The Lincoln Myth (Cotton Malone 9)

She wondered what was happening. Why the cyberlink to Utah, which she assumed was on an encoded line?

“Our church has always cherished stone,” Snow said. “It is our preferred building material. Maybe because it is harder to destroy. Our wooden temples never stood for long, most burned away by mobs. Finally, once we began to construct them of thick rock, they endured. To this day, nearly all of those early structures remain.”

She stared again at the donation from Utah.

“Stone has also held another special purpose,” Snow said. “Joseph Smith first glimpsed the golden plates inside a stone box. On October 2, 1841, Smith placed the original manuscript of Book of Mormon inside the Nauvoo Hotel cornerstone. Brigham Young sealed documents and coins inside the cornerstone for the Salt Lake temple, a practice that has been repeated many times at other temples. For us, sealing things inside rock is a sign of reverence.”

It hit her. “The document from the founders is here?”

“Brigham Young thought it only fitting that it be returned to Washington,” Snow said. “So he sealed it inside his gift for the monument. This he told to John Taylor, the man who ultimately succeeded him, and the secret has been passed from prophet to prophet. We revere this nation, and are honored to be a part of it. Only a few, like Rowan, thought otherwise. But these men were anomalies, no different from the radicals of any other religion. The men who ultimately rose to lead this church realized the gravity of what they knew, so they kept the secret. As they should.”

“Is that why Nixon was rebuffed in 1970?” Daniels asked.

“Precisely. There was no way the information would be revealed. Rowan, to his credit, is the first to ever learn as much as he did. But being next in line gave him access few others had ever possessed. Being a senator opened up even more resources.”

She stepped to the commemorative stone and lightly caressed its pale gray surface. Behind the façade hid a document that could dismantle the United States of America.

“Why am I here?” she asked. “Why allow me to know this?”

“Those deaths weigh on us all,” Daniels said. “You have a right to know that what they died for actually exists.”

She appreciated the gesture. But she’d been around the block too many times to count. A lot of people had died on her watch. None of the deaths was easy, and none was forgotten.

“Abraham Lincoln’s reputation remains intact,” Snow said from the screen. “As it should. Every nation needs its heroes.”

“The greatest enemy of truth is often not the lie—deliberate, contrived and dishonest—but the myth—persistent, persuasive and unrealistic.”

She was impressed with Daniels’ statement and asked about its source.

“John Kennedy. And he’s right. A myth is so much harder to counter than a lie. We’ll allow the Lincoln myth to continue. It seems to have served this country well.”

“Within the White Horse Prophecy,” Snow said, “the people of the Rocky Mountains, Saints, were described as the White Horse. It was said they will establish Zion and guard the Constitution. The people of the United States were the Pale Horse. The Black Horse was the force of darkness threatening the Constitution. Then there was the Red Horse, not specifically identified, but noted as a powerful force that would play a key role.”

Snow paused.

“Ms. Nelle, you, Mr. Malone, and the young Mr. Daniels are that Red Horse. Joseph Smith said that he loved the Constitution. It was made by the inspiration of God and it will be preserved and saved by the efforts of the White Horse and by the Red Horse who will combine in its defense. We’ve always thought that prophecy suspect, created long after the Civil War, more fiction than truth, but everything played out exactly as predicted. So whoever may have created the prophecy was right.”

“What do we do about what’s inside this stone?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Daniels said. “There it will stay.”

“And Madison’s notes on the subject?”

“I burned them.”

She was shocked to hear that, but understood the necessity. Katie Bishop had already been sworn to secrecy, on threat of criminal prosecution. But with no tangible evidence, anything she might say would never be believed.

“All is as it was,” Daniels said.

But she wondered about that.

CASSIOPEIA ENTERED THE SMALL GRAVEYARD ADJACENT TO the Salazar estate. About fifty graves filled the grassy space. Sacred ground, where for over a century Salazars had been laid to rest. She’d arrived yesterday and arranged for Josepe’s body to be cremated. True, that was not the Mormon way, but little Josepe had done fit into that category. Even if heaven existed and there actually was a God, she doubted Josepe would be in His presence.

The sins had been far too great.

Though Josepe had several siblings she’d contacted none of them. Instead, she’d arranged for people from her estate to be at the airport and transport the body to a local crematorium, which accommodated her request for a quick incineration. She’d decided that it was far too complicated to explain to brothers and sisters as to how one of their own had spiraled into insanity. And she certainly could not tell them the U.S. government had sanctioned their brother’s death.

Her anger remained hot. There’d been no need to kill Josepe. She could have wrestled him under control. Apparently, the threat he posed was so great that murder had become the only acceptable option.

Some of that she could understand.

But not enough to make it right.

Cotton should not have pulled that trigger.

And not just once.

But twice.

Unforgivable, no matter what Josepe had done.

That’s why there were courts. But Stephanie never could have allowed him to speak publicly. Instead, he had to be silenced.

One of her employees had already dug a hole large enough for the silver urn. She would place Josepe there and, eventually, explain to his family what happened, leaving out the awful parts, noting that their brother had simply crossed a line from which there’d been no return.

But that would be another time.

Today, she would say her own goodbye.

MALONE STEPPED FROM BEHIND THE COUNTER IN HIS BOOKSHOP. Business was light, usual for a Monday morning. He’d arrived home twenty-four hours ago after an all-night flight from Salt Lake City through Paris. He could not remember when he’d ever been this rattled. Cassiopeia had said little to him, storming off from Falta Nada.

He was frustrated, tired, and jet-lagged.

Nothing new, except for the frustrated part.

His employees had, once again, done a masterful job of keeping the store running. They were the best. He’d given them all the day off, deciding to handle things himself. Which actually helped his mood, as he didn’t feel like socializing.

He stepped to one of the plate-glass windows and stared out at Højbro Plads. The day was wet and stormy, but people still hustled back and forth. It had all started right here, in the shop, five days ago with a call from Stephanie. He wondered about Luke Daniels and what the young man would do next. He’d wished him well in Salt Lake and hoped that, maybe, one day their paths might cross again.

His thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the front door.

A FedEx deliveryman entered with a package that required a signature for acceptance. He signed the electronic pad and ripped open the box’s perforated tab as the courier left. Inside was a book sheathed in bubble wrap. He laid the bundle on the counter and carefully unwrapped it.

The Book of Mormon.

Original edition, 1830.

The one he’d bought in Salzburg, stolen back by Cassiopeia and Salazar.

Protruding from the top was a slip of paper. He removed it and read a note written in black ink.

This was found in Salazar’s plane after it was searched. I decided that you should have it as compensation for all that you did. You shouldn’t work for free. I know this was tough a

nd I’m told there might be consequences. God knows I’m not one to give anyone woman advice, but tread light and be patient. She’ll come around.