Mazorca laughed. “I’m not a preacher, and I’m not going to preach. It’s the furthest thing from my mind, really. I was just hoping you could identify this book.” He continued to hold it up, a few feet away from the old man.
“Well, it sure looks like the Holy Bible.”
“Yes, it does look like a Bible,” said Mazorca in a patronizing voice that a teacher might use to encourage a slow student. He now began rotating the book in his hands, so that the old man could view it from several angles. “But are you certain it’s a Holy Bible?”
“Is this some kind of trick?”
“I prefer to think of it as a challenge.”
“Mister, I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but I’m in no mood for this.”
“Very sorry!” said Mazorca, laughing again. “I see that I’m trying your patience. Let me make this simple. Please permit me to ask a direct question: you think this looks like a Holy Bible, such as a preacher might carry around?”
“Yes,” said the old man, warily.
“Excellent. That’s all I wanted to know. Thank you very much.”
Rather than turning to leave, Mazorca now just stood in front of the doorway and stared at the old man. He held the book by the spine, in his left hand. No part of him moved, except for the thumb and index finger of his right hand, which gently massaged the red ribbon hanging from the book. His friendly look had vanished from his face.
“What is the meaning of this?” asked the old man.
“The exam is over,” said Mazorca, taking a step forward so that he was an arm’s length away from the doorway.
“Excuse me?”
“The book passed. You failed.” Mazorca yanked on the yellow ribbon. Inside the book, something clicked. Then Mazorca pulled the red one. The book banged. The old man crashed backward through the doorway, clutching his neck. He was dead before he hit the floor.
Still standing outside, Mazorca examined the top of the book. A wisp of smoke rose from a small puncture that was newly visible in the pages between the two covers. He chuckled to himself. “It was a Holy Bible, and now it’s a Bible with a hole in it.”
He tucked the book under his arm and sniffed the air. The smell of the gunshot was strong, but not enough to mask the aroma coming from inside the house. Mazorca moved through the doorway, stepping over the corpse that lay on its back in a widening pool of blood. A pot of soup boiled on a stove in the fireplace. It was time for dinner.
In the White House, Rook watched John Hay descend a staircase. He was glad to see that Lincoln’s personal secretary still wore a bow tie. It indicated that the young man had not yet gone to bed, even though it was approaching midnight. He had not seen Hay for several weeks and was not entirely sure how he would be received at this odd hour. Given the events of the afternoon, he did not know where else to turn.
“Good evening, Colonel,” said Hay before he had even reached the bottom step. “This is a pleasant surprise.” He sounded like he actually meant it. The two men shook hands.
“I’m sorry to bother you, especially so late.”
“No trouble at all,” said Hay. “I was helping the president with correspondence until just a little bit ago.”
“Has the president retired?” asked Rook. A part of him was relieved to learn that Lincoln had made it through another day without encountering a mysterious rifleman.
“About half an hour ago, and not a minute too soon,” said Hay. “The man needs rest-he has spent too much time convinced that a secessionist army is about to plunder our city. If he slept more, he might worry less.”
Hay described how the president’s day had been full of routine business-writing letters to public officials, listening to job seekers beg for federal appointments-and how his mind kept drifting off to the subject of the Seventh Regiment. Where was the army that was supposed to defend the capital? With the telegraphs to Maryland severed, nobody knew. Washington remained cut off from news except from the South. At a meeting with troops who had arrived in advance of the missing soldiers, Lincoln was downright gloomy. “I don’t believe there is any North. The Seventh Regiment is a myth,” he had said. “You are the only Northern realities.” Hay added that he was glad there had been no cabinet meeting that afternoon, because the president clearly needed a break.
“I hope he gets a long night of sound sleep,” said Hay. “He could use it.”
“It sounds as though the only real cure will be for the Seventh Regiment to arrive,” said Rook.
“That’s probably true. But I’ve rambled on for too long. You came to see me. What can I do for you?”
Before Rook could respond, the two men heard a loud commotion down the hall in the direction of the front door. Half a dozen members of the Frontier Guard burst in. Two of them held a black boy by the arms. The captive struggled to break free from their grasp. The other guardsmen gripped pistols and rifles. All of them hollered curses and threats, but Rook could not make out what anyone was saying. At the other end of the hall, several of their comrades emerged from the East Room, brandishing their own weapons. The ruckus sounded like a gigantic barroom brawl.
Rook sprinted down the hall, hoping he could quiet the little mob before somebody actually pulled a trigger inside the White House. “Stop!” he yelled, trying to raise his voice above all the others. The Frontier Guards were rowdy mavericks, but they also recognized the authority of Rook’s blue uniform and fell silent as the colonel reached them. Their captive, however, continued to thrash around and scream, “Lemme go! Get your hands off me!”
The voice did not belong to a boy, but a small woman. With a violent kick, she planted her foot in the groin of one captor. He bent over in pain and released his hold on the woman. Three more guards jumped to replace him. Each grabbed a limb, and a moment later the woman was suspended above the ground, looking as if she were about to be drawn and quartered. Even in this state of helplessness, she still squirmed and howled.
“Set her down!” roared Rook, pushing his way to the woman. “And you,” he said, pointing his finger in her face, “shut your mouth!”
His aggressive behavior had the desired effect. The guards released the woman’s legs. She stood up straight between a pair of large men who continued to clutch her arms. All eyes turned to the colonel.
Rook’s own gaze settled on one of the guards who seemed older than the others. “Tell me what’s going on here.”
The man said that he and several guardsmen had spent the day patrolling along the river, looking across the water for signs of military activity on the Virginia side. They quit at the end of the day but went downtown for dinner instead of returning to the White House. Rook could smell alcohol on the man’s breath and figured the group must have spent several hours drinking. That probably would account for their boisterousness. He let the man continue his story.
“When we came back here, Tommy”-he nodded his head in the direction of a young man who was having some difficulty standing at attention-“went to one of the bushes by the gate.” The man now paused to reflect upon whether a late-night visit to the bushes needed further explanation. He decided it did not. “When Tommy got there, he found this woman hiding behind them. She tried to run, but Tommy tackled her before she could get away. The rest of us apprehended her, sir, because suspicious activity on the grounds of the White House cannot be tolerated.” Proud to have made this report, the guard arched his back and puffed out his chest. He tried to suppress a hiccup and failed.
Rook turned to the woman. She was slim and not much more than five feet tall. She certainly seemed to have a lot of energy, but she did not appear to pose a threat to anybody.
“Who are you?” asked Rook.
“My name is Portia.”
“Were you on the grounds of the White House?”
“Yeah.”