By Starlight Read online

  Jack frowned inwardly. The conversation wasn’t taking the direction he’d wanted. What he’d been hoping for was talk of a commendation, a medal, or, if he allowed himself to dream a little, maybe a promotion. There wasn’t nearly enough praise coming his way.

  What’s the old man thinking?

  Elmer Pluggett was like most of the senior officers Jack had met since he started working for the Bureau of Prohibition. Tough and smart, Pluggett ruthlessly guarded his own place on the map while stepping on anyone who got in the way of his own advancement, all traits that Jack held in some admiration. In his mid-fifties, Pluggett was as demanding of himself as he was of the men who served under him; his face bore signs of the weariness of long hours spent tracking down those bent on breaking the law. For officers who failed to produce the results Pluggett sought, his wrath could be a terrible thing, but he also wasn’t stingy with praise for those who got the job done.

  So where’s mine?

  “How long have you been with the Bureau now, Rucker?” Pluggett asked, leaning forward in his chair. “Four years, isn’t it?”

  “Almost five,” Jack replied.

  “And in that time, how many run-down, two-bit, dingy dives have you wriggled your way into? How many con men, ship captains, hired goons, murderers, and ladies of the night have you manipulated into giving you what you want?”

  “I haven’t been keeping count, sir,” he said, although he knew the number was greater than fifty, probably closer to a hundred.

  “Quite a lot by my reckoning,” Pluggett said before adding, “and all in the good name of Prohibition.”

  For the last eleven years, beginning in 1920 with the passage of the Eighteenth Amendment to the Constitution, the sale, production, and distribution of alcohol were illegal in the United States. In response, hundreds of thousands of speakeasies had opened across the country, pouring glasses of homemade liquor brewed in bathtubs, fermented fruit steeped in basements and outhouses, and, in the worst cases, alcohol illegally smuggled from Canada, Mexico, and other foreign ports. The law was being broken.

  The Bureau of Prohibition had been created to enforce it. For the hundreds of Prohibition agents, the goal wasn’t the closing of every speakeasy or the confiscation of every drop of booze but rather the dismantling of the larger criminal networks intent on making a profit from the void Prohibition created. Organized-crime syndicates had begun bootlegging alcohol, controlling the trade from brewery to speakeasy and every step in-between. For agents like Jack, it meant finding the liquor at its largest point of distribution and catching as many rats as possible in one trap.

  From the moment Jack joined the Bureau, he’d taken to the work like a duck to water. He took pride in what he did; he believed in it. While he certainly wasn’t a teetotaler, wasn’t above taking a nip of confiscated alcohol from time to time, he followed the letter of the law and expected others to do the same. His overbearing father had instilled in Jack a strong sense of right and wrong in among the lectures and Scripture readings; his moral compass was straight and true. Bringing down a den of criminals, smashing open their casks of whiskey, and confiscating their money was exciting work. He was very good at it.

  “We’ve sent you to San Francisco, Buffalo, little shacks on the fishing coast of Maine, that Indian reservation in Idaho, and everywhere in-between,” Lieutenant Pluggett continued, “and every time you manage to make it look as easy as taking a Sunday stroll after church.”

  Now this is more like it…

  “I’ve done my best,” he answered with a practiced air of modesty.

  “That you have, my boy,” the older man agreed.

  What neither of them spoke of was the danger Jack faced every time he went undercover. He’d been shot at, stabbed, spat upon; a woman had tried to slip poison into his drink. He’d been tossed down a flight of stairs, thrown through a couple of windows, and in dozens of bare-knuckle brawls much like the one in Morningside. Jack had a knack for finding just what the Bureau wanted; unfortunately, that usually meant that he found trouble, too. Thankfully, his “luck” had managed to get him through it all relatively unhurt.

  He was lucky, but he’d acquired a few mementos on the job. A nick of a scar ran along his left cheekbone just beneath his dark green eye, a reminder of a knife fight in Milwaukee. A gunshot wound pocked his right biceps and there were burn scars on both of his legs courtesy of a particularly messy night in Duluth. To Jack, they were simply the price he had to pay to uphold the law.

  And to get ahead.

  “It says in here that you’re from Montana,” Lieutenant Pluggett said, tapping his finger in a folder that he’d spread open on his desk; Jack noticed that his name was typed across the top.

  “I was born and raised there, sir.”

  “When was the last time you were home?”

  “I’ve been undercover in Montana twice,” Jack replied.

  “But what about…,” Pluggett began, peering down at what was written, “…Colton?” he asked. “How long since you’ve been there?”

  “It’s…it’s been years…,” Jack said, unable to keep the confusion out of his voice. “Might I…inquire as to why you ask, sir?”

  “Because that’s where you’re heading next.”

  Instantly the confidence Jack always took great pains to project fell from his face. His eyes grew wide as his mouth dropped slightly open. With no small amount of hope, he entertained the possibility he’d misheard or that, as unlikely as it was, Lieutenant Pluggett was playing some kind of prank on him; if so, the Lieutenant was holding his cards awfully close to his vest, peering through the folder and not even bothering to look up at Jack.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Jack began, chuckling, “but I thought you said that you were sending me to Colton—”

  “That’s right,” Pluggett said, still looking at his papers. “We’ve received a report that someone’s smuggling in a lot of liquor in the area. The Canadians have their hands full and haven’t been much help, but the scuttlebutt they’ve heard indicates the rumors have merit. We don’t know if it’s one of the usual suspects or somebody new, but the decision has been made to check it out, and that’s where you come in.”

  “But…but I thought I might be headed to Chicago,” Jack said. With the success he’d been having lately, he’d hoped to be one of the first the Bureau sent after Al Capone; if he had a hand in breaking up the biggest bootlegging empire in the country, who knew how far up the ladder he could climb?

  “You’re going to Montana,” Pluggett explained, finally peering up at Jack. The look in Pluggett’s eyes made it clear that he wasn’t about to brook any disagreement.

  Jack’s mind began working furiously, desperate to come up with something, anything that might change his assignment; based on Pluggett’s expression, he knew he’d have to tread carefully.

  “Excuse my saying so, sir,” he began, “but all of the success I’ve had for the Bureau has come from working undercover. Most everyone in Colton will know who I am. I don’t know how I could get the results you want.”

  “Oh, but you will,” Pluggett said with a grin.

  “How?”

  “Because you’re going to be hiding in plain sight.”

  “Sir?”

  “Just because everyone in that little speck of a town can fondly recall you running around in short pants doesn’t mean they have the foggiest idea what you do for a living,” he explained. “You hardly strike me as the sort who writes weekly letters to his family telling them what you’ve been up to. Am I right?”

  Jack nodded. The truth was exactly that; within months of leaving Colton, he’d acted as if it had dropped off the map. There had been no letters, no phone calls, no telegrams, nothing. The only family he’d had in Colton when he left was his demanding father, his mother having died when he was only a boy, and Jeremiah Rucker was someone Jack had no desire ever to see again. There was only one person he missed…one person he now worried about…

  “No one has any i
dea what you are,” Pluggett continued. “For all they know, you’re a shoe salesman or a schoolteacher. If you’re as good an actor as I think you are, they’ll believe anything you tell them, especially when they have something to gain from it.”

  “Which is?”

  “Money,” the Lieutenant answered. “I want you to go to Colton under the guise of a representative of a developer from Chicago looking to buy up land to build hotels on it or some such. You’ll work out the details on the way there. The way I figure it, folks will be telling you every last thing you’d ever want to hear in order to get a piece of that pie.”

  “You want me to lie to them,” Jack said.

  “Isn’t that what you do best?” Pluggett answered. “Besides, with your luck, it won’t take more than a day or two to learn where the liquor’s coming from and who’s behind it all. After that who knows, maybe you’ll get a crack at Capone.”

  Jack brightened considerably at that. Maybe it would be as easy as the Lieutenant made it out to be. Maybe he’d be out of there within a week or so. Maybe a quick visit home wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe…

  “Oh, there’s one more thing,” Pluggett said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You won’t be going alone. Agent Hooper will be accompanying you as a partner in the venture. Two heads are always better than one.”

  Except in this case.

  For the second time in minutes, Jack knew that his face betrayed his emotions. Ross Hooper was one of the most disliked agents working for the Bureau. Loud, overbearing, sloppy in dress and work; in short, a poor lawman. Jack had never been able to figure out how Hooper had managed to keep his job for as long as he had; the best guess anyone could come up with was that he had a relative much higher up the ladder.

  “You’ll leave the day after tomorrow,” Pluggett said, effectively ending the meeting.

  As he scooped up his hat and headed for the door, Jack wondered if his vaunted luck hadn’t turned into some kind of curse.

  Chapter Two

  MADDY STOOD BEHIND the long counter of her father’s store, Aldridge Mercantile, and ground her teeth. In these tough times, with men unable to find work, banks suddenly closing, and families being pushed off land they’d owned for generations, she’d had to confront all kinds of emotional customers. There were those who were already crying before they opened the front door, pushing hollow-eyed children in front of them. Some talked a mile a minute, while others mumbled, never able to make eye contact. Occasionally, someone would take his anger and frustration out on her, shouting so loudly that Maddy was certain it could be heard out in the street.

  But there was nothing she hated more than when someone begged.

  “Please, Maddy…I’ll pay you back. I promise…”

  Pete Seybold stood on the other side of the counter, his hat clutched so tightly in his hands that his knuckles were bone white. Maddy had known him for years. A joke teller, he lived with his family just outside of town, a short distance from the lumber mill he worked at, a business now closed. The effect of that closure on Pete was obvious. His face was gaunt, his cheekbones prominent, his cheeks peppered with a growth of silvery whiskers. His eyes were pleading, wet, brimming with tears.

  “Times are a bit tough is all,” he kept on, afraid that if he left too long a break in their conversation Maddy might fill it with something he didn’t want to hear. “I’ve been hearin’ ’bout some work down in Smulders. Talk is they’re lookin’ for experienced lumber men. Soon as I’m hired, I’ll pay you what I owe.”

  Maddy pursed her lips. If rumors like this one about jobs looking to be filled were food, there wouldn’t be a hungry family a hundred miles in every direction. Even if what he said was true, the competition would be tremendous. The odds of Pete getting work were one in a hundred, at best.

  “I know times are hard,” Maddy began, holding Pete’s gaze, determined to show him that she meant every word, “but they’re hard for everyone, me included. The mercantile has bills of its own that need to be paid. If I don’t have the money for them, I’ll eventually have to shut that door for good. I just can’t afford to extend credit.”

  “I’m not asking for much,” he pleaded, growing more desperate. “Just a bag of flour. Enough to feed my family, is all.”

  “I’m sorry, but the answer is no.”

  Outside, a peal of distant thunder rumbled over the low hills before washing against Colton. The glass in the tall windows of the mercantile shook slightly. It wouldn’t be long before the summer squall broke, swelling the rivers and muddying the earth.

  Pete’s features were creased by an angry frown. “Your father wouldn’t have turned me away in my time of need.”

  “My father isn’t here!” Maddy snapped, her voice faltering a bit more than she liked. “But if he were, he’d make the same decision I am!”

  Maddy was thankful there were no other customers in the store to hear her outburst; she thought that it was inappropriate, even unbecoming, especially for a woman. Regardless, she also knew she was in the right.

  However, it appeared that her sister disagreed. Helen had been placing an order of buttons into the chest of drawers from which they were sold, her head turned slightly to help make certain she heard every word; a long time had passed since she’d put a button away. Maddy could see that Helen was frowning; for a moment, she wondered if her sister might get involved, but she held her tongue.

  Maddy took a deep breath to help regain her composure. “I wish there was something I could do for you, Pete, but I can’t give you anything on credit. When you get working again, come back and I’d be happy to sell it to you.”

  “That’s…that’s the way it’s gonna be then?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Pete nodded slowly. A lone tear streaked down his cheek before he angrily wiped it away, looking ashamed that it had fallen. Maddy wondered if she’d have to listen to him scream at her, ranting and raving at how unfair everything was, how she should be ashamed of herself, and worse. Instead, Pete quietly made his way to the door like a beaten man. Just as he opened it, the dark clouds above began to let loose, a teasing rain blowing against the glass.

  “I suppose it was too much to hope for,” he said without turning. “But what else is a man to do when he’s at the end of his damn rope?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he stepped out into the growing storm.

  For the last two years, nearly every one of Maddy’s days had been spent in the Aldridge Mercantile, struggling not to make too big a mistake as she tried to eke out a living for herself, Helen, and their father.

  Built on a corner lot of Colton’s Main Street just opposite the bank, the mercantile carried many of the things needed for small-town Montana life: pairs of shoes; big jars full of sweets; nails and the hammers to pound them; women’s dresses; and bags of flour, oats, and beans. Maddy had heard about stores in faraway places like Denver, St. Louis, and even New York City that sold only expensive dresses, fancy plates and silverware, or pounds of chocolate, but such a place was unimaginable in Colton.

  Silas Aldridge had built his business out of simpler ideas: a good item for sale for a fair price, each one sold with a smile. By ordering the hard-to-find product, allowing only the occasional perishable to go to waste, and investing some of himself into each and every person who walked through the door, he ensured that the mercantile thrived. Though his wife had died young, Silas brought up both of his daughters to understand that rewards came from hard work. But then, out of the blue, everything had changed.

  When Silas had first fallen ill, there didn’t appear to be any reason to worry. Over the years, he’d begun to feel a dull pain in the joints of his hands and his feet if he stood on them for too long, but suddenly the pain had become nearly unbearable. Dr. Quayle had assured Maddy that it would all soon pass, that her father just needed some rest, and that he’d be right as rain.

  Instead, things had only grown worse.

  The pain became so inten
se that Silas could get out of bed only for short periods, then only with assistance, and finally not at all. No matter what the doctor prescribed, nothing seemed to help. Often, Maddy would wake in the night to hear her father moaning, his sleep as unsettled as his days. He began to slowly wither away before her eyes, losing weight along with his vigor, no longer the larger-than-life man he’d been when she was a child.

  In order to keep food on the table and a roof over the family’s head, Maddy understood that she needed to step in at the mercantile. In her father’s place, she had to run things until his health improved. In the beginning, she’d been terrified, nervous that she’d fail, and struggled to never let it show. Her father wrote to vendors and farmers, any supplier the store used, explaining that he was temporarily off his feet and that they should deal with Maddy when they called. She worried that many of these men, as well as customers, would find it odd to deal with a woman, but her fears had proven to be pleasantly unfounded.

  Even in the midst of the Great Depression, with more and more families struggling to make ends meet, Maddy kept the business profitable. Surprising even herself, she found that she had an eye for business. She bought and sold goods shrewdly, purchasing items her father would have passed on, turning down others she felt would languish on the shelves. Maddy made the hard decisions without emotion, knowing where her ledgers stood to the penny. Most days were rewarding, even a little bit fun.

  And then there were days like this one…

  Maddy watched as Pete Seybold sat in his truck in front of the store, his head in his hands, the rain pounding down, drumming incessantly on the roof. Rainwater cascaded down the mercantile’s windows, distorting her view, but she thought she saw his shoulders shaking and that he was crying. Even as thunder roared and lightning flashed, he gave no sign of leaving, instead choosing to wallow in his misery. The streets were deserted; no one would step into such weather. She thought about running out and tapping on his window, asking him to come in from the storm, but she was probably the last person in all of Montana he’d listen to.