“I’m leaving,” said Grenier.
Rook had not heard her return. He crushed the newspaper again and dropped it into the box.
“So it would seem.”
“I can’t stay in Washington any longer. Not after what has happened.”
“Before you go anywhere, you have quite a bit of explaining to do.”
“It seems that there’s been a terrible misunderstanding,” she said. “This may begin to clear things up.” She held out a piece of paper.
Rook accepted it and realized that he was looking at a letter for the second time: it was the note, dated April 19, that Bennett had sent to Grenier. Springfield had intercepted it, shown it to Rook, and then let it go through to her. Only this time, it included a secret message between the lines of what had seemed an innocent missive:
I assume you have met Mazorca by now. Warn him to halt his mission immediately. His existence has been discovered. Future missions like his will be jeopardized if he fails. He must stop at once.
“Do you know Langston Bennett?” asked Grenier.
“I’ve heard of him.”
“He writes to me on occasion. He wrote this letter, including the words between the lines in a special ink that reveals itself only when it’s heated.”
“Why the secrecy?”
“Because it turns out that Langston has something awful to hide. He has consorted with the worst kind of person imaginable. Mazorca is a trained killer, and somehow I’ve gotten mixed up with him.” Tears welled in her eyes. “You must help me,” she said. She took a step toward the colonel.
Rook suddenly understood how a man could fall for her charms. Her imploring expression, the way she projected vulnerability-it summoned a masculine instinct to protect and defend. Rook had to remind himself that he was dealing with a manipulative seductress.
“First, you must help me,” said Rook. “I want to know where Mazorca is right now.”
“Have you been to the boardinghouse on H Street, where he goes by the name of Mr. Mays?”
“He’s not there.”
This did not seem to surprise her. She smiled confidently. “Then perhaps you can find him on N Street, at the former residence of Robert Fowler.”
“He’s not there either.”
“You’ve been to 1745 N Street?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know to look there?”
“It doesn’t matter. How did you know he might be found there?”
“Because I told him the house was abandoned and that he might seek refuge in it. This was before I discovered his true intentions. I’ve been worried sick ever since I learned that he wants to kill the president.”
“I wasn’t led to believe that you were an admirer of Mr. Lincoln’s.”
“I’m not-horrors, no. But that doesn’t mean I want him shot dead.” A look of exasperation crossed her face. “No lady in my position would associate herself with the schemes of ruffians.”
The tears came again, but Rook ignored them. “It sounds like you know about all of his hideaways,” he said. “Where else could Mazorca be?”
“He must have left Washington.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he knows that he’s been exposed. You’ve been to his safe houses. You’ve been handing out pictures of him all over the city. And look at this letter I just gave you-Bennett is actually telling him to stop his mission.”
“Actually, in the letter he tells you to stop Mazorca. You didn’t try to do that, did you Mrs. Grenier?” Rook did not wait for a response. Instead, he reached into his pocket and removed the envelope he had found on the floor of Mazorca’s room at the boardinghouse. He took out the note, unfolded it, and read: “I have reason to believe Rook is watching me. You may be in danger as well. Proceed with extreme caution.” Rook returned the note to his pocket. “Here’s what I think: you plotted with Bennett to hire Mazorca to murder the president, Bennett learned that Mazorca was compromised and asked you to call him off, and you told Mazorca to go ahead with the assassination anyway.”
When she did not answer right away, Rook knew that she was having trouble making sense of her own plots. That was a difficulty for liars-the more lies they told, the harder it was to keep track of their deceptions.
“I’m frightened of him, Colonel,” she pleaded.
“According to what I’ve heard, you weren’t too frightened of him when he came to visit you. Nor were you too frightened to write him after receiving the secret message from Bennett.”
“You must believe me. Only recently have I learned the terrible truth about him. I didn’t know where to turn for protection.”
Rook sensed her growing desperation. “How about your friend, Colonel Locke?” he asked. “Or didn’t he drop by when you expected him?”
“Has something happened to Sam?”
“Nothing that he didn’t do to himself.”
“May I see him?”
“No.”
“Then you must help me, Colonel.” She stepped closer.
“What must I do to make you believe me?” She touched him on the chest.
He pushed her arm away. “You must tell the truth. Unfortunately, you don’t appear ready to do that. So I’m going to take you to a place that should make it much easier.”
Grenier looked at him crossly. For the first time since laying eyes on her, Rook knew that she was not trying to charm him. “I suppose you mean the basement of the Treasury,” she hissed.
Rook laughed. “No, Mrs. Grenier. You’ll be staying at the Old Capitol Building-an actual prison.”
Portia clutched the train ticket and studied the line of passenger cars that would take her north.
“Your next ride should be more comfortable than the last one,” said Springfield. “Unless you want to hop inside of this.” With the toe of his boot, he gently tapped a bag resting on the platform.
Portia smiled at him. “You’ve all been very good to me,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”
Since her midnight arrival at the White House and the meeting in the Winder Building a few hours later, Portia had stayed out of sight. She was still a fugitive slave-the private property of another person. Under the law, the government had an obligation to return her. It did not matter that she had fled from a regime of cruelty. It did not matter that her owner wanted to murder the president. It did not matter that her enormous personal sacrifice helped to turn the tables against a murderous conspiracy. She was still a fugitive.
The official policy of the Lincoln administration was to respect fugitive-slave laws. During the secession crisis, it wanted to do nothing to antagonize the slaveholding states, especially the handful that remained loyal to the Union. The act of letting Portia go, if it were to become public knowledge, would not sit well.
The solution was not to let it become public knowledge. “Make sure nothing bad happens to her,” Lincoln had said to Rook. The colonel quietly issued orders to a few soldiers whom he knew to be abolitionists. Portia went to a private home where she ate, washed, and rested. Her caretakers prepared a bag of clothes and other necessities, obtained documents that would testify to her status as a free black, and purchased a train ticket to Buffalo. Once there, she would cross into Canada and join a community of escaped slaves who lived beyond the reach of fugitive laws and bounty hunters.
It fell upon Springfield to take Portia to the rail station in Washington. He was also the one to tell her that her grandfather probably was dead-information he had gleaned from the intercepted letter Bennett had sent to Grenier.
“When I went runnin’ from the plantation, I knew that I might not see my family again,” she said. “Then I watched Joe die. Now I’ll have nightmares about what Bennett did to my grandfather. I’ll get over the pain of gettin’ to Washington ’cause that’s just my body hurtin’. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over the other parts.”
“You’re a hero, Portia.”
“There are a lotta heroes, Sergeant, and some gave up more than me. Make sure it ain’t in vain.”