The Lincoln Deception

by David O. Stewart

  Too late, Fraser thought to call for help. He was a hundred feet up the tower. When he shouted, the breeze swallowed his voice. As the platform rose, the breeze became a low roar in his ears. He forced himself to look down at the work site, though the view made his stomach flutter. Barstow’s carriage was moving toward the gate. He had brought Fraser here to be abandoned. A guard might stay at the yard through the night, but that promised no relief. Even if the guard could hear Fraser’s voice, he would be part of Barstow’s plan to strand Fraser.

  The lift continued to rise. Every twenty feet, its wheels ground noisily, setting off shudders on the platform. Fraser forced himself to look at the vertical rails where the wheels turned. The shaking came from the joints between rails, as the wheels bumped from one rail to the next.

  Helpless, hopeless, Fraser rode this open contraption into the sky. He fought off waves of panic that locked his muscles. All that stood between him and plunging to his death was a simple iron bar about three feet high on each side of the platform. What was most terrifying was the perverse pull he felt to the edge of the platform, the fantasy of stepping into thin air, if only to end the anxiety that screamed in his head.

  The lift stopped just below the top of the tower. He could see a wooden platform at the top of the tower, beyond his reach. The wind was strong, gusting and blowing.

  Fraser was ashamed at what a fool he’d been. Barstow knew far more about Fraser than Fraser ever would know about him—not only knew about Dr. John McIntire and about Fraser’s father’s military service, but also that Fraser was terrified of heights.

  Unsteadily, Fraser sat down Indian style, as close to the center of the platform as he could calculate. He had to control his mind, to still the fear echoing inside. If he could get his mind to work, perhaps he could gain control over his arms and legs.

  Was there anyone who might help him? The construction site was deserted. He peered over the platform edge to confirm it. Yes, deserted. He could not expect anyone to notice that the lift was out of place, frozen almost 300 feet above the ground. For the next thirty-six hours, until Monday morning, no one other than a watchman or two would be on the construction site. It was hard to believe that Barstow arranged to leave Fraser at the top of this tower without making sure no workman would rescue him.

  In fact, Fraser could think of only two people in New York who might want to help him. Cook was in no condition to be useful, and had no reason to look for Fraser at the bridge site. Nor would Eliza think Fraser was anywhere but the Miller Hotel on Madison Avenue. The thought of that decrepit lodging triggered a powerful longing for its shabby safety. He would never again complain about their hotel rooms.

  If he was going to get down, he had to do it himself. Fraser realized his panic had slackened a notch. He had passed several minutes without falling off the platform. The wind still blew, but it was becoming familiar. The platform was holding in its place. Presumably it was used to transport large work crews, not to mention equipment and tools, so it should be solid. Fraser resolved to make a more active review of his situation.

  He looked around the platform, moving only his eyes, then rose to his knees and pivoted in place. He examined every part. It was larger than it seemed at first, perhaps fifteen feet deep by twenty feet across.

  Fraser found it more difficult to think while up on his knees. He felt exposed. He resumed a cross-legged position. The wind, he told himself, could not sweep him off his perch. The day had at least two more hours of light.

  He could stay where he was. That would mean thirty-six hours without food or water. He had trouble imagining going to sleep up there, what with the distressing prospect of groggily rolling over and tumbling off. If he did not go insane, he might make it through thirty-six hours at the top of New York City.

  Could he get down on his own? He stretched out on his belly and wriggled to the edge nearest the tower. He kept his eyes on the solid tower and away from the void that yawned on the other three sides.

  The gap between the platform and the tower was narrow, no more than six inches. He couldn’t fit between the two. To get off the platform, he would have to . . . he felt dizzy to think of stretching an unsupported leg off the side of the platform.

  The tower consisted of two steel beam structures, each built with girders in an “X” design and leaning into each other. A horizontal girder about three feet below the platform crossed from one of the steel beam structures to the other, joining them. That cross girder was about ten inches wide.

  Fraser would have to drop to the cross girder and slide along it for fifteen feet to the corner of one of the steel beam structures. Each structure seemed to have hand and footholds affixed to its outer edge. He could try to swing his legs around to the handholds and footholds, then climb down hand-overhand. A confident, agile man could do it.

  A spell of vertigo made him tremble. Fraser closed his eyes, took a breath, and looked at the situation again. That settled it. He could last thirty-six hours atop the tower.

  As the panic receded, he slid back toward the center, staying on his belly. He remembered something he needed to look at. The world had darkened. The sunlight was gone. Lifting his head, he looked to the west, over Manhattan. There they were. Black clouds piled up at the horizon. They were taking over more and more of the sky, racing toward him. At the leading edge, lightning flashed.

  Fraser’s stomach churned. Could he sit out a thunderstorm in this eagle’s nest, when the winds would howl? Or did he have to get down now, right now? If he was going to beat the storm down, he had to move. Clenching his jaws, squinting at clouds that seemed larger every second, Fraser decided. He didn’t want to be there through the storm, a human lightning rod.

  He slid on his front until he was next to the tower. A steel upright at each corner of the platform supported the rail that ringed his little world. He could hold on to the upright as he reached for the cross girder. Grabbing the upright, he turned backward on his knees. The black cloud bank was speeding across the sky. He forced himself not to look.

  Slowly, he pushed his left leg back into space, angling it down. First the foot, then the knee. His toe strained for contact with the crossbeam. Where was it? Had he stretched it too far back? He tried a little lower. There. Firm against his foot. He put weight on it, then a little more. Dropping to his belly, he did the same with his right leg, this time knowing how far down to reach. The platform lurched from the tower with a sickening jolt. It was his weight shifting off. With both hands, he clung to the upright, then lowered to his knees on the crossbeam. He was going to have to let go with one hand, then reach down and grip the crossbeam. He would bear-hug the crossbeam and do the inchworm to the corner of the tower. To his dismay, he couldn’t touch the crossbeam with his free hand while holding on to the upright.

  With a lunge, he let go of the upright and fell down to the crossbeam. He gripped it with knees and feet and arms. His momentum swung to the far side of the beam, but he righted himself. He realized his eyes were squeezed shut. He opened them and began to inch. No time to lose. He kept his focus on the tower, looking neither left nor right, neither up nor down. The wind blew harder, roaring into his ears in bursts.

  When he reached the edge of the steel structure, the panic stirred again. His muscles froze. He wanted to cry. He could let go and end this torture. How bad could it be?

  He pushed up as close to the structure as he could get. He would have to reach out for the first hand grip. Then he would have to swing over empty space until he found a foothold to steady himself. He couldn’t do it. He cursed himself. Why had he left the safety of the platform? What was he thinking, taking this kind of risk? Then he cursed himself as a coward, frozen with fear when he needed to act. A sharp gust broke into his terror. To his left, the cloud bank had advanced to the middle of Manhattan. Thunder growled. He could see rain pelting down. No time. He had to go.

  He could reach a grip with his right hand. He would hug the cross girder with his left and bring his leg
s over with one movement. He could not afford to swing. He had to control his momentum, not allow it to strain his grip. And he had to do it before the steel became slick with rain.

  For a moment, he felt calm. He moved. His right foot pawed the upright, desperately seeking purchase. It was smooth, nothing to wedge his foot against. He would slide all the way to the ground. His right arm, clinging to the hand grip, began to ache. Where was the next grip? He pulled his leg back and squeezed the girder with his knees.

  He extended his foot again. Nothing. A hole of dread opened inside. Wait, there it was. The slant of the beam structure meant the grips were slightly to the side, not straight vertical. He had no time to think. He dropped his left foot for the next step. He stared straight ahead at the gray steel, reached his left hand to a second hand grip, and let himself down. He was descending.

  The grips were at a uniform distance. He learned how far to drop each foot, at what angle, and how far to reach down the next hand. He couldn’t hurry. He couldn’t look down. One grip. The next grip. And the next. After what seemed like several hours, the rain arrived. It swept across his face. His suit became heavy with water. The grips felt slicker under his hands. He worried about his toes slipping. The wind dug at him. One gust seemed to push him sideways. When it stopped abruptly, his weight lurched back. His clothes were heavy with water, his shoes threatened to slip off his feet.

  He didn’t look down. One foot, then the next. One hand, then the next. After another eternity, his peripheral vision picked up images of piled lumber, spools of cable. He was close. With each step down, he longed for the ground. When his left foot touched a new surface, he toed it gingerly, then flattened his foot against it. With a gasp, he slid down the girder and collapsed. Tears came, unbidden. He was down.

  Drenched by the rain and shaken by his escape, Fraser mounted the stairs of the Miller Hotel. He dreaded Cook’s reaction. He had been a fool. Stepping into their darkened room, Fraser said nothing. He dripped on the floor and shivered in a woeful fashion. Cook threw him a towel, told him to get his clothes off, then wrapped him in a blanket. When Fraser’s shaking stopped, Cook listened to his tale with a steady expression. At the end, he showed neither scorn, though Fraser had earned it, nor sympathy.

  “See?” he said. “It’s like I been telling you. These folks ain’t playing. You need to start being smart, stop thinking like you’re white, you’re going to live forever.”

  Fraser agreed, but he said one thing more. “We’re on to something, Speed. He wouldn’t go to all this trouble if we weren’t.”

  “Wish I knew what it is we’re on to. We sure know he’s on to you, maybe on to me, too. Dr. McIntire just left town for good.”

  Both fell asleep without any supper. The next morning, they moved to another hotel, another day of laying low and healing, deciphering Barstow’s memo book, thinking about Booth’s conspiracy. They had to leave New York. It was dangerous being near Barstow. Fraser traded wires with Townsend in Maryland, getting leads on the people to see in Maryland. Neither man said anything about turning back.

  Chapter 18

  Sitting on a bench in the Newark train depot, Fraser tapped his foot impatiently. The Chesapeake Limited was delayed. Theodore Roosevelt, the Republican candidate for vice president, was leaving for the West that morning. His supporters, taking advantage of the break in the heat wave, had swamped the station, snarling trains all morning. Cook sat reading a newspaper.

  Their misadventures in New York seemed to have reconciled them to each other. Fraser appreciated that Cook was capable, smart about the world, smart about people. And he was steadfast. After being manhandled by the rioters, he could have chosen to pack it in. Fraser’s escapade on the bridge might have persuaded him that Fraser was too rash and foolish, and Barstow too dangerous, to keep going. But here he was.

  As for Fraser, he was angry and getting angrier. He didn’t like being pushed around. He meant to do some pushing back.

  Looking down the train platform, Cook folded his paper and stretched. “Let’s go take a look,” he said. “Not going anywhere till this man’s done inspiring the nation.”

  They walked outside to where the honored speaker stood in a vested suit on an overturned crate. They circled the crowd until they could see him. Roosevelt’s high-pitched voice, bursting with fury, was clear when he rotated toward them, muted when he turned away.

  His movements were violent, left fist pounding into the palm of his right to punctuate his points. Even at a distance, his large teeth looked wolfish. His eyeglasses, far from making him seem like a sissy, flashed with menace when they caught the light. They gave Roosevelt a supernatural air, a man able to see into the brains and hearts of his listeners.

  He was laying into the Democrats and their demand for self-government in the Philippines. Roosevelt dismissed the natives as “Malay bandits.” Yet, he bellowed, those same Democrats schemed to deny the voting rights of “Americans of dusky color” in North Carolina.

  Roosevelt’s fearsome intensity grew as he spoke of the Filipino war. War was necessary, he shouted, to avoid chaos and anarchy. Americans had a duty to put down the armed resistance without pussyfooting, parleying, or faltering. “All the great masterful races,” he called out, “have been fighting races. The minute that a race loses the hard fighting virtues, then, no matter what else it may retain, it has lost its proud right to stand as the equal of the best. Cowardice in a race, as in an individual, is the unpardonable sin.”

  The crowd roared its approval. Roosevelt clasped his hands together in victory.

  Cook shook his head as they stepped back toward their idle train. “What a load of bunk. That man ought to be ashamed of himself.”

  “Truly?” Fraser said. “I thought you’d like the way he spoke for Americans of a dusky color.”

  Cook waved the comment away. “He don’t mean anything by it. He says just enough to get the votes of the few colored who still can vote. He won’t do anything for us, like stop the lynching. You notice he didn’t mention that riot in his own city, New York, where he was police commissioner? Or that it was his police joined in the rioting, busting colored men’s heads?”

  Fraser said nothing, but Cook kept on. “Makes me sick, all that stuff about the glorious war in the Philippines. He wants to get everybody on the same side, North and South, black and white, by shouting out, ‘Let’s go kill us some yellow men!’ ”

  “He wants to ‘busy giddy minds with foreign quarrels.’ ”

  Cook looked at him sidewise. “I suppose you could say that.”

  When the Chesapeake Limited began to board, Fraser put a question to Cook that had been bothering him. “Do you still think it might make a difference in the election year if we prove that Democrats were involved in killing Lincoln?”

  Cook smiled. “Can’t do them any good. But even if it killed them off as a party, it wouldn’t change the race hate. The haters’d start up another party, call it something else.”

  As soon as they were seated, Cook whispered in Fraser’s ear. When the train pulled out, he hissed, they should get off. Fraser raised an eyebrow. “We ain’t alone,” Cook added, “must be Barstow’s men. You go first. Stroll toward the next car like you’re stretching your legs. From between cars, you jump off. We meet up at the next station.”

  “What about our things?”

  “I’ll take care of them.”

  Fraser scanned the car for the men Cook had spotted. The one in a straw boater? Too old. The bowler? Too fat. Barstow would send only the fittest on his dirty errands.

  The train jerked. Its wheels screeched and their car vibrated with the throaty rumble of the engine. Fraser remembered the two thugs in Indiana, the note in his hotel room in Fairview, the Williamsburg Bridge. He had no wish to meet up with Barstow’s toadies.

  He walked to the rear door and out between cars. Another man was there, leaning against the doorframe, smoking a thin cheroot. He nodded at Fraser, who swung a leg over the gate between the cars, sc
issored the other one over, and dropped to the ground. He executed the maneuver with complete nonchalance until the landing. He fell heavily on his left leg, twisting it, then rolled down a slope not quite dry from a recent rain.

  Limping alongside the tracks to the next station, Fraser regretted that he had jumped so soon. He might safely have ridden several more miles before jumping. After more than an hour, he reached the Elizabeth depot, mostly deserted in the midmorning lull.

  Cook was sitting on his trunk to the side of the platform. Fraser’s trunk stood next to him, supporting a medium-sized white man in a dusty gray jacket. Cook nodded and said, “Say hello to John Buckner. If that’s his real name.”

  Fraser stared at Cook. Cook shrugged. “While I was arranging for the baggage, I run into this man and I realized I know him. So we decided to get off here for some talk.” Cook clapped a heavy hand on Buckner’s shoulder, then nodded down to his other hand in his jacket pocket, which might well hold a weapon.

  “So far,” Cook continued, “Mr. Buckner’s been quiet. I thought maybe he’d feel better spilling his guts to a white man. That way he gets a choice. Spill his guts to you or have this colored man spill his guts for him.” As he stood up, Cook gave the man’s shoulder a last squeeze. Buckner made a face. “I won’t be far.”

  Fraser moaned as he sat on the trunk Cook had just vacated. His feet hurt. He pointed to Cook’s receding figure. “I hope you didn’t rile him up. Once he gets hot, he’s hard to settle down.” Cook stopped about thirty feet away. He leaned against the depot wall and stared back.

  “Honest, mister, I don’t know what that crazy nigger’s going on about. I was just riding the train, minding my own business, when up he comes—”

  Fraser held up his hand. “Mr. Buckner, if you want to tell me my friend has a bad temper, I won’t argue. You want to criticize his manners, I’ll let it go. He can be a little rough-edged. But you shouldn’t start telling me he’s wrong about you and what you’re up to. He doesn’t make that kind of mistake.”