The Lincoln Myth (Cotton Malone 9)

“Please.”

Tears streamed down her face.

“Please, Josepe.”

The Spaniard’s attention was totally on her. Stephanie remained on her knees, back straight, head high, watching. The gun was leveled at Cassiopeia’s chest. Malone resented the hell out of being placed in this position. Stephanie had come to end the problem.

But the task had fallen to him.

“Two,” he breathed.

SALAZAR STEELED HIMSELF.

“If the gentiles wish to see a few tricks,” the angel said, “we can perform them. They call you a devil. That is not an insult. We Saints have the meanest devils on the earth in our midst. We cannot attain our endowment without those devils being present. We cannot make progress, nor prosper in the kingdom of God, without them. We have always had a need among us for those who steal our fence poles, or the hay from a neighbor’s stack, or the corn from afield. These men have always served a need. As you do.”

He resented being called a devil, but understood what the vision was saying. Tough jobs had always required tough men. He watched as Cassiopeia’s tears increased. He’d never seen her cry before, and the sight was disconcerting.

And those words.

I love you.

They gave him pause.

“Heavenly Father will have mercy on all of their souls.”

That he liked.

“We shall possess the earth because it belongs to Jesus Christ, and he belongs to us, and we to him. We are all one and we will take the kingdom and possess it, under the whole heavens and reign over it forever and ever. All ye kings and emperors and presidents help yourselves, if you can.”

“That is true,” he said to the vision.

“Nations will bow to our kingdom and all hell cannot stop it. Do your duty. Do it now.”

“THREE.”

Malone swung the gun around as Luke dropped to the ground.

He aimed the weapon.

Salazar reacted, shifting left.

“No,” Cassiopeia screamed.

“Drop the gun,” Malone yelled. “Don’t make me do it.”

Salazar’s arm never stopped, the black dot of the barrel homing in on him.

No choice.

Malone fired.

The round found Salazar’s chest, staggering him backward. Salazar regained his balance and never hesitated, again re-aiming his weapon.

Malone fired a second time.

To the head.

The bullet entered through a neat crimson hole, then exploded out the back, blood and brains splattering on the rocks.

SALAZAR LOOKED FOR THE ANGEL. BUT THE VISION WAS GONE.

He still held the gun, but no muscle in his body seemed to work. He lingered for a moment, his muscles shutting down, yet he was still aware of the surroundings.

Blackness enveloped.

The world blinked in and out.

The last thing he saw was Cassiopeia’s face.

And his last thought was a wish that things had been different between them.

CASSIOPEIA RUSHED TO JOSEPE AS HE DROPPED TO THE HARD earth. No question he was dead. Cotton had shot him twice, once in the chest, once in the head. Just like she knew would happen.

Stephanie stood.

Contempt filled Cassiopeia’s eyes and she glared at Cotton. “Are you satisfied now?”

“I gave him a chance to stop.”

“Not much of one.”

“He would have shot you.”

“No, he wouldn’t. You both should have let me handle this.”

“That was impossible,” Stephanie said.

“You’re murderers.”

“No, we’re not,” Stephanie said, her voice rising.

“You tell yourself that. Make yourself feel better. But you’re not a damn bit different than he was.”

SEVENTY

WASHINGTON, D.C.

MONDAY, OCTOBER 13

4:50 A.M.

STEPHANIE FOLLOWED DANNY DANIELS AS THEY CLIMBED THE steps inside the Washington Monument. The president had walked from the White House in the predawn chill. She’d been waiting for him outside the lower entrance. He’d called her yesterday, on the flight back from Utah, and told her to be here.

She and Luke had returned alone. Cotton had taken another flight overseas to Copenhagen. Cassiopeia had stayed, intent on returning Salazar’s body to Spain. At Falta Nada the air had been tense afterward, Cassiopeia refusing to speak to any of them. Malone had tried to approach her, but she’d rebuked him. Wisely, he opted to leave her alone. Cassiopeia had been partly right. They were murderers. Only with a free pass to stay out of jail. She’d always wondered why it was right to kill in her business. All that greater good crap, she supposed. But killing was killing, no matter where, how, or why.

“My boy did good, didn’t he?” Daniels asked her, as they climbed.

She knew who my boy was. “Luke handled himself like a pro.”

“He’s goin’ to be fine. You’re going to be glad you have him. I even think he and I might make our peace.”

She was glad that Danny had settled another score.

One more step toward retirement.

She’d never been inside the Washington Monument. Strange, considering she’d seen it thousands of times. Just one of those visits that had always been delayed. Made entirely of marble, granite, and bluestone gneiss, the 555-foot obelisk carried the distinction of being the tallest stone structure in the world. It had stood since 1884, when its capstone was finally laid. A rare East Coast earthquake a few years back damaged its exterior, which took three years to repair.

“Any reason why we can’t use the elevator?” she asked him.

“You’ll see.”

“Where are we going?”

The Secret Service waited at the bottom of the staircase, which right-angled its way from the ground to the top—a long climb, 897 risers, as the site superintendent had explained below.

“Only about halfway up,” he said. “What is it? You out of shape?”

She smiled. He seemed back to his old self. “I can keep up with you anytime, anywhere.”

He stopped and turned back. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“I sincerely hope so.”

They were alone, both of them comfortable with the other. Soon he would not be the president of the United States and she would not be his employee.

She pointed to what he was holding.

A laptop computer.

“I was unaware you could use one of those?”

“I’ll have you know that I’m actually quite good on one.”

He offered nothing more as to why he’d brought it along, but she’d expected little.

They started to climb more stairs.

Along the way, embedded into the exterior walls were commemorative stones, carved with patriotic messages from donors. She’d noticed references to particular towns, cities, and states, many countries, Masonic lodges, Bible verses, maps, military regiments, colleges, a bit of anything and everything.

“Were these all donated?” she asked.

“Every one. All in honor of George Washington. There are 193 of them inside.”

They hadn’t spoken of Rowan or Salazar, beyond her curt report that both had died, neither at the hand of anyone officially connected to the U.S. government. Charles Snow had been waiting for them outside the cave, a sad, forlorn look on his face. U.S. Army personnel were dispatched to remove the bodies. All ev

idence of a gunshot was removed from Rowan’s remains, the wound erased by an extensive autopsy performed by military pathologists. The senator’s family had been told that he died of a heart attack while on church business with the prophet. He would be given an elaborate funeral in Salt Lake sometime this week. Salazar’s body was released to Cassiopeia, who flew to Spain aboard Salazar’s jet.

Daniels stopped ahead of her on the next platform. “This is the 220-foot level. My thighs actually do ache. I’m not accustomed to that kind of workout.”

Hers were throbbing, too.

“We’re here for that,” he said, pointing to another of the commemorative stones.

She studied the rectangle, this one featuring what appeared to be a beehive resting atop a table. Above the hive was an all-seeing eye that radiated downward, revealing the words HOLINESS TO THE LORD, which crowned the hive. Beneath the table was carved DESERET. An assortment of three-dimensional trumpets, flowers, vines, and leaves sprang from the stone.

“This was donated in September 1868 by Brigham Young himself. The stone was quarried in Utah and carved by a Mormon pioneer named William Ward. The beehive was the symbol for the state of Deseret, which is what Young wanted to call his new land. Of course, we had other ideas. It would be nearly thirty years before statehood came their way, but this clearly illustrates Young’s early intentions.”

Daniels hinged open the laptop and laid it on the steps leading up from where they stood. The screen came to life with an image of Charles Snow.

“It’s real early out where you are,” the president said to the prophet.

“That it is. But I haven’t slept much these past few days.”

“I know the feeling. Me either.”

“I’ve been praying for Elder Rowan and Brother Salazar. I only hope Heavenly Father is kind to them.”

“We did what had to be done. You know that’s true.”

“I wonder how many of my predecessors said the same thing. They did things, too, that they thought had to be done. But does it make them right?”

“They gave us no choice,” the president said. “None at all.”

“I see the stone behind you. It’s been a long time since I gazed upon it. I visited the monument once, long ago, when you could still climb the stairs and see them.”