Lincoln sighed. “Do the children have to be there? With the threats issued?”
“Security considered that but thought it best to go on with things as planned. Sir, you can be confident the area is secure. No one is coming or going without passing through multiple checkpoints.”
He tightened his jaw and said a quick prayer.
Taylor’s phone rang. She picked it out of her pocket. “Yeah.” She turned and looked out the window, then to Lincoln. “We’re here. You ready?”
Lincoln nodded. A flock of butterflies had taken flight in his stomach, looking for the fastest way out.
Fifty-Eight
9:50 a.m.
DESPITE THE TIME OF DAY, THE MOTEL ROOM WAS DIM AND dreary. The curtains were pulled, the lamps switched off, and a thick cloud cover blotted any direct sunlight. Sam Travis sat on the bed, brooding. The television at his back was tuned to local coverage of the senator’s appearance. Some female anchor was going on about the importance of the speech and the significance of it being given in Gettysburg on this very date. Apparently this Senator Lincoln was a hit with a lot of people and had a good chance of winning the White House in a year.
Sam walked across the room and picked up his rifle. It felt lighter than usual but comfortable in his hands, as though molded to the shape of his palm.
He turned toward the TV, where cameras filmed a black SUV parking near the rostrum. The anchorwoman said it was the senator’s ride. Men in black suits milled around, and one opened the back door. Sam had never seen Stephen Lincoln except in his campaign photos. He stepped from the SUV, middle-aged, tall, and lean. Full head of dusty brown hair. He waved and smiled as the vehicle door closed and security officers surrounded him.
A rush of hatred for the man caught Sam off guard, and he had to sit. The feeling made no sense to him. He knew little about this senator, this presidential hopeful. He did know he was conservative, outspoken, and half the country saw him as a godsend—things Sam would normally have no problem with—and yet still he hated him. But it was more than hatred, wasn’t it? It was vitriol, contempt. Stephen Lincoln was a malignancy, an abomination. He was the enemy, and he had to die.
Sam brought the rifle stock to his shoulder and looked down the barrel at the TV. The time would come soon. Within minutes. He walked over to the window. The scope was on the table. He attached it to the rifle and calibrated it to the proper distance.
He then parted the curtain just an inch and looked across Steinwehr, across Taneytown Road, at the rostrum. The rain had stopped, and a crowd had gathered around the platform, some sitting, most standing. He watched as Lincoln climbed the stairs and took a seat next to an old fat guy with a terrible comb-over. The fat guy smiled and shook Lincoln’s hand, said something then laughed. His double chin jiggled grotesquely.
The room phone rang, and although it startled him, Sam didn’t move.
It rang again. Still he didn’t move.
On the third ring he let the curtain fall into place and crossed the room. The phone was on the table next to the bed.
Four rings. Who knew he was here? The answer was simple. No one. It had to be the front desk. If he didn’t answer, they’d send someone to the room, and that could throw everything off.
On the fifth ring he lifted the receiver to his ear but said nothing.
A man’s high-pitched voice came through. “Hello, Samuel.”
The use of his first name and the sound of the man’s voice kept Sam quiet. This was not a courtesy call from the front desk.
“I know what you’re about to do,” the man said, “and I applaud you for it.” There was a brief pause. “But I’m not sure you’re fully committed to the mission, so I bought a little insurance. Would you like to know what it is?”
“Who are you?”
“That’s a good question. One I’ve been asking myself lately. Who I am is of no regard, though. Not to you. The pressing issue is, who you are and what you are about to do. Now, aren’t you at all interested in my insurance plan? My sweet little insurance plan?”
Sam did not answer.
“Very well.”
There was muffled static on the other end, the sound of footsteps, then, “Daddy?”
It was Eva. She sounded scared.
“Daddy? Are you there?”
Sam said nothing. The voice of his daughter on the other end was like the sound of some distant train whistle that hinted at life and freedom but was too removed for any real meaning.
“Daddy, please say something if you’re there.”
But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He dare not say anything, for her own good. It would be easier for her if he simply stepped out of the picture. He would fulfill his mission and then all would be right for Molly and Eva. He remained motionless, the phone to his ear, his heart in a vice.
“I love you, Daddy.” She was crying now. “Please, I love you no matter what. And—”
Eva shrieked, then went quiet.
Sam clutched the phone with a shaky hand. The thought of Eva in the hands of that lunatic made his skin itch with rage.
“You see, Samuel?” The man was back on. “My insurance plan. Oh, I know you don’t care at the moment, and that’s how it should be, but just in case you feel compelled to care, remember this: if you don’t follow through, dear little Eva here will die. She’ll beg and she’ll pray and she’ll cry, but she will die. You do what you need to do, what you know you want to do, and I’ll reconsider things for Eva.”
The phone clicked off, and silence took over the line.
Sam sat on the edge of the bed, receiver still in his hand. He was a man torn between two impossible choices. If he took the shot, he’d surely be caught and imprisoned, losing both Molly and Eva. But if he didn’t take the shot, he would most certainly lose Eva. He slammed the phone down, wiped the sweat from his brow. A knot tightened his throat.
At the moment it seemed there was only one way out, one way to both satisfy the darkness and save the life of his daughter.
He would take the shot.
Fifty-Nine
10:05 a.m.
RATHER THAN WALLOW IN FEAR MOLLY SPENT THE MORNING vacuuming the house, washing and drying two loads of laundry, and finishing the dishes from breakfast. She had just begun dusting when the phone rang. She caught it on the fourth ring, before the answering machine picked up.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Travis?”
“Yes.”
“This is Joan Petroski from Lincoln Elementary. Is Eva sick today, or will she be tardy?”
An eel of dread squirmed in Molly’s stomach. “No, she … should be there.”
There was a moment of silence on the other end. “She wasn’t in homeroom at the beginning of the day.”
“Beth Fisher, Lucy’s mother, took her. We carpool.”
Joan paused again. “Um, I don’t know what to say. Lucy wasn’t in homeroom either. You don’t … do you think Eva could be hiding again?”
“And Lucy too?” It was possible. “Let me call Beth’s cell and see if she dropped them off. I’ll get back to you, OK?”
“All right. I’ll wait for your call.”
“Bye.” Molly reset the phone and punched in the number for Beth’s cell. It went right to voice mail. Great. She was either out of range or had the thing turned off. “Beth, it’s Molly. Call my cell as soon as you get this.”
She hung up the landline and put her cell in her pocket so it would be close when Beth called. Her mind locked up like rusted gears. Eva was missing again. If she was hiding…Molly checked herself. If Eva was hiding again, then there was something more going on than an imaginary friend telling her what to do. Something more serious. And now she’d pulled Lucy into it. Molly didn’t even want to think about what it could be. She’d need to get Eva in to see a family counselor. They should all see a counselor.
For now she’d go to the school and talk to the principal.
Upstairs, Molly changed her clothes, put on sneakers, and was ab
out to rush down the stairs when something stopped her. A feeling, an inclination, maybe intuition. Something told her to check in Sam’s study. With the door already open, she entered and looked around. Nothing looked out of place or even oddly positioned.
From his desk, the manila folder he kept his writings in caught her eye. He hadn’t willingly shown her those yet. Was there a reason for that? If she felt any hesitation in violating this boundary, it was washed away by her fear for her husband’s well-being. Sitting in the desk chair, she opened the folder and skimmed the first page. It was a diary of some kind, a soldier’s journal from the Civil War. Sam said he’d been working on a period piece. This was the bit she’d read the other morning when the window broke.
The soldier’s name was Samuel Whiting. Molly had no idea if he was a historical or fictional character. The writing was gripping, though. Whiting was apparently going to assassinate the president. Abraham Lincoln. It was actually quite good. But what grabbed her attention even more than the writing or Whiting’s account were the words scribbled at the bottom of the page. In Sam’s handwriting, more sloppily written than the journal entries:
Kill Lincoln.
Her husband had signed his name below.
And that’s when she noticed the second thing, the headline of the newspaper next to the folder: “Presidential Front-Runner to Give Gettysburg Address.” That’s right. Senator Stephen Lincoln was giving his speech in Gettysburg today.
She remembered Eva’s warning from last night, while she walked in her sleep. Daddy’s time is up. He used it and went the wrong way.
Molly could not have felt more chilled if someone stuck an IV in her vein and pumped in a liter of ice water. She began to shiver, and her palms broke into a cold sweat.
As she leafed through the other writings, she noticed the third thing, and it shoved her heart into her throat. On each page, misplaced uppercase letters were scattered throughout the text. She started with the first entry, quickly stringing the letters together. Then the second, the third, fourth, and fifth.
Oh, God. Please, no.
This wasn’t happening. Again, Eva’s words rushed back to her: Jacob said Daddy’s going to do something bad.
Eva. Jacob. Sam. It couldn’t be.
“God, please no.”
She said those words over and over as she crossed the room and threw open the closet door. Sam’s rifle was missing. She rummaged through every drawer of his dresser, remembering that Sam had told her he kept the magazine there, only it wasn’t in any of them. Sweat beaded on her forehead and cheeks. Her pulse tapped out a quick rhythm in her neck.
She had to get to the school, had to get to Eva, but first she had to call the police. Her husband was going to do something very bad.
Sixty
SAM CRANKED THE WINDOW SO THAT THE BARREL OF THE rifle could sneak through the opening yet remain unnoticed. He lowered himself to one knee and propped the rifle butt against his shoulder. Wedging his left elbow against his chest to stabilize the stock, he peered through the scope and found the rostrum and Lincoln. The senator was still seated, a fake smile plastered on his face. A woman beside him, presumably his wife, had her hand on his. She glanced at him and smiled. The mayor was speaking, waving his hands about, and getting red in the face. The crowd cheered and clapped.
Sam put the crosshairs on Lincoln’s head and steadied his hands, breathed in through the nose, out through the mouth, focusing himself. He wouldn’t take the shot yet. No, he’d wait until Lincoln was standing and giving his speech. It’d be more dramatic that way, more memorable.
With the scope Sam scanned the crowd. Mostly he saw the backs of heads. A bunch of school kids were standing in front. Some paid attention, some shoved each other or whispered or watched the birds in a nearby tree. Running the crosshairs across the group, he noticed nothing out of the ordinary.
The air from outside was still and muggy, smelling of fresh rain and worms, and it reminded him of the air on the …
… hill, a little more than a hundred yards from home, Sam dropped to his stomach, heart beating like the hooves of stampeding horses, and pointed his rifle at the kitchen window. He had only one round in the chamber. He cursed himself now for not thinking to bring the ammo box. He tried not to think about what he was about to do. If he thought about it, he’d chicken out.
Through the window he could see Tommy going off on Mom. His brother was swinging something wildly, knocking plates from the hutch and toppling chairs. It wasn’t the hammer he had in his hand earlier. No, he’d traded it in for something Sam couldn’t make out, something bigger than a hammer. Maybe the old billy club Dad kept hanging in the hallway.
Mom was scrambling and cowering, screaming hysterically. Tommy swung the club and missed; the momentum carried him into the wall, where he punched a hole. Sam tried to line up the sights, but there was too much movement in the window, nothing to put them on. And his hands were shaking so violently he could barely hold the barrel still.
He watched Tommy lunge at Mom and swing the club again, this time catching her in the back. She reared back and dropped out of view.
Tears blurred Sam’s eyes. He had to do something. He had to stop Tommy. He thought about dropping the rifle and making a run for the house, bursting in and taking on Tommy hand to hand, but it would be futile. Tommy was bigger and stronger, faster too. In this crazed state he was more animal than human and would tear Sam limb from limb. The rifle was Sam’s only hope, Mom’s only hope. If he didn’t take a shot soon, it would be too late.
Shutting his left eye, he drew in a deep, steady breath and blew it out. Tears and sweat made the stock slippery against his cheek, and he struggled to keep the rifle still. He pulled the stock away, wiped his cheek and eyes on his shirt, then tried again. This was crazy. If he missed, it’d all be over. Tommy would know what Sam had attempted, and he’d kill both his brother and mother.
In the kitchen Mom appeared again. She was staggering around the old farm table, Tommy on her heels. He no longer had the club. He caught Mom from behind and punched the back of her head hard, hard enough that it made Sam, a hundred yards away, flinch and shudder. She snapped forward, but he kept her from falling and punched her again. Sam’s stomach writhed until he was sure he would vomit. He sucked in another deep breath and sighted the barrel against the window again.
Tommy had Mom’s head on the table, his hands on her neck. His face was twisted and screwed up into a devilish grimace. The muscles in his arms were taut cords. Sweat soaked his shirt and matted his hair to his forehead. He was killing her.
Sam had a perfect line of fire. He pressed the butt of the rifle harder against his shoulder. This was it. He had to take the shot now, his only chance.
Suddenly the gravity of what he was about to do hit him, and it felt like someone had reared back and punched him in the chest. This was his brother he was about to shoot … with the intent to kill. His brother. Tommy.
No! That wasn’t his brother. It looked like Tommy, but it wasn’t him. It was something else, something evil, and Sam had to take the shot before Tommy killed Mom.
Sam curled his finger around the trigger, but even as the fat pad began to squeeze against metal, Tommy lifted his head and seemed to look directly through the scope at him.
Sixty-One
CONCEALED BEHIND THE HEAVY MOTEL DRAPES, SAM TRAVIS continued to observe the events on the rostrum through the lens of the scope. It was like watching an old silent film, and he found it disorienting. At this distance even the slightest drift or quiver of his hand caused Lincoln to disappear from view. The mayor must have said something funny because Lincoln laughed, looked at his wife, and took her hand in his.
Suddenly a guy in a gray suit was beside Lincoln, speaking into his ear. Sam hadn’t seen where this man came from. He did see Lincoln shake his head and wave the man off. The man put his hand to his ear, then leaned close again. Lincoln shook his head, this time more emphatically.
The suit, obviously fluste
red, looked over his right shoulder, scanned the crowd, and held his hand to his ear again. He passed behind the senator and said something to the wife. She glanced at her husband, who nodded and squeezed her hand. Worry lines formed on her forehead. She rose and walked off the rostrum. Lincoln watched her leave. They were on to him; Sam knew they were. Somehow they’d gotten word.
Molly. It had to be. He’d left the writings on the desk—his writings, Samuel Whiting’s writings—and she must have found them, put two and two together.
Thoughts of Molly invited thoughts of Eva. Sam tried to push them back into the darkness, but they filtered through like pinpricks of light.
Daddy, please, I love you.
If he was going to save her, he had to take the shot now. His heart thumped in his chest, and he blew out a breath to steady himself.
Lincoln rose, looked left in the direction of his departing wife, and approached the podium. On the ground more men in suits swarmed the rostrum like worker ants, some at its base, some on the platform itself. Their movements were methodical, precise, yet hurried.
Sam had to take the shot.
Daddy, I love you.
He coughed, and the scope jumped to the crowd full of families and children and older couples holding hands. They were all focused on Lincoln, oblivious to the threat just four hundred yards away. Sam panned the scope back toward the rostrum, slowly, so as not to further disorient himself. There, in the crowd near the school children, a man was turned and looking his direction—no, looking directly at him.
From this distance the man’s face was shadowed with a look of…of what?
Sadness.
It couldn’t be. He had to be looking at someone or something else. But he wasn’t, was he? How was this possible? There was no way this guy could’ve spotted him. Sam wanted to pull the scope away from the man. He had to take the shot but found he couldn’t, his attention drawn instead to this stranger. The man wore jeans and a flannel shirt, untucked. He looked to be about Sam’s age, thirty-something, with wavy brown hair and sorrowful eyes. But there was something else about him, something odd. His skin, it had an unusual quality to it. It …
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