The Lincoln Myth (58 page)

C
ASSIOPEIA ENTERED THE SMALL GRAVEYARD ADJACENT TO
the Salazar estate. About fifty graves filled the grassy space. Sacred ground, where for over a century Salazars had been laid to rest. She’d arrived yesterday and arranged for Josepe’s body to be cremated. True, that was not the Mormon way, but little Josepe had done fit into that category. Even if heaven existed and there actually was a God, she doubted Josepe would be in His presence.

The sins had been far too great.

Though Josepe had several siblings she’d contacted none of them. Instead, she’d arranged for people from her estate to be at the airport and transport the body to a local crematorium, which accommodated her request for a quick incineration. She’d decided that it was far too complicated to explain to brothers and sisters as to how one of their own had spiraled into insanity. And she certainly
could not tell them the U.S. government had sanctioned their brother’s death.

Her anger remained hot. There’d been no need to kill Josepe. She could have wrestled him under control. Apparently, the threat he posed was so great that murder had become the only acceptable option.

Some of that she could understand.

But not enough to make it right.

Cotton should not have pulled that trigger.

And not just once.

But twice.

Unforgivable, no matter what Josepe had done.

That’s why there were courts. But Stephanie never could have allowed him to speak publicly. Instead, he had to be silenced.

One of her employees had already dug a hole large enough for the silver urn. She would place Josepe there and, eventually, explain to his family what happened, leaving out the awful parts, noting that their brother had simply crossed a line from which there’d been no return.

But that would be another time.

Today, she would say her own goodbye.

M
ALONE STEPPED FROM BEHIND THE COUNTER IN HIS BOOKSHOP
. Business was light, usual for a Monday morning. He’d arrived home twenty-four hours ago after an all-night flight from Salt Lake City through Paris. He could not remember when he’d ever been this rattled. Cassiopeia had said little to him, storming off from
Falta Nada
.

He was frustrated, tired, and jet-lagged.

Nothing new, except for the frustrated part.

His employees had, once again, done a masterful job of keeping the store running. They were the best. He’d given them all the day
off, deciding to handle things himself. Which actually helped his mood, as he didn’t feel like socializing.

He stepped to one of the plate-glass windows and stared out at Højbro Plads. The day was wet and stormy, but people still hustled back and forth. It had all started right here, in the shop, five days ago with a call from Stephanie. He wondered about Luke Daniels and what the young man would do next. He’d wished him well in Salt Lake and hoped that, maybe, one day their paths might cross again.

His thoughts were interrupted by the opening of the front door.

A FedEx deliveryman entered with a package that required a signature for acceptance. He signed the electronic pad and ripped open the box’s perforated tab as the courier left. Inside was a book sheathed in bubble wrap. He laid the bundle on the counter and carefully unwrapped it.

The Book of Mormon.

Original edition, 1830.

The one he’d bought in Salzburg, stolen back by Cassiopeia and Salazar.

Protruding from the top was a slip of paper. He removed it and read a note written in black ink.

This was found in Salazar’s plane after it was searched. I decided that you should have it as compensation for all that you did. You shouldn’t work for free. I know this was tough and I’m told there might be consequences. God knows I’m not one to give anyone woman advice, but tread light and be patient. She’ll come around.

Danny Daniels

He shook his head and smiled. He’d paid over a million dollars for the book. Worth about a quarter of that, but still not a bad payday. Reality was that the bills did have to be paid, and gallivanting across the globe rarely did the trick.

So he was grateful for the gesture.

He’d miss Danny Daniels.

He approached the front window and watched the storm.

And wondered what Cassiopeia was doing.

C
ASSIOPEIA DEPOSITED THE LAST SHOVELFUL OF DIRT INTO THE
hole and gently patted it into place.

Josepe had been buried. Her father, mother, and first love were gone. She felt alone. She should not be so sad, considering the awful things Josepe had done. But a melancholy had taken root inside her and she doubted it would fade anytime soon.

No love filled her heart.

Despite what she’d said to Josepe in that cave.

Instead, she was angry with both Stephanie and Cotton and wanted nothing more than to be left alone by them both.

Time for a clean break.

A new life.

Fresh challenges.

She stabbed the shovel into the moist earth and retreated to the gate.

The Spanish countryside was so peaceful, the day cool and sunny. Her own family’s estate was not far away. She’d many times visited this place. Now this would be her last. Another link to her past severed.

She found her phone, located her contacts, and scrolled to Cotton Malone.

Everything was there.

Mobile number, bookshop phone, email.

All were once something special to her.

Not anymore.

She hit
DELETE
.

The phone asked—
ARE YOU SURE?

She was.

M
ALONE STILL HELD THE
B
OOK OF
M
ORMON
.

He’d place it up for auction and convert it into cash. Its words held no special significance for him, as they did for millions of others. Five days ago he’d thought his life pretty much in order. Now there’d been a 180-degree shift. He hadn’t been in love for a long time and he was just becoming accustomed to the feeling, adjusting to its demands. He’d killed Salazar because one, the SOB deserved it, and, two, there was no choice. He’d given the man a chance to stand down. Not his fault that it had not been accepted.
Never
did he like killing. But sometimes it just had to be done.

The United States of America was safe and secure.

Threat averted.

Justice had been done.

All was right, except for one thing.

He stared out at the rain.

And wondered if he would ever see Cassiopeia Vitt again.

WRITER’S NOTE

This book involved several field trips. Elizabeth and I visited Washington, D.C. Des Moines, Iowa. Salt Lake City, Utah. And Salzburg, Austria.

Now it’s time to separate the real from the imagined.

The meeting described in the prologue between Abraham Lincoln and Mrs. John Fremont happened. The location (the White House’s Red Room) is correct, and most of the dialogue is taken from historical accounts. General Fremont did indeed overstep his bounds, and Lincoln ultimately fired him. What Lincoln tells Jesse Fremont about freeing the slaves or saving the Union is taken verbatim from a reply Lincoln sent to a letter from Horace Greeley, the editor of the
New-York Tribune
, published in 1862. The note from James Buchanan and the document Lincoln reads from George Washington are my inventions, though Buchanan did say that he thought he might be the last president of the United States.

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints figures prominently in this story. It is a quintessential American religion—born, bred, and nurtured here. It is the only religion that includes the Constitution of the United States as part of its philosophy (
chapters 37
,
57
). Without question, Mormons have played a role in American history, rising from a modest beginning to a church that now supports over 14 million members worldwide. They literally created and built the state of Utah.

Throughout the novel the words
Mormons
and
Saints
are used interchangeably. There was a time when
Mormon
would have been considered offensive, as that was a label applied in the 19th century
by those who persecuted them. But that is no longer the case, and
Mormon
is now an accepted description. Even so, I allowed devout believers, like Rowan and Salazar, to keep to the word
Saints
when referring to their brethren. A modern term,
LDS
(Latter-day Saints), is common, but I decided not to use it here. Also, the head of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is called either the president or the prophet. I kept to the latter so as not to create any confusion with presidents of the United States.

Apostles of the church are expected to devote themselves fulltime to their duties. Thaddeus Rowan, though, remains a U.S. senator. While that arrangement is an extraordinary one, there is precedent. Reed Smoot (
chapter 11
) served both as an apostle and senator in the early part of the 20th century.

Blood atonement, first described in
chapter 2
, was once a part of the Mormon community—or at least the idea of such. It grew in response to the violence those early believers were subjected to. Whether it was actually practiced is a matter of debate. One thing is certain—any thought or application of it disappeared long ago, and it is no longer part of Mormon theology. The same is likewise true for Danites (
chapter 8
), a group that no longer exists. What Sidney Rigdon is quoted as saying in
chapter 8
was true then, but no more. Plural marriage was officially abandoned by the church on September 25, 1890 (
chapters 18
,
55
).

Throughout the novel Josepe Salazar is visited by an angel, a figment of his disturbed mind. Nearly everything the angel says was taken from 19th-century Mormon doctrine, speeches, and sermons and, as with blood atonement and Danites, reflects the hostile world in which those people found themselves. None of that applies today. The angel Moroni, though, remains a centerpiece of Mormon theology (
chapter 39
).

Zion National Park (
chapter 3
) is accurately described. The legend of the 22 lost wagons is part of Mormon lore (
chapter 11
), but no trace of them has ever been found. The 1857 Mormon War happened, and Lincoln did in fact make a deal (as related in
chapter 9
) with Brigham Young. His words are quoted there exactly. Both sides
honored that deal. The anti-polygamy 1862 Morrill Act was never enforced, and the Mormons stayed out of the Civil War. The supposed collateral for that deal (provided by both sides) was my invention.

The locales in Copenhagen, Kalundborg, Salzburg, Iowa, Washington, D.C., and Utah all exist. Readers of prior Cotton Malone adventures may recognize the Café Norden (
chapter 10
), which anchors Højbro Plads in Copenhagen. The vice president’s residence on the grounds of the Naval Observatory stands as depicted (
chapter 25
). The Hotel Monaco in Salt Lake City (
chapter 26
) and the Mandarin Oriental in the nation’s capital (
chapter 38
) are wonderful places.