The Lincoln Myth (Cotton Malone 9)

She waited for more.

“He gave a speech in 1848. Edwin found it. He said that any people, anywhere, have the right to rise up, shake off their government, and form one that suits them better. He called it a valuable and sacred right. Even worse, he said that right wasn’t confined to the whole people of a government. Any portion of those people, like a state or a territory, could make their own way. The son of a bitch said, flat out, that secession was a natural right.

“But then, thirteen years later, as president, when the time came to allow those states to go, he chose the country over states’ rights. I’m making that same call. Every president, in the twilight of his term, thinks of history. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t. My legacy, Stephanie, is this. Not a soul will know, besides us, but that’s okay. Like Lincoln, I choose to save the United States of America.”

She’d listened to what Malone had said to Luke and knew the threat was directed her way, too. Malone’s nerves were frayed, his patience at an end.

But he wasn’t in charge.

“Cotton,” she said. “We’re going to do what we have to.”

Malone stopped walking and stepped close. They’d known each other a long time, been through a lot. He’d always helped her when she’d really needed it, and she’d repaid each of those favors as friends do for friends.

“Stephanie, I get it. This fight’s different. But you’re the one who roped Cassiopeia into this, and lied to keep her in it. Then you drew me in. So I’ll tell you again. Leave. Her. Alone. I’ll handle Cassiopeia. She won’t be a problem.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

Malone’s face hardened. “I’m not.”

And he walked off.

SIXTY-FOUR

CASSIOPEIA ADMIRED THE SWEEPING UPLAND SCENERY. Everything seemed so peaceful and pleasant, rather than frightening and foreboding, which was far closer to the truth. They’d rounded the huge house and found a rocky trail that zigzagged upward. Scarlet bunchberry lay scattered over a thick carpet of green moss. Fir, maple, and oak trees engulfed them with a canopy, leaves falling in waves. Two deer emerged from the foliage, then meandered off, seemingly unafraid.

“We don’t allow hunting here,” Rowan said. “We’ve left it all to nature.”

She was trying to assess the senator. He was a handsome, older man with plenty of vigor. He easily handled the inclined trail, barely breaking a sweat or struggling for a breath. He carried himself like a man in charge—which, according to Josepe, fit him, as this was the second-highest-ranking official in the church. The next prophet. She’d caught the wariness in his eyes when they met. She could recall, as a child, many men in dark suits, white shirts, and thin ties coming to their house. She’d always known that her father was a church leader, and her mother had explained that the visitors were other leaders from far and wide. But those men had made her feel uncomfortable.

And now she knew why. They were followers.

Blindly plowing along on a path forged by others, hoping, along the way, to garner some favor for themselves. Never did they decide things for themselves.

Rowan and Josepe were different.

Their path was their own.

And they were nearing its end.

A ten-minute climb up the trail brought them to a black gash in the mountainside. A tin placard warned trespassers not to enter the cavern since it was private property. An iron grille barred entrance, and was secured by a padlock.

A few tugs and Rowan tested the gate.

Secure.

Then the senator motioned to Josepe, who removed his weapon and fired three rounds into the lock.

STEPHANIE HEARD THREE SOUNDS THROUGH THE WOODS.

Gunshots.

Malone and Luke quickened their pace, and she followed suit. Never had she felt so distant from Cotton. But she had no choice. What she’d do once confronted with the problem, she had no idea. This was all being invented as she went along.

But one thing was absolute.

She agreed with Danny Daniels.

The United States had to survive.

SALAZAR FREED THE REMNANT OF THE LOCK AND OPENED THE iron gate. A few feet inside the tunnel he spotted an electrical box with a heavy cable protruding from its bottom, leading down into the ground, then disappearing ahead. Rowan stepped past him and worked the lever on one side upward.

Lights sprang on, dissolving the darkness.

“This is Falta Nada,” Rowan said.

He and Cassiopeia followed the elder into a wide tunnel that led into a small chamber. Stalactites, stalagmites, and flowstones twisted and turned before them, defying gravity, each as delicate and fragile as blown glass. Color abounded from prisms created by the lights through the crystals. A stunning scene, carefully illuminated to maximize the effect.

“It’s breathtaking, isn’t it?” Rowan asked.

Cassiopeia was studying some drawings on the rock wall. Salazar examined them, too, and saw strange pack animals, like llamas, led by a man dressed in what appeared to be armor.

“The Spanish,” Rowan said, noticing their interest. “They found this cave when they came north from Mexico in the 16th century and mined these hills, looking for gold.” Rowan stepped to a pile of white quartz and lifted one of the rocks. Stringers of yellow could be seen. “These were found along with tool marks on the walls from shovels and picks. The Spanish were here long before Saints ever came.”

Rowan motioned to a passageway.

“There’s more.”

ROWAN ALLOWED SALAZAR AND CASSIOPEIA VITT TO GO FIRST, then he laid the quartz back down and followed. He’d been coy when Josepe introduced his companion, feigning ignorance, and ultimately offering his acceptance.

But he knew all about Cassiopeia Vitt.

“She works for the president,” Stephanie Nelle said.

The call had come just before he’d left his house to drive north from Salt Lake City.

“She’s been embedded with Salazar for some time. They were lovers once, in their youth, so it was thought she could make inroads where others couldn’t. And she did. He has no idea.”

He’d listened with a mixture of anxiety and anger. How many times had the federal government interjected itself into church business? How many spies had there been? Too many to count. Everyone said that sort of violation was a thing of the past. How wrong they were.

“She was sent by Daniels. He’s been watching you and Salazar for over a year. Your prophet, Charles Snow, has been working with him, too.”

That he knew.

“I found out about Vitt and Snow a short while ago.”

“Why tell me?”

“Because I need you to succeed in whatever it is you’re doing. That helps me in what I’m doing. So I thought I’d pass this along.”

“I’m glad you did. But what do you expect me to do with it?”

“I don’t give a damn. Just finish whatever it is you’re doing and keep the president occupied. That’s all I need.”

/> He actually still did not know what to do. His own prophet an enemy? His president against him? Now his chief ally had a spy in their midst? He wasn’t sure as to the solution, but knew that once the truth was exposed Josepe would know what to do. Danites were resourceful like that. Never had anything been said to him that even remotely implicated anything improper or illegal had ever occurred. So his heart was pure. The details had been left to Salazar, who to his credit had always handled them.

And that’s what would happen today.

Here, at Falta Nada.

The name appropriate.

Missing Nothing.

SIXTY-FIVE

MALONE RACED UP THE TRAIL IN THE DIRECTION OF THE THREE retorts, Luke quick on his heels. Around a bend a huge house came into view. A mixture of timber and stone, three-story, with large-bowed windows and a steep gabled roof. Two stone chimneys stretched skyward. Trees rose on all sides, a mountain behind, a grassy clearing leading up to its front entrance.

Stephanie trotted up behind them.

“That’s it,” she said. “They’re in there.”

“I’ll go in the front,” he said to Luke. “You take the rear.” He stared at Stephanie. “You wait here.”

She nodded.

Luke darted right, gun in hand, and wove a path through the trees.

He kept down and hustled to the base of a redwood staircase that led up ten feet to the front door. He stared back to see Stephanie take cover behind a tree trunk. He started up the stairs, the wooden risers cushy at spots from years in the elements. The house itself appeared in good shape. Somebody had been doing regular maintenance. He made it to the porch, which seemed to wrap itself completely around the exterior.

The door was a solid slab on a wood frame.

He carefully tested the knob.

Locked.

There were more windows and he carefully spied into each one, listening carefully, hearing nothing.

LUKE STOOD OUTSIDE THE REAR DOOR, BENEATH A COVERED terrace. A mountain rose a hundred yards away, dense forest extending upward. He tried the latch and discovered it locked. Windows were adjacent to the rear entrance, and he stared inside to see a great room, the wood unpainted, the tones of pine and spruce blending with the bland columns and beams that supported a high-pitched ceiling. The furniture was simple and functional, a splash of color emerging from the fabrics on sofas and chairs. Another window opened into a kitchen equipped with stone countertops, wooden cupboards, and stainless-steel appliances. From beyond the deck he heard the gurgle of a stream and caught sight of a spinning waterwheel.