John Miller - The First Assassin

Tate hopped onto the cart and grabbed the maroon dress. He handed it to a woman standing almost right beside him, and then he went back into the box for more.

Bennett walked over to Lucius. “Something isn’t right.”

“I’m sure she’ll be back soon, sir.”

“I’m not talking about Portia.”

Lucius was dumbfounded. This was all beginning to unravel too quickly. What a mistake he had made. What a terrible, dreadful mistake.

“Listen here,” said Bennett. “You’ve been working long hours for me the last few days. I want you to take the rest of the day for yourself. Stay down here and visit with your family. I can get by until morning.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Lucius. “But I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“You will do what I say.”

Bennett spoke with a sharpness Lucius did not often hear directed his way. The tone troubled him. Surrender seemed the only course. “Yessir,” he replied, bowing his head. Lucius felt like an exile. He watched Bennett amble away toward the manor. The distance between them was growing, in more ways than one.

Bennett walked up the path and disappeared from the view of the slaves. He was tired. An activity like this used to take almost nothing out of him. Now he could hardly complete it. He might have gone on, but he was disappointed to hear about Portia. Two of his favorite and most obedient slaves were absent, and Lucius seemed to be the only one who knew anything about where they were. The implications were obvious, but he did not want to think about them. He decided to take a nap and not to worry about the situation until later in the day. Perhaps he had been too irritable with Lucius. A rest might do him good. Surely Portia and Joe would be back by then. This mystery would solve itself soon enough.

He was almost to his house, his mind set squarely on his bed upstairs, when he heard a woman’s voice calling him from behind.

“Mr. Bennett! Mr. Bennett!”

He turned around. It was Sally, Big Joe’s mother, and she was coming toward him at a jog.

“Yes, Sally?”

“Oh, Mr. Bennett, I’m so glad I can speak to you alone like this,” she said. “I need to tell you something.”

After leaving the White House grounds, Mazorca wandered around the city. He had memorized details from guidebooks, but studying maps and reading descriptions only went so far. Nothing provided as clear a sense of place as being there. His immediate concern was to find somewhere to stay-a base of operations.

He roamed up and down Pennsylvania Avenue and explored its intersecting streets. The south side of the Avenue-the part called Murder Bay-was full of shady saloons and brothels. Things improved to the north, but Mazorca did not want to check in to one of the large hotels that lined the Avenue. He wanted something smaller, a room at a place where he might come and go without having to pass through a crowded lobby. He eventually found what he was looking for at a boardinghouse several blocks north of the Avenue, between Sixth Street and Seventh Street.

The address was 604 H Street. It was a three-story building squeezed between two others. More important, though, was its location near the city center but not so close as to be a part of it. Mazorca watched it for a few minutes from across the street. In the middle of the day, it was impossible to tell how many people it housed-they were probably all at work. But he did see a woman bustling around the first floor. He figured she was the proprietress.

“Good afternoon!” she said when Mazorca walked through the door. “My name is Mary Tabard. Are you looking for somewhere to stay?”

She was a large woman, tall and heavy. A frumpy dress covered her shapeless body. Her pale brown hair was held in a bun. Mazorca guessed that she was fifty years old.

“Yes. I expect to be in the city for a few weeks. I would like a place where I may have a bit of privacy.”

“You will definitely find that here!” said Tabard. Mazorca got the feeling that she would have said the exact opposite if he were to have remarked that he wanted a boardinghouse where all the guests became boon companions. That kind of salesmanship probably would have gone on anywhere, though. Still, he wanted to make a few things clear to her.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, acting relieved. “Sometimes I find that the people running these boardinghouses just suffocate their guests with attention. I can tell already that you aren’t the nosy type.”

“Oh no! Not me!”

“Wonderful. I have some business in the city. I’m not sure how long I’ll be here-but I’m willing to pay for a month’s room and board right now if you can promise me a door with its own lock.”

“I’ve got six rooms total-and exactly the right one for you. Every room has its own key.”

They quickly agreed on a price for a second-story room. A window looked onto H Street. For a name, Mazorca told her that he was called “Mr. Mays.”

Tabard offered to call for his trunk, and then she had the good sense to leave him alone. There was no avoiding that they would become familiar, thought Mazorca as he pulled up the right leg of his trousers and unbuckled a holster from his calf. He assumed his habits would become apparent to some of the other guests as well. They might come to know that he kept odd hours. Mazorca had no intention of showing up for meals, even though he had paid for them. This would cause them to whisper too. Yet Mazorca believed he could keep plenty of secrets from them. He found that preferable to engaging in conversation around a table, where he might have to concoct elaborate cover stories-and perhaps arouse suspicions that would otherwise lie fallow. After a week or so, they would probably come to regard him as a harmless recluse. If they showed too much curiosity, Mazorca had a few options available. This final thought passed through his mind as he removed a small derringer pistol from the holster and inspected it.

His trunk arrived within an hour, and a muscular black man carried it to his room. When he was alone again, Mazorca pushed it under the window. He unlocked the trunk and lifted its lid. The shirts and trousers were still stacked in neat piles. On the left-hand side rested a coiled brown belt, with the buckle facing away from him. A large knife lay beneath it with the cutting edge turned toward him. On the right-hand side was an upside-down book, with the spine facing away. Everything appeared as he had left it. Satisfied by this, he began removing the contents. When he had burrowed about halfway down, he found what he was looking for.

Mazorca reached into the trunk and removed a rifle. It was a Sharps New Model 1859 breechloader-a deadly weapon that could hit a target from a good distance. Right away, he started to clean it.

Rook walked through the front door of Brown’s to find the hotel lobby in the lull of the middle afternoon, between the busy periods of lunch and dinner. About two dozen people milled about, some in conversation, a few reading newspapers, and two or three seeming to do nothing at all. Clark stood near a bar and caught the colonel’s eye. He nodded toward the back of the room, where Davis and Stephens nursed drinks. Rook headed straight for them. He took a seat at their table and gave a big smile. It was not returned.

For a few seconds, Rook just stared at one man and then the other. Davis narrowed his eyes at Rook. He looked menacing. “What can we do for you?” he finally asked in a tone that suggested he did not want to do anything at all for Rook.

“That depends,” replied Rook, affecting a slight Southern drawl.

“Depends on what?”

“It depends on why you’re here.”

“Our affairs are not your affairs.”

“Perhaps not. But then again, perhaps they are. I’m intrigued by the fact a couple of boys like you would show up right now in our nation’s capital.” Rook inflected those last three words with sarcasm. “Where are you from? Alabama? Mississippi?”