Unexpected Visitor

 Unexpected Visitor 

1.  The Oval Office

“The price is up?  Good.  Sell 100,000 Trump coins....I don’t care if it drives the price down...Yes, follow the usual procedure.  If it goes to 50% or less, buy the 100,000 back at discount....  If it goes up high enough, do it again.  Pump and dump, my friend.  Pump and dump.”

Donald hung up the phone, then straightened up.  The oval office was empty, but Donald felt that someone was staring at his back.   He whirled his chair around, and stared out the window.  It was an overcast day, though whether through the accumulation of storm clouds or wisps of smoke from Canadian wildfires, he could not say, and did not care.  His gaze wandered from the trees near the White House, across the South lawn, past the fountain.  On the other side of the iron fence, he could make out the figure of a tall, thin man, dressed in black, that appeared to be staring intently through the fence.  Distant though he was, Donald had a feeling that he had seen this man before.  

Without taking his gaze off the figure, Donald called out, “Security–To my office.”

In a matter of seconds, a Secret Service Agent appeared.  “Yes sir, Mr. President.”

Donald waved vaguely, still staring out the window.  “Fred, come over here and take a look at that man on the other side of the fence.”

The agent moved around the desk, and looked out the window.

“Do you see him?” continued Donald.  “Almost straight back, black suit, looking through the fence.”

The agent peered intently, squinted a bit.  “I’m sorry sir.  Where is he? I’m not seeing him.”

Donald whirled to face the agent.  “Are you blind, or just stupid?  He’s standing outside the fence, right over there!”   Donald pointed outside the window, and stopped.  The man had disappeared.

The agent straightened up.  “I’ll check the video feeds right away, sir.” 

“Yeah, you do that,” replied Donald.  “Find out who that is.”

2. Security Review

In the security office, the Secret Service shift supervisor gazed at a large screen.  His arms were crossed over his chest, and he cradled his chin in one hand.  Finally, he looked over at the agent who had brought him the report.  “I just don’t see it, Fred.  I’ve been over the area from three different camera angles, and there’s no one in a black suit, no one staring through the fence.”  

He looked over at Fred, whose face was a picture of restrained misery and discomfort, more often seen on the visages of losing lawyers. “What time did this happen again, Fred?”

“My log shows that I responded to the President at 11:11 AM,” Fred replied. “The Oval Office video feed shows POTUS whirling his chair around at 11:10.  It’s a pretty tight time frame.”

“OK, Fred,” sighed the supervisor.  “We’ll cycle this one around in the low level alert bulletin.  Let me know if POTUS sees him again.”

3. Springfield, Illinois, A few days earlier.

It was 5:30 PM at the Oak Ridge Cemetery, in Springfield, Illinois.  After completing her rounds of the Cemetery and closing the gates, she retired to the Caretaker’s House on the edge of the grounds.  She remembered years ago, what the previous caretaker had told her when she took up this position.  “You won’t ever be a millionaire,” she was told, “but the housing is free, and it’s a quiet neighborhood.”  Despite this, Marjorie had stayed on in the position.  She was the caretaker in charge of the tomb of Abraham Lincoln, the 16th President of the United States, as well as caretaker for the rest of the cemetery, and felt that she had done a good job maintaining it despite funding cuts, staff cuts, and a salary that did not keep up with inflation.  

Marjorie busied herself with preparations for dinner.  She had the TV on in the background, but her interest was on the thunderclouds rolling across the sky in her direction.  No cause for concern there.  Springfield needed a good, soaking rain.  She poured a box of macaroni into the saucepan of boiling water on the kitchen stove, and threw a couple of hotdogs into the iron skillet next to it, her hands automatically going through the motions of making one of her dietary staples.   

She was gazing out the kitchen window at the cemetery.  The obelisk on top of Lincoln’s tomb was clearly visible as always, but highlighted with golden light from the sunset shining sideways from the west, that contrasted sharply with the dark clouds in the background.  “That would make a great picture,” she thought to herself.  “Too bad the camera on my phone doesn’t work.”

Her dreamy thoughts were interrupted by a blinding stroke of lightning.  Three seconds later, a deep Boom of thunder rattled the windows of the tiny house.  Marjorie blinked several times, but the image persisted on her retinas; The obelisk of Lincoln’s tomb had been hit by a major lightning strike!  “I’ll have to check for damage,” she thought as she drained the noodles and added butter and the cheese packet.

She had just set the pan down and was reaching over to turn the hotdogs with a fork when a grinding sound rattled the windows again.  Later, she said it felt like there was a huge truck with ten-foot wheels rolling down the street near the house.  The floor shifted, like a water wave had gone under its concrete foundations.  The house trembled.  So did she– And then the power went out.  “What the hell?” Marjorie said aloud.   Dinner forgotten, she made her way in the dark to the front door of the house.  When she opened it, rain was coming down in sheets.  Car alarms and sirens sounded, and dogs barked in the distance, interrupted only by lightning bolts.  She shut the door.  “I’d better do the rounds again. Soon as the rain stops.”

4.  Tomb of Lincoln

It had been two days since the storm.  The New Madrid fault, least predictable of all the geologic faults of North America, had taken a jag that night.  Marjorie’s rounds of the cemetery had revealed three headstones toppled over–easily corrected– And a crack in the steps leading to Lincoln’s vault.

What if the memorial had been damaged?  She posted signs at the entry to close the monument, and called a building inspector–With the quake, his schedule was full, but since it was a National Monument, he worked her right in.

“Do you think it was the lightning strike?” Marjorie asked him.

“No, it was probably the quake.” The inspector gestured up at the obelisk.  “The obelisk is stable, though there is a bit of dust at its base.  Probably set loose from the quake’s vibration.  Fortunately they thought to put a lightning rod on it, so no harm done from the lightning strike.  The vault room though– That’s another story.  It’s safe for us to go in, but you may want to leave it closed to the public, pending....repairs.”  

He gestured her to go inside the building.  Soon, they were in the vault room.  The inspector pulled out a flashlight.  He clicked the switch, and the flashlight came on.  He clicked again, and the light turned off, a red laser pointer beam in its place.

“The building is, amazingly, structurally sound,” he said, pointing the laser at the bearing walls and beams.  “No damage at all.  However, there’s another problem...”  

He gestured for Marjorie to follow him to the back of the red stone slab at the center.  She gasped when she saw it–A crack in the floor, 4 inches wide and 8 feet long.

“Oh no!” Marjorie exclaimed.  “This is terrible!  How are we going to fix it?  There isn’t money in the budget for routine maintenance, let alone something like this!”

“I’m afraid there’s more to it,” the building inspector said grimly.  He knelt down next to the crevice, and shone his laser light into it.  Marjorie slowly came to the edge and looked down.  At the bottom of the crack, revealed from ten feet of concrete beneath them, the laser light dimly illuminated a dusty wooden object.

The color drained from Marjorie’s face.  “That can’t be what I think it is.”

“I’m afraid so,” said the building inspector.  “It’s the top of Abraham Lincoln’s coffin.”

5.  Oval Office

“These measures are all part of the same plan,” Steve was explaining.  A select group of Cabinet officials were gathered in the Oval Office, listening thoughtfully.  “We have to get the foreigners out, the illegal aliens, the criminals that are taking American jobs.  ICE is doing a great job, rounding up the undesirables, but there’s a long way to go.  We need to push for repeal of birthright citizenship.  It’s a key part of restoring the Christian Majority to the United States.”

“But how is this going to make a difference?” asked Brooke.  “There aren’t really that many illegals compared to the whole US Population.  And some industries, especially agriculture, depend on temporary workers to harvest the crops.”

“This isn’t about crops,” Steve continued.  “If we can get rid of birthright citizenship, it means that we can take away the citizenship of anyone who was born in the US.  Anyone who doesn’t meet the standards of being a Patriotic American.  We can still have people come in to harvest the crops, don’t worry.  But destabilizing citizenship will make the population more.... compliant, shall we say, to our wishes.  And if they aren’t, we’ll deport them.”

“So, anyone who isn’t with us is...?”  Howard asked.

“A second-class citizen,” Steve finished.  

“Almost like they are slaves?” said Howard, blinking.

“Let’s not call them slaves,” Steve countered.  “How about ‘employees who can’t quit that have fewer and fewer benefits.’”

Donald was sitting behind the Resolute Desk in his chair.  It was a comfortable chair--very comfortable, and Donald’s eyelids were growing heavy.  A movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye.  He rotated the chair towards the window– And his eyelids shot up.

There was a man in a dark suit out on the South lawn.  He was pushing an old-style push mower back and forth on the grass.   As Donald watched the man’s head turned rapidly, and he stared at the President.  He was closer now, and Donald got a good look at him.  Brown, towsled hair, bushy black eyebrows, and a beard with no mustache.  The man stopped mowing the lawn, and went over to the edge of the fountain.  He picked up a black stovepipe hat and put it on his head.  Donald watched him, transfixed.  He picked up a farm implement.  What was that thing?  A scythe?  Donald was pretty sure it was a scythe.  Staring sternly at Donald, the man swung the scythe, felling several of the decorative plants around the fountain.  When the stalks fell, Donald felt an electric shock go through his chest.  He stood up from his chair, and Steve stopped talking.

“Security!” Donald called.  “Fred?  Get in here!”

6. The Reaper

Everyone else began to come to the window, staring outside of it when Fred, the Secret Service Agent, appeared less that a minute later.

“Look out there!”  Donald was pointing at the window.  “See him there?  He’s right on the South Lawn!”

Fred came up to the window, peering out.  “Mr. President, describe what you see.”

“He’s right there!” said Donald.  “It’s some guy dressed up like Abraham Lincoln!  He looks exactly like Abraham Lincoln! Right there!”

“OK,” Fred said calmly.  “What is he doing?”

“Lincoln was mowing the lawn with a push mower."  Donald continued.   "Then he stopped mowing, picked up a scythe, and– Aaagh!”  

“What’s happening?” asked Fred, outwardly cool, but with growing alarm.  

“Every time he swings that scythe, an electric shock goes through me!   Arrest him!  Capture him now!”

Fred spoke into a button on his lapel.  Thirty seconds later, they watched as armed Secret Service agents swarmed across the South Lawn.

Donald felt a hand on his shoulder.  He looked back to see Howard, a concerned expression on his face. “Donald... We are trying, but we can’t see what you are talking about.  What’s going on?”   

He looked around the small circle of his followers.  Most were concerned.  Steve’s face was strangely neutral.  Donald looked back out the window.  He saw Secret Service agents systematically combing through the South Lawn, but there was no trace of Abraham Lincoln.

“We can reconvene tomorrow,” announced Steve.  Donald watched them file out of the office, until he was alone with Fred, the Secret Service Agent.

“The intruder used a lawnmower and a scythe,” Fred commented.  “We will look for cut plants and the equipment.  He can’t have gone far with them.”

“Get on it, Fred.”  Trump waved him away.

“”Yes sir, Mr. President,” said Fred, and left the room.

Donald sat down heavily in his comfortable chair.  He pressed an intercom button.  “Diet Coke and french fries.”

In a few minutes, the food came into the office from McDonalds.   Donald had begun ordering from McDonalds because they had an instant winner contest going on.  He ate a fistful of fries, and took a long pull on the Diet Coke, then he peeled off the contest sticker.  

“You shall not enslave the people that I have set free.”  

Donald wrinkled his nose.  “Meh.  Not a winner,” he said to himself, and threw the tag into the small shredder next to his desk.  A second later, he remembered what Stephen had been talking about.  He reached towards the shredder, but the tag was already gone.

“Damn it!  What’s going on here?”

7.  Security Office

“Did they find anyone?” Fred asked, when he arrived at the Security office.  

“Not exactly,” replied the Shift Supervisor.  “No one was found on the South Lawn.  Of course not.  How could someone get that close to the White House?  We took statements from the people at the meeting.  Only Donald himself saw ‘Abraham Lincoln.’  But there were certain anomalies.”

“What sort of anomalies?” Fred asked.

“There were a couple of rows of grass, North of the Fountain, that were a quarter of an inch shorter than the surrounding grass.”

“A quarter of an inch?” Fred was surprised.  “Do we monitor that sort of thing?”

“You’d be surprised,” said the Supervisor.  “There were also two groups of plants near the fountain that seemed to be... cut short with a sharp, single blade.”

“Like a scythe?” asked Fred.

“Yup, like a scythe,” replied the Supervisor.  “Look, so far, only POTUS has seen this man.  But to be safe, we’re going to elevate the threat level on this one.  It can’t be that difficult to find a tall, skinny man with a stovepipe hat that looks like Abraham Lincoln.  Let me know if ‘Lincoln’ crops up again.”

8. Oval office

“We have to find a way to get a cut of the tolls in Hormuz.”  Donald was back on the phone with someone in the War Department.  “We don’t need to take over Hormuz.... Right.  The Iranians can take in the money from the tankers.  They’re crazy, everyone is afraid of them, so let them take the money in.  If we keep applying pressure, someone will make a deal....  Yes, that means the ships have to stay where they are....I don’t care if the sailors are killing themselves.  People die in war, that’s how it works.  All we have to do is get to the right people in Iran and collect the skim....  They do the work, we get the money.  That’s how I’ve done it in Venezuela, and that’s how I want it in Iran.... Who cares what the generals and admirals think?  Find a way to make it stick....  Good boy, Pete!”

Donald hung up the phone, and picked up the plans for his ballroom.  “Ahh, the Ballroom!” he thought to himself.  “Will it be ready by 2028?  Yes, I think it will.  Biden, Obama, all the rest of them.. They think they will win in 2028, but they have already lost.  Just let me get into my command center down below, and then we’ll see if they can get me out.”   

Donald’s finger traced an orange line that started in the bunker and went out of Presidential Park, and into Washington DC.  “A fiberoptic cable nine inches across.  Big as a tree trunk!  When they load my consciousness into the quantum computer, I will have direct control of all the new Data Centers, right through that cable!  Then we’ll see if they can get rid of me!”

He looked at a bookshelf, where a dog-eared paperback copy of Mein Kampf sat among much older leather-bound tomes, out of place if anyone had seen it.  Donald sighed with content.  “Things are going along very nicely,” he said to himself.  “If Adolph had a setup like the one they are making for me, he would still be Chancellor of Germany!”

Donald cocked his head to one side.  Somehow, the light had changed.  His plans seemed dimmer.  He checked the desk lamp.  No burned-out bulbs.  Then he got that feeling again.  Someone was behind him, watching him.  He whirled his seat around.  Outside on the patio, just outside the window stood a tall man in a black suit gazing directly at him with piercing blue-grey eyes beneath heavy, black eyebrows.  His face was resolute, set, and determined.  When Donald turned, the man raised his right arm and pointed his finger at Donald’s chest.  Donald quaked with fear, frozen in place in his chair.  He felt his bowels give way, filling his incontinence briefs, but he hardly noticed it.  

Donald rose to his feet, and managed to stammer out, “Abraham Lincoln?  Wha– What do you want from me?”

Lincoln continued to point at Donald’s chest, but he locked eyes with Donald.  Donald found he could not look away from those terrible, piercing eyes.  He seemed to fall into them until he could see nothing but those eyes.  

“It can’t be you–You’re dead!  Who are you, really? What do you want from me?” Donald pleaded.  

The man’s voice rumbled in Donald’s head.  “Who am I?  I am the first elected Republican President.  And you– You are the last elected Republican President.  I will see to that.”

“But why?” Donald whined.  “I’m not doing anything different from anyone else in Washington.”

The rumbling voice continued.  “What you are doing is completely different from what I did.  I set limits on slavery, and then abolished it when the time was right.  I told the truth about slavery.  I kept us out of war with Britain.  Sadly, not so with our brothers in the South.  But I sought to heal the rifts that divided our nation.  I did all this at the cost of my livelihood, my land, and my life.”

“But, but that’s what I am doing now,” Donald blubbered.  “Don’t you see that I’ve Made America Great Again?”

There was a thunderous growl from the other side of the glass, and the voice continued.  “It is plain to all Eternity what YOU have done!  You promised peace, but brought America never-ending war!  You are enslaving non-whites, and plan to enslave whites too.  And you are using your office to line your pockets while bringing the globe to the brink of war and economic collapse.  The blood of every soldier, every sailor, US or foreign, is on your foul hands.  You are a stench in the nostrils of the Almighty, along with the cowards that could have stopped you, but went along instead.  I am ashamed of what the Republican Party has become!  Have you anything to say for yourself?”

Donald had put his hands up against the window, as if to push Lincoln back, but the brightness emanating from those blue-grey eyes drowned everything out.  He felt naked and afraid.

“It was my advisors,” Donald finally said.  “I’ve gotten bad advice from stupid people all along.  I can fire them, and get new ones.   And the stench–It’s because, well, I’m old now, and I have to wear diapers–”

“Enough!” The rumbling voice shook the floor of the Oval Office like a tree crashing into a living room.  Donald stopped talking.

“You will, by the end of this day, resign as President.  If you do not, I will visit you again.  You have much to atone for, Donald.”

“But if I do that, JD will become President!” Donald wailed.  “He’s no better than I am!”

“I will deal with JD, and his successor, and his successor, until I find someone who will take responsibility for the evil you have done, and make it right.”

Here, the Voice paused, and rumbled again, “Mene, Mene, Tekhel, Uparshin.”

“What?” squeaked Donald

“You have been weighed in the Balances and found Wanting.  You have been weighed in the Balances and found Wanting.  Your kingdom will be taken from you, and given to the Medes and the Persians.”

“But, I don’t understand!” wailed Donald. “What does it mean?”

“Since you have never read the Bible, or much of anything else, ask your Christian and Jewish 'friends' what it means,” retorted the Voice in thunder.  “If any of THEM have read their scriptures, they can explain it to you."

Donald collapsed into his Very Comfortable Chair and buried his face in his hands, weeping.   When he felt a hand on his shoulder, he screamed and jerked away.

“Mr. President, are you all right?”  It was Fred, the Secret Service Agent.

9.  Security Office

“Something bad is happening to POTUS, but I can’t figure it out.”  The Shift Supervisor looked bemused, and Fred was equally mystified.  They had reviewed the security footage and seen Donald talking at the window, but there was no trace of the vengeful Abraham Lincoln.  No thundering voice on the audio.  Yet POTUS had given them very specific information on the mysterious encounter.

“OK,” said the Supervisor. “Let’s look at this from a different angle.  We don’t see Lincoln, but what he’s telling Donald makes... a certain amount of sense.   What if this is some sort of spiritual thing?”

“Ghosts are a little beyond our purview,” countered Fred.  “How are we supposed to handle risk from ghosts?”

“Again,” replied the Supervisor, “you would be surprised at the resources we have here in the White House.  You know where the Calligraphy Office is?”

“We have a Calligraphy Office in the White House?” Fred wondered.

“Oh yes,” the Supervisor affirmed, “with a full-time calligrapher.  Does invitations and what not.  Look it up on the floorplans.   Well, to the right of the Calligraphy Office is the Astrology Office.”

“Astrology Office?  Are you pulling my leg?  Because this is not a good time.”

“Truth is stranger than fiction,” the Supervisor continued.  “You know what they say, ‘Millionaires don’t consult Astrologers; only Billionaires do.’  Even John F. Kennedy consulted Jean Dixon.  Donald hired the Astrologer in the middle of his first term to give him investment advice.  Biden found him useful, and he’s still there.  Let’s go down and see him.”

10.  Astrology Office

When Fred and his Supervisor arrived at the Astrology Office, the door was open.  Fred reached up to give a polite knock, but a voice within said, “Don’t bother knocking, come on in.  I’m almost done here.”

The Astrologer, a man in his late fifties with longish hair and a salt-and-pepper beard that reached to his waist, was leaning over a circular diagram on a work table.  The room smelled of Orange-Spice tea and incense.  

The Astrologer stood up and shook hands with both men.  “I’m John,” he told them.  “Have a seat.”

Fred was about to explain why they were there, but John held up a hand and cut him off.  “There’s no need to explain,” he said.  “You’re here because POTUS seems to be having visitations from the ghost of Abraham Lincoln, and you want to know if this is a genuine spiritual phenomenon, or something else, and what can be done about it.”

John said this with confidence, as if stating obvious facts.  Fred and his Supervisor looked at each other, then looked back at John.

“I ran runes, geomancy, and have just completed a mundane astrology chart on these questions,” John continued.  “You are here for the bottom line, so I won’t waste your time with explaining how all this works.”

He looked up from the papers on his desk, and continued.

“Your first question: ‘Is this a spiritual phenomenon, or something else?’  It IS a spiritual phenomenon.  In this case POTUS is not hallucinating.  He is enduring visits from the spirit of the 16th President, Abraham Lincoln.”

Here, John leaned back in his chair and looked up at the ceiling.  “Actually, Lincoln is not just the spirit of the former President.  Lincoln has become what we would technically call a ‘demigod.’  Not a lot is known about his activities AS a demigod since he seems to have ascended to that level in the 1960's, but Lincoln seems to be concerned with civil rights, peace, and taking power away from those who misuse it.”

John glanced at the circular chart on his desk, traced a line with his index finger, and tapped it several times.  He pulled out a second piece of paper with a box and something that looked like a crude drawing of a shield, full of dots, nodded his head once, and continued.

“Lincoln is quite upset with POTUS, and has visited POTUS recently– no, make that today– to accuse POTUS of going completely against Lincoln’s goals for the Republicans.  He has demanded that POTUS resign, and he will take down the Republican Party if this does not happen today.”

Fred and his Supervisor were staring at John with their mouths open, but John seemed not to notice, and continued.  

“Your second question: ‘What can be done about it?’  Well, not a lot, I’m afraid.  Fred, you were entirely correct to say that Secret Service is not equipped to deal with spiritual matters.  The Demigod Lincoln will follow his own course.  If it so happens that you have the chance to advise POTUS on this, tell him to apologise and do whatever the Demigod told him.  Otherwise, do your best to stay out of the Demigod’s way.”

Neither Fred, nor his Supervisor, had said a word since arriving at the office.  They looked at each other again, and sat there in stunned silence as John put the papers on his desk into a folder, and got out another blank set.  John looked up.  “For the National Archives,” he said, cracking a slight smile for the first time.  “I’d ask you if there was anything else, but I know there’s nothing else work-related.  Stay as long as you like.”  He gestured to a hot water pot near a cabinet.  “I have several types of tea.”

“Can you..?  Did you... How...?” began Fred, but John held up a hand to stop him.  “Yes I am likely the best Astrologer in North America, but I have other occult skills as well.  Yes Fred, if you want to visit some other time, I’ll be glad to explain to you how it all works, but there’s a lot to it and there will be homework.  No, I really don’t have a lot of social skills, but you’d get used to it.  Now gentlemen,” John gestured to the door, “you have the information you came for, and there is still a crisis of the Presidency in which you will play a part.  Close the door on your way out please.”

11.  Presidential Dining Room

After Natalie had helped him change into a new set of disposable briefs, Donald had supper with her in the private dining room.  

“It’s so nice how you smile at me all the time,” Donald told her.

“Oh Mr. President!” Natalie gushed, “I would do anything for you.  You are my hero!”

Donald reached a claw-like right hand under the table and patted the top of her leg with it, dislodging a plaque of makeup.  “You’ve already done so much,” he told her.  “If only my other people were as loyal as you.”

“Oh, Mr. President,” she continued, adoration in her voice, “what will you do about Lincoln?”

“I’ve decided he’s just a hallucination,” said Donald.  “I’m not going to resign.  If Lincoln were real, he would be thanking me for being the Best President Ever.  Everyone who knows me, knows it’s true.”

Natalie helped Donald up from the table, and helped him walk to the Presidential bedroom, where the covers were already turned down, and the blue chux were laid out midway down on the mattress in case of accidents.  She tucked him in, and said, “Don’t worry about Lincoln, Mr. President Sir.  I’m sure this will all blow over.  She kissed him on the forehead, and said, “I’ll be in to check on you later tonight.”

12.  Night Time in the Residence

Donald slept peacefully for a couple of hours, then (as was his custom) he woke up, grabbed his iPad, and began to make posts on Truth Social.  One of them featured an Abraham Lincoln, vanquished at the feet of Donald, who was clad in golden armor.  In another, Donald piloted a jet that was shooting missiles at a fleeing Abraham Lincoln.  He captioned that one, “Thus to All Tyrants!”  It seemed to have a ring to it.

He was in the middle of typing another message about blowing up Iranians (which followed the previous one about how eager they were to make a peace deal), when he heard a noise from the other end of the hallway that ran the length of the residence.  The night staff were ordered to wear soft-soled shoes, so as not to waken the President.  This sounded more like boots.  

What was at the other end of the hallway? He wondered.  Then it came to him.  The Lincoln Bedroom.  

“Hello? Security!” he called out.  Usually, this was enough to bring someone into the room in seconds.  This time no one came.  “Security!  I need you!”  An edge of panic crept into his voice.  

“Natalie?  Are you there?”  Again, no response.

The boots came closer and closer, down the hall with measured steps.  Whoever it was, was not in a hurry.  By the time they arrived at the room, Donald already knew.  As the tall head bobbed down to let its stovepipe hat into the room, Donald began to shriek.  “Lincoln!  Stay AWAY!  Nooooo...”

13.  At the Cemetery

The Building Inspector returned to Oak Ridge for a second look.  There had been a second aftershock tremor, a small one, the night before, and he wanted to see if additional damage had been done to the Tomb of Lincoln.

“This is getting to be a regular thing,” he joked with Marjorie, the Caretaker. “Let’s take another look.”

They walked into the tomb, talking as they went.

“Pity about the President,” he said.

“Yes,” she agreed.  “I don’t know where we will ever find the funds to fix that hole properly.”

“I was talking about Donald.”

“What?  Oh yes.  Him.”  Marjorie looked down as she walked.  “Yes, that was also a pity.  But I never expected what happened to JD and Mike, too.  And all within the same day.”

“It’s going to take them some time to set up all the necessary ceremonies,” the inspector remarked.

“More of our tax money gone,” said Marjorie, nodding her head. “But for just this time around, I don’t feel bad about it.”

They reached the tomb, and the Building Inspector went behind the great cenotaph to examine the rift that had developed there only a few days before.  “Well!  I’ll be!” 

“What? What is it?” Marjorie hurried to go behind the great stone.   His flashlight told the story.  The concrete block, or at least part of it, had shifted again.  The rift was closed, the casket at the bottom was sealed in again.

“There’s some minor damage to the floor,” the Inspector was saying, “and someone should get ground-penetrating radar in here to be sure that the concrete doesn’t shift again. But I’d say you can open it back up for visitors.”  

Marjorie walked the inspector back to his car, feeling much relieved.