Autumn golds, reds, oranges and yellows crowned the Smoky Mountains, on the crisp morning Bob and Jill married on Clingman’s Dome, highest point in the national park. Most of their guests grumbled as they hiked up a paved path, one and a half miles from the parking lot to the observation tower. Bob shrugged and smiled, telling them to blame Jill—it was her idea.
“What kind of a girl would want to get married up here I don’t know,” Mr. Meade said as he plopped on one of the many benches along the path.
“She’s my girl, Dad.”
“And she’s a good one.” The old bald-headed man looked up and smiled. “You know, I wish your mother was here.”
“I wish she were too.” Bob looked away, and his eye twitched.
“She’d give me a hit in the arm and say, ‘See, I told you the boy would get married.’”
Bob gave his father an odd look which caused Mr. Meade to duck his head.
“Sorry, son, I never did think you’d get married. I don’t know why.”
That’s all right, Dad.”
“She’d hit me again and say, ‘See, he got himself a good job too.’” He did not wait for Bob’s look. “I guess I wasn’t a very good dad. I never did think you’d amount to much. I thought that I’d end up having to pay for your groceries the rest of your life.”
“We better keep moving.” Bob glanced up the path.
***
Already at the top of the mountain in a motorized wheelchair, Heinrich pouted and glowered at Greta who fussed with flowers lining the ramp which circled to the top of the observation tower.
“Woods are no place for a wedding,” he said.
“Oh, Heinrich, this isn’t the woods. This is a nice tower on top of the mountains.” She looked out at the clear panorama. “Jill is very lucky there are no clouds today. You can see all the pretty colors on the trees.” She sighed. “Just like Oberbach.”
“This is not like Oberbach. Oberbach was a dirty little town.”
“How can you say that? Oberbach was our home.”
“Our home, yes, but it was still a dirty little town.”
“Shush, Heinrich, here comes two people and a man with a guitar.”
“Guitar’s not right for a wedding…”
“Shush, Heinrich. I think it’s the minister and his wife.”
The preacher, a fleshy man in his fifties, leaned on the arm of his stout spouse, and managed a smile as he approached Greta.
“Mrs. Smith, your granddaughter certainly has a flair for the dramatic.”
“Schmidt,” Greta said.
“Pardon?”
“Our name is Schmidt.” She put on her tough grin. “Our son Edward, Jill’s papa, changed his name to Smith.”
“Oh.” He recovered fast as he wiped his brow. “Well, she certainly knows how to start a marriage out on a high.”
His wife slapped his arm and laughed.
***
As the last of the guests began their torturous ascent up the path, Jill, in an antique ivory lace gown, eased out of a limousine followed by her mother and father.
“The bottom of her dress will be soiled by the path to the top.” Ed frowned.
“If you bothered to look,” Carol said with a smile, “you’d see Jill picked a street length gown to avoid that problem.”
“Still, it doesn’t seem…”
“You’re sounding like your father,” she said.
“You don’t think it’ll rain, do you?” Jill surveyed the sky.
“I checked with the Weather Bureau, and everything will be fine.” Her mother patted her shoulder.
“Fine? Those people huffing up the mountain will never buy another car from me again,” Ed groused.
“Don’t listen to your father, dear.” Carol put her arm about Jill and led her to the path. “It’s the businessman in him coming out.”
***
Further up the path, Bob and his father sat again on a bench.
“Tell me one thing.” The old man leaned over and asked in confidence, “Has she been with other men?”
“I don’t know.” Bob looked up to see a couple of guests walk by. He smiled in embarrassment, hoping they had not heard his father’s question. “I didn’t ask.”
“That’s good.” His father tapped him on the knee. “Maybe she won’t have nobody to compare you to.”
“Let’s get going, Dad. Jill’s going to beat us up the mountain.”
As they began to walk, Bob’s father stopped him.
“You’ve been with a woman, ain’t you?”
“Keep walking, Dad.”
***
The guitar player shook out his long black hair and began tuning his instrument. Heinrich watched him with disgust. He waved to Greta to come over to him.
“That person with the guitar, is that a boy or a girl?”
“Shush, Heinrich,” Greta said. “That’s one of Jill’s students, a very fine musician, she says.”
“Fine musician, fine place to have a wedding—foolishness.”
Joe, Betty and Ernie reached the top of the mountain, heaving and looking for a place to sit. Just as they settled into chairs, Greta jerked them up and herded them over to Heinrich.
“This is the grandfather of the bride.” She beamed. “And I’m the grandma.”
“I’m Joe Matthieson, Bob’s boss at the television station.” Joe extended his hand. “This is Betty Sargent, our anchorwoman, and Ernie Boggs, our cameraman.”
Ignoring Joe’s hand, Heinrich eyed Betty, a striking blonde in her forties with hard blue eyes.
“I remember you from the court house,” he said, nodding at her.
“Yes, and I remember you,” she said.
“Where is your husband?”
“He had to work today.”
“He doesn’t make enough money to support you?”
“Heinrich! What a thing to say!” Greta said.
“He makes a very good income,” Betty replied, “and so do I.”
Turning his attention to the two men, Heinrich smiled.
“You two men are huffing a lot. Need more hard work.”
Joe and Ernie exchanged surprised looks and then laughed.
“Yes, sir,” Ernie said with a smile. “I suppose we do.”
“Ah, Bob is here with his papa.” Greta looked over Joe’s shoulder to see them reach the top.
“Then we should take our seats,” Betty said, very businesslike, and turned away, with Joe and Ernie following her.
Bob and his father joined Greta and Heinrich.
“This is a terrible place to have a wedding,” Mr. Meade said. Bob elbowed him. “Well, it is.”
“I agree with you, Mr. Meade,” Heinrich said. “This is no proper place for a wedding.”
“Heinrich.” Greta glanced over at the minister who was chatting with some of the guests. “The preacher will hear you.”
“I don’t care if he does. He’s not paying for this wedding.”
“I’m with you, Mr. Smith.” Bob’s father chuckled.
“Schmidt,” Greta corrected him.
Their discussion of wedding propriety was lost in a buzz of voices murmuring that the bride was coming. Jill’s student began an acoustic guitar rendition of classical chamber music.
“Hush, Heinrich. Here is Jill.”
***
Several hours later, the wedding reception was coming to a close at the Schmidts’ house. Joe, Betty and Ernie made apologies about leaving early to return to the station.
“You were lovely, my dear,” Betty said, kissing Jill on the cheek. “When you return from your honeymoon you and I must become fast friends.”
“And don’t worry about a thing while you’re gone,” Joe assured Bob. “Betty will announce you’re in contract negotiations and won’t come back until you get a raise.”
“I will not,” Betty said in protest, a smile around the creases of her mouth.
“Just kidding.” Ernie laughed and poked Bob in his ribs.
Carol walked up and hugged Bob.
“Welcome to the family.” She looked at the others. “Thank you so much for coming.”
“You’re quite welcome,” Betty said.
“Yeah, good eats,” Ernie added.
“With that,” Joe said, looking askance at Ernie, “we must be on our way.”
They watched his co-workers leave, and Bob kissed Carol on the cheek and only smelled a lilac scented perfume. He had become fond of his mother-in-law, hoping she had turned a corner in her fight against alcoholism.
“Thank you,” he said. “You raised a wonderful daughter.”
“No,” she replied, “thank you, for making Jill so happy.” She looked around the room, focusing on Greta, who was busy offering a tray of sweets to the remaining guests, and on Heinrich who sat in his usual easy chair, whittling on a stick, letting the chips fall all over the floor. “Sometimes, it isn’t easy being happy in this family.”
Greta joined them, and Carol stiffened her back.
“Jill and Bob have to be at the airport by three,” Carol said, “and Ed and I are going to drive them.”
“Call over Jill and Ed. I have a present for her, and for you, Carol,” Greta said with a sweet smile. “Meet me in the kitchen.”
Carol looked at Bob and shuddered, then motioned for Jill and Ed to come over from a group of university students with whom they were chatting.
“Your grandmother has a gift for you—and me—in the kitchen.”
“I wonder what that could be,” Jill said, heading for the door.
“I’m afraid to find out,” Carol replied, as Ed pushed her husband into the kitchen where Greta sat at the table wearing an enigmatic, serene look on her face.
“Please, all of you sit down. This won’t take long. I know you have to leave soon.”
Carol sat next to Ed who put his arm around her. Bob and Jill sat on the other side of Greta who gazed at her daughter-in-law.
“This actually goes to Carol, but it’s also a wedding gift to Jill because I know it’ll make her happy.”
“What is it, Mom?” Ed said.
She cupped her hands, held them to her breast and extended them to Carol.
“My heart. It’s an old German heart, sometimes stupid, too often mean old heart, but I want you to have it as a sign of how terribly sorry I am for the way I have treated you since you married my Edward.”
“Oh, Greta,” Carol said, squeezing her hands.
“This ordeal has opened my eyes to how wicked I have been,” Greta said. “Helga, too, showed me how far away I had drifted from the girl she used to know.” She drew Carol’s hands into her bosom. “Helga said it best. It’s not who your parents were, it’s who you are. You have always been a good wife to my son. You have raised my granddaughter to be a wonderful woman. Please forgive me.” A pitiful look crossed her face. “And I don’t want you to think Sebastian and Eva were right. I don’t want you to think I’m a stupid cow.”
Bob watched the women sob in silence as they hugged each other. He smiled as he noticed tears welling in Jill’s eyes and observed Ed trying to maintain a calm façade, although he could tell it was difficult for him. In due course, Greta pulled away, took out a handkerchief and wiped tears from Carol’s face.
“I know it’s my fault that you sometimes drink too much,” she said. “Whatever it takes to help you stop, I will be there. I will go to the meetings with you. I will stand and tell the people it is my fault. You won’t be alone.”
“Sebastian and Eva were wrong. You are not a stupid cow.” Carol bowed her head and cried more. Greta lifted her head and smiled with pleasure.
“Now enough of that,” she lectured. “We have to help Jill get dressed for her trip. She needs her mama now. And if you don’t mind, her silly old grandma wants to help too.”
The three women left the kitchen for the bedroom. Bob stood and patted Ed on his back.
“I think you might want to be alone for a few minutes.”
Ed nodded and then Bob joined the others in the living room. He found his father sitting in a corner drinking a beer and nibbling from a small plate of sweets.
“You can’t understand a word Jill’s granny says, but she makes some good cookies.”
“So you’re having a good time, Dad?”
“Sure.” He watched as Ed came out of the kitchen and joined a group of guests from his company. “Do you think you can get me a good deal on a used car?”
“Sure, Dad. I’m certain I can.”
“Here she comes,” Greta said as Jill came out of the bedroom dressed in a smart, light blue suit.
The other guests gushed and applauded as they grabbed little bags of rice and fumbled with the pink ribbons tied around them. Greta put her arm around Carol’s waist and began to lead the wedding party out the door.
Bob smiled and began to join Jill when Heinrich bellowed out, “Boy.”
Everyone stopped and turned to look at the old man whittling in his easy chair.
“Boy, come here.”
“Oh, Heinrich,” Greta sighed in exasperation and waved her hand at him. “They’ve got to leave.”
“That’s all right.” Bob motioned for the others to go out to the car.
“Come here.”
“Everyone,” Jill called out with a grin. “Let’s go on out.”
All the guests, including Mr. Meade who was nibbling on another cookie, filed out the door as Bob went over to Heinrich who continued to whittle on his stick.
“Yes, sir?”
Heinrich did not lift his eyes but continued to whittle. Bob crouched down on his haunches in front of the old man.
“Did you want to tell me something?”
“Jill, she is a good girl.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It would make me very unhappy to see her hurt.”
“Me too.”
“Come close.”
Bob leaned in.
“You asked me once if I did anything bad.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That man, Hans Moeller, bears didn’t kill him.”
Bob focused on what Heinrich was carving. It was a knife.
“And I…” He stabbed at Bob with the wooden knife. “So you don’t want to hurt Jill.”
Bob took a few moments to comprehend what was going on and what Heinrich was saying to him. He felt cold, even guilty as a co-conspirator, when he realized that Eva Moeller told the truth. Heinrich Schmidt did kill her husband and now he threatened to do the same to Bob. He stood, fixing his gaze on the ancient mass of wrinkled flesh that smiled evilly at him. He took the wooden knife from Heinrich.
“Do you think you can physically overpower me and do what you did to Hans Moeller forty years ago?” He broke the wooden knife and threw its pieces to the floor, turned to leave but looked back at Heinrich. “I feel sorry for you. You’re nothing but a sick, old man who still thinks people are afraid of him. You think you have power? You don’t have power anymore. For some reason, Jill loves you, but that’s not important to you. All you want is to have people fear you, and that’s never going to happen again.”
***
Heinrich stopped smiling as Bob left. He listened to the crowd outside applauding and to a car engine gunning. So he could not make Bob fear him. That did not make Rudolph right. He was strong, brave and a winner, Heinrich told himself. He would prove it by making someone afraid of him. Greta came back, laughing lightly and shaking her head.
“What a beautiful wedding. Reminds me of Oberbach.”
“Mountain no place for a wedding,” he bellowed.
“Nonsense, Heinrich.” Greta began picking up dishes and little bags that once held rice. “It was beautiful.”
Carol and Ed came back in.
“Let me help you with that,” Carol said with a smile.
“No,” Heinrich declared. “You two go home.”
“No, Heinrich,” Greta said. “I’d like some help from my family.”
“Since when did you want her help?”
Carol’s smile faded until Greta came up and put her arm around her.
“Carol is our family, Heinrich,” she replied, “and she is now my friend.”
“I’m tired of having people in my house. Go home.”
“I want to spend time with Carol,” Greta said.
“Go home.”
“I know that tone of voice.” Ed took Carol by her hand. “I think we better leave. He kissed his mother on the cheek. “And don’t worry about it, Mom. We’ll be back tomorrow to help clean up.”
“Edward, no,” Greta said in a quiet desperation.
“See you tomorrow.” Carol kissed her. “And thank you for your gift.”
Ed and Carol departed. Greta went to the door to wave as they drove away. The smile on her face melted as she looked back at Heinrich.
“They didn’t have to go.”
“What gift would you give her?”
“It’s none of your business.”
Narrowing his eyes as he considered her. He did not like the tone of voice she used with him. It was bad enough Bob was insolent to him; at least he was a man. Heinrich would not accept a woman talking that way. He stuck his lip out in a pout.
“I didn’t want the wedding on a mountain.”
“It wasn’t what you wanted,” Greta said. “It was what Jill wanted.”
He picked up his carving knife and reached for another stick on the end table but decided whittling would not make him feel better. Heinrich put them down and folded his arms across his chest. If Bob was not afraid of him, Greta would be.
“I’m tired.”
“Oh, no, Heinrich.” She stopped and put her hands on her hips. “You’re not going to make me carry you, are you?”
“Too tired,” he said.
“Why didn’t you have Edward carry you to bed before he left? He’s a big and strong man. It wouldn’t have hurt him.”
“Didn’t think of it then,” he said. “Think of it now.”
Greta sighed with resignation.
“Very well.” Lifting him over her shoulder, she carried him out of the living room and into the bedroom. “I’m getting too old for this.”
Looking up across the room and without emotion, he released his bladder, wetting her dress with his urine.
“Heinrich,” she exclaimed as she rushed him to his bed. “Why didn’t you tell me you had to go to the bathroom?” Carefully putting him down, she held out her dress and examined its yellow stain. “Ruined. The beautiful dress Edward bought for me. Ruined.”
As she left the room, Heinrich snuggled down into his bed, not minding that his own old blue serge suit was wet. He smiled in self-righteousness, as he listened to Greta’s fussing in the other room.
“I’ll talk to Edward,” she said. “He doesn’t have to take care of this old man. It’s my burden. Edward should have to take this burden for a while and see how he likes it.”
He heard dishes rattling, coffee pouring and then a cup crashing to the kitchen linoleum. He lifted his head, leaning it toward the door so he could hear Greta’s soft sobs. He fell back on the pillow and smiled.

No one had talked to Dr. Charles Leale about the assassination since President Lincoln had died. He presumed someone would contact him about testifying about the exact route the bullet took through the president’s skull. Months passed, and Dr. Leale found himself standing in line with the other curiosity seekers hoping to find a seat to witness the trial. The first few days were closed to the public because of the “sensitive nature of the testimony,” a term which only piqued the doctor’s curiosity. Newspapers reported the military tribunal would create a makeshift courtroom in the Old Capitol Prison, which it would be open to a limited number of visitors starting Monday, May 15.
Even though Leale arrived at an early morning hour, he still found himself at the back of a long line of impatient citizens. The procession moved slowly because a guard questioned each person. Leale overheard the man in front of him explain that he was a congressman from Illinois and therefore felt entitled to be present. The guard tipped his hat and allowed him in the door.
“And you might you be?” the guard asked, his tone going flat and emotionless.
“Dr. Charles Leale,” he replied.
“Nobody sick here.” The guard shook his head.
“I attended President Lincoln as he lay dying at the Peterson boardinghouse.”
“I wasn’t born yesterday, young fella.” The guard laughed. “You really expect me to believe they would have let a youngster like you near the president that night?”
Leale took a deep breath and smiled. He was accustomed to cynicism about his boyish appearance and apparent lack of experience as a doctor.
“I was the first doctor at the scene of the shooting. My wife had insisted on attending the theater that evening so—“
“I don’t have time to listen to your domestic history, laddie. There are real people behind you waiting. We have only one chair left for the public and it ain’t goin’ to the likes of you.”
Shrugging, Leale stepped aside, not feeling the situation warranted that much complaint. The trial would last several days. If he wanted to witness this chapter of history, he told himself, he would have to arrive earlier the next day.
“Name?” the guard asked brusquely of the next person in line.
“John Johnston,” an elderly man replied in a marked Midwestern accent.
Something about the crispness of the voice, yet an inherent fatigue, drew Leale’s attention. When he turned he saw a man about his own height and weight, slightly hunched over with a thick shock of white hair and the beard of a Kentucky colonel. The old gentleman leaned heavily on his cane.
“And what makes you think you deserve a seat for the proceedings?” the guard demanded.
“Oh, for myself, I have no merits at all. It’s just that my mother was wanting a personal report, that’s all. I won’t take up any more of your valuable time. After all, she really was only Mr. Lincoln’s stepmother. Not like they shared a blood kinship.” The old man began to turn away.
“Did you say, the president’s stepmother?” The guard’s voice softened.
“Yes, Sarah Bush Johnston Lincoln. My father, Mr. Johnston, died when I was twenty years old. Then she married Mr. Lincoln, and young Abe was only—oh dear, how old was the boy—yes ten years old. I hardly knew him myself, but my mother, bless her heart, raised him as if he were her own. So sorry for wasting your time. I’ll be moving along now.”
Reaching out to take Mr. Johnston by the arm, the guard said, “Nonsense, sir. A gentleman like yourself should be allowed the best seat in the house every day.”
Leale continued to watch the old man as he entered the prison, still not figuring out what it was about Mr. Johnston that fascinated him so much. The next morning, Leale refused his second cup of coffee and only ate a portion of the large breakfast his wife had prepared, nibbling on a biscuit before rushing off to the Old Capitol Prison. He smiled to himself when he saw the elderly Mr. Johnston at the end of the line.
“Good morning, sir,” Leale said with a bold enthusiasm. He noticed his greeting caused Mr. Johnston to flinch. “I’m sorry, Mr. Johnston. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Turning to look at the doctor, Mr. Johnston wrinkled his brow. “How did you know my name?”
“Oh, you probably didn’t notice me yesterday. I was in line ahead of you and was refused entry; but when I overheard who you were, well, I was pleased to have been inconvenienced for your sake.”
“I appreciate your kindness, young man.” He tipped his hat and returned his attention to the line ahead of him.
“I hope I am able to be seated today.” Leale paused. “Did I miss much?” When Mr. Johnston did not respond, Leale repeated, “I said, did I miss much?”
“Oh, excuse me, young man. No, you did not miss much at all. Gen. Ulysses Grant testified, although I don’t know why. He was not at the theater.” Johnston shrugged. “A couple more official types. I don’t even recall their names.”
“Rumor had it that the general and his wife were to attend the performance. Perhaps if they had gone to the theater, a larger contingent of guards would have been present and Mr. Lincoln would have been spared the assassin’s bullet. Can you imagine? After four years of war and to be taken down by a mere actor.”
“And why do you have such an interest in this proceeding?”
Leale stepped back when he sensed the impatience in Johnston’s voice. “I beg your pardon, sir. I know my interest seems out of place, but, you see, I was the attending physician at President Lincoln’s side that night.” He noticed the old man’s mouth gape a bit.
“You were there for Mr. Lincoln’s last breath?”
“Yes, sir, I was. So you can understand why I have an undue curiosity about the case.”
“I would say so.” The corners of Johnston’s mouth went up in a slight smile. “Then we must make every effort to be companions during this trial. We have so much to learn from each other.”
“I have only two seats left!” the guard called out. After a moment he pointed at the old man and waved him forward. “You, sir! I remember you. You’re related to the president. Please, come this way.”
Johnston took Leale by the elbow and guided him forward. “This is my friend,” he paused to lean into the doctor. “What is your name?”
“Dr. Charles Leale.”
“Yes, my good friend Dr. Charles Leale.”
The guard frowned. “That liar? I turned him away yesterday! Said he was there the night the president died! Nonsense!”
“It is not nonsense at all,” Johnston replied, his voice dropping which caused the guard to step closer.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“I said,” the old man repeated in an even softer voice, “it is not nonsense. Dr. Leale was there the night my stepbrother died. I am in poor health myself and need the attendance of a physician during such trying circumstances.” By the time Johnston finished, his voice was barely above a whisper.
Leale could tell by the expression on the guard’s face that he had not understood most of what the old man had said. The guard stepped back, tipped his hat and bowed.
“Anything you say, sir.”
Johnston glanced at Leale. “I hope you remembered to bring my medication.”
“Hmm? Oh, yes, Mr. Johnston. Of course I did.” Leale patted his breast pocket. “We need to be on our way. You shouldn’t be exposed to the glare of the sun, sir.” Once they were inside the prison, the old man guided Leale toward the staircase. The doctor stopped. “Stairs? Do you think you will be able to climb those?”
“Of course, I can,” Johnston replied. “I’m in perfect health, except for this bum leg, but I have my cane.” He cocked his head. “Don’t act so shocked that I lied. You wanted in, didn’t you? And you lied about having my medication. Lying is part of life.” He chuckled. “Who do you think taught my half-brother how to be a politician, eh?”
Leale felt taken aback by the brazen frankness but recovered to take Johnston’s elbow to guide him up the stairs to the third floor courtroom. Even though he was only twenty-five years old, the doctor found himself breathing hard by the time they sat in the row of chairs against the far wall. Johnston’s inhalation was normal. After composing himself, Leale leaned into the old man to observe, “A smaller room than I expected.”
“The room was not chosen to accommodate the public but to control the flow of information. There is much more going on here, young man, than a mere murder trial.”
During the next month and a half Leale arrived early each day and searched for Johnston. A few things struck the doctor odd about the old man; for instance, he always politely declined any dinner invitations. He changed the subject when Leale asked questions about Lincoln as a youth. Sometimes Johnston used the same ploy with him as he had with the guard, gradually talking in softer and softer tones until he was incomprehensible. The doctor in due course found the president’s stepbrother to be inscrutable. Rarely speaking, Johnston nodded often, leaning in to hear witnesses as they spun stories of the day the assassination took place. The drunken innkeeper at the Surrattsville tavern stumbled over testimony that Mrs. Surratt, accompanied by a boarder called Louis Weichmann, arrived in the afternoon to retrieve “those firearms” left by Booth.
“What do you think?” Leale whispered. “Do you think the woman was part of the conspiracy?”
“Absolutely not.” The reply came quickly with a touch of antagonism. Johnston cleared his throat. “Forgive me for holding the views of my generation. Ladies never involve themselves in matter so distasteful as politics, war and—how shall I phrase it—murder? And one has only to observe Mrs. Surratt to see that she is a lady in every sense of the word.”
Leale, as was his lifelong predilection, studied the old man’s face. In fact, one reason he acquiesced to his wife’s wishes to attend the theater that night was for the off-chance that he might be able to study President Lincoln’s facial contours and how emotions played across them. Before he could make much of an assessment of Johnston, Leale observed that the old man noticed the attention and turned his head away.
Johnston exposed his emotions to the utmost on the day Louis Weichmann testified against Dr. Mudd. He claimed he was present one day in January when Booth, his friend John Surratt and Dr. Mudd met in a Washington hotel room. Johnston impatiently tapped his cane on the rough wooden floor. The unexpected clatter drew Leale’s attention, and he wrinkled his brow and smiled in curiosity at the old man.
“He’s lying,” Johnston blurted. His head shuddered as he continued in a softer, calmer tone. “I have made it a habit to study certain subtle gestures that reveal the truth behind what men say. If you noticed, when he spoke he looked away, as though to avoid a confrontation over his statement. Also, notice the gentle tapping of his left foot, an undeniable sign of nervousness. Why would he be nervous if he were not lying?”
Since this was the same interest that Leale held, he discerned that Johnston, himself, glanced away in the direction of the military judges’ table as he spoke and could not control the incessant rapping of his cane.
“I also find it fascinating to study human tics and reflexes.”
“Well, take care, young Dr. Leale, it takes a lifetime of observations to draw accurate conclusions. You cannot assume a set of random behaviors to mean what you think it might mean.”
“So you think the man Weichmann knows more than he is letting on?”
“Indeed, the opposite,” Johnston replied without pause. “He knows nothing at all, but he’s afraid he will be drawn into the web of conspiracy so he is saying anything to exculpate himself, even damning good, honest, innocent people. You need only to peruse his countenance to determine he is a weak, foolish man, controlled by his own personal demons.”
“Your assessment may very well be true, sir. Through my military contacts I have learned Secretary of War Stanton himself gave strict orders that Weichmann be spared legal prosecution if he gives enough evidence to convict the others.”
Johnston broke his custom and looked directly at Leale. “Secretary Stanton? And why would he take such a personal interest in this case?”
“Why, I suppose he—isn’t it standard prosecutorial procedure to offer immunity in certain cases to ensure a conviction?” The doctor blinked several times in reaction to the old man’s outburst.
“I suppose you are right.” Johnston leaned back in his chair and returned his gaze at the row of the accused conspirators. “It’s just that,” he paused as though to collect his thoughts, “I have heard Mr. Stanton’s name in several instances that do not reflect well upon his character.”
Leale smiled. “He is not a pleasant person if that is what you mean. On the night of the assassination, Mr. Stanton tried to take over everything at the boardinghouse, even questioning my treatment of the president—“
“Sshh.” Johnston’s hand went up as he leaned forward to listen to Weichmann’s testimony.
“I never could understand the sympathy and affection which existed between Booth and Surratt,” Weichmann stated from the witness stand.
Leale thought, though clear and articulate, Weichmann’s voice lacked strength and—what? Perhaps courage?
“…so dissimilar in their natures, education and the social position they held in life” Weichmann continued with trepidation, “…never were two individuals thrown together so utterly at variance with one another.”
The cane tapping stopped. Leale watched the old man’s knuckles whitened as his fingers clenched the top of his walking stick. At the end of the day, he mumbled his farewell and quickly left Johnston still seated, leaning forward, staring into a void.
By the next morning, Leale noticed his companion’s conviviality had returned and his reaction to the testimony of the conspirators was muted. Johnston chuckled as David Herold’s attorney described him as though he were an eleven-year-old boy in a twenty-two year old man’s body. George Atzerodt was called a complete coward, incapable of performing any violent criminal act, and Lewis Paine was painted as a brave hero deranged by the ravages of war.
As the trial dragged on, promising little entertainment with the defense of the stable boy and two childhood friends of Booth, Johnston announced with a sigh that his failing health could not endure another moment of ennui. The panel of judges had just adjourned for the day.
“I promised mother to witness the trial,” he whispered to Leale, “but what would it avail her if I died of boredom before I could return home and report the more interesting aspects to her?”
Leale’s first reaction was to remember how Johnston had told him the first day that he was in perfect health but now the old man described his condition as “failing”. However, he had witnessed the man’s volubility on the day of Weichmann’s testimony, and the doctor decided he did not want to revisit that emotional experience. Instead, he nodded with an sympathetic smile.
“I understand the verdict will be announced through the newspapers and not at a public hearing. Perhaps I shall be home with mother when she reads the news. I think she would like that. She’s always looked to me for comfort.” Johnston rose and extended his hand. “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Dr. Leale.”
The doctor’s smile faded as he looked at the clasp of their hands. The old man’s grip was extraordinarily firm for a man of his years. He also became aware of a sort of greasy grittiness to Johnston’s hand. As he pulled his own hand away, Leale noticed a smear of what appeared to be greasepaint in his palm.
He looked up to comment on this enigmatic situation, but the old man had disappeared, submerged in the ambling crowd.

The journey back to Gerardstown went silently because Davy was afraid to say anything around Meyers who might whack him upside of the head again. Rather, he breathed in deeply and enjoyed the smells of spring, flowering shrubs, budding trees and even the scent of the urine spray of bears, deer and wolves.
“God’s world is a wonderful place,” Davy said with care.
“Yes, it is, Master Crockett,” Meyers replied with composure as he walked alongside his oxen. “No man can deny the existence of God on a glorious day like today. The Lord is on his throne. Hallelujah.”
“You’ve taught me more than anyone else, sir, and I appreciate it.”
That, of course, was a lie. Fabrication had become an integral part of Davy’s personality. Lies endeared him to strangers and protected him from enemies. They provoked laughter and created a sense of friendship.
Back at the farm, Gray ran from the porch to greet them, a large grin on his face. “Davy, my boy, it looks like you’ve grown an inch.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gray.” He shook the old man’s hand. Davy did not feel a need to lie to him.
When Meyers left on a short trip to Harper’s Ferry, Davy was busy with his chores on the farm, plowing fields, chopping wood and mending fences. At night, Gray pushed a coin across the rough dinner table while keeping his eyes on his trencher. After he went to bed Davy counted his money. He had fifty cents, plus the seven dollars Meyers held for him. Soon, Davy thought, he would have enough money to make the trip home on his own if he had to.
One morning as Davy threw corn to the chickens he saw Meyers and his wagon appear over the ridge and come down into the valley. He waved and after finishing his chores he ran up the road to greet Meyers.
“Hello, sir,” he said, walking by his side with a sprightly step. “I missed you.”
“Thank you, Master Crockett.” A smile passed across his pinched lips. “It’s very kind of you to say so.”
As they came closer, Gray who had been rocking on the porch smoking his clay pipe stood and walked down the steps. “Hello, Adam.”
“What do you have in the wagon?” Davy asked.
“Molasses.”
“So when do we leave?”
“We don’t,” Meyers replied. “I leave for Philadelphia tomorrow. After you succumbed to the evils of Baltimore I don’t dare allow you to be tempted by Philadelphia’s sin pots. Who knows what kind of trouble you’d get into.”
“I don’t want to go to Philadelphia anyway,” Davy said. “I like Mr. Gray very much.” He looked at the old man, trying to find the courage to tell the truth. “He’s like a grandfather I never had. And the chores he gives me ain’t hard at all. And he pays a fair wage. But I want to go home now.”
“We’ll go south when I’m hired to take merchandise south, but not until then.”
“I don’t think you want to go south,” Davy blurted.
“Are you questioning my Christianity?” Meyers pulled himself up to his full height, extended his chest and aimed his nose high.
“The boy’s not sayin’ that at all, Adam,” Gray said, walking to Davy’s side. “All he’s sayin’ is that he’s homesick and wants to see his mother.”
“He’s defying me,” Meyers said, fuming. “And when he’s defies me, he’s defying God.”
“I’m not defyin’ nobody,” Davy replied, his voice cracking. “I jest want to see my ma.”
“Fine,” Meyers snapped. “If he wants to go home, he can go home but with no money from me.”
“It’s not your money, it’s mine,” Davy retorted.
“That’s right,” Gray said, defending him. “I saw you take it from the boy.”
Pulling out his bull whip, Meyers roared, “If he wants something from me then let it be a lashing!”
Gray stepped forward and grabbed Meyers’ arm. As much Meyers tried to wrest control of his arm from Gray he could not. At last, Meyers stopped resisting, and Gray released him. Putting his bull whip away, he took a few steps back.
“Nothing is ever solved by fighting,” he said with self-righteousness.
“You still owe me seven dollars.” Davy found his voice to challenge Meyers.
“I do not.” He held his head high.
“You owe him the money,” Gray said.
“If he wants to be free of me then he should go with only the shirt on his back.”

***

David guided his chestnut horse while cupping the monarch butterfly in his hands as he walked the last few yards to Elizabeth’s house—two cabins, sixteen feet wide and eighteen feet long and eight feet apart connected by a single roof and a solid rock foundation. Each cabin had a fireplace made of sticks, mud and stones. A few steps from the porch was a shallow well. Elizabeth’s relatives covered the log walls with split poplar siding and lap jointed half poles over the dirt floors. They also built a rough log barn.
Elizabeth planted peach and apple trees, plowed fields, planted crops and slaughtered hogs. As Robert grew she taught him all her skills to become a successful farmer.
Walking closer, David saw her stirring a large cauldron of bubbling applesauce.
“Elizabeth!” he called out.
Looking up, she waved but did not change her expression. Not to be put off, David grinned and quickened his pace.
“Look here what I got,” he said, extending his cupped hands.
Elizabeth wiped her brow and continued stirring. “Matilda,” she called out, “do you have the cannin’ jars ready?”
David smiled as his youngest daughter burst through the cabin door carrying a wooden board with several thick masonry jars on it. Her eyes brightened when she saw her father.
“Oh, Papa! What a surprise!” Putting the board down on a rough oaken table near the cauldron, Matilda rushed towards him and giggled. “What’s in your hands?”
“A butterfly.” He let her peek between his fingers.
“How beautiful,” she said with a gasp. “How did you catch it?”
“Well, you sneak up behind them and cup both hands around it. Don’t grab it or pull on the wings or else you’ll hurt it.”
“Let’s put it in a jar.”
“Don’t you dare dirty one of my cannin’ jars with that thing!” Elizabeth spouted in protest.
“Oh no. Butterflies got a right to live, like you or me. I know I’d hate to be cooped up, seeing a big, beautiful world out there but couldn’t git out in it. No, God’s got a way for each of us to live, and it ain’t in a jar.” David released the butterfly, and he and Matilda watched it flit away.
“Help me pour this applesauce,” Elizabeth said.
“Mama, I’m busy talkin’ to papa. I ain’t seen him since that day in court.”
“You pay mind to me,” she reprimanded.
“Do what your mama says.”
“Oh, all right.” Matilda shuffled to the table.
“Did you put the spoon bread on like I told you?”
“You told me to bring out the jars. I couldn’t do both at the same time.”
“I told you to put on the spoon bread long before I asked for the jars.”
“Oh, you’re right, Mama.” Matilda put her arms around Elizabeth’s waist. “I’m a terrible girl, dallyin’ about the way I do.”
“Well,” Elizabeth said, blinking her eyes. “I wouldn’t say terrible.” She pulled away. “This is foolishness. I’ll go do the spoon bread and send out Sissy to help you. She should be done snappin’ beans by now.”
After she went into the cabin Matilda hugged David. “Oh, Papa, I love you.”
“What do you want now?” He laughed.
“Nothin’. Jest a hug.”
“Ain’t you easy to please.” Her tight embrace made him uncomfortable, and he did not know why. She was the only one of his children who gave him unconditional love; unless she was more like him than he thought and her expressions of love were nothing more than empty gestures to win his praise.
“No, please,” she said in a murmur. “Don’t pull away yet. I ain’t got my hug done.”
“Do I pull away too fast?” He did not want her to tell him the truth but a pretty lie.
“Don’t fret, Papa. You do what you have to do.” She squeezed extra hard. “And I’ll do what I have to do.” Matilda released him and smiled, her eyes twinkling. “There. That ought to last me awhile.”
She really was quite delightful, David had to admit to himself, and he wondered why he often forgot how happy she made him. He would miss her very much when he left for Texas the first of November. He reached for her hand and smiled.
“Let’s run away. The applesauce can wait. Let’s walk in the woods and look for another butterfly.”

***

Vince’s attempts to make amends infuriated Dave who, like his ancestor, felt a need to run away.
“I’ll see if the newspaper’s come.” As he went through the front door, he noticed Vince had gone to the kitchen to retrieve his liquor bottle from the cabinet and plopped on the sofa. Old drunk, Dave muttered to himself.
Old drunk.
He saw Allan sprawled languidly on the porch steps smoking a cigarette.
“Why don’t you go away?” Dave picked up the newspaper on the lawn.
What’s the matter with you?
“You! You’re what’s the matter with me!” Dave looked around to see if any of the neighbors were watching.
Uh oh. You’re going to cry. Just like when you were little. Am I going to have to hold your hands again?
“I am not going to cry.” His long-suppressed resentment of Allan surged forward, and he did not like sounding like a pouting child. “You act like you never did anything wrong. You said you loved me—“
I do love you.
“If you loved me why did you suck on my cheek until it turned purple? If you loved me why did you torture me?”
But I loved you.
“Then why did you call me shit?” Dave asked in a low desperate voice.
I didn’t mean it that way.
“I’ll tell you why you called me shit,” Dave continued, his voice softer and more intense, “because I am shit. I’ve always known I was shit. And now you’ve confirmed it. I am shit.”
Puppy—
“I thought I’d put you in the past where you belonged. But all my nightmares are back. You’re everywhere.”
I see I’m going to have to hold your hands again.
“No.” Dave looked hard into Allan’s eyes. “Just go away.”
Puppy!
“Stay away from me!” He turned for the door. “I don’t want to feel like shit anymore.” Dave entered the house, not looking back to see if Allan went away or not. He noticed Vince had quickly hid his bottle under a cushion. Dave ignored him as he flipped through the meager pages of the local newspaper. Lonnie came into the living room wearing an old black suit.
“You boys better get dressed.”
“I told you, Pop. I’m not going.”
“Not going? Why not?”
“Remember? I’m sick.”
“Oh yeah. That’s right. No, you shouldn’t go.” Lonnie looked at Dave. “You better get ready, Puppy.”
Dave’s eyes focused on the obituary column. Reading about Allan, Dave shook his head in sorrow. “The paper says Allan had a college degree.”
“You mean he didn’t have one?” Lonnie said in amazement. “After all that money I spent and he never got a degree? Then I told the newspaper wrong, I guess.”
“Well, he got his degree,” Dave muttered. “He had to die to get it but he finally got it.”

John Ross frowned as he leaned against his rake Monday morning on the State Mental Hospital’s grounds. He brooded over Bob Meade’s announcement on Friday’s news that he would not report on the deportation hearing of Heinrich Schmidt—Pharaoh to John—to avoid a possible conflict of interest. What conflict of interest could Bob Meade have with Pharaoh? Was this young man was in collusion with Pharaoh, John wondered. If so, that turned him into one of John’s enemies.
“Come on,” George said, “keep moving. This grass has got to be raked up before it rains.”
“Yes, sir,” he mumbled, coming out of his thoughts and glancing at the man, vowing that he would suffer once Moses decided to begin his mission. First Pharaoh, he listed those to be punished, then that attendant, and even possibly Bob Meade.
“Yes, sir. I’ll rake the grass.”
***
Bob sat with Jill and her family in a conference room in the federal court building in Knoxville Monday morning waiting for Judge Copland to announce he had made his decision. He noticed Rudolph sat straight with no expression on his face.
“I want a beer,” Heinrich said.
“Heinrich, no,” Greta said. “Beer is not good for a man in your condition.”
“You don’t tell me what is good for me. I want a beer.”
Helga and Franz shook their heads, whispered to each other, touched Peter on his shoulder and spoke to him. Peter looked at the others.
“Mother and father want a cup of coffee,” he announced. “I’ll take them to the cafe next door.”
“Good idea.” Carol leaned over to Bob, Jill and Ed. “I could use some coffee too.” She glanced at Heinrich and back at them. “Some good, strong, black coffee.”
She left with the Bitners as Greta watched her, not with as much reproach as she used to, but with a curiosity fashioned from the possibility she was wrong about her daughter-in-law all of these years; at least, Bob hoped that thought was behind the look in her eyes.
“The rest of you, go get coffee too,” Heinrich ordered. “I want to talk to this young man.”
Jill and Ed looked apprehensive as they stood.
“Do you mind?” she said.
“No, not at all,” Bob replied.
“Come on, Grandma,” Jill said, helping her to stand. “Let’s join Aunt Helga for coffee.”
Greta looked at Rudolph with a cold eye and spoke to him in German.
“Nein.” Rudolph pursed his lips and stared at the wall.
Shrugging with indifference, Greta left with Jill and Ed.
Heinrich glared at Rudolph who ignored him. At last, he grunted in resignation and turned to appraise Bob.
“Edward tells me you asked Jill to marry you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you don’t mind being in a family with a mean old man like me?” He smiled in irreverence.
“You can’t be too mean.” Bob tried to make light of the conversation. “Jill loves you very much.”
“Growing up in a town like Oberbach can make you a mean man.” Heinrich looked away. “Oberbach killed your pride, killed your sense of right and wrong, or killed your body.”
“Oberbach? Mrs. Schmidt says it’s a wonderful town.”
“Greta lies. Oberbach is a dirty little town. People had to plow ground for crops, cut trees for lumber and raise cattle for milk and meat. Greta, she thinks it is— what’s that place they talk about on television, you know, where spoiled little children want to go?”
“Disneyland?” Bob offered.
“That’s it.” Heinrich shook a finger in agreement. “That’s what Greta wishes Oberbach was.” He looked at Bob again, his eyes meeting Bob’s. “You asked me a lot of questions for television. I think you want to ask me more questions.”
“When did you first hear about Adolph Hitler?” Bob said, beginning to slip into his reporter frame of mind. He had to know what in truth happened that night so he could comprehend the Schmidts, Smiths and their secrets.
“Oh, let me see.” Heinrich scratched his bald head and wrinkled his brow. “I think it was nineteen twenty-something, when Hitler led some kind of revolt in Munich. He was sent to jail, I think. The word reached Oberbach slowly. Everything reached Oberbach slowly. Many years passed before Hitler was mentioned again. He was a big shot in Berlin. Don’t remember his title. We didn’t care. As long as crops came in and wood was cut, Berlin could do whatever it wanted.”
“Was Rudolph right?” Bob nodded at the old man sitting across the room. “Were you a Nazi?”
“Ja. Nazi.” Rudolph flashed his turd-sucking smile.
“Yes, I was a Nazi.” Heinrich ignored his brother and nodded with vigor. “You see, Bob, that is your name, isn’t it, Bob, farmers and wood cutters were the lowest people in town. The mayor and all the big shots owned lots of land, stores and banks. Not poor people, understand? So when Nazis came to Oberbach, when they really began to take over, they only let Nazis be the big shots. So my papa saw his chance to take some power for once. He was first man in Oberbach to join Nazi party. I was second. He became mayor, and I went to Munich to be in Hitler’s police. You know, Gestapo. They had a lot of power, and I wanted to have power too. I was a wood cutter and knew all the wood cutters in my area. Towns were far apart, but wood cutters met and knew each other good, what they thought and where they lived.”
“This was important to Gestapo?”
“Wood cutters had a union. Nazis didn’t like unions. They wanted me to order leaders to make their union do what Hitler wanted, not what the union wanted.”
“Did they see it your way?”
“They did what they had to do to live. We all did what we had to do. Wood cutters obeyed the Fuhrer to live. I was a Nazi to be somebody important. I never was an important person, you see. That means something, to be important.”
“There are other things to life.”
“Nothing’s more important than power.” Once more Heinrich wagged his finger at Bob. “Ah, you have power now. You’re on television. Television is power. That makes you powerful. People listen to what you say. That makes you feel good. It does make you feel good, yes?” He leaned into him. “Take my advice. Enjoy it while it lasts. It won’t last long. Like, what you call it, the feeling of sex, it doesn’t last long, but, man, it’s good.”
“So you enjoyed it?”
“What? The sex? Yes. If you’re poor that’s all you have.”
“No, I mean power.”
Heinrich looked away at Rudolph for a moment, a queer little smile dancing on his shriveled lips. He shrugged and stared at Bob.
“You do what you have to do.”
“If you had to do it all over again, would you still be a Nazi, be in the Gestapo, so you could have power, even though it would mean being deported in your old age?”
“And not be somebody important?” Heinrich shook his head firmly, his voice cold and determined. “Never. Don’t let nobody get in your way. Nobody. And I am not going to be deported. I am going to win.” He leaned back and smirked. “Now, Bob, I have answered your questions. You must answer my questions.”
Ed opened the door and stepped in, his voice filled with urgency.
“The judge is ready.”
The courtroom filled with prosecution team members, the Schmidt family and reporters. Jeff Holt scurried down the aisle to join Heinrich at the defense table. Bob craned his neck to watch Heinrich who seemed serene, though cynicism lurked in his eyes. His shoulders, straight when he first arrived that morning, drooped.
Judge Copland opened the file, reviewed it and looked up.
“It is difficult in cases like this because they are so fraught with deep-seated emotions. As everyone else I grieve for Mrs. Moeller’s loss and sympathize with her quest for justice. On the other hand, I see Heinrich Schmidt who has been an exemplary citizen of the United States for most of his adult life, obeying the very letter of our law and supporting our system with his taxes.” He paused and frowned. “I feel compelled to apply our rules of criminal justice to this case. Has the prosecution proved beyond a reasonable doubt that Mr. Schmidt committed murder forty years ago? From evidence presented to me, I must conclude reasonable doubt does exist.”
As the court interpreter translated Judge Copland’s comments, Eva moaned out loud and pulled at her hair.
“Therefore I rule against the deportation order on Heinrich Schmidt. Case dismissed.”
Eva sobbed as Sebastian helped her to stand and tried to guide her to the door. She turned to Heinrich and pointed. Her eyes, reddened by tears, glared with unholy rage, spewing German which Sebastian translated with smugness.
“You think you have won? You have won nothing. You will ultimately pay before God.” Her voice rose in pitch as it became louder. “As you made my husband die in his own blood, you will die in your blood some day. God will make you pay! I swear it!”
Sebastian dragged her out the door, but returned to go to Greta, taking her hands in his.
“Greta, you must acknowledge now–no matter what the judge ruled–Heinrich is not worthy of you,” he said. “You must realize you would be more contented back in Germany, in your Oberbach, with your family and with me.”
Greta blinked, without comprehension.
“Come back to Oberbach and marry me. You will have no worries. I am well paid as a professor and will have a good pension when I retire.”
“Yes, I would like to see Oberbach and visit Helga.” She shook her head in disbelief. “But why would you think I would want to marry you, Sebastian?”
“You were my girlfriend, don’t you remember?”
“I remember picking you up and wiping blood from your nose when Heinrich beat you up, but you were never my boyfriend.”
“But you were kind to me,” he said in earnest.
“I never knew you felt that way.”
“You know now. I can take you away.”
“It’s too late now.”
“It’s because you liked Heinrich for beating me up.” Sebastian dropped her hands and stepped away. “You thought being smart was weak and cruelty was strong.”
“No, no. I don’t know what I thought. You were just a scared little boy. I didn’t think you could love me. I didn’t think anyone could love me but Heinrich.” Greta’s eyes began to fill with tears.
“Eva was right.” His face hardened. “You are a stupid cow. And I wasted my life longing for a stupid cow. Stay here with your Heinrich, your Nazi, your big strong Gestapo agent. You deserve him.”
Sebastian turned on his heels and left. Greta burst into tears, and Helga came and hugged her tightly. Franz patted her gently on the back.
Jeff shook hands with Ed and Carol and efficiently gathered his things together and left. Helga and Greta continued to cry in each others’ arms. Bob, however, was drawn to Heinrich who had a far away look in his eyes and a pursed contentment on his lips.
***
Rudolph sat next to Heinrich, reached down and squeezed his brother’s genitals which caused him to flinch. Rudolph patted his back.
“You are lucky, little brother,” he whispered in German. “If they had brought you back to Oberbach I would have killed you before the trial began.” His powerful hand dug into Heinrich’s shoulder. “Eva said you will pay. Yes, you will pay. You will burn in hell–not for what you may have done to Hans. No, you will burn in hell because you are a coward and a loser.”
Rudolph stood and strode away. Noise in the court room was distant to Heinrich as he sat there, emotionally spent. He hated his brother for making him feel small again. Clinching his jaw, Heinrich dismissed Rudolph as a failed, jealous old farmer. After all, the court decision vindicated him. Life went his way, just as it did that night of August twelfth, 1940, in Hans Moeller’s small cottage on the edge of the Black Forest just outside of Oberbach when he and two other Gestapo agents came for a visit. He remembered how he sneered as he took his belt off and smacked it across his calloused palm, causing Hans to stiffen and struggle for breath in the chair in which he was bound. Two Gestapo officers standing off to the side shared knowing glances with each other and kept their silence.
“Hans, so good to see you again,” Heinrich said as he swung his belt against Hans’ knee. “Do you remember the good old days when I was a wood cutter, like you, and a member of the guild, like you?”
He shook his head, paralyzed with fear.
“Let me refresh your memory.” Heinrich lashed Hans’ hip. “You told me of a milk maid who enjoyed the company of wood cutters. She lived not too far from here.” He hit him on his other side.
Hans pulled against the ropes which held him in the chair, as a small moan escaped his lips.
“She did enjoy the company of wood cutters, and I was enjoying her company, until her husband walked in.” He hit him across his abdomen with the belt. “You didn’t tell me she had a husband.” He hit across Hans’ stomach again, harder.
Heinrich remembered how swift he came down with his belt and how Hans screeched. He became aware that the soldiers in the corner tried to hide their flinches and was pleased with their reaction.
“I was beaten only once in my life.” Heinrich’s belt lashed his chest. “That milk maid’s husband almost killed me. Then I could do nothing when you laughed at my bruises, because you were so much bigger than me.” He hit Hans’ chest again. “Isn’t that right?”
Heinrich pulled himself to his full height of five feet five inches and slapped his belt across Hans’ broad, tanned face.
“Now I’m bigger than you.” He thumped his chest with his fist. “The Gestapo makes me bigger than you. The Gestapo doesn’t like your wood cutters guild. The Fuhrer doesn’t like anyone making rules but him. You’ve made too many rules, Hans.”
“No.” His face twisted with fear and pain, tears rolling down his cheeks.
Drawing a knife from his belt, Heinrich sighed.
“Don’t beg, Hans. That’s not manly.” He raised his knife, waving it in front of Han’s frightened, distorted face. “You must be manly like I was manly when the milk maid’s husband beat me. I didn’t cry like a baby begging for mercy.” He laughed. “You’re not a man.”
Heinrich remembered how Hans shrieked as the dagger repeatedly lacerated his torso, at first with the shoulders and across the chest. In the beginning they were flesh wounds, enough to hurt, to make him bleed and force him to scream. As his knife descended to the abdomen, hacking became harder, deeper and more lethal. Finally Hans’ blond head fell back, color draining from his face which was drenched in sweat. He did not react when Heinrich kicked him again in his shin.
“You’re not so tough now, are you?” Heinrich, leaning into Hans’ face, formed as much saliva as his mouth could produce and spat in Hans’ eyes, which were beginning to glaze over.
Eva’s screaming and banging on the door drew Heinrich’s attention away. Before he opened it, he paced back and forth a moment. He did not want her to see how he murdered her husband. Heinrich looked at the other agents.
“Don’t let her in. Make her go away and then take his body out to the forest. Make it look like an accident.”
Heinrich took one last extended examination of Hans, now limp in the chair. A steady flow of blood dripped between his legs.
“Dad, are you all right?” Ed touched Heinrich’s shoulder.
He stirred from his memories to look at his son. Yes, Heinrich thought, Rudolph was stupid to think he was a coward and a loser. He always won, and he could make anyone afraid of him, even his granddaughter’s weak boyfriend.
“I am very much all right.”
“Let’s go, Dad,” Ed said.
As Heinrich followed his son to the door, he stopped by Bob to smile.
“You see, Bob, I always win.”
***
Five-thirty at last arrived, and John Ross dragged Mike and Randy to the day room where they turned the television to the Channel Forty-three news. He sat in a chair while the boys plopped on the sofa.
“Do we have to watch that old news again?” Mike said.
“I hate the news.” Randy curled up.
“Quiet.”
Betty Sargent appeared on the screen, and John leaned forward, hoping the deportation hearing would top the broadcast. It did. As Betty spoke, the screen showed Heinrich Schmidt coming down the court building steps with a tall blond man at his side.
“Judge Marvin Copland ruled today that Heinrich Schmidt may remain in the United States…”
John heard no more of the words the woman spoke. He stood and took slow steps to the television, watching with vigilance as Heinrich stopped on the steps of the Knoxville federal building to have his picture taken by newsmen. John tensed as he became aware of the old man’s arrogant smile. Without conscious thought, he picked up the nearest chair.
“I always win,” Heinrich told the waiting crowd.
John threw the chair into the television, causing the screen to shatter and sparks to fly.
“What did you do that for?” Randy sprang from his cocoon.
“That was a fool thing to do.” George stormed over. “Now you ain’t going to have no TV at all.”
John had no respect for the old white man attendant, so he ignored him and motioned to Mike and Randy to follow him out of the room.
“Come back here,” George said. “You better come back here and clean up this mess.”
“What’s going on?” Mike said.
“Time is coming fast when we will leave here to find Pharaoh.” John looked around make sure no one heard him.
“Good,” Randy said, grim tone in his voice. “We’re going to kill him, right?”
“Yes,” he replied. “And all those who have special interests with him.”

Ward Lamon sat in silence next to the coffin of Abraham Lincoln in the Baltimore & Ohio funeral train snaking its way through the Northeast and Midwest of the country stopping at all the cities Lincoln had visited on his way to his first inauguration. When the engine pulled away from the Washington City station in a light drizzle on Friday, April 21, Lamon sat in the first passenger car along with many other dignitaries chosen to accompany the body back to his Springfield, Il., home. Chatter about the assassination and the need for immediate and harsh retribution caused Lamon to move to the side of the president after the procession left the depot at its first stop, Baltimore.
Perhaps he actually preferred solitude at this point because of his embarrassment over his mistaken mission of rescue to Fort McHenry where he thought Lincoln was being held captive. He chastised himself for believing the president’s impostor instead of following his own instincts. Lamon intuitively knew the man was a craven coward, most certainly, and probably morally weak also, incapable of telling the truth. In Baltimore, the officials removed the casket to a hearse waiting in what was now a heavy, cold rain at 10 a.m. The cortege arrived at the Merchants Exchange where the body laid in state. Thousands filed past for two hours until it was returned to the train, which continued on to Harrisburg, Pa. Lightning and thunder enhanced the deluge.
By 8 p.m. the train arrived and the coffin was taken to the state capitol building where the crowds began the viewing at 9:30. Lamon stood in the building’s entrance, studying the faces of the mourners passing by. Their pained faces impressed upon him the urgency of solving this mystery of who was behind the assassination and, perhaps more importantly, finding evidence to hold Stanton responsible for the abduction and confinement of the president and his wife.
Philadelphia was the stop at 11 a.m. Saturday where the casket was on display in Independence Hall the rest of the day. Again Lamon stood guard at the door, watching the crowds surge forward with individuals fighting among themselves for the opportunity to view Lincoln’s body. He remained serenely detached from the violence as he went over in his mind how he would approach Whitman and Zook. He had to admit Mrs. Lincoln was right—his manner could be gruff at times, which would deter Zook from revealing what he knew about the conspiracy.
The train arrived in Hoboken, N.J., on Sunday, and the casket was transferred onto a ferry to New York City where it was to remain until Tuesday morning. Lamon saw this as his opportunity to slip away, cross the East River to Brooklyn where he could track down Gabby Zook at the Whitman home on North Portland Avenue. Once he arrived on the street, on Monday morning, he struck up friendly conversations with street vendors. As he munched on an apple, Lamon asked if anyone knew where the Whitman family lived.
“Whitmans?” the fruit vendor said, raising an eyebrow. “What do you want to know for?”
“Oh, a friend told me to drop in on them if I was in Brooklyn.” Lamon tried to put an air of nonchalance into his reply.
“What kind of friend would say that?”
“A lady friend.”
“I’d never talk to her again. Those Whitmans are crazy,” the vendor said. “Certifiable. The worst one is Walt. He makes me all goosey. Calls himself a poet.”
“Then what’s his address?” Lamon pressed.
“Up the street a couple of blocks. One hundred six North Portland. The family’s in the basement. They rent the rest of the house out. I don’t see why anybody would want to live there.”
“Thank you.” He turned away.
“I’d stay away from that house if I was you,” the hawker called out. “One of them brothers has the clap!”
A few minutes later Lamon walked down the steps to the basement door and knocked. A middle-aged man with bushy eyebrows wearing trousers over his longjohns cracked the door open.
“Yeah?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Walt Whitman.” Lamon give a slight bow.
“Ain’t nobody here by that name,” he mumbled and then slammed the door shut.
Not a full moment elapsed before the door opened. This time a short heavy-set woman with her long gray-streaked hair pulled back in a careless bun which gave the impression she spent the day unconsciously pulling her hair out. She stood in the entrance and smiled, his friendly eyes assessing Lamon.
“You must forgive my son Jesse,” she said in a soft voice. “His syphilis is acting up today. I am Louisa Whitman. How may I help you?”
“Shut the damn door, Ma!” Jesse screamed from the parlor, which prompted Louisa to step outside and gently close the door. “He was a sailor for many years, which accounts for his salty language.”
“My name is Ward Lamon and I—“
“Mr. Lamon! Yes! You were the close friend of our late president Mr. Lincoln. I hope to pay my respects tomorrow before the funeral procession leaves town.”
“I was under the impression your son Walt lived here?”
“On weekends. During the week he’s a clerk at the Bureau of Indian Affairs. It seems the only reliable jobs which pay a decent salary are in Washington City.”
“Oh. I was hoping he was here. I understand he knows the whereabouts of man named Gabby Zook.”
“Why Mr. Zook lives right here with us. A very gentle soul. Would you like to speak to him?”
“Yes, please.”
“Very well.” Louisa paused as he put his hand on the door knob. “Perhaps it would be best if we all went for a nice stroll down the street. I know the nicest vendor with delicious apples—“
“Yes, he gave me your address,” Lamon interrupted. “I’ve already had my apple for the day.”
Louisa nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
When the door opened, Lamon heard a baby’s cry and a woman’s high-pitched voice call out, “For God’s sake, Jesse, you’re scaring my little boy! Shut up!”
Lamon decided the better part of valor would be to climb the steps back to street level. He began to walk back and forth when Louisa did not immediately reappear with Zook. To pass the time he thought of his wife Sally back in Illinois and how she must have felt neglected as he spent most of time in the last five years protecting the president. And to what end, he chided himself, because he could not even save his friend from death. He turned when he heard the door open. He assessed the man Louisa guided up the steps. Zook was short and dumpy, a vacant fearful look in his eyes. He nodded as Mrs. Whitman whispered assurances in his ear, his lips mouthing incoherent responses.
“And this is our friend, Mr. Ward Lamon,” Louisa said soothingly.
“We know many of the same people from Washington City, Mr. Zook.” He took his cue from Louisa and softened his voice, which was usually loud and grating. “Miss Dorothea Dix sends her best wishes.”
“She scared me at first, but then she was nice. Cordie, she said Miss Dix was scary at first but once you got to know her well, she wasn’t scary at all.” He paused only the briefest of moments before asking, “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to buy a nice apple from the man down the street,” Louisa replied.
Zook stopped abruptly. “I don’t like that man. I can tell he doesn’t like me. He doesn’t like Mr. Walt either. I don’t want an apple. Can we get some peanuts instead? I like peanuts. The peanut man is up the street, far away from the apple man.”
“If that is what you wish.” Louisa guided him by the elbow.
“I was a good friend of the President, Abraham Lincoln.” Lamon took his place on the other side of Mrs. Whitman and looked into the sky. “I think the rain has gone away. That’s good. I didn’t think it would ever stop.”
“Oh, rain always stops,” Zook said. “The rain is all right if you are inside looking out a window. But I don’t like walking in it. It makes you wet.”
“Yes, it does.” Lamon paused, and they walked almost a full block before continuing. “I knew another one of your friends.”
“Did you know my sister Cordie? She’s dead now.”
“I knew Private Adam Christy.”
“He’s dead too.” Zook looked up. “There’s the peanut man. I hope the peanuts are freshly roasted. I like my peanuts warm.”
“Are you sure? I thought he went home to Ohio.” Lamon’s voice was a whisper.
“No, he’s dead. I saw his body in the wagon.” He looked at Louisa. “Do you have money for the peanuts? I don’t have any money. I spent all my money yesterday on apples.”
“Of course, Gabby,” Louisa said, pulling out her change purse from a pocket in the folds of her dark blue dress. “I always have money.”
“What wagon, Mr. Zook?” Lamon asked.
“The mean man’s wagon.”
“What mean man?” Lamon felt his pulse racing.
“The mean man who….” Zook’s voice trailed off as he took the bag of peanuts from the vendor. “It’s warm. That’s good. I like my peanuts warm.”
“The mean man who did what, Mr. Zook?” Lamon pressed.
Zook shook his head. “No, I can’t say. He came for the butler, then he came for the president and his wife, then he came for the private. He might come for me. Mrs. Walt, can I go home now? I want to eat my peanuts.”
“Of course, Gabby.” Louisa looked at Lamon and smiled. “He answered all your questions, didn’t he, Mr. Lamon?”
“Just one more. What did the mean man look like?”
Zook backed away as his hand fumbled in the bag to pull out a peanut. “He was short like me, but he was mean. He had red hair, just like the private, but the private is dead now. I got to go home now.”
As Zook scurried back down Portland Avenue, Louisa told Lamon, “A terribly sweet little old man, but quite insane. And I should know insanity. Most of members of my family are insane. Some days I feel quite insane myself.”
“He’s not insane,” Lamon replied. “I believe every word he says. One day you may have to help me to convince him to tell his story to the President of the United States.”
Lamon reflected on Louisa’s response to his statement over the next few days as the funeral train visited Albany, Buffalo, Cleveland and Columbus. She had said not a word, but a wry smile danced across her lips. She must have decided I was insane too, Lamon thought. Maybe Louisa was right. After all she prided herself on detecting insanity in others. The rest of the journey through Indianapolis, Chicago and Springfield was a blur. Lamon had hoped and had supposed the extended period of bereavement would bring a measure of peace to his own troubled mind, but it was not to be. At each stop as he looked upon the mourners and wondered how they would react if they knew Lincoln had be a prisoner in the basement of the Executive Mansion for more than two years. He stared into the faces, speculating than perhaps among them were family members of the man forced to impersonate the president. And what of the woman who took on the role of Mary Lincoln? Have her relatives stood on the route, mourning the president but not knowing they should be mourning their own dear kin?
After Lincoln’s body was deposited in a mausoleum at Oak Hill Cemetery outside of Springfield, Lamon did not linger with the rest of the crowd. He knew his time was limited. He must piece together the final pieces of the enigma that surrounded the incredible abduction of power in the White House. On his way back to Washington City Lamon decided a stopover in Steubenville, Ohio, was necessary. His carpetbag in hand, Lamon walked down the street which was still sodden from the recent rains. A two-story clapboarded hotel caught his attention , and he checked in.
“Know of a Christy family in town?” Lamon kept his eyes down on the registry.
“Of course,” the clerk replied. “Wilson Christy runs the most respectable boarding house in town. I went to school with his son Adam.”
Lamon’s face shot up. “Is that so?”
“We went off to war about the same time. I served with Gen. Grant in the west. Only been home a couple of weeks. I never did right know who Adam served under. Terrible shame he died at Bull Run.”
“Yes, a terrible shame.”
“You know the family, Mr.—“the clerks eyes went down to the registry—“Mr. Lamon?”
“I knew the boy from his days in Washington City,” he murmured. “Wanted to extend my condolences to his family. After I wash up I’d like to pay them a visit.”
“It’s just Mr. Christy now. His wife died right before the war started. His grandparents are gone. Only Mr. Christy running the place now.”
“Could you direct me to his boardinghouse?”
“Of course, sir. Head on down Main Street and go left at the crossroads with Maple Street. Third house on the right.”
An hour later Lamon stepped up on the broad porch and knocked at the door. A balding man with spectacles answered. He was wiping his brow with a thin towel. He held a glass of lemonade
“Yes, sir, how may I help you?” His voice seemed pleasantly high pitched though colored by a shadow of sadness.
“Mr. Wilson Christy?” Lamon asked, removing his hat.
“Yes, sir?”
“My name is Ward Lamon. I work for the government. Mr. Lincoln was a personal friend of mine from the old days back in Illinois. I wanted to pay my respects. I knew your son while he served in Washington City.”
“You knew my Adam?” he said in breathless anticipation. His eyes fluttered. His mouth seemed not to know whether to smile or frown. “Would you care to take a rocker?” He pointed to a pair of chairs on the covered porch.
“Yes, sir. That would be mighty kind.”
The two men sat in the heat of the late afternoon. Christy started to stand.
“Care for a glass of lemonade? I’ve got some made in the kitchen.”
“No, sir. Please sit and relax. I’m perfectly content as I am.”
Christy sat, rubbed his hands with the towel once more before folding it and placing it on his knee. “Please tell me, Mr. Lamon, did he seem happy? Was he getting on with everybody?”
Lamon looked out across the street before replying. “Yes, he was well,” he lied.
“That’s good, that’s good,” he mumbled, leaning back in the chair. His face scrunched. “I still don’t understand how he came to be at Bull Run. I was sure he would have stayed in the capital city. I had assurances that he was going to be safe in the Executive Mansion and eventually get a commission. Adam always wanted to be an officer in the Army.”
“Assurances from whom?” Lamon tried to remain detached, but he found the statement intriguing.
“Secretary of War Stanton. You know he came from here. He and his mother lived in this very boardinghouse when my father ran it. Ed had an awful infatuation with my sister. Of course, she died of typhoid. I wrote him early in ’62 about getting Adam a position in the Army. He wrote back and said he had a decent job for him, working for the President himself. He said if the boy did well, he could get a commission right away. The next thing I knew I got this telegram from the War Department saying he had died at the second battle at Bull Run. I wrote several letters to Edwin asking for details but never got a reply.” He paused. “Of course, he’s a busy man so I suspect he never had time….” Christy’s voice trailed off as he wiped his eyes with the towel. “I know it ain’t fittin’ for a man to carry on so but—“
“You’ve lost a son. You’ve every right.” Lamon’s hand went up to his mouth to cover it. “Did Mr. Stanton ever tell you the nature of this special assignment?”
Christy shook his head. “No, but I imagined it was pretty darned important.”
Lamon took a moment to lean forward. “Mr. Christy, does Mr. Stanton have a reason to hate you?”
“Why, no. Why would you ask?”
Lamon thought his words spilled out of his mouth a bit too quickly, too glibly. “Mr. Christy, your son did not die in battle at Bull Run. He died of a bullet wound in the basement of the Executive Mansion the same night President Lincoln was assassinated. He had lived in the basement for the past two years. Stanton is responsible for all this. Why would he pick out your son for this horrible fate if he did not hate you?”
“Well, I suppose I do know of something, but it was so many years ago. I didn’t think a grown man could hold such a grudge.” Christy put his glass of lemonade on the porch and looked at Lamon. “I told you Mr. Stanton had a fondness for my sister before she died of typhoid. He came home from his job at the bookstore for lunch one day, and my sister served him his meal. That evening she came down sick and died. Being typhoid, we got her in the ground as soon as possible. When Ed came home that night he asked where she was, and we told him she was dead. He didn’t believe it. I heard him stirring in his room after midnight and I saw him going out the door. I followed him. Ed got a shovel from the shed and headed for the cemetery where he proceeded to dig up my sister’s coffin. I waited until he lifted her up and caressed her head. Then I stepped forward, “So you have to dig dead girls up to have someone to love?” Or something like that I don’t quite remember exactly. He tried to pick a fight with me the next day, but Ed, bless his heart, was always so small, I just laughed at him.”
The images painted by Christy filled Lamon’s mind as he rode the train back to Washington. While incredible, the story rang true to Stanton’s character, Lamon decided. At one of the stops he bought a newspaper at the station and read it as the train rumbled on toward the Capital. The trial for the conspirators would begin May 12th at Old Capitol Prison. Lamon frowned when he read it was going to be a military court. Why military when all of the accused and even the victims were civilians? Stanton could control a military trial while he would have no influence over a civilian proceeding. The secretary of war had an all-consuming desire to control everything; even as a young man he tried unsuccessfully to control death. Lamon took a package chewing tobacco out of his jacket pocket and stuffed a chaw of it into his mouth. This was the key to the entire conspiracy—Stanton’s insatiable passion for control.
When Lamon arrived back in Washington he went directly to the Old Capitol Prison. At the main gate he demanded to see the prisoners in the Lincoln assassination case.
“What are you?” the guard demanded. “You’re not another one of them damned reporters, are you?”
Pulling a badge from his inside jacket pocket, he pushed it into the guard’s face. “I’m Federal Marshal Ward Hill Lamon.”
“Mr. Lamon?” The man’s eyes widened. “I didn’t know you were involved in this investigation, sir.”
“I was the president’s personal guard and close friend,” he said with a growl. “I’ll be a part of any damned investigation into my friend’s murder that I damn well please! Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir. My apologies, sir.”
“Stop wasting my time. I want to see each suspect individually right now, and I don’t want any measly prison guard snooping over my shoulder!”
“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Right this way, sir.”
The guard led him through the prison, first stopping at the cell holding Mrs. Surratt. When the door opened, Lamon heard two women’s voice squeak in fear. When he entered, he saw Mrs. Surratt and a teen-aged girl clinging to her.
“And who, sir, are you?”
Lamon could tell Mrs. Surratt was trying to sound assertive, but a quiver in her voice gave her away.
“I’m sorry for having startled you,” Lamon said, bowing deeply. “I am Federal Marshal Ward Hill Lamon. I was President Lincoln’s personal guard and very close friend.
Her chin jutted out as she turned her head away. “So you have come to ridicule me like all the others.”
“No, Ma’am, I am here to learn the truth, and in doing so I may be able to save your life.”
“And what makes you think you can save my life? I don’t even think you want to save my life.”
Lamon decided this approach was useless. He took a step back to compose his thoughts. Then he turned to look out the high barred window.
“Oh Mama, you’ve got to trust this man Mr.—Mr…” her daughter’s voice trailed off.
“Lamon, Miss. Ward Hill Lamon.” He chose not to look back to them just yet.
“Anna, be quiet. If I am to die, I will die with dignity, and you shall mourn in dignity and silence.”
“Do you remember a Miss Cordie Zook living in your boarding house, Mrs. Surratt?” Lamon turned at that moment to observe her reaction.
“Why, yes, I remember Miss Zook.” Her eyes flickered. “She worked at one of the Yankee hospitals, I believe. She died shortly before—before the incident at Ford’s Theater.”
“Then you knew she had a brother named Gabby who worked at the Executive Mansion.” Lamon tried to keep all emotion out of his voice.
“She said she had a brother. There were men’s clothing in her armoire. But I never met him.”
“And Private Adam Christy, did you ever meet him?”
“The name does sound familiar. Yes, he came to my boardinghouse after Miss Zook died. He said he was there to collect Miss Zook’s possessions for her brother. He was highly suspicious and very rude.”
“How so?”
“Well, I had never met this brother and—“
“And why is that? Why had you not met him? After all, he was living in your boardinghouse until—what? He wasn’t? This is all very confusing to me.”
“It was confusing to me also, Mr. Lamon. I only came to the boardinghouse to collect rent until 1863. My family lived in our home in the Maryland countryside until my husband died—I don’t know why on earth I am telling you this.”
“Because if you totally cooperate with me, I may be able to save your life.”
“Mama, believe him. Tell him everything.”
“Hush, child. After my husband’s death we moved into the boardinghouse. By that time, Miss Zook’s brother disappeared. Supposedly he was the janitor at the—the Yankee White House and had to stay there all the time. I never understood why.”
“Do you know if Private Christy ever met John Wilkes Booth in your boardinghouse?”
“I don’t remember. Mr. Booth was a friend of my son. He visited from time to time. I never paid much attention to the comings and goings of the boys. I had a business to conduct, Mr. Lamon.”
“I assume that will be the core of your defense, Mrs. Surratt?”
“I don’t think I want to continue this conversation.”
“Did your son or Mr. Booth ever mention the name Edwin Stanton?” Lamon watched her reaction.
Her mouth flew open as though in surprise. “Mr. Stanton? Why would they even mention Mr. Stanton?”
“Lafayette Baker?” Lamon felt that he might have struck a nerve and pressed her for more information.
“I’ve never heard that name.” She shook her head.
“He is a short, stocky man with red hair,” Lamon offered.
“The man with red hair?” Anna repeated in a gasp.
“I said hush.” Mrs. Surratt grabbed her daughter’s hand, but she pulled away.
“I hope you are a man of honor, Mr. Lamon.” Anna stepped toward him. “The night my mother was arrested, a short man with red hair came to our house. He tapped his foot the same way Wilkes said the man tapped his foot under the bridge.”
Mrs. Surratt pulled her back. “Anna, do not say another word! He told us not to say anything about that night!”
“But he says he can save your life—“
“He’s a damn Yankee! You can’t trust him!”
“The red-haired man is a damn Yankee too! Do you trust him? If we have to trust a damn Yankee, I trust Mr. Lamon!”
Mrs. Surratt pulled her daughter into her bosom and cried. “Mr. Lamon, will you please show common decency and leave immediately?”
Lamon went to the door and rapped on the bars. “Guard! I’m ready!”
The guard appeared and unlocked the door, letting Lamon out. He turned and led Lamon down the hall to the cell holding Samuel Arnold, a slender young man sitting in a corner with a canvas hood over his head. When the guard unlocked the door, Arnold’s head came up. As Lamon spoke to him he realized this was an educated young man, somewhat astonished at his situation but not particularly unsettled by it either. Lamon could not see his facial expressions but by the tone of Arnold’s voice he could tell he genuinely did not know anything specific about Edwin Stanton or Lafayette Baker other than what he had read about them in the newspapers. The same was true of the suspect in the next cell Michael O’Laughlin. Both of them admitted they knew Booth and had agreed to participate in a kidnapping of the president but when the plan changed to assassination they withdrew. Edmund Spangler, in the next cell, knew even less than Booth’s two friends. The only thing Spangler admitted was holding the stage door for Booth. That was the same courtesy he would do for any actor, for a price.
After Spangler, Lamon visited with Dr. Samuel Mudd who sat erect, with his back against the wall. Lamon introduced himself and took Mudd’s hand to shake. The doctor’s grip was quite strong.
“I can help you,” Lamon kneeled next to Mudd and whispered in as agreeable voice as he could manage. “I know you must not think very highly of us Yankees, but please believe I want to help.”
“Of course. You have to have more honor than that little shit,” Mudd replied in a calm voice.
“I beg your pardon?” He was not expecting that sort of response.
“The little shit. That damned actor whose leg I set. My life is over because I did my job.”
Lamon sensed the doctor was rehearsing his defense as Mrs. Surratt had done, but he chose not to confront Mudd with his assumption.
“Yes, that is an injustice.” He paused. “There are so many others who are guilty of much more than you and they will go free.”
“What?”
“The other conspirators.”
“They won’t let the half-wit go free,” Mudd said.
“No, I don’t mean him. The others. The ones really responsible.” Lamon held his breath, hoping the doctor would take his bait.
Mudd shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The short man with red hair.”
“What man with red hair?” He spat in exasperation. “Who did you say you were? What are you talking about?”
“I must be mistaken. I won’t take up any more of your time.” Lamon stood to leave.
“If you’re from a damn newspaper,” Mudd hissed, “I’ll kill you if I ever get out of here.”
Lamon felt his neck burn red with embarrassment. He did not want to make the same mistake when he spoke to George Atzerodt. Of all the men Atzerodt reeked most of alcohol. His clothing seemingly was soaked in it. Like all the other men, his face was concealed by a canvas hood with only a hole at the mouth for feeding.
“Do you know who Lafayette Baker is?” Lamon asked.
“Verdammt, er ist grob.”
“What?”
“Der man, he vas bigger dan dey say. I—I couldn’t do it.” Atzerodt’s thick German accent muddled his mumblings to the point of indiscernibility.
“They say?” Lamon was not sure he had understood him correctly. “You said they say? Who were they?”
“Verdammt, er ist grob.”
Realizing he was not going to extract any more information out of Atzerodt, Lamon told the guard he was ready to move on to the next cell which confined David Herold. Even as the guard unlocked the door, Lamon could hear Herold’s mumblings and cries. He stopped abruptly as he entered, his nostrils flaring with the smell of the suspect’s urine and feces. Herold’s hood was dripping with saliva around the feeding hole as he constantly chewed on it.
“Mr. Herold,” Lamon said, trying to be as soothing as possible, “is anything wrong? Anything I can help you with?”
“I want my mama and my sisters,” he said between the sobs. “They always know how to make me happy. They won’t let them take me home. Why won’t they let Mama take me home?”
“Maybe after the trial.” Lamon kneeled beside him and tried to pat Herold’s shoulder but he lurched away.
“Don’t hurt me! Don’t you dare hurt me!”
Lamon waited a moment, hoping the young man would calm down. His sobs softened, but he continued to chew on the canvas. Lamon looked down between Herold’s legs and watched his urine soak his pants again.
“What can you tell me about the short man with red hair?”
Herold jerked his head in Lamon’s direction. “The man with red hair?”
“You must remember him. You and the others met him under the bridge right before your friend Wilkes Booth killed the president. You remember. He had a special way of tapping his foot.”
“Who are you? Do you have red hair? Are you him? You here to kill me?”
“My name is Ward Hill Lamon, a federal marshal. I’m not here to kill you.”
“You got red hair?”
“No, I have dark hair. I’m over six feet tall, almost as tall as the president.”
Herold cocked his head. “Say something else.”
“Ring around the rosey, pocket full of poseys, ashes, ashes we all fall—“
“No, you don’t sound like him. The red-haired man smelled like cigars.” He leaned in to smell Lamon. “You smell like piss.”
The marshal did not want to confront him with the fact that it was he who smelled like urine because the suspect seemed to trusting him at this point. “I apologize for that.” He paused. “Did the red-haired man say who he was working for?”
“No. He just said we had to get even. The damn Yankees took our country away from us and we had to get even.” Herold bowed his hooded head. “He wasn’t a nice man. He called me an idiot. I’m not an idiot. I work for a pharmacy and deliver medicine. You have to be smart to deliver medicine.”
“Of course, you’re smart. Anybody can tell that.” Lamon chuckled softly. “So who put him in charge?”
“He put himself in charge. And Mr. Booth, he didn’t like that one bit. He told the man he wasn’t no gentleman for sure and then he said who the hell was he goin’ to kill, and the red-haired man said he was going to kill Secretary of War Stanton.”
“You know Stanton is still alive. Nobody tried to kill him.”
“I knew he was a coward. Most fellas who talk the most can’t do nothin’.”
“Have you told any this story?”
“Sure, I tell it to everybody I can, but it don’t do no good. They all think I’m crazy.”
“Of course, you’re not crazy. Are you going to tell your story in court?”
“Hell no. That’ll show the judges that I knew something was goin’ on.”
“You were caught in the tobacco barn with Booth. They already know you knew what was going on.”
“Oh God! That’s right! What am I goin’ to do?”
“Maybe I can help you.” Lamon was willing to promise Herold anything to get his cooperation.
Herold started crying and chewing on the hood again. “I want my Mama! I want my sisters! I don’t want to die! I wanna go home!”
Lamon shook his head and stood. “Don’t worry. You’ll get to go home. One of these days.” He turned to the door and rapped for the guard. Once in the hall he told the guard, “There’s just one more, correct?”
“Yes, sir. You’ll like him. He’s a man’s man. You won’t see him going crazy, like Herold there.”
This alleged man’s man savagely slashed several people, including a sick old man in his bed, Lamon thought. No paragon of manly virtue, he decided; but, he chose not to share his conclusions with the guard who had only in the last few minutes become cooperative in his investigation. Once inside the cell, Lamon saw Lewis Paine languidly leaning against the far wall, in a repose that suggested complete serenity. Because of the hood, Paine’s eyes were not visible, however Lamon sensed they reflected the same composure. Also, he could see through the hole in the hood at the mouth that Paine was smiling.
“Mr. Paine, I am Ward Hill Lamon, federal marshal. I have a few questions about the charges you are facing.”
“Please take a seat. They just replaced the straw on the floor this morning, so it should be nice and comfortable.”
“Thank you.” Lamon squatted and sat cross-legged. “Do you understand the seriousness of your situation here?”
“Oh sure. I’m probably goin’ to hang.” He turned to Lamon. “You wouldn’t happen to have a chaw of tobacco on you.”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” He pulled the package from his pocket.
“I’d be right more agreeable to talk if I had a lump of tobacco in my cheek.”
“Of course.” Lamon pinched a bit of tobacco off and extended it between two fingers so Paine could take it from him with his mouth.
Leaning back as he chewed, he sighed. “That’s mighty good. Neighborly of you. I appreciate it.”
“Think nothing of it.” Lamon gave the prisoner a moment to enjoy his tobacco before he started asking questions. “I know you and the others met with a short, red-haired man under the bridge right before the assassination.”
“Yep. You know, he wasn’t a very nice man. He said I was stupid. I can’t help it. I got kicked in the head when I was a boy. I liked what he said about gettin’ even. I’ve always liked gettin’ even. I’ve done that a lot.”
“So you felt you were getting even when you stabbed Secretary of State Seward?”
“Hell, I didn’t even know who the old bastard was, but the man said to kill him, and I done the best I could to do it.”
“So killing Seward wasn’t Booth’s idea but the man under the bridge?”
“I don’t think Wilkes knew who this Seward fella was.”
“Who do you think the man under the bridge was?”
“I don’t know. But he thought he was somethin’ to write home about, I’ll tell you that.”
“Do you think he was working for someone else, somebody really big?”
“Ah, you’re not goin’ to start in on that business that Jeff Davis was behind all this?”
“I don’t know, was he?”
“Right at this time I really don’t give a damn.” Paine paused to lean toward Lamon. “Tell me. Do you think I’d have a chance of gettin’ off if I did say Jeff Davis did it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then to hell with it.” Paine leaned back against the wall. “Jeff Davis had nothin’ to do with it.”
“The red-haired man was supposed to kill Stanton, and Stanton is still alive. Don’t that strike you as peculiar?”
“No. Johnson is still alive too. That ain’t peculiar, is it? Are you sure you can’t get me off with prison or somethin’ like that?”
“Only if you can tell me something I don’t already know.” Lamon knew this was his last chance to wrangle information out of Paine.
“I’ll tell you somethin’ you don’t know. That lady down the hall ain’t guilty of nothin’ but bein’ a lady, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”
Lamon stood and brushed away the bits of straw that clung to his trousers. “Well, if you think of anything else, send for me. Remember my name Ward Hill Lamon. Can you remember that?”
“Sure I can, Lord Will Raymond.”
After the guard let Lamon out of the cell and escorted him to the prison exit, he asked, “Now you haven’t been lying to me, have you? You really are part of the team to hang those bastards, right? The last thing I need is to get in trouble because I let you in to see them.”
Lamon patted the guard on the back. “You have nothing to worry about me, I assure you. By the way, you were wrong. That last fellow was the craziest one of all.”

A few minutes later Mina emerged from the bedroom with her hair down and dressed only in her camisole and petticoat. Stretching her arms out sensuously, she ran for the staircase. Van Helsing came through the front door slapping freshly dug dirt from his clothes.
“First I have to carry that stupid steamer trunk, and now I have to dig a grave for a dead vampire. What a vacation this has been. I’ll be lucky if I don’t get a hernia.” He looked up to see Mina on the staircase. Having never seen in in a state of undress before, he squinted, not quite believing his own eyes. “Miss Mina?”
“Yesss?”
He turned his head to examine every corner of the room. “Steam must be escaping from the pipes.” He paused. “No, Dracula said the castle has no pipes.” Van Helsing returned his attention to Mina and pointed. “Then it must be you!”
“Why don’t you go away, Dr. Van Helsing?” she asked menacingly. “You’re not needed here anymore.”
“On the contrary, Miss Mina.” He puffed out his German chest. “I’m needed here more than ever.”
Mina bared her teeth and growled. “Go away while you can.”
“I won’t leave without you and Mr. Harker,” Van Helsing replied smugly wagging his head, “restored to your normal, fuddy duddy British selves.”
Her eyes lit with lust. “Ah, Jonathan. Don’t you think he has gorgeous legs?”
“I’ll bring this disgusting conversation to a rapid conclusion as soon as I can shock you back to normal.”
“And how do you plan to do that?” Mina sneered.
“With my….” Van Helsing reached around for his valise only to discover it wasn’t there. “Now where did I leave that bag?”
Pointing to the valise on the stairs above where she stood, Mina asked, “Do you mean that?”
“Uh oh,” he bumbled his words. “I must have left it there after I used the stake on Salacia.”
“Now isn’t that too bad?” She threw her head back and laughed maniacally.
The professor started up the stairs. “If you will be so kind to step aside I’ll retrieve it.”
“Going somewhere, Dr. Van Helsssing?” She blocked his ascent.
“Out of my way, girl,” he ordered tersely. “I need my valise.”
Mina entered the professor’s personal space in a most inappropriate way. “Don’t you think I have a lithe sensuous body? Don’t you want to touch it?”
“I want my valise. That’s what I want.”
“Come now,” Mina continued seductively. “You can’t be so old you’ve forgotten the touch of a woman’s body.”
Van Helsing pushed her away in defiance. “Do you call that a woman’s body? You’re nothing but a little girl! A woman has curves all over the place. Now that’s a woman!”
“That’s a cow!”
“To each his own. Now if you will step out of my way—“
She obstructed his passage. “I’m sorry, doctor. I can’t do that.”
“Of course you can. It’s a simple matter of putting one foot over there and the other foot beside it.”
“You can’t have your preciousss valissse.” Mina leaned in close to his face.
“You’re spitting in my eye,” he said, trying to control his composure in this awkward situation.
“Sssooo sssorry.”
“Never mind.” Van Helsing could tell from the tone of her voice that Mina wasn’t sorry at all for her rude behavior. He had to forgive her because, after all, she was under Dracula’s spell. “Rather enjoyed it, actually. Now if you will be so kind—“
Mina growled as she lunged with exposed fangs toward the doctor’s neck. With an agility rarely seen in a man his age, Van Helsing jumped out of the way of Mina’s teeth just in time.
“Miss Mina! What are you doing?”
“I’m beginning to find older men irresistible.” She continued to stalk him.
“Control yourself!”
“I don’t want to control myself.” She hastened the hunt.
Van Helsing ran around the sofa. “Please! I’m saving myself for a bar maiden in Munich!”
“Don’t save yourself.” Mina leapt over the sofa. “Surrender to me!”
The conversation was getting personal, and Van Helsing felt compelled to stop in his tracks to make his point. “Germans never surrender!”
Mina threw her arms around his neck and again tried to bite him on the jugular.
“But on occasion we’ve been known to retreat!”
Van Helsing made a desperate dive for the staircase where his valise still sat on a step half way to the second floor. Completely unrestrained of her inhibitions, Mina easily caught up with him, her arms wrapped around his legs. His fingers frantically reached for the valise which lay just beyond his grasp. Without warning, the doctor’s body went limp and his extended hand fell short of its goal.
“Oh no! My heart! My heart!” he gasped. The air seemed to escape Van Helsing’s lungs as he settled into an androgynous lump molded into the staircase.
Mina crawled over his body to scrutinize his face. “Good. He’s dead!” She jumped to her feet to race to the game room. “I must tell the master!”
Mina was halfway across the room when Van Helsing lumbered to his feet. After all, he was getting too old to play Jack in the Box.
“Aha! Fooled you! I am still alive. Germans have always been the best actors in the world!” Grabbing his valise, the professor pulled out a crucifix, goose stepped down the steps and across the room to Mina whom he twirled around so she would be forced to look directly at the crucifix. “Look upon it!”
“No!” She held her hands in front of her face. “Take it away!”
“No, you must look at it,” he insisted. “Down deep you are not afraid of it. I know you. You are a good girl!”
“Away! Away!”
Van Helsing gently pulled her hands from her face. “It represents all you love, your way of life—your love for Mr. Harker, your favorite chapel where you are to be wed, Our Lady of the Perpetual Headache.”
Mina relented to focus on the crucifix until she blinked and her usual naïve smile returned. “What? Our Lady of the Perpetual Headache?”
“Yes,” the doctor agreed with her. “Our Lady of—“
Abruptly she assumed her old Victorian demeanor. “Why, doctor, what a lovely crucifix. I must have one just like it.”
Van Helsing sighed in relief. “Ah, I’m glad you’re back, Miss Mina.”
“Back?” She blinked. “Where have I been?”
“To the dark world of the vampire,” he intoned ominously.
Mina waved her hand dismissively and walked away. “Oh, Dr. Van Helsing, are you still singing that old song? You know as well as I do there are no such things as vampires.” She paused to scratch at two small red punctures on her neck. “But the mosquitoes here are humongous.”
“That is no mosquito bite, Miss Mina,” the doctor corrected her. “It is the bite of the vampire. It is the bite of Count Dracula.”
She laughed. “Count Dracula? Don’t be silly.”
“Can you deny he bit you on the neck?”
“I admit he did kiss me.” She looked wistfully up the stairs. “Gave me my first hickey, to tell the truth. And then everything seems to be a little fuzzy. Oh well, it must have been the wine.”
Van Helsing waved his hand waved his hand at her apparel. “Do you usually prance around in your undergarments after one glass of wine?”
“Of course not!” she retorted. “What makes you say such a thing like that?”
“Look down.”
Mina lowered her eyes to observe that she was clad in a frilly lace camisole and slip. She immediately screamed and ran up the stairs. “Excuse me! I seem to have misplaced something!”