The Lincoln Myth(125)

“I love you, Josepe.”

Cassiopeia’s words sliced his heart.

Was it true, or simply designed to stand Salazar down?

“You’re not worthy of love,” Salazar bellowed back. “You are not to be believed.”

“Please.”

Tears streamed down her face.

“Please, Josepe.”

The Spaniard’s attention was totally on her. Stephanie remained on her knees, back straight, head high, watching. The gun was leveled at Cassiopeia’s chest. Malone resented the hell out of being placed in this position. Stephanie had come to end the problem.

But the task had fallen to him.

“Two,” he breathed.



SALAZAR STEELED HIMSELF.

“If the gentiles wish to see a few tricks,” the angel said, “we can perform them. They call you a devil. That is not an insult. We Saints have the meanest devils on the earth in our midst. We cannot attain our endowment without those devils being present. We cannot make progress, nor prosper in the kingdom of God, without them. We have always had a need among us for those who steal our fence poles, or the hay from a neighbor’s stack, or the corn from afield. These men have always served a need. As you do.”

He resented being called a devil, but understood what the vision was saying. Tough jobs had always required tough men. He watched as Cassiopeia’s tears increased. He’d never seen her cry before, and the sight was disconcerting.

And those words.

I love you.

They gave him pause.

“Heavenly Father will have mercy on all of their souls.”

That he liked.

“We shall possess the earth because it belongs to Jesus Christ, and he belongs to us, and we to him. We are all one and we will take the kingdom and possess it, under the whole heavens and reign over it forever and ever. All ye kings and emperors and presidents help yourselves, if you can.”

“That is true,” he said to the vision.

“Nations will bow to our kingdom and all hell cannot stop it. Do your duty. Do it now.”



“THREE.”

Malone swung the gun around as Luke dropped to the ground.

He aimed the weapon.

Salazar reacted, shifting left.

“No,” Cassiopeia screamed.

“Drop the gun,” Malone yelled. “Don’t make me do it.”

Salazar’s arm never stopped, the black dot of the barrel homing in on him.

No choice.

Malone fired.

The round found Salazar’s chest, staggering him backward. Salazar regained his balance and never hesitated, again re-aiming his weapon.

Malone fired a second time.

To the head.

The bullet entered through a neat crimson hole, then exploded out the back, blood and brains splattering on the rocks.



SALAZAR LOOKED FOR THE ANGEL. BUT THE VISION WAS GONE.

He still held the gun, but no muscle in his body seemed to work. He lingered for a moment, his muscles shutting down, yet he was still aware of the surroundings.

Blackness enveloped.

The world blinked in and out.

The last thing he saw was Cassiopeia’s face.

And his last thought was a wish that things had been different between them.



CASSIOPEIA RUSHED TO JOSEPE AS HE DROPPED TO THE HARD earth. No question he was dead. Cotton had shot him twice, once in the chest, once in the head. Just like she knew would happen.

Stephanie stood.

Contempt filled Cassiopeia’s eyes and she glared at Cotton. “Are you satisfied now?”

“I gave him a chance to stop.”

“Not much of one.”

“He would have shot you.”

“No, he wouldn’t. You both should have let me handle this.”

“That was impossible,” Stephanie said.

“You’re murderers.”

“No, we’re not,” Stephanie said, her voice rising.

“You tell yourself that. Make yourself feel better. But you’re not a damn bit different than he was.”





SEVENTY





WASHINGTON, D.C.

MONDAY, OCTOBER 13

4:50 A.M.


STEPHANIE FOLLOWED DANNY DANIELS AS THEY CLIMBED THE steps inside the Washington Monument. The president had walked from the White House in the predawn chill. She’d been waiting for him outside the lower entrance. He’d called her yesterday, on the flight back from Utah, and told her to be here.

She and Luke had returned alone. Cotton had taken another flight overseas to Copenhagen. Cassiopeia had stayed, intent on returning Salazar’s body to Spain. At Falta Nada the air had been tense afterward, Cassiopeia refusing to speak to any of them. Malone had tried to approach her, but she’d rebuked him. Wisely, he opted to leave her alone. Cassiopeia had been partly right. They were murderers. Only with a free pass to stay out of jail. She’d always wondered why it was right to kill in her business. All that greater good crap, she supposed. But killing was killing, no matter where, how, or why.