The Lincoln Myth (30 page)

“Tell that to Stephanie.”

“What you did tonight, taking Josepe, was foolish. Luckily it turned in my favor. I was able to capitalize on the situation. He’s beginning to trust me.”

Now he was pissed. “
Josepe
is a murderer.”

Her eyes flashed hot. “And what proof do we have of that?”

“I saw the body.”

That seemed to register, but then she said, “I have to find out what’s going on. In my own way.”

“I was there,” he said. “Last night. That kiss between you two was no act.” He could see that the revelation surprised her. “More info that wasn’t passed on by Stephanie?”

“You don’t know what it was you saw. I don’t even know what it was.”

“Which is my point exactly.”

He’d come a long way with this woman. From enemies to lovers. They’d endured a lot, formed a bond, a trust—or at least he’d thought so. At the moment she seemed a universe away. A stranger.

And he hated that.

“Look, you’ve done a good job. Why not get out and let me finish this?”

“I can handle it. Without you.”

He kept his emotions in check and risked one more attempt at reason. “This old friend is into something big enough that it involves
the president of the United States personally. One agent is dead, whether you want to believe it or not. Three of his men are dead. I killed them. You gotta get with the program, Cassiopeia.” He paused. “Or get out.”

“You really can be an ass.”

“I’m not trying to be.”

“You need to go home.”

She turned for the door.

He did not move.

Not once had she offered anything in the form of affection. No smile. No joy. Nothing. She was as expressionless as a piece of stone. He regretted pressing her. But somebody had to.

She reached the exit.

He didn’t want her to leave.

“Would you have shot me?” he asked.

A rhetorical question, for sure, asked more as a matter of hope than for an answer.

She turned back and stared at him.

Uncertainty filled the air between them. Her eyes were as hard and brilliant as granite, her face a death mask of emotions.

Then she left.

S
ALAZAR KNELT ON THE WOOD FLOOR OF HIS SUITE
. T
HE
intense pressure to his knees reminded him of the hardness the pioneers endured to make their journey west, escaping persecution, seeking safety and freedom in Salt Lake. It was important that Saints never forgot that sacrifice. They existed today thanks to what all of those brave men and women endured, many thousands dying along the way.

“We were not compatible with the social, religious, and ethical mores of our neighbors,”
the angel said to him.

The apparition floated on the far side of the room inside a brilliant
halo. He’d been praying before sleep when the messenger appeared, worried that Malone might be right. Cassiopeia’s theft of the book, and his retention of it, might be sinful.

“Know this be the truth, Josepe. A certain nobleman had a spot of land, and the enemy came by night, broke down his hedge, felled his olive trees, and destroyed his works. His servants, affrighted, fled. The lord of the vineyard said unto the servants, Go and gather your residue and take all my strength of my house, which are my warriors, my young men, and go straightaway and redeem my vineyard, for it is mine. Throw down their tower and scatter their watchmen. And inasmuch as they gather against you, avenge me of mine enemies that by and by I may come with the residue of my house and possess the land.”

He absorbed the parable and understood its meaning.

“What was done was necessary. The redemption of Zion will come only by power. That is why Heavenly Father raised unto his people a man to lead them, as Moses led the children of Israel. For ye are the children of Israel, and of the seed of Abraham, and ye must be led out of bondage by power with a stretched-out arm.”

“My servants have been amassed and they are ready for battle.”

“All victory and glory is brought to pass through diligence, faithfulness, and prayers of faith.”

So he prayed harder, then said to the angel, “I allowed my anger to take over with Malone. He taunted me with the deaths of my men and I became boastful and said more than was necessary.”

“Do not lament. That man shall dwell in darkness, while you enjoy eternal light. The book is ours now. The gentile had no right to possess it. He did so to cause you harm.”

He should have atoned Malone, but Cassiopeia’s appearance made that impossible. But he wondered, had she heard all that he and Malone had discussed?

“It matters not,”
the angel said.
“She is of Zion and her purpose is your purpose. If she be repulsed by what had to be done, then she would not have interfered.”

Which made sense.

“She is your ally. Treat her as such.”

He stared at the vision and asked what he’d never before possessed the courage to say. “Are you Moroni?”

Nothing would exist but for Moroni. He’d lived on earth around
A.D
. 400 and became the prophet who buried a record of his people on golden plates. Centuries later, he appeared to Joseph Smith and led him to the spot where the plates rested. Under the divine inspiration of Heavenly Father, with Moroni’s help, Prophet Joseph had translated the plates and published them as the Book of Mormon.

“I am not Moroni,”
the angel said.

He was shocked. He’d always assumed that to be the case. “Then who are you?”

“Have you ever wondered about your name?”

An odd question.

“I am Josepe Salazar.”

“Your first name is one of long standing in Hebrew. Your last from the Basque heritage of your father.”

He knew that, the surname originating from a medieval town in Castile where a noble family adopted the identity as their own.

“You are Josepe. Joseph in English. Joseph Salazar. As with the prophet, Joseph Smith, whose initials you share. J. S.”

He’d long noticed that coincidence, but thought little of it. His father had intentionally chosen his first name to honor the prophet.

“I am Joseph Smith.”

He did not know what to say.

“I am here to aid you in the battle ahead. Together, we shall reclaim the freedom that belongs to Zion. Know this, Josepe. Heavenly Father has promised that, before the generation living has passed, we shall defeat the gentiles and fulfill all His promises. It will come to pass. Elder Rowan will soon lead the church, and you shall be at his side.”

He felt so unworthy. Tears welled in his eyes. He fought the urge to cry, but then succumbed, allowing his emotions to spew forth. He hinged his spine forward and extended his arms to the floor.

“Cry, Josepe. Cry for all who have died for our cause, myself included.”

He looked up at the apparition.

Smith had been thirty-eight years old that day in June 1844, jailed in Illinois on trumped-up charges. A mob had attacked, and Joseph and his brother Hyrum were shot dead.

“I went like a lamb to the slaughter, but I was calm as a summer’s morning. My conscience was void of offense toward God and toward all men. They took my life, but I died an innocent man. It has forever since been said of me that I was murdered in cold blood.”

That it had, and it was true.

But the eyes that stared down at him were, for the first time, full of power.

“My blood cries from the ground for vengeance.”

He knew exactly what to say.

“And you shall have it.”

FORTY

O
RANGE
C
OUNTY
, V
IRGINIA

F
RIDAY
, O
CTOBER
10

1:00
A.M
.

L
UKE WAS BACK AT
M
ONTPELIER. HIS DINNER WITH
K
ATIE HAD
lasted three hours. She’d taken him to a cozy roadside diner north of town where they’d drunk beer and nibbled on some not-half-bad fried chicken. She was a doll baby and he wished he had the time to spend the night. She seemed to like military guys. They’d taken separate cars to the diner, so she’d driven herself home while he headed back to the estate, her phone number and email address tucked in his pocket.

Three more hours he’d sat in his Mustang, parked among the trees off the road behind the main house. The temple stood a few hundred yards away. Not a light burned anywhere, save for a smattering on the exterior of the mansion, which he could see in the distance through the trees. No patrols or security people of any kind had appeared. All was quiet.

At his apartment he’d studied pictures of the temple, and his on-site inspection earlier had only confirmed his thoughts. He’d brought with him a fifty-foot coil of thick hemp rope, a flashlight, some gloves, and a crowbar. Everything an enterprising burglar might need.

He stepped from the car and retrieved his tools, quietly closing the trunk.

The walk through the woods took ten minutes, the sky clouded over and devoid of a moon or stars. The dark outline of the temple came into view and he strolled up the knoll, dry grass crunching beneath his feet, and stepped up onto the concrete pad. Not much noise in these woods—unlike home where crickets and frogs sang through the night. Sometimes he missed home. After his father’s death things had never been the same. Enlisting had been the right call. He saw the world and grew up at the same time. Now he was a U.S. Justice Department agent. His mother had been proud when he told her of the career move, and so had his brothers. He had no college degree, no professional license, no patients, clients, or students.

But by damn he’d made something of himself.

He set the rope and light aside. With the crowbar he began to work the mortar surrounding the center hatch. It chipped away with minimal effort and he was quickly able to wedge the flat end of the iron into the joint. A few pushes and one edge lifted free. A little farther and he exposed an opening in the floor plenty wide for him to fit through.

He laid the square section of concrete down beside the entrance, then tied the rope to one of the columns. He tested the strength and was satisfied it could hold him. He tossed the rest of the rope into the opening.

One last look around.

Still quiet.

He extended his hand with the flashlight into the hatch and switched on its red-filtered light. Darkness dissolved below and he spotted brick walls and a brick floor thirty feet down. As he’d anticipated, the first ten feet would be all rope until the slack hinged inward and his feet found wall. Then he could ease himself down. The same would be true on the way back up. Thank God his upper body was in great shape The climb in and out should not be a problem.

He switched off the light and stuffed it inside his jean pocket. He slipped on leather gloves and down he went.

He marveled at what it would have taken to dig this pit two hundred years ago, all with only picks and shovels. Of course Madison had owned slaves—about a hundred according to Katie’s tour. So labor wasn’t a problem. Still, the effort to construct a hole this wide and deep was impressive.

His feet found the wall and he walked himself to the floor.

He glanced back up and imagined the scene from long ago. A lot of ice would have been stacked in here during winter. The lake he’d admired earlier beyond the house would have frozen over annually. Blocks would then be cut away by slaves, dragged to the pit, and packed with straw for insulation. So much ice that it kept itself frozen till the following winter, when the process was repeated all over again. He’d read on the Montpelier website earlier that ice cream was one of Madison’s favorite foods. His wife, Dolley, was even credited with popularizing the treat by serving it at her husband’s second inaugural ball.

He switched the light back on and surveyed the interior. The red beam shone only a short stretch, and everything was swathed in gray, so he risked it and switched to white. Hard to say how many bricks surrounded him. Certainly in the thousands, their color faded, a yellow moss encrusting the joints and crevices. Impossible to prevent given the porous soil and the length of time the pit had existed. But overall, the walls were relatively clean. Being sealed had certainly helped.