by Zack Mason
Somehow, the burning of the shares had caused Smith’s shifter to disappear from off his wrist. By preventing their fiery destruction, Mark had inadvertently allowed Smith to keep his shifting capabilities and get away. He should have let him rot in jail without a shifter and just bought more shares. That would have ended it. Now, he was back to square one in trying to find the guy.
He patted his back pocket and was relieved to feel his wallet had returned. Ty was probably back at headquarters in Boston now. At least everything was back to normal for the time being.
He was about to leave by shifting out of the vault when he noticed a scrap of paper on the floor. Realizing it had likely fallen from Smith’s pocket, he picked it up. Its scribblings were cryptic. He needed to get back to the office and see what they could make of it. It might be a worthwhile clue.
L-04-14-65 L.H.O.
K-11-22-63 J.W.B.
“Do you have any idea what it means?”
“Not a clue,” Ty answered.
They’d been studying the thing for hours with no breakthroughs. The best guess so far was that it was some kind of technical specs for something. Maybe for the shifters? Was Infinite Interlock the name of the company that made the shifters? Was Smith affiliated with them? Was he now trying to eliminate Mark because Mark was never supposed to have gotten a hold of a shifter in the first place?
“We need to take a break, get a fresh perspective,” Mark said.
Just then, Savannah came in with a couple of cups of steaming coffee.
“Savannah, your timing is impeccable, as always. Some coffee would help a lot right now,” he paused, “Hey, would you take a look at this? We can’t make heads or tails of it.”
Coming closer, she pulled a delicate pair of glasses from her pocket.
“Hey, I thought you’d gone to contacts.”
“Uh....yeah, but not today.” She scrutinized the paper on the desk. “Seems pretty straight forward to me.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s the Lincoln and Kennedy assassinations, but the assassins are mixed up.”
“Huh?”
“The L-04-14-65. That’s short for ‘Lincoln - April 14, 1865'. But the initials following it are for Lee Harvey Oswald, Kennedy’s assassin. The second line is ‘Kennedy - Nov. 22, 1963' followed by the initials of Lincoln’s killer, John Wilkes Booth.”
Dates! By now, Mark should be an expert at spotting dates in unusual formats, yet somehow he hadn’t seen it.
“You’re right. There’s nothing else it could be.”
She beamed.
“So what’s the Infinite Interlock mean?”
“Not sure. Maybe it’s a reference to all the historical coincidences between Lincoln and Kennedy.”
“What coincidences?”
“Well, some people have identified all kinds of ‘connections’ between the lives of Lincoln and Kennedy, especially with regard to their assassinations. Some of the connections are kind of silly, like both of their names having seven letters.
“But there’s other things, like the fact Lincoln was first elected to the House of Representatives in 1846, Kennedy in 1946. Lincoln was elected President in 1860, Kennedy in 1960. Their parties’ conventions those years were both held in Chicago.
“They both had Vice-Presidents named Johnson. Both were concerned about Civil Rights. Both lost a child while in the White House. Kennedy had an advisor named Lincoln who warned him not participate in the motorcade. Lincoln supposedly had an advisor named Kennedy who warned him not to go to the theater, though there isn’t much evidence of that. Both Presidents were shot in the head, on a Friday, in the presence of their wives.
“Both assassins were southerners and killed before going to trial. Booth killed Lincoln at a theater and was caught in a warehouse. Oswald killed Kennedy from a warehouse and was caught in front of a theater. Oh, and both assassins also have fifteen letters in their names.”
Ty whistled. “Whew. Ask a question, get a mouthful.”
Savannah blushed. “It’s kind of a fun trivia type thing among historians.”
“I think I remember reading something about that in middle school. What do you think all those coincidences mean?” Mark asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve always just thought it was some funny quirk of history. Never treated it very seriously myself.”
“Okay, thanks, Savannah.”
“You’re welcome.” She dipped in a mock curtsy and left the office.
“Sure helps having an expert historian on the payroll, huh?” Ty said.
“Yeah, especially in our business.”
“So....Smith dropped a scrap of paper containing cryptic info about two presidential assassinations. What is he planning, and what do we do about it?”
“We split up. One of us goes back to 1963, the other to 1865. We take a look around and see if we see Smith anywhere nearby.”
“Sounds good. Which year do you want?”
“I think I’d have an easier time than you right after the Civil War. How about you take Kennedy, I’ll take Lincoln,” Mark offered.
“Done.”
***
November 22nd, 1963, Dallas, TX
Investigating in Dallas in 1963 without arousing suspicion wasn’t exactly an easy thing to do with Ty’s skin color being what it was. Still, if you played it right, it could actually work to your advantage.
There was no way he would get close to the President. Security would be too tight. If there was need for a more in depth investigation, he would come back with Mark and have him pose as a secret service agent.
When was Mark going to forgive Hardy anyway? The three of them had made a pretty good team until Hardy had messed around with Laura. Ty had never liked the woman personally. He’d seen right through her from the start. He’d grown up with women like that. They were only after one thing: money.
It was all moot anyway. Hardy was with her now. Both his friends were blind to what she was, and neither would listen to him. Mark just needed to get over it for the sake of the company, for the sake of their friendship.
Ty decided the best way to begin would be to study the Kennedy motorcade as it passed by. He would observe the crowd and see if he could spot Smith anywhere.
He had to admit, though, it was exciting to think he was about to witness such an historic event firsthand. He’d only been nineteen when the assassination originally took place. He could still vividly remember the black and white images that had played over and over on small television screens around the world. Who could have imagined he would ever have the opportunity to rewind the years and see it up close like this? He would likely see it a number of times before he was done.
The presidential motorcade was now turning the corner from Houston Street onto Elm, where it would soon pass in front of the Book Depository and the Grassy Knoll. Ty’s main task was to find Smith, so he kept the motorcade in the corner of his eye as he scanned the crowd.
Abruptly, his visual search came to a halt as his eyes fastened on a figure standing in the doorway of the Book Depository. The man wore an orangish-brownish shirt which was unbuttoned halfway, revealing a white T-shirt underneath. His angular face looked oddly familiar. In fact, the man looked just like Oswald.
The cracks of rifle shots shattered the afternoon. Ty didn’t think to look around and see where they were coming from, he was so fascinated by the Oswald look-alike. If that was Lee Harvey Oswald, then there was no way he had killed Kennedy. What if he'd really been a patsy like he'd claimed?
“Hello, Ty.”
The voice was as unexpected as the gun in the man’s hand. It wasn’t Smith. Nor was it anyone else he knew, but somehow this man knew him.
Two other men grabbed Ty’s shoulders from behind and pinned his arms. Where had they come from?
“Do not let him get either hand free, not even for a second.” The gunman tossed some cable ties to the men.
“Cuff him. Then, take him into that building and down to the basement. Outside
the utility entrance, there’s a vehicle waiting. Give the driver this address.” He reached around Ty to hand a slip of paper to one of the men. Ty used the opportunity to try and head butt the guy. If he could break free from the others’ grip for a just moment, he would be able to shift out of trouble.
However, the gunman sensed the move and deftly dodged it. He reared back and slapped Ty across the face with the back of his hand. As he swung, his jacket cuff pulled up on his arm, and Ty caught a brief glimpse of dull pewter on his wrist. He had a shifter.
Ty felt a trickle of blood dribbling down his chin. “Who are you?” he growled.
The man ignored him. “You know what? Why take any chances?” He slammed the butt of his pistol down on the back of Ty’s neck and knocked him out cold.
He must have been out for hours. The sun was much lower in the sky now — it was probably late afternoon. Ty was sitting on the cold floor of an abandoned warehouse. The plastic cable ties on his wrists were gone, replaced by a two pairs of metal handcuffs. The other ends of each were cuffed to two separate iron rails embedded above his head in the concrete wall at his back. The rails were about four feet apart, so there was no way for him to get either hand loose to shift.
“Well, there you are, Sleeping Beauty,” a slimy, sing-songy voice cooed.
It was the same man who’d knocked him out. His thick hair was jet black, except for a single odd tuft of gray right above the brow.
Ty tried to respond with something coherent, but all he could manage was a low moan.
“Yeah, it’ll probably take you a minute to recover. When you’re ready, I’d love to fill you in on what we’re going to do to you.”
“Who are you?” Ty croaked.
“You asked me that before.”
“I saw your shifter.”
The man raised a hand to cover his mouth in mock surprise. “Oh no! You saw my shifter. How else do you think I would know who you are, idiot?”
Ty said no more.
“Ah, cat got your tongue now? No worry. It’ll be over soon. You’re too late to save the President anyway, if you were concerned about that.
“Don’t hope for one of your friends to save you either. They may be able to jump through time like temporal kangaroos, but they can’t save you if they don’t know where you are.
“Tomorrow’s newspapers are going to be filled with the tragic news of the assassination of John F. Kennedy, and no one will have time to worry about some black man showing up dead in an abandoned warehouse on the other side of town. Just to be safe though, we’re going to make sure your body’s never found.
“I’ve got some guys digging a trench outside right now. As soon as they finish, we’re going to shoot you in the head and dump your body in the hole. Then, we’re going to fill it back in with concrete. Ain’t nobody gonna be the wiser, and your friends will never track down your whereabouts. How’s that sound?” He smiled wickedly.
Ty grumbled unintelligibly.
“What was that?”
Ty spat at the man’s feet.
“That’s better.”
April 14th, 1865, Washington, D.C.
“Yes?”
“I have an appointment with the President.”
“You must be Kennedy from the Department of the Interior?” The secretary was dressed sharply in striped gray pants and a black frock coat which ended just above the back of his knees. His vest and tie were a slightly darker gray. He spoke with a slight accent which sounded German.
“Er....Yes.” Mark had bribed an official in the Department of the Interior to set this appointment up, but he hadn’t known the man was going to choose the name Kennedy for him.
Sweat dripped from his palms and butterflies were doing somersaults in his stomach. With everything Mark had been through in his short life, it was hard to faze him, but today he was outdoing himself. He was about to meet the President of the United States. He was about to meet Abraham Lincoln.
He followed the male secretary down a series of halls that looked amazingly similar to the halls of the White House of his day. Most noticeably different was the absolute lack of any modern touches. No telephones, light switches, or exit signs. The light level in general was dimmer since the only source available was sunlight streaming through the window panes. Candles were positioned throughout the home, ready to be lit once evening neared.
They arrived at a large paneled door, and the secretary knocked. Another clerk inside the Oval Office opened it.
“Mr. Thomas Kennedy from the Department of the Interior to see the President.”
“Thank you, John. Please show him in.”
Gaunt was the best word Mark could come up with to describe Lincoln. He was tall and gangly, and sunken-in cheeks and eyes gave him an almost sickly appearance. The stress of the war was clearly visible in his visage. Yet, his eyes were bright and engaging. His physical presence was magnificently compensated for by his powerful personality.
His voice was a little higher than Mark had expected.
“Welcome, Mr. Kennedy. I don’t believe we’ve met before.” Lincoln extended his hand.
Mark shook it, still unbelieving that he was actually standing in the Oval Office shaking hands with Abraham Lincoln. “No, sir, we haven’t.”
“I understand they sent you over to speak with me about my reconstruction program for our southern neighbors.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me, is there much support over at Interior for my plan?”
“I support it, sir.”
“Those words are refreshing, I assure you. I’ve received such little support of late, truthfully, for the last five years, but I suppose one grows accustomed to opposition. Do your superiors support the plan?”
“It’s doubtful, sir.”
“That’s more what I expected. The Radicals have extended their unsavory influence into all areas of the government it would seem. I can understand it. We’ve lost near half a million men fighting this bloody war. Most want to exact a terrible vengeance on our southern brothers for it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The South has already paid a heavy enough price, as much as we have, more even. We must now heal and restore if we are to hope for the future of this Union.”
“I think future historians will agree with you, sir.”
A knock interrupted their conversation. The clerk opened the door, and the same male secretary poked his head in.
“Sir, sorry to interrupt, but Senator Sumner is here to see you on urgent business.”
“Yes, I’ll be right with him.”
“Also, General Grant has sent his regrets that he will not be able to join you tonight at the theater.”
“Fine.” The secretary closed the door again. “Mr. Kennedy, I hope you’ll forgive me for cutting our meeting short, but I have some things I must attend to before the evening.”
He took Mark’s hand and shook it.
“Mr. President, please do not go to the theater tonight.”
Lincoln’s smile froze. He gripped Mark’s hand more firmly.
“That is an odd thing to say, young man.”
“Please, sir. Don’t go.”
Lincoln looked Mark straight in the eye, holding his gaze without wavering for a full minute, searching for the meaning behind Mark’s words. At last, he spoke.
“What will be, my son....will be.”
Then he was gone, down the hallway to meet the senator.
***
Mark wondered if the Lincoln assassination would be a “protected” event like the death of his own children. Something unable to be changed. He guessed it would be. If he were able to prevent Abraham Lincoln from being assassinated, it would theoretically change the entirety of American history which followed. Still, he wanted to try.
Whatever forces of the universe ruled such events proved his guess correct. The best and easiest way to stop the assassination was obviously to shift directly into Lincoln’s box right before Booth burst in and fired
the fatal shot. Mark tried numerous times to shift directly into the box, but his shifter wouldn’t perform. Then, he tried right outside the box. When that didn’t work, he tried immediately prior to the shooting, then several minutes before, then fifteen minutes before, but nothing worked. He couldn’t get anywhere near Lincoln's box, anywhere close to the time of his death.
The shifter wasn’t flashing red or anything. He could shift to other moments sufficiently distanced from the time of the shooting. The shifter just would not allow him anywhere near the vicinity of Lincoln or Booth in a way that he could prevent the shot.
Echoing through Mark’s mind were Lincoln’s last words to him. “What will be, my son, will be.”
Mark waited for the fated event on the lower level of the theater. The play that night was Our American Cousin.
At 10:15, a shot rang out from the balcony level.
So hollow the sound of a great man’s death.
The high-pitched screams of several women followed. The pandemonium was just beginning, most not having yet realized what that loud pop signified.
“Sic semper tyrannis!”
The shadowy figure of John Wilkes Booth leapt from Lincoln’s box to the stage, catching what appeared to be his heel on one of the flags draping the box. More cries and shouts were heard now. Booth landed hard on the wooden stage, and stumbled. Mark knew from history books that Booth had just broken his leg.
For a moment, he considered pursuing Booth. He knew where Booth was headed. In fact, he could shift to right outside the door where Booth would escape and capture him. But why should he?
Booth wasn’t much longer for this world anyway. In a short time, he would be cornered in a barn by a mob and killed. What would Mark’s meddling gain?
No, if he couldn’t stop the Lincoln assassination, he had only one purpose here, to find Smith. There was something Smith was planning around both the Lincoln and Kennedy assassinations. His only hope for figuring it out was to hang around and see if he spotted Smith anywhere and try to capture him.