47. Chapter 47
Chapter 47
H ours past midnight, Fabienne sat on the corner of her bed, hands in her lap, eyes fixed forward but not truly seeing anything.
She was gathering courage. And failing miserably.
Upon returning to the hotel that day, she examined the contents of the pouch again in the privacy of her room. The two bottles contained different liquids—one a reddish-brown, the other a clear one—and were numbered and explained in the letter which, by now, had been turned to ashes.
The bottle with the clear liquid was a light sedative, to be used if Fabienne needed to “get rid” of her husband for her escape. She’d tried a small dose on herself to check that by getting rid of, they meant making him sleep soundly, not something else more drastic. So, after supper in the hotel’s dining room, Fabienne had ordered some tea, dosed one cup with a few drops of the sedative, and went to see Brayden. Unlike her, he’d be sleeping well tonight.
Slowly, dawn crept through the windows, painting the room a melancholy grayish-blue. She’d stalled as much as she could; the instructions said she had to set out before seven in the morning. No turning back the clock, no stopping time would help her now; eventually, always, she’d have to return to this moment. She couldn’t escape.
She grabbed a cloak in the parlor and paused. Light snoring came from Brayden’s room. She should be in bed with him. Snuggle close and hug him tight. With clenched fists, she forced the image away and rushed out of the suite, tearing the invisible strings that begged her not to go.
The hotel was quiet at this hour. With her hood covering her face, she kept her head down and made it out with no encounters, save for one man who entered as she was leaving. He seemed to be in too much hurry to acknowledge her.
The deadline was close, but her destination wasn’t far. Down Pennsylvania Avenue, up Tenth, and she’d be at Ford’s Theater. But she couldn’t take that route; the feeling of being in the company of other people, of passing them by and knowing where she was going and what she was about to do… it made her shiver and her stomach knot. So, she used the grid of smaller streets and zig-zagged to her destination.
It is not the Theater you should pay attention to, the letter said. Your goal is a boardinghouse across the street. It will be hard to miss; expect a crowd in front of it.
She heard it before she turned the corner. The low murmurs were carried on the wind of anxiety and uncertainty—a wave of shock about to engulf the city. If she did what she had to.
You will not have difficulties gaining entrance, but from this moment forward, secrecy is essential. Outside, the crowd will provide cover. Guards will be on patrol; you must stop time if you are to get inside and complete your mission.
Fabienne stopped at the edge of the crowd and surveyed her options. If anyone looked closer at her, they’d only see a nervous woman wringing her hands. Nothing out of the ordinary.
You’ll be going to the rear bedroom on the main floor.
The easiest way was through the front door. No reason not to—she’d done her training. She didn’t need to be a doctor or a family friend to gain entrance. All she needed was to be a ghost.
She brought the watch out of her pocket. Her hands shook so badly she had to hold one with the other to keep the device steady. Taking a deep breath, she pushed the small indentation on the rim. She closed her eyes and imagined snowflakes falling, watching them from the safe haven of her room. A peaceful Christmas night, comforting and silent.
Everything around her drew to a halt.
***
Emily was trapped in the crowded hallway of the Petersen House, a victim of the line that moved only at snail’s pace, everyone vying to glimpse the claustrophobic room where Lincoln had died. In five minutes, she was supposed to meet Will in the closed-off back courtyard, which he’d vetted as a good spot to travel to the past. It would put Emily near Fabienne, who was somewhere in the alleyways around here.
If she could get there.
She squeezed past a bunch of eight-graders stifling their yawns, excused herself through an elderly couple—the door was right there, so close—she pushed it out and practically fell into the courtyard, gasping for fresh air.
Will wasn’t here.
He wouldn’t have left because of the wait. And he wouldn’t be late. Had he miscalculated?
Deciding this was a problem for two minutes from now, Emily dropped her bag, brought out the almonite clothes Will had supplied her, and wiggled into the shirt and pants. She stuffed the documents she needed as proof into the pocket of her leather jacket, and put that into the almonite bag. Then she sat on the steps and fiddled with the watch, knees bouncing.
Where was he? Twenty-seven minutes past ten. Twenty-eight. She had to leave if she were to get back to the hotel on time. She was already not in good standing with Mrs. Spencer; she didn’t need the teacher knowing she’d snuck out.
Well, at least she’d been here. After Will would eventually turn up—and explain himself!—she could still pull the Hartford trick and come back here to travel.
She picked up her bag, made a few steps down to the passage, and stopped.
This was her chance. She’d spent hours with a churning stomach last night. She couldn’t go for hours, days, perhaps weeks more without knowing.
She had the crucial information. Fabienne would be somewhere around here. Find her and save her. She’d figure out the minutia when needed. How hard could it be?
Will had said she’d already done it.
She nodded to herself and sat down again, to keep her soon-unconscious body in a safe position. At the last second, she remembered, took off her shoes and stuffed those in the almonite bag, too.
A few more seconds slipped by as she waited, hoping Will would turn up at the last moment. No more time. She had to go—one way or another.
“Here goes nothing,” she murmured, and activated the watch.
***
Brayden was swimming in a sea of soft, fluffy clouds: a barrier guarding him from any unpleasantness of the world outside and offering him deep, comfortable sleep.
Into it encroached a dull, rhythmic sound. Thump thump. Thump. Thump thump . An intrusive thought crept into his dreams. Alarm? They can’t be attacking. Who does that so early? We hadn’t even had coffee yet… And then the clouds broke, and the noise became clearer, louder, higher. Rapping against wood.
Brayden shook himself awake and sat up. It was early morning, but the other side of the bed was empty. Had Fabienne risen already?
The knocking grew louder.
They’ve got to be kidding. Brown’s wasn’t some back alley inn where you’d expect a drunk idiot to disturb you. Brayden grunted and pulled on his pants, tucking in his shirt on the way to the parlor.
“What are you thin—” He yanked the door open and paused as he recognized the man. “Donnovan?”
“At last.” His former boss was out of breath, hastily dressed, and sported dark circles under his eyes. “Thought I wouldn’t get to you. Get dressed. We need to go.”
“What are you talking about? Go where?”
“Lincoln has been shot,” Donnovan said in a hushed, urgent voice. “Now get ready. We’ve no time to lose.”
That washed away the lingering fragments of dreams. Brayden ran to his room, skipping the waistcoat and hastily pulling on a jacket.
“When? Where? How ?” he asked as they sped down the hallway.
“In the theater last evening. Assassination attempt. They’ve brought him across the road. Reportedly, he’s been unconscious since the attack.”
“Last evening?” Brayden glanced at the clock in the lobby—twenty to seven. “And you waited until now?”
“Unfortunately, while the news spread fast in some circles, it took some time for it to reach us.”
“And you haven’t been able to fix anything yet?”
“We tried. Located three members who were conveniently positioned. Waited for hours to get permission for them to travel back and try to prevent or intervene with the event.” Donnovan paused. “All were thrown back, unable to accomplish anything.”
The silence that followed was telling enough. If no interference worked, this had to be very, very bad. Oncoming death kind of bad.
“What then?”
“That’s where you and your coworkers come in.” Donnovan directed Brayden to a cab, and they sped off. “We’ll need to try the serum. You’ll manage the device. Rumley has also been sent for.”
“No one had worked on the serum since?” If it was still in the experimental stage, that didn’t bode well for them. They could cure a few scratches, yes, but for this level of panic, Lincoln’s wound had to be much worse.
“It stayed as it was. It’s not ideal, I know. I can only imagine what we’d be able to do with it now, had the project not been canceled.”
Because of Henson. Was this the comeback after the first-day victory? Henson knew about Five Forks. What about the assassination attempt?
Donnovan sighed wearily, his eyes glazing over the quickly passing buildings. “We’ve exhausted all other options. The only way to save the President is in the present. Right now, with what we have on hand. It’s not perfect, but it’s our best… well, shot .”
Ten minutes later, the cab pulled up at Tenth Street, stopping when it couldn’t progress further through the throng. A hand waved from the crowd, the unruly red hair making Rumley easily recognizable as he made his way over to them.
“Good thing you’re here,” he said. “The guards won’t let me in. Only family members, generals, politicians. I think I saw one of your buddies, Marshall. Do you think you could get us inside?”
The man in question—an old acquaintance of Brayden’s father—was already tired from hours of turmoil and the crowd bombarding him with questions. It didn’t take much for Brayden to convince him.
“Not that there’s anything more you can do.” His words followed them as they entered the dusky interior of the house.