Butler. Butler had ordered the execution of a man named William Mumford, merely for tearing down the Stars and Stripes when it had been raised over city hall. The act had made him a savage not only in the eyes of the South, but even in the North and among the Europeans. Nathaniel Banks was a decent man, and he was working hard to undo the terrible damage caused by Butler, but it would take time.
“Mr. Fox?” A soldier in a federal uniform, an assistant to an assistant, called him, refusing to acknowledge his rank. He really didn’t give a damn. He hadn’t wanted to go to war; it had seemed that grown men should have been able to solve their differences without bloodshed. Then again, he had no desire to be a politician, either.
These days … everyone was just waiting. The war would end. Either the Northerners would get sick to death of the toll victory would cost and say good riddance to the South, or the continual onslaught of men and arms—something that could be replenished in the North and not the South—would force the South to her knees. He’d once had occasion to meet Lincoln, and he admired the man. In the end, Lincoln’s iron will and determination might be the deciding factor. Lee was definitely one of the finest generals ever to lead a war effort, but no man could fight the odds forever.
“Yes, I’m Fox,” Cody said, rising.
“Come in, please. Lieutenant Aldridge is ready to see you in his office,” the assistant to the assistant said.
Cody nodded and followed the man.
Lieutenant Aldridge was behind a camp desk neatly installed in the once elegant study. He had clearly been busy with the papers scattered in front of him, but when Cody entered, he stood politely. Aldridge was known as a decent fellow, one of those men who were convinced the North would win and that, when that day came, the nation was going to have to heal itself. It might take decades, because it was going to be damned hard for folks to forgive after Matthew Brady and others following in his footsteps had brought the reality of war home. Brady’s photographs of the dead on the field had done more to show mothers what had happened to their sons than any words ever could have. But Aldridge was convinced that healing would come one day, and he intended to work toward that reality.
“Mr. Fox,” Aldridge said, shaking Cody’s hand and indicating the chair in front of his desk. “Thank you for coming in. Would you like some coffee?” He was tall and lean, probably little more than thirty, but with the ravages of responsibility adding ten years to his features. His eyes were hazel. Kind eyes, though.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Cody said. He leaned forward. “May I ask why I’m here?”
Aldridge pulled a file from atop a stack on his desk and flipped it open. “You were with Ryan’s Horse Guard, I see. Cavalry. You saw action from the first Battle of Manassas to Antietam Creek, and you nearly had your leg blown off. Doctors said you wouldn’t make it, but somehow you survived. You’ve been back here in New Orleans for a year—got your medical degree up at Harvard, though.”
Aldridge paused for a moment, staring at him. “Any corrections thus far?”
“No, sir. None that I can think of,” Cody said, still wondering why he was there.
Aldridge dropped the file. “Anything you want to add?”
“Seems like you know a lot about my life, sir.”
“Why don’t you fill me in on what I’m missing?” Aldridge asked, a fine thread of steel underlying his words.
“What exactly are you asking, Lieutenant?” Cody asked.
“I was hoping you’d be more … forthcoming with the details of your time in the North, Fox,” Aldridge said. “Before your state seceded, you were working in Washington. You were actually asked to the White House to converse with Lincoln. You’ve been involved in solving several … difficulties in and around the capital.”
Cody kept his face impassive, but Aldridge’s knowledge of his past had taken him by surprise.
“I took part in a number of reconnaissance missions as part of Lee’s army, Lieutenant, if that’s what you’re referring to,” he said carefully. “I was given a medical discharge and sent back to New Orleans when I was wounded—initially declared dead, actually. I’ve been here, helping the wounded of both armies and minding my own business, since my recovery.”
Aldridge stared at him and flipped the file shut again. He didn’t have to read from it; he apparently knew what it contained. “A series of bizarre murders took place in northern Alexandria in 1859. You were friends with a certain law enforcement officer, Dean Brentford, and you started patrolling with him at night. You apprehended the murderer when no other constable could catch up with him. And when he tore through the force trying to subdue him, you managed to decapitate him with a single one-handed swing of your sword.” Aldridge pointed a finger at him. “President Lincoln himself asked you to perform intelligence work for him, but you politely refused, saying your remaining kin were in Louisiana, and you couldn’t rightly accept such a position.”
Cody lifted his hands. “My mother died the year after the war started, but I’m sure you understand that … I come from here. I was born here. And as to the … incident to which you refer … The brutality of the murders took everyone by surprise, and I’m simply glad I was able to help.”
Aldridge leaned forward. “Help? Fox, to all intents and purposes you and you alone stopped them. More to the point, we’ve just had a similar case here, down on Conti. My officers are at their wits’ end, and I don’t want this city going mad because the Yanks think the Rebs have gone sick or vice versa. This isn’t a battleground anymore, it’s a city where people are picking up the pieces of their lives. It may take decades before true peace is achieved, but I’ll be damned if I’ll allow the citizens to start killing one another because one man is sick in the head.”
Cody stared straight across the desk at the man and didn’t say a word.
“You got yourself a medical degree, son, then you went off to ride with the cavalry and wound up in intelligence.” Aldridge stared back at Cody, hazel eyes intent. “You can help me. I don’t give a damn where you came from or what your folks did or whose side you fought on. I just want to catch a killer. Because it sounds like a bloodthirsty madman just like the one you killed is on the loose—in my city—and I want him stopped.”
“HOW DID YOU KNOW about the attack?”
Alexandra Gordon was sitting in a hardwood chair, presumably before a desk, but she didn’t have any actual idea where she was, since the officers who had come to her house had thrown a canvas bag over her head, and she was still blinded by it. She was stunned by the treatment she had received and continued to receive, especially since she had put herself in great peril to warn the small scouting contingent that there would be bloodshed if they crossed the Potomac.
Apparently she was a deadly spy.
They had tied her hands behind her back, but the officer in charge had whispered furiously to the others, and her hands were once again free. Despite that small courtesy, he seemed to be the descendent of a member of the Spanish Inquisition. He slammed his hands on the table, and his voice rose as he repeated the question. “How did you know? And don’t say again that it was a dream. You are a spy, and you will tell me where you’re gaining your information!”
She shook her head beneath the canvas bag, praying for the ability to stay calm. “I merely tried to save Union lives, sir, as well as Confederate. What, I ask you, was gained by this raid? Nothing. What
