Elani stepped up to Lincoln and rested her head on his knee. For a moment, the two of them made eye contact, his gray eyes staring into her brown ones. Her ears dropped down flat as his slender fingers scratched the top of her head. As she explored him, I realized her talent was the direct opposite of Kipp’s. When Kipp was boring into someone’s psyche, he was intrusive and active in his pursuit. Elani, however, relaxed and was almost like an open vessel, and parts of the other individual just entered her while she remained passive. Completely opposite talents by two lupines. I couldn’t wait to get back and talk with Fitzhugh.
It was to be our last time spent with Lincoln as well as young Tad. As I prepared to leave, I collected the tiny lilac blossoms and carefully folded my handkerchief around the flowers. That little item would return home with me, an accidental gift from Abraham Lincoln.
For four symbionts who, by our nature, have eternally curious and busy minds, the ride back to Washington was unusually quiet. Even Kipp’s active thoughts, which were usually bouncing around inside my head like a ping pong ball, were still, as if frozen into inactivity. The woods, as we passed, were thankfully absent of spies, highwaymen, or anyone else, and we were free to examine the birds flying to their early spring nests as well as the odd sprinkling of young wildflowers that were tempting fate, since the weather was by no means certain.
As we entered our townhouse, I glanced at the Surratt home. The soft glow of lamps illuminated the windows; a shadowy figure passed in front of one of the apertures. I sought out Mary Surratt and found her, peaceful, her home empty of conspirators, as she and Anna sat in the parlor chatting about a gown Anna had seen and coveted. Mary had returned from the country tavern on business related to Booth and now she spoke of frivolities.
I wanted desperately to make another covert trip into the city to eavesdrop on Booth at the Herndon House, but it would be a poor choice to make, and I wasn’t ready to tempt fate once again. Forcing down the thought, I turned to the cold dinner we’d set out, having no appetite. As I stared at a slice of bread made with wheat and honey, the sweetness of it was lost to me, and it was as dry and tasteless as cardboard. Glancing across the room, I caught Kipp’s eyes on me, his thoughts private.
“What?” I asked, tilting my head.
“You’re in a mood,” he replied, sharing his thoughts with Peter and Elani. “And you shouldn’t be,” he added.
“And why not?”
“Because we’ve done what we came to do, and we avoided disrupting a very complicated and important timeline. So, you’ve done your job and done it well.” He leaned his massive head forward to lick daintily at his forepaw.
I bit back my response, which would have involved asking him who elected him the king of everything and that I had a right to feel however I wanted to feel.
“And, no, I’m not the king of everything,” he replied tartly, “but you know I’m right.”
And he was. I hated to admit it, but he was.
Twenty-Eight
It was the morning of the assassination, April 14th, and again we remained out of sight while Booth went about the city putting together all the pieces of his carefully constructed puzzle. He’d given the letter, which named the other assassins, to a fellow actor to be delivered and made public, thus ensuring no one would back out of his grand coup at the last minute. Just so we wouldn’t go stir crazy, we took a walk, enjoying the temperature after what seemed to be the permanent chill left behind after winter. We were careful to avoid running into Booth, who was, at that time, engaged in his threatening stare down of Grant and his wife, Julia, who were in a carriage leaving town. It was impossible to wonder what would have happened if Grant had gone to the theatre with Lincoln, as Lincoln had wished. But Julia could not tolerate Mary Lincoln, and Julia was no meek, subservient woman. She wanted them to leave town and in doing so avoid the theatre and social time spent with a notorious gossip and sharp-tongued woman whom she despised. Grant, a man who’d led men to battle and many to their deaths, acquiesced to his wife and was probably saved from Booth’s attack. We circled our block a few times so the lupines could stretch their legs.
“Petra, I’m looking forward to getting home so that we can start running again,” Kipp remarked, tilting his head to glance up at me hopefully. My ankle was still sore, but the liniment Peter had obtained seemed to be a miracle cure. It smelled like turpentine and burned like the dickens, but it helped ease the pain and swelling. The label on the amber-colored bottle didn’t list ingredients, and that was probably a good thing.
“Me, too, Kipp,” I replied, my hand finding the top of his head.
“You know we have to go to Ford’s Theatre tonight and wait outside, don’t you?” he asked.
I looked at him, stricken, before realizing he’d had the conversation with Elani and, after all, it was her time-shift.
“You guys may have to make that trip without me,” I stuttered, feeling my face flush.
“You cannot back out of this,” Kipp replied, getting bossy. “I didn’t think you were a coward.”
I stopped walking, staring at him as I struggled to control my reaction. A glance at Peter and Elani revealed their startled, then embarrassed expressions. Peter’s cheeks turned red as he looked down at his feet before staring across the street at a passing vendor trying to sell meat pies. But Kipp wasn’t as clever as he thought, and I just as quickly realized he had used the provocative word purposely but not because he thought it of me.
“Stinker,” I replied. “And I think I am a coward where this is concerned.”
“But you’ll go,” he pushed, his amber eyes on mine.
“I’ll think about it,” I said reluctantly.
We resumed our walk, which had disintegrated from a brisk pace to a meandering stroll as the four of us realized what we had in store for later that evening. Unless some odd twist of fate prevented it, we would be outside Ford’s Theatre when a dying Lincoln would be carried out. I didn’t want to go, but it did seem cowardly, to use Kipp’s word, to hide out in the townhouse while my companions finished the job. In looking back with a critical eye, I think my years of observing the occasional tragedy had worn on me more than my friends, who were still relatively new at the game.
As we returned to the town house, I glanced at Mary’s home, which was quieter since her son, John, had departed. She gave voice to missing him, but privately there was a part of her that was happy he’d taken his malcontent and chaos with him. But she’d never admit to that. We set up our chessboard but paused in the afternoon to watch out the window as Booth arrived, dashing and handsome as ever, to converse with her. He was there to give her a package containing binoculars to deliver to the tavern in Surrattsville where the guns were hidden. She was delivering goods at the direction of Booth. And Weichmann, who would later testify against her, was present, although his actual knowledge of events was fractured. I guess he wanted to save his hide since conspirators were most likely going to be executed. It was not much later when Weichmann arrived in the buggy, and we saw Mary departing with him to the tavern.
I sighed, turning away from the window. Glancing up, my companions were watching me. Kipp’s ears flattened.
“Come on, Petra. We’re getting our butts whipped by these two youngsters. Get your head in the game.” He growled at me from across the room.
I returned to the table and made a boneheaded move with my white knight. Peter really had no mercy in chess and proceeded to capitalize on my stupidity. Kipp glared at me, intolerant of my carelessness.
“I’m not playing with you anymore,” he complained.
“There’s something we’ve never really discussed in any depth,” I began, ignoring Kipp while taking a deep breath and glancing at my companions. I guess the serious tone of my voice broke the other prevailing moods and my friends stared at my face. “If we are still present when Lincoln actually dies, you need to cut off any connection you have with his thoughts.”
“Why?” Kipp asked, turning his
head slightly.
“It is the place we just don’t need to go,” I said, realizing my reason sounded weak, feeble and inadequate.
“But, why?” he asked again.
“There isn’t a specific rule, but I’ve known symbionts who made that journey, and they were changed by it, and sometimes not in a good way. I just need you to trust me and break contact with him before he actually dies.” I sighed. “And I realize the questions about the afterlife are some of the most compelling, but you just need to trust me. I don’t think any of you are mature enough yet to go that far; I know, for certain, I’m not.” I looked at Kipp, because he concerned me the most due to his bottomless well of curiosity. “Kipp, you must promise.”
“But I’ve been in the presence of humans who died…” he began before I cut him off.
“It’s different, Kipp, when you spend time with a human and become involved with the person on an emotional level. There is the temptation to follow that individual due to the connection you’ve had. I think, in general, we have some innate protection, an inner instinct, which keeps us from going too far. But with that emotional connection, our protection fails and curiosity and emotion take over.”
He took a deep breath and looked away for a moment. Then his eyes met mine. “Okay, Petra, I promise.”
The others did, too, and I relaxed. How was it we’d not really talked about this compelling issue? In any case, I was ready for a nap, since we had a long evening ahead of us, and my focus and concentration was not what it needed to be. The others reluctantly agreed, and we retired to our rooms. Wanting comfort, I stripped down to my chemise and climbed in the bed which was narrow and the mattress stiff, but it felt as if I’d sunk down into a cloud. This time-shift had been exhausting, mentally. Kipp climbed up and curved as close as possible to me, resting his head on my chest.
“I was just kidding, you know. I always want to be your partner, even when you can’t play worth a dime,” he added.
“I know, Kipp. Go to sleep.”
And sleep all four of us did, until darkness fell. I awoke first and tentatively peeked into the quiescent minds of Peter and Elani, who were resting, dreamless, their bodies at ease. Kipp was dreaming of Booth, and in his dreams he was part of the pursuit party chasing Booth after Lincoln was shot. Kipp’s legs were paddling in the bed, tangled in the sheets, as he ran in his dream state. I put my hand on his side to gently waken him.
“What?” He sat up awkwardly, confused.
“Time to get up,” I whispered, tweaking his ear. “It’s okay; you were dreaming.”
“Whew! And I am worn out,” he complained. “I’ve been running for hours it seems.”
To fortify ourselves, we ate some cold leftovers, but none of us had an appetite. Peter checked his watch, and it was 9:30 in the evening. The assassination would occur in forty-five minutes. As we left the townhouse, I glanced across the street. Mary’s home was quiet, the kitchen dark. She had probably put her day to bed and was resting. Searching, I found her, probably in her room, trying to darn a sock despite her visual problems, straining to see with the feeble light of an oil lamp.
The streets lacked the business of commerce as seen during the day, but the evening was an active time in the city, with people going to the theatre, seeking dining, or enjoying the company of friends. We took our time, sticking to the darkness as much as possible. It was our plan to find a hidden corner where we’d not risk being seen by anyone who could recognize us and watch the event. We took H Street until it intersected with 7th Street and turned south, walking slowly. The front of Ford’s Theatre was lit by lanterns, the flickering lights cascading upward to illuminate the entrance. Boards had been placed, since the streets were muddy, so that women could leave their carriages and not have their gowns soiled. Quickly the four of us did a mental sweep and didn’t find Booth in the immediate vicinity, so we hurried past Ford’s and passed the row house where Lincoln would be taken and found refuge on the other side of a porch where a steep set of steps angled to meet the level surface.
Kipp closed his eyes and focused, turning his head back and forth slowly. I knew he was looking for Booth.
“He’s behind Ford’s,” Kipp whispered. “He’s giving his horse to Ned Spangler to hold for him.”
As we waited, huddled in the darkness, the occasional carriage or man on horseback would pass us. I fancied I could hear laughter from inside the theatre, as the crowd appreciated the comedy being presented, Our American Cousin. John Parker, Lincoln’s worthless bodyguard, had already left the doorway where he was supposed to be protecting the president, and was in Taltavul’s getting blasted with his daily allotment of whiskey. It was time to solve another little mystery that had haunted me.
“Kipp, find Parker and determine if he was part of the conspiracy.” Although he’d been found not implicated, I’d always wondered. It was very convenient for him to be absent at the exact time Booth arrived. Since we’d briefly met Parker, Kipp could do as I asked, although it was a bit of a push, and he was panting but victorious when he found him amongst unfamiliar minds.
“He’s had too much to drink, so his thoughts are all jumbled up,” Kipp said. “But I get nothing at all that would make me think he is a part of the assassination plot. I think it was just fate that he was absent when Booth arrived.”
I glanced at Elani. “A side mystery solved,” I said, nodding at her.
The street lights were flickering; a mild wind stirred the leaves in the few trees that had been left for decoration along the street. A couple passed us, strolling, as we sank back into the shadows even further. Inhaling, I caught the smell of his cologne—dusky like autumn’s fallen leaves—as well as her perfume. Two nicely dressed individuals out for the evening, thinking nothing at all exciting would happen on that particular day. Since we all knew Booth quite well by then, he was easy to spot as he turned the corner to go to Taltavul’s for a shot of whiskey, finding amusement that Lincoln’s bodyguard was there, drinking, too. There were so many people inside Ford’s that I could not find Lincoln amongst the dense web of swirling emotions and thoughts. Kipp could and did.
“He’s enjoying himself,” Kipp said, looking up at me. “He feels very close to Mary, almost playful as if they are courting one another again.”
Cautiously, I peered around the barricade of steps and watched as Booth left the tavern, almost swaggering as he walked to Ford’s. The flickering street lamps cast their light, and his moving shadow was caught against the wall of the theatre. Of course, he was a well-known figure there, and his admittance was not questioned. I knew everything would turn, and it did, in that moment. It was almost as if a tsunami hit us all in the face as the happiness inside the building turned to confusion and then horror. Kipp physically flinched as Booth’s bullet struck Lincoln. And since I was connected with Kipp, I realized, too, Lincoln’s flash of confusion, and then the thoughts numbed and went dark, almost as if a candle had been blown out. There was no fear, just startled confusion, and then nothing coherent. Yes, he had awareness of those around him and the chaos and emotion, but he lacked the ability to put it into any type of organized thought process. He could hear Mary’s anguished wailing and wanted to reach out and comfort her but couldn’t.
And I give credit to Peter, who was trying to find Booth, and he did so, noting Booth’s triumphant exit on horseback as he galloped away into the darkness on F Street. People began to boil out of the theatre in mass, and crowds such as that can be dangerous. We pulled back even deeper into the corner where we huddled against the row house. It was not long before militia arrived to restore order, and four soldiers carried Lincoln’s prostrate body on a board across the street to the Peterson house. Mary followed in his wake, her sobbing heard over the noise of the crowd. The four of us had to detach from her, so painful was her grief and fear. It was simply not bearable.
We’d had the debate as to how long to stay with the cautionary advice I’d given to separate from Lincoln before he actually died.
And Mary Surratt would not be immediately arrested, so we didn’t have to rush back to the townhouse. But the crowd’s agitation escalated more than we anticipated, and one man was almost killed as people looked for someone to blame. Neither I nor my companions had any wish to risk injury at the hands of the mob. As the soldiers struggled to restore some order, even resorting to fists and drawn swords, we realized it was time to go. We’d learned all we could, and it was time to return to the townhouse to observe what was to happen with Mary Surratt in a few short hours.
As one would expect in a small town, which Washington was in those days, the word of the attempt on Lincoln’s life was spreading like wildfire, and small groups of people were huddled, their faces filled with a multitude of emotions. For those who opposed him, there was quiet relief and even happiness since he was viewed by them as a tyrant. But for those who loved him, there was unimaginable pain. There were even people openly weeping amongst those who were angry and looking for vengeance. We managed to get home safely and, with a collective sigh of relief, closed the kitchen door behind us and locked it. Peter started to light a lantern but I stayed his hand.
“Let’s keep it dark and pretend no one is home,” I suggested. “We’ve been seen in the company of Mary Surratt and could be implicated.”
We huddled in the parlor, in darkness, and two hours later, we heard the clatter of horses’ hooves on the street below. Peeking through the windows, we saw a group of men approaching the Surratt house. A man stepped forward and began to knock on the door; one by one, I could see the windows above illuminated by lantern light. The door opened, and Mary, wearing her dressing gown, stood in the aperture, clearly startled.
“Elani, this is your time-shift,” I said. “So, what conclusions do you draw?”
She concentrated, as did we. “Mary Surratt is surprised to learn of the assassination of Lincoln. The men are looking for Booth as well as Mary’s son, John. She is anxious, fearful that John has involved himself in something grave and potentially disastrous.”
A Conspiracy to Murder, 1865 Page 29