Mayor Silas Wright was nowhere to be found, nor Sheriff French. Most of the aldermen had disappeared after their emergency meeting.

All sorts of military men were taking their uniforms out of storage: Colonel Roger Moore, somebody named Morton with the Naval Reserves, another fellow named McIlhenny. Sam just couldn’t keep the players straight anymore.

All those vectors of ambition were converging on the polls. If there was a single, secret plan, it couldn’t possibly be carried out amid this chaos of factionalism. Everybody was at odds. Nobody was going to get what he wanted. Everybody was going to step all over everybody else’s neat designs. Liquor, guns, politics, money, and white supremacy—quite a recipe.

Sam was aware of someone standing over him. “Colonel Waddell. Surprised to see you here.”

“The air smells of ozone,” Waddell declared, sniffing dramatically.

“Pardon me?”

Waddell slapped him on the back. “Storm coming,” he said happily. “Clear the air, make it so a man can breathe deeply again.”

A storm was coming, all right.

“Can you get away?” Waddell said. “We can talk over lunch.”

Sam glanced toward Clawson, who was looking his way through the glass and motioning him to go along. He didn’t look happy about it.

Sam grabbed his coat and followed Waddell to the door.

At the top of the stairs, Harry Calabash passed them going into the office. “Samuel,” he said. “Off to conquer new worlds, I see.”

Waddell looked on, annoyed.

“You all right?” Sam said. “I missed you.”

“Never better.” Harry looked tired, but his suit was immaculately cleaned and pressed, and he’d obviously been to the barber. He looked like a man with a purpose. Sam couldn’t smell liquor on his breath. Two men shouldered past them carrying Winchesters. “Democracy in action, eh?”

“Harry, we have to talk.”

Harry patted the pocket of Sam’s jacket, the one with the revolver. “Ruins the drape of your suit.”

“Mind your own business, Harry.”

Gabrielle emerged from her sewing room—the old servants’ quarters behind the kitchen—to take lunch with them. Before they sat down in the dining room, however, she and Colonel Waddell excused themselves to the library to discuss some household matter. He could just make out the rising inflection of her voice through the closed doors. He didn’t mean to listen, but it was a habit he had long cultivated for his profession.

Saffron King James wiped her hands on her apron and rested them on her hips.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Sam said. “What I did that night was wrong. I beg your pardon.”

“Don’t fret. I ain’t going to get you in trouble with your boss.”

“The Colonel’s not my boss.”

“Sure act like it.”

Sam glanced at the French doors of the study, still closed. Gabrielle’s voice was high and angry. He could make out a few words—they were quarreling over money, household expenses. “Look,” he said to Saffron, “things are getting plenty hot around here. You better watch yourself.”

“What you talking?”