The appearance of Zane Zeeb, owner of the First Bank of Spokane Falls, always made Barton nervous. And so he hoped, when Zeeb arrived at the bank on the morning of August 10 without warning (he was always, much to Barton’s dismay, arriving without warning), that he, Barton, did not seem suspicious in his nervousness. Just the normal amount of nervous.
The thing that made Barton generally nervous about Zeeb was that Zeeb was exactly the sort of man Barton himself wanted to be. He was wealthy and, as a result, powerful. But he was also respected, and not just because of his money. Zeeb was respected because he commanded respect. Even in Spokane Falls, where no one cared for the bank, he was treated with deference. More people knew him than knew Barton and he didn’t even live there. Zeeb was not only married to a beautiful woman but had two mistresses as well. Barton knew this because Zeeb bragged about them. And he had all his hair, which was shock-white and glorious in its appearance.
He was also a bore and, in Barton’s opinion, an asshole. Barton hated himself for wanting so badly to be like this man.
On the morning of August 10, Barton found Zeeb in his own office, sitting in his chair, looking through his ledgers. It was early and the bank wasn’t open yet. At the sight of him, Barton thought he might vomit.
“Well now, Heydale,” Zeeb said without looking up, “looks like you’ve been very busy here indeed.”
Barton was certain this was a wry observation about his various misdeeds over the course of the past five days. He believed Zeeb had the power to look at his cooked ledgers, read the neat lines of tallies and numbers, and see each and every inflated loan and faulty note Barton had issued.
“I’m not sure what you mean, sir,” Barton said.
Now Zeeb did look at him. The look suggested he thought Barton very dumb.
“Good God, man. The bank hasn’t seen this much traffic in a decade. Haven’t you noticed? Fire and finance. Finance and fire. They always go together.”
Barton nodded. Relief washed over him. Zeeb didn’t see anything wrong after all, didn’t suspect Barton of a thing.
Zeeb closed the ledger, bored already with the “business of his business,” as he might say, and suggested they get breakfast. Barton took him to a restaurant called Tiny’s on Third Street, one of the few downtown eateries operating out of its original building rather than a tent. As they walked, Zeeb offered commentary on all he saw. Though he said he’d come to Spokane Falls to speak with the insurance men, and also the mayor, it was clear his personal interest was in sightseeing—to view the fire’s aftermath firsthand, and to delight in the horror of it.
“This is a good thing,” he said. “It may not seem like it now, with everything in shambles and that awful smell, but a phoenix is going to rise out of these ashes. This city is too important not to build back up and when it does, it will be better. It was such a hole before—could hardly be worse.”
Barton, who’d never had any love for Spokane Falls himself, felt a twinge of slight at Zeeb’s remark. Who was this man, an outsider, to come in and pass judgment?
“Take Seattle, for instance,” Zeeb continued. “They burned two months ago and they’re already doing big things. The area where their fire happened was like hell incarnate before, just bad hotels and brothels with ugly whores. Now it’s going to be a real part of the city—the sort of place folks actually want to go and conduct business. It will be the same here. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if many of the city’s struggling residents take the disaster as an opportunity to remake themselves as well, if that makes any sense.”
And here Barton agreed, genuinely, that it did.
Zeeb did not stay long. He ate fast, talking of his beautiful wife, of his fun-loving mistresses, and of large breasts. Barton had let his mind wander and didn’t know who the large breasts belonged to—the wife or one of the mistresses. He was thinking of things he would like to say about Roslyn. He could talk of her shy beauty (which he saw more clearly each passing day) and maybe also of her breasts, though he was modest and unlikely to reveal as much even to a close friend. Zeeb was no such friend. Then, as quickly as he arrived, Zeeb was gone, strolling down the street toward city hall to meet with the mayor. Spokane Falls, Zeeb had told Barton, was about to be inundated with monies from other cities in the name of charitable relief funds. The fire had made national headlines and people all over the country were keen to lend a hand. “Such generous times we live in,” Zeeb said, though his voice was thick with sarcasm. The mayor wanted to speak with him about the best course of action for holding and spending these funds, the first of which—fifteen thousand dollars from the recently fire-ravaged Seattle—would be arriving that very day. Barton tried not to show his hurt that the mayor had sent for Zeeb rather than asking Barton’s counsel on the matter.
“Why would Seattle send so much, when they have such a need for it themselves?” Barton asked Zeeb before he left.
“Because they need something else more,” Zeeb said. “Statehood.”
Zeeb said the fire was going to be good not only for Spokane Falls as a city, but for the whole of Washington Territory. These disasters gave civic leaders a chance to stand up and show their best selves to the nation. Look how strong Washington is: We can suffer and we can rebuild. We can help our neighbors in need. We can be brave and charitable, triumphant and selfless, all at once. What better for a region whose fate was to be decided by Congress that very fall? Seattle, Zeeb explained, as the territory’s largest city, had the most to gain from statehood. And so they were willing to give the most to make it happen.
“I thought statehood was all but assured,” Barton said. “That was my understanding. Montana, and the Dakotas, and us are all to be states by the end of the year.”
Zeeb shook his head and his torrent of white hair ballooned to a wave of cloudlike beauty, then resettled perfectly in its place. “Nothing is ever a sure thing,” he said. “I was there in Olympia in July when they ratified the constitution. I know the newspapers made it sound like a happy time for all, a real triumph of Western democracy. Oh no. The situation was tense. The delegates are a nervous lot. So much opposition for so long—no one trusts it will actually happen. Those of us in Walla Walla have been working toward this for nearly thirty years. But there are others who’ve got no need of the federal government and say so. They fear the oversight that will come with it—as if men from Washington, D.C., will be looking in their windows at night. Stupid, to give up not just the money but a seat at the table. Statehood doesn’t put us under Congress’s thumb, it gets us out from under it! Gives us a voice of our own. Anyway, Vancouver had a fire of their own in June and it’s rumored theirs was arson. An anarchist expressing his views, or some such thing.”
“Oh, yes. Of course,” Barton said, though he’d known none of it.
“So, Seattle’s doing their part. I imagine you’ll see money from your other neighbors as well soon. Though perhaps not so much. It’s all about who stands to gain. Who’s going to come out ahead and all that. Like everything else.”
Who’s going to come out ahead, indeed. Barton had been rattled by Zeeb, fearing his schemes would be exposed. But there was no cause for concern. He’d been right all along. The chaos of the fire continued to provide cover for his actions. Zeeb, distracted, was looking everywhere except at his own bank.
Barton got a second unexpected visitor that day. It was Sam Flint, come to make the first of his loan payments. Flint held cash in his hand. “See, I told you I was good for it,” he said, grinning proudly. Barton could not help grinning too. This, he thought, was a good thing.
Another good thing was waiting for him back home. Roslyn had emerged from her delirium. Just like in his fantasy, she was sitting in the parlor. She looked clean, with her hair pulled into a bun, but Barton could see when he got closer to her that her face was still pale and she appeared to be trembling slightly. When he leaned in to kiss her on her lips, she pulled away. Barton attributed this skittishness to nerves. He likewise found himself a little riled.
“It’s good to see you up,” he said, sitting beside her on his couch. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yes,” Roslyn said.
“Did you take the medicines I brought you? They are from a druggist I know. He has an excellent reputation and suggested those remedies specifically for your case.”
“No, I didn’t.”
After that, Barton didn’t know what else to say. He tried talking about the bank, as he’d imagined in his daydream he might, but Roslyn did not nod with interest or put her hand on his knee in a supportive fashion. Instead, her eyes took on a kind of glazed-over look and her light trembling turned to fidgeting. He didn’t bother with an impression of the Dwellers, thinking it would not be well received. He tried to turn the conversation back to her instead.
“Why have you stopped drinking your alcohol?” he asked. “Is it because of the fire? Are you feeling guilty you may have started the fire?”
“I didn’t start the fire,” she said, her eyes becoming alive again.
“I didn’t say you started the fire. I said ‘may have.’ That’s no certain indictment. I’m on your side here.” His old lawyer habits—how quickly they returned when called upon.
At this, Roslyn dropped her gaze. “Are people saying I started the fire?”
“People are saying a lot of things. Many rumors, but no certainty yet. Don’t worry though. I’ve been doing my best to keep them off your trail. Every time your name comes up, I say, ‘No, not her.’ But not so often as to suggest I have any connection to you at all. No one knows you’re here. That’s our secret.”
Roslyn nodded. She seemed to be considering this. Barton thought she would thank him. Surely, if nothing else, now was the time she would put her hand on his knee to acknowledge his bravery in protecting her identity and location from whatever people she might believe he had been speaking to. But there was no such hand.
“I think I should go,” she said.
Barton felt as if a hole had opened up in the middle of him and all his guts had fallen out at once.
“No, no,” he said. “Why would you do that?”
Roslyn pressed into her eyes with her palms. “It just doesn’t seem right,” she said, “to stay here.”
“But where would you go?”
She only shrugged.
“You can’t go,” Barton said. “I don’t want you to go. I don’t think you should. It’s not a safe choice, with all that’s going on out there. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”
Tears came into his eyes as he spoke, and he realized that what he’d said, while not based on real facts, was still true. If something were to happen to his Roslyn, he would surely die. He would kill himself—for real this time.
Roslyn’s face had turned a shade paler and was devoid of expression entirely. She had her hands up like she’d just encountered an animal in the woods and was backing away slowly. But she wasn’t backing away. She wasn’t going anywhere. She stayed right in her seat next to Barton on the couch and said yes, all right, she would stay a while longer. Until it was safe.