by Nick Thacker
The man lay still, barely breathing.
But he was breathing .
Lucius approached.
He watched, waiting for the man to see him. He wouldn’t recognize Lucius, but he would know. He would understand what was happening, what was about to happen.
Lucius came to the chair and stood behind it — no need to put himself in any danger by underestimating the target — and looked down at the poor, dying man.
He would die, tonight. It wouldn’t be long.
The target had a wound in his abdomen, and he was holding his side with his hands. The breaths were steadily pumping, but they were sporadic in their amounts of air. Sometimes heaving, sometimes pitiful, they came, one after the other, over and over again.
Lucius was mesmerized by the man’s breathing. How it must feel, he thought, to be dying of such a wound. He’d always admired those who had died of a gunshot wound. A horrible, horrible thing to admire, yet his self-discipline had not yet been able to overcome that truth. He wanted to die like that, he knew. He wanted to be the one young children admired, long after he was gone.
This man, the one dying on the bed in a cabin he had been in only hours, would be admired long after he was gone. His life had ensured it, and his martyrdom would solidify it. There was nothing Lucius or anyone else could do to take that away.
There was, however, something the enemy could do to lessen the impact of the man’s death, and Lucius feared they had already accomplished it.
For the first time in more than a day, Lucius spoke.
“Have they — have they asked you?”
The man’s eyes opened. Not much, but enough. Lucius could see them, youthful in their nearly four decades of life, yet burdened with a massive weight.
The weight of truth.
He sputtered, a bit of blood pouring from his mouth.
Then he nodded.
“And I… and I have told them. As I always knew I would.”
Lucius’ head dropped, and the tears nearly fell from his eyes.
“No,” he whispered. “It cannot be true. You — why would you have told them?”
The man on the bed heaved, the tempo of his breaths now growing more random.
He coughed, and — to a stunned Lucius — seemed to smile.
“I could not… I could not bear the thought… of my… work.”
Lucius waited, trying to understand the man’s sentence. Was there more? What was this man trying to say?
“The thought of your work?”
“The thought of my work becoming… used for…”
Lucius nodded.
Neither man spoke for a minute, Lucius’ eyes widening every time the man on the bed breathed. He wondered each time if it would be his last.
Finally the man looked up at him.
“You will… not prevail…”
Lucius shook his head. “No, sir, you are mistaken. We will prevail. The nation will live on. It will be resilient, like its founders were so many years ago. We will find those who share your secret, and we will ensure they do not spread it further.”
Another cough, another smile.
“It’s too late,” the man said.
“It’s never too late.”
“For me… it is too late. I am not a coward…”
“You will not be remembered as one.”
“…but I am so strong.”
Lucius gripped the handle of his knife once more. The man on the bed stirred again, reaching beneath his side, his hand covered in his own blood. On the bed beneath the man’s torso, Lucius saw the glint of cold steel.
I am unarmed but for this knife , he realized.
The man looked up at Lucius through one open eye, his left hand wrapped around the pistol. He pulled it up, slowly. Meticulously. His hand was shaking.
Lucius withdrew the knife and held it out in front of him, making sure the man on the bed saw it and understood what it meant.
You attack, I attack.
It was a man’s gesture, an intimate promise of respect and self-defense. He would allow this man to die with his pistol in hand, but if he turned the gun on Lucius…
The man pulled the gun to his own head, holding it there, shaking. Lucius dropped his hand to his side.
“…so hard… so hard to die…”
He pulled the trigger, and for the second time that night Lucius heard the blast but had no part in the battle. This time, at close range, Lucius nearly fell back at the deafening sound of the shot.
He recovered, gaining his balance once again, and strode toward the bed. A single, purposeful stride, bringing the knife up once again.
The man in the bed was writhing in agony, blood pouring from both his abdomen and his head. His hand, devoid of the gun, was seizing, shaking uncontrollably. His face was contorted in pain, his mouth flopping open and shut opposite the movement of his eyes.
Lucius squeezed his own eyes shut.
No man could live through this.
This, however, was no ordinary man. This man was a legend, a man among men, a hero to the young republic. He wouldn’t go out without a fight.
“So… strong…”
Lucius could not believe the man was still alive, but alas, he lay writhing in the bed struggling with the invisible enemy he fought off to remain in this world and not travel silently to the next. Lucius was horrified, fascinated. In awe.
A great man lay before him, one he had come to kill. The target had been intercepted by Lucius’ own enemy, and there would be much more work now if they hoped to keep the enemy from capitalizing on the secret. That his enemy had shot the target after they had stolen his secret was only a benefit to Lucius. The target must have known, and he must have prepared himself.
He must have realized it long ago, well before he had embarked on this trip. It was the only explanation. Why a man of his stature would lie still, four pistols, a tomahawk, and a rifle laying in his reach, would idly await his own assassination meant only one thing.
He had known about it all along.
He had not embarked on a journey to deliver his news to the leaders of the fledgling nation. He had not attempted a dangerous solo trip up the Natchez Trace out of a desire to protect the secret, to prevent the inevitable backlash that would ensue if such a secret reached the public’s ears.
He had done it because he had finally understood that he had been betrayed. The man, the dead man, laying on the floor, all but bereft of his last breath, punctured in two places by the stinging precision of the bullets, had known his fate before he had even left Fort Pickering with his servants.
The servants would be sleeping in the barn, likely behind enough hay and wood and far enough from the scene to have heard the gunshots, or they would have already been at the cabin, checking in on their master.
Or, in a sick twist of fate, Lucius considered that perhaps the servants were in on the ruse as well, and had been ordered to stay inside the barn, no matter what they overheard. Their master, Lucius’ target, may have told them just enough to convince them that his plan was far more important than his personal safety.
Whatever the details, Lucius knew the man in front of him was part of something much larger, much more sinister, than either of the men could have known.
Chapter Seven
OCTOBER 11, 1809.
THE DOOR BEHIND HIM OPENED. A large, heavy log door cut from the same trees as the surrounding structure. A woman entered.
Mrs. Griner.
“Is… is everything okay?” she asked.
Lucius noticed that the woman did not look toward the bear skins on the floor and the man lying on them. She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, on Lucius.
“Everything is…” he paused. Waited. For what, he didn’t know. “Yes, ma’am. Everything here is fine.”
“I heard —”
“I understand you are concerned of the safety of your guest this evening.” He took a gentle, careful stride toward the door and the waiting Mrs. Griner. “Thank
you for your concern.”
She frowned.
“Do not be alarmed. This man has been sick for many weeks. Tonight he has decided to take his own life, and that is a perfectly honorable task. I urge you to refrain from moving his body until the morning. Can you do that?”
She nodded.
The man on the floor spoke. “So hard… to die…”
Lucius couldn’t believe his ears, but he kept on, trying to make his way to the exit.
“Good,” he said, stepping still closer to the exit and Mrs. Griner’s body in the doorway. “I will ask one favor of you, dearest hostess. Would you indulge me one request?”
Mrs. Griner nodded, hesitatingly. He read the fear in her eyes. Lucius forced his face to relax, his posture to soften. He imagined himself sinking down to her level, both literally and figuratively.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “I was worried I would not be able to fulfill a dying man’s last request.”
At this, her face softened. Just as I suspected, he thought. She has no understanding of who this man is, or why he is here. The woman in front of him was decent, kind. She felt for the dying man, and now Lucius.
“You do know the nature of your guest’s travels, no?”
Griner shook her head.
“Well, that is a shame. But you will — you certainly will. For now, would you be able to fetch us a pot of boiling water, and partake in a tea with me?”
“A tea?” she asked.
“Aye,” Lucius said. “A strange request, I understand. Yet this was my friend’s last wish. I believe it would be an honor to his legacy to enjoy his personal tea with a mutual friend.”
“But… sir,” she said. “I did not know the man.”
“Nonsense,” Lucius said. “He was a private man, and his deathbed is of your possession. As such, you have every much a right to share in his final wish as I.”
She nodded, a look of concern on her face, but finally turned and left the room.
Five minutes later, Lucius heard her hastened footsteps on the wooden planks outside the room, then saw her enter.
“Perfect,” he said. The woman was carrying two cups, one in each hand, and the steam of the heated water inside each was rising and flowing over her face.
Lucius nodded reverentially.
“Here,” he said, walking to the satchel near his dying target’s pile of weapons. “This is the tea.”
He handed the leaves to Mrs. Griner, who began tearing them in half lengthwise after she had placed the steaming cups on a nearby table. He watched, feeling a wave of anxiety wash over him.
This is the tea… he had said it as if it were, in fact, nothing but a traditional English tea, brought here from the Old World and traded in one of the larger cities in the east. This is the tea, he thought again. That would bring down a nation.
He would do everything in his power to make sure that did not happen.
He placed the remainder of the tea leaves — a small sprig of preserved leaves still connected to their stem — into his pocket. It would be the only sprig his target was carrying. He knew the instructions that had been given to the man, and he knew that besides his ultimate betrayal, the man would have been true to his word.
He had made a career and built a life out of it.
Mrs. Grinder picked up the first of the cups, then handed it slowly to Lucius. Lucius nodded appreciatively, then reached for the cup. He waited for the woman to turn around once more, then he reached inside the cup.
The near-boiling water stung, but he gritted his teeth. He reached for the leaves at the bottom of the mug, both gripping the bottom of the hardened clay. He slid them sideways, then up. They poked through the top of the water, and he picked them out of the cup and crushed them in his hand.
With an awkward flourish, he turned his palm away from Mrs. Grinder just as she turned back around with her own cup in hand. His hand dropped in his pocket and he released the soggy leaves to join the others.
He raised his cup a bit, signifying the beginning of a toast.
She waited, and he stared, turning his head slightly sideways. There wasn’t much time, but this moment had to be perfect. He had to be sure she drank the tea.
“This, this man here…” he paused with a flourish of his hand, “this man is the greatest American hero since General and President Washington himself.”
He took a sip from the cup. The sting of the hot water was nothing next to the bitterness of the tea. The tannins in the leaves were pungent, acrid, and he hadn’t even allowed them to steep for long enough to impart their medicinal tendencies.
He couldn’t imagine how awful the woman’s tea would taste.
“Hot,” he said.
She nodded, then took another sip.
They continued in this way for another few minutes. Finally he reached the bottom of his cup, and she followed suit.
He watched her face. Looking for a sign of something. Anything.
Griner’s eyes moved up, widened a bit, nearly imperceptibly.
I am out of time, he thought. Whether the drug had taken its effect, he didn’t know. He didn’t care — his job here was done.
He turned to leave the small cabin, hoping the servants were still asleep and the enemy was riding away, making a route to the capital. As he stepped over the threshold of the wooden building and onto the porch, looking out over the lands that were filled with the natives who had kept this secret for so long, he felt a pang of regret.
This woman would remember nothing the next morning, and for all he knew she would have concocted a story as potent as the tea itself in her deliriousness. She deserved to know, at least, the nature of his visit.
Since she won’t remember a thing tomorrow.
“I thank you again for your hospitality this evening,” he said. “This man is the governor to the entire Territory. His name is Meriwether Lewis, of the famed Lewis and Clark Expedition, and he has come here to die.”
Chapter Eight
“LOOK AT YOU, PRETENDING LIKE you’re working hard!”
Ben looked at Reggie with the contempt of a man who had just had the food stolen out of his mouth. He stared back at Reggie, silent.
“Can’t even deny it, can you?” Reggie asked.
Ben continued staring. “I… uh, no —”
Reggie’s face broke into a gigantic smile, his eyes glistening with a fiery intensity. He felt amazing, even after a day of travel and an exhausting week.
“Don’t get all starstruck, Bennett.”
Ben’s face flushed. “I’m not —”
Reggie held up a hand. “You know you wish you were free and aloof like me,” he said. He glanced at Julie. “Not tied down to a little old lady and stuck in the backcountry.”
Julie laughed. “Who you calling ‘little old lady?’”
The reunion was taking place in the living room of Ben’s cabin. He and Julie had been living there together for close to a year, but lately it seemed like a commune with the number of visitors passing through. Reggie knew Ben was somewhat of a recluse, and that the work on the house and the number of people coming in and out must be driving him crazy.
Still, Reggie was not one to pass up an opportunity to poke fun at his friend.
“I see you logged a cute little workout yesterday, Ben.”
Ben shook his head, smiling. “You wish you could run it in that time.”
Reggie’s eyes widened at the challenge. “What was it? Four, five minutes?”
“Two and a half.”
“I can do it in one-fifty.”
At this, Ben laughed out loud. “Let’s go, partner. Right now.”
Reggie walked over and extended his hand, waiting for Ben to grab it. “Good to see you, too. I’m just making sure you’re keeping it tight while I’m gone.”
“Yeah, right. You just know you can’t take me.”
“Give me a nap and a beer and I’ll do it with my eyes closed.”
Reggie released, notici
ng that Ben held onto the handshake a few seconds longer than necessary, and then he backed away and looked around the small room.
The cabin was simple — the perfect description of a cabin, in his mind — but surprisingly well-appointed. He assumed bringing Julie in had forced Ben to up his decorating game a bit, or Julie herself had been in charge of it.
The couch was leather, worn, and absolutely perfect for sitting, sleeping, or just looking nice. Reggie had coveted the piece of furniture the moment he’d laid eyes on it, and he had yet to ask where they’d gotten it from.
The rest of the furniture in the living space was ‘rustic,’ a combination of wood and bronze, screwed or nailed together in a way that allowed the imperfections to shine through. Everything was new or seemed new, but it all had character that neither clashed nor took away from the rest of the room.
The only thing missing, in Reggie’s mind, was a massive mounted deer or elk head on the wall. He hadn’t done any hunting, but he knew Ben had and that the man would have had many trophies to display. He also knew Ben probably shied away from showing off anything he’d shot and killed — to Ben, it would have been disrespectful to the creature to put it forever on display.
Reggie and Ben had known each other since their explosive introduction to one another in Brazil. Reggie used to own land there, running an executive wilderness survival program and gun range, but the pressures put on small businesses — and a high-intensity race through the Amazon rainforest — had soured the appeal of the exotic locale.
Now he split his time between Alaska and the road, living with Ben and Julie when he wasn’t traveling. He had grown to love the state as much as the couple he stayed with, and it didn’t hurt that he was a fan of cold weather as well. Alaska had always been, in his mind, as exotic a place as Brazil, but there was something grounding about setting up a home and lifestyle in a new location. Brazil’s appeal had been beautiful women and great weather, but the country’s true colors inevitably began to shine through after some time, and his escapade through the rainforest with Ben and Julie had put the final nail in the coffin on his stay in Brazil.