The Lincoln Myth (Cotton Malone 9)

But recover it did.

Now it was worth billions. No one outside a handful of apostles and a few high-level administrators knew the exact amount.

And he’d keep it that way.

“We will be able to buy and sell every remaining state in your Union,” he said, “and many of the nations of the world.”

“You’re not out yet.”

“It’s only a matter of time. Obviously you know what the founders left behind, what they signed in 1787.”

“I do. But I also know things you don’t know.”

He could not tell if Daniels was serious or merely posturing. The president was known as an excellent poker player, but something told him this was not a bluff—instead, this was the reason he’d been summoned.

“Your church,” Daniels said, “was trusted with something that could have, at that time, destroyed this nation. Instead the United States survived, partly thanks to what Brigham Young did not do with what he had. Thankfully, after Lincoln was killed, and no one contacted him for the document, Young still did nothing.”

“He foolishly trusted that the federal government would continue to leave us alone. But it didn’t. Twenty years later you all but destroyed us.”

“Yet no one within the church brought out the document. Quite a bargaining chip to never use.”

“No one knew. Young was dead by then, and he took the secret to his grave.”

“That’s not true. People were aware.”

“How would you know that?”

Daniels stepped back and opened the door.

Charles R. Snow appeared, standing on his frail legs, dressed in a suit and tie, looking every bit the head of Zion. The prophet stepped inside, his steps short but firm.

Rowan was taken aback, unsure what to say or do.

“Thaddeus,” Snow said. “I can’t express in words how disappointed I am in you.”

“You told me to search.”

“That I did. The disappointment is with your motives and judgment.”

He was not in the mood for any criticism from this imbecile. “You’re so weak. We cannot afford any more like you.”

Snow crept over to a pale green sofa and sat. “What you are about to do, Thaddeus, will destroy a hundred years of hard work.”

FIFTY-SIX

DES MOINES, IOWA

CASSIOPEIA STUDIED THE COTTAGE, WHICH REMINDED HER OF something from the English countryside. Everything else at Salisbury House carried a similar look and feel. No one had paid her any attention as she drifted from the garden, following a pebbled path that wound through autumn grass and fall flowers. A couple of times she’d stopped to admire the foliage, checking to see if she was alone. The cottage stood about thirty meters from the main house, electrical wires entering through a conduit projecting from a gable. Thankfully the entrance was away from the terrace and garden, where the darkness was nearly absolute.

The wooden door was secured by a single pin-and-tumbler lock mounted above the knob, an obvious addition. Luckily, she’d come prepared, picks always at the ready in her makeup bag. Cotton had found that so amusing—traveling with burglary tools—but he was just as bad—a small pick stayed hidden inside his wallet. She liked that about him. Always prepared.

She found the picks in her clutch bag and worked them into the lock. No need to see anything, more a matter of feel. Both hands had to sense the inner workings and feel for the tumblers.

Two clicks signaled success.

She worked the bolt free from the jamb, then entered and closed the door, relocking the latch on the inside. As she suspected, electrical boxes dotted one wall. Lawn and garden equipment filled about a third of the space. Light spilled in through four windows. Her pupils were wide to the night, and she found the main breaker on the outside of one of the boxes.

Switch that off and she’d have maybe five minutes before somebody checked the circuits, especially once they noticed through the trees that houses in the distance remained lit.

But that’s all the time she’d need.

She found a dirty rag near a lawn mower and used it to wipe the lock latch clean, then to grip the electrical cutoff.

MALONE SMILED AS SALISBURY HOUSE WENT DARK.

“What the hell, Pappy?” Luke said in his ear.

“She’s making her move. Your turn, Frat Boy.”

“Bring her on. I’m ready.”

Yeah, right.

LUKE STOOD IN THE GREAT HALL WHEN THE HOUSE LIGHTS EXTINGUISHED. There was at first just a low murmur from those around him. Then, once folks realized the electricity was not returning, voices rose. He immediately turned and headed back for the Common Room, where the pocket watch waited. Darkness inside ran deep, the going slow as he had to be careful of others and constantly excuse himself.

“She’s back inside,” Malone said in his ear. “Have fun.”

He could almost see the smirk on Malone’s face. But he’d not met a woman yet he couldn’t handle. Katie Bishop was a perfect example. He’d certainly turned those lemons into lemonade.

He found the short flight of stairs that led down to the Common Room. Luckily the corridor was wide and not as populated as it had been at the Great Hall. He entered the main room and noticed shadows moving toward the walls, a male voice asking everyone to inch that way until they found it. Smart move. Protects the cases in the middle. Keeps people controlled and contained. Shows that somebody is in charge. Of course, he ignored the instruction and eased toward the third case.

Cassiopeia Vitt was already there.

“I don’t think so,” he whispered.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“The guy that’s here to keep you from stealing this watch.”

“Bad move, Frat Boy,” Malone said in his ear. “Don’t give her a heads-up.”

He ignored the advice and said, “Move away from the case.”

The black form stood still.

“I don’t stutter,” he made clear. “Move away from the case.”

“Is there a problem?” a new male voice said, the same one who’d been directing traffic a few moments ago. Probably one of the cops.

Cassiopeia moved fast.

One leg came into the air and clipped the cop in the chest, sending him sprawling backward, crashing into an adjacent display case, which slammed to the wood floor, glass obliterated in a shattering crescendo.

People on the perimeter gasped in surprise.

Before Luke could react a second kick caught him square in the crotch. Breath spewed from his lungs. Pain burst upward and outward.

Mother of—

His legs collapsed.

Down he went.

He tried to gather himself and stand, but the pain was too intense. He grabbed for his aching midsection, fighting nausea and helpless to do anything as Vitt shattered the display case’s glass cover and claimed the watch.

“What’s happening?” Malone asked in his ears. “Talk to me.”

He tried, but nothing came out.

He’d played a little football in high school and had been racked before. It even happened a couple of times in the army.

But nothing like this.

Vitt vanished into the darkness, amid the chaos.

He drew a breath and staggered to his feet.

People were trying to flee the room.

Suck it up, he told himself.

“She’s got the watch … and … is leaving,” he reported into the mike.