“And Mrs. McKinley? Will she be able to travel on the president’s train?” George asked.

“Pina says she will. She will be sedated, but I’ve arranged for a private nurse to accompany her. George, I think I need to contact Wilkie.”

“Why?”

She glanced down the hallway toward Nathaniel sitting at the kitchen table. “There’s something wrong with him. He can’t function. We need to assign someone else to oversee security for President Roosevelt’s trip to Washington.”

“Are you sure? I haven’t been paying him any mind.”

She had. Nathaniel had been completely detached ever since McKinley’s death ten hours ago. She scrambled for the most delicate way to phrase the problem.

“He’s taking it badly. He blames himself, and he’s exhausted. We cannot ask this of him.”

George nodded. “Can you handle the telephone call to Wilkie? I just got word that I’ve been asked to witness the swearing-in ceremony. It’s in twenty minutes.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

It would break her heart to convey this news to Nathaniel’s friend and supervisor, but she couldn’t ignore the problem, and there was no time for delay.

Six hours later Nathaniel stared out the window of the presidential train as it sped through the countryside, a notebook on his lap with a list of the towns they would pass on the way to Washington. His only official duty was to place a little checkmark beside each church that tolled their bell as the train passed. Caroline planned to send a note of thanks to each of them after the funeral.

Rain droplets rolled across the window and obscured much of the view, but he spotted the steeple of a white clapboard church rising above the trees in the tiny village of Osterburg, Pennsylvania, straight ahead. As the train drew closer, the faint tolling of church bells could be heard, and he made a check beside the town’s name.

All around him, the other passengers spoke in muted tones. This was the railway car holding the dozens of journalists who’d flooded into Buffalo to cover the president’s shooting. Sullivan and a pair of army officers rode in the car with President McKinley’s casket. Wilkie and half a dozen other agents rode in President Roosevelt’s car, but Nathaniel was relegated to ride with the journalists.

It was just as well. He’d rather be back here, noting the tolling of the bells.

“Complete disaster,” he heard one of the journalists on the bench ahead of him say. “Why wasn’t everyone frisked before entering the building?”

The other journalist shook his head. “It was obviously a total breakdown of security. Pathetic.”