Fiddlehead (The Clockwork Century 5)

“What?” he barked sharply.

He stood face-to-face with only one man, rather than the two Polly had promised: a very tall, yellow-haired fellow in an ill-fitting policeman’s uniform, purporting to be from the very station that Lincoln had established nearly two decades previously. Though he wouldn’t have said it aloud in front of his friend, it was Grant’s considered opinion that this could be a true and official policeman. It was no great secret that though the force contained some fine individuals, as a whole, they weren’t up to the snuff of Lincoln’s original vision.

“What?” the man asked back. Stunned, he stared at the president as if now he wasn’t certain how he ought to proceed anymore. He tried again. “What, sir? I…”

Grant maintained the tone and projection of an old general. He’d carried more authority when he’d been promoted, not elected, so that’s the truncheon he’d swing. Keep the tall bastard on his toes. “What do you want?”

To his very slight credit, the alleged officer rallied, straightening his posture to emphasize the size difference between himself and the older man. “Sergeant Delman at your service, Mr. President, sir. Didn’t realize you came calling here. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m here on official business. ”

“That’s what I heard,” Grant growled. He disliked this showing off. If you’re tall, be tall. But don’t brandish your size like a bully. “You’re looking for my friend Dr. Nelson Wellers,” he said, exaggerating the relationship. He barely knew the man.

“That’s right. ”

“What are the charges?” he demanded.

“Accessory to murder. That’s the charge. ”

“Well, I’m uncharging him. ”

“You’re … I’m sorry sir, what?”

“You heard me,” he puffed up, responding to the extra inches in height with age and gravitas. “I’m uncharging him. I’m the president. I can do that. ”

“I … I’m not sure that’s true. ”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“No, sir. Misinformed, perhaps. ”

“I’m not misinformed; I’m the commander in chief. Now, get off this stoop and get on with your business. Look at you, policeman. Some manners you’ve got. Coming to the front door of a great man’s house and trying to arrest his physician. If you had a lick of sense you’d try the side, and be on your best manners! You don’t waltz up and make demands!” The man was starting to shift and fidget, seeking some way out of the conversation or past it, but Grant was on a roll. “Is this how they teach you to approach your betters? Is that how the force is run these days? I will write letters! I will speak with your captain!”

The big fellow’s eyes narrowed. “No, sir, you won’t. And I don’t have to walk away because you tell me to. I’m here for Nelson Wellers, and I will not be leaving without him. ”

Grant laughed cruelly. “Now you’re the one who’s misinformed. Get out of here before I send you off this property in a pine box. ”

“Are you threatening me, sir?”

“If you have to ask, I must’ve done a shit job of it. Let me try again. ” He pulled out his ’58 and held it with the absolute steadiness of someone who’s held a gun so long, and so often, that it comes as natural and pleasant as holding a woman’s hand. “Get off this stoop or I’ll blow you off of it. ”

The tall man leaned down, looming and scowling. Wind shrieked around him, cut into screams by the angles of the house and the hollow brick chimneys. “You’re the president. You can’t shoot me. And if you try,” he snarled, “you’ll regret it with your very last breath. ”

“You’re not a real copper. ”

With a sneer, the tall man fired back: “And you’re not a real president. ”

Without a second thought, and without a single drink left in his system, Grant pulled the trigger.

The shot was loud in his ears, even against the violent orchestra of the windstorm. They were close together—only a door frame away, maybe arm’s length, and the space wasn’t tight. Still, it was like he’d fired inside a closet. A simple gunshot—the most familiar sound in the world—sucked all the air out of the space between them.

For a moment nothing happened. The tall man didn’t react except to hold perfectly still. Grant held still as well, his gun still raised. It flared warm in his hand, but the dry November storm cooled the metal as he held it. A small coil of smoke rose, then vanished as a particularly hard gust of wind shook the house.

The fireplaces moaned low and tunefully, like monks chanting a prayer.

The tall man’s uniform was dark, and it was now fully dark outside, so Grant could barely see the damp hole in his belly.

With slow uncertainty, the wounded man took two steps back, turned around, and reached for the handrail. He missed it, but held out one foot to step onto the stair below the stoop. His knee went crooked, and he fell forward onto the walkway that cut through the yard.

And the moment he hit the ground, someone in the darkness opened fire on the house.