Sins of the Father
by Trace Edward Zaber
ISBN: 1-59279-016-X (Electronic)
ISBN: 1-59279-985-X (Paperback)
Genres: Historical / Civil War / Suspense / Thriller / Action / Adventure
Length: Extended Novel (165k words / 500 paperback pages)

(EXCERPT #2)

Perched on a tree stump, Winslow Cummings spied Washington from across the Anacostia River, the Eastern Branch of the Potomac. The Navy Yard chimney stacks spewed blackened bilge into the hazy air. Filthy, he thought, but better than observing the work being performed a few yards away at the shoreline. As he tugged his beard, he stood, stretched his long legs, then turned westward.

In the distance, the sunlit Washington Arsenal and U. S. Penitentiary stood on Greenleaf’s Point, the southernmost section of the city and the angle of confluence of the Potomac and Eastern Branch. Though “The Island” contained the town’s seedier establishments, the windswept Stars and Stripes fluttering over the Arsenal somehow gave him a sense of peace. It aided him in redefining his purpose, his reasons for putting himself face-to-face with this sickening business.

Jesus, he thought, filling his lungs with the fishy air. A death and another insane rumor all in a day’s time, and all in one incident. The country was going to perdition, and fast.

He risked a peek over his shoulder. The men were placing a sheet over the bloated form. Winslow’s stomach lurched. He wrapped arms around his torso. His mind already a gallimaufry of thoughts, he didn’t need the dreadful sight of the body to reside there as well.

The Eastern Branch roared in his ears. Crows swooped and cawed. Winslow kicked a stone into the rushing water and pondered the troubles that plagued him.

The three-month-old investigation regarding the kidnapping attempt on Lincoln had stalled, a virtual dead-end. Hell, he couldn’t even discover the true identity of Hannibal Mason. No one existed by that name, at least not in the area. Obviously a nom de guerre.

John Surratt, the other name involved, had been identified and followed around the clock. Well, at least agents from the NDP had watched a man named John Surratt, but to no avail. Winslow decided the “Surratt” involved was probably an alias, unfortunate for the man who bore the same name.

Then, the news about Jebediah troubled him. After talking with both Steven Bradshaw and the Gettysburg constable, Winslow had placed men on the trail of the Assistant Secretary of War. But Silas Keats was also a clever son of a bitch. Although Keats was still under investigation, nothing had come to light regarding his past, or current, transgressions. Winslow, however, was hidebound to find something. If both men in Gettysburg were to be believed, then Keats had to have skeletons in his closet.

And now this!

The long shadow cast on the ground by his rangy frame was met by another, shorter form. “What do you make of it, boss?”

Winslow peered into the smudged, beard-stubbled face of his most trusted subordinate, Leonidas Anwar Griffin. Winslow fished in his pocket for the note handed to him a short while ago. “Where did you find this, Leon?”

Leon doffed his slouch hat. “Woven into the sole of his shoe.”

Winslow studied the smeared words, then turned back to the scraggly man. “Who was it?”

“Agent Fitzpatrick. Throat slit from ear to ear.” Leon ran gloved fingers through his unwashed blond hair; blades of dew-moistened grass rained down on the shoulders of his black leather jacket. “What do you want me to do?”

Winslow held out the sodden paper. “Pursue this, as crazy as it sounds. See if you can discover where and when Fitzpatrick came by this note.”

“What else?”

Winslow shot a look behind him. The men had placed the body on a litter and were lugging it toward a wagon. He grimaced. “We must ascertain who killed Fitzpatrick and dumped him in the Potomac. When the boy summoned me at the hotel saying something of consequence needed my inspection, little did I realize”””

“I knew you were ruffled about Fitzpatrick’s whereabouts. I figured you might want to see it.”

Winslow’s stomach churned at the remembrance of what he had witnessed. He attempted to shake off the feeling, but found it difficult. “The last time I heard from him was more than a week ago, a wire from the Richmond area.”

“Agent D. B. Cole might have information, being down around there at the time.”

Winslow nodded. “I’ll wait to hear from you before I inform the colonel.”

“Sure, boss,” said Leon eagerly. After slapping dust from his hat, he turned to leave.

“Leon,” called Winslow.

The man pivoted, anticipation twinkling in his clear blue eyes. “Sir?”

“Thank you.”

Leon grinned; sunlight reflected off yellow, uneven teeth before he dashed to his picketed mare.

Winslow overlooked the river, and again eyed the Arsenal flag in the distance. Was he insane to keep this job? Not only did it take him away from his fetching wife, but the nerve-racking discoveries had caused him mild dyspepsia. The National Detective Police force had been formed with the intention of enforcing the recently-instated income-tax laws. Winslow had thought finding tax-deliquent criminals would be an honorable way to make a living and serve his government at the same time. Frankly, he would’ve enlisted in the army if it didn’t mean fighting against his homeland of Mississippi. He might not believe in their cause, but he couldn’t kill them for it. Besides, he hated the sight of blood, and the business of killing held no glamour in his eyes.

But recently, the NDP had branched out as security watchdogs. The Secret Service, he joked to himself as he plodded toward his rented shay. And this duty, dragging from the river bloated bodies with mysterious notes hidden on their persons, was more than he’d bargained for.

He clambered into the driver’s seat, then drove across the Navy Yard Bridge, wondering how his superior would take the news. Colonel Baker never seemed surprised when information of this ilk came to his ears, but Winslow had trouble imagining people could administer to their needs in this corrupt, nefarious fashion. He’d hoped the war would somehow transform all the devils in human guises into replicas of caring, honest citizens. With war’s barbarity and wholesale slaughter, why did some people continue to engage in savage acts like mangy animals?

Just before the shay entered the intersection of Pennsylvania and East Eleventh, Winslow directed the carriage to the curb. Again, he plucked the arcane correspondence from his pocket and tried to convince himself Lincoln’s safety was all that mattered, regardless of how much he detested his macabre duty. The NDP had changed the essence of their work; he’d have to change his essence as well.

Another murmur of cloak-and-dagger histrionics. Winslow knew better than to think the note just another demented prank. He knew how those devils in human guises were always on the prowl, especially in Washington. Powermongers blueprinting dirty deeds, with no guilt for the mischief they caused, stood as the underlying quintessence of this town. Obviously, slaughtering, then dumping the body of an agent into the Potomac wasn’t beneath them.

He held up the still-soggy note and reread its words”¦

Lincoln must be removed. Mr. W is willing to take up the banner. Meet me at 10 tonight to discuss the plan, including timetables. The election is nearing. We must strike a blow before Lincoln again wins power!

Jesus, Winslow prayed, please make this all a mistake. He had enough to worry about; too many investigations and too little time. Not to mention the too-few agents. Recollections of the bloated body filled his head, and now he was down one more.

He turned the carriage onto Pennsylvania Avenue, the Capitol Building’s dome peeking through the smoke-clogged sky. He tried to free his mind from the sight he’d witnessed, but the miasma in this filthy town didn’t help. With countless slaughter pens, this sprawling, unpolished boom town perpetually stank of livestock and blood. And with hundreds of brothels, gambling halls, groggeries, and thousands of unwashed, drunken soldiers adding to the town’s unpolished vitality, the stink of debauchery seemed to choke the air.

Fitting, Winslow thought, what with the evil lurking everywhere. Gunshots and screams were a nightly occurrence. Why should he be surprised a lone government agent was slaughtered?

“Home,” he muttered. “I need to go home.”

He sped the shay along the wagon-infested, citizen-congested avenue and fought his way toward the comfort of Willard’s Hotel, his home away from home. But he truly longed for his own bed, in his own house, with his wife beside him, his real home.

He longed for Baltimore…

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