’s identification read “Yukon Gazette.” A paper no one had ever heard of and Benny assured Ross and Merinda didn’t actually exist.
A gavel rapped on the podium, and silence fell over the throng. The last seats scraped their legs over the cement floor. Then, in a sudden growing symphony, a thousand voices lifted a lilting, patriotic song of several stanzas. Merinda pretended to sing, presumably being the only person who didn’t know the words:
My country, ’tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
Of thee I sing;
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrims’ pride,
From ev’ry mountainside
Let freedom ring.
Stanza after stanza, until a prolonged final note was warbled by some of the lady delegates.
The Reverend Andrew Spetz was introduced to give the divine blessing, and the place was shrouded like a solemn church service, with only the occasional cough to rattle the hallowed silence.
An achingly long time after (she had the scrawls and scribbles from nervous exertion on her reporter’s pad to prove it), Merinda’s stomach gave a little leap as the chairman introduced the guest of the committee and every delegate rose to attention as President Roosevelt entered the hall, escorted to the platform by several men. The room erupted.
And something was stirring: a collective hope. Even in this grand place with these finely dressed people, their banners, and their songs, it was not completely different from the feeling she’d had standing in the midst of the Goldman rally. People wanted to believe in something. People needed to submit to something.
Merinda could feel something beyond herself, and she even found her thoughts tugged from the imminent and explosive danger in the explosives temporarily in repose. Mr. Roosevelt’s clear, clipped voice filled the auditorium, making it seem smaller. His presence diminished everything. This man had these people in the palm of his hand, for he had a history of driving people into battle, whether by words or on a bloody field.
A robust and powerful figure, with his customary circular glasses and broad, toothy grin, he was as large in life as she anticipated, and he brought to mind the similar command of Emma Goldman. Something about the candidate commanded the respect and attention of the room. But even as Merinda felt herself thrum with the possibility of every word, she knew that their immediate world was teetering on a blast. She couldn’t forget the gunpowder and dynamite hibernating near her.
The bank was pristine in polished marble and large columns, its outer layer hinting at the extravagant glory promised therein once the final touches had been finished. But the closer they got to the side entrance per Hedgehog’s instructions and the guard who had been paid a dividend of Hedgehog’s promised sum, the clearer it became that something was amiss. And then it became glaringly obvious, for blood marred the marble floor. Unfurled like a ribbon from the doorway. Ray turned around suddenly, shoved Jem at Jasper, and went to investigate.
The corridor was quiet. Lumber and sawdust besmirched the cavernous main floor despite the opulent and ornamented terra-cotta and the chandeliers cascading from the ceiling.
Ray’s steps sounded hollow crossing the floor as he followed the trail of blood and finally found its dismal source: Hedgehog’s limp body shoved behind a glass case.
Ray looked around before quickly jogging back in the direction of the doorway.
“Get out of here now!” he said. “Go, Jem.”
Jem crossed her arms. “Not a chance.”
“Hedgehog is dead. His body is just lying there, and there is no one else around. Not even Tony!” Ray looked agitatedly about him. “And I don’t know who else is here and… Jemima! Get out of here.”
Jasper handed her a bill. “Go wait for us at the hotel,” he said. “The coast is clear. We’ll get this all solved.”
“No!”
“Jem, this took a decidedly different turn. I was stupid to let you near this in the first place.” Something about the blood trailing from the door slapped Ray in the face.
“Ray DeLuca, I am not budging an inch.”