“What do you think of the president?”
“Abe Lincoln? He’s causin’ a lot of fuss around here. Right now, nobody seems to know if there’s a war comin’ or not. I sort of wish things were back to normal.”
“Are you for him or against him?”
“I’ve never thought of it that way. Nobody has asked me. I don’t get to vote, you know.”
“Where I’m from, everybody’s against him. All the white people are, anyway. They say he’s gonna free the slaves. That makes me for him.”
“I ain’t no slave, Portia. I don’t wanna see nothing happen that’s gonna make me one. Abe Lincoln’s givin’ people worries, and I’m not sure I’ll be better off when it’s over.”
“Does that mean you’re against him?”
“No, it don’t mean that. It would be good if Lincoln freed the slaves. But it’s not somethin’ he can just do. It’s more complicated than that. He’d have to fight a war, and that ain’t in my interests. If an army from Virginia were to come marchin’ into Washington, things wouldn’t look so good for me or my kind.”
“Don’t you want to see him succeed?”
“I don’t want him to mess up.”
Portia didn’t reply immediately. Could she trust him with the information he wanted?
“What does any of this gotta do with the picture?” asked Nat, looking again at the photo.
Portia decided she had no choice but to trust him. “Nobody’s supposed to see it except the person I’m bringin’ it to.”
“And who’s that?”
“Abe Lincoln.”
“You’re tryin’ to get this picture to Abe Lincoln?” Nat was incredulous. He looked at the photo again. “Why?”
“It’s just somethin’ I gotta do. I made a promise.”
“Why would Abe Lincoln want to see this?”
“I can’t say. I just gotta find him. Can you tell me where he’s at?”
“There ain’t no way you’re gonna get near him. He’s the president of the United States, and you’re just a runaway.”
“The whole purpose of my bein’ here is to find Abe Lincoln and give him the picture. If you just tell me where he is, I’ll go. You won’t have to worry about me no more.”
“All right, I’ll walk you there tonight before I gotta start work. But once I point to his house, I’m gone and you’re on your own.”
Ten minutes. That was how long Springfield said he could detain Tabard. From across the street, Rook watched the sergeant enter the boardinghouse. He could hear him greet her. The plan was to tell Tabard that he wanted to look over the unwanted room a second time. On the third floor, he would run through a series of questions about everything from the price to the condition of the floorboards. Meanwhile, Rook would enter the building and quietly examine the second-story room belonging to Mays.
Rook’s gaze locked on the upper-story window. Soon, he saw Springfield standing just inside of it. That was his signal to move. He crossed the street, opened the door, and walked in. Then he passed through the foyer and carefully climbed the steps. At the top was a door. He pushed the key into its lock and turned. It opened easily. Rook slipped into the room and closed the door.
The curtains were only partly drawn. An envelope rested at his feet. He noted its position on the floor and picked it up. It was addressed to “Mr. Mays, 604 H St.” Rook tried to lift the flap, but it was sealed shut. A corner was loose, however, and Rook slid a finger into the gap and gently ran it along the edge of the flap. The seal began to give. Rook thought he could open the envelope without damaging it. Suddenly the flap ripped in half. Rook cursed under his breath. It would be obvious that someone had tampered with the envelope.
The damage having been done, he figured there was no harm in ripping open the envelope all the way. He pulled out a piece of stationery, made from the same creamy stock that Grenier had used in her note to Scott. Rook read the note: “I have reason to believe Rook is watching me. You may be in danger as well. Proceed with extreme caution.”
Rook folded the note and stuck it in his pocket. Given its condition, he figured that it was best for the note to vanish entirely.
Much of the rest of the room was plain, with a bed positioned lengthwise along a wall and a trunk beneath the window. A pile of thick books attracted Rook’s attention. They were stacked on the floor and in various states of disrepair. Bindings were slit and pages were removed. Paper shavings sprinkled the floor. Rook noticed the titles: these were the books purchased from French & Richstein’s. Behind them, Rook found scissors, knives, a ruler, glue, and a few spools of colored ribbon. These would have come from the bookbinder. He had no idea what it all meant.
The bed was bare, except for a blanket and pillow. Nothing was hidden beneath it. The only thing left to investigate was the trunk. Rook raised its lid and peered inside. He saw shirts, pants, and socks, all neatly folded. Kneeling down, he pulled out a few items and sorted through the rest to see what they covered. At the bottom of the trunk, he found a rifle—a Sharps New Model 1859 breechloader. This was a preferred weapon for marksmen. A proficient shooter could hit a target at fifteen hundred feet. Rook pulled it out. The gun was clean and well maintained. It was also loaded.
The fact that a man would keep a gun in a trunk did not startle Rook in the least. Yet he was still concerned that Mays owned a sniper’s weapon. Mays was connected to Grenier, who was connected to those canal conspirators. Perhaps Scott could dismiss this mass of circumstantial evidence. Rook remained convinced that something lay beneath it all.
His ten minutes had just about expired. Rook put the gun back in the trunk and then returned the clothes, arranging them as he had found them. He took one more look around the room. Nothing else jumped out at him. Upstairs, he imagined Springfield quizzing his hostess about what kind of ceiling paint she preferred. He knew it was time to go.
A moment later, the lid to the trunk was shut, the door to the room was locked, the key to the room was dangling from the hook in the kitchen, from where Springfield had plucked it—and Rook was walking down H Street, away from the boardinghouse. Scott had told him to take the rest of the day off. Rook would put the time to good use, going over his options and thinking about going over the general’s head.
The sun was sinking below a stand of trees when Mazorca finally turned his horse onto a short lane that led to a small cabin. He had observed the house for two hours when the light was still good and decided that its single occupant, an elderly man, lived alone. Perhaps he had once shared his home with a wife and children, but there was no evidence of them now. In all likelihood, the wife had passed on and the children had grown up. Several acres of farmland sat behind the house, but the man probably rented them to a younger neighbor. It looked like he scratched out a modest existence from combining this income with whatever he raised in a nearby pigpen.
Yet this was all guesswork. What mattered to Mazorca was the apparent fact that the man was in the house by himself and that nobody else lived nearby. Riding up and down the dirt road, Mazorca had discovered that the nearest house was about a mile away. Further on there was a crossroads tavern that catered to travelers moving between Washington and southern Maryland. But the cabin in front of him was about as isolated as anything he had seen in the region that day. Mazorca dismounted. He would perform the test here.
The smell of a warm dinner drifted through an open window. The old man must have heard Mazorca because he appeared at the door. Until now Mazorca had seen him only from a distance. This was his first close look. He was of average height, on the skinny side, and stooped at the shoulder. Much of his hair was gone, and what remained of it had turned gray. He had not shaved for several days. Mazorca figured him for at least sixty years old, maybe seventy.
“Hello,” said the man in a tone more suspicious than welcoming.
“Good evening,” said Mazorca, removing his hat and trying to reassure the man with a smile. “I’m sorry to arrive unannounced, so late in the day. It
wasn’t my intention to interrupt your dinner. May I trouble you for a minute?”
“If you’re looking for the inn, there’s one just up the way,” he said, pointing in the general direction of the crossroads tavern.
“Thank you, but that’s not why I’m here,” said Mazorca, resting his hat on the horn of his saddle. “I have a simple question for you.” He opened his saddlebag and pulled out a book. Its exterior was black, with gold letters on its front and spine. A pair of yellow and red ribbons dangled from the bottom. Mazorca approached the doorway and raised the book, displaying its cover. “Do you know what this is?”
The old man squinted for a moment, and then recognition filled his eyes. “Look, mister,” he said. “I don’t have time for your preaching. If you’ll please excuse me…”
Mazorca laughed. “I’m not a preacher, and I’m not going to preach. It’s the furthest thing from my mind, really. I was just hoping you could identify this book.” He continued to hold it up, a few feet away from the old man.
“Well, it sure looks like the Holy Bible.”
“Yes, it does look like a Bible,” said Mazorca in a patronizing voice that a teacher might use to encourage a slow student. He now began rotating the book in his hands, so that the old man could view it from several angles. “But are you certain it’s a Holy Bible?”
“Is this some kind of trick?”
“I prefer to think of it as a challenge.”
“Mister, I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but I’m in no mood for this.”
“Very sorry!” said Mazorca, laughing again. “I see that I’m trying your patience. Let me make this simple. Please permit me to ask a direct question: you think this looks like a Holy Bible, such as a preacher might carry around?”
“Yes,” said the old man, warily.
“Excellent. That’s all I wanted to know. Thank you very much.”
Rather than turning to leave, Mazorca now just stood in front of the doorway and stared at the old man. He held the book by the spine, in his left hand. No part of him moved, except for the thumb and index finger of his right hand, which gently massaged the red ribbon hanging from the book. His friendly look had vanished from his face.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked the old man.
“The exam is over,” said Mazorca, taking a step forward so that he was an arm’s length away from the doorway.
“Excuse me?”
“The book passed. You failed.” Mazorca yanked on the yellow ribbon. Inside the book, something clicked. Then Mazorca pulled the red one. The book banged. The old man crashed backward through the doorway, clutching his neck. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Still standing outside, Mazorca examined the top of the book. A wisp of smoke rose from a small puncture that was newly visible in the pages between the two covers. He chuckled to himself. “It was a Holy Bible, and now it’s a Bible with a hole in it.”
He tucked the book under his arm and sniffed the air. The smell of the gunshot was strong, but not enough to mask the aroma coming from inside the house. Mazorca moved through the doorway, stepping over the corpse that lay on its back in a widening pool of blood. A pot of soup boiled on a stove in the fireplace. It was time for dinner.
In the White House, Rook watched John Hay descend a staircase. He was glad to see that Lincoln’s personal secretary still wore a bow tie. It indicated that the young man had not yet gone to bed, even though it was approaching midnight. He had not seen Hay for several weeks and was not entirely sure how he would be received at this odd hour. Given the events of the afternoon, he did not know where else to turn.
“Good evening, Colonel,” said Hay before he had even reached the bottom step. “This is a pleasant surprise.” He sounded like he actually meant it. The two men shook hands.
“I’m sorry to bother you, especially so late.”
“No trouble at all,” said Hay. “I was helping the president with correspondence until just a little bit ago.”
“Has the president retired?” asked Rook. A part of him was relieved to learn that Lincoln had made it through another day without encountering a mysterious rifleman.
“About half an hour ago, and not a minute too soon,” said Hay. “The man needs rest—he has spent too much time convinced that a secessionist army is about to plunder our city. If he slept more, he might worry less.”
Hay described how the president’s day had been full of routine business—writing letters to public officials, listening to job seekers beg for federal appointments—and how his mind kept drifting off to the subject of the Seventh Regiment. Where was the army that was supposed to defend the capital? With the telegraphs to Maryland severed, nobody knew. Washington remained cut off from news except from the South. At a meeting with troops who had arrived in advance of the missing soldiers, Lincoln was downright gloomy. “I don’t believe there is any North. The Seventh Regiment is a myth,” he had said. “You are the only Northern realities.” Hay added that he was glad there had been no cabinet meeting that afternoon, because the president clearly needed a break.
“I hope he gets a long night of sound sleep,” said Hay. “He could use it.”
“It sounds as though the only real cure will be for the Seventh Regiment to arrive,” said Rook.
“That’s probably true. But I’ve rambled on for too long. You came to see me. What can I do for you?”
Before Rook could respond, the two men heard a loud commotion down the hall in the direction of the front door. Half a dozen members of the Frontier Guard burst in. Two of them held a black boy by the arms. The captive struggled to break free from their grasp. The other guardsmen gripped pistols and rifles. All of them hollered curses and threats, but Rook could not make out what anyone was saying. At the other end of the hall, several of their comrades emerged from the East Room, brandishing their own weapons. The ruckus sounded like a gigantic barroom brawl.
Rook sprinted down the hall, hoping he could quiet the little mob before somebody actually pulled a trigger inside the White House. “Stop!” he yelled, trying to raise his voice above all the others. The Frontier Guards were rowdy mavericks, but they also recognized the authority of Rook’s blue uniform and fell silent as the colonel reached them. Their captive, however, continued to thrash around and scream, “Lemme go! Get your hands off me!”
The voice did not belong to a boy, but a small woman. With a violent kick, she planted her foot in the groin of one captor. He bent over in pain and released his hold on the woman. Three more guards jumped to replace him. Each grabbed a limb, and a moment later the woman was suspended above the ground, looking as if she were about to be drawn and quartered. Even in this state of helplessness, she still squirmed and howled.
“Set her down!” roared Rook, pushing his way to the woman. “And you,” he said, pointing his finger in her face, “shut your mouth!”
His aggressive behavior had the desired effect. The guards released the woman’s legs. She stood up straight between a pair of large men who continued to clutch her arms. All eyes turned to the colonel.
Rook’s own gaze settled on one of the guards who seemed older than the others. “Tell me what’s going on here.”
The man said that he and several guardsmen had spent the day patrolling along the river, looking across the water for signs of military activity on the Virginia side. They quit at the end of the day but went downtown for dinner instead of returning to the White House. Rook could smell alcohol on the man’s breath and figured the group must have spent several hours drinking. That probably would account for their boisterousness. He let the man continue his story.
“When we came back here, Tommy”—he nodded his head in the direction of a young man who was having some difficulty standing at attention—“went to one of the bushes by the gate.” The man now paused to reflect upon whether a late-night visit to the bushes needed further explanation. He decided it did not. “When Tommy got there, he found this woman hiding behind them. She tried t
o run, but Tommy tackled her before she could get away. The rest of us apprehended her, sir, because suspicious activity on the grounds of the White House cannot be tolerated.” Proud to have made this report, the guard arched his back and puffed out his chest. He tried to suppress a hiccup and failed.
Rook turned to the woman. She was slim and not much more than five feet tall. She certainly seemed to have a lot of energy, but she did not appear to pose a threat to anybody.
“Who are you?” asked Rook.
“My name is Portia.”
“Were you on the grounds of the White House?”
“Yeah.”
“Were you hiding behind a bush?”
“Yeah.”
The way she had resisted the guards proved that she was feisty. But now Rook noticed her tremble. She was afraid.
“Why were you hiding?”
“I gotta see President Abe Lincoln.”
By now, nearly two dozen members of the Frontier Guard had emerged from the East Room. When Portia announced her desire to see the president, they exploded in laughter. “Do you have an appointment?” mocked one, prompting louder guffaws. Several of the guards swore loud oaths that she would never lay eyes on him. “Did you think you were going to find the president behind a bush?” demanded one of them. The others hooted their approval.
“Silence!” shouted Rook. “Let the woman speak.”
“I got a message for President Abe Lincoln,” said Portia in a tone of despair. “I was goin’ up to the house when I heard these loud men comin’ up, singin’ their songs. They frightened me. So I ran behind a bush. It was the first thing I could find.”
“And when you were found out, you tried to run away?”
“Yeah. I ain’t here to talk to them. I come for President Abe Lincoln.”
The guards continued their chortling but hushed at the sound of a tinny voice from down the hall.
“Who wants to speak to the president?”
The guards parted to make way for the tall, bearded speaker, who wore a robe over a nightshirt. He halted before Portia and Rook. John Hay stood just behind him.
The First Assassin Page 30