Gideon’s chest hurt and his feet were going numb, but he kept running. It was only a couple of miles, not far at all. He could’ve walked it in an hour, but now was not the time for walking. Only when he thought his lungs would burst and his knees quaked from crashing through the underbrush beside the main thoroughfare did he slow.
He longed to reach out into the road and ask for a ride—he had money; he could buy one, certainly. But with the police on his heels, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. If Nelson Wellers could convince them he was elsewhere, they’d look elsewhere. They’d already tried the Lincoln place, apparently … unless that was a lie and they weren’t policemen at all, which was always a possibility.
A nasty possibility. But one he couldn’t ignore.
He let his mind race when his feet couldn’t do so anymore.
No. The safest thing would be to find Lincoln, and then … it depended.
He might have to pack up and leave. In which case, he could ask after Kirby Troost and his family, then meet them outside D.C. Troost could get anyone or anything out of anywhere, anytime.
Then again, if these were merely police, merely ordinary civil servants with a job to do, then they could be reasoned with. The very nature of their duties required them to assess evidence and weigh proof, did it not? Of course, that only applied to the upstanding ones—a policeman can be bribed as easily as anyone else. No, there was no one he could trust. No one but the men he’d already trusted this long, and if he couldn’t count on them, then he was damned regardless.
While he caught his breath he watched the road, hunting for some sign of help, or, barring that, any suggestion that there might be a manhunt in progress. At one point he watched two official vehicles with side-mounted sirens wailing through the bitter evening wind, charging in the direction of downtown.
Of course, they might’ve been intended for someone else. There could be a fire, or lightning strike damage from the shifting sky throwing its weight around like a hurricane. It might not have been a response to murders, contrived to blame a blameless man in order to silence him. But he doubted it.
Gideon was grateful for the small things, that the rain and ice held off, and the wind worked with him. It shoved at his back and urged him onward despite heavy boots and hot, labored breathing. There was nowhere to go but forward.
Slowly, cautiously, a horse-drawn carriage rumbled close to the ditch at the road’s shoulder. So close Gideon could almost make out the furtive driver—and, indeed, that’d been the point.
“Nelson!” Gideon barked as he flung himself through the trees.
Wellers grabbed his hand and yanked him up over the step and into the back. Gideon dropped down low and soon felt the weight of a canvas sheet down over his head. Wellers didn’t say a word, and Gideon didn’t ask any questions.
Within another five minutes they’d reached their destination, and by then, he’d almost caught his breath.
Mary was out on the front lawn, her dress billowing ominously in the whipping, driving wind. She held an electric lantern, its false white light beaming wildly as it swung in her hand, tossed about like everything else that wasn’t nailed down. Polly stood beside her, another light in her own hand, equally out of control. Together, they flagged down Wellers.
He drew the cart up in a stop that left skid marks in the gravel. Polly grabbed the horses and said, “I’ll take them, ma’am—you take the doctor!”
“Come back inside as soon as you’re able,” Mary commanded, yelling at Polly over the wind. Then, to Wellers: “Doctor, have you heard? Where is he? Is he all right? Did they take him?”
“I’ve heard,” was all he replied.
Gideon threw off the canvas covering and rolled over the cart’s side, nearly spraining an ankle on the landing. He shouldn’t have tried it—it was too high—but he was so tired from running that it was the only dismount he could manage. He leaned forward and put his hands on his knees, then straightened up and said, “They’ve accused me of murder.”
“My, yes—they certainly have! Please, hurry inside! Before they come back!”
“I can’t hide forever,” he told Mary, even as he let her guide him inside, luring him forward with the unspoken promise of a fire and a friendly ear, of someone he could trust while the world burned down.
“No, and you won’t have to.”
“Where’s Lincoln?”
“Inside, waiting for you. I’ll … I’ll make tea,” she said as she shut the door behind all three of them. Gideon was quite sure that no one wanted tea, but it was the most normal, civilized thing she could think of, and these were uncivilized times.
“In the library?” Wellers asked, before she disappeared around a corner. She nodded without looking back.
“The coppers said two people had been killed,” the doctor told Gideon as they paced swiftly down the hall. “An elderly colored couple. They worked in the White House. That’s all I know.” They rounded the corner and joined Abraham Lincoln in a library that was almost too toasty.
“Not just two,” the old man said, overhearing. “Three.”
“Three?” Gideon exclaimed. He untangled his scarf and let it hang limply around his neck.
“Indeed. A very kind old couple in Grant’s employ, and a housekeeping girl.”
“My God, I’ve been busy. How did I do it?”
“An ax in one case, and an excess of bullets in the other. My sources say that the girl had performed a bit of casual treason at the president’s request—and at Katharine Haymes’s peril.”
“You drew that conclusion rather quickly,” Wellers noted, settling onto the edge of a chair and leaning forward to warm his hands at the fire.
“I’m not an idiot,” Lincoln said wryly. Then, to Gideon: “All this happened while you were out with Nelson, naturally enough. Or perhaps you’re some kind of witch and you performed the first round of killings immediately before you brought the paper back from Smithy’s.”
“A witch?” Gideon chose not to sit. He was wound up too tightly, a watch that’s been cranked but not set. Tired as he was, he could scarcely lean, much less be seated. “I’ve been accused of worse.”
“Don’t say that; there’s far worse to come. The young woman was assaulted. Reports suggest she was ravished, though even if she wasn’t, you can bet that’s what they’ll say.”
A prickling sensation scaled the back of his neck. “A white girl?” he guessed.
“If she weren’t, they might not care.”
A quiet moment fell between them, filled only by the crackling sizzle from the fireplace logs and the hollow, whistling gale howling down the bricks and against the windows. Finally, Lincoln spoke. “It’ll be in the papers. If not tomorrow, then the next day. How optimistic do we feel this evening, gentlemen?”
“Marginally,” Wellers confessed.
“Less than that.” Gideon sighed. “It’s the same story over and over, like some nightmare I never awaken from. I begin underground and fight until I rise, only to find myself underground again. Slave quarters to university. A basement to the … the illustrious Lincoln estate. And tonight, out from the basement again, but headed to prison—or, more likely, for a tree or a bullet.”
Lincoln replied, “Let’s not forget: you’re here, you’re alive, and you’re not in prison yet. There’s room for improvement, but the situation could be considerably more dire.”
“So what should we do?” Wellers asked, staring into the fire.
Gideon spoke firmly. “We keep the story out of the papers.”