It had been a long day, and her shoes pinched while listening to a series of operators patch her call through the switchboards in Pittsburg, Columbus, Indianapolis, Springfield, Topeka, and finally to the pharmacy in Junction City, Kansas, where Gray was awaiting her call.

“Caroline?” his voice finally came over the line. “How are you doing? How’s the president?”

All over the nation, it was the only thing people were talking about, and she answered as best she could. President McKinley had been doing well but seemed weaker today. Perhaps setbacks were to be expected during the long recovery process. Then she got down to the matter at hand.

“The Hebrew portion of Luke’s last message said to stop talking to Captain Holland. That he is dangerous.”

“But I thought you trusted Captain Holland,” Gray said.

“I did, but Luke clearly doesn’t. As soon as I’m back in Washington—”

A telephone operator’s voice interrupted them. “Breaking in with an emergency message from Milburn house,” she said. “Doctor Winston needs to speak with George Cortelyou immediately.”

Caroline’s heart seized. “Gray, I need to go.”

“Go,” he ordered, and Caroline dropped the earpiece, running to the dining room where the air was thick with cigar smoke and political gamesmanship.

“George, you’re needed on the telephone.”

He must have noticed her stricken expression, for he sobered as he stood. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. Dr. Winston is asking for you.”

George followed her back to the telephone, holding the earpiece so they could both listen as Dr. Winston’s tinny voice came across the wire.

“Gangrene has taken root in the president’s wound,” he said. “It’s spreading quickly, and his temperature has soared. There is no hope. I don’t expect him to survive the day.”

Caroline sagged against the wall. Infection was everyone’s greatest fear, but he’d survived a full week and had been getting better. She stared at George, irrationally hoping he’d say something to mitigate the doctor’s terrible message, but he looked as stunned as she felt.

“The president has asked for a pastor,” the doctor continued. “He knows he’s dying.”

George thanked the doctor and hung up the earpiece.

What are we going to do? What are we going to do?

She didn’t realize she’d been speaking aloud until George answered her.

“We send for the vice president.”

Thirty

William McKinley died at two o’clock in the morning, eight days after being shot. Theodore Roosevelt arrived later that day to a city in shock. There would be no formal inauguration, only a grim swearing-in ceremony that would occur in a few hours.