Braham had subpoenaed Gordon to testify, and, according to a conversation which took place in Stanton’s office, Gordon had complained bitterly to the secretary about having been promised anonymity. Stanton had warned him if he failed to testify in public the prosecution’s case against Mallory would fall apart. He was the only person who could testify about seeing Jack and Booth together talking about an event happening in April. A blatant lie, which, if he maintained it on the stand, would force Braham to call her as a rebuttal witness.
It would take the talent of an actress like Meryl Streep to pull it off, and she was no Meryl Streep. All the prosecutor had to do was ask her if she knew of the plot to assassinate Lincoln. She was a horrible liar, and he would be able to see the truth on her face.
Tickets to the trial had become the hottest commodity in Washington. She pleaded every day to go, but Braham was adamant and so was Jack. If she had to testify, her identity had to remain a secret until they called her to the witness stand.
The public debated the Habeas Corpus Act of 1863 and Braham’s claim of the end of the war having suspended the act’s authorization. Stanton had halted the draft and removed all travel restrictions in and out of Washington, and had been quoted as saying, “Since Lee’s surrender, the threat to national safety had passed away.” Cullen used those facts while arguing his case against President Johnson, which was proceeding through the federal court system. Would it do Jack any good? Probably not, but it was keeping the press enthralled and their case in the public eye.
The military court denied the other motions Cullen had drafted, except for allowing the hoods to be removed during court. But they were shoved back over the defendants’ heads before leaving the courtroom at the end of each day.
Her emotions soared and plummeted while she read the news. She didn’t care about the plantation. She didn’t care if the Mallory name was held in disdain in perpetuity, like Mudd or Booth. She only wanted to rescue her brother, go home, and reclaim her life. Whatever it turned out to be.
Sergeant Jonathan Clem, her bodyguard, entered the dining room. “Excuse me, ma’am. Edward said you’d like to visit the park this afternoon.”
Charlotte folded the newspapers and added them to her collection in a basket on the floor. “Give me five minutes to put on my wig and beard, and I’ll be ready to go.”
The clouds had disappeared, and the crowds hadn’t yet arrived. They’d picked a good time. The sugar maples had fully leafed and the winding paths were lined with purple irises.
“Are you going to stay in Washington?” Charlotte asked Jonathan.
“If a permanent position opens up with Mr. Gaylord, I’ll stay,” he said. “There’s not much for me back in Illinois. My folks passed on while I was away at war, and I lost my two brothers at Gettysburg. No reason not to stay here, if there’s a job.”
She pulled her hat down to shade her eyes from the glaring sun. “I’m sorry about your brothers. Were you at Gettysburg, too?”
There was a sudden flutter of motion behind her as a man leapt from the bushes, gun in hand, and clobbered Jonathan over the head. She took a breath to scream, but the heavyset man, who reeked of sweat, slapped a hand over her mouth. The hand smelled of garlic and onions, but she tried to bite him anyway. He pressed his hand harder, squeezing her cheeks painfully into her teeth. She bit the soft tissue inside her mouth instead of his hand when she tried again, and a metallic taste coated her tongue.
She elbowed him in the chest. But before she could go for his eyes or throat, he planted his arm across her middle and pulled her back against him. This maneuver pinched both her arms against her body and tightly squeezed her rib cage. As strong as he was, she couldn’t break free. Her adrenaline went haywire.
He muffled her screams as he carried her toward a waiting carriage, while she kicked furiously at his shins. Her muscles strained to break loose, but with her back pressed against his solid chest and her arms and hands locked down tight, she was helpless…except for her head.
She head butted him, but he didn’t loosen his grip. He bit down on her earlobe, and his hot, garlicky breath and spittle sprayed across her skin. “Try it again, bitch, and you won’t like what I do to you.” He was breathing nearly as hard as she was. The pressure from his squeezing hand on her face made her eyes water. The violence in him reeked as nauseatingly as he did.
Her survival instinct erased the initial shock and panic. She tensed, readying herself to fight to the end. If he got her into a carriage, her chances of living through a rape or beating would diminish considerably. She couldn’t see further than the moment, a single heartbeat between life and death. She kicked backward at his shins and knees, but the man was built like a linebacker, and his increasing fury tightened his grip. She continued to fight, to squirm in his viselike arms.
She panted in short gasps, her heart beating frantically. They neared a carriage. She had only a handful of moments left. Once inside, she’d be defenseless. She raised her legs and pressed them against the door, pushing back against him, and at the same time gouging at his rock-hard legs with her short nails. She attempted another head butt, and he bit down hard on her ear. A warm trickle dripped into the canal.
There was a shadow of a man inside the carriage. “Back up. I’ll open the door so you can get her inside,” he said in a recognizable voice.
Incoherent terror engulfed her. She couldn’t escape, and she knew they would hurt her, but she refused to stop fighting. Her life was at stake. Her attacker backed up, her legs fell, and she dangled several inches off the ground. She kicked him squarely in the kneecap, and his leg buckled, but he didn’t release his grip. When the door opened, he tossed her onto the floor as easily as a sack of flour, and then piled in behind her. The driver slapped the reins on the backs of the horses, and the carriage drove off at a gallop. She glanced up to see Gordon smirking, and she swallowed back tears of panic.
“Well, well. What do we have here?” Gordon ripped off her beard, taking a layer of skin. She screamed, and he slammed his fist into her jaw. A wave of dizziness hit her. He dropped to the floor, straddled her, and twisted her wrists so hard she thought they had snapped.
“Doctor Charlotte Mallory. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you? It’s your eyes, my dear.” He let go of her hands, now numb and useless. He slapped her hard. His family crest ring hit her cheekbone and made her eyes water. Black pain bloomed from the center of her face, and the violence of the slap took her breath away.
His wolfish grin broadened, revealing yellow canine teeth, and his eyes blazed with fury. He was crazed with the need to assert his dominance over her. If he hit her again with the anger seething though him, she would lose consciousness and her life. He punched her in the ribs, forcing the breath from her lungs.
“You’re nothing but a whore.” He punched her again. “Tonight, you won’t be warming McCabe’s bed. You’ll be begging me to fuck you.”
Barely able to speak, she hissed, “You can’t get it up.”
He cocked his head, eyebrows lifted, as if he had heard wrong. Then he snatched his gun up off the seat, holding it above his head by the barrel. Her eyes widened then squeezed shut in reflex as he clobbered her on the head with the butt of his revolver.
86
Washington City, 1865
Consciousness returned some time later, but Charlotte wished it hadn’t.
Had she wrecked her car? She had no memory of an accident. Why was it so dark and cold? She shivered and tried to shake off the chill, but it only made her head throb worse. Did she hit the steering wheel? Must have. Her face hurt, too. She touched her cheek. It was swollen, but not cut. There was pain in her mouth. At least one cut on the inside. She ran her tongue over her teeth. A couple molars wiggled slightly, but none were missing. Her airway was open, but taking deep breaths hurt. Maybe bruised or cracked ribs. She ran her hands down her arms and legs. Everything moved. There was no external bleeding. No belly pain.
She tried to open her eyes
and realized they were already open. Total darkness surrounded her. No cracks of light. No red exit signs. Where the hell was she? On the ground. She must have been thrown from the car. There was a dank, sour, musty smell in the cold air. She wasn’t outside in the dark. She was inside. Then she hadn’t been thrown from a car?
The trauma came back in a terrifying rush. There had been no car accident. Gordon had kidnapped and beaten her, and must have dumped her here. How long ago? And where was she?
Oh God, her head hurt. How long had she been unconscious? She had no memory of riding in the carriage or being dumped wherever she was now. There were no voices. No footfalls above her, below her, or around her. She managed a feeble yell. “Help.” Nothing. She was completely alone in the terrifying darkness.
Why did Gordon take her? Braham would be going crazy by now, wondering where she was, and so would David. Neither of them would stop looking until they found her.
But if Braham was looking for her, he wouldn’t be in court defending Jack. Was that what Gordon had planned? The bastard. She bristled at realizing she was a pawn in a game she couldn’t win.
She prayed Braham would continue to concentrate on helping Jack and let David find her. Meredith had said David could do the impossible.
Would Gordon kill her? Not right away. He’d make her suffer first. Hah. Like she wasn’t already. How long could she live without food or water? She could last weeks without food, but she’d be dead in a few days without water. And what about the cold darkness? Her coat wasn’t very warm, but it was May, not January, so she didn’t have to worry about hypothermia. There were a few cracks of light in the ceiling, but when the sun set…oh God, it would be like wearing a hood. How long could she handle sensory deprivation? Not long at all.
She cupped her elbows and shuddered, remembering Gordon’s twisted face as he was posed to smash the revolver butt down on her head. She took as deep a breath as she could, stilled the scurrying thoughts in her throbbing head, and rolled her shoulders, trying to stretch raw nerves to calm them.
The stench in her prison intensified. It seemed to clutch her face like the man with the onion hand. Something close by was dead. The scratch of rodents triggered an immediate wave of panic. Not rats. Anything but rats. She curled up into a ball to make herself a smaller target.
Gordon had clobbered her hard. Meredith’s wig probably saved her life. What if she had a concussion? She had lost consciousness, and now had severe head pain and queasiness. For the next few hours, she’d have to stay awake. But what if she got confused? No one was there to help her.
Her stomach roiled, and she turned her head to the side and vomited what little she had in her stomach. She wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her jacket. Pain lanced through her face and jaw, and she groaned as she rolled back on her side.
The scratching of rodents inched closer. She used the moldy straw on the ground to wipe up the vomit and threw it in the direction of the scratching. Take my lunch and leave me alone. Sitting here helpless wouldn’t keep the rats away. She had to move.
When she put her hand out, her fingers touched a dirt-packed wall. Maybe she could dig her way out. With what? Her nails? She always protected her hands and kept her nails neatly trimmed and buffed. So no digging. In the darkness, locked in fear, she squeezed her eyes shut. Pinpoints of light flashed behind her eyeballs. Stars. Millions of bright, twinkling stars pointed toward home.
She dozed, dreaming of the messy bedroom she left behind, and when she woke, rats were scampering lightly across her shins, frequently changing directions. How many? One on her right leg shifted its weight and skittered higher, toward her thigh. Its nails pricked her skin through her wool trousers. Another one crawled over her left ankle and chewed on her leather shoestring. A third one gnawed on her shirt in the center of her chest.
“Get away from me.” Kicking and batting at the rats only made her head throb harder, and the damn creatures didn’t scurry far. She couldn’t stop them from coming back. It hurt too much to try. She rolled to her side and raised herself to a sitting position, pulled her knees to her chest, and struggled to remain alert. If she had to lecture today, what would she teach the students?
In the middle of the lecture, she fell asleep again, and woke with a jerk and a scream. A rat had burrowed beneath the cuff of her trousers and clawed its way up her leg. She held her head between her hands to keep it steady and kicked frantically. She couldn’t get the rat out. It was next to her knee, inside her pants. She pounded on it through the material. Its teeth sank into her skin at the side of her calf.
“Oh God, it’s eating me.” She hit it again and again until warm liquid flowed down her leg and its teeth relaxed. She shook her leg and it fell away.
Her mouth was cotton dry, and her voice was barely a whisper.
She dozed again, head lolling against the wall. She woke to a rat nibbling on crusted blood on her neck. She lifted her hand and swatted it away, then leaned back against the wall, and very slowly, as to not jostle her head, she pulled the wig the rest of the way off and used it to cover her face. It smelled of blood and sweat.
She closed her eyes, needing to see the stars again, her light in the darkness.
If she removed the binding around her breasts, she could wrap her hands and face and neck. She needed to do it now. If she waited, she might not have the strength in an hour, but if she took off the binding, her ribs might hurt even more. No, leave the binding in place. She wasn’t sure whether it was onion-hand’s squeezing or Gordon’s punches which had damaged her ribs. It didn’t matter now. The pain of breathing was getting worse, probably because she was panicking. Slowing her breath, she fell back asleep.
A rat woke her, gnawing on her bitten, bloody ear. “Get off me,” she slurred. She grabbed it, yanking and tearing the soft flesh of her ear before its teeth released. She threw it as hard as her exhausted arm could manage.
God, she was thirsty. All she wanted was a little sip. And a cracker would settle her stomach. Water. A little bit of water would be enough. Something was wrong with her. She was tired, so tired. And her brain couldn’t think. Were her eyes even open? In the pitch black, she couldn’t tell, but she could see the stars.
A bee stung her butt or a damn rat bit her. “Ouch.” She dug her hand down inside her trousers and found a hot, hard spot high on her hip. It was the same spot where she had noticed a bug bite while at MacKlenna Farm. But now the spot was tingling. She was so tired. She slid down the wall to the ground again, curled up tightly, and went back to sleep.
A flash of light from above woke her. A rat’s sharp toenails clung in her hair. A shadow, black against black, glided stealthily toward her, much bigger than a rat. She cowered in the corner, shivering. “Where are you, David? Help me.”
87
Washington City, 1865
Braham and Cullen returned home tired but exhilarated after a long day in court. The prosecution had produced four witnesses in their case against Jack. Each one testified to seeing him with Booth within weeks of the assassination. Braham had been unable to shake the witnesses’ testimony until he asked the question, “Was the defendant writing in a journal or on a piece of paper during the conversation?” Each witness answered yes, which bolstered Jack’s defense of being in the process of interviewing Booth for an article.
On redirect, General Holt asked the witnesses if Jack was talking in a low or normal voice, and if he seemed concerned others might overhear the conversation. Each witness testified he wasn’t whispering.
On recross, Braham asked the witnesses if they overheard any of the conversations. Each testified they heard Jack and Booth talking about their favorite playwrights, and which theaters in Philadelphia and New York had the best performance spaces. The witnesses claimed the conversations were boring.
General Holt asked on re-redirect why they hadn’t mentioned the conversations during their initial interviews. Two witnesses claimed they hadn’t been asked. The spectators snickered, and General Hunter
slammed his gavel, demanding order in the courtroom.
If anyone was keeping a tally, the defense was ahead, but the prosecution’s most damning witnesses, the carriage driver and Henly, were scheduled to testify the next day. Braham and Cullen had a long night of preparation ahead.
Although Braham wanted to go straight home to see Charlotte, Cullen insisted they stop at the Willard for drinks. They didn’t need the alcohol, but they did need to be seen in public. Jack was innocent, and swaying public opinion was part of their strategy. Being at the Willard made them accessible to other lawyers, businessmen, members of society with influence, and, most importantly, President Johnson’s political supporters.
They arrived home around nine to find Jonathan Clem alone in the parlor, dozing in a straight-back chair. Braham tossed his briefcase on top of a table hard enough to rattle its legs. The porcelain knickknacks clinked, and he cringed. Kit had bought them during a visit to Washington, claiming the room needed a feminine touch. He turned back quickly, holding out his hands in case any toppled off the table.
Cullen laughed. “Kit wouldn’t be happy if ye broke one of her treasures.”
Startled, Clem jumped to his feet, clearing his throat, his hat gripped in his hands.
Braham straightened the figurines. “A soldier doesn’t need breakables in his damn parlor.” He glanced at the startled sergeant. “Evening, Clem. Where’s Doctor Mallory?”
In the glow of the gaslight, the soldier’s face appeared unusually haggard and lined. “Sir, she was…kidnapped this afternoon from the park.”
The Sapphire Brooch Page 59
