The Lincoln Myth (Cotton Malone 9)

“I dated her first.”

He’d never known that.

“She dumped me for your daddy.” Danny laughed. “She always liked that. And to tell you the truth, I liked it, too. She was too damn good for me.”

He agreed, but for once kept his mouth shut.

“I regret what happened between your daddy and me. I regret what happened in my life in general. I lost my daughter.” His uncle paused. “But I think it’s time my nephews quit hating me.”

“You’ve spoken to my brothers?”

“Nope. I’m starting with you.”

“Have you visited Mary’s grave?”

His uncle stared back. “Not yet.”

“And you don’t see a problem there?”

Tension filled the room.

“We lost everything in that fire,” Danny said, the voice now low and distant. “Every picture. Every memory. Burned to ash.”

“And you acted like it never happened.”

For a moment, silence passed between them. Then Danny said, “All I have left is a vision of her in my mind.”

Luke didn’t know what to say.

The president’s eyes glistened.

He’d never seen emotion from this man before.

Danny stuffed a hand into his trouser pocket and removed a folded envelope, which he handed over. On the front, scrawled in blue ink, were the words FOR MY SONS.

Luke’s father’s handwriting.

Danny seemed to grab hold of himself and stood. “He gave that to me just before he died and told me to give it to his boys—whenever I thought the time was right.”

The president walked toward the door.

He watched the big man retreat, the door opening, then closing.

He stared at the folded envelope.

Whatever was inside had been written at least thirteen years ago. His first thought was that it should be read with his brothers present, but there was no way he could wait that long. His uncle had known he was coming here tonight, this moment apparently chosen to pass it along.

He smoothed the folds and tore open the seal. A single sheet of paper was inside, handwritten by his father.

He sucked in a breath and read.

So that the end would be peaceful and we could focus on saying our goodbyes I decided to say this from the grave. Nearly all my life my brother and I were at odds. Not only age separated us, but so many other things did, too. We never really bonded, as brothers should. What happened with Mary and my reaction to Danny’s grief has caused a lot of pain in this family. Your uncle can be tough. Sometimes even cruel. But that doesn’t mean he can’t feel. All of us deal with grief in different ways. His was to ignore it. My mistake was not allowing him to be himself. I want all of you to know that Danny and I have made our peace. He knows of my illness and, together, we cried at the mess we made of things. I want you to know that he’s my brother, I love him, and I want my sons to love him, too. He has no children and never will. The horrible loss he suffered is something I cannot comprehend. I blamed him and he resented me. But what happened was just an accident. I was wrong to think otherwise. We’re both sorry for what we did and we forgave each other fully and completely, as brothers should. He told me that there’s not a second of any day that he does not think about Mary. Never will that pain leave him. So my sons, let’s not add to that. Be good to your uncle. He needs you, though he’ll probably never admit that. So do this for me.

Tears dripped from his eyes.

His father was right.

The world knew nothing of Danny Daniels’ private pain. He’d always kept that to himself. Luke had somehow sensed that Stephanie might know something, but they’d never discussed the subject.

Danny had faced some tough stuff.

And all of us do deal with grief in different ways.

He felt like a fool.

Or more accurately, like a son scolded by his father.

“I did it,” he whispered to the page. “I made good. Like you wanted.”

The tears came faster.

He hadn’t cried in a long time.

He held the letter tight, knowing that his father had actually touched the paper. It was the last physical connection he would ever have. But he realized what his dad had meant. There was still another Daniels alive to whom they all had a connection.

Misunderstanding had kept them apart.

But that had to end.

Sons owed their father obedience.

“I’ll do what you say,” he mouthed. “I promise. We’ll all do exactly what you say.”

FIFTY

7:30 A.M.

ROWAN STEPPED FROM THE CAB AT 9900 STONEYBROOK DRIVE and paid the driver. Four colleagues waited for him, each representing one of the four congressional districts within Utah. He was the fifth representative, in the Senate. The sixth congressmen, his fellow senator, was not part of the plan, as that man’s election six years ago had been a fluke. All five men were Saints, and he was the senior member for both the delegation and the church. He wore an overcoat buttoned tight, but the brittle dawn air was more invigorating than uncomfortable. He’d called the meeting by an email sent out in the early-morning hours after he returned from the Library of Congress.

They stood before the Washington, D.C., temple, a soaring edifice sheathed in Alabama white marble, topped by six golden spires. It stood ten miles north of the U.S. Capitol. Its distinctive shape and size, centered within fifty-two wooded acres, had become a landmark along the Capital Beltway, easily spotted from the air in the Maryland countryside each time he flew in and out of Reagan National.

They exchanged greetings and walked toward a reflection pond and fountain that adorned the main entrance. He’d chosen this locale since he knew that no one would be here this early on a Friday morning. The building itself was locked. Which was fine. They would talk outside, with the house of the Lord in sight, so all of the prophets could hear. Both the House and Senate met today, but roll call was not for another two hours.

“We’re almost there,” he told them, controlling his excitement. “It’s finally happening. I need to know that we’re ready in Salt Lake.”

“I checked,” the 4th District representative said. “The count hasn’t changed. We have 95 of 104 votes, between the state House and Senate, solid for secession.”

What was about to happen had to be done with precision. Utah would be the test case, whose aim would be to overturn the 1869 legal precedent Texas v. White. The battle would be fought entirely in the U.S. Supreme Court, and the last thing he wanted was for some minor procedural error to derail the attack. This fight was about a state leaving the Union, not whether a vote here or there had been properly taken.

“And the governor? Is he still okay?”

“Absolutely,” the man from the 2nd District made clear. “He and I have discussed it at length. He’s as fed up as we are.”

He knew what that meant. Reformism did not work. Elections offered no real choices, and third-party alternatives had no chance to succeed. Revolt? Revolution? The federal government would crush either. The only logical way to effect a lasting change was secession. That route offered the most direct path for a state to regain some semblance of control over its destiny. It was nonviolent—a peaceable rejection of policies and practices deemed unacceptable—fitting to the American way. After all, that was precisely what the Founding Fathers had done to England.

He stared up at the grand temple.

One hundred and sixty thousand square feet under the roof. Six ordinance rooms. Fourteen sealing rooms. Its white exterior symbolized purity and enlightenment. Some of the stone had been shaved to just over half an inch thick, which allowed the glow of sunlight to pass through to the interior at certain times of the day.

He loved it here.

“A bill has already been drafted, ready for the state legislature,” another of the congressmen said, “that will call for Utah’s withdrawal from the Union and an immediate referendum from the people of

Utah affirming the act. There’ll be opposition, but the overwhelming majority in the legislature will vote for it.”