The First Assassin

SEVENTEEN

FRIDAY, APRIL 26, 1861

When Mazorca opened his eyes, the dawn sky overhead was turning to a clear blue. The clouds from the previous night had disappeared almost completely, thanks to a cool breeze that must have pushed them away. It promised to be a very nice day-bright, brisk, and full of possibility.

Pain ripped through Mazorca’s body as he sat up. He had known it would happen: sleeping on a hard granite surface, without a pillow or a blanket, had guaranteed the aching result. It diminished as he stretched and yawned. He stood and looked down at the city from his bird’s-eye vantage point.

The night might have brought much worse than temporary discomfort. After leaving the crumpled body of the chaplain, Mazorca had walked swiftly along the canal, hiking up the collar of the coat and pulling down the brim of the hat-anything to hide his disfigured ear. There was no way he could remain in Murder Bay. It was probably dangerous to go anywhere in the city.

He briefly considered going back to the Fowler house but decided against it. They had found him at Tabard’s, and they might find him there. Unsure of his destination and driven by an overwhelming desire simply to get away, Mazorca had set off to the east.

At Seventh Street, the canal came within half a block of Pennsylvania Avenue. The lights from Brown’s Hotel and the National Hotel were exactly what Mazorca wanted to avoid. They were like those lighthouses Lincoln had described in their brief meeting-a warning for navigators to stay away. To his right, a small bridge crossed the canal. It led to the Mall and away from the buildings and people of downtown. Mazorca took it, and in a moment he found himself in a large open space of grass, shrubs, and pathways. In front of him loomed a structure that looked like a castle from the days of knights. This was the Smithsonian Institution, a red building that appeared out of its rightful place and time. One of its windows glowed. Someone was inside, poring over the museum’s collections. Was there one person or several? Mazorca watched the window for several minutes. But he never received an answer. Given all that had happened, he was in no mood to take a chance.

The Mall itself was empty. As he passed the Smithsonian and continued to the west, Mazorca wondered about curling up beneath a row of bushes. But this would make little sense-if he was going to sleep outside, he would be better off leaving the city entirely. Although the Mall was deserted at night, it might very easily attract people in the morning.

Ahead, the moonlight fell upon the pale masonry of the Washington Monument-a big block of stone that was supposed to rise upward in tribute to America’s first president. Mazorca knew from guidebooks that it was meant to reach a towering height of 555 feet, but work had halted several years earlier. The monument now stood at about 156 feet. To begin building such an edifice and not finish it struck Mazorca as worse than not having started it in the first place-its incompleteness seemed to dishonor the figure it hoped to glorify. Yet he began to wonder if it represented an opportunity.

The monument stood in the center of a spit of land that stretched into the Potomac River at the point where a small inlet channeled water into the city’s canal. It was one of Washington’s chief landmarks, but Mazorca had not given it much thought previously. He approached its base at the summit of a slight incline. When he arrived at the site, he walked around the four sides of its exterior, pulling his fingers along the cold stone. He confirmed that there was only one door, in the center of the eastern wall. He assumed it would be locked and was surprised to see it give way when he pulled on the handle.

The interior was dark. Mazorca’s eyes were already well adjusted to the night, but he waited for a few minutes as they strained to give him a slightly better view. Right in front of him, a set of stairs began their ascent. When he had a good fix on their location, he closed the door. Pitch-blackness enveloped him. He took a few tentative steps in the direction of the stairs, tapping gently with his shoe as he got closer. He found the first step and felt for the wall on his right. Touching it, he began a cautious climb.

It was slow going. He hit a landing and turned. Then he hit another landing and turned again. He kept his right hand on the wall and his left hand in front of him to protect his head from low-hanging objects. In the passageway, it was impossible to see anything.

Eventually, however, Mazorca detected a faint radiance. He first saw it as he turned on a landing. It grew brighter as he continued upward, though it was never more than dim. After hiking a bit further, he saw its source: the staircase was open to the sky.

Mazorca clambered onto the top of the monument. He was on a square plateau, its edges perhaps fifty feet in length. Several blocks of stone were scattered about its surface. At a point near the center, a pole rose. A flag hung from it, showing signs of life from a wind whose blowing Mazorca had not noticed on the ground. He remembered having seen the banner fly during the daytime. It appeared as though nobody checked on it with any regularity.

From two sides of the monument, Mazorca saw almost nothing except moonlight glistening on the waters of the Potomac. On the other two sides, he saw the lights of the city. Somewhere down there, people were searching for him. He was exhausted and needed to shut his eyes. He gathered a couple of empty canvas bags and rolled them into something that resembled a pillow. Then he curled himself on the roof of the monument and fell asleep almost immediately.

Hours later, the sun woke him as it peeked above the half-finished dome of the Capitol, about a mile to the east. Above him, the flag flapped in the breeze. When he stood up, Mazorca surveyed Washington from his unique vantage point. Near the base of the monument, pigs and cattle roamed freely. To the south and the west, he saw the Long Bridge spanning the Potomac, the docks of Georgetown, and the Naval Observatory. To the north sat the city, or most of it.

He watched several groups of soldiers make their way to the Capitol. Mazorca figured that these were members of the New York regiment, reporting for duty at their new lodgings. More than a few would be drowsy or hungover, having spent their first night in Washington pursuing revelry rather than rest. Mazorca had seen more than a few of them in Murder Bay. No matter how sleepy or miserable they felt, however, they were now the toast of the city. He envisioned people from all over Washington heading to the Capitol to greet them.

The monument offered an excellent view of the White House. Mazorca counted second-floor windows until he found the one that he had seen from the other side, in the president’s office, just a few days earlier. He wondered whether Lincoln was in there right now. He wished that he could just walk through the front door as he already had done and end his mission with a quick pull of the trigger. The impulse was powerful, but Mazorca resisted it. His mission called for patience and cunning, not haste and desperation. His general plan remained a sound one. He would just have to improvise the specifics.

Mazorca pulled the photograph from his coat pocket and examined it in the daylight. It remained what it had been the night before-good enough for purposes of recognition. He crushed it into a ball and tossed it off the side of the monument. When it disappeared from sight, he picked up his hat and coat and started down the steps. He carried his book in his left hand.

Every lead had gone cold, with a single exception. Standing in front of the house at 398 Sixteenth Street, Rook knew that he needed to confront Violet Grenier. The distribution of Mazorca’s photograph had not produced anything useful. A handful of people claimed to have seen him at various times and places, but none could say where he was now or where he might go. The only report of significance was Zack Hoadly’s, but it had merely permitted Rook to track Mazorca’s movement up to a certain point. And then the trail had vanished once again.

Overnight, the body of Charles Calthrop, the bookbinder, had turned up-a soldier found it floating in the canal, where it apparently had been dumped a few days earlier. The corpse was swollen and starting to rot, and it had been difficult to identify, but a city policeman recalled hearing that Calthrop had failed to make an expected delivery. They went to the bookbinder’s home and found the bloody scene.

There was no evidence that Mazorca had anything to do with it. Yet Rook had no doubt that he was the killer. It was the simplest explanation: the two men had been in recent contact, there had been some friction between them, and since then Mazorca had been revealed as an efficient and professional murderer. Rook was determined to stop him before he had a chance to strike at the president-and right now, his only hope lay with a woman who had quietly been his nemesis.

Grenier had been placed under an official, sanctioned watch ever since Rook presented Mazorca’s photograph to Scott. It was the kind of observation Rook had wanted for days: a team of men holding various positions on Sixteenth Street, in Lafayette Park, and in an alley behind the house. The only difference was that they now made no effort to conceal themselves. The operation was closer to a house arrest than surveillance.

“The lights were on until an hour or two before dawn,” said Corporal Clark, who had kept watch through the night from a bench in Lafayette Park. “She was definitely up and about-I kept seeing movement near the windows. She’s still inside right now.”

“Is she awake?” asked Rook.

“Hard to say. The lights did go out before sunrise-maybe three or four hours ago.”

“I’d like you to come to the door with me.” Rook looked at Clark’s belt, where the corporal had a pistol holstered. “Is that loaded?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I don’t know what to expect.”

Rook checked the chamber of his own pistol. It was loaded too.

At the front door, Rook grasped a metal knocker and banged it hard. He wondered what kind of reception he would receive. Would Grenier’s servant answer and say her mistress was ill and could not see anybody? Or would Grenier receive him with a chilly formality? Rook even thought about the possibility of forcing his way through the door. It was thick and would not easily budge. Perhaps with Clark’s assistance, however, he could get it open.

He reached to try the knocker a second time when he heard movement on the other side. A deadbolt unfastened and the door swung open.

Violet Grenier peered out. She wore a bright red robe and smiled warmly.

“Oh, Colonel,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Outside the president’s office, John Hay scribbled furiously at his desk. He wanted to finish a short letter to one of his former professors at Brown before the next interruption, which was bound to arrive at any moment. Suddenly, he sensed that he was not alone. He stopped writing and turned his head. The tall figure of Abraham Lincoln loomed over him.

“Pardon my snooping, Mr. Hay.”

“No worries, sir.”

Lincoln was supposed to be reading his own mail-Hay had put a stack of letters on his desk earlier in the morning. Perhaps the president was just stretching his long legs.

“I’m restless in here-if I don’t get out soon, the whole day will slip by, and I will have missed it.”

“Sir?”

“I’m going to take a walk, Mr. Hay. You may join me if you like.”

“Do you think that’s wise?” Hay opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a picture of Mazorca. He held it up.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“No, I haven’t forgotten. I’m just not going to let anybody keep me caged in this house. It is good for the people to see their president.”

“You’re taking a risk. Aren’t you concerned about what this man wants to do?”

“If I am killed, I can die but once-but to live in constant dread of death is to die over and over again.”

Lincoln chuckled and then continued. “Besides, there probably isn’t a safer place in Washington than where I would like to go.”

“Please come in,” said Grenier. She gestured for Rook to enter the house.

The colonel turned around and looked at Clark. “Stay here, on the porch,” he said. Then he went through the door. Grenier closed it behind him.

“Take a seat, Charles,” said Grenier as they entered the parlor. “May I call you that?”

Rook was struck by her beauty. He told himself to resist it. “I’ll stand, thank you. And let’s keep things formal, Mrs. Grenier.”

“As you wish. I’m just glad you’re here. You don’t know how worried I’ve been.”

“That’s odd, because you’ve been the source of many worries, Mrs. Grenier.”

“Then it will be such a relief for you to know the truth, because we are past the very worst,” she said. “I must retrieve something. Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Grenier left the room. Rook heard her climb the stairs. He considered stopping her, thinking that perhaps it was not wise to let her out of his sight. Yet she had not been in his sight until just now, and the house was surrounded by Clark and the other soldiers. She could not get away.

He took the opportunity to examine the room. He had seen Grenier’s home from the outside many times, and he had always wondered what the interior looked like. He imagined Locke sitting here, telling Grenier about conversations with General Scott and meetings with the senior military staff. He thought of Davis and Stephens coming by to discuss plans for sabotaging the Capitol. He knew Mazorca had been here as well.

The bust of Stephen Douglas caught his eye. It sat on a table beside one of the parlor’s red walls. Rook had not given Douglas much thought since seeing him at the inauguration. In a corner near the table, Rook noticed two boxes sitting on the floor. They were open on top, with wads of crumpled newspaper stuffed inside. A vase peeked through one of them. It appeared as though Grenier was packing. Rook reached into a box and pulled out a ball of newspaper. He smoothed it, revealing the front page of Wednesday’s edition of the National Intelligencer.

“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.”

They stood in silence for a few minutes. When the conductor ordered passengers aboard, Springfield helped her with the bag and said good-bye. From the platform, he watched the train chug forward. Portia was on her way.

As the caboose left the station, Springfield turned and gazed at the Capitol. Plans called for a female figure-a statue of freedom-eventually to crown its dome. As he walked toward Massachusetts Avenue, Springfield said a quick prayer. He asked that by the time the statue was completed, all of Portia’s people would have their liberty.

Just then, from near the Capitol, Springfield heard a loud commotion. Was it shouting? He took off in a sprint.

“And that’s why we’re going to leave the top off the dome of the Capitol,” said Lincoln, with a big grin on his face. “You men must have proper ventilation!”

The federal soldiers erupted in laughter, cheers, and applause. Rook, Clark, and Grenier stood to the side. The colonel did not like seeing the president in the open, but he could not deny that Lincoln was in fine form. He talked to the troops with an easy camaraderie, demonstrating the political skills that had taken him to the White House.

When the men stationed in the Capitol had heard that Lincoln was coming for an impromptu visit, they streamed out of their temporary homes in the offices and committee rooms of senators and representatives. They assembled on the east side of the building, eager to greet their commander-in-chief. The new arrivals from New York were there, many of them bleary-eyed from a lack of sleep. The soldiers who had come to Washington before them joined in as well.

“Consider yourselves lucky,” said Lincoln when the clamor died down. “Most people have to win an election to take a seat in the House!”

The men howled with delight again.

Grenier scowled. “Can we go now?” she asked. The question sounded like a demand.

Her destination, the new prison in the Old Capitol, was visible across the lawn and on the other side of First Street. Rook had thought about ordering transportation for her, but in the end he decided that they would walk. She did not seem to pose any kind of danger-not with Clark accompanying them on the march down Pennsylvania Avenue.

When they had rounded the Capitol and headed for the prison, they saw hundreds of blue-coated soldiers moving into formation on the eastern front of the building. At first, Rook assumed that they were going to drill. But then a carriage arrived. When it halted, John Hay stepped out, followed by Lincoln. The soldiers cheered him-the heavy majority appeared to be firm Lincoln men. A group of civilians began to gather nearby as well.

With any luck, thought Rook, the threat of Mazorca had passed, just as Grenier had claimed. Nobody had seen him since the day before. He was clearly on the run, with his boardinghouse and refuge raided, his picture distributed, and everyone seemingly on the lookout. Perhaps he had slipped away in the middle of the night. Mazorca could be far from Washington-either gone forever, or possibly biding his time in some local haunt until he believed the city had let down its guard again.

“I cannot listen to this obnoxious man any longer,” snapped Grenier. She turned her back to Lincoln.

“Then don’t listen,” said Rook. “But we aren’t going anywhere for a few minutes.”

The colonel caught the attention of Hay, standing with the president about a hundred feet away. Lincoln’s secretary knew what Rook was thinking. He shrugged his shoulders and threw up his hands, palms open wide, to indicate helplessness.

Just then, Springfield appeared. He was almost out of breath.

“I heard this hubbub from the train station-thought it was worth investigating,” said the sergeant.

“Did you ship the package?” asked Rook.

“Yes. The train left a few minutes ago.”

“Good. Stay here with our friend,” he said, tipping his head toward Grenier. “I want to mingle a bit.”

The crowd was growing larger. Rook estimated that a thousand people gathered in Lincoln’s vicinity, and more kept arriving from the homes and stores nearby. A group of soldiers-a band carrying musical instruments-organized themselves near the steps. Rook walked toward them and climbed up for a better view.

Below, on the lawn, an officer from New York approached Lincoln. They exchanged a few words, and the president nodded.

“I’ve been asked to swear you in,” said Lincoln, speaking as loudly as he could manage. “Would you like that?”

The soldiers burst out in approval. In New York, they had been sworn in for thirty days of service. But that was not long enough. Rook knew that one of their first orders of business in Washington was to swear in for ninety days.

“Before I do, allow me a few words,” said Lincoln. Shushes and calls for quiet rippled through the crowd. Suddenly the racket in front of the Capitol dropped to almost total silence. “I have desired as sincerely as any man that our present difficulties might be settled without the shedding of blood,” said Lincoln. “I will not say that all hope is yet gone, but if the alternative is presented whether the Union is to be broken into fragments and the liberties of the people lost or blood be shed, then I know you will stand for Union.”

The throng roared its approval. The leaders of the Seventh Regiment broke their men into companies. Taking direction from Lincoln, they raised their right hands and swore in the name of God to be good soldiers. When it was done, they cheered again and congratulated each other. The band broke into “Hail Columbia,” and many of the men sang the words. Their voices swelled when they hit the chorus:

Firm, united let us be,

Rallying round our liberty,

As a band of brothers joined,

Peace and safety we shall find.

As Rook hummed the tune, he watched the commander of the Seventh Regiment of New York lead Lincoln toward the Capitol. Apparently they were going to walk its halls. Their progress was slow, as soldiers and civilians approached Lincoln to shake his hand. The officer tried to fend them off, but Lincoln kept obliging. The president seemed utterly at ease. Rook noticed that rather than clenching hands, Lincoln kept grasping men at their fingers. The colonel realized that it was probably the only thing the president could do to prevent his hand from becoming sore from all of the squeezing.

Within a few minutes, Lincoln was near the steps, close to Rook as well as close to the spot from which he had delivered his inaugural address. A crowd continued to swirl around him. From the side, Rook noticed a man of the cloth advance toward the president. He was probably the pastor from one of the churches on Capitol Hill.

His presence reminded Rook of Lincoln’s words on March 4. Toward the end of his speech, the president had commented that both Northerners and Southerners believed that they had justice on their side. If that was true, he said, then both should have the patience in “the Almighty Ruler of nations” to let justice prevail. Yet Lincoln was also resolute: “You have no oath registered in Heaven to destroy the government, while I shall have the most solemn one to ‘preserve, protect, and defend’ it.”

Rook recalled the pledge he had made to himself on that day: he had vowed to protect and defend Lincoln, even with his own life.

When the pastor’s head swiveled briefly in Rook’s direction, a flicker of recognition gripped the colonel. He wore a hat, so Rook could not see the ear. Was it the shape of the chin? A look in the eyes? The pastor turned away before Rook could be sure of anything. Yet something told him to make good on his promise right now.

Mazorca adjusted the brim of his hat another time. It already flopped down well enough to hide his ear, but he wanted to be sure. Staring over his spectacles, which he had let slip to the end of his nose so that they would disguise his face but not distort his vision, Mazorca saw Lincoln standing just fifteen feet away. The president was pumping hands and listening to a soldier say how proud he was to have cast his first presidential vote for him.

When the band struck up “Yankee Doodle,” Mazorca realized that he had found his moment. He might not get this close again. One shot. He knew he could get away. The noise and the crowd would create the confusion he needed. And nobody would suspect a preacher who clutched a Bible.

He had thought seriously about giving up. After descending the Washington Monument early in the morning, he walked to the edge of the Potomac River. Unsure about what to do, he headed east, toward the Capitol. He passed a few people who took no particular heed of him. With his hat pulled down tight, his collar up, his spectacles on, his cheeks covered in stubble, and his eyes cast to the ground, he avoided suspicion. The Bible-or a book that appeared on the outside to be a Bible-was a fortunate coincidence because it matched his outfit. Mazorca did not like to rely upon luck, but in this case he welcomed it.

Luck seemed to strike again as he went by the Capitol. Soldiers were gathering by the hundreds. He did not want to go anywhere near them, but he stopped to watch. A few minutes later, a carriage pulled up. A tall man in a black stovepipe hat got out. Mazorca did not believe in fate, but Lincoln’s sudden appearance gave him pause. Rather than conceding defeat, he decided to claim victory.

He listened to Lincoln’s jokes, his brief remarks, and his swearing-in of the soldiers. It was impossible to get close enough. He needed to arrive at almost point-blank range, and ideally when the crowd was starting to break up. If all eyes were locked on Lincoln, there was no way Mazorca could succeed.

Then it happened. The soldiers fell out of rank, the band struck up a tune, and a mass of people swarmed the president. Most were soldiers, but not all-and Mazorca plunged in behind a few civilians. He noticed that Lincoln was heading toward the Capitol. He worked through the crowd to get in position for the president to walk right past him.

When Lincoln was a dozen feet away, Mazorca fixed his hat a final time. He reached for his book’s yellow ribbon and jerked it. The music muffled the click of the gun’s cocking. When Lincoln was ten feet away, Mazorca grabbed the red ribbon and held it taut. With the book at waist level, he slanted it slightly upward so that its bullet would rip into Lincoln’s chest. A soldier stood in front of him, blocking his shot. When Lincoln was five feet away, the soldier reached out to shake the president’s hand.

“Sir,” shouted the soldier, “I believe that God Almighty and Abraham Lincoln are going to save this country!”

Mazorca took half a step to his right. He remained behind the soldier, but the book had an angle. He pulled hard on the ribbon. The gun went off.

Rook did not hear the shot-nobody did, amid the noise of the crowd and the music of the band-but he felt the bullet dig into his left arm. What he heard, instead, was laughter: Lincoln had made another one of his wisecracks, telling the soldier who was shaking his hand, “Private, I believe you’re half right!”

At first, Rook merely felt the bullet’s impact. Uncertain about the pastor’s actual identity, he had tried to force his body in front of the president. When he saw the man turn and move away swiftly, he knew it was Mazorca. He wanted to point and yell, but it was too late: the searing pain of his wound made him clench his teeth and double over. Lincoln kept walking and his pack of followers streamed by Rook. Nobody knew that a shot had been fired or that the colonel had been hit.

When Rook stood upright, he saw Mazorca darting toward a door beneath the Capitol steps. The assassin opened it, went in, and slammed it shut. Rook raced after him, stumbling at first and then gaining his stride. He finally yelled, “Get that man!”-but still nobody heard. He removed his pistol from his holster as he approached the door. Reaching to open it, he felt the pain tear through his left arm. Somehow, he pulled the door open. The sound of running footsteps echoed down a hallway.

Rook chased after them. He figured that he had at least one advantage over Mazorca: he knew his way around the Capitol, and Mazorca presumably did not. It was a large building, and Rook certainly did not know every twist and turn, but he had a general sense of its layout. He knew where its passageways led, where its staircases went, and where its exits were. From what he could tell, Mazorca had bolted through a foyer, turned right where it intersected with a long hall, and was running toward the Senate side of the building.

Rook hurried to the intersection and stopped. He could still hear Mazorca’s footsteps, but he did not want to present himself as a target. On the ground, a book lay open-except that it was not really a book. Its pages were hollowed out. The gun was inside, with ribbons attached for cocking and firing. A hole on the bottom edge of its carved-up pages made Rook realize that this was the gun that had shot him moments before. Mazorca must have discarded it as he ran.

The sound of the footsteps grew fainter. Rook knew he needed to keep moving. He peered around the corner, down the long hallway. Mazorca was not in view. About forty feet in front of him, resting on the ground, he saw the black hat that Mazorca had worn.

The pain in his arm intensified. Rook tried to massage the wound, but the gun in his hand made it impossible. He knew he had to keep moving. If he stayed where he was, he would lose Mazorca. Again.

He sprinted down the hall past a series of closed doors that led to committee rooms. He still heard footsteps ahead, reverberating off the walls. It sounded like they fell on steps.

Rook knew exactly where Mazorca was headed: those stairs led up to a wide hallway just outside the Senate cloakrooms. When the colonel arrived at the staircase, he trained his pistol on the steps, but Mazorca was nowhere in sight.

Climbing the steps slowly, Rook kept looking upward. His arm throbbed, and he could feel blood begin to soak the sleeve of his uniform. It was not gushing out the way it would from hitting a major artery, but the warm dampness was becoming apparent. He did all he could to block the sensation from his mind.

At the top of the steps, Rook gained a view of the area just outside the Senate cloakrooms-it was technically a hallway, but it was wide enough to feel like an actual room. The bedding of soldiers covered the floor. The men who slept here were outside.

Rook wondered if Mazorca had gone to the right, through one of the cloakrooms and into the Senate chamber itself. Then he heard a door shut down a hallway to his left. If it was Mazorca, it meant that he was in the large room where the Supreme Court met. It was sometimes called the Old Senate Room because senators had used it before moving into their more spacious chamber at the north end of the building.

As he ran toward the room, Rook wondered why Mazorca would have chosen the door. If he meant to escape, there were better choices. Then he understood: ahead, in the rotunda, came the sounds of soldiers filing back into the Capitol. The assassin apparently wanted to avoid them. A new thought troubled him: if Lincoln had walked up the steps on the outside of the building’s east front, however, he might very well be in the rotunda with them. Was it possible that Mazorca would have another chance to shoot the president?

The thick wooden doors outside the Old Senate Room were shut. Rook moved to open one of them. The door was heavy, and he might have leaned into it with his shoulder but for his injury. He turned the knob and forced it open with his foot.

Inside, he saw the majestic chamber-a semicircular room with a vaulted ceiling. Yet it was in a state of disarray, with desks and chairs shoved to one side to make room for soldiers who needed a place to sleep. Rook raised his pistol and stepped inside. The door swung shut behind him. He did not see Mazorca, but there was no shortage of places to hide.

Something glinted on the ground, catching his eye. Rook looked down. It was a pair of spectacles. His mind had registered nothing more than that when he sensed movement on his left. Mazorca emerged from behind a pillar and rushed toward him with a large knife in his hand. Instinctively, Rook tried to raise his left arm to block the attack, but the pain from his gunshot wound was so sharp that his knees buckled.

The move might have saved his life. Mazorca’s dive was too high. The slash of his knife missed Rook entirely. Off balance, he fell to the floor. Meanwhile, Rook hopped to his feet and pointed his pistol directly at Mazorca, who rolled from his side to his back. The knife was still in his hand.

“Drop it,” shouted Rook.

Mazorca closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, he also appeared to loosen his grip on the handle of his knife. Instead of letting it fall, however, he flipped it up, grabbed the blade, and tried to throw it.

Rook pulled his trigger three times. Mazorca shuddered as each bullet hit its mark. The knife dropped harmlessly to the ground. The assassin’s body jolted. Then it slumped. It did not move again.

“There you are!” yelled Springfield from across the rotunda. The large room beneath the Capitol’s open dome was filling with soldiers. Lincoln had just passed through and was walking down a hallway toward the House chamber, away from Rook. The colonel gripped his left arm, as if by holding it he would lessen the pain.

Springfield ran over. Clark was with him.

“Where is he?” asked the sergeant.

“It’s done,” said Rook.

“You found Mazorca?”

“He’s dead.”

The sergeant explained that he had seen Rook chase a man into the Capitol and assumed the worst. He and Clark tried to catch up, but they started out too far away. By the time they entered the Capitol, they had no idea where Mazorca and Rook had gone.

“You’ve been shot,” said Springfield, noticing Rook’s wound for the first time.

For a moment, Rook said nothing. He just stared, first at Springfield, then at Clark, and then back at Springfield. “Where is Violet Grenier?” he asked.

The two soldiers looked at each other. They had forgotten. That was when Rook knew: she was gone.