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Sins of the Family Chapter Twenty-Five

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Jill spotted a large rock overhang with an opening just large enough for her to scoot underneath it. Looking around, she fell to the moist ground and slid through the cavity. For the first time in several hours Jill had a quiet moment to consider what was happening. The dread her father had experienced, and she had perceived in him all her life, had become a palpable actuality to her. Now she understood why her mother drank too much. She knew why her grandmother had that startled look in her eyes when anyone ever mentioned World War Two, Adolph Hitler or Nazis. The line from Shakespeare’s Macbeth flitted through her mind, “Blood will have blood,” and made her shiver. Her family’s worst nightmare was coming true, and Jill was in the middle of it.
***
After several deep breaths, Bob was able to bring his pulse rate under control; his temples no longer throbbed with rushing blood. He became aware that one leg was higher than the other. Looking down, he saw his foot on a large, rough limb. Bob picked it up, finding the wood saturated but solid and hard, and a credible weapon. He had never hit another person in his entire life, but he steeled himself to the prospect he might have to strike out tonight to save himself and his wife.
Rustling leaves caused Bob to jump. Focusing his eyes through a prickly bush, he saw John coming toward him. The Cherokee paused in front of his hiding place to look around in frustration. Bob stared into the back of John’s head and thought of all the reasons why he should hate him. For the first time in his life, he found happiness and peace in his love for Jill, and John, in his insane attempt to lash out at life’s cruelties which afflict everyone, destroyed his own personal Eden. Even if he and Jill survived, they would never regain their innocent belief that their love would shield them from anything the world could throw at them. That was just cause for a hard-edged hatred capable of crashing the branch into John. Bob’s fingers tightened around the wet wood.
John’s body tensed, his head turning to the left. Bob saw feral, animal instincts in his eyes and heard his quickened breath. Bob was so close; all he had to do was bring his club down with all his might and smash into John’s skull, killing him straight away. Without their leader, the boys would scatter, and Bob’s nightmare would be over. Again John tensed, took a step forward but stopped. Bob sensed his opportunity to take back his life was passing fast. For terrorizing Jill, John deserved to die. For his insanity, he deserved to be put out of his misery. Either born of hatred or mercy, Bob’s urge to murder John became a life force into itself. Without warning, John turned and darted through blackness to the left. Bob’s heart sank. His chance had passed to prove what most people would describe as his manhood. Once again inconsequential frightened Bob Meade bumped into the intravenous feeding line, ripped a needle from his mother’s frail arm and shrank from her plea for one last embrace. He hated himself.
***
Mike continued to stumble through underbrush, becoming more frustrated by his helplessness in finding his brother, the man who called himself Moses or that other man or woman. Several minutes passed since he last heard from Randy or John. Maybe they were all lost, never to be found again. Mike did not want to be bothered with finding the skinny man or someone called Pharaoh. He wanted to bump into that princess. Thinking about her made him tingle with excitement. A branch smacked him under his cheek, stinging his skin. He brushed aside the limb, touched his tender face with his beefy hand and held his fingers close to his eyes to see blood. Mike winced, trying not to whimper at the pain. Randy laughed at him when he cried at being hurt, and he did not want Randy to catch him crying. He narrowed his eyes and clinched his teeth.
“Stupid princess. She’s gonna pay for this.”
***
Jill stifled a gasp as a snake slithered past her nose. Hearing a crunch of leaves on the forest floor, she held her breath. Her eyes focused on a pair of worn tennis shoes in front of the rock overhang. She knew it had to be one of the boys by the impatient shifting of feet, but she could not decide which brother she feared most it would be. The smaller, more intense one scared her because of his explosive anger, and she feared the larger, more muscular teen because of the lust in his eyes. Discovery by either would be a descent into hell.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Five

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For the next few weeks the prosecution and defense teams laid out their arguments. Baker, Lamon, Corbett, Gabby and Walt sat together and leisurely commented on the proceedings. The others tried to involve Gabby without provoking any fears in his clouded mind about what was happening in the Senate and what role he must play before the final vote.
On the day Massachusetts lawyer Benjamin Curtis presented his arguments against the removal of President Johnson, Lamon nodded and glanced over at Gabby. “He’s doing a very good job, don’t you think, Mr. Gabby?”
“Oh yes, I think he is doing a very good job indeed.” He paused. “What is he doing?”
“He’s presenting reasons why President Johnson should stay President,” Lamon explained carefully. “He’s very good at talking about the law. He argued before the Supreme Court against the Dred Scott Case.”
Gabby slid down in his chair. “I don’t like people who argue. They make me nervous.”
“They really don’t get mad at each other,” Walt tried to deflect any tension that might arise in Gabby. “It’s a legal term. You see there was this law that said Southerners could go North and take back any slaves that had run away from them. Mr. Curtis said they couldn’t do that under the law, but the court decided they could. Do you understand that?”
“I think so.” Gabby sat up again.
Every morning began with the men meeting at various restaurants, each known for their subdued ambience, so Gabby could eat his runny eggs. He mashed them and scooped them into his mouth. Corbett made the point that God wanted them to defend President Johnson and, in doing so, defend the Constitution.
“We really have nothing to fear as long as we are on the Lord’s side.”
“Don’t the other fellows think they’re on the Lord’s side?” Gabby stopped in mid-mastication. “Not everybody can be on the Lord’s side.”
“Don’t worry, my friend,” Corbett assured him. “I talk to the Lord daily, and I know we are the ones who are truly on His side.”
As the weeks passed, Baker found he was wiser to leave the persuasion to the others. Gabby still tensed when Baker came close, but Corbett surprisingly comforted Gabby the most. Perhaps it was, Baker supposed, that they both had a loose grip on reality in the first place. In the first week of May, Baker felt a tap on his shoulder as he and his companions entered the Senate gallery.
“Excuse me, sir, I am Dr. Charles Leale, the attending physician to President Lincoln the night he died. If I’m not mistaken, you were in the boarding house that night too. You’re Lafayette Baker of the Secret Service, are you not?”
Baker smiled slightly. “I am indeed the man you saw that night, but I am no longer head of the Secret Service. If you will excuse us, my friends and I must find our seats before the trial opens.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” Leale said, his voice taking on a tone of urgency. “You see, I’ve been following the impeachment process in the newspapers, and I’ve come away with an uneasy feeling there’s something not quite right about it all.”
Lamon stepped up. “Is that so, Dr. Leale? Perhaps you would like to sit with us. I’m Ward Hill Lamon, the former Marshal of D.C.”
Leale smiled. “Yes, I’ve heard of you. You were a close friend of the President, I believe.”
After they sat, with Leale between Lamon and Baker, the conversation continued in whispers. “I attended the trial of the conspirators,” the doctor informed them. “I had the same feeling during those proceedings.” He paused. “Oh yes, and I sat with President Lincoln’s stepbrother John Johnston, and even he sensed an air of deceit by several of the witnesses.”
Leale sat with them for the next several days. The defense pressed its argument that according to the phrasing of the Tenure of Office Act, Johnson was within his rights to dismiss Stanton because Lincoln had appointed him, not Johnson. Curtis insisted Stanton’s term ended with Lincoln’s assassination. At the beginning of the second week in May, Leale fairly leapt from his seat when he saw an elderly man leaning on a cane enter the gallery.
“That’s him! That’s Mr. Johnston!” the doctor said in an excited whisper.
He slipped away to speak to the gentleman. Baker watched him converse and point their way. The old man tried to pull away, but Leale took his elbow, as though insisting that he join them. Baker frowned as he watched them walk toward them. Johnston at times moved feebly yet seemed to mount and descend steps and maneuver around chairs with the agility of a young man. During the introductions, Baker also noticed Johnston kept his head down and avoided eye contact when shaking hands. Johnston then made a marked move to sit on the other side of Gabby and Whitman from him, making it impossible for Baker to engage him in conversation.
Each day after that, Johnston continued to place himself as far away from Baker as possible. The old man seemed to enjoy his conversations with Gabby and Whitman, but when Corbett tried to join in, Johnston always found a reason to pull out his handkerchief and cough into it. He blamed his chest congestion on the confounded spring rains. On the last day of concluding arguments and the announcement that the vote on the first article of impeachment would be the next morning, Baker resolved to catch up with Johnston before he disappeared in the crowd leaving the Capitol.
“Where are you going?” Lamon grabbed his arm and prevented his departure. “Don’t you realize this is the night we have to confront Edmund Ross? He’s the one man who can save President Johnston.”

Davy Crockett’s Butterfly Chapter Twenty-Seven

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Crisp, cool air filled the streets of Christiansburg two mornings after Captain Stasney’s death as Davy and Harriet escaped the house because of another eruption by her father. Griffith had been placid for more than twenty-four hours after slicing the captain’s body into pieces, leaving them in the woods for the hungry wolves. The two young people tickled each other’s palms before clasping hands. In his mind Davy almost believed this nightmare never happened. If there is no body there was no murder, Griffith said, and Davy began to believe it. He began to think about his future. Davy wanted to marry Harriet.
Before he could say anything, however, Miss Dorcas called out to them from her open front door. “Yoo hoo, Harriet, Davy.”
Walking over they smiled at the plump spinster and dropped each other’s hands.
“Darlings, I don’t want to be nosey,” she said, her eyes still glancing about, “but, is everything all right?”
“Why, yes, Miss Dorcas,” Harriet replied.
“Of course, my dear.” She giggled and clapped her hands around her face. “But you were so distraught the other night when you stayed with me.”
“You know, Miss Dorcas, sometimes, my father doesn’t always feel well,” she said, looking down at the ground.
“It’s just that some people do talk, and Christiansburg is a small town. Oh dear. It’s just gossip but sometimes—“
“A man was lookin’ for me,” Davy said, interrupting her with as much courtesy as he could muster. “He told folks I owed ‘im money. It was a lie.”
“Of course it’s a lie,” Miss Dorcas gushed. “You’re too good a boy to keep a man from his money.”
“Father talked to him,” Harriet said. “He straightened out everything. Everything’s fine now.”
“That’s good, dear,” she replied. “I’m glad. It’s made me very happy to see you two young people happy, and I’m happy you can continue to be happy.”
Davy and Harriet tried not to laugh until they had taken several steps from Miss Dorcas’s house. They agreed that the old woman was a dear but a bit daft. By the time they returned Griffith was in good spirits.
“I’m pleased you went for a nice walk,” he said. “You children work so hard. I feel bad you don’t get to be just children more often.”
At lunch Griffith laughed as they told him how silly Miss Dorcas had acted. Harriet was in the process of washing dishes when they heard a giant clomp at the door. Griffith, with Davy behind him, opened it to see Goodell again, this time with Town Constable Franks, a rangy, long-haired man with gray strands in his beard.
“Mister Griffith,” Goodell said, “I told the constable about the missing sea captain, and he wants to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course,” Griffith replied.
“What do you know about this Captain Stasney?” Franks said.
“He was after Master Davy here,” he replied. “The boy almost became his cabin boy, but then the man revealed his true character. I would tell you what kind of man he was but my daughter is standing here. Naturally, Master Davy ran away.”
“Why would he bother to chase after the boy if no money was involved?” Constable Franks asked.
“Master Davy had to cut him on the tongue to get away.” He glanced at the storekeeper. “Mister Goodell, you can testify how badly the man’s tongue was slit.”
“It was split bad,” Goodell confirmed.
“If somebody cut your tongue like that, constable, you’d want to get even too,” Griffith said.
“I suppose so,” Franks whispered, looking at Goodell and then at Davy, who stepped behind Griffith.
“Master Davy’s a good boy who did a bad thing to get away from a bad man,” Griffith summarized with a tight smile.
“Is that true, boy?” Franks asked.
Davy stepped out from Griffith’s shadow, nodded and returned behind him.
“Do you have any idea why a man would disappear without his belongings?” Goodell asked in an aggressive tone, glaring first at Davy then at Griffith. “People don’t do things like that. I know I wouldn’t run off without my clothes.”
“No, I don’t know why he would do that,” Griffith replied, “but he didn’t seem like a rational man to me.”
“There’s some reason for the captain to leave his belongings at the inn,” Goodell persisted.
“I’m sure there is, but Mister Griffith ain’t bound to provide that reason,” Franks said. He nodded and turned. “If you think of anything the captain said to you that night that would explain his disappearance, I’d appreciate you telling me.”
After Constable Franks walked away, Griffith pursed his lips and stared at the storekeeper. “Good day, Mister Goodell. I have my business to tend to.”
“I want to talk to the boy,” he demanded.
“He’s busy too,” Griffith said, shutting the door.
Davy watched out the window at Goodell as he stalked away. He felt as though he were a captive in the steam-filled room, because he knew Goodell would hook his elbow as soon as he came out for whatever reason.
“Don’t worry about Mister Goodell, Master Davy,” Griffith said as he resumed shaping the crown on a hat. “He can’t do anything to you.”
In the late afternoon Griffith asked Davy to go to the general store to buy some liniment to ease his back which ached from bending over the workbench. Harriet tried to intervene, but her father retorted that his back was killing him, he needed the liniment and that was that. Harriet squeezed Davy’s hand, and he walked out and down the street. He hoped against hope Goodell had let the incident slip from his mind also.
That was not to be, because, before Davy could say anything about liniment, Goodell pushed him against a wall, wagging a finger in his face.
“I know Captain Stasney is dead,” he said in a spitting low voice. “I can tell by the fear in your eyes. Either you killed him and got Griffith to cover it up, or you got that poor old madman to kill Stasney for you. And I’m not going to let you get away with it. You think you can swagger into town, pick out the prettiest girl for your own when you don’t deserve her? What can you give her? Nothing. She deserves better than a no-good vagrant.” He paused to peer into the boy’s face. “What do you have to say about that?”
Blinking, Davy took a moment to find his voice. “I need a bottle of liniment.”
That night, after a quiet supper, Davy retired to his bedroll in the attic loft but could not sleep. He knew Goodell meant it when he said he was not going to let him get away with Stasney’s death. If only he and Griffith had reported the fight that night, Constable Franks would have believed them. No one would believe them now that Griffith fed the body to wolves and they lied repeatedly that the captain just disappeared. Davy faced a tough decision. He could accept blame for a crime he did not commit or he could betray his employer and tell the truth. That would make Harriet hate him.
His only option was to run away again. Constable Franks, Goodell and the good folks of Christiansburg would assume he was indeed guilty of murder and leave Griffith and his daughter alone. Eventually they would forget about the strange sea captain’s disappearance. The last question left was his departure. Just slipping away in the middle of the night did not seem right. Davy had spent the last sixteen months in the home of the Griffiths. He learned a trade and accepted room and board and their affections. He could not forget that Harriet had completed his education, teaching him to read, write and do ciphers. Besides, he loved her too much to leave without one last kiss.

***

Walking arm in arm with Sissy back to their house, David felt he had finally made peace with his children. On the porch Elizabeth stood with his saddlebag packed and held his rifle. When they reached the steps, Sissy leaned over to kiss David’s cheek.
“I think you and ma need some time alone.” Sissy walked up on the porch, paused to kiss her mother and then slipped into the kitchen.
“You must have said somethin’ right,” she murmured.
“I want to say somethin’ right to you too.”
“I made you some vittles.” Elizabeth thrust the pack and rifle toward him.
“I shouldn’t have said some things.”
“I’ve been rough with you, too.” She lowered the pack and rifle to the porch.
“I always believed you thought less of me for takin’ your money. It made me hate myself. It’s the man who’s supposed to supply money to his wife, not the other way around.”
“You mustn’t do that. You mustn’t never hate yourself. You didn’t take that money. I gave it to you willingly.”
“And I thought all these years the reason you looked at me the way you did was ‘cause you didn’t have no respect for me.”
“I was afraid of that. That’s why I never mentioned it.”
“I knew you was savin’ it, like some weapon, to use when you really got mad at me.”
“Oh no. Never.” Her arm impulsively went out. “Didn’t you know me better than that?”
“I guess not.” He looked down, ashamed of himself and wistful so many years were wasted. His eyes met hers with sincerity. “But I did love you.”
“I want to believe you did.”
“Maybe not exactly the same type of love I felt for Polly. That was a special love.”
“Like I loved James.” Her faced opened to old memories and emotions.”
“That’s right. I think you have to be young to love like that.”
“It certainly helps.” Elizabeth’s eyes softened.
“Now the kind of love I feel for you ain’t burnin’ fire but a nice comfortable glow that warms us even if we ain’t by each other’s side, which is good ‘cause I haven’t been by your side enough.”
“No need to apologize for that again.”
“But I still have to go today.”
“Why?” Her voice cracked a little.
“’Cause I’m afraid.”
“I know.” She stepped forward to take his hand. “You’ve been afraid of somethin’ for as long as I’ve known you.”
David sat on the porch, pulling Elizabeth down to his side. “It ain’t a fear of dyin’, but to die and to have nobody care.”
“I’d care,” she whispered.
“I know.” He squeezed her hand. “But I want people I don’t know—people who ain’t been born yet—to care that I lived and I died.” Memories of the years he spent wandering around Virginia overcame him, the loneliness and the fears. “You don’t know how it was to be on your own when you’re a youngin’. I was scared of a whippin’ at first. Then I was scared of bein’ alone. And scared of bein’ found out.”
“Found out for what?”
“For bein’ a liar.” He smiled in repentance. “I have to admit I turned lyin’ into a payin’ business.” Thoughts of Baltimore made his face twitch. “There was many a night that somebody could’ve slit my throat and thrown the carcass out. An unknown boy in an unknown grave.”
“My little boy—“
“That’s why I went back home to Morristown. At least if I dropped dead in Tennessee they’d say, ‘Why, there’s David Crockett lyin’ on the ground.”
“What a thing to say.” She rubbed his arm as she smiled gently.
“So behind the bluster of David Crockett, the Indian fighter, congressman and hunter is jest a scairt li’l runaway boy.” David looked deep into her eyes and saw love, compassion and understanding, everything he ever wanted from his wife. Leaning in, he kissed her lips.
“Don’t go,” she said in a choked whisper.
“You know I can’t stay,” he replied, his voice cracking. “I don’t have it in me to stay.”
“Don’t go, please. Don’t go.”
“Abner and the boys will be here anytime,” he said, standing.
“It’s my fault.” She grabbed his arm. “It’s both our faults. We always took for granted we didn’t love each other. We saw how we acted and thought we knew why. You’re not the only one who’s lonely. I guess I pushed you away when you was here ‘cause you was gone so much. But I ain’t pushin’ you away now. I’m beggin’ you to stay. Why won’t you stay? Why, oh, why?”

***

With his suitcase in hand, Dave turned away from the door but stopped short when he saw a rose pink Mercedes pull into his father’s driveway. Only one person had a Mercedes that color. Appearing from the car Tiffany, dressed in blue jeans and a tank top that showed her butterfly tattoo. Her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she smiled and walked up with an easy gait. He put down his suitcase and waited for her to reach him. He smiled and kissed her.
“Hi, honey.”
“I know you don’t want me here,” she began with deliberation, “but you can’t always get what you want.” Crossing her arms, Tiffany looked down. “I know that’s true because I’ve always gotten everything I’ve ever wanted.” She looked into his eyes. “Even you.” Soft laughter from her lips sounded sad. “When I walked into that news room the first night of my internship, you were bending over the desk, looking at a page proof or something. What a butt. Then you looked up, a smile on your face and those eyes wide in—oh, I don’t, innocence, openness, honesty—I don’t know what, but I fell in. The gentleness, kindness, patience. On top of that you knew exactly what to do, how to do it, do it fast and do it good. Not only a cute butt but an awesome brain. So I just had to have you. Just like I just had to have my first bike, a high school prom dress from Neiman-Marcus, a tattoo and a shiny pink Mercedes.”
Tiffany looked as though she were not proud of herself at this moment. “I was kind of surprised how easy it was to turn your head. You seemed hungry for attention. Then I clinched the deal by telling Daddy about you. His public relations director got a job in Houston with some oil company and Daddy didn’t know where to get another. After he called you in for an interview he told me you were perfect for the job.”
The perfect prostitute—no, he told himself—Vince was right about not beating himself over things he could not change.
“Sure enough, Daddy hired you, you got a divorce and we got married. Once again I thought I had gotten my way. But now I know I don’t have you at all.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. I’m sorry.” She shook her head with remorse. “I’m such a fool. Daddy didn’t care that I wanted you in the job. He had about twenty applicants, and he said you were by far the best. He told me all this when I called to tell him your dad was sick and you had to go home. He actually lectured me. He didn’t want me to run you off. He wasn’t going to lose his best executive because I was a spoiled brat. Do you know what a shock it was to find out I’m not the center of the universe? You’re not a planet revolving around me.” She stared at him. “Do you still want a spoiled brat in your universe?”
“You’re not a spoiled brat, and yes I still want you.”
“Good.” Tiffany smiled. “I still want you too.” Her shoulders relaxed, and her face opened. “I had a nice long talk with Linda and the boys. They’re wonderful, by the way, and they love you very much. I like Linda too. She’s very real. She told me to tell you she holds no grudges. From the start she knew you needed more than she could give.” She grinned. “We talked it over and decided you needed someone to hold you and tell you everything is going to be all right.” Reaching out, she took his hand and squeezed it. “You know, you’re not the worst little boy in the world nor are you the best.” She held his hands up to her face. “I’m not giving up on you but I won’t be shut out.”
“I’m realizing that.”
“I know all about Allan. He had mental problems and was gay. Linda said he always wanted to be Bette Davis. That’s more interesting than my cousin who wants to be Billy Graham.”
Dave put his hands in his pants pockets and looked down. “I thought if you knew I had a crazy gay brother you wouldn’t love me anymore.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “You lived in such a perfect world. You couldn’t understand people who weren’t perfect.”
“Maybe you’re right,” she said, “but I’m willing to learn. You see, I really need you to help me grow up as much as you need me to tell you everything is going to be all right.” Looking over Dave’s shoulder, Tiffany saw Vince and Lonnie watching television inside. “Linda says Vince isn’t so bad as long as he’s not drinking, and your dad is really quite sweet and funny.” She walked past him toward the screen door. “Of course, I want to make my own decisions about them, so I’m going in now and introduce myself.”
“I’ve already told them I’m leaving.”
“Then leave, and I’ll see you back home in a few days.”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Four

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On the morning of Friday, March 13, 1868, Ward Lamon and Lafayette Baker displayed their admission tickets to a soldier standing at the door of the U.S. Senate chamber. The semi-circular room had an expansive balcony surrounding it accommodating a large audience; however, considering the historical significance of the proceedings, the congressional leadership decided to issue passes to avoid any commotion from citizens who might insist on admittance. From their seats in the balcony, Lamon and Baker had a clear view of the senators and Supreme Court judges on the floor as well as all the spectators seated around them. They had received their tickets from President Johnson himself, who had no intention on attending his impeachment trial.
They leaned forward to watch Chief Justice Salmon Chase enter the chamber and make his way to his seat where the senate president usually sat to preside over legislative sessions. They noticed he looked up at the balcony to nod at his daughter, wife of Rhodes Island Sen. Sprague. They focused on the defense table where Henry Stanberry shuffled through his paperwork. He had been Johnson’s attorney general only a few weeks ago until he resigned to lead the defense team.
After several minutes, Chase rapped his gavel to quieten the murmuring in the large chamber where the most confidential whisper would ricochet off the high ceiling. The first to speak was Stanberry who requested a forty-day delay so the defense could prepare its case. Prosecution Chairman John Bingham objected, and Chase summarily agreed with him. After a few more procedural motions, the Senate voted to adjourn until March 23. As they filed out of the chamber, Baker heard a voice call out, “You! Hey you!” First, he twitched and then looked around. His face reddened as diminutive Boston Corbett marched up to him.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Baker glanced around, hoping no one would notice.
“God spoke to me,” Corbett said with authority, then pointed at Baker in defiance. “You’re the man from the barn. I remember you. God needs us now for a mission. I don’t know what mission the mission is, but he needs us. And it involves what’s going on here.”
“Who the hell is this man?” Lamon muttered.
His face still stricken with embarrassment, Baker grabbed each man by the elbow and pushed his way through the crowd, forcing his two compatriots ahead of him. He did not let go of their arms until they had reached a small café a few blocks from the Capital building. After they had ordered coffee, Baker looked grim-faced at Lamon. “This is the man who helped me get Booth out of the barn that night.” He looked around the busy room to make sure no one was hearing their conversation. “This is Boston Corbett, the man everyone thinks killed John Wilkes Booth.”
“We were following the will of God,” Corbett said, raising his chin.
Lamon smiled slightly. “Well, Mr. Corbett, pleased to meet you.” He extended his hand. “My name is Ward Hill Lamon, and it just so happens that God has me and Mr. Baker here on a new mission, and I think you will fit in just fine.”
“Praise the Lord.” Corbett shook his hand with a firmness that only came with holy conviction.
Later under the cover of darkness, Lamon and Baker went to the Executive Mansion and asked Johnson’s secretary Massey if they could speak to the President. Baker could see the resentment in Massey’s eyes over their last confrontation but he nodded curtly and took them to the President’s office upstairs. After they sat, Baker began to tell Johnson what had happened in the Senate chamber, but the President brusquely interrupted.
“Do you men know what the hell is going on with my damn defense? Jeremiah Black was in here this afternoon, and that son-of-a-bitch wanted me to declare war against the Dominican Republic. Something about Haiti. I’ll be damned if that man isn’t up to something involving Ben Butler.”
Baker watched Lamon smile and shake his head. “Mr. Seward did something similar to this before the Confederacy fired on Fort Sumter. Seward thought if the South got behind a war against Mexico with a chance of annexation and a related increase in slave holding territory, they’d forget about secession. Mr. Lincoln basically just ignored him.”
“Well, I fired the bastard.” Johnson paused and ran his hand across his jowls. “I need somebody else by the time the defense team meets again.”
Baker hesitated to suggest any lawyer he knew for they all were solidly supporting Stanton.
“William Groesbeck—he’s from Ohio—“ Lamon spoke with some hesitation. “Approach him from the view of the Constitution,” Lamon continued. “I don’t know what he thinks of you, but he’s very defensive about the Constitution.”
When Lamon, Baker and Corbett took their seats in the Senate gallery on March 23, they noticed that President Johnson had taken Lamon’s advice and replaced Black with Groesbeck. After Justice Chase called the trial to order, another member of the defense team William Yates stood to call for a delay of thirty days.
“Why do they keep asking for delays?” Baker whispered to Lamon.
“Well, they’ve already gotten one week of the original forty hours they requested,” Lamon explained, “so if they keep at it they may end up with all the time they wanted. Besides that, Yates is a smart man. He graduated from Yale. The president is in good hands.”
“Of course the president is in good hands,” Corbett agreed with a smile. “He’s in God’s hands.”
However, Chase agreed with the prosecution’s James Wilson who objected, saying the longer Johnson remained in office the more damage he would inflict upon the nation. Lamon and Baker shifted uneasily, knowing Chase’s personal opinion of the President would affect his rulings in the case.
Baker sat back in his chair, and his gaze shifted across the audience in the balcony until it focused on a face directly across from him. It seemed familiar, and then recognition came. The man was Gabby Zook. Even though it was some distance across the chamber Baker swore that he had made direct eye contact with Gabby because the former janitor’s mouth opened as though he were about to scream. He tugged at the bearded man next to him and tried to stand. His companion patted him, causing him to resume his seat. Baker elbowed Lamon.
“You know I told you about the janitor?”
“Yes,” Lamon replied. “Gabby Zook. I’ve talked to him. I don’t think we can get him down to Washington to tell his story. He’s pretty well ensconced in Brooklyn.”
“No, he’s sitting right over there.” Baker pointed directly at him, which caused Gabby to try to leave again.
The commotion made it easy for Lamon to spot him. “By God, I think you’re right.”
“Of course,” Corbett agreed. “Everything is ordained by God.”
The first speaker, Representative Benjamin Butler, acted as though he were presenting a summation of charges that the prosecution had already laid out before the court. He moved around the Senate floor, pausing for dramatic effect by particular senators. Lamon and Baker exchanged quizzical glances as Butler continued around the chamber. They knew Butler had been controversial during the war as the Union general who oversaw martial law in New Orleans, but they had assumed he had a certain amount of competence.
“So this comes down to doing the right thing,” Butler announced in his gruff oratorical style as he took a stance next to Kansas Sen. Edmund Ross. Placing his hand on Ross’s shoulder, he continued, “Do not confuse justice with fairness. Sometimes right is not fair. Sometime right is just right.”
Baker noticed Ross straightened his back as his face darkened. Looking at Lamon again, Baker whispered, “That’s our man.”
“What?” Lamon asked.
“Edmund Ross is our man. He’s known for his sense of fairness,” Baker explained. “He may hate Andrew Johnson but he believes fairness is the cornerstone of a fair trial. All we have to do is present our case to him, to cause him to have a reasonable doubt.”
When the proceedings broke for luncheon, Lamon and Baker, with Corbett following like a faithful puppy, rushed to catch Gabby and Whitman on the steps. Gabby attempted to lunge away from them, but Whitman gently grabbed him by his shoulders.
“There’s no reason to be afraid, Mr. Gabby,” Whitman assured him. “I think we should share our noon-time repast with these men. We certainly have quite a bit to discuss.” He looked at Lamon and smiled. “How about that nice tavern where we talked a couple of years ago? I think it’s nearby here.”
After they settled at a table in the back of the eatery and ordered their food, the men looked around the table at each other, not quite knowing how to begin the conversation.
“Well, Mr. Lamon, I suppose you want Mr. Gabby to tell his story to President Johnson,” Whitman said, opening the discussion.
“No, the President knows what happened and believes Stanton was the leader in the conspiracy. What we need Mr. Zook to do is join us, including Mr. Corbett, in revealing our information to the one senator who must vote no on the removal of Mr. Johnson as President and thereby ensuring the removal of Mr. Stanton as Secretary of War.”
Gabby averted his eyes as he nodded Lamon’s way. “But I’m afraid of him—that man.” Gabby gestured toward Baker. “He killed the private, and he might kill me.”
“I did not kill Private Christy,” Baker said, trying to sound as non-threatening as he could under the circumstances. “He shot himself. But, yes, I had come to the Executive Mansion to kill him. But you don’t have to fear me anymore. I know what I did was wrong.”
“You could be lying,” Gabby muttered, his eyes looking around for a close exit.
Corbett patted Gabby’s hand. “You don’t have to be afraid, sir. He’s telling the truth.” He looked at Baker. “You’ve found Jesus, haven’t you, sir?”
“Well, I hadn’t thought of it that way,” Baker replied as a sad smile crossed his lips, “but I supposed I have.”
Gabby shook his head in confusion. “I didn’t know Jesus was missing.”

Sins of the Family Chapter Twenty-Four

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Only one vision flashed into Heinrich’s mind, Hans Moeller’s cabin in the Bavarian forest. Once again he was in that room, but this time he was tied to a chair and Greta held the knife which came slashing down into his abdomen. For once in his life, Heinrich comprehended how it felt to be the object of brutality. But even at this point of understanding, he did not atone for his cruelty. Heinrich only pitied himself because Rudolph was the one who had made him feel small. That was why it was so easy for him to torture Hans. As tears streamed down Heinrich’s cheeks, his chest constricted. It was as though Greta, in addition to slapping and kicking him, also were sitting on him. And Rudolph was standing there, smirking at him. Quivering, his hand reached up to his flabby breast.
“Greta.” This time it was a call for help, for compassion. Her laughter reached all the way from their bedroom, and it was not laughter he was used to hearing. Her voice was hard-edged and triumphant like his own laugh when he stood over Hans Moeller’s limp, bleeding body.
“Greta. I’m hurting.” Again he heard the gusty laughter of the victor. No mere female joke on the television could evoke such a full, satisfied sound. Heinrich knew from personal experience. The pain in his chest intensified. His fingernails clawed into his sallow flesh, trying to tear out the offending member of his body. One last time he pleaded, but his voice was only just a whisper.
“Greta.”
***
Randy stood, wiped the bloody knife on his pants and put it away. John ran to join him, stopping short when he saw Harold’s body on the pavement and his blood trickling down the road.
“You fool! I told you not to let him escape, not kill him.”
“He kicked me in the face.”
“He was fighting for his life. You would have done the same.”
“We didn’t need him.”
“He was a good man.” John tried to look away but was transfixed by the blood. “He didn’t deserve to die like that.”
“He was a liar, like all other bad people in the world.”
John slapped Randy full across his face. Randy’s eyes widened with surprise. John slapped him again, even harder. His face reddened in rage borne in frustration. Randy’s impudence and stupidity drove him mad. John could not take the boy’s insubordination any longer.
“I am Moses!” John was hysterical. Spittle flew from his mouth onto Randy’s cheeks. “I decide who lives and dies! You are a follower! I am Moses!”
Mike joined them. His mouth fell open when he saw the doctor’s body on the highway.
“Okay, okay.” Randy looked down and shuffled his feet. “Stop yelling at me.”
“Hey, you killed him,” Mike said, examining Harold’s body. He laughed. “He don’t look so smart now, does he?”
In the distance a car motor’s humming became louder, and headlights flickered across the hills. John turned in that direction.
“A car’s coming.”
“Hey, let’s hide in bushes and watch the car run over his body.” Mike nudged his brother. “I bet it’d make it jump real funny.”
“That would make the car stop,” John said. “We don’t need to involve any more people.”
“We gotta get rid of the body,” Randy said.
“That ain’t no problem at all.” Mike laughed as he bent down to throw Harold’s corpse over his shoulder. He headed for the stone terrace followed by John and his brother.
***
At the bottom of the embankment, hidden by underbrush, Bob and Jill stood and examined themselves for broken bones and scrapes.
“Are you all right?” Bob panted as he put his arm around Jill.
“I think so.” She leaned into him and trembled.
“It’ll be better if we separate.” Bob looked around.
“No.”
Before Bob could reply, a thumping noise and soft tumbling drew their attention upward.
“What was that?” Jill said.
“I don’t know.” He directed his gaze back to her. “You can hide easier without me around.”
“I don’t want to lose you.” She hugged him around his waist.
Harold’s bloodied body crashed through underbrush and came to rest at their feet, his blank eyes staring at them and his throat open with blood coagulating and turning brown. Jill began to scream, but Bob laid his fingers over her lips. After they had a moment to compose their emotions, Bob pushed her away from the corpse.
“Find a crevice, a cave, anything and stay there until morning.”
“What are you going to do?”
“The same thing.”
“I don’t like it.” She shook her head.
“I don’t like the alternative,” he replied, nodding at Harold’s body.
“All right,” she conceded.
“And don’t come out until morning—no matter what you hear.”
“Don’t say that. It scares me.”
“Go,” Bob whispered. “Now. Quick.”
“I love you.” Running back for another hug, Jill grabbed him.
“I love you.” He kissed her with urgency. “Now go.”
Running a few feet, Jill turned to look back. Bob motioned her on, and she vanished in dark brush. With one last swift fleeting look around, he bolted into shadows of rhododendron and cedar trees. Musky stench of decomposed leaves and animal urine filled his nostrils. He tried not to think of smells from the hospital when his mother died. At least it was not quiet, as he listened to deafening song of crickets.
***
Peering into the darkness of the mountain trees, Mike laughed again.
“Did you see how funny he bounced down the hill?”
“Oh, shut up.” Randy shoved him.
“We’ve got to find the others,” John said.
“You shoulda never let them out of the car,” Randy groused.
“Shut up!” John demanded.
Randy glared at him.
“What are you gonna do, Moses?” Mike asked with eagerness.
“There are three of us and only two of them,” John replied in an even tone, regaining his composure. “They can’t have gone too far.”
“So we have to go down there?” Mike peered down the embankment.
“Yes.”
The boys jumped off the asphalt pavement and easily kept their balance as they scampered down the steep ridge. John tentatively followed them. When he arrived at the bottom, John was greeted by a broad grin on Mike’s face and a look of contempt in Randy’s eyes. He did not care for the apparent degeneration of their deference for Moses.
“That way.” John took Mike by his broad shoulders and jerked him to one direction and pushed. When he turned he saw Randy already going in the opposite direction.
“You don’t have to push me around,” he muttered.
John sucked in air and plunged straight ahead. The couple must be caught and forced to lead them to Pharaoh. Once the boys saw how he conquered Pharaoh they would respect him again.
***
Leaves and twigs crackled, causing Bob to stop and lean in the direction of the noise. He understood every fiber of muscle in his body and every rational thought in his brain was required to survive. Sucking in his gut, Bob slid behind a large prickly bush. When he was a child, he knew his father would not have thought he could handle such an ordeal. Maybe he would have more confidence in him now. Bob shook his head, telling himself it made no difference whether his father thought he could survive. All that mattered was surviving.
***
John looked into shadows, listening for some rustling or snapping which his ears could not divine. He cursed his father under his breath for not taking him into forests and mountains when he was a child. He cursed him for not teaching him Cherokee ways, how to track, how to catch prey, how to survive. His father was too preoccupied with dancing for tourists, earning their paltry coins, to raise John to be a proper warrior. If his father had trained him instead of beating him, John now could find his quarry quickly and continue on his mission to find and kill Pharaoh. Pharaoh. He thought of what Harold had said to him about his father being Pharaoh and not some old German man. Maybe he was right. Maybe his father was Pharaoh. John squared his jaw. But that old German was terrible also. He must complete his mission to kill him and then return home to slit his father’s throat, the true Pharaoh.
***
Mike thrashed about in shadowy undergrowth, uncertainty etched on his forehead. Hunting down a mysterious bad guy was no longer exciting. Randy was furious with John or Moses or whatever his name was. Mike always became frightened when people around him squabbled. The sweet oblivion of his beer stupor wore thin, making him thirst for more. He did not want to kill anyone. That was too much work. People looked silly when they had spit running down their chins or blood spurting from their guts, but it was more fun to have another beer.

Davy Crockett’s Butterfly Chapter Twenty Five

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“So you thought you could cut Captain Elmer Stasney and git away with it?”
All Davy could do now was to listen to his heart pound in his chest. When he opened his mouth nothing came out.
“What? I can’t understand you,” Stasney said, taunting him. “You used to have a bunch to say, but you ain’t got nothin’ to say now, do you?” He kicked at Davy’s legs. “You know how long it took me to find you? That Adam Meyers told me what kind of little scalawag you are and that you deserve anythin’ I did to you. That old farmer had to bleed before he remembered who you were.” He kicked at Davy again. “After a while it got easy to follow your tracks. Everybody remembered the boy with the big mouth. You talk too much. Your wild stories make you stick in people’s minds. That’s a bad habit, boy.” He bent down to whisper, “Maybe I should slit your tongue like you did me and see how you like it. I was goin’ to give you everythin’ I had. If you had done right, you could have had my Jezebel when I died, but you cut me.” His voice hardened. “You bit the hand that fed you.”
Whimpering, Davy started to inch his way up the hill away from Stasney.
“I’m goin’ to git you back to the Jezebel and take you down to my cabin and do what I should have done that night you cut me. This time you won’t git away.”
“Ahh!”
Davy recognized the scream. It was Griffith. As Stasney fell forward with Griffith on his back Davy scrambled to his feet. Instead of running away he stumbled backwards until he bumped into a tree.
“What the—“ Stasney blustered, looking over his shoulder at the slightly built blond-haired man who was grunting,, wild-eyed, grasping and clutching.
“This ain’t your fight, man! This boy’s broke his bond!”
“Shut up!” Griffith shouted as he pulled out his knife and started stabbing at Stasney’s back.
“Stop!” He twisted around and flailed his arms, trying to knock Griffith off. One swing caught the hand holding the knife which caused it to fly from Griffith and land at Davy’s feet.
Griffith leaped over Stasney’s head toward Davy who bent over to pick it up and stare at it without comprehension. The boy held it out to him, but Stasney grabbed Griffith’s feet and pulled him back.
“I’m goin’ to kill you, man!” Stasney said in a growl.
Wrenching a leg free Griffith stomped at Stasney’s face over and over again until his other leg escaped the captain’s clutches. He scrambled forward to snatch the knife from Davy’s hand, twisted around and shoved it into Stasney’s left eye. As the captain screamed in pain Griffith stabbed his right eye. Stasney lifted his head, and Griffith crammed the blade under his jowls and rotated it. Blood spurted from the captain’s mouth and muted gurgling sounds made their way around the flow. Stasney collapsed, his body going limp.
“Is he dead?” Davy asked.
“He will be.”
“They can’t call it murder. He said he was goin’ to kill you. Of course, you jumped ‘im, but he was coming’ after me. Self-defense, or somethin’. They can’t git you. Do you know the constable? I’ll tell ‘im. I’ll tell ‘em all. The captain deserved it.”
“There’s not going to be a trial,” Griffith said.
“What?”
“You have to have a body to have a trial.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was just a stranger passing through town.” He looked at Davy. “He never saw you. You didn’t see him tonight. If Goodell asks you anything about him, say you never saw him.”
“You’re goin’ to bury him out here in the woods?”
Wolves howled in the darkness.
“No.” Griffith lifted his knife and looked down at Stasney’s bleeding body. “Go back to the house. Clean up. Get a good night’s sleep.”

***

When David rode back to the farm from the Kimery store with a new leather-bound Bible in his saddlebag he saw Elizabeth sweeping the dog trot. Dismounting his chestnut David walked with deliberation to the edge of the porch. To catch her attention he coughed a little. She continued to sweep, so he decided to jump right into the conversation.
“I appreciate what you done this mornin’,” he said.
“What did I do?” Elizabeth kept looking at the broom. “I don’t remember.”
“You told Robert to be good to me.”
“Oh yes. As well as he should. Thou shalt honor thy father and thy mother so that thy days upon the earth shall be increased. That’s what the Good Book says.”
“The Good Book says a bunch of things that folk don’t abide by. You do, and I want you to know I appreciate it.”
“Thank you.” She did not break her rhythm in sweeping.
“Last night, when I said I had to go to Texas,” he added, “I didn’t mean to say I didn’t know how good you are or how hard you work. I didn’t mean to say I didn’t love you.”
“I know.” Elizabeth stopped sweeping, turned and smiled. “Jest ‘cause I got mad don’t mean I don’t love you.”
“That’s good.” David grinned. “That’s good to know before I leave.”
“The children, Robert, Matilda and Sissy too, they love you. More than they want to say.” She furrowed her brow. “We’ve been hurt, that’s all, and it hurts more when you love the person doin’ the hurtin’. That’s why I told them to be good to you.”
Not believing what he heard, David swelled with happiness. Never had Elizabeth ever told him so outright how she felt about him. “Come to Texas with me!”
“What?” She smiled. “Do you want me to smack you with this broom?”
“I don’t care! Go ahead and smack me! Jest as long as you go to Texas with me!” He took her hand to bring her down the steps. “It’s a wonderful land!”
“How do you know?” Her eyes sparkled. “You’ve never been there. Anyway, I don’t care if it’s flowin’ with milk and honey—“
“But it is!”
“You and your ideas.”
“I’ve heard you don’t have to can food. Jest pick the fruit off the trees whenever you want!”
“There ain’t no place like that, except maybe heaven.”
“That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell you! Texas is heaven on earth!” He put his arms around her thick waist.
“No, that’s too far.”
He felt her body tense in his embrace, and he knew his brief flirtation of taking her with him was over. “Too far from what?” David asked as he pulled away.
“I don’t know.” Her smile faded. “Family, I guess.”
“From the Pattons?”
“Well, they are my family.”
“Like the ones who took you to court.” David felt his temper slip as he endured her rejection.
“Well, they meant you, when they went to court.” She paused, her eyes wandering about. “But it’s not jest the McWhorters and the Edmundsonses.”
“You afraid you’ll fergit James Patton if you move to Texas?” David had never given voice to his suspicions that she was still dedicated to her first husband who died in the Indian War. For years he used that thought as an excuse to leave on hunting trips and political campaigns. She did not need him, he reasoned, because she had her memories of James Patton to comfort her.
“And I suppose you don’t think you’ve made it quite clear you loved Polly more than you ever loved me?” She lifted her head in anger.
“If Polly hadn’t died, she’d be here, and she wouldn’t give me no argument. She’d say go, and I’ll follow.”
“That’s foolishness!” Elizabeth snapped. “How do you know for sure how she’d act after a lifetime of bein’ left alone like I have? Yes, you’d have left her jest like you left me and don’t deny it!”
“If you’d stop lovin’ a ghost and love me, you’d say my heart belongs to you, and it goes where you go!”
“And if you loved me, you wouldn’t talk like that!”
David and Elizabeth stared at each other in an emotional standoff.
“You never understood me,” he said. “You lived with me, and we’re nothin’ but strangers.”
“I ain’t goin’ to say another word, Mister Crockett,” she said, turning to walk up the steps. “If you got to go Texas, you go. If you die in some God forsaken land, you die.”
“That’s what you really want, ain’t it?” His anger overcame his common sense. “You want me to die so you can finally be alone with your memories.”
Elizabeth turned sharply on the top step, her eyes wide and glaring, and hissed, “Oh, go to hell!” She gasped, put her hand to her mouth and shook her head.
“No, I ain’t goin’ to hell, I’m goin’ to Texas.”

***

Sarah Beth invited Dave to spend the night in her guest room and leave the next morning. His original intention was to fly home without delay in hopes of making it to the Gainesville Social Security office as soon as possible, but her calm friendliness made him realize how tired he was. Mary dragged Myrtle, who was still asking questions about David Crockett’s love life, out the door. Sarah Beth pulled out a homemade stew from her refrigerator and put together simple sandwiches. Much to Dave’s relief, she changed the topic of conversation from his famous ancestor to discuss her own family. Her husband died of lung cancer after a long affair with cigarettes.
“He seemed so surprised to discover there actually was a link between smoking and cancer.” She shook her head. “After all those years of making fun of pointy-headed scientists who didn’t know what they were talking about, he found out too late they were right.”
She had two sons and a daughter. The elder boy was gay. Her husband on his death bed refused to speak to his alienated son one last time. Now her son visited Sarah Beth often with his close friend of many years whom she found to be warm, compassionate and funny. Her daughter was a middle school teacher who only just discovered her devoted husband was a cocaine addict. Their early stages of discussing divorce were complicated by the fact their two-year-old son adored his father. Her younger son, a computer technician, wanted to marry but was shy and did not make a good first impression. By the third or fourth time a woman talked to him, however, she would find a gentle and selfless human being. Alas, Sarah Beth said, most women did not want to try that hard to find out how wonderful her son was. After a pause, she smiled and patted Dave’s hand.
“Please don’t feel like you have to tell me about yourself.” She looked with awareness into his brown eyes. “In fact, it’d be best if you didn’t. I’d rather believe the children of Davy Crockett had nothing but love and happiness in their lives.”
The next morning Dave’s plane lifted from Roanoke, and the family Bible packed in a sturdy cardboard box, sat on his lap. Sarah Beth had a very nice family who loved David Crockett more than Lonnie’s brood ever did. He did not want to disappoint them by letting the Bible get away from him.
Dave personally was not very impressed with his ancestor, once he grew out of his childhood infatuation with the movies, songs and trademarked toys. The autobiography was hard to read, written in the old Tennessee vernacular and filled with silly claims of riding streaks of lightning, grinning down bears and things too inconsequential to remember. Also suspect was Crockett’s departure at age fifty for Texas leaving behind his wife and three teen-aged children. While he knew it was not fair to impose current values on someone who lived a hundred and fifty years ago, Dave still could not indulge in ancestor worship. Dave wished he could have told Myrtle that Polly had been the love of David’s life, mourning her early death until his demise at the Alamo, but he could not. Whether his second wife Elizabeth became the stable, enduring love of his life was also unknown. Myrtle would just have to draw her own romantic conclusions.
Back in Gainesville, Dave walked into his father’s house with the Bible in his hands. He had never seen Lonnie rise so fast from his easy chair.
“Did you get it?”
“Right here.”
Lonnie’s face exploded with a large grin. Vince appeared in the door to the hall wiping his face with a hand towel.
“Good,” his father murmured. “That’s good.”
“It’s not ours anymore,” Dave said. “The woman who bought it just let us borrow it long enough to show at the Social Security office and then I have to ship it back.”
“I don’t care about that,” Lonnie said, “jest as long as I can get my Social Security.” His hand went to his face stubble. “I better clean up before we go.” He paused to look at Dave. “You do want go to the Social Security office right now, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” Lonnie turned for the hall.
“I got to get home tonight,” Dave said.
Lonnie disappeared without hearing him, and Vince went to Dave.
“You still not goin’ to be his guardian?”
“You can do it,” Dave replied.
“I ain’t never sold a house before.”
“Get an agent. Hope for the best.”
“That sounds like you’re still mad.”
“I’m not mad. I’m just tired.”
Lonnie reappeared freshly shaven and in his Sunday suit. They drove to the Social Security office downtown.
“This car drives good,” he said after a long silence.
“Thanks.”
“What is it? One of them fancy new Chevies?”
“It’s a Jaguar.”
“What’s that? A Oldsmobile?”
“It’s English.”
“What? One of them foreign cars? I don’t know nothin’ about those things. If it breaks down I can’t fix it for you.”
“Jaguars don’t break down that often.”
“Well.” Lonnie shrugged. “Can’t do nothin’ about it now.”
They did not have to wait long before they went into the Social Security clerk’s office. At first the man was impressed with the physical historical document. When he heard what they wanted, he went to a filing cabinet and pulled out the needed forms. After they filled out every blank he smiled at Lonnie.
“This shouldn’t take long, Mister Crockett,” he said. “You can go ahead and start filling out an application for the nursing home.”
The ride back was less tense, and Dave began to speak freely. “I’ll wrap up the Bible and send it back today.”
“That’s good.” Lonnie paused. “You done good.” He added, “You grew up into a good man.” As they pulled into the drive way he tapped his foot. “Was she a nice lady?”
“Very nice. She had an aunt and a cousin there too. They were nice.”
“That’s nice.” He paused to sigh in profound relief. “It’s all very nice.”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Three

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The House of Representatives voted in the late afternoon of Feb. 24, 1868 to impeach President Andrew Johnson, and late that night a collection of Republican leaders gathered in Stanton’s office in the War Department to discuss their strategy for removing Johnson. They knew the impeachment laws required a two-thirds majority, thirty-six votes, to convict him of violating the Tenure of Office Act. Stanton felt an overwhelming fatigue and could not rise from his chair to greet his visitors. During most of the conversation, he stared into his fireplace.
Massachusetts Sen. Benjamin Wade seated himself on a long sofa close to Stanton. He had positioned himself as presiding officer of the current Senate; therefore, if the senators removed Johnson, Wade would become President.
“Representative Stevens sends his regrets that he could not attend this meeting,” Wade said, “but his health is failing and he wants to improve his strength so he could attend the Johnson trial.”
“I’m sure he did not use that exact language,” Charles Sumner replied with irony. He was the other senator from Massachusetts. He did not have the personal ambitions of Wade, Stanton observed as he studied the faces of the two men in the flickering flames. Sumner seemed to have a personal vendetta against anything or anyone with even the slightest affiliation with the Southern cause.
Another gentleman in the room from Massachusetts, Rep. George Boutwell, went to Stanton’s side and patted his shoulder. “Are you feeling well, dear friend?”
Stanton appraised the young man and wondered if his concern for the secretary’s health was real or contrived, also trying to position himself for political gain in the event of Johnson’s removal. Sighing deeply, he found himself weary of viewing every action and every word of every man in the most cynical and political terms. He shook his head. “I shall be fine.” He waved at the sofa where Wade sat. “That piece of furniture may seem comfortable for a short repose, but it is lacking in ease for a good night’s sleep.”
All the men chuckled at his attempt at humor, but none as forceful as Pennsylvanian Rep. John Bingham, who seemed full of his new political prowess, having just won election to Congress. “Well, it won’t be much longer, sir. I’m sure the trial will end quickly and in our favor.”
“I’m not so sure of that, Bingham,” Sumner interrupted. “This will be as cunning an endeavor as we have launched in the past eight years. We cannot allow ourselves to become overconfident.”
“You must agree, Sen. Sumner,” Rep. Boutwell said, “we only have to convince five or six senators to vote with us. The majority is assured.”
Sumner held up his index finger. “It all comes down to one vote, which is much more precarious than you can ever imagine.”
A light knock on the door drew the politicians’ attention to the interruption. A young man with red hair dressed in a private’s uniform came in carrying a glisteningly clean chamber pan.
“Sorry to disturb you, gentleman, but I wanted Secretary Stanton to have his pot available the next time he requires it.” He laughed. “It seems embarrassing, I know, but I don’t want Mr. Stanton to be discommoded.”
The others in the room joined in the laughter, which caused Stanton to look up out of curiosity. This did not sound like the same young man who had taken his pot out earlier in the day, nor like the one who had brought him his meals. When he looked up, Stanton tensed in his chair and his right hand went to his face to cover his gaping mouth. The soldier looked strikingly similar to Private Adam Christy, but he knew it could not be him because Christy shot himself in the head the night Abraham Lincoln died.
After depositing the porcelain vessel in the corner of the office, he bowed awkwardly as he backed away. “Sorry to have interrupted you gentlemen in your discussions, whatever they may be.”
Stanton refrained from blurting out a question to the private. Yet he wanted to know who he was and what had happened to the soldier who had attended him earlier in the day. He leaned back and closed his eyes. He was tired. His mind was playing tricks on him. God, he wished this entire ordeal were done. The last couple of years had worn him down to a nub.
“Don’t worry about it, young man,” Boutwell said, smiling broadly. We all have unpleasant assignments from time to time. Isn’t that right, gentlemen?”
The others around the room chortled in agreement. An uncomfortable pause followed which prompted Stanton to look up and glance around at his compatriots. “Yes, yes, of course.”
“So any time you have to go about your duties, don’t let us get in your way, Private—what was your name?” Boutwell asked.
“Christy, sir. Adam Christy.”
Stanton sat up and stared intently into the soldier’s face. The hair color was correct. The height, the weight. He narrowed his eyes to inspect the complexion. He remembered the boy’s face was riddled with pockmarks. From the flickering light of the fireplace, Stanton could not quite make out how smooth the private’s skin was. Certainly mottled, the Secretary could ascertain from this distance.
“Well, Private Christy, I think you will have a fine career as a military man if you so desire it.” Boutwell smiled broadly.
“Yes, yes, but we need to continue our discussion,” Sumner said, trying to cut the distraction short and return to the conversation that brought them together.
The young man bowed again as he opened the door and slipped out, exposing a light but distinctive limp. “Sorry to have inconvenienced you, gentlemen.”
Wade cleared his throat. “Now, as Sen. Sumner said, we only need one vote. Now just who is this man and how much and what kind of pressure need we apply to achieve our stated objective?”
“Edmund Ross, the new senator from Kansas,” Sumner replied. “He replaced Jim Lane after the suicide.”
“Well, that was the initial determination,” Bingham piped up, “but it seemed a bit odd to me that a man with the military background as Jim Lane would ever take his own life. And shooting himself as he jumped from his carriage. And the driver just disappeared. It’s more than just a bit odd. I happen to know that Edmund Ross was in Leavenworth the very day Lane died. Witnesses said they had had several arguments in the week leading up to the shooting. What do you think, Mr. Stanton?”
Stanton wanted to tell Bingham that he thought the representative only brought up the topic of James Lane’s death to give himself a chance to speak. The Secretary prided himself on sizing up the character of a man quickly, and he pegged the Pennsylvanian as being full of his own importance. Stanton coughed. His asthma was rearing its ugly head during the last throes of a particularly wet and cold winter.
“I don’t think we should waste time talking about a dead man,” Stanton intoned. “The only man we should be discussing is Edmund Ross. And I don’t comprehend why he would even be placed in the undecided column. I’ve heard the man speak. He absolutely loathes Andrew Johnson.”
“Evidently you have not heard that Sen. Sprague of Rhodes Island—you know, he’s the fellow who married Chase’s daughter—alleged that Ross put himself on the shaky side with a comment about how even though he personally did not like the President he did think the man deserved a fair trial.”
“Fair trial?” Benjamin Wade bellowed from his corner. “How much will we have to pay that scoundrel to forget the idea of a fair trial?”
“It always has to come down to a matter of filthy money with you, doesn’t it, Wade?” Boutwell returned a full volley.
“Hear now, hear now, gentlemen!” Sumner called out both sides. “We needn’t make enemies among ourselves. There’s enough of Johnson’s despicable Southern hide to go around to satisfy every man in this room.”
Stanton erupted in a seizure of coughing, quite spontaneous, yet still well timed for the War Secretary, who never liked feeling as though he had lost control over a committee of any sort.
“Dear me, gentlemen,” Wade offered in a softer, conciliatory tone, “it seems we have discomfited our host.”
Wiping his mouth with a handkerchief, Stanton shook his head. “My apologies, colleagues. It’s just another flare-up of that damnable asthma which has plagued me all my life.”
“Perhaps you would be better cared for in the comfort of your own home,” Wade said with a small smile.
“That is the sentiment of my wife who does not understand the complexities of national politics. I will not give any of my opponents the least excuse of stripping me of my power—of my position. My country needs me too much for that to happen.”
Boutwell stood. “Well, I think we have taken enough of Secretary Stanton’s time. And I agree with him that he will be well attended here in his office by Private Adam Christy.”
Stanton’s head shot up and appraised each man in the room. “Yes,” he said barely above a whisper. “Private Christy will tend to me very well.”
The congressional faction had only been gone a few moments when the private returned with a tidy, clean stack of handkerchiefs in his hand. “I heard you coughing from the hall, sir, and I thought you might need these.” He held them uncomfortably close to Stanton’s mouth and nose.
“Now see here,” he snarled as he grabbed the handkerchiefs, “just who the hell are you?”
“I’ve told you, sir. I am Private Adam Christy.” Innocence and apprehension filled the soldier’s inflection.
“That’s a lie!” Stanton realized his voice was out of control. He looked at the door to see if any concerned passerby might check in on him. The Secretary returned his attention to the person standing in front of him. Dangerously close. This stranger could lean forward and throttle him within seconds. Stanton dismissed the thought from his head as paranoia. “I know that is a lie because I know Adam Christy is dead.”
The soldier stepped back out of the glow of the fireplace and smiled. “And how do you know that Adam Christy is dead?”

Sins of the Family Chapter Twenty-Three

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I gotta go.” Mike shifted with discomfort in the back seat, pressing against Bob and Jill. He belched.
“Me too.” Randy’s dull eyes glanced away from the yellow line down the middle of the highway through the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
Harold watched John’s shoulders tense. Stopping at the request of the brothers must be a frustration. Perhaps he would be able to use this wedge to tear them apart before something else terrible happened.
“Later. We must find Pharaoh,” John said.
“If we don’t stop I’m gonna go all over myself.” Mike’s face twisted into a childish pout.
Hunching his shoulders and pulling his legs up, Randy glared at John.
“It’s mean not letting us go.”
As the car rounded a corner, its headlights shone on the empty parking lot of the New Found Gap overlook which straddled the border between Tennessee and North Carolina.
“I gotta go,” Mike said again.
“Very well.” Sighing in resignation, John pulled into the parking lot. “Rest rooms are in a building down that path on the left.”
“Oh boy.” Mike laughed as he tumbled out of the car, followed by Randy. In a few moments they returned. “The door’s locked.”
“Go behind the building,” John said, leaning his head out the window.
Harold eyed John, wondering what he could say to make him return to the hospital.
“You look tired.”
“Why did you say that?”
“Because I care about you.”
“No one cares about Moses but his own people.” He gazed at a large stone terrace overlook with a plaque commemorating its dedication by Franklin D. Roosevelt back in the nineteen forties.
“And God?”
“Of course. Yo He Wa.”
“But Yo He Wa is god of Cherokee. Yahweh is God of Moses.”
“You can’t fool me by playing word games.” He shook his head.
“You really want your father to care about you.”
John ignored him.
“If you let me take you back to the hospital, I can help you with your feelings about your father.” After an extended silence, Harold glanced in the back seat at Bob and Jill, deciding it was time to stop reasoning with John and instead concentrate on escape. He never lost hope with a patient before, but John transcended his role of pitiful victim of childhood head trauma and of unstable parents to a new identity of crazed messiah, bent on destroying anyone who crossed his path. In this hour of darkness and isolation, escape was his only answer.
“May we stretch our legs?” he asked.
“Wait until Joshua and Caleb return,” John replied, still not turning his head to look at Harold.
A few minutes later Mike and Randy, laughing and punching each other, ran up the asphalt path toward the parking lot.
“You want to stretch your legs too, don’t you?” Harold looked into the back seat, peering into Bob’s eyes.
“Yeah. Sure.” Bob looked at Jill. “You want to stretch your legs?”
She squinted in bemusement and then nodded.
“Yes, I need to walk.”
Harold opened the door and slid out as the brothers, still trying to zip their pants, bounced up.
“You gotta go, too?” Mike said with his usual open, smiling face.
“No.” John leaned over to look out the door. “The doctor wanted to stretch his legs.”
“Oh yeah?” Randy stared at Harold.
“Yes,” Jill added, stepping from the back seat. “We’ve been on the road a long time.”
Harold surveyed the group before him, an innocent couple and three escaped mental patients, all thrown together because of his incompetence. He could not shake the words from his father’s lips that night many years ago in his Long Island home.
“Do as you wish. You always have. But mind you, one day you’ll make a fatal mistake in a diagnosis, and you’ll remember what I told you this night.”
His memory was as sharp as that crystal shard which pierced his finger. The red of the blood drop glistening in the fireplace blaze and the ice blue of his father’s disapproving disdainful eyes crowded rational thought from his mind. His thoughts compelled Harold to throw himself against Randy, who fell into Mike, crashing them into the car’s fender.
“Get out of here!” he ordered Bob and Jill.
They stood there frozen in shock, as though they had become inured to the violence they had witnessed in the last few hours.
“Run!”
Bob grabbed Jill’s hand and ran down the asphalt path to the restrooms and threw her down the gentle slope down into trees and underbrush, following her as she tumbled through the shadows. John scooted across the seat and out the passenger door.
“After them!”
Harold stumbled to his feet and turned to shove Randy, who sprang like a young panther, back into the larger, leonine Mike. Harold sprinted out of the parking lot and spotted flickering headlights rounding the knoll from the North Carolina side of the mountain and scurried for the highway.
“I hate him,” Randy muttered as he tried to untangle himself from his brother’s flailing arms and legs.
“Get up!” John kicked both teen-agers. “Don’t let him escape!”
Wildly waving his arms, Harold situated himself in the middle of the New Found Gap road, but the approaching automobile veered off around him and plunged into the darkness of the twists of the mountain highway, winding its way to Gatlinburg. Before he could move again, he sensed his legs being pulled out from under him, his face smashing the cold hard asphalt tasting the briny blood gushing from his ruptured lip.
“Gotcha,” Randy said.
“It’s useless to fight us, doctor.” John huffed as he caught up with them.
Rolling over, Harold thrust his foot into Randy’s head, bloodying his nose. As the boy squealed in pain and grabbed his face, Harold jumped up, pushed John back into Mike, who had at last arrived, and turned to dash in desperation after the vanishing red taillights. Perhaps, Harold told himself, if he ran fast enough he could lose himself in the mountain’s shadows.
Randy struggled to his feet, wiping blood on his shirt, and made another flying leap at Harold, this time landing on his shoulders, dragging him down. His boney tailbone jabbing into the doctor’s lower back, Randy reached over the smooth top of Harold’s shaved head, stuck two fingers into his nostrils and violently yanked backwards, exposing his neck. With his free hand, Randy pulled out the hunting knife and with a swift motion slashed Harold’s throat.
Struggling against Randy’s grip, Harold could only burble before his body wilted, his consciousness going blank, no longer haunted by the visions of his father’s ice cold, disapproving eyes.

Jonathan and Mina in Romantic Transylvania Chapter Sixteen

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Jonathan paused to collect his thoughts. It was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life. Finally, after delving into the deepest levels of his subconscious, he began to breathe deeply. His shoulders and pelvis danced in a sensual revelry he had only experienced under the influence of the vampire lifestyle. His eyes lit with licentious intent as he slithered over to Mina.
“Oh, Meeena! Wouldn’t you rather kissss me?” He hissed as he rubbed his body up against Mina.
“Mmmm,” she moaned in desire. “Yesss! Oh, yesss!” Mina jumped into his arms and kissed him with verve and a lot of slurping.
“Miss Seward!” Dracula was totally miffed. “Do you mean you choose this lower being over the Prince of Darkness?”
“You betcha! He’s hundreds of years younger than you!” Her head fell back and she licked her lips as Jonathan kissed her neck. “Besides, he has a much better tan than you do!”
Jonathan carried her toward the double doors. “To the game room for more fun on the trapeeze!”
“I’m tired of being Mr. Nice Guy!” Dracula was really pissed off now. “This is my castle!” He raised his arms, spreading out his cape as though it were bat wings. “This is Transylvania!”
Thunder and lightning exploded throughout the neighborhood. The nearby peasants probably covered their heads with blankets and shuddered in their beds. Even Dr. Helsing trembled a bit. Jonathan completely lost his composure and put Mina down.
“Uh oh.” Jonathan barely concealed the whimper in his voice.
The professor found his courage sufficiently to stride to the bottom of the staircase, jutting out his old German chin.
“Your special effects don’t frighten me, Count Dracula! The day of the vampire is coming to an end.”
“Don’t you mean the night of the vampire?” Jonathan was incurably dense.
“Shut up,” Van Helsing retorted before he returned his attention to staring down the imperious vampire.
Slowly Dracula descended the steps. “You a mere mortal who has not lived even one lifetime intend to end my reign of terror which has spanned the centuries?”
“Yes, that was general idea.”
“And how were you planning to accomplish that?” The count sneered. Any semblance to romantic charm disappeared from his extremely pale face.
Van Helsing jabbed the air with his index finger. “With the contents of my trusty valise!”
“Oh.” Dracula continued his descent. “You mean the valise way on the other side of the room?”
After an awkward double take to spot the valise on the floor by the sofa, the doctor muttered, “Um, just a minute.”
He began to run as fast as an old man could under the circumstances. The prince extended his arm, his fingers pointed to execute a most intricate hypnotic spell.
“Stop!”
Oddly enough, Van Helsing obeyed, his face going blank and subservient.
“Look into my eyes!”
His mouth went agape, and his eyes were profoundly empty.
“My will is stronger than yours, Van Helsing! You shall do as I command!”
“Doctor, please!” Jonathan called out. “You can’t do this! Come on, be your old irascible bossy self!”
“Shut up, you twit!” Dracula barked.
“Yes, sir.” Jonathan whined.
“So, the great Dr. Van Helsing is helpless against my superior willpower.” The count was enjoying this moment entirely too much. He pointed again at the professor. “Dance!”
Van Helsing broke into a respectable old soft shoe. Who knew anyone with a stick up his ass could be that nimble? Dracula threw back his head and laughed.
“We’re doomed!” Jonathan could not have been any more forsaken.
“Now that I have thoroughly humiliated you by forcing you to dance, Van Helsing, come here!”
He abruptly stopped, which was unfortunate because he was about to shuffle off to Buffalo. “You didn’t force me to do anything.” Van Helsing smiled triumphantly. “I love to dance. I won the Dusseldorf dance championship three years in a row!” He turned his attention back to the valise by the sofa. “Now please excuse me as I get a stake out of my valise and drive it through your stinking, dried up black heart!”
“Miss Seward!” He snapped his head to the young couple. “Stop him!”
“Yes, master!”
Mina turned to attack Van Helsing but Jonathan grabbed her arm and desperately tried to regain his vampire vim and vigor.
“Mina, no! Don’t you want to go to the game room?” He nodded toward the double doors, winked and emitted a rather pitiable hiss.
“You can’t fool me again.” She sneered as she jerked away. “You’re not one of us.” She ran to the valise, bumping the professor out of the way, and seized it.
“Miss Mina, no!” Even the doctor was aghast by her proficiency in pilfering.
“Mina! Give it to me!” Even Jonathan’s actions showed an urgency heretofore unseen and with a brusqueness exceptional for a British gentleman.
“Van Helsing!” Dracula was not messing around. He felt like a little fang action—right now. “Your time has come to die!”
While Jonathan was successful in wresting the valise from Mina, his aim in throwing it to the doctor left something to be desired.
“Oops.”
It landed right at Dracula’s feet. “What an unfortunate toss, Mr. Harker.”
“I was never very good at school boy games,” he admitted.
“Admit it, Van Helsing, you’re defeated.” Triumph licked every syllable that came from the vampire’s wan lips.
Dr. Van Helsing took a moment to observe his opponent before pulling out his pocket watch, reading the time and looking up in satisfaction.
“If I compute my continental time zones correctly, it’s you, Count Dracula—not I—who is defeated.
This statement caught him off guard. “Time? What has time to do with anything?”
The count lunged for the professor, but Van Helsing dodged the assault to dart up the stairs to the dust-ridden, moth eaten curtain hanging over the vaulted windows.
“Time has everything to do with it. Especially when that time is dawn!” The doctor reached up and yanked on the drapery which collapsed, allowing shafts of light to flood the entry hall.
“Oh guano!” Dracula began convulsions, making awful grating sounds. Finally he dropped to his knees.
“Master!” Mina reached for the melting vampire, but Jonathan swooped her up into his arms.
Quivering in exquisite agony Dracula rolled over onto his back, his eyes bulging and his tongue flickering out in a most unpleasant manner.
“Hurry it up, will you?” The old German had no compassion at all. I’ve had a long night, and I’d like to get some sleep.
The Prince of Darkness emitted his final, nauseating gasp and went limp. Mina, coincidentally at the same moment, was going through similar, though less severe, spasms. When she eventually calmed, Jonathan gently put her down. Mina, returning to her normal ditzy self, looked around in amazement.
“Jonathan! Where are we? What are we doing?”
He looked into her eyes and stroked her cheek softly. “Don’t you remember, dearest? Count Dracula had us under his spell and almost transformed us into vampires.”
“Yes, yes. It’s slowly coming to me.” Mina noticed Count Dracula’s moldering corpse on the cold stone floor. It was dissolving into dust. She walked closer to examine it. “He was right. The sun does absolutely nothing for his complexion.” She looked over at Van Helsing and smiled. “And you saved us.
“To be frankly German, yes.” The professor shrugged.
Mina went to him and gave the old man a hug. “I’ll always be grateful, Dr. Van Helsing. Friend.”
“Yes, thank you, doctor.” Jonathan joined them and shook his hand. “I know Mina and I weren’t always completely helpful during this ordeal.”
The German was on the verge of blushing. “Yes, I know. But I understand.”
The young lovers stared into each other’s faces.
“I’ve never seen you with your hair down before,” Jonathan said softly. “Nor have I seen you in your, well um, undergarments.”
“And I have never seen your bare legs.”
“Might I say you look gorgeous?” He nuzzled her neck.
“Certainly, if I may be so bold as to say your legs are gorgeous.”
Van Helsing cleared his throat. “Yes, yes, well this mutual admiration society is very commendable, but we have two bodies to bury here.” He pointed to Dracula and Susie Belle.
“As horrid as this episode has been,” Jonathan said slowly, “it has brought me to one realization.”
“What is it, dearest?”
“I never want to step foot inside Our Lady of the Perpetual Headache again,” he declared with conviction.
Mina giggled. “Neither do I.”
“Any volunteers for burial duty?” Van Helsing raised his voice in hopes of getting their attention. “Not everyone need speak up at once.”
“In fact,” the young man continued with more assertive lust in his voice, “I don’t think I can wait another day to make you my bride.”
Her eyes lit. “”I’m sure a cleric or magistrate in the village below would be glad to administer the vows.”
“You’re right.” The professor flapped his arms in surrender. “Why not pay a local peasant to do the dirty work? Why should I risk a hernia over the likes of Dracula?”
“Shall we go now?”
“The sooner the better.”
Jonathan lifted Mina in his arms and headed for the front door.
“Stop.” Van Helsing sounded a bit alarmed. “Don’t tell me you’re going down to the village dressed like that?”
“Why not?”
“Dr. Van Helsing,” she replied impishly, “don’t be such a prude.”
They kissed with tongues and then hissed at each other. And out the door Jonathan carried her, anticipating a new life of spontaneity and pleasure. Van Helsing wagged a finger at this, dismissing them as new members of the conflagrate younger generation, and turned for the staircase.
“I don’t care if they make a public spectacle of themselves. I’m going upstairs and get some sleep. There should be a nice soft bed somewhere in this castle, in this God-forsaken, creepy castle.” He paused to consider his situation. Two dead vampires on the floor. Enough dust and cobwebs to choke a man to death. The subtle but breathtaking stench of guano. An nuance of death and foreboding. He scampered back down the stairs and out the door.
“Oh, Mr. Harker! Miss Mina! Wait! You need a best man!”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Two

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Walt Whitman and Gabby Zook, wearing heavy coats, hunched over as they made their way down windy Portland Street in Brooklyn on the coldest day yet of the New Year 1868. They paused only briefly as Whitman bought a newspaper from a waif on the corner before crossing to their favorite little café for a warm and stout breakfast. As they hung up the coats on the rack by the door and found an empty table, Whitman said in good humor, “I’m sorry my brother disrupted your sleep this morning. Jesse is fine most of the time, but when he’s experiencing a flare-up of his syphilis, well you never know what he will do.” Whitman smiled and patted Gabby’s hand. “I don’t think he would have thrown that hot grease on you. He’s really quite fond of you. He told me so himself.”
“As long as I get my eggs. I like the middle nice and runny.” He paused as he looked out the window to see snow flurries begin. “Jesse’s just like the rest of us, isn’t he, Mr. Walt. No one is totally normal, but we all try hard to get along. At least I know I do.”
A young woman dressed in a drab brown dress with a soiled apron tied around her waist brought two mugs of hot coffee to them. Gabby smiled brightly at her. They ate there many times, and she was often their waitress. He sat there placidly as Whitman placed the breakfast order, stressing how Gabby liked his egg yolks runny. After the girl walked away, Gabby looked at his friend seriously.
“Private Christy was a really nice person too. I could tell it. Of course, he tried to kill me once.”
Whitman leaned forward, sipped his coffee and smiled. “And how did that happen?”
“Oh, I don’t think he would have tried to kill me if I hadn’t jumped on his back.” He paused to sip from his cup. “This is really good coffee.”
“And why did you jump on his back?”
“Mrs. Lincoln told me to. She said if we could get the key away from him, we could get out of there. I usually don’t like to be mean to people, but I was missing Cordie something terrible. You know to be a skinny fellow, Private Christy was pretty strong. He threw me off and was about to kill me when Mr. Lincoln came up out of his bed and picked Private Christy up by his arm pits and threw him against the wall. Now Mr. Lincoln was strongest of us all, and he could have killed Private Christy if he had had a mind to.” He looked at Whitman and wrinkled his brow. “I wonder why he didn’t?”
“You know that as well as I do. He was a man of honor.” Whitman glanced over Gabby’s shoulder to see the waitress approaching with their breakfast. “Ah, and here are your eggs, nice and runny, just the way you like them.” He watched Gabby closely as he devoured the eggs. “You don’t know how to lie, do you, Mr. Gabby?”
“No sir, I don’t.” He tried to talk while chewing the eggs. A bit of the yolk dribbled down his chin. As he wiped it with his napkin, he added, “I know I get confused real easily sometimes, so everything coming out of my mouth aren’t facts, but I don’t make things up on purpose.”
Whitman buttered his toast and munched on it as he read the newspaper headlines. He was amazed that Stanton had talked General Grant into resigning as Secretary of War. The Republican Senate reinstated Stanton over Johnson’s objections. He did not bother with explaining all this to Gabby right at this moment, because he didn’t want to interrupt his enjoyment of the eggs. This was not an unkind judgement on Gabby, Whitman decided, because he felt most of the nation could not understand the rapid changes at the War Department. When Gabby finished, he pushed his plate away and smiled.
“Mr. Stanton is in the newspaper again,” Whitman announced simply. “You don’t really care for Mr. Stanton, do you, Mr. Gabby?”
Gabby’s eyes wandered out the restaurant window. “He’s the man that put us in the basement all that time.”
“Yes, I remember you telling me that.”
“He tore a Gabby quilt right in front of me once.”
“And what is a Gabby quilt?”
“Cordie made them just for me, to keep me warm at night. That’s why she called them Gabby quilts. Somehow she got Private Christy to bring one to me, and Mr. Stanton was sure there was a message hidden in it somewhere so he ripped it up. Didn’t find anything but stuffing.”
“That was a mean thing to do.”
“Mrs. Lincoln fixed it for me the best she could. She was kind of mean and crazy sometimes, but sometimes she could be almost as sweet as Cordie.”
“The newspaper also says General Grant resigned as secretary of war so Mr. Stanton could have the job again. What do you think about that, Mr. Gabby?”
“I thought General Grant was stronger than that. I thought he could stand up to Mr. Stanton. Maybe Mr. Stanton is meaner that I thought.” He looked around, as though he were afraid someone might have heard him talk bad about Stanton.
“Well, I know you’re not mean, Mr. Gabby.” Smiling, Whitman looked intently into Gabby’s eyes. “Why, right now, I think you’re stronger than Mr. Grant ever could be. It takes a brave man to face his fears—risk his life even—to defend the very fabric of his country. Are you that brave, Mr. Gabby?”
He paused as his finger wiped around the plate, picking up the last of the eggs. “Yes, I think I am strong now. My friend Joe would be proud of me.”
***
To anyone passing by on this particular Philadelphia street on Valentine’s Day in 1868, would have seen an elderly Roman Catholic priest standing on the steps of the elegant home of comic actor John Sleeper Clarke. If that person continued to look in that direction, he would have seen the actor’s wife Asia open the door and smile in an obligatory way. Nothing unusual about the situation because it was common knowledge that Mrs. Clarke, the sister of John Wilkes Booth, had been raised in the Catholic church, even though she now attended her husband’s Episcopal church. The passerby would have continued on his way.
“May I help you, Father?” Asia inquired politely.
“A very close friend of mine told me you were in need of spiritual counseling.” The voice seemed to be a bit strained, a high pitch with a force vibrato.
She smiled and shook her head. “I have no needs that my own Episcopal minister cannot resolve. Nevertheless, thank you for dropping by and forgive me for not inviting you in. My family is in the middle of packing. We move to London, England, in about a month.”
The priest spoke again, this time in a softer, deeper, more natural tone. “Asia.”
Her eyes widened, and his lips quivered. “Wilkes?” She looked deeply into the man’s face, now discerning heavy grayish stage makeup. “Oh my God, Wilkes, is that really you?”
He smiled, raising a finger to his lips.
“Please come in, quickly.” She grabbed his elbow and dragged him into the foyer. First she turned to her parlor, which was cluttered with open storage boxes. “No, not here. John is due back from running errands for me. He would surely recognize you immediately, and that would not do.” She turned to go down a dark hallway, which disappeared behind the large oaken staircase. “We have a pantry room in the back. If John comes in the front door, you’ll be able to escape out back without being seen.” She opened the pantry door and pushed him in. As she lit a kerosene lantern, her brother chuckled.
“So it is confirmed,” Booth said. “I always thought John resented me. He never got over the fact he gave me my first job on the stage and I quickly overshadowed his star.”
“That’s nonsense,” she replied in a clipped tone. “He hates you because he was arrested in those first days after the assassination. He thought he would have the same fate as Dr. Mudd and the others, merely for being the assassin’s brother-in-law.”
Booth sobered a moment. “Do you hate me too, Asia?”
She choked back tears as she threw her arms around his shoulders. “Of course not. I’ve always loved you above all my brothers and sisters. The two worst moments of my life were when they said you killed the President and when they said they killed you.”
She pulled back so she could see his chiseled features in the flickering light. Her fingers lightly touched his cheek. “You are as handsome as ever.” The tender moment did not last as Asia’s eyes clouded with curiosity and more than a bit of irritation. “What are you doing here? If anyone recognized you on the street and reported it to the authorities, my husband would surely be taken into custody again and this time they might hang him.”
“I don’t know why I came here,” he confessed, “except that I did want to see you once more and inquire about Mother.”
“How do you expect her to be? Mortified that her favorite son killed the president and mournful because she thinks he’s dead.”
He shook his head. “She cannot think otherwise. Mother can never know I still live. No one must know.” Booth smiled cynically. “Now I doubt I that I told you.”
“How did you escape the barn? They were so positive when they identified your body.”
“If I told you the truth you would not believe me. Just have faith in me. There were many important men behind the assassination of Lincoln, a conspiracy that continues today with the efforts to impeach and remove Andrew Johnson.”
Her eyes filled with hope. “Then you didn’t kill the president?”
“No, I did it. I planned it. I wanted him dead. Only later that I learned other, darker forces were at work. You see, I truly loved the Confederacy. These men only love themselves, and they will pay for their sins.”
“Wilkes, you’re scaring me. What does all this mean?”
“I will only say this. Have you been keeping up with the news from Washington City about the attempts by President Johnson to fire Secretary of War Stanton?”
“Why, of course. Everyone has.”
“All I will say is that I find it highly ironic that Mr. Stanton has now locked himself into his office to keep from being officially removed.”
“But I thought General Grant was Secretary of War,” Asia interrupted her brother. “Why is Stanton back in office?”
“I think it is part of their strategy. If they can keep the public guessing about who Secretary of War is and who isn’t, they can keep the public from learning the deeper, darker secrets.”
“Who are they?” she asked. “And what secrets?”
Booth shook his head and smiled. “I can’t take time to explain everything. Just let me say that I expect an impeachment vote by the House any day now to get rid of Johnson.”
“So you’re telling me that Mr. Stanton somehow was involved in the assassination of Mr. Lincoln?”
“I cannot say. I will not say.”
A noise at the front door drew their attention.
“It’s John. You must go now.”
Booth lightly kissed her cheek. “Never forget that I love you, but I can never see you again.”