FOREWORD
One of the earliest urban legends that persist to this very day concerns President Abraham Lincoln. As the story goes, President Lincoln—shot with a bullet cursed by a voodoo priest—did not die, but instead survived in a comatose state for many decades, his body somehow remaining limber and ageless. Lincoln is said to have awakened in the 1930s, during the depths of the Great Depression, returning once again to save the nation. But instead of welcoming him with open arms, President Roosevelt refused the elder statesman’s services, and Lincoln made a terrible enemy in the form of the powerful and sadistic J. Edgar Hoover.
As recompense for Lincoln allegedly murdering a federal agent, Hoover confiscated a fortune left to the former president by his son, Robert. In retaliation, Lincoln teamed up with the infamous desperado John Dillinger—yes, John Dillinger—robbing Federal Banks in an attempt to recoup the money stolen from him by the FBI Director.
Dillinger was gunned down outside of a movie theater in Chicago, while Lincoln disappeared back into the pages of history. Here the story ends.
The origin of this incredible yarn is unknown. The earliest evidence contradicting the historical record appears to be an Abraham Lincoln “Wanted” poster, which surfaced in 1933. The name on the poster was “Abe Lancaster,” which as the legend goes was the alias Lincoln used, but the images and description were that of the late President. Over the course of the ensuing years, dime-store detective magazines and comic books surfaced, each featuring some variation of the basic story.
Decades later, in the 1970s, a number of elderly individuals came forward claiming to have seen and even to have known Abraham Lincoln in the early 1930s. When questioned about the timing of their revelations, to a person each asserted they had been waiting until J. Edgar Hoover was dead. One notable member of this curious group was John Dillinger’s older sister Audrey.
Perhaps the most amazing claim connected with the legend came from none other than Judy Garland. In a radio interview given shortly before her death in 1969, Garland recalled that as a child in 1934—when she was then known as Frances Gumm—she appeared onstage in Chicago in a singing act known as the Gumm Sisters. Judy’s act often shared the bill with famous vaudevillians and she faithfully kept an autograph book of their encounters. One hot July evening, in front of the Biograph Theater, the young girl thought she recognized a tall man. She asked the man if he was famous and he smiled, assuring her he was, indeed. The gentleman obligingly signed her book, but it wasn’t until later in the evening that Judy glanced at the inscription. The man had written: “To Frances, with my best wishes, A. Lincoln.”
Garland claimed to still have the book in 1969, giving further credence to the myth. She died a short time later, and her autograph book was never found.
Urban legends generally have some basis in truth, but a centenarian Abraham Lincoln as a public enemy is so outrageous one has to wonder why so many individuals—to this day—swear the story is true.
CHAPTER ONE
Oval Office
The White House
November 4, 2013
The press is going to crucify me.
Barack Obama sighed, rubbed his left temple, and reached for his second cigarette of the day, stopping short of lighting it. He let his eyes roam over the room’s furnishings, his gaze coming to rest on the oval rug bearing the Presidential seal and stifled a wave of despair.
The website for his much vaunted Affordable Care Act was an unqualified disaster. The site crashed constantly or refused to load at all, and when it did manage to operate it was riddled with glitches and errors. And the responsibility for its failure rested entirely with him. Crucifixion was altogether too apt a word for what they would do to him, and there would be no resurrection. If his healthcare plan failed, his presidency was doomed, all credibility lost. The hounds of Congress would be baying for his blood and the Republicans would have meat for dinner.
Obama held the cigarette under his nose, inhaling its earthy tang, then looked at the varnished mahogany humidor from which he’d taken it. There was a plain brass plaque inset into the lid with one word engraved upon it: THINK. Michelle had given it to him the day after they’d moved into the White House as her way of admonishing him to think twice before lighting up in the hopes he’d eventually quit. The irony was that sometimes a smoke allowed him to think more clearly, calming his raging mind and revitalizing his energies just as they seemed to be waning.
He started to put the cigarette back into the humidor then stopped himself.
Sorry, my dear, but this is one I need.
He placed the cigarette between his lips then reached for his lighter, a replica of the Deringer John Wilkes Booth used to shoot Abraham Lincoln, and pulled the trigger. A small butane flame shot out of the barrel, making the end of the cigarette glow a pulsing red as he drew in the warm, silky smoke. A moment later he exhaled a thick gray cloud that hovered over his head like a layer of mist over a tranquil country lake.
There was a knock at the door and Obama smiled wearily.
“Come in, Joe.”
The curved, hidden door in the far wall opened and Joe Biden strode in, his tanned face etched with a confident, avuncular smile.
He’d known it was Joe because his Vice President invariably used the same knock: “Shave and a haircut, two bits.”
Biden took one of the chairs in front of the desk, his nose wrinkling at the odor of smoke.
“Any news?”
Biden shook his head. “They say they’ll have the major bugs out of it in about two weeks. Apparently re-writing a few thousand lines of code is not the walk in the park we assumed it would be.”
The President stubbed out the cigarette in disgust. “I don’t think we have two weeks, Joe.”
“The first thing you need to do is put this out of your mind, at least for awhile. The techies are working on it round the clock. We’ll get it sorted it out. It will work...in time.”
“I wish I had your confidence. I think what makes this worse for me is that I have absolutely no idea how to fix any of it.”
Biden’s easy grin vanished. “Mr. President, a pretty remarkable man once told me a story. He was traveling to the funeral of a friend. The rain was pouring buckets when his transportation broke down, and he hadn’t a clue how to fix it. But he knew what had to be done, and that was to get to the funeral to say good-bye to his friend. So he got out and walked, in the driving rain, for seven miles. Not very efficient, but he put one foot in front of the other until he got to where he had to be.”
“Your pep talk is about a funeral?”
Biden sighed. “Sorry, my point is that we need to back off and let the experts fix the website, because we have another issue.”
“What now? Have I been voted ‘Most Likely to Succeed’ in Kenya again?”
Biden ignored the remark and leaned forward. “We have a situation in Springfield.”
Obama frowned. “Springfield?”
And then he remembered.
When he’d taken office four years earlier and was settling into the Oval Office that first day he’d received a phone call from his predecessor. There was none of the folksy banter of previous conversations, none of the good-natured political sniping. Instead, he had listened while George W. Bush had told him the most incredible story he’d ever heard: that Abraham Lincoln was alive and slumbering in a secure building near his original Springfield home under the ever-watchful eyes of the FBI and the Bureau of the Interior. Slumbering for nearly a hundred and fifty years except, incredibly, for a short period of time during the 1930s.
Obama grabbed another cigarette and lit it, giving the Deringer lighter a studied glance.
“You know, when Mr. Bush told me that Lincoln was alive, it was all I could do to keep from laughing out loud. He sounded so earnest, so serious; I was frankly in awe of his ability to keep a straight face. After he hung up, I thought about it and came to the inescapable conclusion that this must be some rite of passage, some little initiation prank played on every in-coming Commander-in-Chief since Ulysses S. Grant. I laughed at it then, but I’m not laughing now. We have real problems.”
Biden just stared at the President, remaining silent.
Obama rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. “Okay, okay, you’re obviously not going to let this one go until you’ve had your little laugh at my expense. Go on then, tell me, what’s the problem with our dear Mr. Lincoln? Is he awake again?”
Biden nodded soberly. “Five days ago. After eighty years he opened his eyes and asked for a glass of water.” The President sat back in his chair, a look of wonder on his face. Biden continued. “I know you never believed it. I didn’t believe it myself until I sat across from him this morning. As close to him as I am to you. I can’t blame you for not believing the impossible, Mr. President. But it’s true—all of it.”
“Men don’t live to be over two hundred years old, with perhaps the exception of some members of Congress.” Obama shook his head, chuckling humorlessly. “Okay, I’ll bite. What did he say?”
“That he wants to see you, as soon as possible. That it’s a matter of ‘utmost urgency,’ as he put it.”
“Of course it is,” Obama said, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I wonder if our esteemed predecessor can offer any advice on our healthcare dilemma?”
For the first time Biden looked annoyed. “Please, Mr. President, I’m not here to waste your time. You know me better than that. I think there’s a reason he’s come back just now.”
Obama played along. “Like the mouse running across the mirror said, ‘That’s one way to look at it!’”
“You know, sometimes you even sound like him,” Biden said, chuckling.
An enigmatic smile crossed Obama’s face as he stared at the bust of Lincoln on the other side of the room. A moment later he reached a decision.
“All right, on your say-so, I’ll see whoever it is. Tell Denis to make the necessary arrangements. When will he be here?”
“Tomorrow morning, with his FBI escort—after our briefing; but he said he had to do something first.”
Obama laughed. “He has an appointment with the President of the United States, but has to do something first? That’s taking fashionably late to an extreme! What’s so important?”
“He wants to visit the grave of an old friend.”
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