“We’ll be ready for that,” Tim said. “But there’s something else I’m not sure we can be ready for.”
“What’s that?” Will asked.
“Charlene Joiner,” Tim said.
“I hadn’t thought about Charlene,” Will admitted. “What do you think she’ll do?”
“God only knows, but you know how hot she is to save Moody’s life. I have a feeling it could be noisy. I’m not sure how we can plan for that.”
“Neither am I,” Will said.
57
Zeke Tennant was driving north through Virginia toward Washington when flashing lights popped on in his rearview mirror. He pulled the Ford Taurus over to the shoulder of the interstate and watched in his side mirror as a state trooper approached.
Zeke took a couple of deep breaths and lowered the window. His weapons were in the trunk; he’d have to handle this with his hands, if it came to that. “Morning,” he said.
“Good morning, Colonel,” the trooper replied, seeing the eagles on the collar of Zeke’s starched and pressed camouflage fatigues. “Can I see your license, registration, and proof of insurance, please?”
“Sure,” Zeke replied. He dug his license out of a pocket and reached into the glove compartment for the other documents. He handed them over. “Mind if I get out?” he asked. “I’d like to stretch my legs.” He couldn’t handle the man while sitting in the car.
The trooper looked at him carefully, then at his license. “Go ahead, Colonel.”
Zeke opened the door, got out, and made a show of stretching.
“Come back here and take a look at something,” the trooper said, beckoning him toward the rear of the car.
Zeke followed him.
The trooper pointed at the place where the license plate should be. “See the problem?”
Zeke grimaced. “Damn dealer,” he said. “I only bought the car this morning.”
“Maybe the plate is in the trunk,” the trooper said. “Shall we take a look?”
The sniper’s rifle was in the trunk, and Zeke had no intention of opening it. “Sure; let me get the keys,” he said, walking back toward the driver’s door. He was about to kick back at the trooper when he saw a brown envelope lying on the backseat. “This must be it,” he said. He opened the door, retrieved the envelope, and took out the plate. “I thought they had put it on the car.”
“You’d better put it on now,” the trooper said.
“I don’t have any tools; I’ll stop at the next service station and get it done.” He wanted to get away from this guy before he was recognized.
“I’ve got a screwdriver in the car,” the trooper said. “Just a minute.” He walked back to his patrol car, got in, and began looking for something then he picked up a microphone and began speaking into it.
Zeke walked slowly toward the patrol car; he’d move as the trooper got out. Then a hand came out of the car with a screwdriver in it.
“Here you go,” he said. “Be with you in a minute; I’ve got a radio call.”
He’s recognized me, Zeke thought as he walked toward the rear of his car. He knelt and began removing the screws from the empty license-plate frame. In a moment, he had the plate attached, and as he rose, the trooper approached. Zeke was ready for the fight.
“Sorry to trouble you about that, Colonel,” the trooper said, “but somebody else would have stopped you eventually.” His hand came toward Zeke. “Can I have my screwdriver back?”
“Oh, sure,” Zeke replied. “And thanks for letting me know about the plate.”
“Not at all,” the trooper said. “Drive carefully.”
Zeke got back into the car, sweating. “Fucking car salesman,” he muttered to himself. “I damn near killed that trooper.”
Zeke crossed the Potomac and drove to the Fairfax Hotel, where he had booked a room. He changed into his first-class uniform, then enjoyed a good lunch in the Jockey Club restaurant. When he had finished and signed the check, he went to the concierge’s desk.
“Good afternoon, Colonel Waldron,” the man said, glancing at the name tag on his uniform. “How can I help you?”
“I’m interested in Ford’s Theatre, where Abraham Lincoln was assassinated,” Zeke replied.
The concierge dug out a brochure. “Of course. They have tours there twice a day; you can still make the afternoon one.” He gave Zeke a map of the city and showed him how to get to the theater.
“Thanks very much,” Zeke said. He went to the front door and asked the doorman for his car. He found the theater, on 10th Street NW, and parked the car, removing the briefcase containing the sniper’s rifle from the trunk. He arrived in the lobby just as the tour was starting.
“Good afternoon,” the elderly lady who was the tour guide began, “and welcome to Ford’s Theatre. Before we start the tour, I’d like to give you a little of the rather odd history of the building. The theater opened its doors in 1862, having been converted from a former Baptist church. Some of the church members were disturbed that such a secular use was being made of what had been a holy building, and someone predicted that no good would come of it. The theater, which was originally the Athenaeum, burned to the ground within a few months.
“Mr. John T. Ford, who owned the theater, rebuilt it, named it after himself, and reopened the doors on August 27, 1863. After the assassination of Mr. Lincoln, the War Department closed the theater with the intention of never reopening it. The government bought the property and turned it into a warehouse. In 1893 the upper floors of the building collapsed, and twenty-two government employees were killed and many others injured. The building was again rebuilt and used as a warehouse.
“It was not until the nineteen-fifties that Congress appropriated the funds to restore the theater, and in 1968, it finally became a theater again. Now, if you’ll follow me, I’ll show you the box where Mr. Lincoln was shot, then we’ll go backstage, after which you can see the little museum in the basement. Then you may wish to visit the Peterson House, across the street, where Mr. Lincoln died of his injuries.”
The woman led the little group of people upstairs. Zeke hung back at the rear and allowed the group to leave him behind. He walked back to the rear of the theater, checking sight lines, and then he saw a small sign pointing up another flight of stairs. It read PROJECTION BOOTH. He followed the stairs and came to a door, which was ajar. Across the little hallway was a men’s room.
He pushed the projection-room door open and found a light switch. Two large 35mm projectors filled most of the room. There was also a table with two cranks mounted for rewinding reels, and next to the projector was a single theater seat, where the projectionist could sit and watch a movie through his own window. Zeke looked carefully at the ceiling and found a large air-conditioning duct. He stood on a chair, took out a Swiss Army knife, and unfolded a screwdriver blade. In a moment he had the grating off; then he took the briefcase and slid it into the duct, where it fit very nicely. He replaced the grate, switched off the light, and left the room. As he departed, he noted a ladder fixed to the wall. He climbed and pushed open a trapdoor in the ceiling. He stuck his head up and looked around the roof. Maybe he wouldn’t have to die after all.
He rejoined the group, which was just leaving Lincoln’s box.
“Oh, did we lose you?” the guide asked.
“I was just looking for the men’s room,” he replied. As the group walked back toward the stairs, Zeke stepped into Lincoln’s box and stood, looking over the theater. John Wilkes Booth, he knew, had slipped into the box as Lincoln watched a performance of a comedy, Our American Cousin. He had crept behind Lincoln and fired a single bullet into the back of his head from close range.