The Lincoln Myth (Cotton Malone 9)

No one had told Malone about any cave, but he let it pass.

“I’m afraid the implications are hard to ignore. Young was the prophet at the time, and they blamed him for their deaths.”

“It seems like they had good reason,” Luke said.

“What I’ve told you so far has been passed from prophet to prophet, for their ears only. But when those wagons were found, I learned a new aspect of the story. Four men murdered was never part of what was passed down.”

“Does Rowan know any of this?”

Snow shook his head. “He knows of the wagons, but I did not tell him any of these other details, and I will not.”

The car continued to speed down the interstate, the landscape becoming more rural and rugged.

“Falta Nada eventually became a place for prophets,” Snow said. “The gold was exhausted, its smelting furnace removed. So it evolved into a place of refuge in the wilderness.”

He did not like the continued silence from the front seat so he asked, “Stephanie, where are Salazar and Cassiopeia?”

“Ahead of us,” she said, her eyes still facing the windshield. “They should be at the site by now, with Rowan.”

He caught the deadpan tone. Troubling—on many levels. He knew enough about the situation to know that none of this information could ever see the light of day. Too explosive, the implications too profound. Not only for the Mormon Church but for the United States of America.

Salazar?

Rowan?

They were one thing.

But Cassiopeia.

She was quite another.

And this time she was in deep.

SIXTY-TWO

CASSIOPEIA STOOD BESIDE THE CAR. SHE AND JOSEPE HAD MADE the journey northeast from Salt Lake City in a little over an hour, and they’d been waiting in the morning mountain air for twenty minutes. The peaks surrounding her were not especially high, but glaciers had performed their sculpting, the evidence clear from deep scars and dark canyons. The two-lane highway east from the interstate had woven a path through a spectacular wilderness thick with poplar, birch, and spruce all dressed in autumn gold. Another two miles on a graveled lane led them to a clearing among the trees, where they parked. A posted sign proclaimed

PRIVATE PROPERTY

Do Not Trespass

Grounds Patrolled

Josepe had remained quiet both during the flight from Iowa and on the car ride north from the airport. She’d preferred the silence as her own rage was becoming increasingly hard to control. Somebody was funneling information to Thaddeus Rowan. Somebody who’d been provided that information by Cotton. How else would anyone know what had been inside that watch? Cotton had surely opened it and reported what he’d found to Stephanie. Then that had been passed to Rowan. She’d finally pressed Josepe, who’d called Rowan, and the senator revealed that he had a source inside the government, working as his ally.

But why trust such a source?

The answer was easy.

Rowan wanted to believe. So did Josepe. They’d lost all objectivity, willing to take chances that otherwise cautious souls would never risk. They were fools. But what was she? A liar? A cheat?

Worse?

She was angry at Cotton. She’d asked him to stay out of this, but he’d ignored her. He’d been ready and waiting in Des Moines, seemingly knowing her every move. But why wouldn’t he? They knew each other. Loved each other.

Or so she thought.

But she also had to tell herself that this involved his country, not hers. The threat was far more real and immediate for him. And that clearly made a difference, at least in his eyes.

“This is a beautiful place,” Josepe said.

She agreed. They’d risen in altitude, the brisk crystalline air refreshing, reminding her of Salzburg. Snow dotted the distant peaks, a high forested plateau stretching out before them for miles, the scars from past wildfires still visible. A morning sun shone across the surface of a nearby lake. The two Danites had traveled with them and kept close watch on their employer. She assumed both were armed. As was Josepe. She’d caught sight of a shoulder holster beneath his jacket.

Interesting that she’d not been offered a weapon.

SALAZAR HAD NEVER BEFORE VENTURED BEYOND SALT LAKE into the wilderness the pioneers had traversed. But here he was, among the trees and mountains of Deseret, where the first Saints had passed on their way to the promised land. Those early settlers were so different from other western immigrants. They employed no professional guides, preferring to find their own way. They also improved the route as they traveled, making it better for the next group. They were cohesive, moving as one, a culture, a faith, a people—modern pilgrims, routed from their homes by intolerance and persecution—intent on finding their salvation on earth.

It took two years for the first group to trek 1,300 miles from Illinois to the Great Basin. Eventually, 1,650 made it to the valley in 1847. That first year had been tough, but the next was tougher. Spring plantings had looked promising, but hordes of crickets soon invaded—three to four a leaf, as one Saint described—and began to devour the crops. They fought back with brooms, sticks, fire, and water. Anything and everything. Prayers, too. Which were finally answered by a sight from heaven. Seagulls. Which swooped in by the thousands and devoured the insects.

The Miracle of the Gulls.

Some say it was exaggerated. Others that it never happened. But he believed every word. Why wouldn’t he? God and the prophets always provided—so why would it be impossible that help would appear at just the right moment? The seagull remained Utah’s state bird, and he was sure that would be the case with the soon-to-be independent nation of Deseret.

He felt invigorated.

Soon, once again, all of this would be theirs.

“This is a special place,” he told Cassiopeia.

“There’s nothing here,” C

assiopeia said.

“We have to hike. Falta Nada is nearby.”

He heard the growl of an engine and turned to see a small red coupe approaching. The car stopped and Elder Rowan emerged, dressed in boots and jeans, ready for the wilderness.

They greeted each other with a handshake.

“It’s good to see you again, brother,” Rowan said. “This is a great day, equal to the moment when the pioneers first arrived. If we’re successful, everything will change.”

He, too, was energized by the possibilities.

Rowan noticed Cassiopeia. “And who is this?”

He introduced them. “She’s been invaluable the past few days. She’s the one who obtained the watch, only to have it stolen back.”

“You haven’t mentioned her,” Rowan said.

“I know. Her involvement came about quickly.”

He explained how he and Cassiopeia had known each other since childhood, how they’d once been close, drifted apart, and were now reuniting. Rowan seemed pleased with her reawakening, and the fact that her family were among the early European converts.

“I actually recall your father,” Rowan said. “In the 1970s I was working with the church in Europe. He headed the stake in Barcelona, if I recall. A truly spiritual and dedicated man.”

“Thank you for saying that. I always thought so, too.”

Where at first there’d been apprehension in the elder’s eyes at Cassiopeia’s presence, now there was calm. Perhaps from knowing that she was a Saint by birth?

“Cassiopeia is aware of what we’re doing. She also helped fend off the Americans in Salzburg. She and I are discussing a personal future together.”

He hoped he wasn’t being too presumptuous with the revelation.

“I’d like her to be a part of this,” he said.

“Then she shall,” Rowan said. “We’ve come a long way, brother. There were times when I doubted we’d make it this far. But we’re here. So let us all go and claim our prize.”

Salazar faced his two men. “Stay here and keep watch. We can contact each other by phone, if need be.”