The tall admirer in the western outfit slowly shook his head and said, “I’ll be damned. You really do look like Richard Dreyfuss.” Then he began to pull a weapon from beneath his jacket. Booth shouted to his companions, “He has a gun!”
Captain Williams and Booth wrestled the man to the ground, and the actor took a swing and knocked the man senseless. With the would be brigand limp on the ground, a small crowd seemed to gather. One of the men was a large man in a derby hat. “I’m Detective Wells, Washington Police. What’s going on here?”
There were hurried, disjointed descriptions, and while the talking was going on, the detective fished a strange green handled weapon from the stranger’s pocket and placed it into his own. After the detective was again standing, Sergeant Dye could’ve sworn that in a low voice he said to the actor, “That was easy.” Getting no response, the detective asked, “You killed yourself. Why didn’t you kill him?”
John Wilkes Booth simply shook his head and went into the main entrance of the theater.
Lincoln had to be taken out with the derringer. In 1865 death by shockspan would leave too many unanswered questions. It had to be Lincoln dead, by the hand of John Wilkes Booth, and in a manner possible given the times. After walking quietly around the spectators in the darkened dress circle adjoining the presidential box, Roger stood before the empty chair where the president’s guard was supposed to be sitting. According to the data shot, the guard was long gone and would be no trouble. There was a huge laugh from the audience, and Roger opened the door and slipped in. There was one more door to go through to get to the president, and Roger could see a spot of dim light made by the gimlet hole he had made.
Picking up the pine plank he had hidden, he held one end against the inside of the door and shoved the other end into the hole he had made in the plaster. Once the outer door had been secured, he went to the door to box number seven and peered through the hole. The president was seated in his rocking chair, his wife sitting to his right. To her right, almost facing the door to the box, were an officer, Henry Rathbone, and his fiancée, Clara Harris.
Rathbone would have to be watched, Roger reminded himself. He was the one who Booth had had to stab to get free of the box after shooting the president.
President Lincoln was closest to the door, and Roger watched the back of the man’s head, wishing he could see the face. Time becomes a joke to those who spend too much time in the timewave, and history had become, to Roger, nothing but a vast video library playable in extreme virtual reality. Still, from somewhere deep inside himself, he had a great respect, a deep reverence, for the man he was supposed to kill. His tongue passed over dry lips as he doubted if he could pull the trigger.
At the sound of someone brushing against the outer door, Roger bolted upright and turned. It was Ryan, he thought. It had to be. The doorknob was turned but the pine jamb held the door shut fast. The doorknob stopped turning and there was a long silence from that direction. From the direction of the stage, however, came the assassin’s cue lines. The actress playing Mrs. Mountchessington said to her daughter, “Augusta, to your room!”
“Yes, ma,” replied Augusta. “The nasty beast!”
Soon there would be no one left on stage save Harry Hawk, playing the part of Mr. Trenchard, and Harry Hawk was no match for a man brandishing a knife. The way to freedom would be clear. Roger would shoot Lincoln and would probably have to cut Major Rathbone. Then it was a twelve foot jump to the stage and out the back door to where Johnny Peanut was holding his mare. It stunned Roger how simple the whole thing had been. One bold man with a knife and a single shot pistol had killed the president, made it to the stage, gave a quick speech (Sic semper tyrannis) according to some accounts, stymied an entire audience, and exited, stage right on a broken ankle.
“I am aware, Mr. Trenchard,” said the character of Mrs. Mountchessington, “that you are not used to the manners of a good soc—”
Roger peered again through the gimlet hole, watched the back of the President’s head hardly moving, then heard Henry Hawk say, “Don’t know the manners of a good society, eh?”
That was the cue line. With the derringer in his hand, he opened the door, stepped into the box, and came up behind the President as Henry Hawk delivered the big laugh line of the night, “Wal, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, you sockdologizing old man trap!”
As the audience roared, Roger lifted the derringer and watched in horror as the President stood and faced him, a Colt pistol in his hand. “The name’s Ryan,” said the president just as he fired from the waist blowing a sizeable hole through Roger’s heart.
Somehow he was glad he had failed. As Roger went down, the blackness coming over him, he vaguely heard his own derringer fire. In a swim of faded sounds a high pitched woman’s voice screamed, “Dear God! They’ve shot Mrs. Lincoln!”
3:04 PM, 26 June, 2117
When Roger opened his eyes, Abraham Lincoln was looking down at him. Lincoln smiled and removed both wart and beard, revealing the face of Peter Ryan. “I think he’s awake, Dalik.”
“What’s he doing here?” croaked Roger.
Dalik Ophon, Isa Childs, and Jason Wells came around the heated gel couch and looked down at Roger. “How are you feeling?” asked the time warden.
“Feeling?” Roger scowled as he sat up. “I feel like I failed and the universe is about to come to an end, that’s how I feel.” He nodded toward Ryan. “What’s he doing here?”
“He’s on our side, now,” said Jason Wells as he lowered his bulk into a puff chair.
“You mean he’s out to kill himself?”
“No,” answered Ryan. “Things have changed a bit.”
“Changed?” Roger looked at Isa Childs. “Changed how?”
His former therapist held out a hand toward a window wall. “Have a look.”
Roger gingerly touched where both knife and bullet had, in other realities, entered his chest and stopped his heart. Getting to his feet he walked to the window wall and looked down upon an enormous park that seemed to cover the land as far as the eye could see. In the distance, Roger could see several gleaming spires rising above the trees. There were two other structures, as well. The Capitol and the Washington Monument. Down below, sleek silent vehicles streaked along a local viaduct.
“When is this?”
“2117,” answered Ryan.
“June,” added the time warden.
Roger turned and held out his hands. “I don’t get it. The event ripple should’ve passed here hours ago, killing everyone.”
“It did,” answered Dalik. “Several of them, in fact. This is the Lincoln lives, Mary Todd Lincoln dies scenario.”
“When you went down,” said Ryan,” your derringer went off and killed the first lady. You wouldn’t believe how the press suddenly loved her once she had a slug in her head.”
“Okay,” said Roger as he faced Peter Ryan. “Let’s have whatever it is you clowns are busting to say. Spit it out. Where was Lincoln during the play?”
“He was on his way south by train to personally accept the surrender of General Joseph Johnston.”
“Our boy Ryan entered the stream back in ‘64,” said Wells, “and worked his way into being a double for Lincoln for certain kinds of functions.”
“So, what’s going on here?” demanded Roger. “Lincoln goes insane, right, and the world goes to hell?”
“No,” answered Dalik. “It seems that Lincoln became almost a god, he was held in such reverence. He held office for three more terms, and his son Robert became president after him.”