The Lincoln Deception by David O. Stewart Read Free Book Online Page B

right?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œBut what about the men who ordered this thing? They’ve never been brought to account. That’s the story here, that’s what we need to figure out—”
    â€œWe?”
    â€œTold you yesterday, I’m going to be a newspaper man, start a paper in that building back behind the house. Going to call it the Ohio Eagle. Not going to spend my life running that hotel, making sure the craps players don’t cut each other up.
    â€œThis would be one hell of a story to start my newspaper with,” Cook continued. “The biggest story of the old century just when we start a new one. And it should be a Negro paper breaks it. You white folks act like that war was about you, but that was our war. You white folks just did some of the dying”—Fraser snorted—“okay, a lot of the dying. Hey, you had the guns. But that was our war, don’t make any mistake about it. And it’s not over, either. Only thing is now we’re the only ones still fighting on our side. Something like this, who really killed Abraham Lincoln, this could remind people what that fighting and dying was for.”
    When Fraser didn’t respond, Cook fell silent. The wagon lurched and rocked along. Fraser wondered about the man next to him. Baseball star, college man, hotel owner, hothead, sponsor of dice games. Not like anyone Fraser knew. He thought about what Cook said. Fraser’s father did his share of dying, more than his share. It was his war, too.
    â€œAlso,” Cook started again, “there’s an election this year. Wouldn’t that be a powerful piece of news, who killed Lincoln, keep those Southern Democrats from crawling back into power? Remind everyone this wasn’t just some crazy actor did that. This was an attempt to overthrow a government. They killed Lincoln, meant to kill Seward, Johnson, even Grant.”
    â€œYou know all about it,” Fraser said.
    â€œDidn’t just get found in a cabbage patch. Think about it. Say they’d managed to kill everyone they meant to kill, who would’ve been president? Who would’ve run the country? Those same people, their sons anyway, who’re still running the South. We can’t let them fool people into voting for them anymore.”
    Fraser objected that the election for president was going to be about new issues—the fight against rebels in the Philippines, whether to keep the gold standard for the dollar. It wasn’t about the Civil War.
    Cook waved him off. “The Civil War’s still going on, every day, getting worse, driving colored people out of jobs, off trains, out of restaurants, even out of the damned roller rink right there in Steubenville. It’s still about that war. That war won’t be over till my grandchildren are dead and gone. You and me, we figure this thing out, maybe we turn around this war we’re still fighting, make sure the right side wins again. ’Cause right now, we ain’t winning. Today, this ain’t no country for the black man.”
    Fraser let some time pass. Then he said, “Okay, if I wanted to figure out what happened with the Lincoln assassination, why would I do it with you?”
    â€œThat’s easy. I can go places you can’t, just like you can go places I can’t. You need that. Without me, you never meet Rachel Lemus. Think about it. Also, I know my way around a knife and a gun. You’re serious about this business, you may need that, too.”
    That sounded ridiculous to Fraser, but Speed Cook had passion. That impressed him. It might help to have someone else trying to solve the puzzle of Mrs. Surratt’s confession. Fraser sure hadn’t solved it on his own. What could it hurt?
    â€œTell you what,” he said. “I’ve got a whole shelf of Mr. Bingham’s papers and books on the assassination, every sort of thing. You take some back today, look ’em over. Then we