Under normal circumstances, it would have been a fine job. But it was a cover story on top of a cover story, and it had kept him from what he was really here to do.
The evenings had been spent across the street. The elder Mrs. Hughes had made it downstairs for dinner twice now, apparently the first time in months, and a big to-do had been made over her. Slade had barely managed to be polite, knowing as he did that she was the one who had raised her sons to be snakes.
But tonight he and Hughes would dine in, so he had gone now to visit his mother—and his molly, if that’s what the younger Mrs. Hughes was. Didn’t much matter to Slade. Whether accomplice or ignorant of his dealings, she was still Hughes’s woman. She still set Slade’s nerves to twitching, and she still unsettled him with that feline gaze of hers. He’d been quite happy to stay here this afternoon.
He crept down the hallway as if headed for the library, satisfied no one was nearby. A few days ago he’d seen his host leaving the corner room, locking it behind him, so he assumed that was the one he wanted. A study, he would bet.
It was, of course, still locked. Hence the pick in his pocket. He inserted the tool into the keyhole, his watchful gaze on the hallway and ears on alert. But the only sound he heard was the faint click of the tumbler. A moment later he eased open the door, slipped in, and shut it behind him.
Twilight possessed the room. This window overlooked the street at the Hughes family home, which meant he would see when the man was returning, but there was little light left to shine upon the mahogany desk and matching shelves, and he certainly wasn’t daft enough to bring in a lamp.
He would just have to be quick, before the last of the day faded away.
Not that he knew what he was looking for. Given their desperation in bringing him into the circle, they likely had no firm plans. But they would try something sometime, as they had before. Surratt and Booth had regaled him the other night with the tale of their first botched attempt to kidnap Lincoln on his way to his inauguration.
Kidnap. Pinkerton had thought it an assassination plan and had recommended Mr. Lincoln separate from the rest of his group, that he go through Baltimore under cover of darkness and in disguise rather than risk the triumphant arrival he had planned.
And so when the two Johns and their compatriots arrived at President Street Station, waiting for “King Abraham” to debark from the train and board a carriage to take him to the next one at Camden Station, they found only Mrs. Lincoln and her entourage.
Slade had managed to hide his smirk in his coffee, but it had been close. The papers had lambasted Lincoln for his so-called cowardice, apparently convinced there had been no attempt on his life because, well, there had been no attempt on his life.
They didn’t seem to realize that was an indicator of a job well done on the part of Slade and his colleagues.
Now to do the same again. Ideally he would find something here to indicate future plans.
The desk seemed the most logical place for anything of interest to reside, so he headed there first. The top was cleared of all but a single sheet of paper with a list of railroad employees. He sat in Hughes’s chair and reached for the bottom drawer.
Unlocked—not a good sign. He pulled it open anyway, but a growl formed in his throat. More railroad documents. Employee records, complaints that had been filed, ledgers. “Blast.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face and made himself pause. God, You sent men into the Promised Land to scout it out, right? And You sent me here. So please, if You could help me find what I need…please.
He rolled the kink out of his shoulders and surveyed the dim room. Where to look next?
Bookshelves lined one wall. Not filled, but enough tomes took up residence that the thought of paging through each and every one made his pulse keep time to the clock. Seeing nothing else in the room of promise, though, he headed for them. His breath whooshed out when three letters on one of the spines caught his eye. An Authentic Exposition of the KGC.
They had a book. What kind of secret society actually had a book? Slade pulled it out and flipped to the first page. Four years old, and who knew how accurate. It could have been produced by the group to put out misinformation. Still, it was worth looking through.
Movement out the window caught his eye, and he flattened himself against the shelf. Hughes was on the opposite sidewalk, strolling arm-in-arm with his brother’s widow as if it were a fine summer’s day and not a frosty winter’s eve. They paused where the walkway to her door intersected their path, and it seemed from the angle of his body that he would bid her farewell and cross the street.