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He had to admit, just hearing those words sent a chill down his spine. He was a Georgia boy, born and bred, his roots deeply southern. His father had been career navy, and though childhood until age ten had been spent traveling from one duty station to another, both his parents made sure that he understood where he came from. After his father died he and his mother moved back to Georgia, where he’d lived until age eighteen, finally going off to college, then the navy and law school. When he joined the Magellan Billet, Stephanie Nelle had headquartered the agency in Atlanta. He’d lived there until he retired out early, divorced, sold his house, and moved to Denmark, opening the bookshop. All his life he’d heard stories of how most Georgians had fervently believed in the Confederacy, fighting the North hard, but in the end most lost everything. His mother’s family had been lucky and managed to keep their land, which still produced Vidalia onions by the thousands of bushels.
Middle and South Georgia were rife with tales of lost rebel gold. The vice president of the Confederacy, Alexander Stephens, had lived in Crawfordville, not far from his mother’s family land. Jefferson Davis fled through the area, after the war, trying to avoid arrest. Even the Confederate treasury itself was said to have passed by on its way to disappearing into legend. Every one of those connections had come to mind when the call came from the Smithsonian’s chancellor, asking for his help.
He glanced over at Cassiopeia, who seemed as interested as he was in what the old man had to say. But Morse’s lips, hidden within the white sable of a wiry beard, appeared more a thin line of refusal than one of cooperation.
“Tell ’em, Granddaddy,” Lea said. “If you don’t, I will.”
“Girls,” the old man said, shaking his head. “So different from boys. I couldn’t wait to take over for my pa. It was what we did as a son. But girls. They’re much smarter than we ever were.”
“Granddaddy is a knight,” Lea said. “Show them.”
Morse rolled up his right sleeve to reveal a faded tattoo.
“The cross and circle,” Cotton muttered.
“You know it?” the old man asked.
How long had it been since he’d last seen that symbol? Twenty years? At least. His mind raced, as it had back in DC at the American history museum when he’d studied the 1909 records. A clock with brass movement hanging on the wall dinged for the half hour.
“You know what he’s talking about,” Cassiopeia asked. “Don’t you?”
He nodded.
“I know all about the Knights of the Golden Circle.”
CHAPTER NINE
Danny Daniels woke from a sound sleep and smelled smoke.
The darkened bedroom was thick with an acrid fog, enough that he choked on his next breath, coughing away a mouthful of carbon. He shook Pauline, waking her, then tossed the covers away. His mind came fully awake and he realized the worst.
The house was on fire.
He heard the flames, the old wood structure crackling as it disintegrated. Their bedroom was on the second floor, as was their daughter’s.
“Oh, my God,” Pauline said. “Mary.”
“Mary,” he called out through the open doorway. “Mary.”
The second floor was a mass of flames, the stairway leading down engulfed in orange. It seemed the whole house had succumbed save for their bedroom.
“Mary,” he yelled. “Answer me. Mary.”
Pauline was now beside him, screaming for their nine-year-old daughter.
“I’m going after her,” she said.
He grabbed her arm. “There’s no way. You won’t make it. The flooring is gone.”
“I’m not going to stand here while she’s in there.”
Neither was he, but he had to use his brain.
“Mary,” Pauline shrieked. “Answer me.”
His wife was bordering on hysterical. Smoke continued to build. He bolted to the window and opened it. The bedside clock read 3:15 A.M. He heard no sirens. His farm sat three miles outside of the center of town, on family land, the nearest neighbor half a mile away.
He grabbed a lungful of fresh air.
“Dammit, Danny,” Pauline blurted out. “Do something.”
He made a decision.
He stepped back inside, grabbed his wife, and yanked her toward the window. The drop down was about fifteen feet into a line of shrubs. There was no way they could escape out the bedroom door. This was their only avenue out and he knew she would not go voluntarily.
“Get some air,” he said.
She was coughing bad and saw the wisdom in his advice. She leaned out the window to clear her throat. He grabbed her legs and shoved her body through the open frame, twisting her once so she’d land sideways in the branches. She might break a bone, but she wasn’t going to die in the fire. She was no help to him here. He had to do this on his own.
He saw that shrubbery had broken her fall and she came to her feet.
“Get away from the house,” he called out.
Then he rushed back to the bedroom door.
“Daddy. Help me.”
Mary’s voice.
“Honey. I’m here,” he called out, into the fire. “Are you in your room?”
“Daddy. What’s happening? Everything’s burning. I can’t breathe.”
He had to get to her, but there was no way. The second-floor hall was gone, fifty feet of air loomed between the doorway and his daughter’s room. No time to jump out the window, find a ladder, and climb to Mary’s window. In a few more minutes the bedroom where he stood would be gone. The smoke and heat were becoming unbearable, stinging his eyes, choking his lungs.
The little girl had to jump herself.
“Mary. You still there.” He waited. “Mary.”
He had to get to her.
He rushed to the window and stared below. Pauline was nowhere to be seen. He climbed out through the window and hung from the sill. He released his grip and fell the nine feet, penetrating the shrubbery, landing on his feet. He pushed through the branches and ran around to the other side of the house. His worst fears were immediately confirmed. The entire second floor was engulfed, including his daughter’s room. Flames roared out the exterior walls and obliterated the roof.
Pauline stood, staring upward, holding one arm with the other.
“She’s gone,” his wife wailed, tears in her voice. “My baby is gone.”
Danny closed his eyes and fought the horrible memory that had haunted him for forty years.
And the fire’s cause?
His cigar, left on the corner of his desk.
At the time he was a city councilman in Maryville and liked a good smoke. Pauline had begged him to quit, but he’d refused. Back then, smoke detectors were not commonplace. Still, the official report noted the fire as accidental, but preventable.
Visiting Mary’s grave had brought it all back.
Which explained why he stayed away.
He stood outside the front door to his house and tried to calm himself. The drive back from the Sherwood place, through the rain, had been uneventful. He lived alone. Pauline had not returned here after the inauguration. Instead, she now lived in Nashville, starting her new life. The idea had been for him to return hom
e and do the same.
And he was trying.
He opened the door and entered.
He’d never bothered with locks. Useless. If people wanted to break in they would. So why have a door to repair, too? The land around him was the same as forty years ago, but the house was different. He’d razed the other structure and built new. Eventually, life went on and he ended up first in the governor’s mansion, then the White House. He’d tried hard to forget, then forgive himself, but had never accomplished either. Eventually the guilt cost him his marriage, as his wife could never forget or forgive. Thankfully, they’d finally made peace between themselves. He wanted Pauline to be happy. God knows she deserved it.
But didn’t he, too?
He laid the stolen notebook on a table, then removed his wet coat and hung it on the oak coatrack that filled the entryway. No one had paid him any mind while he was leaving. Diane might eventually notice the volume was gone, but why would she suspect him?
His encounter with her still bothered him.
Apparently she’d had Alex’s apartment searched and specific items removed. Why? Did that mean she also knew about Taisley? Hard to say. And what was Alex concerned about? Something monumental. It involved the Senate and some kind of radical change. A way to end all the problems that have been happening there lately.
Tall order.
Many had tried that feat and failed.
If we make ourselves sheep, the wolves will eat us.
Ben Franklin had been right on with that. But James Madison had expressed a thought, too. If men were angels, no government would be necessary.
Everyone hated Congress. Its approval rating stayed in the toilet. But what did you expect when 535 people tried to get something done. What had Twain said? A camel was a horse made by a committee. Just too many egos, too many agendas, and too little compromise. Incredibly, though, the first branch of government had always managed to acquit itself, stepping up to the plate and hitting home runs exactly when the United States of America really needed it. Two world wars. A Great Depression. Countless recessions. Social Security. Fair labor. Civil rights. Health care. You name it. All had been dealt with by Congress. People tended to forget that. He never had, constantly reminding himself that naysayers had their own agendas, too.
