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Davy Crockett’s Butterfly Chapter Twenty-Four

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With a final kiss on Harriet’s forehead, Griffith turned her toward the door and watched out the window until she disappeared down the road. He walked back to his work bench where he picked up various knives to examine them for length, strength and sharpness.
“I know all this is very scary, Master Davy, but I assure you no harm will come to you.”
“What are we goin’ to do, sir?” he asked with apprehension.
“Go outside, sit on the step until Captain Stasney arrives.”
“What?” Davy did not understand.
As Griffith held one short knife up to his eyes, “Wait for him to arrive, and when he does, run as fast as you can into the woods and up the hill. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.” He put the knife aside and picked up another, testing it for sharpness. “Don’t worry. He won’t catch you.”
“Maybe Mister Goodell won’t tell him where I am,” he said. “Maybe he decided I was tellin’ the truth.”
“Oh no. Goodell will tell him, probably already has.” He paused as he took a whetstone to his knife. “I never really liked Goodell. He likes to look down his nose at people.” He turned to Davy. “Now go to it. Or would you like something to eat first? No, I suppose you’re too nervous for food, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Before Davy could say anything else Griffith marched out the door. He took a moment to recover from his master’s abrupt departure. Davy decided he had no alternative but to wait for Stasney. Going outside he could not see where Griffith had gone. Breathing deeply, he did as he was told and sat on the stoop. How his life had been turned upside down in the last few hours, Davy mused as he stared down the road and listened to distant call of wolves. Rough clumping through gravel caught his attention. Davy focused on the dark approaching hulking figure. Shivers echoed up his back as he recognized that gait. Stasney was coming.
“Boy!” he bellowed.
Straight away Davy jumped to his feet and ran up the hill into the woods.
“Come here!”
He could not withstand temptation to look back at the captain who rampaged toward him. Griffith was correct. He should not have glanced. But he kept running through the woods. Even though he had stamina and speed on his side, Davy also was aware Stasney had fanatical determination to kill him. One mistake on his part and Davy could be dead. Why had Griffith abandoned him, Davy wondered as his breath became labored. His foot caught on an errant tree root, landing him face down in the dirt and leaves. As he rolled over he saw Stasney towering over him, his forked tongue slithering in and out through his thick dark lips.

***

“I can do the right thing first,” David said, looking from Elizabeth to Robert. “You don’t have to tell me. And the right thing for me to do is to go. Nobody’s been happy since I came back. The only answer is for me to leave.”
“Don’t that make it good for you, to do what you wanted to do in the first place?”
“Robert, hush,” Elizabeth said.
“But I can leave with things better than they are.”
With a grunt Robert picked up his axe and barged out the barn door.
“I mean, it, Elizabeth,” he said, looking at her with sincerity. “I’m goin’ to make everythin’ right.”
“Of course you are, Mister Crockett.” Her face was stony, and her eyes fixed.
David turned to saddle his horse, and she left. Before he rode away to Texas he was going to prove to his family that he could tell the truth. His first step was to go to the old Kimery store to talk to Thomas Tyson. October air was crisp. The summer heat had passed. Harvest time was upon them. David wanted his last Tennessee crop to be a good one. Walking into the general store David girded his inner strength, bravely smiled and approached the storekeeper.
“Mister Tyson, I owe you an apology and an explanation.”
Tyson’s eyes widened.
“I shouldn’t have left the way I did yesterday,” David continued. “It was stupid. It was cowardly.” He paused. “I may be a liar, but I’m no coward. And I apologize for hittin’ Matilda.”
“You tell Matilda you’re sorry?”
“Not yet.”
“You should tell her before talking to me.”
“You’re right. But I wanted you to know ’cause you’re important to her. You want to marry her one day, don’t you?”
“Yes.” His blue eyes blinked through his thick glasses. “I don’t think it would be fitting before she was sixteen.”
“I appreciate your respect for her. If it means anythin’, you have my blessin’.”
“It means something.”
“I’m leavin’ for Texas in a few days. So for what it’s worth, I’ll never hit her again.”
“And I swear I’ll never hit her.”
“I know that. I’m not worried about Matilda, but I got some fences to mend with Robert.”
“I don’t think I got that kind of mending materials.”
“I ain’t never bought one of these before.” David walked over to the table of Bibles.
“Don’t you believe what’s in it?”
From his childhood David had been told of God, Jesus and the Holy Ghost, but he had never taken time to think about them. He loved and respected his mother who lived by the Bible and would have read it if she could read. David would never have heard of Creation, the Flood, Exodus, Virgin Birth, Crucifixion and Resurrection if not for his mother. On the other hand his father believed in the parts of the Bible that allowed beating children, vengeance, wrath, abominations and Armageddon. David found his route through life somewhere in the middle, not quite as holy as his mother but not as evil as his father.
“Of course I believe in the Bible,” David told Tyson.
“I want you to know I’ll bring up your grandchildren in the church and follow the teachings of the Bible,” the storekeeper said.
David continued flipping through the pages and nodded. “Matilda’ll be in good hands. And she knows I love her.” He looked at Tyson. “She does know that, don’t she?”
“Yes,” he replied, “and she loves you. That’s why your slap hurt so much.”
“But she forgives me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive in her eyes.”
“That’s good.” David shut the Bible and turned to Tyson. “I want to buy this.”

***

“Mother doesn’t like to think of sad things,” Mary said, smiling at Myrtle. “Unfortunately, Harriet’s marriage was not a happy one.”
“I’m afraid few people have happy marriages,” Dave replied.
“Sadly, that’s true,” Sarah Beth confirmed, “but Harriet and her husband had three robust children who produced many grandchildren which made Harriet’s long old age very pleasant and comfortable.”
“Her husband Charles was much older than she and preceded her in death by many years,” Mary added.
“That was not the first tragic death in Harriet’s life,” Myrtle interjected. “Harriet’s father died not long after Davy went back home to Tennessee. It was a hunting accident.”
“Well,” Mary said, “rumors had it he shot himself, having succumbed to mercury poisoning, common to hat makers of the day.”
“Mary, I don’t like those stories. Taking one’s own life, well, it just isn’t done in proper families. Besides, why would he kill himself? He hadn’t done anything wrong.”
“Mother, if a person has gone mad from mercury poisoning, he doesn’t need a reason for suicide.”
“Anyway, Harriet went to live with the seamstress in town, Miss Dorcas Hinton. Within a few months storekeeper Charles Goodell began courting her and they were married soon thereafter.”
“They didn’t really love each other?” Dave asked.
“According to family tradition,” Mary replied, “it was more a marriage of convenience. While there was no talk of any actual strife they had no great romantic feelings either.”
“Most marriages back in those days were for convenience,” Myrtle muttered with a sigh, “the convenience of the man.”
“As you mentioned, Dave,” Sarah Beth said, “very few marriages are great love affairs.”
“One reason we know Charles was not the love of her life,” Mary added, “was that as Harriet grew older the more she talked about her lost love Davy Crockett.”
“Oh.” Dave began to see why the Bible was important to them.
“Each son brought his fiancée to meet his mother,” Mary continued, “and Harriet told her the story of the love she almost shared with the famous Tennessee hero. It was a cautionary tale not to let love slip away. Her sons had sons who grew up and presented their new wives to Grandmother Harriet who told them she had loved the martyr of the Alamo. Even on her deathbed her last words were about Davy Crockett.”
“The story always brings tears.” Myrtle pulled out a lace handkerchief to daub her eyes. She laughed. “Menfolk in our family don’t seem to understand how wonderfully sad this story is.” She glanced at Dave. “You’re probably just like them and think we’re just silly women crying over a silly old love story.”
“No, I understand,” he replied, thinking of Tiffany and Linda.
“Then you know why I was so excited when I saw the Bible in that Dallas bookstore,” Sarah Beth said. She looked at Myrtle. “My aunt would have never forgiven me if I hadn’t brought it home.”
“No, I wouldn’t have.”
“I hope you can trust me to take the Bible back to Texas,” he said. “I promise to return it as soon as possible.”
“Actually,” Mary offered, “we should let you buy the Bible back for the price Sarah Beth paid. After all, it is your family’s Bible.”
Dave saw Sarah Beth and Myrtle hold their breath. He would not even think of returning such a valuable document to the house of Lonnie Crockett who possibly could throw it out next week as part of the garbage. These people cared for it, as his mother had, sheltering it and placing it on display only on special occasions, a perfect artifact to illustrate their sad family story of unrequited love.
“No, the Bible belongs here.”
Exhaling, Myrtle stood and smiled. “Well, whatever you think best.”
“I’ll get the box I packed it in.” Sarah Beth stood to go to another room.
“Thank you.” Dave got to his feet, relieved his errand was accomplished.
Myrtle caught him off guard by grabbing both his hands and holding them to her bosom. “So, tell me, dear boy, does your family have any wonderful stories of Davy Crockett? Did he ever find another true love?”

Sins of the Family Chapter Twenty-Two

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Randy finished another beer, belched and tossed the can out his window.
“I hope a highway patrolman didn’t see that,” Jill whispered to Bob.
Harold looked in the back seat, smiled with reassurance at them and then turned to John, staring a moment.
“John, you didn’t answer me. Who are your people?”
“Cherokee.” Lifting his chin, he kept his gaze straight ahead.
“Not Jews?”
“No.”
“Then why are you looking for a man who hurt Jews and not Cherokee?” Harold hoped a logical approach would break through to John. From his previous discussions with John, Harold knew he was intelligent. On some days John amazed him with some of his observations. If only Harold could get in touch with John’s coherent side.
“What?” John asked.
“Your Pharaoh is an old man who never did any harm to Cherokee.” Harold felt his heart beating faster.
“No.” John shook his head. “Pharaoh. He enslaves all men.”
“This old man doesn’t enslave anyone.” Harold leaned into him.
“But my people must be free.”
“Isn’t your father Pharaoh?” Harold risked bringing up the matter of John’s childhood, but the ongoing abduction brought about desperation.
“My father is a worn out warrior.”
“But he’s the one who’s enslaved you all your life, told you that you were stupid and told you he wished you were dead.”
Harold watched muscles in John’s jaw clench.
“Yes, I know now. I know how your father treated you. I know how your mother tried to protect you. I know you were caught in the middle of many fights between your parents.”
Harold with eagerness searched John’s face for a sign of recognition. He wanted John to realize he understood.
“I know now. I can help you free yourself of all those memories of your father. But I can only do that if you let me take you back to the hospital. Free yourself from Pharaoh. I can help you. ” He paused. “Come on, let’s go back to the hospital and talk about it.”
“I ain’t goin’ back to no hospital.” Randy hit Harold on the shoulder with his boney fist.
“Caleb,” John said with authority. “Be quiet.”
Randy glared at him, pulling his legs up on the seat, bowing his head to hide his face.
“I hate Moses.”
***
Greta had suffered enough indignities in her life. As a child in Oberbach, she endured comments on how her sister was the pretty one while she was the sturdy, hard-working one, albeit ugly as a cow. When one of the handsomest men in town paid attention to her, she fell straight away in love—at least what she thought was love. He was shorter than she, bore a perpetual smirk on his face, hardly ever cared about her feelings, and people in town kept telling her the most horrible rumors about him. She ignored all that on her wedding day. Whoever would have thought Greta Gurstadt would have found a man, especially one with clear skin and straight teeth? When gossip of Hans Moeller’s death drifted her way, she discounted it, saying people were jealous of Heinrich’s success in the Third Reich. She bragged that someday she and Heinrich would live in Berlin to serve the Fuhrer, although in private she hoped never to leave her beloved Oberbach. But they did leave Oberbach after the war. Why must we leave, Greta pleaded. Other Germans fought and lost the war, but they did not have to leave. Heinrich just sneered and reminded her that he was head of the household and they would live where he decided.
The only thing that made the move bearable was her beautiful blond son, Edward. She took solace in knowing he would always give her joy and he did, until as a strapping young adult he announced he wanted to change his name, and once again ugly suspicions challenged her unwavering allegiance to head of the household. For whatever else may have disappointed her, Greta maintained her near-deification of Heinrich as the ultimate male—he of golden hair and strong jaw and muscular body. Even as his jaw became rounded and his muscle softened, he was still strong mentally and forged a good living running their little woodcarving shop in Gatlinburg. Then his stroke came, and Heinrich was no longer even strong of mind. Greta had to learn how to balance a business ledger, understand tax laws and manage sales in their store. Heinrich no longer could carve what they sold, so they had to resort to buying items made in Korea, Singapore and other places repugnant to their Aryan sensibilities.
If Heinrich were no longer strong of body or of mind, he was still strong of will, and demanded to be considered boss even when his legs gave out and Greta had to carry him. She stretched her adoration to a thin line of respect she felt he had earned over many years. But the deportation hearing snapped her tenuous devotion. The judge may have ruled Heinrich was not an undesirable, but the evidence, however legally circumstantial, was enough to end Greta’s protracted worship of Heinrich Schmidt. He was not a god. He was not a good man. He was just a crippled, evil man who never valued her hard work and never cherished her. Now he voiced the ultimate insult. Eva Moeller called her a stupid cow and Sebastian Keitel called her a stupid cow, but Heinrich would not be allowed to call her stupid cow. The last shred of love, respect and tolerance was gone, which gave force to the blows she dealt his face that night in their living room.
“Go to bed.” She pointed to the bedroom.
“Go to hell.” Heinrich’s blue eyes were as icy as Bavarian well water in the middle of winter.
Greta did not believe he could sink any lower than he already had, but telling her to go to hell compounded her pain and anger so much she could endure no more, pulling her hand back to slap Heinrich again. He blocked it, which added frustration to her boiling rage, and she knocked his hand away, slapping him again and again, first with her right hand, then her left. Red whelps appeared on his pasty white skin, but she did not care. They were nothing compared to the pain Heinrich had inflicted on her.
“You were the big Nazi! Big—what you call it? Gestapo! You killed Hans and got away with it? Who else did you kill? How many other men did my husband murder?”
“Greta.” Tears began to well in Heinrich’s eyes. “Stop.”
“You’re no big Nazi now.” Her slaps became more intense. “You’re an old man! You don’t tell nobody nothing.” She pushed him to the floor. “Now get to bed.”
“I can’t get up.”
“Then crawl,” Greta snarled, kicking Heinrich in his rear. “I don’t carry you no more.”
“Greta.” Heinrich pleaded, “No. I feel sick.”
“No more lies.” She reached his groin with her next kick, causing him to jump and start crawling. “Move.”
“No, Greta,” he sputtered between sobs.
“Move.”
“Greta, please.”
But the kicks were unrelenting, and with the agility of a wounded elephant Heinrich crept on his hands and knees to their bedroom. When they reached the door, Greta placed her foot on his sagging buttocks and pushed, sending him sliding into the bedpost.
“Now get into that bed.”
“Yes, Greta,” Heinrich said with defeat in his voice. He crawled into the bed and pulled the covers around him.
“Now you shut up or I’ll hit you again.” Greta wagged her finger in his face. She turned and marched out, as Heinrich dissolved in a flood of tears.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-One

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Boston Corbett stood before a congregation of Methodist Episcopalians in a rural church set among a stand of cottonwood trees outside of Camden, New Jersey. He was in fine voice and form, ready to give his testimony of a life lived as a “Glory to God” man.
“Brothers and sisters, I stand before you tonight not as a proud man, but a man who walked the streets of hell before seeing the light and moving into the sweet arms of Jesus.”
Corbett paused because he knew a chorus of “Amen!” and “Preach on, Brother!” was about to shake the rafters. And he was right.
“God blessed me with a righteous wife, valued more than pearls and rubies, and, in his own wisdom which we do not understand, he took her away from me as she gave birth to our precious daughter who only spent a moment on this Earth before going home to be with Jesus and all the saints and archangels.”
“Poor baby girl!” erupted among the womenfolk worshipers.
“Faced with such sorrow, I believed the false promise of Satan himself that I could find comfort in the demon liquors. My life sank. My soul shrank. And I drank and drank. All for naught. All in obedience to the devil himself.”
“No, no, no.” This was more of a mere whisper wafting through the pews.
“But God did not allow it!” Corbett bellowed. The crowd cowered in apprehension. “God grabbed me by my collar and said, “Boy, you will not waste this life I gave you! You will not dismay your wife and child who are by My side at this very moment! You will repent and spread the Gospel throughout this land on the verge of war, and I will prevail!”
The folks sprang from their seats, clapping and shouting hallelujah. Their usual pastor, a man of small stature and graying hair, motioned for them to sit and be quiet.
“And from that moment on, I became a soldier in the army of the Lord. Preaching on every street corner, singing in every choir and glorifying God in every church. When my country sent me to war to end the evil that was slavery, I continued to fight for Jehovah too. Even when I was captured at Culpepper Court House in Virginia and was sent to that horrible plot of land called Andersonville Prison in Georgia, I continued to shout, I continued to pray, I continued to praise until the devil’s legions themselves could not take it any longer. They traded me back north to home.”
Another round of hallelujahs and amens interrupted his preaching.
“After I returned to the Army of Righteousness, I continued my crusade for my Heavenly Father. Then came that moment which has brought me to the attention of all you God-fearing American saints. That evil practitioner of the devil’s art of theater killed our Father Abraham.”
Corbett was thrown off his timing as he heard a man turn to the fellow next to him and say, “I don’t know if I don’t enjoy going to a good show, every now and again.”
“We trapped him at that barn in Virginia. I was ordered not to shoot and kill him but I obeyed a Higher Authority and did shoot!”
More amens and hallelujahs.
Staring at the congregation for a long moment, Corbett lowered his voice and continued, “But evil did not die that night. Evil never dies! Evil will lurk in our hearts forever! Be ever vigilant against evil!”
The general mood of the people was to jump up and applaud, but the hand of the good, gray-haired pastor kept them in their seats.
“For, you see, God came to me that night. He told me John Wilkes Booth must not die at that time. He came to me in the form of a powerfully built short man with red hair and divine inspiration in his eyes.”
A murmur rose among the people. Women fluttered their fans wildly in the August heat, and the men shifted uneasily in the pews.
“He offered a substitute sacrifice for the nation, the corpse of a young man who looked like Booth but who was not Booth. Perhaps he was Jesus Christ come down to atone for our sins once again—“
Almost in unison, a moan rolled through the room as each man, woman and child stood and without further hesitation left the church, returning to their homes.
Corbett had seen this before. For some reason, the sheep of this Earth were not ready for the kindly shepherd to herd them on the path of righteousness. He would not be discouraged though.
“Brother Corbett,” the elderly minister said to him in uncertain tones, “I don’t understand the meaning of your parable there at the end, and neither, evidently, did my parishioners. The saddest aspect of this, it seems, is that we had not taken the offering yet so I have nothing to pay you for your—for the most part—excellent testimony.”
Corbett smiled and patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, brother, the Lord will pay me much more richly than you ever could.”
As he had learned in previous encounters with retreating admirers, it was best that he leave town that night and find lodgings a few miles down the road. The cool night air felt good against his warm face as he rode his handsome little horse, the very mount that took him to the Virginia farm three years ago. A small inn appeared on the road as he expected. Rapping at the door and rousing the keeper from his sleep, Corbett asked for lodging for the night, and the owner yawned, scratched his head and showed him to a small room in the back. The next morning at breakfast, he read the Camden newspaper.
On the front page was a story from Washington City. President Andrew Johnson fired Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, calling him a “fountain of mischief.” The president requested Stanton’s resignation and, when the letter was not forthcoming, dismissed him a week later. The story quoted Johnson as saying he conformed to the letter of the law as laid out in the new Tenure of Office Act. The newspaper also reported that the president had selected Gen. Ulysses S. Grant as the replacement. The article ended with the statement that Stanton had relented and left his job under protest.
As he sipped his coffee, Corbett looked out the inn’s dining room window to see dogs seek shade beneath a stand of oak trees. Something was awry, he told himself. God was on the verge of calling him again to save the soul of the United States of America. In his saddlebag, he had several letters from churches in faraway Kansas, beseeching him to share his testimony. Corbett shook his head. He must delay his trip out west because the Lord would be calling him to Washington City soon.
* * *
Dr. Leale shook the chill from his bones after removing his outer vestments and settled into a comfortable chair, which faced the fireplace in his parlor. He had just returned home from a day’s work at the military hospital. December of 1868 was particularly cold, and his omnibus ride did nothing to protect him from the sharp winds whipping in from the frozen Potomac River. Before mounting the steps of the omnibus, he had bought a newspaper to read on the way home, but instead he hunched over and closed his eyes, which he felt were about to freeze in their sockets. Now comfortable in his favorite chair and sipping a hot cup of coffee–which his wife presented to him as he entered the parlor–Dr. Leale was ready to read the news.
The House of Representatives, by a vote of 108 to 57, refused to impeach President Johnson because he fired Secretary of War Stanton and replaced him with Gen. Grant. Leale did not know what to think of the legislative maneuverings, but he did feel certain that once the newly elected Representatives were sworn into office after the New Year, a new attempt to impeach the president would surely come to pass.
Leale’s role in the larger drama of President Lincoln’s assassination, the trial and execution of the conspirators and now the political battle to remove President Johnson from office often seemed inconsequential to him. Because he had been the initial physician to attend the slain president, Leale had been part of many ceremonies surrounding the funeral. The assassination conspiracy trial in 1865 drew him to the courtroom, where he met Lincoln’s mysterious stepbrother. Then Rep. Benjamin Butler asked him in 1867 to write a report on the details about the damage done to the head of President Lincoln for the congressional report being prepared.
However, in the back of his mind, Leale could not shake the memory of watching Lincoln delivering a message from a window of the Executive Mansion shortly before the assassination. The president’s face looked odd to the doctor. Exactly why it was odd Leale could not figure out. Neither could he understand Secretary of War Stanton’s behavior that night at the boarding house across the street from Ford’s Theatre.
Leale’s wife Rebecca came to the parlor door to announce dinner was now on the table.
“In a moment, dear. As soon as I finish this story about the impeachment vote.” He searched for some clue about what tied the three events together. The newspaper article quoted Gen. Grant about the impeachment effort. On the one hand, he indicated he was pleased to oblige President Johnson and take on the interim position but on the other, he made overtures of reconciliation with Stanton. All of this puzzled Leale, making him more drawn to the political machinations. A few minutes later, Rebecca returned to the parlor, leaned over his chair to kiss him on the cheek, a gentle reminder his meal awaited him.
“Eating a cold dinner will not bring justice to this town,” she whispered.
He looked up from his newspaper, smiled then a cloud crossed his face. “If only you had seen Mr. Stanton that night. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.”
“Like the way President Lincoln acted that time. You wanted to go to the theater to see if he looked the same and what made him look that way.”
“Yes, dear. You do understand, don’t you?”
“Yes, I understand.”

Davy Crockett’s Butterfly Chapter Twenty-Three

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Davy walked slowly back to the cabin, his mind racing about what to do about Captain Stasney, Inside he saw Harriet was back, busy in the kitchen chopping vegetables for a stew, and Griffith laboring over the crown of a woman’s hat. He watched her look up, smile at him but then frown.
“What’s wrong, Davy?’ she asked.
He opened his mouth but no words came out. Davy first thought to lie and say there was nothing wrong, but decided even he was not a good enough liar to fool them.
“I’m in real bad trouble,” he whispered.
“Father, please stop and listen,” she said with urgency.
“Huh?” He looked up and scrunched his brow.
“Davy says he’s in trouble.”
“There’s this man in town,” he began tentatively. “He’s the sea captain I almost went to work for. In Baltimore. He’s telling Mr. Goodell I broke my bond and ran away. But I didn’t. My parents didn’t apprentice me to him. Honest. I know I lie but I’m not lyin’ about this.”
“I don’t understand,” Harriet said, her voice cracking. “Why would he track you down all the way here from Baltimore just because you owe him money?”
“Master Davy?” Griffith asked seriously.
“I cut him,” he said in an even voice. “I cut ‘im bad. I had to to git outta there.”
“Was he trying to hurt you?’ Harriet dried her eyes.
“Yes.”
“Where did you cut him?” Griffith asked.
“He was lickin’ his knife and I grabbed it and cut his tongue. I cut it real bad. It’s forked, like a snake’s tongue now.”
“Why was he licking the knife?” Harriet wrinkled her brow.
“Hush, Harriet,” Griffith instructed her. He looked at Davy, his brow knitted. “Did that man do anything to you, boy?”
“No, sir. But I know he meant to.” He glanced at Harriet and dropped his head. “Mister Griffith, sir, he showed me a book. It was a book I wouldn’t want nobody to look at.”
“You don’t have to say anymore,” he said.
“I don’t understand, Father.”
“You don’t have to understand, dear. Just know this is a very sick, very evil man who is after our Master Davy. I’ve seen men like this before. Children aren’t safe around them.”
“Father, you’re scaring me,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Harriet, darling,” he whispered, hugging her, “go to Miss Dorcas’s house. Ask her if you may spend the night. If she asks why, tell her I’m having one of my fits. She’ll believe you. Whatever you do, don’t leave Miss Dorcas’s side until I call for you tomorrow morning.”

***

Stung by Elizabeth’s outburst, David kept quiet during the evening meal, sat out by the barn until all the lamps had gone out. The next morning, after a quiet breakfast with the family, he followed Robert to the barn. His son walked to the shelf where the farm tools lay. He paused when his gaze caught the glint of a new rifle’s metal barrel reflecting in the morning light. Picking it up Robert also saw the saddlebag, bedroll and other items for living on the trail. He looked at David.
“Who’s this for?”
“William,” he replied softly. “It’s part of his inheritance from his grandpa. He needed these things now instead of waitin’ for the will to be settled.”
“Oh.” Robert pinched his lips shut as he put the rifle down and grabbed an axe from the shelf.
“I need to talk to you about somethin’.”
Robert brushed past him, carrying the axe toward the barn door. “I’m too busy to talk to an old drunk.”
“What do you mean by that?” David grabbed him by the arm.
“I got firewood to chop.”
“What did you mean about an old drunk?”
“You’re an old drunk.”
“I’m gittin’ sick and tired of that chip on your shoulder. So you think you had it bad? Well, you don’t know what bad is. You should have been on your own as a boy in the big city. You’d know what bad was.” His eyes fluttered, and his feet shuffled. “If I ain’t been here it’s ‘cause I worked to—to provide for you and the family. That Congress salary came in purty handy, didn’t it?”
“I ain’t never seen any of it.”
“I know, boy.” David stepped back and looked down.
“Don’t call me boy.”
“I know you ain’t no boy no more. I mean, you’ll always be my boy.”
“You never acted like I was your boy.” Robert pinched his lips as his hands tightened around the axe.
“You know that ain’t so.”
“What did you want to tell me?”
“Well, your ma and I had a talk and we decided it might be better for everybody if I went ahead to Texas.”
“I don’t think ma had any part of that decision.”
“You callin’ me a liar?”
“Yes, I am.”
That made it just about unanimous, David thought. All members of his family thought he was a liar. They did not understand the intricacies of political expedience.
“Anyway, your cousin and uncle will be here in a few days. I promised to lead ‘em to Texas.”
“I always thought us young fellows got to go out West. William gits to go, but I don’t.” He exhaled with bitterness. “But you go ahead. I’ll stay here and do your job, tend to your wife and daughters.”
“You don’t have to tend to nothin’,” David replied in a huff. “I’ve always tended to my own.”
“The way a lie floats off your tongue, it’s like you actually believe it.”
“Don’t call me a liar!” David pushed Robert.
“Don’t touch me,” he replied in a soft sinister tone as he dropped the axe.
“I’ll do what I want!” David pushed him again.
Robert punched his father in the gut, knocking him to the ground. “Why don’t you go crawl into a whiskey bottle and stay there?”
“Stop it!” Elizabeth commanded in a loud impatient voice as she appeared in the barn door. “I won’t abide fightin’ on my farm!”
“He makes me so mad.” Robert stepped back, his face a bright red.
“I know he does, but I said no fightin’.” She looked down at David. “Well, don’t jest sit there, Mr. Crockett. Git up.”
“He called me a liar.” David realized he sounded like a child making excuses to his mother after being pulled up by the ear.
“It’s not like nobody never called you that before,” she said. “Now git up.”
As he stood David grumbled, “Polly’s children never talked to me like that.”
“Yes, they did,” she replied. “You don’t remember.” Elizabeth turned to Robert. “And you, young man, you have to git hold of yourself.”
“Why don’t you tell ‘im he can’t go?”
“You think it’d make any difference if I did?”
“No,” Robert said sourly.
“Remember what I said the other night?”
“No.”
“I said be good to your father.”
David remembered her telling him that when he slid into bed the night he decided not to stay. She also told him to be good to them. Both of them failed.
“He ain’t never been good to me.” Robert pointed to the new rifle and gear on the ground near the tool shelf. “He got William a gun and saddlebag and stuff. He ain’t never given me nothin’ like that.”
“There’s too much pain in the world without hurtin’ your own blood.” She paused to soften her voice. “Now you don’t begrudge your cousin a few nice things, do you? He’s had so much grief in his life.”
“I guess not.” Robert looked down. “William’s all right. He’s always done right by me. I guess he can have those things.” He looked up with anger at his father. “But why can I git ‘em too? I’ve had grief. I worked hard. I deserve somethin’.”
“You deserve everythin’, and one day you’ll git it,” Elizabeth replied in quiet assurance.
“So he gits to do anythin’ he wants,” Robert said.
“Somebody has to do the right thing first.” Elizabeth stared at David. “Most times it’s the parent, but sometimes not.”

***

“This must look familiar,” Sarah Beth said, holding up the worn leather-bound Bible.
“Yes,” Dave replied. “This is it.” He remembered when he was a child his mother would carefully remove the Bible from a bottom drawer of the bedroom dresser, as though she were handling a holy relic. His father, even though the Bible was from his side of the family, never seemed to care about it much. The pages were yellowed and very thin, seeming to fall apart if someone breathed too harshly on them.
Dave turned a few pages, the large elaborate initial letters of chapters stirring pleasant memories. Allan and Vince seemed to be nicer when their mother brought the old book out so they could admire the pretty pictures of Moses, David, Jesus, Paul and all the other characters in between. In the middle of the Bible his finger touched David Crockett’s signature. A few pages over he saw his grandmother’s handwriting which inscribed the birth of Lonnie Crockett. He tapped it.
“This is what I need,” he said. “Dad needs to present this to Social Security so he can get into a nursing home.”
“You may borrow it, of course,” Sarah Beth said.
“Your father is so fortunate to have such a loving son to go to all this trouble for him,” Myrtle gushed.
“I was visiting my sister in Dallas in July,” Sarah Beth explained as she motioned for all of them to sit. “We decided to go antiquing one afternoon. In this one bookstore I was getting bored. My sister wanted a first edition Dickens, I think, which didn’t interest me. My eyes caught the dark leather of that book on a table of old Bibles. When I first picked it up I could see it must be over a hundred years old. Then I opened it to the title page and saw the date eighteen thirty-five.”
“Oh, let me tell the story about Harriet,” Myrtle interrupted.
“She’s not to that part of the story yet, Mother,” Mary said with a bit of amusement.
“I could not believe my eyes when I turned to the family pages in the middle,” Sarah Beth continued, smiling at her aunt. “When I saw Davy Crockett’s signature I had to buy it. Even my sister forgot all about Dickens when I showed it to her.” She looked back at Dave. “I could tell the woman in the shop was a bit pained when I brought it to the counter, but I had to have it. The price was reasonable.”
Dave could not help but like the women. Sarah Beth was gracious, Myrtle vivacious and Mary patient. They seemed sincere in their interest in his family, but he did not understand why.
“Aunt Myrtle,” Sarah Beth said, “You may now explain why we are so enamored with Davy Crockett.”
Myrtle’s face brightened. “Our great great grandmother Harriet Goodell loved her husband very much, but she always said her first love was Davy Crockett.
“Her maiden name was Griffith, and her father Elijah was a prominent hat maker in Christiansburg, Virginia, in early eighteen hundred. Harriet’s mother died when she was twelve, leaving her to be mistress of the house. Apprentices came and went. All that changed one day when this handsome boy with beautiful red cheeks wandered into town. Harriet convinced her father to take him on as an apprentice.” She paused for emphasis. “And that young man was Davy Crockett. Smart as a tack, he picked up on learning the trade quickly, but he could not read, write or do his numbers. Harriet took it upon herself to teach him everything a child should learn in school, for, evidently, Davy had not gone to a real school a day in his life. That boy, as you probably know, came from a family in the depths of poverty.
“He lived and worked with Harriet and her father for almost two years, and during that time he learned to read, write and do arithmetic as good as anyone. Harriet said she thought he was a genius to have overcome all those obstacles to do what he did. Of course, during that time Harriet and Davy fell in love. By all accounts she was beautiful with golden ringlets, and, of course, he was extremely handsome. There was talk of marriage and Davy’s taking over the family business, but history had to run its course. Davy Crockett could not stay in a small Virginia town married to a hatter’s daughter. He was destined for greatness, and Harriet married Charles Goodell, who owned the local general store.” Myrtle’s face saddened. “They did not live happily ever after, but very few of us do.”

Jonathan and Mina in Romantic Transylvania Chapter Fifteen

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Susie Belle was about to follow Dracula into the game room when Van Helsing swung open the front door and entered with confrontation on his mind. He had just had to bury a potential hot lover and he was in no mood for any more vampire foolishness.
“Stop right there, bimbo!” he shouted at her.
She turned and hissed, “The name’s Susie Belle, you old fart!”
“The name’s Van Helsing, you bimbo!”
Susie Belle, having grown up in the American South, was not afraid of anyone or anything. She marched toward the doctor, swinging her ample hips, ready for a fight. “Claustrophobia. What have you done with her?”
“I have given her proper last rites.” He lifted his chin haughtily.
“You mean you killed her!” she retorted in her best J’Acusse style.
“No,” he explained in nonchalance, “Dracula killed her. I gave her the last rites.”
“Just as well.” She shrugged. “I didn’t like the mealy mouthed little old thing anyway.”
Van Helsing’s German blood began to boil. “No, I wouldn’t think you would appreciate anyone as fine as she.”
“Fine?” Susie Belle was close enough to the professor to spit in his eye as she spoke. Vampires had that problem because of the over-sized fang impediment. “She was just a bar maid.”
Slowly taking a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe her saliva from his face, Van Helsing protested in most solemn terms. “Some of the finest ladies I have known have been bar maids.”
“So you had the hots for the silly cow, did you?” She began to circle around Van Helsing to block any attempt at a quick exit through the front door which he had left open.
“And she for me, I am proud to say.”
“Sounds like you two deserved each other.”
He turned to keep Susie Belle in his full range of vision. “Thank you, even though I’m sure you didn’t mean that as a compliment.”
“Sure as hell didn’t.” She smiled as she reached the door and closed it with confidence.
“My hunches are generally correct.” He put his handkerchief away and looked around the room for his valise. Unfortunately he had dropped it on the bottom step of the staircase right before he thrust a stake through Claustrophobia’s heart.
“And what’s your hunch about what’s going to happen next?” Her cat-like body coiled ready to attack the doctor as though he were a mouse about to become her supper.
He tried to inch his way to the staircase. “My hunch is that one of us will not be around to see tomorrow night’s full moon.”
“You got that right, pops.” She lunged for him, but Van Helsing jumped toward the valise and out of her reach.
“I’m pretty nimble for an old fart, aren’t I?”
“Give up! You’re doomed!” Susie Belle was feeling pretty cocky.
He opened the valise to search for another stake. “I seriously doubt that.”
Their intense confrontation was interrupted when Mina ran into the hall, giggling and glancing backwards at Jonathan who was only a few body lengths behind her. Dracula with his cape fully extended followed but he was not fooling anyone. The Prince of Darkness at this point in time was not intimidating anybody.
“Give me your body!” The hint of vampirism coursing through Jonathan’s veins gave his voice new excitement, dare we say, sexual gravitas?
Mina turned dramatically, totally ignoring the professor and Susie Belle. “Take it if you can!”
After throwing her head back and laughing maniacally, she began to run up the stairs, knocking the valise from Van Helsing hands before he had removed the stake. It fell at Jonathan’s feet. He kicked it out of his way as he also bumped the professor to trail his nubile prey.
“Uh oh.” Van Helsing’s confidence went down the toilet.
“Uh oh is right!” Susie Belle gloated. “I’m going to throw that thing a country mile out the door.”
The doctor and the vampires raced for the valise, jouncing against each other and tugging on the other’s arms to knock them off balance. It was almost as good as professional roller-skating, except that one was an out-of-shape old man and the second was a wispy living dead person. And, technically professional roller-skating as it currently is performed did not exist; therefore, nothing at that time could be compared to it. Dracula, meanwhile, tried to sound like he was still in control.
“Miss Seward! Listen to me! Come here!”
Of course, Mina was giggling and making horseplay on the balcony and paid no mind to his commands, which irritated him to no end. Susie Belle finally snatched the valise from Van Helsing’s clutches and waved it over her head.
“I’ve got it!”
The problem with taking a celebratory posture so early in the competition meant she did not have the bag securely in her possession. Van Helsing easily slapped it away.
“No, you don’t” the German scolded her.
The professor’s own moment of glory ended as he realized he had knocked the valise which had slid across the entry hall and became the object of a scramble once again. Dracula chose to ignore their competition and focus on regaining domination over Mina.
“I said come here!”
Mina raced down the stairs, with Jonathan closely behind.
“That’s more like it!” Dracula was triumphant, until the couple knocked him on his ass again as they appeared to be returning to the game room for another round of pinch-ee-poo and other naughty activities.
Susie Belle won round two of snatch the valise against a fumbling Van Helsing who was not used to such strenuous competition. “I have it again!”
Dracula stormed toward the double doors. “When I say come here, I mean come here!”
Carelessly he jostled his only remaining wife. She dropped the bag. As the vivacious English couple disappeared into the game room, Dracula marched in after them. Van Helsing tripped Susie Belle who landed gracelessly on the hard cold stone floor. Grabbing his valice, the professor pinned her shoulders with his knees
“Now I have you!”
She squirmed around, trying to escape. “Get off me, you old fart!
He pulled a stake out and swiftly plunged it into Susie Belle’s heart. She did not take this summary attack upon her person well. The vampire writhed, scream, spat and coughed before her eyes rolled back in her head. Van Helsing stood in triumph.
“Now that’s what I call a stake well done!”
He had but a moment to revel in his victory when he became aware of yet another success. Van Helsing heard Jonathan scream from the game room, not a primal animal scream which of late he had emitted in wanton vampire sexual exultation, but a proper English scream of disgust and shock.
The young man ran into the entry hall and looked back in moral abhorrence. “Mina! Why are you undressed?” Jonathan paused to squint back into the game room. “I didn’t know you had an insy.”
“Mr. Harker!” Van Helsing exclaimed as he rushed to his side, “Thank goodness you’re back to normal!”
Jonathan looked down to see his bare legs and shrieked, mortified at his own lack of suitable attire.
“I have your trousers. I took them away from Salacia when I drove a stake through her heart. I put them in my valise but we don’t have time for you to put them on right now. You must save Miss Mina!
“You mean all that vampire talk is true?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes! Yes! Yes! No get back in there and save Miss Mina from Dracula!”
Jonathan turned toward the game room, lifted his heroic chin, pointed dramatically and ordered in his best melodious baritone, “Unhand that lady, you villain!”
He ran toward the game room but stopped short when Mina, followed closely by Dracula, danced out like a young gazelle.
“Miss Seward! I said come here!” Dracula shouted in uncertain authority.
“I just love playing chassssse!” she hissed with a hint of a giggle.
Jonathan turned sharply to chase them. “Un villain that hand, you lady!”
Mina, Van Helsing and Dracula stared at him. “What?” they asked in unison.
“I mean, unlady that villain, you hand! No, no. Unhand that villain, you lady! No, that’s not right. Un-vil—unhand….”
Van Helsing briskly walked over to slap Jonathan.
“Thank you.” He rubbed his bruised cheek. “Unhand that lady, you villain!”
“Mr. Harker,” the professor corrected him, “technically, Count Dracula doesn’t have his hands on her.”
Dracula leered at them. “Give me time. Miss Seward, come here!”
She turned and shook her firm, unrestrained bosom at him. “And how are you going to make me?”
Jonathan rushed to Mina, grabbed her hand and turned for the front door. “Good for you, Mina. Come, let us flee this unholy place.”
“Burn in hell, you stodgy fool!” She pulled her hand away.
“I’d take offense at that if I didn’t know you weren’t yourself at the moment.” He tried his best not to allow tears well in his awesome azure eyes.
“Mr. Harker, over here,” Van Helsing said in unusually measured tones. “I have a plan.”
As Jonathan joined the doctor, Dracula went to the stairs, turned dramatically and extended a hand to Mina.
“Miss Mina,” he offered in a silky voice, “let us explore the pleasures of my castle together.”
“Since you put it that way….” Mina purred like a kitten in heat and joined him.
Dracula extended his cape and enfolded her with Transylvanian seduction. As they began their ascent to the second floor, Van Helsing and Jonathan completed their secret consultation. The young man pulled away, his face etched in scandal.
“You want me to do what?”
The professor pulled him back into a confidential clutch. Dracula, having survived centuries as a vampire was not without excellent powers of observation. He knew something was being planned to end his control over Mina and perhaps even terminate his reign as the Prince of Darkness.
“This way, my dear. We must hurry. Our time is growing short.” Dracula gently tightened his embrace around Mina.
Jonathan looked up at them, shaking his head. “I don’t think I could do that, doctor.”
“What do you mean? You’ve been doing it most of the evening. Don’t you remember? Try! For Miss Mina’s sake!”
“For Mina,” he resolved. “I’ll try.”

Sins of the Family Chapter Twenty-One

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Heinrich had not felt well all day. If only he could belch once, really good, he would feel better. He hated these days when he ordered his legs to move, and they would not. He wanted his mouth to say words that a master of the house would say and it could not. His hands tried to point and make a fist, but they would not. Worst of all, when he took his shower he beheld an old, fat body in the mirror, a balding head with its wispy white hairs going where they wanted and not where he wanted. His bulging eyes looked like they belonged in the head of a rabbit which had just been bitten in its neck by a dog. His nose was bulbous with red spreading veins. His breasts sagged as though he were an old woman. His potbelly was taut like a balloon about to pop. Blue lines streaked his spindly, boney legs.
In mourning he was, for his long ago life of strength and virility vigorous days in the forest cutting trees, and wanton nights in cabins of full-bosomed milk maids. They stroked his hard muscular torso and his Aryan ego. Heinrich lusted for times when he strode down a street in his black Gestapo uniform and observed apprehension in the eyes of Bavarian peasants. He yearned for the pleasure of committing murder and never enduring recrimination. Now even the pasty-faced young man who married his granddaughter did not fear him. Most of all, he yearned for the total adulation of his wife, a mindless cow who had worshipped him as a god.
Now she looked upon him with repugnance. How could she worship a man she had to carry over her shoulder from bed to chair? A man was supposed to carry the woman, not a woman carrying the man. Since he had suffered his stroke, he had become a woman with sagging breasts and a whining helpless voice. Greta, of all people, had become man of the house, breadwinner, ruler of all she surveyed, and Heinrich hated her for it. From his bed he could hear her laughing at some silly television program, not some masculine program about warfare, but something with weak females making insulting remarks that were supposed to be witty and smart.
“Greta.” In his mind he in fact said, “Greta, you stupid cow! Stop that stupid laughing and come attend to your master.”
“What Heinrich?”
He heard her exhale deeply
“Greta, come here.” What he meant to say was, “Never call out to me. You come running when I summon you.”
“Very well, Heinrich.”
He heard her chair creak as she stood. The minute she took to walk from their living room to his bed lasted entirely too long. He fumed because she made him wait. At last Greta appeared in the door, wearing a dowdy print dress, her hair pulled back in the same bun she wore when they left Germany, and her eyes filled with the same contempt she held for him since his stroke.
“What do you want, Heinrich?”
“I want to watch television,” he said with as much authority as possible. “You laugh so much I can’t sleep.”
“Well, watch television,” Greta said as she turned to leave the room. “I don’t care.”
“Carry me.” Heinrich pursed his lips into a pout.
“I don’t feel like it.”
Heinrich stared into her back, as though trying to compel her to turn around.
“If you don’t feel like walking,” she said continuing to leave, “then you don’t feel good enough to watch television.”
“Stop.” Heinrich screamed as loud as he could, although it came out as a weak whine.
“Heinrich, stop yelling at me.” Greta was already out the door and down the hall.
“I will watch television.” Heinrich brought his fist down on the bed, wishing it were on Greta’s head. “You will carry me.” Bringing his once strong arm down again, he imagined Greta falling to her knees from the awful blow, causing her to plead for mercy.
“Why? So you can wet on me again?” she called out with a laugh from the living room. “No.”
***
Harold looked at John who was concentrating on the yellow line down the middle of the mountain highway, lit by headlights. Randy finished a beer and tossed his can out the window. It clickety-clacked down the road. At once a highway patrol car was behind them with its overhead lights flashing.
“So you’re going to find Pharaoh?” Harold tried to think of a way to stop whatever terrible mission John was on.
“Yes.” John kept his eyes straight ahead, not noticing the lights in his rear view mirror.
“And what are you going to do when you find him?”
“We’re gonna slit his gut.” Randy leaned over, grinned and patted the hunting knife in his pants.
“Is that so, John?” Harold looked over at him.
“I don’t know.”
The highway patrol car’s siren began, causing Mike to twist around in the back seat to look out the window.
“The cops.” He plopped back down and twisted his face into a frown. “I don’t like cops. They take you to jail. TV ain’t good in jail.”
“You better pull over,” Harold said, relieved that the ordeal may be over. John was be mad but he would not be foolish enough to do anything to a law enforcement officer.
“Don’t do what the doc says,” Randy said. “He lies.”
“You can’t outrun him,” Harold said. Maybe he could make John realize his plan was all over. “He has a radio in his car. He can get help immediately.”
“Very well.” He pulled over to the side of the road.
The patrol car stopped behind him, and the officer, a young man with a fleshy shape, approached the car. He pointed a flashlight in and smiled.
“May I see your registration, please?”
“I’ll get it.” Harold leaned over to the glove compartment.
As he was rummaging through it, Randy looked at the officer and grinned in innocence.
“Can I get out and stretch my legs?”
Harold had never heard Randy’s voice sound so carefree and innocent.
The officer appraised Randy, dismissed him with a blink of his eyes and nodded. Afraid the officer underestimated the situation, Harold leaned forward to speak, but John put his hand on his knee, squeezing with the force of a madman.
“Sure. Go ahead,” the patrolman said.
Randy jumped out, wriggled a little and ambled around the back of the car. Harold found the registration and handed it to the officer who read it and frowned. He tried to catch the officer’s attention, but he concluded the man considered the stop routine and therefore was oblivious to his grim fate.
“This is made out to a Jill Smith.” He looked at John, wanting an explanation. Still, his voice did not seem to reveal excessive interest.
“That’s the lady in the back seat,” John replied without emotion. “She’s tired so she asked me to drive.”
“That right, ma’am?”
“Yeah.” Jill looked around with apprehension. “That’s right.”
Before the officer could ask another question, Randy came up and stabbed him in his back. The officer’s face exploded with shock, and his knees buckled, allowing Randy to pull him back and slash his throat. As he quivered on the ground, gurgling for help, Randy kicked him and ran to jump in the car.
“I hate cops,” he said.
“So you did kill Mrs. Scoggins,” Harold muttered in revelation.
“Who’s that?”
“The lady who was nice to you and Mike.”
“Nobody’s never been nice to me,” he said. “And his name’s Joshua. Not Mike. Not no more.”
“Doesn’t it bother you to stab someone like that?” Harold asked, trying to control his own fears while thinking of ways to get through to Randy.
“I’m just getting back for all the stuff people done to me.”
“Like Pharaoh?” Harold knew he must convince them Pharaoh was just a character John invented.
“Pharaoh’s the worst of all,” Randy replied, staring off into the night.
“The real Moses didn’t kill Pharaoh. He asked him to let his people go.” Harold looked back at John, who did not seem upset by the fact they had just left a human being bleeding to death on a highway behind them.
“Hey, he’s Moses, ain’t you, Moses?” Randy glanced at John while elbowing Harold hard.
“Sorry,” he said, “I meant the first Moses.” Harold looked at Randy. “There was another Moses, you know.”
“What?” Randy wrinkled his brow.
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“No.” Randy hunched his shoulders.
“The first Moses didn’t slit Pharaoh’s gut,” Harold repeated, trying to make an impression on the boy. “He told him to let his people go. And Pharaoh let his people go. John, are you going to tell your Pharaoh to let your people go or are you just going to slit his gut?”
“I don’t know.” John blinked.
“We’re gonna slit his gut,” Randy insisted.
“Caleb, be quiet.”
Randy gave John a hard look and then turned to Mike. Harold was glad he looked to his brother for sympathy. Maybe there was a chance to use the schism to win the boys to his side. Without their youthful strength John would not be able to complete his mission to kill Jill’s grandfather.
“Hey, throw me another one of those beers.”
“Sure.”
Mike tossed a can to him, and Randy opened it and took a long swallow as he continued to glower at John. Harold would not be able to win them over if they continued to drink beer. No one would be able to control them. He returned to his efforts to dissuade John.
“If you slit his gut, will it set your people free?” He examined John’s face to see any change in his thinking. Harold recalled the day John admitted he should be in the hospital, so a remote possibility existed he knew this was madness.
“You bet,” Randy said.
“Maybe,” John whispered.
“And what people are you talking about?” Harold leaned into him, hopeful the uncertain reply meant John was on the brink of clear thought. “Hebrew people? Cherokee? Poor people? People kept in mental hospitals against their will?”
“I don’t know.” Again John blinked.
“If you keep talking,” Randy said, spitting at Harold, “I’ll slit your gut.”
***
On unsteady, frail legs, Heinrich doddered to his living room, his face red with anger and frustration. Commands, demands, obscenities and vulgarities swirled in his head, all fighting to find their way out of his white, parched lips.
“Greta,” he said. “Don’t talk to me like that.” He wanted to speak more than that; he sought to make his words reverberate as they did when he towered over Hans tied in his chair.
“Heinrich, I’ve talked to Edward.” She sighed, stood and turned to look with resignation at her husband. “He agrees with me.”
“Talked to Edward?” He took a few steps. “What are you talking about?”
“Heinrich.” Greta paused, her eyes first reflecting some kindness and then candor. “You’re too much work for me.”
“Work for you?” Heinrich’s bloodshot eyes widened with indignation. “I’m not work for you.”
“Heinrich, I can’t pick you up anymore,” Greta said, regret tingeing her words. “I can’t clean up your messes anymore.”
“I don’t make messes.” Heinrich slammed down his fist on the back of Greta’s chair. He was even more disappointed when Greta did not jump at his anger.
“I am old,” she said.
“I don’t make messes.” He slammed his fist down another time, to no purpose. Greta did not even bat an eyelid.
“Heinrich,” she said in even tones, “Edward has found a nice nursing home for you.” She smiled and nodded. “It will be better.”
“You don’t kick me out of my house.” He stumbled toward her. “I kick you out!” He tried to think of an insult that would injure Greta the most. “You stupid cow!”
He tried to hit her, but she knocked his hand away and then slapped Heinrich whose jaw plunged open in shock.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Twenty-Nine

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His conversation with Walt Whitman gave Lamon a measure of hope to sustain him into the New Year when Johnson vetoed the black suffrage act. How could Lamon help the man and through him bring justice to those that inflicted such suffering on his dear friend Abraham Lincoln? Johnson, on the one hand, was a man of strong personal integrity who defied his own state to remain loyal to the union. On the other, however, he was an unrepentant racist, intent on restricting the freedoms of the people he fought to liberate. Lamon always considered himself a simple, straightforward man. Lincoln was complicated yet understandable; Johnson was complicated and frustrating. Lamon’s instinct was to go over to the Executive Mansion and lecture the President about compromising on some issues to win the important battle.
Johnson followed his veto of the black suffrage bill with another veto, this time the infamous Tenure of Office bill. Within days, Missouri Rep. Benjamin Logan called for Johnson’s impeachment on the floor of Congress. By March Congress had slightly reworded the tenure act to elaborate on who exactly could not be removed from officer. If President Lincoln had appointed the secretary, then Johnson could not remove the appointee without approval from the Senate until after the expiration of Lincoln’s second term. Johnson could fire without impunity anyone he had personally hired. The changes did not impress the president, and he vetoed it again. The House immediately overrode it.
By this time, Lamon was sick at heart of the conflicts on Capitol Hill and unable to see any appropriate resolution. More and more, his mind wandered back to his home in Danville, Illinois, and to his family who waited for his return. He acknowledged how fine a woman his second wife Sally was. She did not hesitate to open her arms to his daughter Dorothy and loved her as her own. His first wife Angelina died of natural causes only a few years earlier. He remembered the letter from Sally that described her joy when his ten-year-old child without any prompting hugged her and called her mommy. How many more warm family moments would he miss because of his vaunted conviction that the nation needed him to save it from those who seemed determined to destroy the American way of life.
So when summer arrived in Washington City and the Congress and the President continued to butt heads over reconstruction legislation, Lamon decided to leave the battle to the politicians. A sense of relief overcame him as he boarded the train to Danville in early June. Sally and Dorothy welcomed him with hugs and kisses. He immediately reopened his law practice and focused on civil suits over property disputes and contract negotiations.
Barely a week had passed when he received a letter from Lincoln’s former law partner William Herndon who requested permission to visit his office as soon as was convenient. Herndon had always appeared to be an affable man, though not possessed of the highest intellect, so Lamon agreed to the appointment. When the Springfield attorney arrived, his appearance troubled Lamon. He had gained quite a bit of weight. Coffee and food stained his wrinkled clothing.
After a few moments of recollecting memories of Abraham Lincoln, they both paused to lean forward in their chairs, their eyes turning serious with ominous intent.
“Well, Billy, what can I do for you?”
“It’s more like what I can do for you.” Herndon’s pinched lips almost formed a smile but not quite. His voice lowered to a whisper. “I’m planning to write a biography of our dear departed friend that will shock the world.”
Lamon’s mouth fell open. Could Herndon, during his many visits to Washington City, have determined that the man in the Executive Mansion was not Abraham Lincoln? Could Herndon have been more astute than Lamon first imagined? “So you knew?”
“Of course, I knew.” Herndon raised his chin with pride. “Abe never loved Mary. He knew her family’s money and political connections would thrust him into contention for election to the presidency. And he paid dearly for his ambition. She made his life miserable with her insane outbursts and her wild spending habits.”
Leaning back, Lamon sighed with relief. This was the Billy Herndon he knew and tolerated. He acknowledged that at times Mary Lincoln was vain, hysterical and unreasonable, but she was a good person, and Lincoln loved her very much. “What an interesting premise. I’m sure your book will be very successful. Women across America will want to read it.”
Herndon emitted what Lamon considered a harrumph. “I expect it to be more than a romance story, Hill. This is where you come in.”
Lamon only allowed his inner circle of friends, which included Lincoln, to address him by his middle name of Hill, but he decided not to be make an issue of it. Herndon might well have possession of valuable information to prove Lamon’s own theories. He still wanted to present all the facts to President Johnson so that Edwin Stanton and Lafayette Baker be punished for their attempts to subvert the Constitution and the future of the United States. “How intriguing. And how could I help you out?”
“The war, dammit.” Herndon shifted uneasily in his seat. “You were privy to much of his decision-making about the war. You must have heard a certain amount of information that has not been disclosed to the public.”
“What would you say if I told you there was a conspiracy involving our friend that went beyond a mere actor and his band of fools?”
“I knew it.” His voice fulminated with self-righteous indignation. “That devil Jefferson Davis was behind it all, wasn’t he?”
“You might be on the right track,” Lamon lied. “Did you visit the President much in the last two years of the war?”
“Yes, a few times. Not as often as I wanted. The war made travel risky business.”
“How did he seem to you? Was he unusually nervous, distracted?”
Herndon shrugged. “Hell, he was always socially awkward. I don’t think anyone, including you, actually knew what was going in his skull. He was my best friend, but he was always the little engine that could, if you know what I mean. He was always pushing, pushing–a quality to be admired in a president overseeing a war. But on a personal level, he made everyone feel like a true friend until that person was no longer useful to him and then they were strangers.”
Lamon suppressed a desire to throw the fat little weasel out of his office. One day even Herndon might supply a missing link in the chain of conspiracy that surrounded Lincoln’s captivity in the Executive Mansion basement. “Nothing would please me more than to participate in your project, but right at this moment I want to reconnect with my wife and child. I was gone so much during the war that I’m afraid I’m guilty of neglecting them.”
Herndon stood and extended his hand. “If any recollection percolates to the top of your memory, please let me know. What may seem insignificant to you may be of great importance to me.”
“I’m sure.” Lamon shook his hand and escorted him to the door.
When he arrived home that evening, he told Sally about Herndon’s strange visit. She was setting the table in the dining area of their parlor. On the other end of the room was a sofa, two padded chairs facing the fireplace. She took her dishtowel tucked in her apron to wipe smudges from a sturdy thick crystal vase.
“I, for one, never liked that man.” She carefully returned the vase to the table and put away her dishtowel. “Please make yourself comfortable on the sofa, dear, and I’ll have supper ready soon. As for Mr. Herndon’s book, I would never read his gossip.”
Dorothy ran through the front screen door holding a small bouquet of flowers from their garden. “See what I picked, papa? Aren’t they pretty?”
“Almost as pretty as you, my child.” He pulled her close and hugged her. Leaning over he sniffed the bouquet. “And they smell so sweet.”
“They shall be the centerpiece of our table tonight,” Sally announced with glowing pride in the little girl and in the results of her garden. “Now scurry to the kitchen, Dorothy, to make sure nothing is burning on the stove. I’ll put the flowers in the vase.”
Lamon lounged back on the sofa and began to read the Springfield newspaper when there was a knock at the front door. When he looked up to see who it was, Lamon’s face flushed with anger. Lafayette Baker stood on his porch. This was Gabby’s mean man with the red hair. Lamon stood and marched to the door.
“What the hell are you doing here?” He hissed in low tones so his wife and child could not hear.
“May I come in?” Baker asked, his hat in his hands.
“Hell no,” Lamon spat as he opened the screen door, stepped out on the porch and immediately threw a punch which landed on Baker’s jaw.
Baker tumbled backwards down the front porch steps. He made no effort to defend himself as Lamon threw his large body onto him and continued to pummel his face, neck and chest. Finally, he tried to roll away from the assault. “No, stop, please. I have to tell you something. Please, don’t kill me yet.”
His roll picked up speed as they both tumbled down a slight grade toward Sally’s flower garden. Lamon did not notice they were hurling themselves downhill. All he knew was that the man who had been responsible for misery in the last two years of Abraham Lincoln’s life was under his control and he was exacting revenge.
“No, please! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Baker screamed.
Lamon bellowed like an enraged bull. The noise drew Sally and Dorothy out on the porch. Even neighbors peeked out of their window to see what the commotion was about.
“Don’t you dare ruin my flower bed! Stop it! Stop it right this moment!” Sally thundered louder than either of the two men.
Lamon stopped his fist in mid-air, looked toward the porch and saw Sally still holding the crystal vase, now filled with pansies and daisies. He returned his gaze to Baker, who had pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and was wiping blood from his swollen nose.
“Please give me a chance to explain what happened,” Baker whispered. “Yes, I have been a monster. I have done terrible things because Edwin Stanton told me to. But I repent of all that. Help a sinner repent.”
Lamon still could not comprehend what was happening. Was it possible all the pieces of the conspiracy puzzle were coming together right there in his front yard? Could it be that the man whom he had always held in the highest contempt was about to become his most trusted ally? His eyes fluttered in bewilderment.
Sally smiled in bemusement. “I presume this gentleman will not be joining us for supper.”
Lamon stood and helped Baker to his feet. “I don’t see why not. Do you have other plans for this evening?”
Baker somehow had lost his voice and only shook his head.
“Good.” A smile finally crept across Lamon’s lips. “You will need to wash up first.”

Davy Crockett’s Butterfly Chapter Twenty-Two

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Captain Elmer Stasney slid his split tongue between his dark thick lips as he talked to Goodell. Shivers ran through Davy’s body. He ducked back to avoid being seen. After the captain walked away from the general store Davy crossed the dusty street to talk to Goodell.
“That was an odd lookin’ man, warn’t he?” Davy said, keeping his eyes down.
“He shouldn’t be too odd looking to you,” Goodell replied. “You were bound to him.”
“No, I warn’t.” His eyes widened as he looked up. “Honest. We talked about me being a cabin boy, but I changed my mind.”
“That’s not what he said.” Goodell’s voice was harsh.
“He’s lyin’.”
“Why would he come all this way to hunt you down if it didn’t come down to money?”
“Money?”
“Money he paid your parents for your indenture.”
“He never met my parents.”
“Master Davy,” he said with exasperation, “they drove you up in a wagon from Tennessee because all you could talk about was how you wanted to be a sailor.” Goodell paused to look into the boy’s fluttering brown eyes. “Did you want to be sailor?”
“Yes—I mean, I always liked ships, I gotta admit, but my ma and pa ain’t never been further away from home than North Carolina. Honest.”
“How did you get there, all the way from the mountains?”
“I ran away from home,” Davy admitted. “Pa was goin’ to beat me for skippin’ school.”
“I could almost believe that.” Goodell smiled with irony.
“I worked for one teamster then another until I got to Baltimore. Ships drew me, I guess. I met the captain and he offered me a job as a cabin boy.”
“Then you just changed your mind and ran off.”
“Yes, sir.” He gulped and looked away. “He scared me.”
“How did he do that?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Master Davy, sounds like you haven’t had time to come up with a good story yet.”
He sputtered a moment, became flustered and then spat out, “Did he tell you how he got that tongue?”
“No,” Goodell replied. “I figured it was none of my business.”
“Well, I did it. I had to cut ‘im to git away.”
Goodell turned to go back into the store. Davy scampered after him.
“He was lickin’ the knife to scare me, and I grabbed it and cut ‘im.”
“Why would he be licking the knife?”
“I don’t know. To scare me.”
“So he tracked you down after all this time just to get even?”
“Yes.” He felt as though he were about to cry. “I don’t think he’s normal. Couldn’t you tell he was a li’l tetched in the head?”
“He said the main reason he was looking for you was because he went to your folks’ place in Tennessee and your ma cried when she found out you’d broken your bond. You shamed your family by doing that, Master Davy. Anyway, Captain Stasney said he didn’t mind losing the money, but he hated to see a woman crying because she didn’t know where her child was.”
“He saw ma?” Davy caught a mistake in the captain’s story. “He’s lyin’. I never told ‘im where I lived. How could he go see ma and pa when he didn’t know where to go? All he knew was that I was from the mountains.”
“Master Davy, he didn’t sound crazy to me.”
“But he didn’t say where in the mountains he went, did he?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Mister Goodell, that man is crazy,” he insisted. “I’m afraid he wants to kill me.”
“Like Mister Jefferson took your advice on running for president and how you killed a bear when you were just a little boy?” The storekeeper shook his head. “I can’t remember all the wild adventures you’ve told me about.”
“I know I tell stories, but this ain’t—“
“Master Davy, there ain’t a friendlier boy I ever met than you. If I had to pick a fellow to go fishing with, I’d pick you.” He paused to look him straight in the eye but added in a whisper, “But I don’t believe you.”
Davy looked around, trying to figure out how to convince Goodell to help him. “Please don’t tell ‘im anythin’ until I git to tell Mister Griffith I have to leave.”
“With Captain Stasney, or are you going to run away?”
So this was what his life had become, Davy told himself. He was a winsome lad everyone liked but nobody trusted. Lying had created a cold, empty life for him, but starting to tell the truth at this point was not particularly helpful. Davy had to learn to be more honest, but today was not the day to do it.
“Of course. I’m going back with Captain Stasney. I’ve learned my lesson.”

***

Sissy was wrong. Somebody else did want David Crockett. William Patton and Abner Burgin and other good men wanted him to lead them to Texas. Sam Houston wanted him, and the good people of Texas would want him when he got there. Not if, he thought as he walked away from his daughter dressed in black, but when. His great commitment to his family failed in less than twenty-four hours. He decided it was not his fault. Inside their cabin Elizabeth bent over a large pot she had pulled away from the fireplace on a spit. David heard her humming a vague tune he had heard at some church meeting he had attended with her years ago. She was happy for the first time in a long time. It grieved him he was going to ruin that, but he had his own happiness to consider.
“Elizabeth, the children are dreadful sore at me.”
“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know.” She chuckled to herself. “Give ‘em time.”
“Robert thinks I don’t have it in me to stick around even a month.” He paused. “I don’t think he wants me to stick around.”
“Prove ‘im wrong. After a few months, a few years, and he’ll know.”
David sat on a bench by the table, watching her smiling, serene face. “I hit Matilda. I never thought I’d do that.”
“I know. She told me.” Elizabeth swung the pot back over the fire and then sat across the table from him. “I’ve felt like smackin’ ‘er a few times myself.” She reached across for his hands. “You know, you can’t blame ‘er. What’s jest a good story to you can be a lie to a li’l girl.”
“And jest now,” he continued, pulling away from her, “Sissy told me not to touch her, that nobody wanted me.”
“Your ma’s death dealt a real hard blow to ‘er . Rebecca had a gentle way with her, touched her heart in ways that even I couldn’t do.” She explained. “And when you went off like you did—“
“But I had to campaign—“
“I know you had to campaign, but you also had a daughter that thought you didn’t care.”
“How can you prove a thing like that?” David crossed his arms across his chest. “How do you prove you care?”
“Jest bein’ under the same roof for a spell is a good start,” she replied with a smile. “It takes time.”
“You know William, Abner and the others are showin’ up any day now expectin’ me to go Texas with ‘em.”
“They’re grown men. They can take disappointment.”
“It’d be like breakin’ my word to ‘em.”
“So?” she asked, her voice turning cold.
“If a man ain’t true to his word, then what good is he?”
“What are you sayin’, Mister Crockett?” Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed.
“I have to go,” he whispered.
Standing, she went to a side cupboard, opened a bin and grabbed carrots, potatoes and onions. She came back to the table, dumping the vegetables. Trembling, she picked up a large knife and stabbed the potatoes. David reached across to stay her hand.
“I don’t think you should be doin’ that.”
“You always have to go.” Her voice became raspy with anger. “That Christmas, snow on the ground, larder full and you had to go huntin’. We had plenty of food, but you said we needed meat. We always needed meat.” She said the word as though it were an obscenity. “We didn’t need meat. We needed you.”
“Give me the knife, Elizabeth.”
“You was gone for weeks, and then they came with your horse. They said you was dead. I’d already lost one husband to war, and now I’d lost another jest ‘cause he said we needed meat.”
“Elizabeth, you better sit down.” David took the knife from her hand.
“They said I’d better go collect the body. Collect the body. Do you know what that means?” She turned away. “But I found you alive, half dead of cold, but alive, so I bundled you up and brought you home. And when you was well, you left again. We had to have meat, you said.”
He stood and walked around the table, not knowing what to do or say. Elizabeth had never revealed raw emotion like this before. She was pleasant or extremely stoic, perhaps sometimes derisive. David had come to think of her as a sturdy workhorse, ever plodding, never feeling anything.
“And then came the politics and long weeks of talkin’ and buyin’ whiskey. That’s how you win votes, makin’ jokes and gittin’ drunk. That’s not how a farm is run. I git up every mornin’ and milk cows and feed chickens and plow fields, whether I feel good or not. You had politics. You went off to Murfreesboro and the legislature, run off to Washington and Congress, run off to New York for God knows what reason and I had to stay here and work the farm!” She swung around to glare at him, her eyes red with hot tears.
“Elizabeth, you didn’t say nothin’,” he relied.
“Poor John Wesley! He didn’t git to be a normal boy! He lost his mama and he lost his childhood. He hoed the field right next to me while you got drunk!”
“Elizabeth, I was an elected representative of the people,” he said as self-righteously as he could. “The people, the poor people, had to have one of their own to stand up for them.”
“Who was goin’ to stand up for us? John Wesley had to stand up for us! William had to work for us. Margaret had to be mother to our children. I had to work the land and run the mills you bought and left behind!” She pointed to herself. “I was the one knee deep in river water as the floods swept the mill away! And where was you? In Murfreesboro, standin’ up for the poor man! Who stood up for me?”
“I know what you did,” he said. “Thank you. I’m sorry if I never said that.”
“All the old folks I tended to until they died, all the babies I succored, what was that for, Mister Crockett?”
“It’s what folks do, Elizabeth.”
“No, some folks hunt for meat, git drunk, laugh with strangers and say aye or nay in Congress and call it work!”
“I’m sorry.”
“And that’s what I git for years of aches and pains and tears and blood and loneliness? After all these years of keepin’ on keepin’ on, farmin’ and tendin’ to everybody else, that’s what I git? I’m sorry?” Her large frame shook in spasm with holy anger. “No well done, thou good and faithful servant? No rest and comfort in my old age? Never! Not in this lifetime! Not from David Crockett!” Her hands flew up to her face and slowly wiped the tears from her broad tanned worn cheeks. She breathed in deeply several times and blew her nose on her apron. “I’ve supper to finish. The children must be fed.” She turned her back to him. “I won’t never speak of this again.”

***

As Dave’s plane lifted off from Dallas-Fort Worth Airport he put his head back and closed his eyes, thinking of what Tiffany said on the telephone.
“You didn’t have to hide all that stuff from me.”
She did not know, he thought. She just did not know. How could he tell her how he had to grow up in the house on Rice Avenue where his mother died, his father did not care and his brothers were not normal? He always relied on his mother’s laughter to make life bearable. Dave knew the exact time he decided he could not trust his father anymore. It was when Lonnie refused to bail Vince out of jail for drunk driving. It was not the money that bothered him; it was the fear that if he ever made a foolish mistake and wound up in jail his father would not bail him out either.
A tremble spurted through his shoulders, causing a plane passenger next to him to look askance before returning to her book. Dave remembered when he was five and Allan would jump from behind a door to scare him. Because Dave screamed, Allan laughed hysterically and repeated the sneak attack so often that Dave trembled when he walked through a dark room alone. He did not enjoy carnival rides because Allan liked to pretend he was going to push him out of the car. Allan also thought it was funny to chase little Dave around the house with a hot iron. Not only did Dave not trust Allan, he also thanked God his brother was dead.
He could not trust Vince either. Dave never got through a complete sentence without Vince interrupting him and calling him stupid or a liar. Dave’s shoulders shook again, causing the passenger next to him to shift in discomfort.
No wonder he did not want to tell Tiffany all this stuff, he told himself, but he had to tell her if their marriage were to survive.
The plane landed, Dave rented a car and followed Sarah Beth’s directions to her house. Now he had to convince this woman to give back the family Bible. He pulled up in front of the house and took a deep breath.
“Hello, you must be Dave,” Sarah Beth said as she opened the door. She was not as old as he expected, in her early fifties, perhaps. Her face was pleasant, and she was dressed in a blouse and pants that were flattering but not overtly stylish. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, leading him into her living room. “I invited my aunt Myrtle Goodell and cousin Mary Jenkins over to meet you.”
The cousin was maybe Dave’s age and quite attractive and seemed too dignified a person to be interested in the descendants of Davy Crockett. Her mother Myrtle, on the other hand, absolutely glowed, her grayish silver hair recently permed and her dress pressed with efficiency.
“Imagine,” the old woman gushed as she went to Dave, her hand extended, “an actual grandson of Davy Crockett!” She shook his hand with vigor. “How many greats?”
“Pardon?” He leaned forward, not quite understanding what she meant.
“Are you a great grandson or a great great grandson?”
“Oh.” He smiled sheepishly. “Three greats.”
“I’m the great great granddaughter of Davy Crockett’s first true love,” Myrtle announced proudly.

Sins of the Family Chapter Twenty

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Bob sat across from Harold, leaning forward, his brow knitted in concern. The doctor sat back, his hands together in front of his face and his eyes studying Bob with distrust.
“Yes, it’s definitely John Ross, and the two teen-agers who murdered an elderly woman in Boone. They’re FAS.”
“FAS?”
“Fetal alcohol syndrome.”
“Oh.”
“You can tell by their looks.” Opening the brothers’ files, Harold pulled out their pictures and showed them to Bob. “They’re high grade mental defectives.”
“Does that explain the violent behavior?”
“Partly.” Harold put the pictures away and pulled out a report. “In my talks with them I found little understanding of right and wrong. Also, they are alcohol intolerant.”
“They have blackouts.”
“Yes.”
“Does John Ross know they’re alcoholics?” Bob sat back in the chair. “And does he know about they killed the widow?”
“He knows about her murder. I don’t know if he’s aware of their alcohol intolerance.”
“If he doesn’t, and he lets them have beer, for instance, he might be setting them up for another violent incident.”
“Even if he does know, he might give them beer to make them do whatever it is he has on his mind.”
“But what if once they’re drunk they decide they want to do something different than what John wants them to do?”
“That’s the problem, for both us and John Ross.”
“In other words, he’s got a ticking time bomb with him which he can use to blow up someone else or it may blow up in his own face.”
***
John turned off the interstate highway onto an old state road, winding through the lower Appalachians on his way back to the North Carolina State Mental Hospital. Jill tried to relax, but still peered into John’s eyes, trying to how decipher this man who had some unholy mission against her grandfather. Randy was rolled up in his fetal ball, while Mike hung over the seat staring like a vulture.
“We need gas,” John said.
“Good.” Mike smiled. “I want more beer.”
“Do you want anything?” John looked at Jill.
“No.” She folded her arms and looked straight ahead. She wanted to go home but knew he was not going to give her that.
“Hey.” Mike punched Randy. “Want some beer?”
“Yeah.” Randy raised his head, rubbed his eyes and smiled.
“We always want some beer.” Mike laughed and nuzzled Jill’s hair which caused her to shiver in revulsion.
***
Harold escorted Bob to the cafeteria. They passed several patients who stopped to say hello to the doctor and gossip about other patients who were not following the regulations, or to complain about unnamed attendants who were being callous by forcing them to adhere to the rules. The doctor nodded with forbearance and told them to remember to tell him again about their grievances during their next session. In between interruptions, Harold tried to fill in Bob on what happened immediately before their escape, including the incident with the broken television.
“I don’t understand.” Bob frowned as he paid for his coffee. “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know.”
As they sat with their coffee in the cafeteria, they continued to figure out what incited John. George came in for his break, buying coffee and a honey bun. Harold waved him over to their table.
“George, you were in the day room that day,” Harold said. “Do you know what could have made John Ross break the television?”
“It was the show on the TV,” he replied, munching his snack. “It was news, but I don’t know what channel.”
“What time was it?” Bob asked.
“It was five-thirty.” George slurped his coffee.
“Why are you so sure?” Bob leaned toward the attendant.
“I was on my way to clock out.”
“That’s the time my news show is on,” Bob said.
“But aren’t all news shows on at the same time?” Harold asked.
“We’re on for an hour and a half beginning thirty minutes before other stations. It’s a marketing ploy.”
“Do you remember what would have been on that day that would have upset John so much? It was about two months ago.”
“A former Nazi.”
***
Dusk was coming as John pulled into a small convenience store sheltered by tall pine trees. Mike and Randy jumped from the car and ran to go to the rest room while John with careful force took Jill’s arm and guided her inside. The clerk, a handsome young man, stood behind the counter, looked up and smiled.
“Evening, folks.”
“Hello.” John smiled as he tightened his grip on Jill’s arm.
“How can I help you?”
“I need gasoline. Ten dollars.” He looked at Jill and tried to appear affectionate. “Think that’s about right, dear?”
“Fine.” Fear and apprehension crossed her face.
“Okay.” The clerk punched the amount into his cash register and then he assessed Jill’s condition. “Are you all right, ma’am? You don’t look good.”
John squeezed her arm even harder.
“No. I’m all right.” Her eyes darted from the attendant to John and back again.
The young clerk cocked his head with curiosity and was about to say something when Mike and Randy bounded from the rest room.
“I want some ice cream,” Mike said as he went to a refrigerated chest.
Whatever the clerk was going to say to Jill must have slipped his mind as he smiled at Mike.
“Just slide up the top.”
“I can’t get it up.” Mike tugged at it.
“I said slide it up, not pull it up.” The clerk came around the counter and went to Mike. “I said slide it up, not lift.”
Randy was circling around the clerk’s back, beginning to unbuckle his belt and pull it from his jeans. Jill saw what was happening and began to cry out, but John twisted her arm. A bell on top of the door rang as another customer entered. The clerk looked up and smiled, just as he slid the ice cream chest top up. Frowning, Randy returned his belt to his waist.
“How’s it going tonight, Pete?” The customer was about the clerk’s age but was somewhat overweight.
“Just fine, Bill,” Pete said. “Got a date for the dance tomorrow night?” He looked at Mike. “There you go.” He returned to the counter.
“Naw,” Bill said. “I don’t think I’ll go.” He looked around at the others and then whispered, “Got some cigarette papers?”
Pete gave his friend a disapproving glare and then turned to a shelf behind the counter and took out a pack of cigarette papers.
“You still use that stuff?”
Bill handed him a couple of bills.
“That stuff’s going to kill you.”
“Oh, stop preaching at me. See you later.”
Pete handed him his change and smiled.
“See you.”
John watched Bill as he opened his car door, entered and drove off. Pete caught John’s eye and nodded.
“Pump’s all set. You can pump your gas.”
Randy pulled the knife from the front of his jeans and threw it, hitting Pete in the middle of his chest. His eyes wide with shock, Pete moaned, staggered toward the end of the counter and fell, his hand grabbing a display of Mr. Peanut snacks which came crashing to the floor. Running over to Pete’s body, Randy pulled the knife out, stuffed his pockets with little bags of peanuts from the floor and then hurried to the cash register where he grabbed as many bills as he could. Mike walked over, gnawing on an ice cream bar and picked up some peanut bags.
“Be sure to get all the money,” John said. “We’ll need it.”
“And beer,” Mike added. “Let’s get some more beer.”
With her free hand, Jill slapped John, pulled away and ran for the door.
“Get her!” he screamed at Mike and Randy who were preoccupied at the cold beer section.
“Stupid woman,” Randy said, and he ran for her, followed by Mike guzzling a can of beer.
Jill was out the door and scrambled into the woods behind the convenience store, stopping several yards into the thick brush to catch her breath and peeked around to see if Mike and Randy were far behind. Her mind raced trying to figure out how to escape them. She jumped when she heard voices muttering nearby.
“Which way did she go?” Mike’s voice was charged with energy.
“That way,” John barked.
“I don’t like her,” Randy muttered.
Jill crawled under a rhododendron bush as she heard them hurrying toward her. They paused, said something incoherent then stalked away. She stood and turned to scamper in another direction but stopped when she heard herself step on a branch and crack it.
“What was that?” John’s head turned.
“I don’t hear nothing,” Mike replied.
“She went there.” With determined steps, John started back the other way.
Fear welled in Jill’s head, and she could not think rationally. All she could do was run, not remembering from which way she had come. Out of the shadows Mike tackled her, slamming her down on the soft, moist pine needles. The smell of the ice cream, peanuts and beer on Mike’s breath made Jill gag and heave.
“That was foolish,” John said as he sauntered up.
“Boy, she feels nice and soft.” Mike rolled Jill over and planted his beefy body on top of hers.
“I say we slit her throat.” Randy arrived and bent down to put his knife to her neck. “We don’t need her no more.” He pressed the sharp edge into her skin, almost to the point of puncture. “She told us where that guy is.”
“No,” John said. “She’s our means to force him to take us to Pharaoh.”
Randy spat into Jill’s hair as he stood and put the knife back into his jeans.
As John began to walk away, Randy pulled back his foot and kicked Mike hard in the side, sending him reeling off Jill.
“Get up!”
“Come,” John called over his shoulder, “we must go.” He looked at Randy. “Caleb, bring the woman.”
Jerking her up by the arm pit, Randy glared into Jill’s eyes and whispered, “I don’t like you.”
***
Harold and Bob sat in his office trying to piece together the puzzle of how John Ross escaped, why he was angry at Heinrich Schmidt and what he planned to accomplish. The building was quiet with the departure of the day staff.
“Where do you think they are?” Bob asked.
“I don’t know.”
“My report said Mr. Schmidt lived in Gatlinburg.”
“We can notify police there.” Harold picked up his phone, dialed nine one one but the line was dead. He sighed. “Well, there’s nothing else we can do tonight.”
“Was there anything in your sessions with John Ross to give you an indication he might do this?”
Again someone questioned his judgment. First there was his father, then George and now some young television reporter. Maybe Bob somehow recognized problems in the Rosses’ house. Maybe everyone was aware of his parents’ hysterical outbursts. Only Harold did not comprehend how they had affected their son. He held finger imagining the pang of the glass puncture, expecting to see a drop of blood there. He then stared into Bob’s eyes.
“Do you think I’m a bad doctor?”
“What?” Bob blinked.
“Sometimes I think I’m a bad doctor.”
“What could any other doctor at an overcrowded state mental hospital have done to prevent a patient from escaping?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t either.” Bob paused to smile. “Maybe more security around the building, but you can’t hire more guards, can you?”
“No, I can’t. It’s not in the hospital budget.” Harold sighed. “I think I need to go home.”
“That’s a good idea,” Bob said. “It’s been a long day. I just got married, and this is supposed to be our honeymoon. ”
Harold laughed as he opened the door, and they walked into the hall. One of the night attendants ran up.
“Doctor, all the phone lines are down.”
“Yes, I know. When I get home I’ll call the telephone company.”
“What do you think caused it, doctor?”
“Don’t worry about it.” He patted the attendant’s back. “It’ll be fixed in an hour or two.” The parking lot was empty and foggy, eerily lit by lampposts. Harold walked Bob to his car. “I’ll call Gatlinburg police when I get home to have the Schmidt residence put under surveillance.”
“I think not, Dr. Lippincott.” John stepped from the shadows holding Jill’s arm. Mike and Randy stood behind them, each sucking on a can of beer. “That’s why we cut the phone lines, so no one could contact police.”
Mike giggled and then belched.
“Oh no. Jill.” Bob focused on her face. He could tell she was afraid even though she was very good at hiding her emotions.
“John,” Harold said with fake bravado, “I’m glad to see you’ve returned. Let’s go inside.”
“I’m not back, doctor.” John smiled. “You know that.”
“What are you doing with my wife?” Bob asked.
“We went to Knoxville to find you,” John explained, dragging Jill further into the lamppost light. “To have you take us to Pharaoh.”
“Pharaoh?” Bob shook his head.
“Grandpa,” Jill interpreted.
“You are the granddaughter of Pharaoh?” John turned to her, his eyes lit with the power of new knowledge. “This is better than I thought.”
“You mean she’s like a princess or something?” Mike stepped closer to Jill and leered.
“Shut up.” Randy hit Mike hard on his shoulder.
“Ouch. Stop hitting me.”
“You must be hungry, Mike,” Harold said. “Why don’t you come in? We’ve got ice cream.”
“Oh, I’ve had lots of ice cream. And beer.”
Bob and Harold exchanged glances.
“Take us to Pharaoh,” John demanded.
“He lives too far away to get there tonight.” Bob looked down.
“You said he lives in Gatlinburg,” John countered.
“You lie.” Randy took a step toward Bob. “Just like all other bad people in the world. Lie.” He shot a hot glare at Harold. “You lie too.”
“I didn’t lie, Randy,” Harold said.
“I ain’t Randy no more. My name is…” He looked at John, his eyes blank.
“His name is Caleb.” He focused on Bob. “Take us to Pharaoh.”
“Not until you let go of my wife.”
“I’ll slit her throat.” Randy pulled out the knife and held it to Jill’s neck.
“I think we better do as they want,” Harold said.
They entered Jill’s car with John behind the wheel and Randy and Harold next to him in the front seat. Mike, Bob and Jill sat in the back. The brothers popped open two more beers and began drinking.
“I’m sorry I told them where you were.” Jill looked at Bob.
“That’s all right.” He stroked her cheek. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I wanna do that, but she won’t let me.” Mike leaned over, breathing beer and peanuts on them.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Twenty-Eight

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Ward Hill Lamon decided after the hangings in the summer of 1865 that the best course he could take would be to continue in his duties as Marshal for the District of Columbia, going about his ordinary chores. He discreetly probed the dealings of Secretary of War Edwin Stanton, whom he considered the linchpin in the entire conspiracy. Weeks passed into months for Lamon without progress in his investigation. The deaths of Preston King in New York and James Lane in Kansas did not pass without notice. Local coroners declared both had been suicides, but Lamon had his doubts, remembering the roles they played in blocking the delivery of Mrs. Surratt’s reprieve on the day of the hangings. Lamon also learned that Louis Weichmann had left his government job to live in Indiana. Obtaining the young man’s new address, Lamon repeatedly sent letters, seeking permission to travel to Indiana to talk to Weichmann about his testimony in the conspirators’ trials. Weichmann never replied to any of the letters; in fact, the last one returned with “Refused” scrawled across it. The awkward cursive style of the message conveyed a deep underlying fear, Lamon decided.
The best means of continuing the investigation was a close reading of all the local newspapers for political developments. By late August of 1866, four different conventions were held to select candidates for the House of Representatives. Delegates at one convention urged Johnson to fire Secretary of War Stanton, while participants at other conventions called for the impeachment of the president. In fact, impeachment was the central issue in congressional district elections.
When Johnson announced plans to go on a speaking tour in the fall, Lamon’s first instinct was to offer his services as a personal bodyguard. His traveling companion was William Seward, who had sufficiently recovered from his knife wounds to continue his duties as Secretary of State. Eventually Lamon dissuaded himself from making the offer. As long as the Radical Republicans and Stanton were obsessed with the subject of impeachment, Lamon knew Johnson’s life was not in danger, only his reputation. Stanton’s faction carried enough elections in November to maintain its lead in the House.
Lamon spent the week before Christmas ensconced in one of his favorite taverns in Washington City reading newspapers. He sighed as he considered the ongoing battles between Congress and the president on one piece of legislation after another. The new session had hardly begun in December of 1866 when the House passed a bill giving black men in the District of Columbia the right to vote. Representatives then passed the Tenure of Office Bill, which Lamon sensed had darker implications than the surface meaning implied. He saw the hand of Thaddeus Stevens and the other Radical Republicans at work, creating a bill so odorous that Johnson would feel honor-bound to disobey it. The tenure bill stated the President could not fire a member of his cabinet without permission of Congress. Another bill introduced on the House floor anticipated Johnson’s actions by calling for his impeachment. Lamon feared the New Year could only bring presidential vetoes, congressional overrides and further legislation to keep the needless cycle going.
“Excuse me.” A soft voice of easy manner interrupted Lamon’s thoughts. “Are you not Marshal of the District of Columbia Ward Hill Lamon?”
“Yes, I am.” He wrinkled his brow trying to make out the figure of the man standing over him. He was older than Lamon, somewhat shorter and less stout, and his shoulders sloped in such a way to render his presence totally non-confrontational.
“I thought so.” The man smiled through his full gray beard. “I am Walt Whitman. You visited my home in Brooklyn last year. You spoke to my mother and my dear friend Gabby Zook.”
Lamon’s eyes widened, and he stood to shake Whitman’s hand. “An honor sir. I’ve been trying to make your acquaintance for some time. Every time I go to the Office of Indian Affairs I am told you are away for a few days.”
“Yes, I don’t make a rather good employee, it seems. But they have a good nature and overlook my shortcomings.”
“Please, have a seat.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you like an ale?”
“Another hot tea would be pleasant,” Whitman said as he sat. I’ve witnessed in my family what alcohol can do to one’s constitution, but I do enjoy the company of men who revel in their liquor.”
Lamon ordered another tea for Whitman and a large pewter mug of ale for himself. After taking a deep gulp, he leaned back and smiled. “So, do you agree with your mother’s assessment that Gabby Zook is insane?”
“Insane is a complicated word.” Whitman furrowed his brow. “I have observed insanity on a personal level with my own family. I myself have been called insane. Mr. Gabby has an extremely high degree of anxiety. Such anxiety cannot be created merely from the wild imagination of an insane man but rather from harsh, stark reality.”
Lamon nodded. “I agree with you.” After another draught, he leaned forward so no one standing nearby in the noisy tavern might eavesdrop on their conversation. “I have proof—well, eyewitness testimony for whatever that is worth—that Gabby Zook, President Lincoln and his wife were held captive in the Executive Mansion basement.”
“And a private Adam Christy attended to their needs. They thought they heard the murder of a butler in the middle of the night. That an intimidating short man with red hair may have killed the private and may try to kill Mr. Gabby.”
“So he told you the same stories. Do you think you could convince him to tell President Johnson what he knows?”
Whitman shook his head. “I am a gentle man, Mr. Lamon. Mr. Gabby feels secure around me and opens his heart to me. You and President Johnson, on the other hand, are rough, crude men. You scare him.” He put down his cup and rose. “Thank you so much for the refreshment.” Patting Lamon on the shoulder, he added, “I shall do all in my power to convince Mr. Gabby to trust you. Have patience. Our captain must be avenged.”
“Our captain?” Lamon was confused. “Who’s our captain?”
“Our captain,” Whitman repeated. “Mr. Lincoln, dear sir. We must avenge our captain.”