The Lincoln Myth (45 page)

Probably not.

Sirens could now be heard.

With the lights back on in Salisbury House, the theft would be evident.

Time to be far away, and fast.

“S
HE SHOULD BE RIGHT ON YOU
,” L
UKE SAID INTO THE MIKE
.

No reply.

“Malone.”

Still silent.

Where the heck was the old-timer?

He decided to take matters into his own hands. The pain had
finally subsided, and his hard-trained muscles were ready, nerves alert.

So he sprang ahead.

C
ASSIOPEIA HEARD THRASHING RAPIDLY COMING HER WAY
.

She increased her pace and came to the end of the rear garden, rushing ahead through the woods toward her parked vehicle. Someone was closing in. The car doors were unlocked, the keys in her purse along with the watch, which she held tightly.

The woods ended at the edge of the road.

She spotted her car and raced over, climbing inside, stuffing the key in the ignition and firing the engine. She shifted into drive, foot on the accelerator, and was about to speed away when something pounded the hood. Through the windshield she spotted a man sprawled out and a face. Younger. Late twenties, early thirties.

“Going somewhere?” he asked her.

The man’s left arm came up from his side, the hand holding a semi-automatic, which he aimed straight at her.

She smiled and kept her eyes locked on his.

Then her right foot floored the accelerator.

L
UKE HAD EXPECTED SOMETHING, WHICH WAS WHY HIS RIGHT
hand was vised onto the hood’s lip at the base of the windshield, where the wipers were hidden.

The car lunged forward, tires spinning in the dirt and grass, then grabbing pavement.

She swung the wheel left, then right, trying to dislodge him.

He held tight.

She increased speed.

“Pappy,” he said. “I don’t know where you are, but I need you. I’m going to have to shoot this crazy bitch.”

Stephanie’s orders were clear.

Get the watch.

At any cost.

C
ASSIOPEIA DID NOT WANT TO SERIOUSLY INJURE THE MAN ON
her hood, but she also needed him to go away. He surely worked for Stephanie Nelle. Who else would be here?

They were on a dark side street with no traffic, woods on both sides between an occasional driveway.

Ahead, something emerged from the trees.

Another vehicle.

Blocking both lanes, perpendicular to her path.

Its driver’s-side door opened and the outline of a man emerged.

One she knew.

Cotton.

She slammed on the brakes and skidded the car to a stop.

M
ALONE STOOD HIS GROUND
.

Luke dropped himself off the hood and yanked open the driver’s door, his weapon pointed at Cassiopeia.

She did not move.

The cabin light revealed her face, another mask of stone, like in Salzburg, her gaze locked on him. Luke reached in and switched off the ignition.

“Get the hell out,” Luke yelled.

She ignored him.

Malone walked toward her, his steps slow and steady. He came close and spotted the small purse on the passenger seat. Black. Chanel. Adorned with iconic charms that had served, in years past, as symbols of the brand. He’d bought it in Paris, a Christmas present last year, for the woman who quite literally had everything.

He stepped to the passenger door, opened it, and retrieved the purse. Inside lay the watch, which he removed, tossing the handbag back inside. He was as pissed with her as she was with him and, like her, said nothing.

He motioned that they should leave.

“You sure?” Luke asked.

“Leave her be.”

Luke shrugged, then tossed the keys into her lap.

Still, not a speck of reaction from her. Instead she slammed the door shut, fired up the engine, and spun the car around 180 degrees before speeding away.

“That wasn’t good,” Luke said.

He watched as the vehicle faded into the night.

“No,” he whispered. “It wasn’t.”

FIFTY-NINE

M
ARYLAND

R
OWAN SAT INSIDE THE TEMPLE
.

Ever since childhood, he’d felt safe within a temple’s walls. Then it had been the temple in Salt Lake. Since coming to Washington, he’d made this temple his home. Here, behind thick masonry and locked doors, Saints could practice as they pleased. No one but Saints who’d achieved temple recommend could enter. Only during the weeks prior to its consecration were a temple’s doors opened to gentiles. In 1974 nearly a million had walked through this magnificent structure in the Maryland countryside.
Time
,
Newsweek
, and
U.S. News & World Report
had all published stories on it. Open houses had been the norm since the early days, a way to counter the wild rumors and misconceptions about what lay inside. But once a temple was consecrated it became the exclusive realm of Saints.

He’d fled Blair House and taken a cab straight here, his second visit of the day. Earlier, outside in the morning chill, he’d planned with his congressional colleagues what was to happen next.

Now he was unsure of everything.

Charles R. Snow himself had entered the fray.

An extraordinary occurrence, one he’d never anticipated. Actually, he’d been counting on Snow’s death. Once he was ordained as prophet, which was a given, he’d have the entire church at his disposal.
Instead Snow had released him, demanding a resignation. That was unprecedented. Apostles kept their jobs until death. He’d currently served the longest, rising through the hierarchy, now one heartbeat away from becoming prophet.

And not just any prophet.

The first since Brigham Young who would lead both the church and the government. And the first to do such with the status of an independent, viable nation.

Deseret.

True, a vote of the electorate and a court fight lay ahead, but he was confident both could be won.

Now the dream seemed in dire jeopardy.

Both Daniels and Snow knew everything. Had Stephanie Nelle sold him out? Was she a spy? Her appearance had been most fortuitous.

Paranoia was setting in.

Just as it had after the Civil War and before the turn of the 20th century, when Saints were prosecuted and jailed under the anti-polygamy Edmunds-Tucker Act. When the church itself was declared illegal. When one turned on the other. Spies were everywhere. The Time of Troubles, it had come to be called. Which only ended when the church caved and conformed.

He was alone, inside one of the celestial rooms.

He had to think.

His cell phone vibrated.

Usually the devices were not allowed inside the temple. But this was far from usual. He checked the display.

Salazar.

“What happened?” he asked, after answering.

“The watch is gone. The government now has it.”

He closed his eyes. The evening was turning into a disaster. Nothing had gone right.

“Head to Salt Lake,” he ordered. “I’ll be there in the morning.”

“They knew we were here,” Salazar said.

Of course they did. Why wouldn’t they?

“We’ll talk in Salt Lake.”

He ended the call.

C
ASSIOPEIA SAT IN
J
OSEPE
’
S HOTEL SUITE AND WATCHED AS HE
spoke on the phone.