The Twelfth Card (Lincoln Rhyme 6)

"What do you mean?"

"Well, we know they held the line."

"How?"

"Because April ninth's the day the South surrendered."

"Not really concerned about History 101 here," Rhyme said. "I want to know about this secret."

"That's in this one," Cooper said, scanning the second letter. He mounted it on the scanner.

My dearest Violet:

I miss you, my dear, and our young Joshua too. I am heartened by the news that your sister has weathered well the illness following the birth of your nephew and thankful to our Lord Jesus Christ that you were present to see her through this difficult time. However, I think it best that you remain in Harrisburg for the time-being. These are critical times and more perilous, I feel, than what transpired during the War of Secession.

So much has happened in the month you have been away. How my life has changed from simple farmer and school teacher to my present situation! I am engaged in matters that are difficult and dangerous and--dare I say,--vital for the sake of our people.

Tonight, my colleagues and I meet again at Gallows Heights, which has taken on the aspects of a castle under siege. The days seem endless, the travel exhausting. My life consists of arduous hours and coming and going under cover of darkness, and avoiding too those who would do us harm, for they are many--and not just former Rebels; many in the North are hostile to our cause as well. I receive frequent threats, some veiled, some explicit.

Another night-mare awakened me early this morning. I don't recall the images that plagued my sleep, but after I awoke, I could not return to my slumbers. I lay awake till dawn, thinking how difficult it is to bear this secret within me. I so desire to share it with the world, but I know I cannot. I have no doubt the consequences of its revelation would be tragic.

Forgive my somber tone. I miss you and our son, and I am terribly weary. Tomorrow may see a rebirth of hope. I pray that such is the case.

Yours in loving

affection, Charles

May 3, 1867

"Well," Rhyme mused, "he talks about the secret. But what is it? Must have something to do with those meetings in Gallows Heights. 'Sake of our people.' Civil rights or politics. He mentioned that in his first letter too . . . What the hell is Gallows Heights?"

His eyes went to the tarot card of The Hanged Man, suspended from a gallows by his foot.

"I'll look it up," Cooper said and went online. A moment later he said, "It was a neighborhood in nineteenth-century Manhattan, Upper West Side, centered around Bloomingdale Road and Eightieth Street. Bloomingdale became the Boulevard and then Broadway." He glanced up with a raised eyebrow. "Not far from here."

"Gallows with an apostrophe?"

"No apostrophe. At least in the hits I found."

"Anything else about it?"

Cooper looked over the historical society website. "A couple things. A map from 1872." He swung the monitor toward Rhyme, who looked it over, noting that the neighborhood encompassed a large area. There were some big estates owned by old-family New York magnates and financiers as well as hundreds of smaller apartments and homes.

"Hey, look, Lincoln," Cooper said, touching part of the map near Central Park. "That's your place. Where we are now. It was a swamp back then."

"Interesting," Rhyme muttered sarcastically.

"The only other reference is a Times story last month about the rededication of a new archive at the Sanford Foundation--that's the old mansion on Eighty-first."

Rhyme recalled a big Victorian building next to the Sanford Hotel--a Gothic, spooky apartment that resembled the nearby Dakota, where John Lennon had been killed.

Cooper continued, "The head of the foundation, William Ashberry, gave a speech at the ceremony. He mentioned how much the Upper West Side has changed in the years since it was known as Gallows Heights. But that's all. Nothing specific."

Too many unconnected dots, Rhyme reflected. It was then that Cooper's computer binged, signaling an incoming email. The tech read it and glanced at the team. "Listen to this. It's about Coloreds' Wee

kly Illustrated. The curator of Booker T. Washington College down in Philly just sent me this. The library had the only complete collection of the magazine in the country. And--"

" 'Had'?" Rhyme snapped. "Fucking 'had'?"