It was dark, only the one gas light illuminating the alley. It was chilly and a bit hazy as the wood smoke from countless homes mixed with the damp air.
The sounds of a horse picking its way through the dark ally made John Miles strain to see who the actor had been waiting for. The animal’s hooves rang on the stones. In a moment the mare and its rider came into the light. Miles didn’t notice as his lower jaw fell open. The rider was John Wilkes Booth! They were both John Wilkes Booth!
The pedestrian Booth reached within his coat pocket for something and pulled out a strange looking weapon that resembled a green pistol grip attached to a silver comb. At the same moment the mare reared and, quick as a shot, the mounted Booth pulled a knife from beneath his coat on his left side and threw it, striking the blade deep into the other’s heart.
John Miles scrambled down the stairs, turned a corner, and slammed into one of the stage hands, Ned Spangler. “Watch it, boy.”
“Mr. Spangler,” puffed John, “Out in back. Somebody tried to kill Mr. Booth.” His eyebrows went up when he recalled which one he had originally identified as the actor. “Maybe Mr. Booth’s the one who got killed.”
Spangler, a skeptical look on his face, cocked his head toward the stage door. “C’mon. Let’s see what you got stuck in your eye.”
Miles followed Spangler out the door into the alley. “By Jesus!” exclaimed the stage hand. “Mr. Booth, sir, what ever happened?” He turned and glared at Miles. “Hold Mr. Booth’s horse.”
John Miles got around Spangler so he could at last see. The John Wilkes Booth who had been mounted on the horse, the reins still in his hands, was turning the other over with the toe of his boot. The dead man wore the exact same outfit as the live one, down to the highly polished spurs. Without removing his gaze from the corpse, the actor handed John Miles the reins to his horse and answered, “Damned if I know, Ned.” He appeared to be almost in shock.
He squatted down to remove his knife from the dead man’s chest, but paused as something seemed to catch his eye. He reached out his right hand and picked at the corpse’s thick black mustache, identical to the actor’s. “Will you look at this.” He tore the artificial mustache from the corpse’s lip and held the object out to Spangler and Miles. “What in the devil was he after?”
“Perhaps, sir, we might instead ask what you’ve been up to tonight.” Miles turned his head back toward the stage door to see a man in his fifties dressed neatly in a brown suit and boots. He had a derby on, its brim almost covering his eyes.
Booth stood up, red faced, and answered hotly, “Make yourself clear, sir!”
The man extended the index finger of his right hand, placed it beneath the brim of his derby, and pushed the hat to the back of his head. “Detective Jason Wells, Mr. Booth, of the Washington Police. I was just wondering why a famous person such as yourself is skulking around a dark alley at this hour.”
Although he feigned anger, the actor’s face went pale. “I was not skulking. I pick up my mail at Ford’s, Detective Wells, and that is why I am here right now. Everybody knows me here. As Ned. Ask John.” He pointed down at the corpse. “Instead, you should be concerned with this one. As I rode up, this fellow was waiting and tried to kill me.”
“That’s right, sir,” said John Miles pointing at the rear of the theater. “I saw him from up in that window. He had a gun, just like Mr. Booth said. It was all green and silver. Never seen anything like it.”
Detective Wells squatted next to the body, examined it, and then placed two fingers across the corpse’s upper lip. “You know, Mr. Booth, with a mustache, this fellow could be your twin.” Booth didn’t respond, and the detective rolled the man’s upper body to the left far enough to pull his arm from beneath his back. Miles leaned over and saw that the curious weapon he had described was still clutched in the man’s hand. “What is that, sir? What kind of gun?”
“As a matter of fact,” answered the detective, “It’s a Kaddik Shockspan.”
“I never saw anything like it.”
The policeman put the weapon in his pocket. “The Gnarmyths make them.”
“Gnarmyths?” repeated Booth. “Is that a British manufacturer?”
“No,” answered Wells. “The Gnarmyths are quite a bit further away than that.”
There was an uproarious laugh from the audience inside the theater and Ned Spangler said to the detective. “I got to go and help change a set. It’ll be my job if I miss the cue. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
Wells shook his head, his gaze on the corpse’s face. “No need to come back. This looks pretty clear cut.”
As Spangler ran for the stage door, Booth held out a hand and asked, “Do you need me to make a report?”
“No, Mr. Booth.” The detective leveled his cold-eyed gaze at the actor. “You are free to enter the theater and complete your business.”
Miles saw a haunted look in the actor’s eyes as he barely shook his head and said, “No. Not tonight. This has all been rather upsetting.”
“I bet,” said the detective, a strange wry smile on his lips.
Booth took the reins from John Miles without looking at him, mounted his horse, and guided it along the alley toward F Street. As soon as horse and rider were out of sight, John could hear the sounds of the animal breaking into a gallop.
“You can go, too,” Wells said to John.
“Oh, I don’t need to be anywhere, Detective Wells, sir.”
“Well, son, maybe you ought to go someplace else. I’ve got work to do and I don’t need any spectators.”
John felt his face growing hot. “Well, sir, maybe you ought to know that John Miles is a free man who is entitled to stand on any street corner or alley in this whole city, and nobody can tell him to move if he don’t want to. They just fought a war about that, didn’t you hear?” Old habits die hard, and John threw in a belated “Sir” at the end of his speech.
The detective stood, pressed his hands against the small of his back, and stretched. “Of course, you’re right, son. That’s what the war’s about.” He removed his hands from his back, pulled back his coat, and withdrew from his belt a weapon identical to the one he had taken from the corpse. One moment the detective was aiming the silver comb end of the thing at John, and the next both detective and mysterious corpse had vanished. In the dust at John Miles’s feet there was nothing left but some footprints and a false mustache.
He bent over, picked up the mustache, studied it, and put it in his shirt pocket, vowing never to reveal to a single soul what had happened at the rear of Ford’s Theater that night. There were already plenty of people who thought he was crazy because he wanted to be a stage actor. There would be no point in giving them ammunition. A profound frown weighing down his brow, John made it back into the flies just in time to hear Mr. Hess sing the new song, “All Honor to Our Soldiers.”
“The event ripple has gone past your local time departure point, Roger. That’s why we had to bring you forward for another try.” Dalik Ophon was standing next to a woman clad in combat utilities, Shalla Inam, local time liaison for AD 2294. They stood in the tower of the Eastern Army Defense Center. Roger Alfred turned and looked through the observation port across the Potomac River. There was a great black obelisk rising from the rubble of Arlington that was the nerve center for the region’s missile defense grid. Several smoking blocks of rubble on both sides of the river testified to the imperfections of the system.