Category Archives: Novels

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Forty-Four

“We’re going to Steve Walker’s on Fifth Street, a little north of here.” After a pause, he continued, “I enjoy hunting also. Spent most of my youth on horseback scouring the wooded countryside for small game to shoot. My mother lectured me severely for leaving the dead carcasses on the ground instead of bringing them home for the cook to produce an evening meal. Never cared much for wild game. But I loved the hunt. Ah, Steve Walker’s. I told you it wouldn’t take long.”
Baker looked around trying to remember if he had ever been in this tavern before. A well-dressed bartender attended the intricately carved sideboard. Fresh-faced tipplers affected a stance to display their attire to the best advantage. Baker decided such a place would have never interested him. The old warrior had no patience for men who avoided soiling their hands from hard work.
After depositing his guest at a table, Bruton went to the bar to place his order. When he returned, he had two small trays holding four shot glasses filled with whiskey and placed one in front of Baker while reserving the second for himself.
“I’m so proud. I didn’t spill a drop. If I had not become a lawyer, I would have made a good waiter. Extending his hand, he tapped the rim of each glass. “Four of the finest whiskies in Philadelphia. I am anxious for you to taste them and tell me which one you like best.”
Baker grabbed Bruton’s right hand, tugged off the soft leather glove and turned it over to examine the palm. Even in the dim light he could discern the remnants of callouses. The young man pulled his hand back, blinked several times before forcing out a light-hearted snigger.
“Excuse my blunt behavior,” Baker explained in a slur, returning the glove to the owner. “It’s just you can learn a lot about a man’s character by the condition of his hands. Though rather pampered now, I can detect a trace of callouses from years past.”
With a natural flair, Bruton fitted the glove back on his hand. “Years of gripping the reins as I galloped through the countryside, my friend.” He sat with aplomb and picked up one of the shots. “Try this one first. The dark amber. It has a nutty aftertaste I think you will like.”
Baker lifted his glass and paused, hesitant because of his experience with English ale. Finally he sipped, then gulped. “Not bad.”
“I’m so pleased.” He leaned back in his chair, his head now completely cloaked in darkness. “So you are considering another appearance before Congress.” Bruton paused as Baker downed his second round of whiskey. “Did you like that blend? I have to admit it’s not one of my favorites but is not without its merits.”
Shrugging, Baker said, “Whiskey is whiskey.” He squinted a couple of times, trying to focus. “They do have a kick, for sure.”
“What you need is a good lawyer to protect your interests in front of Congress. As I said, I’m a lawyer. I would be very proud to represent you. No charge. For patriotism, shall I say?”
“So did you serve in the Army?” Baker glanced at the third whiskey. Only one or two more drinks, and his brain would land in a blissful world of benign acceptance of mere existence.
“To my disgrace, I did not,” Bruton replied with controlled contrition. “My father insisted upon hiring a substitute. Dirty business it was.”
“Dirty business,” he grunted. “You don’t know dirty business like I know it.” He drank his third, and added, “The master of dirty business is former Secretary of War Edwin Stanton. God, I hate that man.”
“You are not the only person who feels that way, I’m sure.”
“Is there a piss pot around here someplace? I gotta go real bad.”
“The cleanest facilities in the drinking district are at the finest establishment, Louis Lesieur’s. On Seventh Street, only two blocks away. And after you relieve yourself, you must have Louis’s cognac, the best liquor in the city. But first you must try your fourth whiskey. I promise it will be the best.”
Baker leaned forward, his mouth agape. He tried to focus on Bruton’s four glasses. “But—but you haven’t finished your first drink.”
“Your mind is playing tricks on you. I’ve finished all of them. Now be a good fellow, drink, drink, drink.”
He gagged as he guzzled the last shot. A definite distress rippled through his gut. “I don’t feel so good. I need to get home.”
“I will be insulted if you do not join me at Louis’s. After all, I am offering my vast legal experience to you at no charge.”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Forty-Three

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Someone tapped Lafayette Baker’s shoulder, causing him to look to left. There stood slender young dandy, dressed in a tailored suit, adorned with a silk cravat stuck with a diamond pin. He posed elegantly, leaning a pearl-handled cane. “It isn’t fair, isn’t it, Mr. Baker? There you risked your life in the service of your country, and soft clotheshorses like me discount your stories as nothing more than sweet apples hawked at a street market. I say we round them all up and kick them in the ass.”
Baker detected a Boston accent. He tried scrutinizing the man’s face but the flickering light of the tavern made that difficult. Most of the time Baker did not waste his time on dandies, but this one appealed to his ego, which was bruised to the extreme at this moment. Eventually he chuckled.
“Let me buy you a drink, friend.”
“No, it will be my honor to buy you all the drinks you wish, but not the swill in this establishment.” The young man pulled coins from the breast pocket of his brocaded waistcoat and tossed them on the bar. He put a gloved hand on Baker’s shoulder to guide him from his stool to the door and on the street. “You look like a sportsman, sir. Our first stop should be Dick Perriston’s on Chestnut just south of Fifth Street. Dick is known for his fine old English ale.”
Baker found himself being whisked along Ridge Avenue to a better neighborhood of saloons. The young man used his pearl-handled cane deftly to push aside those who did not move fast enough.
“You have me at a disadvantage, sir. You seem to know everything about me, and I don’t even know your name.”
“Roman Bruton,” the young man said with a laugh. “Isn’t it a perfectly horrendous name? My parents honeymooned in Italy many years ago and became fascinated by everything about Rome, hence my rather pompous given name.” He nudged Baker. “My middle name is even worse. Cassius, if you can believe it. You should see the family home in Boston. My parents fashioned the parlor after an atrium. Both Papa and Mama came from wealthy shipping families so they are shamefully ostentatious in their consumption of the finer things in life. I enjoy my comforts but there are limits, don’t you think?” Before Baker could answer, Bruton lifted his cane to tap the swinging sign over the saloon door. “Here we are, Dickie Perriston’s.” He laughed loudly. “He hates it when I call him Dickie.”
Inside Bruton forced their way to an empty table in a corner and pulled a chair out for Baker. “I much prefer sitting at a table than at the bar, don’t you?” Again he continued, not waiting for a reply. “I’ll be back with a couple of ales.” Immediately he disappeared in the crowd.
Baker was at a loss to explain how he lost control of the evening. He would have been perfectly content to drink the evening away in the seamier district, but this dandy took over with such positive energy, Baker did not mind. He even felt flattered, an emotion he rarely experienced. Bruton bustled back and plopped two mugs of the famous ale on the table, pushing one over to the older man.
“So, tell me, Mr. Baker, what is your sport of choice?” Bruton asked as he lifted his mug and imbibed.
“I enjoy hunting. In fact, my brother-in-law had invited me for a short hunting trip into the woods just beyond the city west side. I frankly wasn’t up to it.”
“I am not surprised.” He leaned in, revealing a glimpse of his chin in the lamp light. “Here you are, an American hero, protecting the men who made the decisions that won the war, and no one appreciates you. I read your book. Fascinating.”
Baker found Bruton rather long-winded, but he decided the young man’s flamboyance gave him time to appreciate his ale. The palate was a bit disconcerting, but he had never indulged in an English ale before and perhaps it was an acquired taste.
“I look forward to your new account in the British magazine.” He paused to wipe the foam away from his moustache. “What was the name of it again?”
“Colson’s United Service Magazine. It has a limited circulation. I doubt if you will find a copy.” Baker finished his mug and pushed it away.
“Then you must tell me what’s in it. But first let me refresh your drink.” Again, Bruton popped away to the bar.
Putting both hands to his forehead, Baker checked himself for perspiration. Summer in Philadelphia could be muggy, but he swore he felt more like a fever was creeping across his brow. It was a sensation he had never undergone on any of his rampages through saloon row anywhere in the country. Interrupting Baker’s self-diagnosis, Bruton appeared and placed a fresh mug in front of him.
“Now, tell me, what nuggets of government scandal do you have to share?”
Baker sipped the ale and decided the undertones were not growing on him. “For one thing, John Wilkes Booth did not act alone; that is, there was more to the conspiracy than his small band of henchmen.”
“You don’t say.”
“If I can find the courage to return to Congress with a request for a new hearing, all of America will know the breadth of the evil that manipulated the fate of the war.”
“I figured as much myself.”
He frowned and pushed away the mug. “I’m sorry. I can seem to get accustomed to this ale. I know it is impolite to decline a gentleman’s generosity but—“
“No need to say more,” Bruton interrupted with a smile. “If you take but one more sip, I will take you to a much finer establishment than this. It’s known for its wide selection of incomparable whiskies.”
After a brief deliberation, Baker shrugged, upended the mug and drained it. After all, he did not want to seem unappreciative of Bruton’s hospitality. With a heavy haze settling on his brain, Baker yielded completely as his young companion led him down another street.

Toby Chapter Three

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Harley and Billie strolled down the main street of Cameron which stood amidst fields of corn, wheat and sorghum. Harley waved his arms with wild abandon, describing how he always wanted to be something different from a poor dirt farmer. He explained a traveling actor made as little as the people who scraped out a living from the earth. At least he made people laugh, he said. Billie’s eyes sparkled as she absorbed every word.
“And now you’re the principal comedian for a large traveling tent show,” she said in a breathless, awe-filled voice. “My, that is an impressive title.”
Harley stopped abruptly in the middle of the town square, his eyes wide with surprise and hope. The street lamps which dotted downtown cast dewy light, softening the harsh realities of life and creating a romantic illusion.
“You think so? I mean, of course it is.” He was glad Billie could not see him blush. “It—it took years of hard work and learning my craft….” His voice trailed off when he realized how pompous he was sounding. “That was kind of silly, wasn’t it?”
“Oh no, of course not.” Billie reached out to pat Harley’s hand.
“All of a sudden I thought of Mama. She always had a way of bringing me down to earth.”
“”What do you mean?” Billie crinkled her forehead in concern and sympathy. She revealed herself to be wise beyond her years.
Harley kicked the grass and began his story.
“Right before we came here we played Avoca. You know Avoca?”
“No,” she replied softly.
“It’s my hometown. My folks run a small farm. Me and my brothers and sisters helped with the chores. One day I was hoeing the cornfield when I saw some mean dark, menacing clouds form over the western horizon. I kept hoeing and looking up at the skies. Well, finally I had had enough of this. I threw down my hoe and marched home. I called back over my shoulder, ‘You can stay out there and get struck by lightning but I’m going home, where all God-fearing people blessed with common sense are.’”
Harley paused long enough to decipher the look on Billie’s face. He did not know if she believed every word he said or decided he was verifiably insane and was figuring how she could escape his clutches. He shook his head ruefully.
“Those rain clouds never came close to us. Mama was absolutely furious, saying I must be the laziest boy this side of the Pecos River. Papa, on the other hand, thought I was the funniest boy he ever did see and told me if there was a way to make money for making people laugh, I ought to do it.”
Billie giggled, which encouraged him to finish his story which he feared was the longest story he’d told anywhere.
“The next thing I knew I was working for Mr. Fox in his tent show travelling all through Texas, Oklahoma, New Mexico and Kansas.” He took off his straw boater and scratched his head. “So I got my parents free tickets when we played in Avoca.”
“How nice!” Billie beamed. “Did they like it?”
Harley shifted his stance. He realized he was showing her the real Harley Sadler which made him uncomfortable.
“Mama, she just sat there after the show, tapping her foot. I walked up and asked, ‘So what do you think?’ Finally she looked up and smiled real sweet and said, ‘I guess it was pretty good. I really liked the music.’ She paused to compose her thoughts and added, ‘But Harley, don’t you think it’s about time you got a job?”
“Why, that’s a terrible thing to say!” Billie put her hands on her hips in protest. “Acting is a wonderful job. And hard work too, I’d say. But a wonderful job.”
Harley’s heart leapt. No one had ever come to his defense before. Almost everyone in Avoca agreed with Mama. He should get a real job. Except for Papa. He didn’t say much but he grinned a lot.
“You think so?” He wanted Billie to tell him more about how wonderful he was. “You really think so?”
She pointed to a white wood clapboard house with a large porch and sturdy railing.
“There’s my house. Mama and Papa left the front porch lamp lit for us. Sit on the swing with me for a while.”
They walked up the stairs and sat on the swing. The air was thick with the scent of honeysuckle. Harley, for once, could not think of anything to say. Eventually the silence overwhelmed him. He started whistling an indiscernible tune.
“Be quiet,” Billie cut him off. “Mama and Papa are already in bed. Burnie too.”
“Burnie?”
“My brother. He’s such a lamb. So gentle.”
They lapsed into another silence. Since he was not allowed to whistle, Harley went back to his favorite topic—himself.
“So you think being an actor—traveling around in a tent show—would be a wonderful life?”
“It is for you, isn’t it??” She stared at him, fluttering her eyes.
“Oh, of course.” Harley blurted. Her reply caught him off-guard. “I sometimes wonder though, um, you know, how people who live in towns, well towns like, um, Cameron here, would feel about living with a tent show.”
A smiled flitted across her full lips. “What an odd thing to wonder.”
Harley realized this evening was not going exactly the way he planned. Was she just playing a joke on him? Was entertainment so rare in small Texas towns that girls liked to trifle with young men’s affections just to watch them squirm? When he left town tomorrow night, would she tell her friends how much fun it was to break a stranger’s heart? The thought of such palpable disappointment forced him to stand and go to the railing. He leaned out to stare up into the darkness.
“Clear sky tonight,” he whispered. “Clear skies are always good for business.”
“I imagine so.”
Lying down precariously on the railing, Harley cleared his throat.
“Oh yes, I know all about these things. As principal comedian I….” His voice dried up again. Bragging on himself was not really who he was. What he was good at was making people happy. Why was he so foolish to think any woman would be interested in Harley instead of Toby? He closed his eyes to keep from crying. It had been ten years since the last time he cried. He was in high school and he tried to talk to a girl at a school dance in the gymnasium.
“The weather is unusual warm for this time of year, don’t you think?” he had asked the girl.
“The dance is beginning to smell like a basketball game,” he added. When she laughed, he thought he was making progress.
“I apologized,” she said, the giggle still in her voice. “I don’t usually laugh at boys like you. I’m a church girl, but your rubber face is too silly to resist laughing at.”
He didn’t talk to another girl for a whole year.
“Penny for your thoughts.” Billie’s voice was almost breathless yet charged with an electricity Harley had never heard before.
“They ain’t worth that much. I’ll give them to you for free.”
“That’s a bargain. What are you thinking?”
“I was just wondering—oh, nothing.”
“What do you want?” Her question was pointed but not intimidating.
“What?” He felt so confused. Harley never realized confusion was one of the symptoms of falling in love.
“What do you want out of life? Do you want to be Toby the rest of your life?”
He could not look at her. He kept staring at the stars.
“I guess. Toby’s not so bad. He makes people laugh. Don’t you think people need to laugh?”
“Of course.” Billie paused as though she were giving the topic serious consideration. “But don’t you want to go to Hollywood?”
“Why go there when I can make people laugh right here?” he asked in earnest. “I can see them. That’s right. I can see them. I can hear them.” New ideas flooded his mind. “I know right then and there I made a difference in their life, even if it was just for a couple of hours. Besides, Hollywood’s not important. It’s all about making as much money as possible and showing off with a new big house and fancy cars. Being good to real honest-to-God people, that’s what is important. And if you’re good to people, good things happen to you.”
That’s right, he told himself. Why hadn’t he thought of that before?
“You can sit next to me, if you want to.” She spoke with kindness and romance.
Harley practically sprang from the railing onto the swing, immediately leaning into her face. Their eyes intently studied each other. Their heads, slowly but with determination, moved together until they kissed. When they separated, Billie pertly smiled and stood.
“I’ve got to go in now. Good night, Harley.”
After she went into her house, Harley continued to sit on the swing. The surprised look on his face slowly changed to contentment and more than just a little bit proud. Wow. A girl really did like him. Not Toby but him, Harley.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Forty-Two

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By summer of 1868 Lafayette Baker was back home in Philadelphia with his wife Jenny, a gentle woman who never inquired into her husband’s activities and his long absences. She merely appreciated the times he was with her. While he had told his associates that removing Edwin Stanton from the post of Secretary of War was enough justice, Baker now sat in his house without a job and with time to contemplate the situation.
He decided that Stanton had not suffered enough. Baker’s mind focused on a new crusade to punish the old asthmatic monster. But how? Every newspaper, magazine and publishing house in America would demand facts to substantiate each accusation. Questionable testimony from unreliable witnesses was precarious at best. Baker then remembered Colburn’s United Service Magazine published by a London printing house. The magazine published collections of memoirs of retired military personnel from around the world. Respectable journalists knew Colburn’s editors did not quibble over the accuracy of accounts as long as the grammar was reasonably sound. Baker determined this periodical would be the perfect platform for his new account on the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.
In his report, Baker claimed he first learned of the presidential murder plot on April 10, 1865. “I did not know the identity of the assassin, but I knew most all else when I approached Edwin Stanton about it,” he wrote. “Stanton told me I was a party to it too but ordered me not to do anything to stop it but to see what came of it and then we would know better how to handle it. He showed me a forged document that purported Andrew Johnson had authorized me to kidnap the President.” Most of this was fabrication—a code, he told himself–which the cleverest of the world’s detectives could decipher in years to come. He also claimed the plot included members of Congress, Army and Naval officers, a governor, bankers, newspapermen and industrialists, all of whom paid a total of $85,000 to have Lincoln killed. Baker added that only eight people knew all the details of the conspiracy, and that he feared for his life.
After the completion of the document, he carefully read it, and for a brief moment considered that he was going mad. Even his wife Jenny worried about his mental stability. He walked through the house each night, stopping to peer out of every window to see if anyone lurked in the shadows. He even cancelled hunting trips with his brother-in-law Wally Pollock and other close friends, outings that always had lifted his spirits long ago, before he was stricken with a conscience. Who knows what could happen, he explained to Jenny. Wally could accidentally shoot him, or a stranger could be stalking him in the woods. Jenny wrapped her arms around him. He’d worked himself into a delusion that he was about to be murdered, she supported her husband. Patting his tousled red hair, she whispered that she knew he had committed horrible crimes during the war but a desire to save his country had motivated him, not greed or evil intent.
“I know what will make you happy,” she announced with a sympathetic smile. “I’ll contact my sister Mary and her husband Wally to go out to dinner. You’ve always enjoyed a good meal in a pleasant restaurant. Then Mary and I will go home and you and Wally will make a round of bars to drink each other under the table.”
Baker shook his head. “No, no. That will just draw attention to me. He’ll spot me and kill me. I know he will.”
“Exactly who do you think would want to kill you?” Jenny asked, cocking her head.
“No one, really.” He tried to laugh away his outburst. “Actually, I have finished a new article for Colburn’s United Service Magazine. I’ll take it by the Post Office this afternoon, and then celebrate by myself. You won’t mind, will you, Jenny? You understand, my sweet?”
Philadelphia’s taverns huddled around the old financial district. Baker frequented all of the saloons. Each one drew a distinct clientele, all the way from wealthy businessmen and elite lawyers to actors, boxers and farmers. On this particular night, he drifted first to Paddy Carroll’s on Ridge Avenue just above Wood Street. Dog fighters gathered there. Baker had indulged in betting on the dogs while busting unions in San Francisco before the war. He liked the dog fighters. He understood how they justified in their own minds their way of making money while dogs bled to death.
Paddy himself tended bar. “Ah, Mr. Baker, ‘tis been awhile since ye have crossed me threshold. What will be ye pleasure?”
“The best whiskey you have.” He collapsed on a stool and folded his hands in front of his mouth. “I’m celebrating. I’ve sent off an article to a British magazine about Mr. Lincoln’s assassination. When it’s published, the whole world will know the truth.”
“De truth, Mr. Baker?” Paddy said with a laugh as he filled a shot glass. “I t’ought ye told de truth with your book last year?”
In one swift gulp, he downed the whiskey and pushed the glass back. “Another. There’s more damn truth about that business than can ever be told in a single lifetime.”
“And each time ye tell de truth, you become a richer man,” Paddy joked, putting the second round in front of Baker.
“I’m not telling the truth for money,” he growled as he sipped on his refilled shot glass . “There’s not enough money in the world to pay for the truth I know.”
“Of course, Mr. Baker, of course. As long as ye share some of dat money with me, ye can tell any kind of truth ye want.”

Toby Chapter Two

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A few minutes later Harley exited, feeling fairly full of himself until he saw his boss Roy Fox waiting for him, with his arms across his chest.
“What on earth is the matter with you?” Roy demanded. “This is the absolutely worst performance I’ve seen you give!”
Harley chose to ignore the accusation. “Mr. Fox, will you do me a favor?”
“Don’t be too hard on him, Mr. Fox,” Sam said. “He’s in love.”
Roy shook a finger in Harley’s face. “You can be in love offstage, but when you’re on stage you’re Toby, and Toby’s too shy to fall in love!”
“I want to talk to her after the show,” Harley explained, “but I’m afraid she’ll be gone by the time I get out of costume. Will you give her a note for me?”
“In love? Really?” Roy sighed and shook his head. “I thought the only thing you’d ever love would be a tent show.”
Harley’s brow furrowed. “I don’t have anything to write it on….”
Mike, the actor who played the sheriff, ambled up smacking on a wad of gum. He was in training to be leading man one day.
“Hey, Harley, can I borrow five dollars?”
“Spent your money already this week?” Roy asked with extreme prejudice.
“Roy, you know how it is in this business we call show,” Mike replied expansively. He returned his attention to Harley. “What do you say about the fiver?”
“Don’t give it to him,” Roy advised. “He’ll just spend it on cheap booze and cheap women.”
“That’s a lie!” Mike retorted. “I never buy cheap booze.” He pulled another stick of gum from his pocket and unwrapped it.
“I’ll give you the money if you give me that wrapper,” Harley offered.
“Fair swap.” He handed over the wrapper.
“Come by my dressing table after the show for the money.”
Mike nodded absently as he listened for his cue.
“You’re not going on stage with that gum in your mouth, are you?” Roy demanded.
“No.” He took the gum out of his mouth and stuck it behind his ear as he entered the stage.
“If I’m lucky they’ll draft him and send him to Europe with Pershing,” Roy mumbled.
“Do you have a pen?” Harley asked.
The boss give him a hard look, shook his head and handed over the pen. After Harley wrote the note he returned it and placed the gum wrapper carefully in Roy’s palm and explained where the young lady was sitting. The boss drudged out to the audience and knelt by Billie’s seat. Her smile of enjoyment from watching the show faded as she noticed Joe who looked like he was delivering a warrant. He whispered to her, handed her the wrapper and left. Billie opened it, and her friend leaned in.
Printed in big letters: “Wait for me after the show. Harley.”
“What was it?” her friend asked.
“What I was hoping for.” Billie smiled to herself and bit her lower lip.
After the actors took their bows—Harley received the most applause—the curtain came down and the audience milled out. Billie lingered near the tent entrance, glancing back at the stage. In a few minutes Harley, out of makeup and wearing a spiffy suit with hat in hand, bounded out the curtain, off the stage and down the aisle. Two teen-aged girls stopped him.
“Oh, Toby!” the first girl gushed.
“That’s Mr. Sadler,” the second one corrected her.
“Oh Harley, you were so funny. And—and you’re even cuter without your freckles!”
He bowed nervously. “Thank you.”
The second girl maneuvered her way directly in front of Harley. “Honestly. Children. Mr. Sadler, I think you’re a wonderful actor. Have you ever thought of Shakespeare?”
He bowed again and edged away.
“Not often, I’m afraid. Excuse me….”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Forty-One

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His mission for God was finished, Boston Corbett thought as he made his way to the train station in Washington, D.C. Praise the Lord. Because nosey newspaper reporters had spotted him at the impeachment trial, Corbett had to delay his departure several days. He never considered the thought that he could have just turned down all their requests for interviews. They harassed him with question about the impeachment trial. He tried to explain humbly that he was a mere servant of God and the truly important people were Secret Service founder Lafayette Baker and former District Marshal and good friend of President Lincoln, Ward Hill Lamon. The newsmen would have none of his demure declarations. He was the man who killed the assassin. He attended the trial to remove Lincoln’s successor. They wanted to know why.
Only Baker stayed by his side as he underwent interview after interview. Corbett could tell Baker was relieved at the restraint he exhibited.
“No,” he told newspaper reporters, “I didn’t know Andrew Johnson personally.”
Did you know anyone connected with the political investigation, they asked.
“No,” he repeated, “except for Mr. Baker.”
“How did you come to know Mr. Baker? When did he become such a good friend, to stay by your side as you talk to us?” a reporter asked.
“It is God’s will,” Corbett replied without hesitation. “God intervened to ensure we sat next to each other. We have very much in common.” He looked over at Baker who smiled.
“And what do you two have in common?” another reporter asked.
“We both love our country and our God,” he continued. At this point Corbett began to tell the journalists his journey through life, his tragedies and his triumphs. When he reached his story about the time he castrated himself with a pair of scissors, the reporters lost interest and moved away.
Even the magazine writers lost interest when Corbett mentioned the castration, and he could not fathom why they did not find that experience fascinating. Realizing no one else wished to interview him, Corbett thought about what to do next. His evangelical mission was going nowhere, so he decided to return to his adopted hometown, Boston. Once back in town, Corbett went from hatter’s shop to hatter’s shop looking for employment.
He did not have to look for long because all the hat makers smiled in recognition when he told them his name. They viewed him as a national hero. His long experience in their chosen trade impressed them. Samuel Mason, the man who eventually hired him, took great pleasure in introducing him to all his customers as the man who shot President Lincoln’s assassin.
Corbett smiled graciously and accepted their congratulations, but, deep in his soul, he knew he did not deserve the credit. The man they thought he killed still lived and that fact made him uncomfortable. A nagging doubt lingered in the back of his mind. He felt he clung to his sanity as though grasping a tree root extending through the side of a high cliff. Corbett did not want to abandon all reason and tumble down into eternalmadness; but, he asked himself, what was he to do?
One day he must forsake all other missions the Lord may lay out in front of him, Corbett decided. He knew he must search for John Wilkes Booth, the man he should have killed in that burning tobacco barn in Virginia. While Corbett believed Lafayette Baker was sincere in his efforts to end the killing and spare Booth, he also knew that the man was wrong. God wanted Booth to die. God wanted the truth told, because the truth will set Boston Corbett free.
***
Ward Hill Lamon sat in his favorite chair in the parlor of his Danville, Illinois, home and felt older than he had ever felt before. He had not even been up to taking his large carpetbag up to his room after arriving from the train station. All of his life he had been chasing after one thing and then another. This last quest had left him drained, devoid of any of the emotions that had stoked his engine to keep him moving. For the past decade he had devoted his life entirely to Abraham Lincoln, first to serve and protect him and then to avenge his murder. And in the end he had to face the consequence of not fulfilling any of his duties particularly well at all. Why had he allowed Stanton to convince him the President had been secreted away for his own protection? Why had he conceded that the justice system could not properly punish Stanton? At this very moment, Stanton could be laughing at him. He could be lifting a glass of sherry, toasting himself for getting away with the most horrible crimes in American history.
Merry whispering roused him from his dark thoughts. He looked up to see his daughter Dorothy carrying a tray of cookies and his wife Sally with tray of cups and a pitcher of lemonade. At that moment, he forgot his failures and appreciated the love that surrounded him.

Toby Chapter One

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This is the story of a man who lived to make people laugh.
His name was Harley Sadler. He entertained Texas sod farmers and ranchers before movies learned to talk and the Grand Ole Opry ruled the radio airwaves. When the tent show came to town, mama pulled out her egg and butter jar to count pennies and dimes. Papa hitched the plough horse to the wagon, threw the children in the back and began the trek across the prairie.
Soon wagons from every direction met as the last rays of the day disappeared behind a distant ridge. Families dismounted—the children giggling and jumping about–and headed for the entrance to the giant canvas tent.
Overhead was the sign:
“Roy E. Fox’s Popular Players Present ‘King of Pecos County’”
The audience hurried inside, dimly lit by bare light bulbs mounted on iron buggy wheels. Sides of the tent were rolled up to allow the plains breeze to waft through. It was insufficient. Everyone cooled themselves with a cardboard fan which sported the face of their favorite actor, the man they came to see.
It was the photograph of a young man with lean, gaunt cheeks dotted with painted freckles, sparkling eyes and toothy grin.
Framing the wooden stage were posters advertising local businesses who willingly paid good money to put their names in front of what they knew would be a full house. Footlights flickered. Papas pointed out the spotlights to their sons and daughters. Hawkers walked up and down the aisles selling bags of pop corn and peanuts. Slowly members of the band appeared from behind the curtain, sat in front of the stage and tuned their instruments. Parents shushed their children. The show was about to begin.
After the curtain parted, all was silence. Familiar characters entered, spoke, emoted and exited, then returned as the usual melodrama story enfolded. The villain was tall, older and would have been considered handsome if not for the menacing black moustache and sneering lips. Children pelted the mean man dressed in black with popcorn recently bought with mama’s hard-earned egg and butter money. She did not mind.
In this particular play on this particular night Ed Thardo played the villain Unctuous Dirgewood with uninspired efficiency. He had spent most of his adult life saying the same lines every night without any expectation of appreciation. Everyone hated the bad guy. This night his evil designs were aimed at Martha Tyler, a pretty young actress in a starched gingham dress. As the audience hissed the villain’s advances on the heroine, the hero Billy Armstrong played by Sam Bright dressed in a dazzling white cowboy outfit bolted onto the stage to thunderous applause.
But no one received the adulation reserved for Harley Sadler. He was nowhere as handsome as hero Sam Bright nor as awe-inducing as villain Ed Thardo. Harley was short, skinny and humorously awkward. He wore a red wig, floppy cowboy hat, wooly chaps, boots askew on his feet as though they had not been properly fitted and a holster slung low between his legs.
Howls greeted every line Harley squawked out. His big earnest eyes focused on the person he addressed and the audience when he wanted to share his personal thoughts with them. Little did his fans realized that this particular night he scanned the crowd carefully to see if a special young woman were in attendance.
At one point Harley and Sam found themselves offstage at the same time. Harley grabbed Sam’s arm, dragging him to peek out of the curtain.
“She’s here, Sam! I told you she’d be here, and she’s here! It took me all of act once and act two to find her out there, but she’s here!”
“Which one is she?” Sam asked.
“The pretty one, of course.”
On stage, Ed was trying his best to intimidate Martha, but he kept glancing offstage at Harley, who continued to jabber away about the beautiful local girl.
“And that Toby, if he doesn’t keep his mouth shut, will live to rue the day he made me angry!”
Sam tried to pull away. “Uh oh. Ed’s getting mad.”
“Third row, aisle seat.” Harley chose to ignore him. “Blue dress and the face of an angel.”
The object of his attention was a very attractive girl in her late teens or early twenties. She smiled sweetly, revealing two adorable dimples. Her eyes glistened as she leaned into a friend, whispered and nodded to the curtain at the edge of the stage.
“Oh no!” Sam hissed. “She saw us! Let’s get back!” He tugged on Harley to the spot where he would make his next entrance.
“But she’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, she’s beautiful.”
“And she likes me,” he rambled on. “I could tell right off she liked me when I went into the city hall to get the tent permit. She liked me a whole lot.”
“Of course she liked you,” Sam agreed with a rebuke thrown in. “All the girls like Toby.”
The painted-on freckles and the blacked out tooth could not disguise Harley’s desperate need to be loved.
“No, she’s different. The others, they like Toby. She likes Harley.”
Sam shook his head and smiled. “So what’s this beautiful girl’s name?”
“Um.” A brief cloud crossed his face. “I think the woman at city hall called her Billie.”
A bump on his shoulder roused him from his revelry. Harley noticed Joan who played the villain’s French maid sashayed by in her short black uniform. He ducked his head when Ed exited with a flourish and immediately glowered at Harley. Sam nudged his friend.
“Joan’s just gone on.”
“I’m going to marry her,” Harley announced with determination.
“Who? Joan?”
“No, dummy,” he retorted. “Her. The girl at the city hall. Um, Billie.”
“Sure. You’re madly in love with a girl whose name you hardly remember,” Sam sneered.
Joan assumed her coquettish pose but lost her patience because Harley lingered by the curtain and missed his cue.
“Ooh la la. Zee meen Mishoor Dirgewood haz geeven me an evening to myself,” she repeated the cue loudly and with a fair amount of exasperation.
“Go.” Sam pushed him. “That’s your cue—again.”
“No, really,” Harley insisted. “I’m going to marry her. Billie. I’m going to ask her tonight.”
“Marry her? You don’t even know her!”
Joan tapped her foot and fluttered her full eyelashes. “Ooh la la. Zee evening aire ees wonderful.”
“Hurry!” The leading man placed his big hands on Harley’s boney shoulders and forcefully directed him onto the stage. “Joan’s terrible at making up lines.”
“You don’t believe me? How much do you bet I’m married in three days?”
“Ooh la la!” Joan was irritated to the point of losing her fake French accent.
“Married? You’ve never even kissed a girl before!”
“Ooh la la!!!” She was out of control.
“S-sure I have,” Harley stammered. “I kiss Joan every night.” He assumed his Toby posture and bravely made his entrance.
“But not on the lips!”
Harley gave a quick look off stage at Sam, then down in the audience and smiled nervously at Billie who stared back in adoration. He cleared his throat and approached Joan.
“Why, howdy, Miss Foo Foo. I was lookin’ for you.”
“Zat ees Fifi.” Her delivery was less than friendly.
“I’ve been ameanin’ to talk to you about that there boss of yours.”
Joan made a face. “Ugh. Mishoor Dirgewood. I do not trust heem.”
“Good for you. I don’t trust heem—I mean—him neither. Um. Do you know where he keeps his personal papers?”
“You mean zee deed to zee Hamilton fairm wheech he haz stolen?”
“Honest Billy Armstrong’s goin’ to go to jail if we can’t git it back.”
Joan prissed around Harley and ended uncomfortably close, running her fingers through his red wig. “And I will reecovair it for you, Mishour Toby, eef you will keess Fifi.”
“Kiss you?” Harley took a step back in shock. “Why, I don’t even know you! Why, it wouldn’t be moral! It wouldn’t be decent.” He stepped down to the footlights. “What should I do?”
The audience screamed as one. “Kiss her!”
Harley looked directly at Billie, who shyly dipped her eyes, smiled with a hint of flirtation and nodded. Harley grinned, exposing his blackened front tooth and strode to Joan.
“For the good of Pecos County, I’ll do it.”
Joan turned her cheek to be kissed as usual, but Harley grabbed her face in his hands and planted a kiss full on her lips. Some audience members gasped because, after all, this was Texas which considered itself the buckle on the Bible Belt. Others, toughened by the hard existence of farming where matters of life and death made men earthier, hooted in delight. Billie looked surprised, awed a bit jealous and excited all at the same time. Harley pulled away and smiled smugly. Joan was flabbergasted.
“Ooh la la,” she muttered in her regular voice. Catching herself, she resumed her French accent, “Ooh la la.”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Forty

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Gabby and Whitman rode the train out of Washington City and across the rolling Maryland countryside back to Brooklyn, feeling the warm breeze rushing through the open window. He mainly watched the scenery slide by them. Every once in a while Gabby glanced over to see Whitman carefully jotting words on a worn notepad.
“Are you writing a new poem?”
Whitman looked up and smiled. “Perhaps. But I don’t think anyone would believe it. Maybe. Someday.”
“People don’t understand the poems you’ve already written. I don’t know what you’re talking about most of the time. But I’m a little daft, so that doesn’t mean anything.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gabby.” Whitman chuckled. “I published one of my books of poetry right after the end of the war. My boss at the time, Mr. James Harlan with the Bureau of Indian Affairs, took offense when he read it so he fired me. He said I was setting a bad example for the other clerks, all young, able young men, morally, physically and politically.” He put his hand to his whiskered cheek. “I was totally devastated. I was unemployed until the next morning when I went to work in the Attorney General’s office. Remember this, Mr. Gabby, for every person who hates you, there are at least two or three who love you. It makes life more bearable.” He looked into his companion’s eyes. “Are you going to be all right staying with my mother and family? I have to go back to work in the Attorney General’s office next Monday.”
“Oh, I like Mrs. Walt very much. And if the screaming gets too bad I can go for a walk, maybe buy some peanuts. The store will let me come back and sweep floors, won’t they?”
“I’m sure they will.”
Gabby looked back out the window and smiled. Tranquility settled over his brain which he had not experienced in years. Thank God, he told himself, he no longer had to fear the short, red-haired mean man or Edwin Stanton. They had no reason to kill him anymore. He could live his life without shame, fear or in anticipation of certain doom. He tried to remember when life was so unencumbered and filled with hope. Finally it came to him, that day on Long Island beach when he and his best friend Joe VanderPyl played in the surf just before they left for West Point. Oddly, Mr. Walt was there too, only Gabby did not know who he was then.
“The ocean waves taught me always to look beyond the things on hand as the ocean always points beyond the waves of the moment,” he mumbled, repeating what the friendly stranger had said to the two boys that day.
“You’re still quoting me, I see,” Whitman said as he put his pad and pencil away and turned in his seat to give Gabby his full attention. “You mentioned that day on the beach to me before, and I don’t think I gave you a satisfactory answer.” He paused, as to compose his thoughts. “Mr. Gabby, you are the perfect example of what that poem means. You’ve lived your life just surviving the waves crashing against you, leaving you beleaguered, baffled and overwhelmed. All you had to do is look up at the horizon. We never know what’s coming over the horizon. It may be good or it may be bad, but it is coming nonetheless. Take joy in the anticipation.”
Gabby cocked his head, remembering what happened next on the beach that day. Mr. Walt, ever so much younger that day, had the audacity to run his hand over the dripping wet shirt which clung to Joe’s flat belly. “Why did you touch Joe?”
“What is wrong with touching something beautiful?” Whitman responded, smiling.
The Whitman family welcomed them back to Brooklyn and made a celebration of their return with holiday-sized meals on both Saturday and Sunday. Gabby was genuinely quite pleased to be around his adopted family who all tried to be on their best behavior. Jesse, the brother with syphilis, only threw one plate of food at the dining room wall.
When Monday arrived, Whitman caught the train back to the Capital, and Gabby resumed his duties sweeping floors at the general store down the street. At night, he performed the same duties in the Whitmans’ basement apartment. Each day his mind became clearer, and happiness made a hesitant return to his life. At one point, Gabby noticed that Whitman received several letters during the week, which he read on a Saturday and carefully put them away in a box in the corner of the bedroom that he shared with Gabby.
As they settled into their bed for the night one Saturday, Gabby asked, “Mr. Walt, what are all those letters you get? I mean, who are they from?”
“They are from the soldiers I cared for at the hospital during the war. And from the families of the boys whose hands I patted as they departed from this earth.” Whitman’s voice sounded weary, as though his mind demanded that he fall off to sleep.
“May I read them someday?” he asked timidly.
“Of course you may.” Whitman had almost succumbed to slumber.
On that coming Monday Gabby eagerly, though respectfully, began digging the letters out and reading them carefully. Gratitude and love filled the pages. They told Whitman how much they appreciated his letters informing them of their boy’s death. In words only a poet would select he described the joyful reunion of soldier and his Maker. Those who did survive to live again announced with pride when they had become fathers and had named their sons Walter Whitman in honor of the man who nursed them back to health. Each letter calmed and elated Gabby in a way nothing else could have.
One evening, after Gabby had eaten supper and properly swept each room, he said good night and went to his bed. Louisa followed him, stood in the door and asked, “Mr. Gabby, you said your last name was Zook, correct?”
“Yes, Miss Louisa.” His mind had cleared so much, it did not seem much sense to call her Mrs. Walt anymore.
“Was your father a lawyer?” Friendly expectation filled her voice.
“Why, yes, he was. My father was a very good lawyer. He didn’t make much money but he helped members of our neighborhood when they got in trouble with the law.” His dull eyes lit for the first time in years. “I had forgotten how proud I was of him. I never had to pay for apples or peanuts on the street where we lived. It was the vendors’ way of saying thank you to him, I guess.” Then he smiled. “Thank you, Miss Louisa, for reminding me of that.”
“I have a dear friend who always talks about the nice man who saved her son from hanging for a murder he didn’t commit. She just lives about three blocks from here. Would you like it if I took you to visit her tomorrow? I’m sure the store won’t mind. They tell me all the time what a good worker you are.”
The next morning Gabby awoke early, and after breakfast he and Louisa went first to the store to tell them he would not be working today. Louisa informed them Mr. Gabby was going to visit friends from the neighborhood where he grew up. His bosses thought that was a fine idea and waved at them as they walked up the street. After a substantial time, they arrived at an old brownstone, which had English Ivy creeping up around the windows. They knocked, and an old woman opened the door. At first she did not understand why this strange little man stared at her with intensity. But then Louisa introduced him. A grin broke out on her wrinkled face, and she gave Gabby a huge hug and led them into her parlor. She called for her daughter to come into the room. When she realized this was the son of the lawyer who saved the lives of many men in the neighborhood, the daughter ran out the door.
Gabby watched her as she went from house to house, knocking on doors, and waving excitedly back at her home. Within moments, a crowd lined up on the steps. Each one waited their turn to tell Gabby what his father had done to help a father or grandfather in trouble with the law. They cried when Gabby told them Cordie died while nursing soldiers in Washington City. Gabby straightened his shoulders and announced proudly he was not as strange as he was before the war broke out, they cried again for the return of his health.
Mr. Walt was right, Gabby thought as he basked in the love from his former neighbors. One never knew what was coming over the horizon.
By the first of August, Gabby felt so self-assured that he asked Whitman to accompany him on a trip up the Hudson River to the Army Academy at West Point. As they sat on the deck of the steamboat Daniel Drew, Gabby took in the view of high bluffs, trees and bushes, which the sun dabbled with all shades of green.
“I read all those letters,” he said softly.
“So you now know the true meaning of wealth,” Whitman replied with serenity.
“Yes.”
When the steamboat docked at West Point, Gabby and Walt disembarked and watched the Daniel Drew continue its journey to Albany. Then they took a leisurely walk up the knoll to the academy. After an hour or so, Gabby recognized a dusty path leading north. He touched Whitman’s arm. “Let’s go that way.”
They had not gone far on the lonely road when Gabby recognized the boulders and tall trees. He stopped. “This is it. This is where the accident happened. The officer had ordered me to drive his carriage to somewhere up this road. I tried to tell him I was a city boy and didn’t know how to handle a team of horses, but he insisted I do it anyway. I asked Joe to go with me. There was something about Joe that always calmed me down.” Gabby kneeled to touch the ground. “This is the exact spot where the carriage landed on Joe and killed him. I decided if growing up meant watching your friend die, I didn’t want to grow up. So I went home.” He stood, looked into Whitman’s gentle gray eyes and smiled. “I think I want to grow up now.”

Sins of the Family Chapter Twenty-Nine

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AUTHOR’S WORD OF CAUTION: The climactic last chapter of Sins of the Family is graphically violent. If any reader dislikes criminal acts described with stark details, I recommend not reading it.

John burst through the door and turned on the light, revealing Heinrich stretched out on his bed. Drawing himself up to his full height, John put a hand on Randy’s wiry shoulder. Time at last had come to kill Pharaoh and to be freed of all the agonizing passion which confused his mind.
“Give me the knife.”
“I don’t wanna.” Randy jerked his shoulder away.
“Give me the knife.”
“I wanna slit his throat.”
John’s hand went up, his index finger thrusting upward.
“I am Moses! Give me the knife!”
With reluctance Randy handed it over, but his face darkened with growing hatred.
“Pharaoh!” John began to stride toward the bed. “Your hour of judgment has come.” He paused. “Pharaoh. Answer me.”
When no answer came, Mike and Randy loped over and peered around John at Heinrich on his bed, his eyes bulging wide and his hands still clutching at his bosom. His dried lips stuck to his yellowed teeth as his mouth gaped opened.
“He’s dead.” John shook his head in disbelief.
“Why, he’s just an old man.” Mike giggled as he punched Heinrich’s belly with his beefy fist.
“He ain’t no bad guy, like you said.” Randy spat in disgust.
“How dare you deny me my vengeance?” Bewilderment etched John’s tormented features. All this time, all this killing, and Pharaoh was not his to punish. He jumped on the bed and straddled the old man’s body. “How dare you rob me of my mission?”
“Forget it, Moses.” Mike turned away and laughed. “He’s dead.”
“I will not be stopped!” John screamed in hysteria as he held the knife high above his head. Once again, in his mind, he was the naked warrior standing on the stairs’ top step at the trading post, a growing tree limb behind him. He held his knife high then also, as he looked down with contempt on his own father’s flabby body. His father had to be punished for not following Cherokee ways and for persecuting him because he did want to follow the old ways. Now this other fat old man must pay for his sins. With a war whoop, John brought his knife down and slashed into the corpse.
***
Outside, coming down the dark mountain lane lined with antique and craft shops, a police car made its usual late night rounds. The officers slowed to notice the waterwheel lights were still on.
“The last time Mrs. Schmidt left her lights on after eleven was when the old man had his stroke,” one officer said to the other.
“Yeah, we better check this out.”
***
Inside the bedroom, Bob hugged Jill as he watched John over and over again plunge his knife into Heinrich. Blood splattered everywhere, speckling John’s deranged face.
“Hey, stop it.” Randy hunched his shoulders. “It’s just an old man.”
“No.” John shook his head with delirious determination. “I shall end injustice.”
“Hey.” Mike focused on Jill and smiled. “I think I’m gonna get the princess.”
“No, you won’t.” Bob pushed Jill behind him.
Laughing, Mike knocked him to the floor. When Bob tried to rise, Mike pulled back his foot and kicked him hard in the gut, sending him across the room gagging and gasping for air.
“Come on, baby,” Mike murmured as he stepped up to Jill and put his hands on her slender shoulders.
Her face twisted in abhorrence, she knocked his hands off and punched his mouth.
“I like it when they fight back.” Mike smiled.
Bringing her knee into his groin, which doubled him over with a moan, Jill rushed over to Bob who was pulling himself up on his haunches. Before she could help him to his feet, Mike pulled her hair, causing her to fall to the floor. As Bob stood, Mike kicked him in his gut again, sending him back down. Groaning and holding his midsection, he looked across the room to see Randy drag John off the bed.
“Stop it!” Randy said, grabbing the bloodied knife.
“No.” John was dazed.
“Shut up!” Randy thrust the knife into John’s belly. “I’m sick and tired of you telling me what to do!”
He twisted its blade up under John’s rib cage. Bob watched the fury in Randy’s eyes as he glared at the man who had called himself Moses. John’s face hardly changed expression when the knife entered and even appeared relieved as he sank to the floor.
“Stupid Moses,” Randy muttered.
Bob rose with deliberation to his knees again. In front of him he saw Randy kick John’s body. To the side he saw Jill trying to sit up as Mike straddled her, her hands grasping at his face to scratch it. Mike slapped her hard.
“That’s enough fighting.” Mike pulled down his pants and positioned himself between Jill’s legs.
If Bob were going to save their lives he had to do it now. A glint of the knife blade in the ceiling light caught his attention. He needed it to stop Mike from attacking his wife. At one time, the blood dripping from a sharp edge would have triggered cringing and running away, but not now.
“You ain’t so high and mighty now, are you, Moses?” Randy kicked John’s lifeless body again.
His body imbued with total outrage, Bob leaped forward, and with both hands clinched into fists he hit Randy on the nape of his neck, causing the boy to drop the knife as he fell to his knees. Bob grabbed the knife, reached around Randy’s face with one hand, pulling it back, and slashed his throat with the other. As blood spurted out, he looked around the room to see nothing but blood. Heinrich’s abdomen was a puddle of blood. John sprawled in a pool of blood. And as Bob threw Randy’s body to the floor, blood gushed from his throat. With the knife in his hand, he glared at Mike and knew he had to attack him next. What was right or wrong did not matter any more. He had to save Jill’s life. She was worth more than any of the others, including himself.
“Oh, baby, this is gonna be good,” Mike said as he unbuttoned Jill’s blouse, oblivious to the fact his brother had just been murdered. His big hands pawed her.
Bob grabbed Mike’s dirty brown hair and yanked his head back, pulling the knife deep across his throat.
“What the…” His words were lost in gurgling blood spewing from his mouth. Mike flexed his thick shoulder muscles to throw Bob off his back. As he turned he caught sight of his brother’s body lying in a pool of blood.
“Randy?” His voice sounded pitifully sad until it descended into a snarl.
With a bellow he pounced on Bob, heaving him to the floor and straddling his chest. Mike’s hands closed around Bob’s neck.
“You killed my brother!”
Squinting to keep Mike’s blood from dripping into his eyes, Bob secured the knife with both hands and thrust upward with all his strength into the hard hairy belly. As Mike’s grip on his neck tightened, Bob pushed the knife in again and twisted it. Blood gushed from the teen-ager’s mouth onto Bob’s face. Finally Mike’s grasp loosened, his eyes glazed, and a last wheeze escaped his bloodied lips. He collapsed on Bob who rolled him off with a grunt. Bob looked with vacant eyes at Jill who stared back, her fingers absently trying to button her blouse. He became aware of voices in the background.
“Mrs. Schmidt, we saw your lights on and–
“In there. In there,” Greta said with urgency.
“What is it?”
Bob heard steps coming into the room. He turned to see Greta and two policemen, standing in the doorway, their faces aghast at the scene.
“Oh no,” Greta said, her hands going to her cheeks.
“What’s going on here?” one of the officers asked.
Numbly, Bob stood, took a few steps toward them and handed the knife to the policemen.
“I just killed two men.”
Looking down at Jill, he contorted his face in agony and began to cry. She reached up to pull him down to her. Sitting aright she held his sobbing head close to her. Jill’s eyes roamed the room as Bob clutched her waist. Her lips crinkled, and her chest began to heave, and, tears poured down her cheeks. Greta went to them, crouching and putting her strong arms around them.
“My babies, my babies,” she said, kissing their foreheads.

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Thirty-Nine

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Edwin Stanton continued to stare into the fireplace of his office in the War Department Building. The dancing flames were mesmerizing and soothing. He knew he must begin packing his personal items to return to his home on K Street but his body did not care to move. A light tap at the door drew his attention from the flames. The private claiming to be Adam Christy entered. As the soldier walked over to the fireplace, Stanton noticed he still had a slight but distinctive limp.
“I saw the gentlemen leaving the building, sir,” the private said. “They told me the unfortunate outcome of the Senate trial.”
Stanton’s mind reeled with the contradictions the soldier presented to him, and he fought the creeping suspicion that the person standing in front of him was ominously dangerous. “Where have you been all day? The chamber pot in the corner is full and is stinking up the room.”
“My deepest apologies, sir. It has been my intention to serve you faithfully, sir.”
“And that you have, for the most part. You’ve been lax in your duties during the trial however. I am not a well man, and I don’t need the added aggravation of smelling a full chamber pot.”
Stanton stared indignantly at the soldier. “Were you at the trial? If so, you did so without orders and compounded the breach by not properly informing me of what you saw.” Stanton was not pleased with his own posturing. It reeked of whining instead of being filled with power and rage.
“Was I, Adam Christy, at the trial? I should say not. And if you were displeased with how I conducted my duties, well, you should have told me.” Christy paused to chuckle to himself. “I have infinite experience emptying chamber pots for dignitaries.”
Stanton slammed his fist down on the rocking chair arm. “There you go again with your insinuations. You’re making sly accusations and taunting me, and I won’t have it!”
“I have no idea what accusations I might be making, Mr. Stanton. I am merely an Army private appointed to service a very important man. If I do a good job, perhaps I could receive an appointment to West Point.”
“No one ever said any such thing to you, I assure you!”
“And why is that, Mr. Stanton?” A silkiness entered the young man’s tone.
“Because I know you are not Adam Christy! I ordered Lafayette Baker to kill Adam Christy the night Abraham Lincoln was assassinated!” Horrified those words had finally escaped his lips, Stanton leaned back in his chair, his body depleted of all energy.
“That’s what I thought.” The private’s voice changed completely, gone was the naïve exuberance, replaced by a sophisticated malevolence. “You are, indeed, correct. I am not Adam Christy. I only meet him a few times before his death, at Mrs. Surratt’s boarding house and under the Aqueduct Bridge at midnight.”
Letting the impact of the words sink in, the private paused. “I thought I gave quite a good performance, don’t you think?”
“A performance? What do you mean?”
“It makes no difference. Only one course of action is left, and this sad comedy of errors will be complete.”
“Who are you?” Stanton forced the words out, deathly afraid of the answer they would provoke.
“I am merely another player you manipulated upon this national stage, saying my lines, prancing and preening, sublimely unaware I was not in control of my own actions.”
The older man shook his head and tried to smile smugly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The soldier stepped forward so that he was standing directly over Stanton, blocking the flickering light from the fireplace. “I am John Wilkes Booth.”
“That’s impossible.” His lips trembled. “He died in a barn in Virginia. There were witnesses.”
“I have returned like an avenging angel,” Booth continued, choosing to ignore Stanton’s statement. “Rep. Preston King of New York and Sen. James Lane of Kansas blocked Ward Hill Lamon from delivering a reprieve for Mrs. Surratt and thereby allowing an innocent lady to be hanged.”
“How did you know?”
Booth smiled imperiously. “Because I was there, in the guise of a soldier pushing his way through the prison yard crowd so Mr. Lamon and Mrs. Surratt’s daughter could deliver the reprieve, but King and Lane blocked our way.”
“But—but now they’re dead,” Stanton stammered.
“Yes, I know. I killed them. I was a beggar boy on the ferry in New York and tied weights to Mr. King before throwing him overboard. I was a carriage driver in Kansas and shot Mr. Lane. I told each one he had to pay for his sins. I have others marked for execution for participating in your evil plot to overthrow the president.”
Stanton shook his head. “I thought you hated Lincoln.”
“I did hate him, and I’m glad I killed him.” He paused to glare at the fat old man in the rocking chair. “But Adam Christy was an innocent young man. He didn’t deserve to die. Mrs. Surratt was kindly woman, a good mother and a devout Roman Catholic. She did not deserve to die.” Booth reached out to touch Stanton’s hair and tug on it. “You deserve to die.”
Jerking his head away, Stanton narrowed his eyes. “You won’t get away with it. I will call out for help and soldiers—real soldiers–will drag you away. If you try to escape they will shoot you down like a mad dog before you even leave the building.”
“No, you won’t call out because then they will learn who I am and why I am still alive.” An evil grin appeared. “Do it. They can hang us together.” Booth turned for the door. “No, I’m not killing you today. And not tomorrow. Sometime. Someday.”
Booth put his hand on the knob and looked back. “You might even forget I’m coming back to kill you. But I will, and no one will stop me.”