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Stephanie asked the question she knew Danny was thinking. “Did Lincoln know this?”
“Mary Todd seemed to think so.”
And she agreed, recalling the former First Lady’s letter to Ulysses Grant.
His anguish during the war was deep and profound. I always thought it a consequence of being the commander in chief, but once he told me that it was because of the message.
“Yet he fought the war anyway,” she said.
Daniels shrugged. “What choice did he have? It was either that or shut the whole damn country down.”
“He should have let the people make that call.”
“This journal is useless,” Katie said.
Daniels nodded. “You got that right. It’s a good starting point, shows intent, but it’s not enough for anyone who wants to prove the point. To conclusively show that secession is legal, you’d need what they signed.”
The president’s eyes said what Stephanie was thinking.
And it was sent to Brigham Young.
She faced Luke. “Which you’re going to find.”
“And where do I look?”
Her phone vibrated.
She checked the display.
“I have to take this. It’s Cotton.”
She stood to leave.
“Take this one with you,” the president said, pointing to Katie. “I want to speak with my nephew alone.”
MALONE HELD HIS IPHONE IN ONE HAND, THE OTHER PROPPED against the side of a building. He’d made his way down from the Mönchsberg and back to his hotel, taking a cab to the Salzburg airport. He’d been fairly sure Salazar would be bugging out today. Not so clear, though, was his own destination.
“Cassiopeia and Salazar have left,” he told Stephanie.
“She failed to check in with me.”
“She’s pissed. I imagine she’s gone off the grid.”
He reported what happened with her visit to his room.
“I lied to her,” Stephanie said. “I didn’t tell her about you.”
“Which she clearly didn’t appreciate.”
“I don’t have time to worry about her feelings. We have a situation here, and we need her help.”
“She doesn’t give a damn about your situation. This is about her and dear Josepe. Or at least that’s how it appears. She’s managed to worm her way close. That I’ll give her. But I’m not sure she knows what to do now that she’s there. Her head’s screwed up.”
“Cotton, I can’t afford her going Lone Ranger right now. I need a team, working together.”
“I’m thinking about going home.”
And he was. This wasn’t his fight, and he needed to butt out.
“Salazar practically admitted to me he killed your man. I don’t think Cassiopeia heard that. If she did, then her head is beyond screwed up. I think she’s operating in the dark. She doesn’t want to believe that he’s a loose cannon. And she wants me out of this. Now.”
“Where’s Salazar headed?”
She knew him perfectly, knowing he would not have called until he had the answers to all her questions. He’d flashed his badge inside the terminal and obtained the flight plan.
“Des Moines, Iowa.”
“Excuse me?”
“My reaction, too. Not your usual destination.”
“I need you to stay on this one,” she said.
He didn’t want to hear that. “Salazar told me that this has to do with something he called the White Horse Prophecy. You need to find out what that is.”
“Why do I get the feeling you already have?”
He ignored her observation and asked, “Where’s Frat Boy?”
“I’m sending him to Iowa, as soon as we’re through talking.”
“I should go home.”
“It was my mistake involving amateurs. I thought, based on past experience, Cassiopeia could handle this. She was actually the only one who could at the time. But this has changed. Salazar is dangerous. And like you say, she’s not thinking clearly.”
“Stephanie, there comes a time when you have to leave it be. Cassiopeia wants to handle this her way. Let her.”
“I can’t, Cotton.”
Her voice had risen. Which was unusual.
He’d debated this decision all night. He’d walked to the top of the Mönchsberg to take out his frustrations on one of the Danites. The plan had been to beat whatever information he needed out of the young man. But Salazar’s abrupt departure had quelled the urge. He could easily take a flight back to Copenhagen and sell books, waiting to see if Cassiopeia Vitt ever spoke to him again.
Or he could stay involved—her wishes be damned.
“I’ll need a fast lift to Iowa.”
“Sit tight,” she said. “One’s on the way.”
FORTY-NINE
WASHINGTON, D.C.
LUKE SAT SILENT AND WAITED FOR HIS UNCLE TO MAKE THE first move.
“How have you been?” the president asked.
“That the best you got?”
“I speak to your mother regularly. She tells me she’s doing good. I’m always glad to hear that.”
“For some reason she likes you,” he said, “I never could figure that one out.”
“Maybe it’s because you just don’t know everything about everything.”
“I know that my daddy thought you were a horse’s ass and, by the way, that’s my opinion of you, too.”
“You talk awful tough to a man who could fire you in an instant.”
“Like I give a crap what you do.”
&n
bsp; “You’re so much like him, it’s scary. Your brothers are more like your mother. But you.” His uncle pointed at him. “You’re a carbon copy of him.”
“That’s about the nicest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
“I’m not as bad as you think I am.”
“I don’t think about you at all.”
“Does all this resentment come from what happened to Mary?”
They’d never had this conversation before. Danny’s only daughter, Mary, his cousin, was killed in a house fire when she was a little girl, her father helpless to do anything, listening as she pleaded to be saved. The fire had started from an ashtray where Danny had left a cigar. Luke’s aunt Pauline had repeatedly asked her husband not to smoke in the house, but Danny being Danny ignored her and did what he wanted. Mary was buried in the family plot, among the tall pines of Tennessee. The next day Danny had attended a city council meeting as if nothing had happened. He went on to be mayor, a state senator, governor, and finally president.
“Never once has he visited that child’s grave,” Luke’s father had said many times.
Aunt Pauline never forgave her husband, and after that their marriage became something only for show. Luke’s father never forgave Danny, either. Not for the cigar, and certainly not for the callous indifference.
“You did good tonight,” Danny said to him. “I wanted you to know that I have confidence in you.”
“Gee, I’ll sleep better knowin’ that.”
“You’re a cocksure little thing, aren’t you.”
His uncle’s voice had risen a few notches, the face scrunched tight.
“Maybe I get that from you.”
“Contrary to what you might think. I loved your daddy, and he loved me. We were brothers.”
“My daddy thought you were an asshole.”
“I was.”
That admission shocked him. So long as it was confession night, he wanted to know, “Why is it my mama has a soft spot for you?”
