“Can you get away and do a little scrounging on the streets?”

“I’ll fitcha in. But I can’t promise I’ll be much help.”

“Well, Fred, you’ve got one advantage over me, as far as blending in Uptown.”

“Right, right, right – my ass ain’t sitting in any bright red wheelchair.”

“Make that two advantages,” replied Rhyme, whose complexion was as pale as the rookie Pulaski’s blond hair.

Charles Singleton’s other letters arrived from Geneva ’s.

They hadn’t been stored very well over the years and were faded and fragile. Mel Cooper carefully mounted them between two thin sheets of acrylic, after chemically treating the creases to make sure the paper didn’t crack.

Sellitto walked over to Cooper. “Whatta we got?”

The tech focused the optical scanner on the first letter, hit a button. The image appeared on several of the computer monitors throughout the room.

My most darling Violet:

I have but a moment to set down a few words to you in the heat and calm of this early Sunday morning. Our regiment, the 31st New York, has come such a long way since we were unseasoned recruits assembling on Hart’s Island. Indeed, we now are engaged in the momentous task of pursuing Gen. Robert E. Lee himself, whose army has been in retreat after its defeat at Petersburg, Virginia, on April 2.

He has now taken a stand with his thirty-thousand troops, in the heart of the Confederacy, and it has fallen to our regiment, among others, to hold the line to the west, when he attempts to escape, which surely he must, for both General Grant and General Sherman are bearing down upon him with superior numbers.

The moment now is the quiet before the storm and we are assembled on a large farm. Bare-foot slaves stand about, watching us, wearing Negro cottons. Some of them say nothing, but regard us blankly. Others cheer mightily.

Not long ago our commander rode up to us, dismounted and told of the battle plan for the day. He then spoke – from memory, – words from Mr. Frederick Douglass, words that I recall to be these: “Once let the black man get upon his person the letters, ‘U.S.,’ an eagle on his buttons, a musket on his shoulder and bullets in his pockets, and no one on earth can deny that he has earned the right to citizenship in the United States.”

He then saluted us and said it was his privilege to have served with us in this God-sanctioned campaign to reunite our nation.

A hu-rah went up from the 31st the likes of which I have never heard.

And now, darling, I hear drums in the distance and the crack of the four- and eight-pounders, signaling the beginning of battle. Should these be the last words I am able to impart to you from this side of the River of Jordan, know that I love you and our son beyond words’ telling. Hold fast to our farm, keep to our fabrication of being caretakers of the land, not owners, and deflect all offers to sell. I wish the land to pass intact to our son and his issue; professions and trades ebb and flow, the financial markets are fickle, but the earth is God’s great constant – and our farm will ultimately bring to our family respectability in the eyes of those who do not respect us now. It will be our children’s salvation, and that of the generations that will follow. Now, my dear, I must once again take up my rifle and do as God has bid, to secure our freedom and preserve our sacred country.

Yours in eternal love,

Charles

April 9, 1865,

Appomattox , Virginia

Sachs looked up. “Phew. That’s a cliff-hanger.”

“Not really,” Thom said.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we know they held the line.”

“How?”

“Because April ninth’s the day the South surrendered.”

“Not really concerned about History 101 here,” Rhyme said. “I want to know about this secret.”

“That’s in this one,” Cooper said, scanning the second letter. He mounted it on the scanner.

My dearest Violet:

I miss you, my dear, and our young Joshua too. I am heartened by the news that your sister has weathered well the illness following the birth of your nephew and thankful to our Lord Jesus Christ that you were present to see her through this difficult time. However, I think it best that you remain in Harrisburg for the time-being. These are critical times and more perilous, I feel, than what transpired during the War of Secession.

So much has happened in the month you have been away. How my life has changed from simple farmer and school teacher to my present situation! I am engaged in matters that are difficult and dangerous and – dare I say, – vital for the sake of our people.

Tonight, my colleagues and I meet again at Gallows Heights, which has taken on the aspects of a castle under siege. The days seem endless, the travel exhausting. My life consists of arduous hours and coming and going under cover of darkness, and avoiding too those who would do us harm, for they are many – and not just former Rebels; many in the North are hostile to our cause as well. I receive frequent threats, some veiled, some explicit.

Another night-mare awakened me early this morning. I don’t recall the images that plagued my sleep, but after I awoke, I could not return to my slumbers. I lay awake till dawn, thinking how difficult it is to bear this secret within me. I so desire to share it with the world, but I know I cannot. I have no doubt the consequences of its revelation would be tragic.

Forgive my somber tone. I miss you and our son, and I am terribly weary. Tomorrow may see a rebirth of hope. I pray that such is the case.

Yours in loving

affection, Charles

May 3, 1867

“Well,” Rhyme mused, “he talks about the secret. But what is it? Must have something to do with those meetings in Gallows Heights. ‘Sake of our people.’ Civil rights or politics. He mentioned that in his first letter too…What the hell is Gallows Heights?”

His eyes went to the tarot card of The Hanged Man, suspended from a gallows by his foot.

“I’ll look it up,” Cooper said and went online. A moment later he said, “It was a neighborhood in nineteenth-century Manhattan, Upper West Side, centered around Bloomingdale Road and Eightieth Street. Bloomingdale became the Boulevard and then Broadway.” He glanced up with a raised eyebrow. “Not far from here.”

“Gallows with an apostrophe?”

“No apostrophe. At least in the hits I found.”

“Anything else about it?”

Cooper looked over the historical society website. “A couple things. A map from 1872.” He swung the monitor toward Rhyme, who looked it over, noting that the neighborhood encompassed a large area. There were some big estates owned by old-family New York magnates and financiers as well as hundreds of smaller apartments and homes.

“Hey, look, Lincoln,” Cooper said, touching part of the map near Central Park. “That’s your place. Where we are now. It was a swamp back then.”

“Interesting,” Rhyme muttered sarcastically.

“The only other reference is a Times story last month about the rededication of a new archive at the Sanford Foundation – that’s the old mansion on Eighty-first.”

Rhyme recalled a big Victorian building next to the Sanford Hotel – a Gothic, spooky apartment that resembled the nearby Dakota, where John Lennon had been killed.

Cooper continued, “The head of the foundation, William Ashberry, gave a speech at the ceremony. He mentioned how much the Upper West Side has changed in the years since it was known as Gallows Heights. But that’s all. Nothing specific.”

Too many unconnected dots, Rhyme reflected. It was then that Cooper’s computer binged, signaling an incoming email. The tech read it and glanced at the team. “Listen to this. It’s about Coloreds’ Weekly Illustrated. The curator of Booker T. Washington College down in Philly just sent me this. The library had the only complete collection of the magazine in the country. And -”