Forty
HE JERKED AND SAT UP STRAIGHT IN THE CHAIR. SWEAT dotted his forehead and cheeks, matted his hair to his head. His hands quivered like the last leaves of autumn buffeted by a stiff November wind. The rifle was between his legs, stock on the floor, barrel pointed skyward.
What had just happened? He’d gone through with it, hadn’t he? He’d pulled the trigger; he knew he had. The feel of the barrel knocking against the roof of his mouth was still there. As was the taste of gun metal and oil. And the feel of the trigger against the pad of his finger.
But the barrel wasn’t even warm.
Had he fallen asleep and dreamed the whole thing? Had he suffered a dissociative fugue like that guy who dismembered his Jack Russell?
Molly’s voice, soft and even, carried up from the kitchen through the flooring. If he’d fired the gun, she would have come running. It had to have been a fugue of some sort. He’d probably put the gun in his mouth, then imagined pulling the trigger.
But it didn’t make sense. He’d had the argument with Molly. He’d come up the stairs and encountered Eva—Daddy, Jesus loves you. Do you know that? And finally he’d thought about Tommy, that awful memory, and decided to end it. If instead he’d had a fugue, when?
As Sam lifted the rifle to check the safety, he spotted the paper on top of his desk. His handwriting was all over it. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. With a trembling hand, he took hold of the page and read:
July 3, 1863
Still hot. MercifulLy some muchneeded waterand some hard tack and salted pork. Not much ofa breakfast, but it tasted delicious.
This morning I awoke to a lot of activity to our front. The enemy was pulling out field pIeces. There must have been thousands of men and approximately two hundred pieces. Then it started, the duel. For hours we hammered at each other. Most of their rounds went over our heads but destroyed a lot of our ammunition. So orders came to slow fire and save. “Canisters only.”
Silence. Then out they came, huNdreds of battleflags. What a magnificent and fearsome sight. Bugles sounded. Drummers beat the march. Onthey came. Thousands, a mile long.
“Fire!” I shouted, and a hundred and fifty of usopened on them. At first we could see no holesin their ranks. On they came to the first line of fenCing. We had marked the range. Now we sawthe holes. Large ones. Time to load canisters. Our guns were hot! They had to cool.
500 yards now.
Our infantry opened up at 400 yards, and rows of them dropped at once. But on they came, then with a yell. They came at us on the run.
FIRE!
200 yards.
Smoke. Choking from it. Could nOt see. Surely they would not reach us. Gaps were filled within seconds.
Boom. Boom. Boom!
Smoke, screams, yells, foul language of every type.
Then the smoke lifted for a split second.
50 yards.
Their lines were much thinned, but on they came. This is not possible, I thought. We saw a general with his hat on his sword leading his men over a wall.
One last shot at 15 yards. PulLed it and BOOM!Our guns belched forth double canisters and cracked the barrel. But they were all gone. Thegeneral with the hat was down, and masses ofmen fought, handtohand, using muskets as clubs, knives, bayonets. HORRIBLE!
Twisted screams of men in death’s grip!
As they were withdrawing, a cry of “Hurrah!” went up and “Fredericksburg!” as this was their Fredericksburg.
The sight now was most grievous. The fields in front and back and all arouNd us were like maggots squirming. The ground was moving with the wounded.
The cost was brutal.
U.S. 1,000 to 3,000
C.S.A. 5,000 to 7,000
My poor battery.
One general left, nine killed, sixteen wounded, two missing.
Over three days, sixty out of seventytwo. Only twelve left.
Michael Hentz (Mike). Six years my friend. I will miss you. Every drill, every battle, he was there. Always strong. He did his work without equal. I will make sure he receives the honor due him. Goodbye, Mike.
But we gave more death than we received. How did I suffer only scratches, not lifethreatening at all?
My men, my beautiful men! How I miss them. Brave lads, all. I wish it were me. To save just one I would give my own life willingly. Oh, how I curse this war and the warmonger who started it. Surely he must die. I am drowned in despair. My destiny is unfolding before me.
Time to rest. Tired. Very tired.
Night. July 3rd,
Woke to screams of every kind. The smell is becoming sickening. Starting to rain now. The enemy guns are very quiet. We can hear sounds of infantry on the move and artillery rolling slowly in the rain. They are moving away. Our fine army is exhausted from three days of battle. We must regroup, especially in our minds, for there is a lot of work to be done.
And for me, there is more than that. The darkness beckons my soul, bids me come near and drink of its foul water. I am so tired of resisting. I have fought a good fight, but it has finally overcome me. I fear I no longer have a choice. This is my destiny, my call. Whether it is the right thing to do or not, I am unsure. But it is what I must do. I am compelled. Drawn. Driven.
Sam opened the top drawer of the desk and grabbed the manila folder, the one containing the other writings. He sifted through it, finding the first page he’d written, which was actually the last one penned by Samuel Whiting:
My feet have been positioned, my couRse has been set, and I am compelled to follow. Darkness, he is my commander now.
Sam’s eyes dropped a few lines.
It desires death, his death (the president), and I am beginning to understand why. He must die. He deserves nothing more than death.
Sam’s pulse thumped through his carotids.
He was going to kill Lincoln. Whiting was going to assassinate Lincoln.
Kill Lincoln.
He read this entry again. The letters—the messages within the messages—were clear.
Sam gathered the papers, shoved them back into the folder, and returned it to the drawer. The morning newspaper caught his eye. A front-page article said Senator Stephen Lincoln was to address the nation from the rostrum in Gettysburg National Cemetery on November 19, the same date that Abraham Lincoln gave his famous address.
Sam knew what he would do, what he was compelled to do, driven to do.
You’re the one, Sammy.
He was the one.
Forty-One
STEPHEN LINCOLN WAITED AT HIS DESK, HANDS FOLDED on his lap, one foot propped on the bottom drawer. Seated across from him, John Lipsik, his chief of staff, was reading over the speech Lincoln would give in two days. The revised version. John’s expression was like poured concrete. He had always held his own at the poker table.
“What do you think?”
John moved his gaze to the portrait of the other Lincoln on the wall, back to the speech, then to his boss. “You sure you want to hear this?”
Lincoln knew his right-hand man would discourage such a bold, right-wing speech. Lincoln’s recent conversion and shift in political views had already cost him half his Democratic base. This speech could cost him the other half.
“Of course,” Lincoln said. “I wouldn’t ask your opinion if I didn’t.”
John studied the paper again. He leaned forward and placed it on the desk. “Well, it’s a risk.”
“I know it is. I need more than that from you, John.”
John sighed. “Look, Steve. I’ve always been honest with you, right?”
“I assume you have. It’s one of the things I admire most about you.”
Lincoln had hired John Lipsik five years ago as his campaign manager during his race for mayor of Harrisburg. John was fifteen years his elder, but the two got along famously and John’s loyalty was unrivaled. When Lincoln ran for senator, he would have no one else manage his campaign, and when he won the seat, John was his only choice for chief of staff.
“Steve, the public just doesn’t know what to make of you anymore. Yes, your party change and your new spin on things are popular with the Right, but I fear much of it is nothing more than media hype. You know how they are.”
Lincoln did know. But it gave him a much-needed platform for getting his message out. “Of course,” he said.
“You’ve lost a lot of support on our … on the Democratic side. Longtime supporters. Financial supporters. Heavy-hitters. They’re just not sure what to make of you. A lot of them think you’ve gone over the edge. They think you’ve betrayed them.”
Lincoln perused the words of the speech. Some were the writer’s, but many were his own, written from his heart. “John, it’s been a busy couple months, and you and I haven’t had time to really talk about this yet. About my conversion and my faith. For me it’s not about politics anymore, not about taking sides—our side, their side—or party affiliation, not about betraying people. I never meant to betray anyone. That’s not what I’m about. But I have to govern by my convictions now, not by what’s hot or what’s going to get me the votes come primary time. It’s that simple. I have to do the right thing. I didn’t ask for this presidential-bid thing; you know that better than anyone. Back in Harrisburg, did I ever mention that I’d like to be president someday?”
John shook his head. “No, never.”
“When I became a senator, did I ever mention anything about shooting for the White House?”
“No.”
“This whole thing has just happened, and I see it as the leading of God. I know you’re not fully onboard with a lot of the changes that have taken place lately, and I appreciate that. I also know your loyalty is beyond compare, and I appreciate that even more. But this is the course that has been set before me, and regardless of what the polls say, for better or worse, I have to do what I know is right. I have to do what honors God.”
John didn’t say anything for several seconds. Then he looked at the speech on the desk. “You know there’ve been threats.”
“Of course. There’re always threats.”
“Not like these. At least not for you. This is a first.”
Lincoln thought of his wife and daughter. He wasn’t so much afraid for himself; fear would cause him to govern defensively, and he wasn’t about to do that. But Emily and Becka … if anything happened to them …”Security is on it?”
“Absolutely. Most of the threats are nut-jobs mouthing off, but there are a few we’re taking seriously. I normally wouldn’t tell you this, but—”
“No. It’s OK. I need to know.”
“Just be careful, Steve. While you’re making a lot of new fans and winning over new supporters, you’re also making plenty of enemies.”
“I’m sure. Regardless, I need you to understand that I must follow where God leads. My faith demands that of me. And I believe, I truly believe, God has pointed me down this road, and I have to walk it true and straight.”
John stood and smoothed his shirt over his belly. “Well, it’ll be interesting to see what comes of all this.”
“Do I still have your loyalty?”
Lincoln didn’t miss the brief delay before John’s reply. “Of course. I’m with you all the way to the White House.” Then John turned and left the office.
Forty-Two
OFFICER NED COLEMAN EASED HIS CRUISER DOWN PUMPING Station Road for the third time in as many days. This time he wasn’t going to number 456, the Travis home, and he wasn’t responding to shots fired at a residence. He was headed to 512, home of the Moellers. A concerned neighbor had reported a “suspicious car” parked in the driveway, one he’d never seen before, and an “odd character” coming and going. What made the car so suspicious or its driver so odd was part of the mystery Ned hoped to unravel.
When he arrived, a Buick LeSabre was parked in the driveway beside an early-model Dodge Intrepid with a Wisconsin plate. The Intrepid’s hood was faded and peeling in places, the windshield cracked down the center. He ran the plates of both cars. The LeSabre was the Moellers’, but the Intrepid was unregistered.
Ned spoke into his radio. “Gettys Nine.”
Nancy was the police communication officer on duty. “Gettys Nine, bye.”
“On scene. I’m going to check things out.”
“Ten-four.”
Exiting his car, he noted that the nearest neighbor’s house was at least two hundred yards away on the other side of the street. The guy who called this in must have been observing the Moellers through binoculars.
Ned rang the doorbell. No answer. He rang it again, heard it chiming inside the house. Still no answer, so he radioed in to Nancy.
“Gettys Nine.”
“Gettys Nine, bye.”
“I’m not getting an answer. Can you try calling the residence?”
“Ten-four.”
While he waited, he walked the perimeter of the house. Nothing seemed unusual or out of place. No broken windows. The flower beds were undisturbed.
Nancy came on over the radio. “Gettys Nine, copy.”
“Gettys Nine, bye.”
“I tried the listed number but received no answer.”
“OK.” Ned tried the front doorknob. “The door is open. I’m going in.”
“Ten-four.”
He entered a living room. Nothing looked out of place, but the house smelled liked rotten food, like the Moellers had gone on vacation and forgotten to take out the garbage beforehand. Maybe the odd character with the suspicious car was a house sitter, a relative from Wisconsin who’d forgotten to take out the trash. But his hunch was that this was not the absentmindedness of an out-ofstate visitor.
“Mr. Moeller?” His own voice sounded hollow in the quiet house.
Making his way through the living room, Ned noticed a dark stain about the size of a dinner plate on the hall carpet. He peeked into the kitchen. By the stove another dark stain had been smeared a good three feet across the floor. There was no doubt now. He needed to call for backup.
Ned was reaching for his radio and unsnapping his holster when something hit him hard in the back of his shoulder and spun him around. Searing pain radiated from the point of impact. The room spun, and before he could focus on his assailant, he was hit again, this time along the left side of the face.
The lights went out.
Forty-Three
THE COP WAS OUT COLD ON THE FLOOR. HIS SHOULDER WAS bleeding from the gunshot, but not too badly. His badge said Coleman. Symon stood over him, admiring the state trooper uniform.
After offing the cripple, Symon had returned to the Moeller residence. This was his base camp of sorts, and he hadn’t received orders to move on yet. He hadn’t expected a cop to show up. But he was not opposed to surprises.
“Well, Officer Coleman, guess you didn’t see that coming, did you?”
After removing the sidearm, pepper spray, Taser, baton, and flashlight from Coleman’s utility belt and tossing them onto the sofa, Symon dragged the limp body into the kitchen. The cop was heavier than he looked. Symon hoisted him into a chair and propped him against the table, his head lulled to one side, chin resting on his chest.
Symon took a seat across the table and rested his pistol in front of him. He wondered if he’d ever had any run-ins with cops. He wondered if Coleman here would know who he was, maybe recognize his mug from a wanted poster or something. He had no memory of anything like that, but of course that meant nothing.
“Officer, wake up, sleepyhead.”
Coleman’s radio made Symon jump. “Gettys Nine.”
He vaulted from the chair, tipping it over backward, and ran to Coleman.
“Gettys Nine.” It was a woman’s voice.
He grabbed the radio from the unconscious man’s shirt.
Depressing the talk button, he imitated Coleman’s voice as best he could. “Gettys Nine. Everything OK here.”
“Do you need assistance?”
“Uh, negative. Everything’s OK.”
There was
a brief pause, and he knew he had about ten minutes to get out of the house.
The woman’s voice came on. “Ten-four.”
Symon released the radio and gave the trooper a good smack across the cheek.
Forty-Four
THE FIRST THING NED COLEMAN FELT AS HE CAME TO WAS the vicelike pain in his right shoulder. The second thing was the throbbing in his head. He tried to move his shoulder, to lift his arm, but it was paralyzed. Even making a fist was a chore and sent pain running along his arm. He raised his head, which only increased the throbbing behind his eyes. He was in a kitchen, in a chair, propped against a table.
The Moellers … yes, he’d come here on a call, seen the blood on the floor, then … something had hit him.
“Wakey, wakey, sunshine.”
The voice snapped Ned fully alert, and he focused on a man seated across from him. Lean build. Short, dark hair, and one of those soul patches under his lower lip. Beady eyes. Thin, straight lips. Thirty-something.
“Hello, sunshine,” the man said. His voice was nasally.
“Whaddya doon?” Ned’s jaw wasn’t working right. That explained the throbbing in his head. This dude had busted his jaw and—Ned craned for a look—shot him in the shoulder, clean through. Just missed the Kevlar. He righted himself and reached with his left hand for his Taser, knowing he couldn’t lift his other arm to find his weapon on that side.
Darkness Follows Page 16