Chapter 2

The Old North

"And cast out the worthless slave into the outer darkness; in that place there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth."

New American Standard Bible translation

The Boeing commuter plane touched down with a slight squeal of rubber against the runway at Washington's General Longstreet International Airport and taxied to the main terminal building. As soon as the seatbelt sign was turned off, Mann unbuckled his seatbelt, took his carry-on from the overhead compartment, checked his pockets, and moved into the aisle.

The stewardess, who had served Mann's section during the flight, was making her final rounds, politely bidding farewell to all the passengers. She had been exceedingly pleasant and professional throughout the entire journey.

"I hope you had a nice trip, Mr. Mann," she said to him. "Thank you for flying Southern Airlines, the Wings of America."

"Yes, thank you," he replied, quite impressed that she even made an effort to remember the passengers' names. He understood, of course, that most corporately owned attendants usually had it much better than those in privately held positions. If she were a good stewardess, the airline would be less inclined to let her go for as long as she remained young and attractive.

As Mann and the other passengers disembarked, the stewardess followed them to the exit door, still wishing them a nice day and gently encouraging them to fly Southern Airlines again. When Mann walked into the terminal building, the girl remained at the plane's doorway until the black baggage handlers arrived to clear the luggage compartment. When one of the rough-looking men saw her, she gave him a simple nod, but he immediately looked away. The black stewardess had known Thomas Mann's name long before she had seen it on the passenger manifest.

In a Hertz rental car, Mann left the airport for the drive across the Potomac River into Washington itself. The city still retained a certain impressiveness, having once been the pre-Civil War capital of the United States. Mann often read articles speculating about what Washington could have become had it remained the nation's capital. There had been artist renderings of a skyline adorned with skyscrapers similar to modern-day Atlanta, alongside a new Capitol dome towering twenty stories high. Now proudly bearing the name of the country's founding father, the city still held much of its former glory. It had transformed into a cultural and historic center rather than a political one, and it inspired in Americans a reverence almost religious in nature, akin to how Catholics view Vatican City or Muslims regard Mecca.

Some news commentators in the past had even suggested that the central government's relocation to Richmond after the war was a mistake. This lack of surprise stemmed from Southern states' apprehension about an autonomous national capital, separate from any one state, established in 1866. These states had just fought a war aimed at ensuring states' rights and diminishing federal authority—that is, the old federal government. It was argued that Richmond had earned the right to be the nation's capital due to its valiant service during the war years. In 1869, the State of Virginia annexed Washington as reparation for the war, reducing it to the status of just another city—a significant moral victory for the then-powerful Confederate Conservative Party.

As Mann traveled along Pennsylvania Avenue, he could see the old White House in the distance. Once the home of presidents, it was now merely a national museum open to the public, but only to those who were not Black. Parking was easy to find near the museum, as the Washington historical tour was not among the top ten vacation spots in America. Within minutes, Mann entered the building, placed a dollar in the donation basket, and began to act like any other tourist out for a good time. The security guard at the front doors barely glanced in his direction; well-dressed white males were rarely considered a security problem at the White House Museum.

After ten minutes, Mann started to think he had been stood up on or was wasting his time. He found himself standing before a large and stately oil painting of the Battle of Trenton. In the foreground, a mortally wounded General Meade was surrounded by brave yet defeated Union troops. This battle was the next significant confrontation after the Union's defeat at Gettysburg, leaving General Grant in charge of the retreating Army of the Potomac, with most of New Jersey under Confederate control. By that time, the spirit of the Union was broken; soldiers were deserting at a rapid rate, with some even defecting to the Southern cause, and riots erupted in most major Northern cities. People began to call the war "Lincoln's Folly" and demanded his resignation from the presidency. Defeat seemed inevitable, and more bloodshed loomed ahead.

"How would that look in your living room?"

A pleasant feminine voice asked from behind Mann. He turned and smiled, noticing a striking woman in a blue blouse and skirt. Her long auburn hair framed her firm yet gentle face as she looked at the painting.

Mann laughed.

"I think it's too big to fit in my living room. In fact, I believe it's larger than my living room," he said.

"Mine too," she replied. "I have a postage stamp of an apartment. In my place, this wouldn't be a painting, but a mural on the wall."

The woman moved closer to him, and Mann caught the sweet scent of her perfume. Temptation began to rise within him as he hoped his appointment wouldn't show up after all.

"But you have a much larger apartment than mine, Mr. Mann," the woman continued.

Mann was stunned. ‘This is who I'm supposed to meet,’ he thought to himself. She was nothing as he had expected.

"You are who Attenwald sent me to talk to?" he asked, surprised. "I wasn't expecting a woman."

"No," she replied with a wide smile, scanning the area around them. "I'm the foxy lady you're going to meet in this museum. We'll wander slowly through the rest of the displays, get very close, and leave together. Then we'll see some other sights in Washington, have dinner at an excellent restaurant, and eventually wind up at my apartment."

Almost laughing, Mann could barely contain himself. He felt like he needed someone to pinch him; it had to be a dream.

"That sounds like a fine plan to me," Mann said as he looked her over.

She toyed with him, a twinkle in her eyes. "Don't get carried away, Thomas. It's all just play-acting for show, just in case anyone is watching us. We'll contact the person you're supposed to meet later this evening once we've been cleared. Our people will be checking for surveillance every step of the way. If we're clear by tonight, the meeting will go off as planned."

"God," Mann exclaimed, "who are you people, the damned CIA or the CBI?”

"No," she said, grinning knowingly, "which is why we need to be better than them." Then she added, "By the way, my name is Laura Dane."

She held out her hand.

"Call me Laura."

Mann took her hand. "And call me Tom, Laura. I, too, am very pleased to meet you."

O'Rourke's Tavern was filling up as the late afternoon emptied New York offices, and workers stopped at their favorite watering holes before heading home after a long, hard day. This time of day typically brought in the bulk of O'Rourke's business.

The barkeeper had just brought a case of liquor up from the basement when he noticed a man approaching the bar. Almost instantly, O'Rourke felt a few hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

"Excuse me, sir," the man said in a thick Southern accent. "May I have a brief moment of your time? I see you are very busy."

O'Rourke quickly assessed the man. He looked like a gentleman, but there was something in his eyes that had all the warmth and compassion of a .357 Magnum.

"Sure," O'Rourke replied, "what can I do for you?"

The man held out a three-by-five photograph. "Have you ever seen this man?"

O'Rourke felt a twinge of worry, though he maintained a perfect poker face. The picture was of the Attenwald guy Mann had talked about, a man who now looked like a mosquito caught in a bug zapper. Instinctively, O'Rourke knew the best lie was a half-lie.

"No…" he hesitated just long enough for a touch of drama. "Wait. Yeah, I remember him now. He was in here a couple of nights ago. What did he do? Are you a cop?" O'Rourke knew these were typical New York questions.

"No," the man said. "I'm a private investigator named Lasher. This man is dead, and his family wanted me to look into the circumstances."

"Oh," O'Rourke said, feigning interest. "I see."

"Did you happen to see him talking with anyone in here when you did see him?"

O'Rourke understood that this was the real question—the half-truth he had already spoken now needed a half-lie.

"Well, he may have talked to someone, but I'm not sure. You know it gets a little busy behind this bar sometimes, and I can't keep track of everybody. He might have even spoken with ten guys, and I wouldn't have noticed."

Lasher nodded as he put the picture back into his coat pocket. "Yes, I suppose so." He then pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. "If you do happen to recall anything at all, anything that might be helpful, please call me at this number."

He took a pen from his jacket and wrote a phone number on the bill. Folding it over, he handed it to O'Rourke.

"Hey," O'Rourke said, rolling the twenty-dollar bill into his shirt pocket, "for you, anything—anything at all."

Lasher stood up, glanced around the bar, and then walked out. The moment he was out of sight, O'Rourke picked up the phone and called the New York Times. He would have bet every bottle of liquor behind the bar that he had just met the man who had deep-fried Attenwald in his bathtub.

Laura Dane was fun, intelligent, sexy, and embodied every other quality a man could desire in a woman. The one thing she didn't seem to be was a terrorist, an underground member, or any other kind of extremist. She fascinated Mann in a way he had never experienced before with any woman since Claire.

At the White House, she gave him a full tour, sharing fact after fact about the old Union, Lincoln, and the Civil War. Mann recalled from high school at PS-31 that Lincoln had remained in the White House for six years after the war, from 1865 to 1871, under house arrest. However, Laura painted his life there with the vivid details of one of the great oil paintings surrounding them. She described how morose Lincoln had become and how his wife, Mary Todd Lincoln, gradually went mad in the house until she was eventually committed to an asylum in Maryland. When she died there of pneumonia in 1871, Lincoln, still a prisoner in the house he had once been elected to, died shortly after.

Although the official affidavit from the Confederate Congress's special investigation committee declared his death to be from natural causes, rumors never ceased that it might have been a suicide. It was commonly believed that Lincoln had shot himself in the head. If that were the case, the central government still had not disclosed the truth for its own reasons. Perhaps, Laura speculated, even the Confederate cause saw no need to discredit the Office of the President, despite a bitter enemy having held it.

After visiting the White House, they drove to a few other main tourist sites and finally stopped at a small restaurant for dinner. Above the front doors of the eatery, a wide green and black lettered sign proclaimed its name:

THE GREAT DANE

At the end of the word "DANE," there was a beautifully carved and painted relief of a member of the dog breed known as Great Danes.

"Nice-looking place," Mann commented wryly. "Do they serve anything besides large-sized dog biscuits?"

She looked at him. "Don't worry; the food is great. I eat here often."

As they entered, an old man with a distinguished handlebar mustache approached them. He was dressed in the style of a nineteenth-century waiter.

"Daddy," Laura Dane said, "I'd like you to meet a friend of mine, Thomas Mann."

Mann glanced at the restaurant's owner and immediately recognized the resemblance.

"So, you're Laura's father," he said, slightly sheepish as he desperately tried to remove his foot from his mouth. "She's been telling me how great the food is here all day."

Laura gave him a meaningful stare.

"Yes," she said with an elfish grin, "he can't wait to try your biscuits."

At that moment, Mann felt small enough to crawl into a wine bottle and pull the cork in after himself.

"Please, Mr. Mann, make yourself comfortable over here at the corner table," Laura's father said, motioning with his arm. "I will serve you a meal you will never forget."

Somehow, Mann had no trouble believing him. They ordered from the menu and chose a bottle of the special house wine. Mann kept staring at the Great Dane printed on its label.

"I'm sorry," Mann said when they were alone, "I should have connected the restaurant to your last name. I feel like a real fool."

She giggled.

"Please," she said, trying to sip her wine without laughing, "it was worth seeing the look on your face when I said 'Daddy.' Now that was priceless."

Swallowing a mouthful of wine, Mann turned more serious. Somehow, the whole situation still seemed surreal, like some bizarre dream.

"Laura, what in the world are you doing getting involved in this whole cloak-and-dagger situation? You hardly seem like the type."

She thought for a moment and said, "What type should be involved in this? Many whites, both Northern and Southern, believe the country has gone too far with the blacks. My God, Tom, Negroes are just as human as you or I, and all the so-called laws in the world are not going to change that one bit. You know it as well as I do."

Mann knew she was right, and sooner or later, the country would change. It had to. People were tired of it. Ever since the seventies, popular culture has increasingly discussed change and personal freedom. It was a philosophy that didn’t condone the oppression of an entire race.

"Yes, things will change," he replied. "I think a reporter is by nature more sensitive to what's happening around the world. And it's not just the issue of slavery in the Confederate States. The powers that be all over the globe are worried. People are tired of empires and colonies. Great changes are coming; you can sense it in the political winds."

"Maybe, but only if someone makes a stand. Don't you see what's going on in this country? Richmond knows slavery will not last forever. Look at the abortion laws, and you can see what they're thinking. Abortion is completely illegal for whites but perfectly acceptable for blacks because, hey, what does it matter? They aren’t considered human anyway. As machinery increasingly replaces Negroes in menial jobs, the government's need for them decreases. At one point, non-whites comprised 28% of the population; now it’s only 22%. Oh yes, eventually blacks may gain freedom, but if Richmond has its way, there will be very few left."

Mann shook his head. "Now you're starting to sound like one of those liberal talk show hosts, like—what's his name—Donahue. Not everything in life is a massive government conspiracy."

"I hope you're right, but what does your reporter's instinct tell you? I say if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it probably isn’t a horse."

Laura's father appeared with their food and served them. She had been right about the food. Mann knew he had found a new favorite restaurant, even if it was a bit far to drive from Manhattan.

As they finished eating, Mann remembered the time. "Is there a phone I can use my calling card on?"

"Sure. It's behind the counter."

"I told Simon I’d check in after every step. This way, if anything happens..."

Laura nodded. "Sounds like a good idea to me, but dial direct. It's too easy to trace you with your card number."

Mann called Simon Wakefield's desk. The moment Wakefield heard his voice, he interrupted Mann. "Jesus, Tom, thank Christ you called. I've been worried all day." Wakefield sounded scared—really scared.

"What's wrong, Simon? What happened?"

"That friend of yours who owns the bar."

"You mean Mike O'Rourke?” Mann was frightened for him. “Is he okay?"

"Yeah, he's fine, but someone calling himself Lasher came in asking about Attenwald. He slipped O'Rourke a twenty and told him to call if he remembered anyone Attenwald was talking to."

Mann knew that Mike could handle himself, so he figured O’Rourke had sent the guy on a fool's gold hunt around New York. But who was this mystery man? He could be the same person who killed Attenwald.

"Did Mike say what this guy looked like?" Mann asked.

"Are you kidding? Of course he did! He probably looked like the Devil himself if he came to call. O’Rourke said he was dressed like a gentleman and had a heavy Southern drawl, but the guy was the biggest cold-blooded bastard you'd ever want to meet. Said the guy scared the hell out of him."

Mann wondered who this man was and what was so incredibly important. Attenwald hadn't told him anything, and so far, neither had Laura. This Southern predator must believe that Attenwald really had some dirt on someone and that he had shared the whole story. It sounded like he was on some damage control mission. Whoever knew what Attenwald knew had a one-way, nonstop ticket to the great beyond, and the killer would think he was the main event.

"All right," Mann said to Wakefield, "just tell Mike to stay cool. That guy is looking for me, but I'm way out of town. Maybe he'll just figure no one listened to Attenwald and pack up his tent and leave."

"Okay, Tom, but watch your back. This could get a little too close for comfort." He was about to hang up. "Oh, do you have a number I can reach you at?"

Mann looked at Laura.

"Can I use your phone number for a contact from Simon? If someone gets it, it could put you at risk."

Laura scribbled some numbers on a notepad from her pocketbook.

"Simon, I'll be at 555-3794 until..." He looked at her again, and she gave him that certain look back.

"Until tomorrow morning."

Wakefield muttered a few more things while Mann continued to look at Laura. "Fine, Simon, have a good night and don’t worry. I'll call if anything important comes up. You do the same."

He hung up, and Laura grinned at him.

"Don't be so smug," she said, "there's always the couch," and smiled.

The light in her eyes was the best thing Mann had seen in a long, long time.

"Good night, Jim," Mike O'Rourke said to the last of his regular patrons as he prepared to leave the tavern.

"Have a good one yourself, Mike," Jim replied, a tall, thin man, as he put on his hat and stepped out the door.

Jim was the final customer, and O'Rourke was relieved. Some nights, he hated for the last one to leave, feeling as if O'Rourke's Tavern was a never-ending party—almost like an Irish version of Heaven. But tonight was different. O'Rourke felt tired, and all he could think about was sinking his head into a nice, soft pillow.

He used his set of keys to lock the front door, activated the security alarm, and started to head back toward the bar. It was then that he sensed he might not be completely alone. He turned in a circle, investigating every corner of the bar. In the dark rear corner of the tavern, he thought he saw the silhouette of someone.

"Hey," he said, thinking one of his patrons had fallen asleep at the table. "Who's back there? Is that you, Timmy? You know Elizabeth is going to kill both of us if I let you sleep here all night."

The dark silhouette stood motionless. O’Rourke felt a surge of anger.

“Who the hell are you, anyway?” he shouted in frustration.

“Why, sir,” the voice replied with a heavy Southern drawl, “don't you know? We’ve already made our acquaintances.”

O’Rourke’s blood ran cold.

“Lasher? What the hell are you doing back here? I told you I’d call if I remembered anything.”

The silhouette stepped out of the shadows, revealing a man.

“Yes, sir, I remember you saying that,” he replied smoothly. “However, I’ve been doing a bit of thinking myself. You don’t seem like the type of man to overlook anything in your establishment. I also thought it was likely that you did see who Mr. Attenwald spoke with the other night. And then it occurred to me, Mr. Creed—my real name—that Mr. O’Rourke needs a little coaxing for his memory to return.”

“Now listen, Creed or Lasher or whatever your name is, I told you I don’t know anything, and I want you out of my bar right now!”

O’Rourke pulled out his keys and headed for the front door.

Creed pulled out his silenced 9mm and fired off a round into O’Rourke’s right knee. The bullet made a little puff sound as it left the muzzle of the gun and a slight thwack sound as it entered O’Rourke’s bones. The barkeep fell to the floor with his hands wrapped around his knee. Red ooze filtered between his fingers.

“Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” O’Rourke yelped as he clutched his bleeding knee. “Are you freaking crazy?” Creed came over to him, shaking his head.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk, Mr. O'Rourke. I never wanted it to come to this. All you needed to do was tell me the simple truth. Now, I will ask you again, and I expect your full "Attention: Who did Attenwald speak with the other night?"

Sweat was beading on O’Rourke’s forehead, and the pain in his leg was worsening.

"I told you, you crazy bastard, I don’t know," he shouted.

With the speed of a cobra, Creed fired a second bullet into O’Rourke’s other knee.

Thwack! Blood and bone splattered the floor.

Once more, O’Rourke screamed, gripping his knees with blood-soaked hands and gritting his teeth in agony.

“Come now, Mr. O'Rouke. I have a pocket full of shells and all night to use them. Who did he talk to?”

O’Rourke remained silent, his heart pounding in his ears like a continuous series of explosions.

Creed fired again, this time into O’Rourke’s left foot.

Thwack! Bones splintered and flesh bled.

"Oh God," the Irishman wailed. "All right, for Christ's sake, I'll tell you. I saw him with a guy, but he wasn't a regular. He had only been in here a few nights. That's all, I swear. I don't know who the guy was. Jesus, it hurts! It hurts!"

Thwack! The right foot.

"Nice try, Mr. O'Rourke, but you wouldn't risk your fool Yankee neck trying to protect some stranger. It had to be someone you knew, and most likely a friend. Oh, yes, and by the way, if you haven't figured it out already, I am an expert shot."

Thwack!

O'Rouke, already filled with pain, didn't feel the bullet enter his body and didn't hear the thwack. At first, he thought Creed had missed, but then he reached for his left ear. From the spot where it used to be, his hand came away covered in blood.

Thwack! Thwack!

He felt a round in each leg, ten inches below the knees. O’Rourke was beyond screaming.

“Sorry,” Creed said in mock apology. “I’m just emptying my clip so I can reload. Have you had any change of heart yet, Mr. O’Rourke? I really do detest this form of senseless violence. It is rather unbecoming of a gentleman. If you would just tell me what I wish to know, we can end it right here. I can call an ambulance and leave. Since I haven't hit any arteries or vital organs, you'll most likely live, although I’m afraid you may not be able to jog in Central Park for quite a while.”

His mind swimming in pain, O’Rourke looked at Creed. He knew without a doubt that Creed was going to kill him no matter what he said or did. No matter what, he wasn't going to give up Mann. If he was going to die anyway, he would at least make it count for something.

“Screw you, asshole,” O’Rourke hissed at Creed.

Creed shook his head in mild disdain.

"It's no wonder you Yankees won't admit you lost the war. You surely are a stubborn bunch," he said with a shrug. "Well then, I have no choice but to continue asking my question. Now, let's see... how about the arms? Who did Attenwald contact?"

Thwack!

Thwack!

Thwack!

Laura Dane produced a key ring from her pocketbook and opened the door to her apartment. She slipped inside, turning on a light with Mann directly behind her.

Mann looked over the small apartment, which was both efficient and well-decorated, adorned with a multitude of colorful prints on every wall.

"Nice place, Laura. Did you decorate it yourself?" he asked.

"Everything. I even painted. The landlord doesn't mind, as long as I repaint it white when I move out. Why should he? This way, he gets back a freshly painted apartment."

Laura drifted off toward the kitchen.

In stark contrast to the vibrant prints and paintings, two older-style paintings hung over the couch. One was instantly recognizable as Lincoln, but the other was unfamiliar to Mann. He looked at the name beneath the standing figure: "JOHN BROWN" was painted in black lettering.

"Hmm," Mann said, "I’ve never seen a picture of John Brown before. Then again, radical abolitionists aren’t exactly popular in the modern Confederacy, are they?"

"No, Mr. Mann," replied a deep, rich voice.

Mann turned to see Laura Dane pushing an old, gray-haired man in a wheelchair out of the kitchen. Age had taken its toll on the man, yet his eyes possessed a stature that made him seem ten feet tall. The man studied the reporter carefully, a friendly smile spreading across his face, and Mann realized this was the person he had come to meet.

"Please, sit down, Mr. Mann. I'm afraid my current condition makes it difficult to meet someone's eye unless I'm seated. Age has not been too kind to these old bones."

Mann sat on the sofa, and as he did, he noticed two more men entering the room from the kitchen—one white and one black.

"Don't be alarmed," the old Black man said, much like a great-grandfather reassuring a small child afraid of a new puppy. "These are my bodyguards. Others in the movement insist I need them."

Remembering he was a reporter, Mann slowly pulled out a small tape recorder from his jacket. The bodyguards watched him carefully.

"Do you mind if I record our conversation, sir? My shorthand is terrible, and this way we are both protected in terms of what is said between us."

The man nodded.

"Use whatever means you will, Mr. Mann, just as long as you report the truth." After coughing a little, the old man paused, then regained himself. "My name, Mr. Mann, is Martin Luther King Jr."

Mann sat in stunned silence. It was impossible. King was considered by many to be a myth—an old legend used to scare white children away from Black children. For years, whites had heard of a great leader among the Negroes but never took it seriously. Famous lecturers at universities claimed King was a Biblical, messianic figure for Blacks, whom they prayed would someday free them from their bondage. Even the name "King" sounded more imaginary than real. Could this old Black man actually be him?

"Yes, Mr. Mann, unlike the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, and Santa Claus, I really do exist."

Mann pulled himself out of his shocked state.

"I'm sorry, Mr. King, I never..."

"And you are not alone. Please call me Martin, and I'll call you Thomas."

"That'll be fine, sir." Mann took a moment to think. "Why did you want to talk with me, Martin? Why not just surface on one of the television networks? That would certainly cause a stir."

"I doubt I would live very long if I did surface. I hope to someday, but the time is not yet right."

Mann knew he was right. A radical supporter of the Confederacy would give anything to put a bullet into King’s forehead.

"But why me, Mr. King? What can I do that the television networks can't?" Mann asked.

King grinned. "I may be a legend among whites, Thomas, but you are somewhat of a legend among blacks. We first took note of your reporting on that incident in Brooklyn three years ago. You reported the facts accurately and fairly. That is an uncommon thing when a slave kills a cop."

"I reported what I found out, Martin. The cop hated Black people and told his friends he was going to make an example out of some ‘nigger’. The slave was just lucky enough that day to get the cop's gun away from him. He was only defending his own life."

"Yes, he was, and still, a white mob killed him for his efforts." King looked at his Black bodyguard. "But that is the reward of a slave: hard labor and an early death. You must have faced some backlash for that story, didn't you?"

Mann nodded. "Some, but it helped my career at the same time. I gained enemies, but it also established my reputation for fairness, which has led to more interviews and tips on stories than I can count."

"Now you see, Thomas, you've answered your own question. You do know why I wanted to talk with you."

At that moment, Laura Dane entered the room with a pot of coffee, along with sugar, creamer, and cups on a tray. They all made themselves a cup of coffee, with Laura helping King.

After taking a long sip of steaming coffee, King continued, "Laura has probably already told you that the Black population in the Confederate States is decreasing."

"Yes," Mann replied, "she has."

"I thought as much. But there is more to it than just birth control and abortion issues. While they certainly play a significant role in the shrinking Black population, I fear something far more sinister is at work. Thomas, have you ever wondered what happens to old or sickly slaves?"

"No," Mann shrugged. "I guess I always figured they were simply put out to pasture somewhere like horses."

Mann immediately regretted his words, realizing he had inadvertently compared Black people to animals. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean..." Mann started.

"That's all right. I know you didn't. But I'm afraid your analogy may not be that inaccurate. You see, Thomas, in the real world, most old horses wind up in glue and dog food factories."

The thought suddenly occurred to Mann, but he quickly dismissed it due to its extreme inhumanity.

"You can't be suggesting that unproductive Black individuals are killed and their bodies used as dog food," he said.

For a moment, King seemed to gaze past Mann, as if looking into a distant place. Then he returned his attention to the reporter.

"No, I'm not saying that—at least not yet. In fact, I'm not entirely sure what I'm saying at all. But here’s something important for you to know: slaves are being sold, transferred, or simply sent to certain camps scattered across the country. We don't fully understand what happens in those camps, but they share one grim commonality: the death rates are extremely high.”

Mann pondered this. There had been scandals in the past that Negro rights movements had exposed, revealing inhumane treatment. Even the central government had knowingly used slaves in the development of nuclear power, subjecting them to dangerously high levels of radiation.

"Do the camps produce any products that could be inherently dangerous?" Mann asked.

"No. Most of them create simple products that could be manufactured much more efficiently and cheaply by machines nowadays. A few camps don't seem to do anything at all, almost like they’re just holding areas. But one thing is certain: many Black individuals die in them. Here."

King handed Mann a stack of papers. The reporter looked at the first document and saw that it was a death certificate for a slave. The rest were similar.

"These are photocopies of death certificates for slaves. Every time a slave dies, a document must be issued by law to confirm the death of the slave. Otherwise, owners would have to continue paying property tax on them, and they would need to be included in the five-year slave census. All those copies of death certificates you have in your hands are from just one camp in Virginia last year. Examine them closely."

Mann did so, reading through each certificate. A fifty-year-old slave named James had been killed in an automobile accident. A twenty-two-year-old slave named Martha died of an unexplained illness. Another fifteen-year-old slave named Mary drowned. Halfway through the pile, an unusual pattern became apparent to Mann. He looked back at King.

"Not one of these individuals was over sixty. They were all young and died from sudden illnesses or accidents. The likelihood of that happening in one camp in a single year is astronomical."

King nodded sadly.

"Exactly. Five of those deaths are due to automobile accidents. That’s quite a high number considering very few slaves are even allowed to drive. The dates are all different, so it couldn’t have been one truckload of blacks crashing. It’s as if..."

"It’s as if," Mann interrupted, "someone just filled out the death certificates with anything to complete the forms."

"I think you're right, Thomas," King replied. "The doctors who signed these forms probably believed no one would ever bother to read them, let alone compare them as a group."

Mann realized King was correct—something more disturbing was happening in these camps, something the people running them didn't want the public to know.

"Do you know who runs these camps?" Mann asked.

"As far as we know, it’s a Southerner named Lawrence Taggart. Have you heard of him?"

"You bet I have. He’s made millions in the slave trade. He owns slave farms all over the Caribbean, and it's rumored he has some deep connections within the British and German empires to illegally import new slaves directly from Africa."

"That’s the man. Let’s just say he’s not on anyone's short list for humanitarian of the year. We fear that if he’s involved in these camps, something is going on that allows him to profit."

Mann couldn’t understand it. Slaves were treated as inventory and were not insurable. A man can’t profit by killing off his own inventory.

"Martin, you may be right, but how can he make money by killing his own slaves? It’s like an egg farmer killing all his laying hens."

King shrugged, not having all the answers. "I don’t know either, unless he’s being paid to kill slaves."

"To do what—reduce the population? Taggart would have to kill hundreds of thousands of slaves to achieve that. No number of death certificates could cover up such mass murder. Could those who were killed be suspected liberationists or other 'enemies' of the conservative elements in the government?"

"No," King said, shaking his head. "We’ve considered that possibility, but it doesn’t add up. There’s only one death we know of connected to the liberation movement, and that was likely just a coincidence. As I said, we have our suspicions, but nothing fits together in the long run. That’s why we needed you."

"It sounds like you need a detective more than anything," Mann stated honestly.

"We do have detectives sympathetic to our cause, but what we really need is a way to get the information out to the public. Don’t worry, Thomas; we won’t leave you out there alone. We’ll watch your back and support you as much as we can every step of the way. Our organization is stronger than you or the government believes, but we need you in the vanguard."

Feeling like the point man in a military patrol, Mann considered his options. He could forget the whole thing and run back to New York, but that wasn't what a good reporter would do. He could hang around the group and see what else might turn up, but that could be unproductive. Ultimately, he knew he would probably take the point position to dig for a great story, even if it meant risking his safety.

"All right, Martin, you've got yourself an investigative reporter, but keep this in mind: the second things go sideways, I'm out of here."

"Fair enough," King replied, nodding. "Henry here," he motioned to the white bodyguard, "will stay close to you. Since Henry is white, it will make it easier for him to move around without raising suspicion. You may not see Henry, but he’ll be there."

"And one more thing, Thomas. For a long time now, our movement has been gaining strength. Are we strong enough to wage a successful revolt across the fifty-two Confederate States? Most likely not. But I swear to you, I am a man of peace, and so far, I have kept my more violent brothers at bay. However, if we learn that the government is systematically killing Black people, I will not be able to stop them, nor would I want to. Many, many white people will lie dead in pools of their own blood before we are subdued. We will fight to our deaths."

Looking into the depths of the old man's eyes, Mann understood he meant every word, and he began to wonder. If he could prove that Black people were being systematically exterminated by the Richmond government or by another party with the government's approval, would the Black community feel compelled to revolt? The mood in the country was more anti-slavery than ever. More politicians, churches, and ordinary people were speaking out against slavery every day; many called it a savage and primitive institution. It was often said that the South had fought for states’ rights and that slavery just happened to be on the winning side.

It was almost incomprehensible, but Mann tried to conceive of an America without it.