“Cry, Josepe. Cry for all who have died for our cause, myself included.”
He looked up at the apparition.
Smith had been thirty-eight years old that day in June 1844, jailed in Illinois on trumped-up charges. A mob had attacked, and Joseph and his brother Hyrum were shot dead.
“I went like a lamb to the slaughter, but I was calm as a summer’s morning. My conscience was void of offense toward God and toward all men. They took my life, but I died an innocent man. It has forever since been said of me that I was murdered in cold blood.”
That it had, and it was true.
But the eyes that stared down at him were, for the first time, full of power.
“My blood cries from the ground for vengeance.”
He knew exactly what to say.
“And you shall have it.”
FORTY
ORANGE COUNTY, VIRGINIA
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 10
1:00 A.M.
LUKE WAS BACK AT MONTPELIER. HIS DINNER WITH KATIE HAD lasted three hours. She’d taken him to a cozy roadside diner north of town where they’d drunk beer and nibbled on some not-half-bad fried chicken. She was a doll baby and he wished he had the time to spend the night. She seemed to like military guys. They’d taken separate cars to the diner, so she’d driven herself home while he headed back to the estate, her phone number and email address tucked in his pocket.
Three more hours he’d sat in his Mustang, parked among the trees off the road behind the main house. The temple stood a few hundred yards away. Not a light burned anywhere, save for a smattering on the exterior of the mansion, which he could see in the distance through the trees. No patrols or security people of any kind had appeared. All was quiet.
At his apartment he’d studied pictures of the temple, and his on-site inspection earlier had only confirmed his thoughts. He’d brought with him a fifty-foot coil of thick hemp rope, a flashlight, some gloves, and a crowbar. Everything an enterprising burglar might need.
He stepped from the car and retrieved his tools, quietly closing the trunk.
The walk through the woods took ten minutes, the sky clouded over and devoid of a moon or stars. The dark outline of the temple came into view and he strolled up the knoll, dry grass crunching beneath his feet, and stepped up onto the concrete pad. Not much noise in these woods—unlike home where crickets and frogs sang through the night. Sometimes he missed home. After his father’s death things had never been the same. Enlisting had been the right call. He saw the world and grew up at the same time. Now he was a U.S. Justice Department agent. His mother had been proud when he told her of the career move, and so had his brothers. He had no college degree, no professional license, no patients, clients, or students.
But by damn he’d made something of himself.
He set the rope and light aside. With the crowbar he began to work the mortar surrounding the center hatch. It chipped away with minimal effort and he was quickly able to wedge the flat end of the iron into the joint. A few pushes and one edge lifted free. A little farther and he exposed an opening in the floor plenty wide for him to fit through.
He laid the square section of concrete down beside the entrance, then tied the rope to one of the columns. He tested the strength and was satisfied it could hold him. He tossed the rest of the rope into the opening.
One last look around.
Still quiet.
He extended his hand with the flashlight into the hatch and switched on its red-filtered light. Darkness dissolved below and he spotted brick walls and a brick floor thirty feet down. As he’d anticipated, the first ten feet would be all rope until the slack hinged inward and his feet found wall. Then he could ease himself down. The same would be true on the way back up. Thank God his upper body was in great shape The climb in and out should not be a problem.
He switched off the light and stuffed it inside his jean pocket. He slipped on leather gloves and down he went.
He marveled at what it would have taken to dig this pit two hundred years ago, all with only picks and shovels. Of course Madison had owned slaves—about a hundred according to Katie’s tour. So labor wasn’t a problem. Still, the effort to construct a hole this wide and deep was impressive.
His feet found the wall and he walked himself to the floor.
He glanced back up and imagined the scene from long ago. A lot of ice would have been stacked in here during winter. The lake he’d admired earlier beyond the house would have frozen over annually. Blocks would then be cut away by slaves, dragged to the pit, and packed with straw for insulation. So much ice that it kept itself frozen till the following winter, when the process was repeated all over again. He’d read on the Montpelier website earlier that ice cream was one of Madison’s favorite foods. His wife, Dolley, was even credited with popularizing the treat by serving it at her husband’s second inaugural ball.