The monument stood in the center of a spit of land that stretched into the Potomac River at the point where a small inlet channeled water into the city’s canal. It was one of Washington’s chief landmarks, but Mazorca had not given it much thought previously. He approached its base at the summit of a slight incline. When he arrived at the site, he walked around the four sides of its exterior, pulling his fingers along the cold stone. He confirmed that there was only one door, in the center of the eastern wall. He assumed it would be locked and was surprised to see it give way when he pulled on the handle.
The interior was dark. Mazorca’s eyes were already well adjusted to the night, but he waited for a few minutes as they strained to give him a slightly better view. Right in front of him, a set of stairs began their ascent. When he had a good fix on their location, he closed the door. Pitch-blackness enveloped him. He took a few tentative steps in the direction of the stairs, tapping gently with his shoe as he got closer. He found the first step and felt for the wall on his right. Touching it, he began a cautious climb.
It was slow going. He hit a landing and turned. Then he hit another landing and turned again. He kept his right hand on the wall and his left hand in front of him to protect his head from low-hanging objects. In the passageway, it was impossible to see anything.
Eventually, however, Mazorca detected a faint radiance. He first saw it as he turned on a landing. It grew brighter as he continued upward, though it was never more than dim. After hiking a bit further, he saw its source: the staircase was open to the sky.
Mazorca clambered onto the top of the monument. He was on a square plateau, its edges perhaps fifty feet in length. Several blocks of stone were scattered about its surface. At a point near the center, a pole rose. A flag hung from it, showing signs of life from a wind whose blowing Mazorca had not noticed on the ground. He remembered having seen the banner fly during the daytime. It appeared as though nobody checked on it with any regularity.
From two sides of the monument, Mazorca saw almost nothing except moonlight glistening on the waters of the Potomac. On the other two sides, he saw the lights of the city. Somewhere down there, people were searching for him. He was exhausted and needed to shut his eyes. He gathered a couple of empty canvas bags and rolled them into something that resembled a pillow. Then he curled himself on the roof of the monument and fell asleep almost immediately.
Hours later, the sun woke him as it peeked above the half-finished dome of the Capitol, about a mile to the east. Above him, the flag flapped in the breeze. When he stood up, Mazorca surveyed Washington from his unique vantage point. Near the base of the monument, pigs and cattle roamed freely. To the south and the west, he saw the Long Bridge spanning the Potomac, the docks of Georgetown, and the Naval Observatory. To the north sat the city, or most of it.
He watched several groups of soldiers make their way to the Capitol. Mazorca figured that these were members of the New York regiment, reporting for duty at their new lodgings. More than a few would be drowsy or hungover, having spent their first night in Washington pursuing revelry rather than rest. Mazorca had seen more than a few of them in Murder Bay. No matter how sleepy or miserable they felt, however, they were now the toast of the city. He envisioned people from all over Washington heading to the Capitol to greet them.
The monument offered an excellent view of the White House. Mazorca counted second-floor windows until he found the one that he had seen from the other side, in the president’s office, just a few days earlier. He wondered whether Lincoln was in there right now. He wished that he could just walk through the front door as he already had done and end his mission with a quick pull of the trigger. The impulse was powerful, but Mazorca resisted it. His mission called for patience and cunning, not haste and desperation. His general plan remained a sound one. He would just have to improvise the specifics.
Mazorca pulled the photograph from his coat pocket and examined it in the daylight. It remained what it had been the night before—good enough for purposes of recognition. He crushed it into a ball and tossed it off the side of the monument. When it disappeared from sight, he picked up his hat and coat and started down the steps. He carried his book in his left hand.
Every lead had gone cold, with a single exception. Standing in front of the house at 398 Sixteenth Street, Rook knew that he needed to confront Violet Grenier. The distribution of Mazorca’s photograph had not produced anything useful. A handful of people claimed to have seen him at various times and places, but none could say where he was now or where he might go. The only report of significance was Zack Hoadly’s, but it had merely permitted Rook to track Mazorca’s movement up to a certain point. And then the trail had vanished once again.
Overnight, the body of Charles Calthrop, the bookbinder, had turned up—a soldier found it floating in the canal, where it apparently had been dumped a few days earlier. The corpse was swollen and starting to rot, and it had been difficult to identify, but a city policeman recalled hearing that Calthrop had failed to make an expected delivery. They went to the bookbinder’s home and found the bloody scene.
There was no evidence that Mazorca had anything to do with it. Yet Rook had no doubt that he was the killer. It was the simplest explanation: the two men had been in recent contact, there had been some friction between them, and since then Mazorca had been revealed as an efficient and professional murderer. Rook was determined to stop him before he had a chance to strike at the president—and right now, his only hope lay with a woman who had quietly been his nemesis.
Grenier had been placed under an official, sanctioned watch ever since Rook presented Mazorca’s photograph to Scott. It was the kind of observation Rook had wanted for days: a team of men holding various positions on Sixteenth Street, in Lafayette Park, and in an alley behind the house. The only difference was that they now made no effort to conceal themselves. The operation was closer to a house arrest than surveillance.
“The lights were on until an hour or two before dawn,” said Corporal Clark, who had kept watch through the night from a bench in Lafayette Park. “She was definitely up and about—I kept seeing movement near the windows. She’s still inside right now.”
“Is she awake?” asked Rook.
“Hard to say. The lights did go out before sunrise—maybe three or four hours ago.”
“I’d like you to come to the door with me.” Rook looked at Clark’s belt, where the corporal had a pistol holstered. “Is that loaded?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I don’t know what to expect.”
Rook checked the chamber of his own pistol. It was loaded too.
At the front door, Rook grasped a metal knocker and banged it hard. He wondered what kind of reception he would receive. Would Grenier’s servant answer and say her mistress was ill and could not see anybody? Or would Grenier receive him with a chilly formality? Rook even thought about the possibility of forcing his way through the door. It was thick and would not easily budge. Perhaps with Clark’s assistance, however, he could get it open.
He reached to try the knocker a second time when he heard movement on the other side. A deadbolt unfastened and the door swung open.
Violet Grenier peered out. She wore a bright red robe and smiled warmly.
“Oh, Colonel,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Outside the president’s office, John Hay scribbled furiously at his desk. He wanted to finish a short letter to one of his former professors at Brown before the next interruption, which was bound to arrive at any moment. Suddenly, he sensed that he was not alone. He stopped writing and turned his head. The tall figure of Abraham Lincoln loomed over him.
“Pardon my snooping, Mr. Hay.”
“No worries, sir.”
Lincoln was supposed to be reading his own mail—Hay had put a stack of letters on his desk earlier in the morning. Perhaps the president was just stretching his long legs.
“I’m restless in here—if I don’t get out soon, the whole d
ay will slip by, and I will have missed it.”
“Sir?”
“I’m going to take a walk, Mr. Hay. You may join me if you like.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” Hay opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a picture of Mazorca. He held it up.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“No, I haven’t forgotten. I’m just not going to let anybody keep me caged in this house. It is good for the people to see their president.”
“You’re taking a risk. Aren’t you concerned about what this man wants to do?”
“If I am killed, I can die but once—but to live in constant dread of death is to die over and over again.”
Lincoln chuckled and then continued. “Besides, there probably isn’t a safer place in Washington than where I would like to go.”
“Please come in,” said Grenier. She gestured for Rook to enter the house.
The colonel turned around and looked at Clark. “Stay here, on the porch,” he said. Then he went through the door. Grenier closed it behind him.
“Take a seat, Charles,” said Grenier as they entered the parlor. “May I call you that?”
Rook was struck by her beauty. He told himself to resist it. “I’ll stand, thank you. And let’s keep things formal, Mrs. Grenier.”
“As you wish. I’m just glad you’re here. You don’t know how worried I’ve been.”
“That’s odd, because you’ve been the source of many worries, Mrs. Grenier.”
“Then it will be such a relief for you to know the truth, because we are past the very worst,” she said. “I must retrieve something. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Grenier left the room. Rook heard her climb the stairs. He considered stopping her, thinking that perhaps it was not wise to let her out of his sight. Yet she had not been in his sight until just now, and the house was surrounded by Clark and the other soldiers. She could not get away.
He took the opportunity to examine the room. He had seen Grenier’s home from the outside many times, and he had always wondered what the interior looked like. He imagined Locke sitting here, telling Grenier about conversations with General Scott and meetings with the senior military staff. He thought of Davis and Stephens coming by to discuss plans for sabotaging the Capitol. He knew Mazorca had been here as well.
The bust of Stephen Douglas caught his eye. It sat on a table beside one of the parlor’s red walls. Rook had not given Douglas much thought since seeing him at the inauguration. In a corner near the table, Rook noticed two boxes sitting on the floor. They were open on top, with wads of crumpled newspaper stuffed inside. A vase peeked through one of them. It appeared as though Grenier was packing. Rook reached into a box and pulled out a ball of newspaper. He smoothed it, revealing the front page of Wednesday’s edition of the National Intelligencer.
“I’m leaving,” said Grenier.
Rook had not heard her return. He crushed the newspaper again and dropped it into the box.
“So it would seem.”
“I can’t stay in Washington any longer. Not after what has happened.”
“Before you go anywhere, you have quite a bit of explaining to do.”
“It seems that there’s been a terrible misunderstanding,” she said. “This may begin to clear things up.” She held out a piece of paper.
Rook accepted it and realized that he was looking at a letter for the second time: it was the note, dated April 19, that Bennett had sent to Grenier. Springfield had intercepted it, shown it to Rook, and then let it go through to her. Only this time, it included a secret message between the lines of what had seemed an innocent missive:
I assume you have met Mazorca by now. Warn him to halt his mission immediately. His existence has been discovered. Future missions like his will be jeopardized if he fails. He must stop at once.
“Do you know Langston Bennett?” asked Grenier.
“I’ve heard of him.”
“He writes to me on occasion. He wrote this letter, including the words between the lines in a special ink that reveals itself only when it’s heated.”
“Why the secrecy?”
“Because it turns out that Langston has something awful to hide. He has consorted with the worst kind of person imaginable. Mazorca is a trained killer, and somehow I’ve gotten mixed up with him.” Tears welled in her eyes. “You must help me,” she said. She took a step toward the colonel.
Rook suddenly understood how a man could fall for her charms. Her imploring expression, the way she projected vulnerability—it summoned a masculine instinct to protect and defend. Rook had to remind himself that he was dealing with a manipulative seductress.
“First, you must help me,” said Rook. “I want to know where Mazorca is right now.”
“Have you been to the boardinghouse on H Street, where he goes by the name of Mr. Mays?”
“He’s not there.”
This did not seem to surprise her. She smiled confidently. “Then perhaps you can find him on N Street, at the former residence of Robert Fowler.”
“He’s not there either.”
“You’ve been to 1745 N Street?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know to look there?”
“It doesn’t matter. How did you know he might be found there?”
“Because I told him the house was abandoned and that he might seek refuge in it. This was before I discovered his true intentions. I’ve been worried sick ever since I learned that he wants to kill the president.”
“I wasn’t led to believe that you were an admirer of Mr. Lincoln’s.”
“I’m not—horrors, no. But that doesn’t mean I want him shot dead.” A look of exasperation crossed her face. “No lady in my position would associate herself with the schemes of ruffians.”
The tears came again, but Rook ignored them. “It sounds like you know about all of his hideaways,” he said. “Where else could Mazorca be?”
“He must have left Washington.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he knows that he’s been exposed. You’ve been to his safe houses. You’ve been handing out pictures of him all over the city. And look at this letter I just gave you—Bennett is actually telling him to stop his mission.”
“Actually, in the letter he tells you to stop Mazorca. You didn’t try to do that, did you Mrs. Grenier?” Rook did not wait for a response. Instead, he reached into his pocket and removed the envelope he had found on the floor of Mazorca’s room at the boardinghouse. He took out the note, unfolded it, and read: “I have reason to believe Rook is watching me. You may be in danger as well. Proceed with extreme caution.” Rook returned the note to his pocket. “Here’s what I think: you plotted with Bennett to hire Mazorca to murder the president, Bennett learned that Mazorca was compromised and asked you to call him off, and you told Mazorca to go ahead with the assassination anyway.”
When she did not answer right away, Rook knew that she was having trouble making sense of her own plots. That was a difficulty for liars—the more lies they told, the harder it was to keep track of their deceptions.
“I’m frightened of him, Colonel,” she pleaded.
“According to what I’ve heard, you weren’t too frightened of him when he came to visit you. Nor were you too frightened to write him after receiving the secret message from Bennett.”
“You must believe me. Only recently have I learned the terrible truth about him. I didn’t know where to turn for protection.”
Rook sensed her growing desperation. “How about your friend, Colonel Locke?” he asked. “Or didn’t he drop by when you expected him?”
“Has something happened to Sam?”
“Nothing that he didn’t do to himself.”
“May I see him?”
“No.”
“Then you must help me, Colonel.” She stepped closer.
“What must I do to make you believe me?” She touched him on the chest.
He pushed her
arm away. “You must tell the truth. Unfortunately, you don’t appear ready to do that. So I’m going to take you to a place that should make it much easier.”
Grenier looked at him crossly. For the first time since laying eyes on her, Rook knew that she was not trying to charm him. “I suppose you mean the basement of the Treasury,” she hissed.
Rook laughed. “No, Mrs. Grenier. You’ll be staying at the Old Capitol Building—an actual prison.”
Portia clutched the train ticket and studied the line of passenger cars that would take her north.
“Your next ride should be more comfortable than the last one,” said Springfield. “Unless you want to hop inside of this.” With the toe of his boot, he gently tapped a bag resting on the platform.
Portia smiled at him. “You’ve all been very good to me,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”
Since her midnight arrival at the White House and the meeting in the Winder Building a few hours later, Portia had stayed out of sight. She was still a fugitive slave—the private property of another person. Under the law, the government had an obligation to return her. It did not matter that she had fled from a regime of cruelty. It did not matter that her owner wanted to murder the president. It did not matter that her enormous personal sacrifice helped to turn the tables against a murderous conspiracy. She was still a fugitive.
The official policy of the Lincoln administration was to respect fugitive-slave laws. During the secession crisis, it wanted to do nothing to antagonize the slaveholding states, especially the handful that remained loyal to the Union. The act of letting Portia go, if it were to become public knowledge, would not sit well.
The solution was not to let it become public knowledge. “Make sure nothing bad happens to her,” Lincoln had said to Rook. The colonel quietly issued orders to a few soldiers whom he knew to be abolitionists. Portia went to a private home where she ate, washed, and rested. Her caretakers prepared a bag of clothes and other necessities, obtained documents that would testify to her status as a free black, and purchased a train ticket to Buffalo. Once there, she would cross into Canada and join a community of escaped slaves who lived beyond the reach of fugitive laws and bounty hunters.
The First Assassin Page 36