The First Assassin (17 page)

Rook reached into his pocket again and pulled out the Brady photo of Lincoln. He put it on the table beside the brocade and made sure both Davis and Stephens saw what it was. Then he took the pin of the brocade and stabbed it into Lincoln’s face. He twisted it around, carving a small hole where Lincoln’s head had been. Rook let the brocade and defaced photo lie before Davis and Stephens for a moment. When he thought they had taken a good look, he collected both items and returned them to his pocket.

“As I said, I must attend to some unfinished business,” said Rook. He was pleased to see that Davis and Stephens had dropped their threatening looks. Rook leaned into the table and spoke in a hushed voice. “And I’m always on the lookout for new business opportunities.”

Stephens glanced at Davis, in a clear sign of deference. The big man did not budge. He still stared at the table, looking at the place where the defaced photo had rested. Finally his eyes moved to Rook.

“I appreciate the invitation, Mr.—?”

“Bishop,” replied Rook.

“Mr. Bishop. Very well. I wish you every success, Mr. Bishop. I really do. But it appears as though we are working toward different ends, despite our shared sympathies. You have your intentions, and I have mine.”

“What better intention could you have than this imposter who calls himself president?”

“I didn’t say I had a better intention, just a different one. We may serve our interests best simply by staying out of each other’s way.”

“I don’t think it’s that easy,” said Rook. “If one of us succeeds, the other surely will find his task much more challenging. Security is weak across the city, but it won’t stay that way forever. Your hints intrigue me, Mr. Davis. They raise an important question: should one of us assist the other? I am native to this city and have resources at my disposal that you may find invaluable.”

Davis tapped a finger on the table. “I will consider your offer,” he said at last. “But it is too early for anything more. I’m waiting for a shipment to arrive, and it won’t get here until the morning. Meet me in this place tomorrow evening. Perhaps we can talk in some detail then.”

“If you need help on the Potomac docks with unloading a shipment, I can gather some men—”

Davis chuckled. “No, the shipment will not arrive by the river.”

“Then at the train depot—”

Now Davis laughed, and Stephens with him. “Mr. Bishop, the shipment will not arrive by river, and it will not arrive by rail. Or even by road. Let’s leave it at that. I do not seek your assistance with the shipment. Not now, anyway. We can meet again tomorrow night. Good day, sir.”

Rook nodded and rose from his chair. He walked straight for the door and was gone from the hotel within a few seconds. Davis and Stephens watched him depart.

“I thought we were going to be gone by tomorrow night,” said Stephens. “I hope you don’t mean to change our plans.”

“Of course not. I suspect Bishop himself may not even make the meeting we’ve just arranged. There will be so much commotion in this city tomorrow night, nothing will go as intended. If Bishop is smart, he will realize what has happened and who is responsible. He can show up here if he wants, but he’ll wait a long time before he sees either of us again. We’ll be miles away, and Washington will be gripped by terror.”

A few feet away, Clark continued to stare at the pages of his newspaper. He heard every word.

“Sally, what would you like to discuss?” asked Bennett.

“It’s about my son, Joe. He’s the one everybody calls Big Joe.”

“Of course,” said Bennett, his interest suddenly aroused. “I know Big Joe. He is a fine young man, with a solid reputation around here. Mr. Tate praises him quite highly.”

“He’s very good, Mr. Bennett. Even when he was a little boy, he was very good, always listenin’ to his mother. He never gave me any trouble. Never! You don’t always see that around here.”

“I know what you mean. I can’t think of a single time Joe has given us any difficulty. I must say, though, there have been some questions raised about him this very day.”

Sally broke eye contact with Bennett. She had been looking straight at him, but now she gazed at the ground.

“Mr. Bennett, I don’t want you to hurt him.”

“Is there something I should know?”

Her eyes were back on him, and Bennett saw that they had started to fill with tears.

“Mr. Bennett, please tell me you ain’t gonna hurt him.”

“Oh, Sally,” said Bennett, trying to achieve a comforting tone in his voice. He put his arm around her. “I don’t want to hurt anybody, but I don’t think I can promise anything until you tell me what you know.”

“Maybe there’s one thing you can promise me,” she said as she pulled up her apron and wiped the tears from her eyes.

“Please don’t do to him what you did to Sammy last fall. You remember Sammy? He’s Roberta’s boy.”

Bennett had to think for a moment. He did recall Sammy—a real troublemaker who required the constant attention of an overseer before he would do any work. It was quite a shame too, because Sammy was a strong one who might have made a contribution to the farm if only he had put his mind to it. But when he ran off and hid in the woods last year—and then Tate caught him two weeks later stealing chickens from one of the coops, after several had already disappeared—that was the end of it. Bennett ordered him put up for auction. Sammy was sold to a buyer from Georgia for a bit less than what Bennett thought he should have gotten, but he was glad to be rid of the problem. Attitudes like Sammy’s had a way of spreading like a contagious disease if they were not confronted, he believed. Sometimes a plantation master must set a clear example, even at the cost of breaking up families.

“Yes, I do remember Sammy,” said Bennett, at last.

“Please tell me you won’t sell Joe! It just broke Roberta’s heart when Sammy left. I don’t know how I could go on if Joe were to leave.”

“It sounds to me as though he may have left already.”

“Yes,” sniffled Sally. “I do believe he has.”

“What can you tell me about it?”

“Oh, Mr. Bennett, I just want him back. Please just bring him back to me. I promise you, I’ll give him a good, hard talking to the way only his mother can! He won’t leave again! Please just bring him back and tell me you won’t sell him off!”

She was sobbing now, and Bennett gave her a moment to collect herself.

“Sally, don’t worry about Joe getting sold. Sammy’s situation was very different from Joe’s. I’ll be honest with you. When we get Joe back, we’re going to have to deal with him in some fashion. I don’t know what that will be. It will depend on what happens between now and then. It may also depend on how much you cooperate with us. The fact that you are speaking to me right now, however, is a great comfort. I want to get Joe back too. In all my years of running this plantation, I have learned one thing about runaways—they’re best caught early. The longer they stay missing, the harder they are to find. So it’s important to get started on this immediately. Perhaps you can help me figure out where he’s headed. I received a report this morning that he might be going to the Wilson farm. Does he know anybody there? Maybe there’s a girl he wants to see. He’s at that age, you know.”

“There’s a girl, all right, Mr. Bennett. But she ain’t one of Mr. Wilson’s.”

“This is a good beginning, Sally. Come with me inside the house. We can sit down and relax. Then you can tell me everything you know.”

They went into the dining room of the manor and sat at the table. It occurred to Sally that she had been in this room only a couple of times in her whole life, and certainly not to sit down with Bennett. When one of the house servants asked Bennett if he would like something to drink, she was astonished to hear him ask her if she wanted something too. A minute later, a pair of tall glasses of iced tea rested before them. It was the most delicious drink Sally thought she had ever tasted. She did not know what to say, and Bennett initially saved her from saying anything at all.

“There you go, Sally. Make yourself comfortable and tell me your story.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bennett. I’m gonna tell you everything.”

“Please do.”

“Yesterday morning, I was cooking in the kitchen, like I do almost every day. I started feeling a little queasy. I don’t know why, I just did. Margaret told me to go lay down and she would cover for me. So I did. I was there in my bed for about twenty minutes and already startin’ to feel better when I heard Joe through the window. He was talkin’ to someone, a woman who was beggin’ him to run off with her. I listened for a spell. She said her grandfather wanted her to deliver some kind of photograph to Mr. Lincoln in Washington.”

“A photograph?”

“You know, one of those real-life pictures?”

“I know what a photograph is,” said Bennett. “But I’m puzzled why someone of your class would care about one.”

“It sounded so crazy, Mr. Bennett, I hardly believed it. But that’s what they were talkin’ about—gettin’ all the way to Washington. Joe wasn’t saying yes, but he wasn’t saying no. I ran outside and broke them up. Joe wouldn’t promise me that he wasn’t going to run away. He kept sayin’ that he had to get back to work before Mr. Tate wondered about him. I finally got him to promise that he wasn’t going anywhere, but I wasn’t sure he was tellin’ the truth. I think he was just tryin’ to put me off. He avoided me the rest of the day, and then I didn’t see him at all last night or this morning. I do believe he’s gone, Mr. Bennett, and I just wanna get him back here where I know he’s safe.”

This took a moment to absorb. Bennett took a sip from his drink and set it back on the table.

“First of all, Sally, thank you very much. Your cooperation is very helpful. With it, I’m certain we’ll get Joe back soon.”

Sally perked up at this. She was gratified by Bennett’s response. He did not seem angry. That possibility had worried her. She always thought Bennett was a good master—better than all the other ones in these parts. But she had seen him mad too, and even the best masters could be cruel.

“I do have a few questions, Sally.”

“Yes?”

He tried to comfort her with a smile, but the anger inside him was mounting and the effort strained.

“Who was the woman you heard talking to Joe?”

“It was Portia.”

Bennett felt his rage begin to swell. The pleasant demeanor he had tried to present to Sally vanished as he barked out more questions.

“Did either Joe or Portia mention the Wilson farm?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Did they discuss how they intended to get to Washington?”

“I didn’t hear nothin’ about that.”

“And they planned to take a photograph to Mr. Lincoln?” He spit out the name with obvious distaste.

“Yes, Mr. Bennett.”

“Do you know what was in this photograph?”

“From the way it sounded, it was a picture of a person. Someone who was gonna hurt Mr. Lincoln.”

“Did you see the photograph?”

“No, sir.”

“Didn’t they have it?”

“No, sir.”

“Damn it, Sally, what do you know?”

The slave woman lowered her head. She began to shake with sobbing. Bennett knew he was pushing her hard. He had done a good job of winning this woman’s trust, and now he saw it slipping away. His mind faulted his approach. Yet he was too furious to stop. He forged ahead.

“Sally, look at me!” he shouted. He saw the tears in her eyes when she lifted her face. “Where was the photograph when you overheard them?”

“Someone else had it.”

“Who?”

Sally looked away from Bennett. She knew he would not welcome the answer. At this point, though, she had made her decision to confide in him. She could hardly hide it.

“Lucius.”

Bennett shot up from the table and thrust his chair backward with such force that it gouged the wall behind him. In the same motion, he grabbed his walking stick, which had been resting against the table, and let out a roar. His eyes fell on the half-full drink in front of him. He raised his cane and whacked the glass. It shattered into a hundred pieces, spraying across the room. Sally screamed and covered her face in her hands as several house servants hurried into the room. Bennett pointed to one of them. “Get me Tate!” he growled. The slave immediately sprinted out of the manor.

Bennett gripped his cane in both hands now, so tightly that his knuckles turned white and his hands trembled. Then he stumbled out of the dining room, pushing one of the slaves out of his way as he lurched into the foyer and then through the front door and onto the porch. He started pacing back and forth. His peg leg pounded against the boards like a hammer.

Sally staggered out a moment later. She fell to her knees in front of Bennett and clasped her hands together, as if in prayer. “Please don’t hurt my Joe, Mr. Bennett! Please don’t hurt him!”

Bennett stopped in front of her and picked up his cane. For a dreadful few seconds he held it there, as if he were thinking about bashing it into her. Sally shut her eyes, expecting the blow.

“Get up,” he ordered at last. Sally rose to her feet. “Get out of here.”

As Sally ran down the steps crying hysterically, Tate raced toward the manor. In a minute, he was on the porch in front of Bennett. “Yes, sir, Mr. Bennett?”

“We have two runaways, Tate, and also a conspirator who’s still on the farm.”

“Big Joe and Portia?”

“Yes.”

“And who did they leave behind?” Tate asked. The corners of his mouth turned upwards ever so slightly. He seemed to take a perverse pleasure in this development.

“Lucius.” Bennett could hardly have spoken the name with more venom.

“I will gladly take care of him,” said Tate, beginning to unfasten the whip at his side.

“No, I will handle him,” said Bennett. “Come with me.”

The two men walked through the front door and made their way to Bennett’s study. The old plantation master sat down at his desk and scribbled a short note. He handed it to Tate.

“Have this delivered to Mr. Hughes right away. I’m asking him to rush over here as soon as possible. Then fetch Lucius. Take him to the shed. I will be there shortly.”