Fiddlehead

“What?” he barked sharply.

He stood face-to-face with only one man, rather than the two Polly had promised: a very tall, yellow-haired fellow in an ill-fitting policeman’s uniform, purporting to be from the very station that Lincoln had established nearly two decades previously. Though he wouldn’t have said it aloud in front of his friend, it was Grant’s considered opinion that this could be a true and official policeman. It was no great secret that though the force contained some fine individuals, as a whole, they weren’t up to the snuff of Lincoln’s original vision.

“What?” the man asked back. Stunned, he stared at the president as if now he wasn’t certain how he ought to proceed anymore. He tried again. “What, sir? I…”

Grant maintained the tone and projection of an old general. He’d carried more authority when he’d been promoted, not elected, so that’s the truncheon he’d swing. Keep the tall bastard on his toes. “What do you want?”

To his very slight credit, the alleged officer rallied, straightening his posture to emphasize the size difference between himself and the older man. “Sergeant Delman at your service, Mr. President, sir. Didn’t realize you came calling here. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m here on official business.”

“That’s what I heard,” Grant growled. He disliked this showing off. If you’re tall, be tall. But don’t brandish your size like a bully. “You’re looking for my friend Dr. Nelson Wellers,” he said, exaggerating the relationship. He barely knew the man.

“That’s right.”

“What are the charges?” he demanded.

“Accessory to murder. That’s the charge.”

“Well, I’m uncharging him.”

“You’re … I’m sorry sir, what?”

“You heard me,” he puffed up, responding to the extra inches in height with age and gravitas. “I’m uncharging him. I’m the president. I can do that.”

“I … I’m not sure that’s true.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“No, sir. Misinformed, perhaps.”

“I’m not misinformed; I’m the commander in chief. Now, get off this stoop and get on with your business. Look at you, policeman. Some manners you’ve got. Coming to the front door of a great man’s house and trying to arrest his physician. If you had a lick of sense you’d try the side, and be on your best manners! You don’t waltz up and make demands!” The man was starting to shift and fidget, seeking some way out of the conversation or past it, but Grant was on a roll. “Is this how they teach you to approach your betters? Is that how the force is run these days? I will write letters! I will speak with your captain!”

The big fellow’s eyes narrowed. “No, sir, you won’t. And I don’t have to walk away because you tell me to. I’m here for Nelson Wellers, and I will not be leaving without him.”

Grant laughed cruelly. “Now you’re the one who’s misinformed. Get out of here before I send you off this property in a pine box.”

“Are you threatening me, sir?”

“If you have to ask, I must’ve done a shit job of it. Let me try again.” He pulled out his ’58 and held it with the absolute steadiness of someone who’s held a gun so long, and so often, that it comes as natural and pleasant as holding a woman’s hand. “Get off this stoop or I’ll blow you off of it.”

The tall man leaned down, looming and scowling. Wind shrieked around him, cut into screams by the angles of the house and the hollow brick chimneys. “You’re the president. You can’t shoot me. And if you try,” he snarled, “you’ll regret it with your very last breath.”

“You’re not a real copper.”

With a sneer, the tall man fired back: “And you’re not a real president.”

Without a second thought, and without a single drink left in his system, Grant pulled the trigger.

The shot was loud in his ears, even against the violent orchestra of the windstorm. They were close together—only a door frame away, maybe arm’s length, and the space wasn’t tight. Still, it was like he’d fired inside a closet. A simple gunshot—the most familiar sound in the world—sucked all the air out of the space between them.

For a moment nothing happened. The tall man didn’t react except to hold perfectly still. Grant held still as well, his gun still raised. It flared warm in his hand, but the dry November storm cooled the metal as he held it. A small coil of smoke rose, then vanished as a particularly hard gust of wind shook the house.

The fireplaces moaned low and tunefully, like monks chanting a prayer.

The tall man’s uniform was dark, and it was now fully dark outside, so Grant could barely see the damp hole in his belly.

With slow uncertainty, the wounded man took two steps back, turned around, and reached for the handrail. He missed it, but held out one foot to step onto the stair below the stoop. His knee went crooked, and he fell forward onto the walkway that cut through the yard.

And the moment he hit the ground, someone in the darkness opened fire on the house.

Moving on instinct and years of training, Grant retreated and slammed the door. He shoved his shoulders against it, and felt that it was solid. It would withstand more than a handful of bullets before he needed to worry about its integrity.

His ears told him that there were three shooters.

No. Four.

The window to the right of the door shattered. Polly screamed. Mary came stumbling down the stairs in her dressing gown, her eyes huge and black.

Grant pointed at her. “Get back in your room!” Then he shouted at Polly, “Get down—lower. Crawl, goddammit!”

She swallowed her next scream and dropped to all fours, then scrambled upstairs after Mary.

Nelson and Gideon burst into the parlor, but they burst carefully, like men who knew better than to fling themselves into the line of fire. Grant was pleased by their caution. It spoke well of them.

“Down!” he gestured, and both men crouched. Both men also held firearms. Once more Grant fired off a wordless prayer to the Powers That Be, this time one of thanks. He had two soldiers, which was better than nothing. He’d been in tighter spots before. This situation wasn’t unfamiliar—it was only bad.

Bullets plunked against the exterior and whizzed through the window, crashing against fixtures and punching holes in the wallpaper.

“Wellers, how many doors lead in and out of this house?” he asked. More loudly than he would’ve liked, but now the storm had new ways to whistle, and the curtains flapped and shredded themselves on broken glass.

The doctor and the scientist crouched behind the staircase. “Three, including this one!”

“Is that all?”

He considered the house and its layout. “There’s the cellar door, and one from the attic to the roof—but those aren’t common knowledge, and I’m quite certain they’re locked.”

“I’ll keep ’em in the back of my head for now. As for the more obvious points of entry, I’ve got this one under control—you two go secure the others.”

Gideon scrambled across the floor and disappeared down one corridor. Wellers went back down the hall toward Lincoln, who surely had been secured and safeguarded in some fashion before they’d come running—Grant refused to think otherwise. In the meantime, he held his position behind the door. The gunfire slowed but did not stop altogether. It petered out and punctuated the weather. For one moment of light-headed battle hilarity, Grant thought of popcorn nearly finished in a pan.

He recognized this rush of energy and giddiness, shook it off, and ducked down low beneath the window, then up the other side, where he flipped the lever to turn off the gaslights. No one wanted bullets flying when the gas was working. Besides that, darkness was his friend.

The downstairs was pitched into a low murk, but nothing close to the wholesale midnight he preferred. Two electrical lamps shone on in the parlor.

He cursed the Lincolns for their embrace of technological progress, held his head low, and—keeping the front door between him and danger as best he could—scuttled back into the other room and yanked the switches on the lamps, noticing as he did so that the lights were off down the hall in Lincoln’s library. Only the glow of the fire spilled out past the threshold, and that was good.

“Abe?” he called, with as much volume as he dared.

“I’m fine. I dearly want to know what’s going on … but I’m fine.”

“Abe, you trust me?”

Without a moment’s pause: “I do.”

“I shot a man on your stoop, and his friends didn’t take it well: that’s what’s going on. Nelson and Gideon are securing the house. Mary and Polly are upstairs. Is there anyone else home?”

“No. There shouldn’t be.”

A volley of shots hailed from outside. When they paused, Grant kept as much cover as he could and smashed out the last of the glass at the bottom corner of the nearest window.

The outside lights still burned for the moment, but if the assailants had any sense, they’d rectify the situation momentarily. He couldn’t believe they’d left them alight this long. It was an amateur move. Maybe he hadn’t given the police force enough credit: Surely someone in an authentic uniform would know to meet darkness with darkness.

Keeping his head low, he peered past the curtains. The wind was cold and hard. It stung his eyes, but he didn’t close them; he gazed long and hard across the lawn, back and forth across the boundaries. A row of trees to the east gave cover to at least one man—he saw motion, a shifting of position from this tree to the next one, hopscotching closer. He waited for the man to dash for the next tree, and when he did, Grant fired a shot at him.

Between the distance, the wind, and his own precarious angle, the odds were against hitting him. But he was good—damn good—and managed to hit a trunk close enough to make the man dive back for his original position. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">