He could barely see the woman and didn’t much care. He edged onward as she said, “I am aware, Mr. Trenchard, that you are not used to the manners of polite society.”
Another piece of wall, another break in it. He halted. What were all those banners hanging over on the side there, above the stage? Red, white, and blue ones…the president’s box?
A man on stage preened. “Heh, heh. Don’t know the manners of good society, eh? Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal—you sockdologizing old man-trap!”
Laughter roared through the audience. Walker strained forward. Was that Lincoln standing in the shadows of the box? Or—
Crack.
Chaos, instant and deafening. Walker tried to rush forward, but the actors were running, screaming, pushing into him.
A figure jumped from the balcony to the stage. Booth, shouting something in Latin. He took off for the back.
Walker took off after him, bowling over the boy and getting caught in the shouting, darting crowd of theater people. But even as he fought his way outside, he knew he was too late.
Booth was gone. Lincoln was shot.
Walker sank to the cool bricks and stared into the thick darkness. Two more minutes, and he could have been there. He could have stopped him. Two more minutes, and the Culpers would have won.
Two more minutes the world had refused him. And now he could only watch them reel.
Thirty-Four
Marietta had gone numb lying on the cold, damp rock. The blindfold made time swim, the gag sucked all the moisture from her mouth, and the rope tying her wrists chafed her raw as she struggled.
Why fight? a voice snarled in her ear. He’s dead. You lost.
Her eyes burned behind the blindfold, but she couldn’t cry, not if she wanted to obey Slade’s last instruction. Not if she wanted to live to find him justice.
She wasn’t sure she did. She wasn’t sure it mattered. Why had Dev stopped her from jumping behind him from the train? She had caught a glimpse of the landscape only in that last second, hadn’t known when she managed, too late, to break free that the ground fell away so dramatically. The fall very well could have killed her. And that would have been so much easier on them all.
To live is Christ and to die is gain. Stephen had quoted that as he swung onto his mount before he joined his regiment. Had he thought of Barbara then? Was she what had made his eyes go soft? I have living left to do—Christ still to show to many. I won’t go home until the Lord calls me.
The Lord must have called on that battlefield in Pennsylvania. But it would seem He hadn’t, yet, called Marietta to join her brother. No matter that she could see the gain in dying—she hadn’t. And so she must yet live for Christ.
Beside her sounded a sniff, a moan from Mother Hughes. Dev obviously still held affection for his matron. Why else would he have instructed his cohort not to tie her too tightly, not to gag her?
A courtesy not extended to Marietta. He hadn’t yet killed her. He wouldn’t send her into eternity so quickly. If she didn’t get free of these ropes, she would suffer long and painfully at his hands.
Another sniff, a longer moan, and the sound of rustling fabric. From the right came footsteps, two sets, and yet another heavy thud.
Sixty-two. How much more could they possibly have to haul?
“Devereaux.” Mother Hughes’s voice was faint and scratchy and sounded so heavily of resignation that Marietta’s heart twisted for her. “Devereaux. I need water.”
Water! The very word made her ache, made her tongue push against the gag. But when she heard the boots pause, pivot, and head their way, she kept her body limp as a rag.
His footsteps paused mere feet away. “Are you finally finished crying?”
His mother sniffed once more. Perhaps she nodded or made some other silent answer, but she said nothing. There came a metallic scrape and then the sound of gurgling. Marietta nearly moaned in jealousy.
“You always loved him best.” Dev must have crouched down to assist his mother in drinking.
“No, I didn’t.” Heartbroken amusement tinted Mother Hughes’s voice. “I always loved you best. You should have heard how I fought with your father when he said he intended to train Lucien to take over his role instead of you.”
“So Father loved him best.”
“Don’t be a fool. He loved the railroad best, pure and simple. Lucien stayed to learn it while you went off to make your own way. In his eyes, that meant your brother must love it best too. That was all that mattered.”
Something hit the ground with a soft thud. “So you would weep so long for me?”
A moment of silence, another soft moan. “That was for you, Devereaux. For my precious firstborn who has such a fight ahead of him.”
He grunted. “Lean forward, Mother. Let me untie you so you can drink.”
“May I take off the blindfold?”
A pause. “For now, yes. You will have to put it back on when we leave. For your own safety.”
“Thank you.”