Fiddlehead (The Clockwork Century) (30 page)

Gideon put his hands to his forehead as if it ached. “You’re right,” he admitted grudgingly. “But you’re also wrong. She has orchestrated this, and orchestrated it well—but we’re not so helpless as all that. After all, we’ve forced her to improvise.”

“When? Where?” he asked, wracking his brain to think of a misstep the woman had made thus far.

“The
murders,
” the colored man said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it was, but he didn’t need to be so insulting.

“Well, yes.
Those.
” Grant felt a little silly for not having seen it, but he was still feeling the whole matter very keenly, very personally. Very guiltily, for the dead pawns—as she’d called them—had been captured on his behalf, and his fervor was fueled with an acute, painful awareness of it. He wrestled with the matter and came at it from another angle. “But maybe not: she’s tried to silence and discredit you before.”

“She did nothing but inconvenience me. She’s very good, but she’s wrong as often as she’s right. If nothing else, her attempt to shut down my operation in the Jefferson drove me to proceed with a public undoing of her scheme.”

Lincoln pondered this, and agreed. “She’s smart and ruthless, but she’s been sloppy with the details. She’s very dangerous, but we are dangerous too. Though we are few in number, we are capable of mustering a response. Hell,” he offered a rare curse, “we’ve done so already, as individuals. Banded together, we might successfully undo her.”

“She’s only one woman, after all,” Nelson Wellers noted.

But Gideon Bardsley shook his head. “She must have an army of mercenaries at her disposal. How else could she manage so many things at once? And you don’t believe for a second that she killed those people herself, do you?”

“No, of course not. But where would she get such an army?” the doctor asked.

Grant sighed. “Fowler could commandeer a few men for her, straight from the Union’s forces. Or some of those dratted Secret Service agents who follow me about unless I threaten to shoot them.”

But Lincoln didn’t think so. “No, not our men. And not the Service, either. Not because they’re above such things, but because the evidence might wend its way across your desk. I think Gideon’s right: mercenaries, hired from elsewhere. Men like the Pinkertons, who’ve been accused of similar behavior—if you don’t mind me saying so, Dr. Wellers.”

“Hard to argue with you,” he said graciously. “But these aren’t Pinks in her pocket right now; the head man wouldn’t play us opposite one another.”

“Then that other firm, the one in Virginia. What’s it called again?”

He might’ve speculated further, but Polly knocked nervously on the doorjamb to get their attention. Grant was startled to see the windblown girl wringing her hands, her cap and clothing askew and a dead leaf stuck to her hair. She appeared on the verge of tears. “My dear, whatever is the matter?”

“Some men are here,” she whispered with just enough volume to be heard throughout the library.

Lincoln appeared puzzled. “I didn’t hear anyone knock…”

“No, sir. I saw them coming up as I was outside closing the storm shutters. I asked them to wait on the stoop. I said I’d come and get you right away, but they must be patient because you’re not in your chair, so I’d have to help you.”

“Good girl, Polly. What do they want?”

Her eyes darted to Nelson Wellers. “Him,” she said. “They’re here to arrest him.”

“Not me?” Gideon asked.

The girl said, “They’ve already been here looking for you. They did ask again, but I told them you still hadn’t come back, and I didn’t know if you ever would. They said that was all right, and that they were here to arrest Dr. Wellers, since they believed he was present at the killings.”

“What did you say to that?” Lincoln asked.

“I said I couldn’t say for sure if he was hanging about, because I’d been doing laundry, then closing up the barn and the shutters. I said that if he was here, I hadn’t seen him.”

“And these are police officers?” Grant asked, doubting it strongly.

She hesitated, and said, “They
said
they’re officers, but … but I don’t think I believe them, sir. Something’s not right about them, and why would they want to arrest Dr. Wellers?”

“They don’t,” he said. He clenched his jaw so tight that his cheeks looked hollow. “They want to
kill
me.”

Her eyes widened. She looked to Lincoln for a denial, rebuttal, or explanation, but none was forthcoming. Gently, he told her, “You’ve done very well, Polly. Don’t worry about Dr. Wellers. I’ll see to these men momentarily. Wellers? Please help me into my chair. I founded that force, and it will answer to
me.
”

Grant watched his old friend shift from the seat by the fire and into his wheeled contraption. He did it laboriously and with apparent discomfort, but then he straightened himself, pulled his preferred blanket over his lap, and settled his hands around the controls. The chair clacked to life, some internal mechanism sparking and spinning, then humming like a very small engine. He aimed himself at the door.

But then the president stepped forward, blocking his way.

“No,” Grant said firmly. “No, this is not yours to face alone. I won’t hide in your books while you stare down that woman’s wicked forces. Let me take this one. They won’t be expect me; it’ll throw them off. These are hired hands—and I bet they’re not half so good as their mistress. I’m the goddamn president! I’ll executive order them right back to where they came from.”

Polly lingered in the hallway. She asked, “What if they’re real policemen, not mercenaries?”

“Then I still outrank them. And unless they got the chief justice to sign off on the arrest, I outrank whoever authorized them, too.” He wished he’d chosen his words better. They left a bad taste in his mouth. “Abe,” he said firmly, still standing between the man and the corridor. “Let me handle this.”

When neither Lincoln, the scientist, or the doctor responded, Grant stepped past Polly and strode forward. He took long, fast steps. It only occurred to him then—while navigating the halls of Lincoln’s home—that his idea of comfort amounted to his old habits as a soldier.

But he hadn’t loved the war.

He hadn’t loved sending men to die, surrounded by nervous advisors and scouts, or risking his own skin in a too-hot or too-cold tent that could barely call itself shelter while he struggled to read hastily drawn maps as cannon fire shook the camp. But the
strategy,
the flow and sway of armies, the ebb of forces and might … the rise of victory, and the sickening slide into defeat … He understood that. It made sense to him, somewhere down at the bottom of his chest. He read war the way some men read music, and spoke it like a language.

Maybe he should’ve been thinking of this as a battle all along. Politics was not merely men in rooms telling lies and making deals, but a war of favors and foes, friends and promises, money and land and lines, and sometimes—he thought of the way Desmond Fowler looked fawningly at Katharine Haymes—matters of the heart as well. Well, of course it sometimes included the heart. If the heart never came into it, why would anyone ever play?

Polly trailed along behind him, close enough to see what happened, but far enough back to get out of the way if necessary. Another pawn, this one. Vulnerable, but knowing. Willing, but also forced, by virtue of circumstance and loyalties both bought and earned.

He said a little prayer for her, something fast without any words, because he didn’t have time for anything fancy.

He reached the front door and whipped it open. The brand-new night and its terrific wind spilled inside the foyer, scattering leaves in a marvelous whirlwind that shook the fixtures and worried the nearest fire. He squinted against the bracing gust, planted his feet square, and locked his shoulders straight.

“What?” he barked sharply.

He stood face-to-face with only one man, rather than the two Polly had promised: a very tall, yellow-haired fellow in an ill-fitting policeman’s uniform, purporting to be from the very station that Lincoln had established nearly two decades previously. Though he wouldn’t have said it aloud in front of his friend, it was Grant’s considered opinion that this
could
be a true and official policeman. It was no great secret that though the force contained some fine individuals, as a whole, they weren’t up to the snuff of Lincoln’s original vision.

“What?” the man asked back. Stunned, he stared at the president as if now he wasn’t certain how he ought to proceed anymore. He tried again. “What, sir? I…”

Grant maintained the tone and projection of an old general. He’d carried more authority when he’d been promoted, not elected, so that’s the truncheon he’d swing. Keep the tall bastard on his toes. “What do you want?”

To his very slight credit, the alleged officer rallied, straightening his posture to emphasize the size difference between himself and the older man. “Sergeant Delman at your service, Mr. President, sir. Didn’t realize you came calling here. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m here on official business.”

“That’s what I heard,” Grant growled. He disliked this showing off. If you’re tall, be tall. But don’t brandish your size like a bully. “You’re looking for my friend Dr. Nelson Wellers,” he said, exaggerating the relationship. He barely knew the man.

“That’s right.”

“What are the charges?” he demanded.

“Accessory to murder. That’s the charge.”

“Well, I’m uncharging him.”

“You’re … I’m sorry sir, what?”

“You heard me,” he puffed up, responding to the extra inches in height with age and gravitas. “I’m
un
charging him. I’m the president. I can do that.”

“I … I’m not sure that’s true.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“No, sir. Misinformed, perhaps.”

“I’m not misinformed; I’m the commander in chief. Now, get off this stoop and get on with your business. Look at you,
policeman.
Some manners you’ve got. Coming to the front door of a great man’s house and trying to arrest his physician. If you had a lick of sense you’d try the side, and be on your best manners! You don’t waltz up and make demands!” The man was starting to shift and fidget, seeking some way out of the conversation or past it, but Grant was on a roll. “Is this how they teach you to approach your betters? Is that how the force is run these days? I will write letters! I will speak with your captain!”

The big fellow’s eyes narrowed. “No, sir, you won’t. And I don’t have to walk away because you tell me to. I’m here for Nelson Wellers, and I will not be leaving without him.”

Grant laughed cruelly. “Now
you’re
the one who’s misinformed. Get out of here before I send you off this property in a pine box.”

“Are you threatening me, sir?”

“If you have to ask, I must’ve done a shit job of it. Let me try again.” He pulled out his ’58 and held it with the absolute steadiness of someone who’s held a gun so long, and so often, that it comes as natural and pleasant as holding a woman’s hand. “Get off this stoop or I’ll blow you off of it.”

The tall man leaned down, looming and scowling. Wind shrieked around him, cut into screams by the angles of the house and the hollow brick chimneys. “You’re the president. You can’t shoot me. And if you try,” he snarled, “you’ll regret it with your very last breath.”

“You’re not a real copper.”

With a sneer, the tall man fired back: “And you’re not a real president.”

Without a second thought, and without a single drink left in his system, Grant pulled the trigger.

The shot was loud in his ears, even against the violent orchestra of the windstorm. They were close together—only a door frame away, maybe arm’s length, and the space wasn’t tight. Still, it was like he’d fired inside a closet. A simple gunshot—the most familiar sound in the world—sucked all the air out of the space between them.

For a moment nothing happened. The tall man didn’t react except to hold perfectly still. Grant held still as well, his gun still raised. It flared warm in his hand, but the dry November storm cooled the metal as he held it. A small coil of smoke rose, then vanished as a particularly hard gust of wind shook the house.

The fireplaces moaned low and tunefully, like monks chanting a prayer.

The tall man’s uniform was dark, and it was now fully dark outside, so Grant could barely see the damp hole in his belly.

With slow uncertainty, the wounded man took two steps back, turned around, and reached for the handrail. He missed it, but held out one foot to step onto the stair below the stoop. His knee went crooked, and he fell forward onto the walkway that cut through the yard.

And the moment he hit the ground, someone in the darkness opened fire on the house.

Moving on instinct and years of training, Grant retreated and slammed the door. He shoved his shoulders against it, and felt that it was solid. It would withstand more than a handful of bullets before he needed to worry about its integrity.

His ears told him that there were three shooters.

No. Four.

The window to the right of the door shattered. Polly screamed. Mary came stumbling down the stairs in her dressing gown, her eyes huge and black.

Grant pointed at her. “Get back in your room!” Then he shouted at Polly, “Get down—lower.
Crawl,
goddammit!”

She swallowed her next scream and dropped to all fours, then scrambled upstairs after Mary.

Nelson and Gideon burst into the parlor, but they burst carefully, like men who knew better than to fling themselves into the line of fire. Grant was pleased by their caution. It spoke well of them.

“Down!” he gestured, and both men crouched. Both men also held firearms. Once more Grant fired off a wordless prayer to the Powers That Be, this time one of thanks. He had two soldiers, which was better than nothing. He’d been in tighter spots before. This situation wasn’t unfamiliar—it was only bad.

Bullets plunked against the exterior and whizzed through the window, crashing against fixtures and punching holes in the wallpaper.