It was early evening by the time Quake returned Heydale to his cell. He left the police station and walked through the maze of downtown to the tent saloon Hornsweller had taken him to, where, he knew, the police chief and other officers frequented after work. Quake stepped through the little canvas opening and found the interior of the structure humid and musty. He didn’t know why anyone would ever want to spend time in such a place. It made him anxious for the outdoors—the true outdoors, forests and hills and plateaus and canyons. He comforted himself with the knowledge that he would leave the city soon and could go where he liked.
He found the police easily. They were the loudest group, taking up too much space and making the other early evening drinkers uncomfortable. Quake had to tap Hornsweller on the shoulder to get his attention.
“I’d like you and your men to return with me to the station. I’m afraid it’s regarding a fairly pressing matter.”
Hornsweller stood and signaled his subordinates to follow him, which they did with a measure of precision Quake had not previously seen from them or thought them capable of. It was only once they were outside that he realized the brisk, uniform exit was a trick the police must have used at bars all over town—a way to leave without having to pay for their drinks.
Back at the station, Quake led the policemen into Hornsweller’s office and then gestured for them to circle up around him. He hadn’t planned on speaking to the whole force, just Hornsweller. It was better this way. Later, they would all have the same story to tell. There’d be no hearsay or rumors to gum up the works.
“Barton Heydale has made a confession to me,” Quake said.
“I knew he would!” Hornsweller said, slapping his hands together. “I knew he was the one!” All around him the other officers shifted and murmured.
Quake shook his head. He kept his movements slow and his speech steady. He wanted to be a counterweight to the other men’s excitement.
“No,” he said. “Not the fire. He’s made a confession about his activities at the bank.”
“We already know that stuff,” Hornsweller said. “He’s been confessing to that since the beginning. I’ve heard him confess it so much, I wish he’d shut up.”
“This is new,” Quake said. “And I’m afraid it’s much more serious than his other transgressions, which only impacted the particular patrons who received those loans or banknotes. This impacts the entire city.”
This was met with silence. The men were listening, waiting.
“Heydale has admitted to me that those crude banknotes he gave out were merely intended as a decoy—a way to keep as much cash in the bank as possible. At the same time, he was creating much more elaborately forged bills, ones nearly indistinguishable from genuine American greenbacks. He says he has books that demonstrate how to do this, and he followed their models.”
Quake paused here for a moment and looked around the room, briefly locking eyes with each man present. He knew there were some who would not be able to follow what he said, but he wanted to convey to all of them that this was very serious business.
“He then switched out his forgeries for the real money. He won’t say how much he ultimately took, but he was working at this for quite a while, it seems. It is my assessment that nearly all the money currently inside the vault of the First Bank of Spokane Falls may, in fact, be counterfeit.”
Again, pause, eye contact.
“I’m not a specialist in this matter, and I have no way of telling which bills are real and which are fake. But as an agent of the federal government, I am obligated to confiscate all of the money in the bank and turn it over to the Office of the Treasury where it can be examined more closely.”
“Bullshit,” Hornsweller spat, and Quake’s pulse quickened, though he kept his face neutral and his breath even.
“We don’t need no treasury to tell us what’s real money. We’ll get the banker to tell us. We got ways. He’ll tell real fast.”
Quake felt the men turn hungry for violence. But he’d gotten better at this part over the years—managing bloodlust. He’d been lucky in Ainsworth. He knew that now and wouldn’t take the risk again.
“I’m afraid I can’t allow that,” he said. “The United States of America does not condone the torture of its criminals. And if you wish to prove you are capable of being officers of police in the state of Washington, you would do well to follow the rules of the nation which you are about to enter as full citizens. There are changes coming, boys. You don’t want to be on the wrong side of it. Believe me, that creep Heydale isn’t worth it.”
Smiles vanished. Eyes on the floor, shamed and compliant.
“Though, what you do to the man once I’m out of town, that’s your own prerogative,” Quake added, and then immediately regretted it. He had them. He could have told them to do anything in that moment. He could have told them it was in the goddamn constitution that they had to set Heydale free and if they didn’t, President Harrison himself was going to come see they were all stripped of their badges.
But, as always, Quake had acted with his own best interests in mind. If it made his last days in Spokane Falls even the tiniest bit easier to remain in the good graces of the police force—to have them think him on their side, rather than some bully lording his power over them—that was worth the sacrifice of Heydale. A man’s whole life in exchange for Quake’s temporary comfort and convenience.
“And what about the fire, then?” Hornsweller asked, his voice tentative, his eyes just barely lifted to meet Quake’s.
“My investigation does point to Heydale as the likely culprit, yes.”
After that, Quake walked south from downtown far enough to finally find the end of the fire’s destruction. It gave way to a pleasant neighborhood on a hill, big houses surrounded by leafy trees. Quiet streets cooled by a breeze that never made it to the bowels of downtown. He wished he’d found this section of the city sooner. It would have done him well just to know he could escape to such a place if need be.
He walked until he found a bar—tiny and wedged between a neighborhood grocery and a tailor’s shop. It was made of brick and looked as if it had been in its place for many years. He sat a long time, nursing a drink and thinking about what he’d observed that day with regard to money and the deceits surrounding it. He’d been in the deceit-for-money business himself for quite a while. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t still learn a thing or two.
He decided now that he was himself a kind of counterfeiter. He’d made his life’s work creating out of nothing situations that people wanted and were therefore willing to believe sound. Words not backed by truth were no different than paper not backed by coin. The key was only that everyone had to agree. Just as Heydale had said. And, for one reason or another, people always agreed to believe Quake. They looked at his bastardized currency and, out of desperation or just blind optimism, proclaimed it of great value.
But he couldn’t go on like this forever. The Spokane Falls scheme, with its many trapdoors and complications, had shown him as much. His line of work was growing more dangerous. Quake didn’t think this was a failing in his own methodology so much as an indication of changing times in the place where he chose to conduct his business.
Eventually, Washington Territory would catch up to him, just as the nation ultimately had to the counterfeiters. Lives would stop being so remote and desperate, and he wouldn’t be able to win confidence so easily. Statehood seemed like the first step in this new and unfortunate direction.
On his way back to his hotel, he spied a fox and three kits playing at the base of a maple tree. Seeking companionship, he crouched low and clicked to them, like the woman in his daydream. They ignored him. And when he ventured closer, clicking louder, they spooked and scampered out of sight.
“Oh Quakey, what have you done?” he heard the woman from his daydream ask, and he was ashamed.
“I didn’t mean to scare them,” he said out loud. He knew it was a one-sided conversation, but the voice sounded real, the voice of this woman he loved. He wanted to stay in its good graces.
“Not the animals,” she said. “All the rest. You’re a wildfire grown too wild, you know that? You take more than your share.”
“What would you have me do instead, then?” he asked. But there was no answer. Unnerved and oddly chastened, he returned to his hotel and tried not to think of her again.