The toboggan slide was an impressive wooden structure built on stilts up the hill. Tobogganing had been part of winter life at Rideau Hall for years, but the hill on the viceregal property was fairly gentle. The new wooden slide added steepness. This would be the fastest and most thrilling run in the city.
No one could see him huddled at the top of the wooden steps, hidden in the scaffolding. It had been easy. The lone policeman guarding the top of the slide was now his lifeless companion. He had spent the night up here in the dark, sharpening his knife, inspecting his revolver and thinking about the morning. The cold didn’t bother him. He was warmed by the excitement of the hunt, anticipating the next kill.
He couldn’t see what was happening down below, and he didn’t risk looking. His time would come. He was crouched so low that he had no idea Thomas and Conor O’Dea were climbing up the path toward him.
ON the platform at the bottom of the hill, Sir John A. Macdonald’s speech was over. Lord Lisgar was telling the crowd that he and the prime minister were going to go down the slide together. “To make sure it’s safe for everyone else,” Macdonald interjected. The dignitaries started up the wooden steps, watched and guarded by policemen. Sir John hung close to McMicken. He felt like going down a toboggan run about as much as he felt like … well, like being used as bait.
Thomas and Conor were well ahead of them, off the path, out of people’s sight, trudging through the heavy snow. The steady climb was painful for Thomas. His shoulder ached, but he never complained. They searched along the way for the assassin, for some shape hidden behind a tree, skulking on the other side of a rock—something, anything. They saw nothing.
The platform at the top looked like the scaffolding James Whelan had recently climbed. The sight of it made Conor wince. But he was certain. “He’s up there,” Conor said. “I know it.”
At the top of the hill, just below the platform, Thomas O’Dea assessed the situation. If there was someone up there, he and Conor would be easy targets if they climbed the steps. They would have to stay out of sight and scale the wooden grid work to get to the top. They had time. It should take the politicians a while to get up the hill.
Thomas whispered, “I’ll climb up this side. You start from over there.” Seeing Conor’s dread, he added, “I’ll go first.”
Thomas quietly started to climb up the grid work to the right of the slide. Conor followed from the other side, slowing his climb to stay in step with his father. Thomas’s shoulder slowed him down, and every few rungs his back stiffened, requiring him to rest. But he knew they had to hurry; the politicians were climbing the hill. Fortunately, the structure was stable and their footing was secure.
Governor General Lisgar quickened his pace, bracing himself against the cold in his light jacket. Luckily, Macdonald was dawdling and glad-handing along the way.
A sharp pain flashed through Thomas’s back. He faltered and grunted softly.
THE assassin sensed something. He thought he had heard whispering coming from the right side of the slide. Now there was a vibration and a strange sound. Someone must be near, maybe inside the woodwork. He quickly decided gunfire would make too much noise. He crouched low, holding his knife up, about to strike as the intruder—whoever he was—came up the last rung.
MEG had never before been on the grounds of the governor general’s residence. She was impressed. She looked up at the toboggan run and decided it was not for her. Conor was probably in the thick of the crowd, where the action was. She could wait.
She went over to the carriages and patted one of the mares. She tried chatting with the man tending to the horses, but he was sullen and withdrawn. Patrick Buckley told her to move on. She was near the front gates. There was no other way out, so she would see Conor when he left.
THOMAS mouthed, “Three, two, one …” and they burst to the top together. The assassin was waiting for Thomas, but he wasn’t prepared for an attack from both sides. Before he could lurch at Thomas, he saw Conor. He hesitated, confused. His legs were stiff from the night, and he moved more slowly than he wanted. Thomas avoided the thrust of his knife, and Conor grabbed him from behind, spinning him around. He sliced at Conor and struck his right arm. Thomas pushed the assassin as best he could with his one good shoulder and fumbled for his gun. They tried to pin him down. But they couldn’t. The assassin glared at Conor—a look of pure hatred—and squirmed away like a fish. He jumped onto the toboggan and pushed off down the slide.
A dead policeman was draped over the edge of the second toboggan. Conor gagged as Thomas pushed the corpse aside. “Come on, son,” he cried. They grabbed the other toboggan and followed the assassin down the slide.
“WHAT on earth is that?” the governor general asked as he watched the two toboggans on the track. Macdonald had an idea, but he answered, “I guess someone decided to beat us to the punch.” He turned to McMicken and asked, quietly, “Your people?” McMicken shook his head.
MEG had not heard the commotion. In fact, most of the people who had gathered around the slide paid little attention to the two toboggans plunging down ahead of the prime minister. They thought it was just someone checking everything out.
At the bottom of the track, the assassin jumped from the toboggan and ran toward the gates. His plan was in ruins. Macdonald was halfway up the hill. He couldn’t get to him. The bastard was safe.
He needed a horse. He saw Patrick Buckley tending to a horse-drawn sleigh. “Get out of my way,” he yelled, pushing Buckley aside.
And he could use a hostage, some protection. He thought of Buckley, but he looked too big and burly, and he might be armed. Then he saw her: a girl in a bushy hat languishing behind the crowd, near the entrance. She looked vaguely familiar, but he didn’t have time to think of where he might have seen her. He grabbed her, jammed his gun under her chin and pulled her onto the sleigh. He took the whip and thrashed at the horse. They took off together: the assassin and Meg Trotter, racing through the snow- and ice-covered street.
THOMAS and Conor leaped out of their toboggan and chased the murderer through the crowd. Thomas couldn’t keep up. He threw Conor the policeman’s revolver and fell back, exhausted. Conor pushed ahead. He had lost all sense of fear. It was if he had assumed his father’s strength and courage. Memories of D’Arcy McGee lying on Sparks Street, of James Whelan on the scaffold, of a policeman’s bloodied corpse—all spurred him on. He ran faster than he knew he could.
He saw her just as the carriage took off. It was like a mirage. Meg … what was she doing here? And then panic. Meg … with him? Not with him! Meg … He jumped on another of Buckley’s horses and frantically chased them. He couldn’t feel the pain in his arm anymore, and his blood seemed to freeze in the cold.
THE assassin looked behind him. Thomas O’Dea’s boy. Following him. Damn it! He should have killed him months ago. Still, he had the girl. He pressed the gun against her throat and urged the horses on.
In the past year, Meg had been threatened and attacked, humiliated and violated. Now she was being held hostage. She’d had enough. She knew this crazed man was going to kill her. She had bought a derringer in Toronto and knew how to use it. It was deep in her purse. She struggled, but couldn’t get to it.
Their carriage was speeding ahead, leaving Conor behind. She tried to turn and look, and her hat flew off in the wind. She reached for it, and the assassin struck her face with his gun. The blow thrust her backward with blinding pain, but it gave her a split-second chance to reach her revolver with her other hand. She couldn’t quite get her finger on the trigger.
Suddenly, the assassin pulled back on the reins. He had formulated a new plan. He would allow O’Dea’s son to get near; it would give him a cleaner shot. And later, he would kill this pretty hostage.
They raced along Sussex Street: a horse-drawn carriage and a lone rider. Conor was gaining on them. Meg watched the man glance back at him, his gun bruising her, holding her back.
When Conor got near, the assassin yelled at him, “Remember me? Jasper Green from Cincinnati.”
Meg wondered what on earth he meant.
She heard Conor respond, but she couldn’t make out the words. Something threatening. The horrible man flinched. Conor was about to come alongside them. Conor aimed his revolver. He was struggling. She could see blood on his arm. The man pulled the gun from her throat and aimed it at Conor. It gave Meg an opening. She pulled the derringer from her purse, but before she could find the trigger, she heard a shot.
It was as if the world stood still. The gunshot hadn’t come from Conor. It hadn’t come from the assassin. It had come from in front of them. Meg screamed. The assassin spun around. And Conor looked in wonder. A woman stood defiantly in their path, re-cocking her rifle.
It was Polly Ryan.
Meg threw herself off the carriage, landing hard on the snow-packed road. Her derringer fell in the snow, but she didn’t search for it. Instead, she jumped to her feet and ran up Sussex Street, away from Rideau Hall, away from whoever this man was, away from the horror.
Polly’s first shot was wild. Her second was closer. She might not have killed him, but she had stopped him. She had done her job. The assassin jumped from the sleigh. He shot recklessly toward her and missed. He quickly thought: Should he kill this woman who had come out of nowhere? Or chase his hostage? Should he try to kill Thomas O’Dea’s son? Or should he run?
Polly’s intervention had stunned Conor as much as it had shocked the assassin. Conor wasted valuable time staring at her in disbelief. When he came to his senses, he jumped from his horse and chased after the assassin. But his energy was drained. His arm was now aching and had started to bleed again. The snow was deep and frustrating. He kept tripping and falling over. The assassin disappeared over a snowbank at the river’s edge. There wasn’t much land, just a cliff overlooking the Ottawa River. He couldn’t go far.
Conor saw that police were converging on them. He yelled, “He went over there. Down there.” Conor desperately wanted to chase him down, grab him, look in his eyes while he choked the life out of him. But he decided that Meg was more important. He stumbled after her. “It’s all right, he’s gone,” he shouted. But she was running away, terrified and in shock. She fell in a snowbank, all her strength spent, and leaned on a tree, staring out at the sky. She held her shivering arms around herself for comfort, or protection, just as she had at the Hog’s Back waterfall. When Conor reached her, he carefully took her in his arms and silently held her, giving her the warmth of another body, a place to let out her awful fear.
Conor and Meg were together when Thomas caught up to them. Conor mouthed the words “We’re not hurt” and held Meg tightly, her face now deep in his shoulder. Thomas sat down beside them in the snow. When Meg looked up, Thomas startled her, not just because he was cut and bruised, but because he looked so different. He seemed twice the man she had met the year before.
Thomas thought of apologizing for how he had treated her when they first met, but he said nothing. There would be time for that later. They listened to the sound of the police calling out to each other, frenetically searching the riverside and down the cliff. Finally, she said, “Mr. O’Dea, let’s pretend we’re meeting for the first time.”
The three of them sat in silence, an exhausted trinity.
No one paid attention to Polly Ryan, who was calmly walking back to Lowertown, her rifle at her side.