The group descended upon him, shooting and shouting, whooping and cursing, flailing out with whips and rocks. Adam felt the slice of a streak of leather across his face, his arm, the backs of his legs and he stumbled, falling as he tried yet again to get to his rifle. He had to get his rifle, he had to save Tom and Mary, and sweet little Carl before the mob stormed the house, set it on fire . . .
The searing pain in his left arm made him scream and fall to his knees, the rifle still somehow—always—out of his reach, the mob surrounding him with their leering faces. One of them produced a noose, and as Adam fought the pain in his arm, they descended upon him with the rope, fitting it around his neck, tightening it as he struggled and kicked and—
“Quinn! Wake up, man. Quinn!”
Someone was pulling at him, yanking, dragging him . . . and he opened his eyes to discover that he was no longer in Kansas, no longer at the mercy of the Pro-Slaver mob, no longer at the lynching site of poor Johnny Brown and George Hilton.
But his arm . . . it screamed and burned with remembered pain, and when he went to cradle it with his right hand, his fingers closed over emptiness. There was nothing there.
Adam blinked, shook his head, tried to bring himself back to wherever he was. It was mostly dark, and he was in bed. His missing limb throbbed with pain and he gritted his teeth against it as someone brought a lantern near his face.
“Adam. Are you all right?” It was Thomas Burns, the White House doorkeeper’s assistant.
“Yes. What is it?” It was all Adam could do to keep his tone civil when he was still shuddering inside from the memory-dream, and combating the agony in his phantom arm. “What time is it?”
It was dark enough to need a lantern, which meant it was too early to get up—at least in his estimation.
“It’s almost five o’clock. Dawn’s coming now. Sorry to wake you,” Thomas said, his voice doubtful. “There’s been another body found, up to the Capitol. They thought you’d want to know.”
Adam stifled a groan but pushed himself up in bed with his remaining arm. His torso ached with pain from yesterday’s activity when he’d been hanging from his prosthetic arm on the crane. He had scrapes and bruises all around his ribs and shoulders from the mistreatment. “All right. I’ll be down as soon as I can.”
It was never a simple or fast process for him to dress with only one good hand, let alone accounting for the reattaching of his prosthetic, which required buckles and straps that wound around his shoulders, torso, and under his arms.
His head still partially in the dream, which was only slightly accurate as far as what had actually happened—he hadn’t been alone when Johnny Brown had been found, nor was that the incident when he’d taken the bullet that shattered his forearm bones—Adam splashed water on his face. Worst of all, the image of George Hilton hanging there would not leave his mind—settling there like a vulture, ready to swoop in and become reality. He tried to shake it off and rubbed his hand over his chin and eyes. The stubble needed to be shaved today as he’d not had the time yesterday morning. Then, when his eyes still felt bleary and his mind groggy, he simply dunked his entire face in the basin.
That was more efficient that trying to scoop up water with only one hand. He only wished it were colder instead of tepid from the warm summer night.
Then he set about the task of reattaching his Palmer arm over abused skin and overtaxed muscle with fingers that didn’t want to cooperate this morning. As he did so, it occurred to him to wonder why he’d been called to look at a dead body.
Was he now the only person in Washington City who could assess a murder scene? Or investigate a crime? Or was it because the body had been found near the Capitol, and they—whoever had found it—thought there might be a connection to Pinebar Tufts’s murder? He fervently, grouchily hoped it was the latter and that he wouldn’t have yet another insurmountable task to see to.
And then Adam stopped suddenly, sharply, and was angry with himself. He sighed and passed his hand over his face. Good God. A man was dead. Adam had no business grumbling about being awakened at dawn when a man was dead and he was still alive and well, dammit.
At that moment, realization struck him—hard and fast, like the flat of his mama’s hand on his behind when he was young, or the sudden shock of a dunking in the ice-cold creek.
You have the gift of knowing—something that is rare. This gift will be instrumental on this path of your life and its work. Use it wisely and well. Use it for good, not for harm. Do not doubt it. Trust in it. Allow it.
The words had been spoken to him by Makwa, Ishkode’s grandfather, who’d taught him how to track and to read all of the most subtle signs in nature, and to understand how all living things connected and communicated.
To know, as he described it—to sense and inherently understand the story of what had gone there as he interpreted what the tracks and signs meant. At the time the old man had told him this, Adam had been barely twenty years old, still young enough to believe he was in control of his life. Too young and inexperienced to understand what he meant.
But now, here he was: thirty-three, living in a city he disliked, missing half of an arm, and unable to farm, homestead, or cowherd; not able to enlist in the army to defend his country; no longer able to play his grandfather’s fiddle . . . filled with grief and loss and witness to far too much violence and hatred—with more to come as the war marched on.
Adam was . . . lost. He felt lost.
Until now—for it was now, at this moment, like a lightning strike—that he realized how the path of his life had led him here. That everything he’d done until now—meeting Abe Lincoln as a boy, going to Wisconsin to trap with the Ojibwe, moving to Kansas and experiencing firsthand the determination of the Pro-Slavers . . . even losing his arm.
He realized that he was no longer useless and floating willy-nilly down a river that he hadn’t remembered jumping into.
It came to him with a sudden bolt of clarity that the gift he’d discovered through Makwa was now serving him even as he used it to serve others: as a way to seek justice for those who could no longer seek it for themselves. As a way to do right by them. As a way to do right, period. As a way to contribute to the nation, to the city, to his president, to those around him.
He had a gift, a talent, an inherent ability that had been unearthed, honed, and polished by his Ojibwe friend and mentor. Now he had the responsibility to use it.
And he would. Willingly. Readily. Honorably.
And never again would he call into doubt his ability to do so.
With this startling revelation, Adam felt enlightened and energized in a way he hadn’t been for years. He finished dressing quickly and left the bedroom he slept in just down the hallway from Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln.
As he stepped into the corridor of the second floor, which was dimly lit by a single lamp, he nearly bumped into the president himself. The other man was still wearing his nightshirt and looked just as startled to see him.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Adam said.
The president laughed ruefully, gesturing to his bare legs and slippers. “I don’t reckon too many people could say that with a straight face when confronted by this sight, Adam. No need for such formality when you’ve seen me in my altogether, anyhow, now is there? Where are you off to so early?”
Adam submerged the distant memory of the time he had, in fact, glimpsed the gleaming white arse of the man standing before him after one of them stumbled from the outhouse while the other stumbled in, decades ago. “Someone sent for me to see a body that’s been found by the Capitol. I reckon they think it might be connected to Pinebar Tufts’s death.”
Lincoln nodded, grave and thoughtful despite his knobby knees and darkly-haired legs. He cocked his head at a loud thump followed by an alarming rattle from his sons’ bedchamber, then shook his head affectionately and said, “I’m thankful for you taking on these tasks, Adam. I hope you know that. I appreciate that I can trust you.”
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p; Now Adam felt even more confident about his previous realization and newfound confidence, and he nodded as one of the boys screamed and there was a loud thud from down the hall. “Thank you for your trust in me. I’ll do my best, sir.” He began to go, then thought of something else. “Mr. President—er, Abe,” he said when the other man lifted a brow and gestured pointedly to his nightshirt, “I’m worried about George Hilton. His safety, I mean. He was able to confirm that Tufts was murdered and that he didn’t hang himself, but by doing the postmortems on—that is, cutting up—white folk, he puts himself in danger.”
Lincoln nodded. “Yes, I can see that being a concern. What can I do?”
“I reckon if you give him a card like the one you gave me, that might help—even in this city,” Adam said dryly.
“I’ll see to it today. Thank you for bringing that to my attention,” the president replied, making Adam feel a little guilty for adding yet another thing to the man’s interminable list of problems, tasks, worries, and conflicts. “And perhaps you might want to have William see to that beard you refuse to grow when he’s here today. You’re looking altogether too scruffy, and Mrs. Lincoln is due back today.” He winked and mussed Adam’s hair like he used to do when he was much younger. “You might as well avail yourself of his services while you’re still living in this big white house.”
“Thank you, sir, I’ll do that,” Adam replied.
Lincoln was whistling to himself as he opened the door to his bedchamber, and Adam thought it might have to do with Mrs. Lincoln’s imminent return. The president was always happier when his wife was around.
Just then, the door of Tad and Willie’s room opened and the two boys burst into the hall. “Papa! Papa!” Willie shouted, and they barged into the bedchamber of the President of the United States without hesitation.
Adam shook his head at the hooligans’ raucousness—he wasn’t certain which was worse, the Lincoln boys or the twenty thousand undisciplined troops that filled the city—and continued on his way down the stairs. By the time he walked out the front door of the “big white house,” the sun had begun to spill her golden glow over the city. Unlike yesterday, however, he was walking out with a hunk of bread and an apple to munch on as he hurried along with the soldier who’d been dispatched to send for him.
“Man named Wendell Popper found him,” said the young man from Ohio, whose name Adam had heard and then promptly forgotten. He had cornsilk hair and a nose much too large for his face, and he looked like he was no older than sixteen—a fact which saddened Adam, for the boy was much too young to be fighting in a war. “He’s another of the Night Watch guards.”
“Who is it that’s dead?” asked Adam as he waved to the Willard’s ever-present Birch, whose pristine glove and smile both flashed white when he waved back.
“Name’s Billy Morris,” replied the soldier, and Adam nearly stopped right there. Damn.
He’d needed to talk to Billy Morris about whether he’d seen anything happen on the night of the fourth while he was on his patrol, and now he’d never be able to do so. And with the man turning up dead? He reckoned that was not a coincidence.
Despite the early hour, there was a small crowd gathered near Billy Morris’s body. Two more soldiers—at least the abundance of troops in the city were a benefit by helping with some keeping of the peace—were stalling the gawkers at a distance.
The dead man had been found slumped against a large oak tree just beyond the construction area, in the shadow of the Capitol, on the west side. The National Mall stretched out beyond with its stub of the unfinished Washington Monument in the midst of muddy grass, and Adam understood why the killer would have left Billy here, on the less-traversed side of the building.
The Smithsonian Castle sat on the left side of the Mall, its gothic shape and seven red-orange brick towers a striking contrast to all of the other national buildings, which had been designed in the style of classical architecture. Or so Adam had been told by none other than Miss Sophie Gates, who tended to impart random facts during casual conversation.
He reckoned she’d be mightily disappointed not to have been here on the scene of another dead body.
With that thought causing his lips to curve in a slight smile, Adam turned his attention to the more difficult problem at hand and took a look at the scene.
It had rained a little last night, and so the ground was soft beneath the muddy grass. Most footmarks had probably been washed away by the showers, depending when the killer had attacked Billy. But Adam was adept at reading even the slightest impressions in grass, and the thickly leaved tree provided some cover from the rain, so he was able to discern markings that told a tale.
Two parallel marks, so faint that they were only noticeable to someone who knew how and where to look, indicated that Billy Morris had been dragged to his current position leaning against the tree. A single footmark in the soil near the trunk had Adam crouching closer to examine it. He hummed with satisfaction— he’d have to measure it, but it looked like the same size and shape as the one in the dust on the crane. And now that the mark was in the soft ground, and not on the wood of the crane, he could see more details. It appeared the back heel on the right foot had a chip out of one of its inside corners. He’d like to see another clear print of the right boot just to be certain, but if so, it would be helpful in identifying the murderer.
Now that he’d looked for tracks, he was able to get closer without fearing he’d obliterate any signs. He crouched next to Billy Morris.
The first thing he noticed was the strong scent of spirits wafting from the man, who appeared to be in his forties. He wasn’t wearing a hat or cap, and his clothing was worn but clean. His head was slumped down, chin to chest, and his ungloved hands curled in his lap. There were no obvious signs of violence—no blood on his face, clothing, or hands.
As was his custom, Adam paused for a moment and said a prayer for the dead man. And this time, he added a silent promise: I’ll do my best to find your killer.
“I couldn’t wake him,” said a man standing close to the tree. He’d been introduced as Wendell Popper. “Not unusual for Morris—he’d as soon have a swig from a gin bottle as take a breath—but when I shook him, I realized there was something wrong.”
“You didn’t move him?” Adam asked.
“No, sir, just to shake him. His head kinda rolled around like that, and he started to tip over. And he was stiff. So I—well, I pushed him back up like that. And then I called for help.”
“Were you looking for him?” Adam asked, craning his head to peer up at Popper. “How did you find him here, so far out of the way?”
“I’m on the Night Watch with him, and those of us who are usually see everyone walking back after the shifts. He—well, he had a lot to drink last night—more than usual, because everyone was buying him ales after what happened yesterday, him being here and seeing things and all, and when I din’t see him come back, I thought I should check and make sure he wasn’t passed out somewheres. And when I found him, I thought, that was exactly what he did—passed out here. But he didn’t move or respond, and he was so stiff and cold when I touched him. That’s when I realized he was dead.”
“What did he say about what happened yesterday?”
“He was jawing on about seeing the killer, and how he was wearing a top hat and had a fancy carriage—but I didn’t believe none of it, being truthful, there, sir. He was saying one thing, then when someone said something or asked a question, he changed his story to match what they said. I think he was just talking so’s he could get the attention. And refills on his mug.”
“All right.” Adam grimaced and returned his attention to the body. So Billy Morris had been talking about what he’d seen yesterday—or not actually seen. And the killer had probably gotten wind of it and decided he didn’t want Billy Morris spreading any information that could identify him—whether it was accurate or not. So even if Adam could get people to repeat what Billy had said, he’d have no way of determ
ining which parts were correct. He looked at the soldier who’d walked him from the President’s House. “Go and fetch George Hilton, in Ballard’s Alley in the First Ward. Cellar of Great Eternity Church. Tell him I asked for him.”
Now, at last, Adam began a closer examination of the body, which was quite stiff and difficult to move. The first thing he noticed was a bloody mass on the back of the head—just like that on Piney Tufts. He was certain that blow wouldn’t have killed Billy Morris, however. With a sense of inevitability, he lifted the dead man’s head as much as he could with the rigor of the body.
He didn’t have to lift it far to see the dark red mark indenting across the front of Billy Morris’s throat, extending onto the sides of his neck. With a little more work, he lifted the chin even more and could see that the man’s voice box was crushed from something long and hard pressed across it—just like Piney Tufts’s had been. Only this time, the killer didn’t even try to hide his work.
Adam reckoned the murderer had taken the same walking stick he’d probably used to hit his victim on the back of the head, stunning him enough to be able to use the walking stick to choke Billy Morris to death. He looked at the ground near the body again to see if there were any marks that supported this theory.
Nothing except the dragging marks in the grass.
Dragging marks. Had he been dead when the killer brought him here, or had the killer finished the job in the shadow of this leafy oak?
Adam looked at Billy’s shoes, lifting each foot one by one to examine them. The backs of the heels had collected small bits of grass and scrapes of dirt from when he was dragged from wherever he’d been hit. Not only grass and dirt, but a fine white grit with a subtle, silvery glitter.
Marble dust.
Adam straightened. “Wait here for George Hilton to arrive,” he said to one of the soldiers who’d been keeping the crowd back. “Don’t let anyone touch the body or get close to him, understand? If Dr. Hilton asks for anything, you see that he gets it. This is an order from the president himself.”
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