Tom didn’t say it out loud, but suddenly it all made perfect sense to him. And the last thing he wanted was for the men at the White House to know until he could be absolutely sure. Even then, he had no idea what would happen when he told them.
“Ethan, I’m starving. Could you go down to the lobby and ask the concierge, Mr. Chase, to send up a meal for the two of us? I need a few minutes to gather my thoughts and I’ll prepare something for you to take to the White House.”
Ethan went downstairs to find Chase. Tom sat on the edge of the bed trying to gather his thoughts as he had said he would do, but his mind could only conjure up one word over and over. Treason.
CHAPTER 69
CALVIN WALKER
1963
Something had gone terribly wrong at the Lincoln Memorial. As the police secured the area, Fish climbed down from his perch in the tree. He had to get away before he was rounded up, but his retreat couldn’t go as planned because of Calvin’s interference.
As he had watched from the tree Fish had seen Calvin trailed by a police captain and a couple of beat cops. They appeared to be searching for him, scouring the area where he had been standing when Calvin threw his punch. They were also paying close attention to the ground, obviously looking for the duffel bags. Fish had been content to let them look all they wanted. The closer they got to the stage the better he liked it because they were putting themselves right where the blast zone was going to be.
Everything was going according to plan and when Mahalia Jackson’s song had started Fish could hardly contain his excitement. He glanced at the areas where he knew his boys would be with their duffels and, although he couldn’t pick them out in the crowd he knew without a doubt they would be ready when the time came. They were just like him, completely devoted to the cause. Actually, they were even better because they were willing to give their lives for it. Fish wasn’t ready to take things that far. He didn’t have a death wish. What good was changing things in society if he wouldn’t be around to enjoy the fruits of his labor? No, Fish was content to let his foot soldiers bleed if necessary. Of course, he fed them fiery rhetoric about how they would all, himself included, be lauded as heroes for the cause if they were to die in pursuit of their goals. They were simpletons, he thought. He was the leader, the one with the ability to lead the troops through battle after battle until they won the war. He was too valuable to give himself up so easily. He could always find more foot soldiers. He was the general.
Still, he liked the boys who were willing to take up arms with him and he hoped they would all come out of today’s event alive and well. There would be much celebration for their success. That was another promise he had made them.
Mahalia had been singing and it was clear the crowd was with her for every note. Fish had looked down to see the man who would trigger the explosion. He had chosen the spot in the tree because he could see the stage, but also because he’d be able to see the detonation with his own eyes. He was more than just the general; he was the conductor. The panic started by the fake bombs would be the signal that would start the countdown to detonation, but the man with the button knew Fish was in the tree behind him and that he was to look in that direction when he got to the count of twelve just to make sure there was no change in plans. If Fish wasn’t giving him a pre-arranged signal he was to continue the count from fifteen and blow the charge. Before that they were not to look at each other at all.
Mahalia had approached the chorus of the song. Fish, the conductor, glanced once more at the reflecting pool where the panic was about to start, and then looked back to check on Calvin’s position. That’s when everything went wrong. He saw that Calvin was standing still and facing away from the stage. He was staring at something and when Fish looked in the direction he was facing he saw the det man unrolling his cord. In just a matter of seconds, Fish looked from Calvin back to the det man and like watching a movie he saw Calvin take it all in: the man with the little box, the cord, the stage, the package under the stage, the black box. He put it all together quickly and Fish saw him push his way free of the crowd and sprint for the man with the detonator.
The only actual bomb had been discovered and the panic hadn’t started yet. It was too soon to blow the charge. It was all a well-written symphony with different parts and they had to happen in order for maximum carnage. As he saw Calvin sprinting he knew he had only seconds to stop him. He saw his det man register Calvin’s intent and raise his other hand to push the button. At the same time the man turned to look at Fish for any sign of what he should do in this unexpected circumstance. Seeing nothing, he turned his head back to the stage and brought his finger down to the button. As he did he felt like a warrior of olden days. This was his moment of destiny. Like Sparta. Like the Romans.
In the tree, Fish had pulled the gun from his waistband and quickly fired three shots just as Calvin leapt into the air at the det man. The shots hit their targets and Fish saw blood explode from Calvin’s wounds as he fell to the ground on top of the man. Fish had taken him down, but there was no explosion on stage. Calvin’s desperate leap had hit its mark in time, and the sound of gunfire had alerted the men with the duffels that there was a problem. They had looked toward Fish’s tree and seen fire shoot from the barrel of his gun. Most of the crowd hadn’t noticed a thing. Only those in the immediate area had seen the crazed man run and jump on another man and assumed the police had shot him. The scene was quickly forgotten by all but the police as Mahalia Jackson’s song came to a rousing end and the sea of people sang and raised their hands and waved their signs. The commotion was just one isolated incident among a few isolated incidents taking place around the event perimeter that day. Fish didn’t have the element of mass chaos to cover his exit, but he managed to escape by doing what Calvin had done at his apartment the day before. He walked like he belonged and nobody questioned him.
At the site of the shooting, Captain Perry took the det man into custody and someone covered Calvin’s face with a jacket.
The gunning down of Calvin Walker wouldn’t even make the news because the most anticipated speaker of the day had taken the podium. Martin Luther King, Jr. had no idea the man who had been so moved by his speech the night before had been murdered within sight of where he now stood. The microphone carried the sound of his voice across the vast crowd, through the trees where people anxious to be part of the day had climbed to watch, echoing against the white marble of the memorial to the man who had freed his people a century before. He spoke of justice and equality and dreams.
As Calvin’s blood stained the ground, Dr. King’s words delivered with passion from the steps of the memorial sprang forth to be carried in the heart of activists for generations. Despite their best attempts, Kifo had been unable to keep the most iconic entreaty ever spoken about freedom from ringing across the national mall and into the very fabric of American culture.
CHAPTER 70
OLIVIA FORDHAM
1913
Olivia woke early on the morning of March 3. She had slept better than she thought she would, probably a result of the red wine. The maids assisted her in donning a beautiful dress and matching coat of yellow silk. The coordinating hat was nothing short of a spectacular confection and she paired it with simple white gloves, a long and a short strand of pearls, and low-heeled slippers. She knew they would hurt her feet with all the walking she would have to do, but she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to wear them.
Edward Chase met her in the lobby. “Victoria left early this morning before I arrived.”
“She’s eager to get to work I suppose. I’m sure I’ll see her at the headquarters.”
Chase assured Olivia he was going to keep working on any angle that might help her situation and then he put her in a car for the trip to the office. When she arrived the scene was utter pandemonium. After making several inquiries she could find no one who had seen Victoria that morning.
“She might be at the starting point for the parade. Several of the lad
ies who came early were sent over,” one staffer reported.
Olivia made her way to the meeting point for the parade participants. She saw more people than she anticipated along with a couple dozen floats and several marching bands. There were women in the clothing of their occupations like nurses and others in commencement gowns signifying higher education. She was also surprised to see so many women of foreign descent. Her main concern was the growing crowd on the sidewalks. A great number of them didn’t look friendly to the cause and she worried there could be trouble.
The parade was scheduled to end its run at the Treasury Building, which was right between the Willard and the White House. Organizers were staging a pageant with women in costume representing Columbia, Charity, Liberty, Justice, Peace, and Hope. It was to be a stunning finish to the event, but Olivia wondered if the growing crowd would interfere with those plans.
She looked everywhere for Victoria with no luck. After an hour of searching, the parade was about to begin and Olivia wondered if the poor girl had given up and gone home after all. Just then, a woman wearing a white cape and riding a white horse came to the front of the parade line and began the procession. Five thousand marchers were now on the move toward the Treasury and Victoria was nowhere to be found.
Olivia cut across a few side streets to make her way back to the Willard ahead of the march. Her last hope was that Edward had information that could help. When she emerged on 14th street she was two blocks north of the hotel. As she started walking she could hear the jeers from the crowd. They were yelling at the approaching marchers, calling out terrible names and pushing and shoving. When she got close enough to see Pennsylvania Avenue she could see the spectators had crowded into the street and there was barely enough room for the procession to pass through. The lady on the horse came through just as Olivia made it to the corner. She hurried into the hotel but couldn’t locate Edward. She waited for him for about ten minutes and then went back outside to watch the parade. The bands passed by along with the floats, and Olivia heard someone calling her name. She looked around as the person continued to call out to her and eventually followed the voice to the oncoming float. High atop the signage and banners she saw Victoria riding joyfully and waving. Olivia was very relieved to see her and she waved back eagerly. She could see that Victoria was trying to tell her something but she couldn’t hear her over the noise of the bands and the crowd. Olivia walked along beside the float as it approached 15th street. She was motioning with her hands that she would follow her to the ending spot so they could talk.
Victoria nodded her understanding and then started waving at the crowds around her again. Suddenly she had a look of terror on her face. Olivia looked in the direction Victoria was looking to see what had scared her so, and that’s when she saw it. The float had just entered the intersection of Pennsylvania Avenue and 15th street and there was a carriage barreling down 15th with no sign of stopping. The driver pulled at the reins but was unable to avoid a collision. Olivia watched in horror as the carriage and the float collided and Victoria disappeared from view.
CHAPTER 71
CATHERINE PARKER
1865
At five o’clock in the morning Catherine finally walked through the doors of the Willard. Ignoring the grieving guests milling about the lobby, she climbed the stairs and locked herself in her room. She didn’t want to see anyone. For three hours she paced, wept, and retched. In alternating waves of rage and desperation she beat her fists against the bed, against the wall, and across the dresser. She couldn’t even summon the strength to change her dress, which was now dotted with the president’s blood transferred from Laura Keene’s gown when she had kept her from collapsing. As far as she was concerned it was her just punishment—actual blood staining her instead of just metaphorical blood. Her own scarlet letter.
At eight o’clock there was a knock at her door.
“You.” Catherine stood in the open doorway face to face with Edward Chase. There was an accusation in her tone. “Have you come to see the grisly proof of my complicity?” She was almost shouting as she gestured at her stained dress.
“Ms. Parker, I know you are understandably upset. I’ve brought you some tea. May I come in?”
“Of course. Because all I need is some tea and everything will be A-OK,” she said sarcastically with a grand sweep of her arm indicating he could enter.
“I waited for you outside the theatre, but I couldn’t find you in the crowd. Nor could I find you anywhere else I looked. My assistant said you returned a few hours ago. I thought you would benefit from some time alone, but I see you’ve used the time to convict yourself,” he told her with a frown.
“You thought I’d be celebrating? Or sleeping? The president is DYING, Mr. Chase and he wouldn’t be if I had not listened to you!”
Chase took Catherine by the hand and led her to the chair by the window. When she was seated he spoke again.
“Ms. Parker, the president died less than an hour ago.” He let the news sink in as Catherine dropped her head into her hands. “But you are not to blame.”
She looked up. “I told Julia Grant to send the note. If she hadn’t, General Grant would have been with the president and he could have protected him. I didn’t pull the trigger, but I’m responsible. The tear you talk about could have saved him, but I got involved and now he’s dead! And I don’t care what you say about the consequences of changing history. He wanted to reunify the country. How can you say his death helped to do that rather than hurt it? Maybe if he had lived he would have had a better plan for helping newly freed slaves integrate into society and it wouldn’t have taken a hundred years for them to be able to use the same restrooms we use! He could have used his influence to prevent some of the abuses of reconstruction! And maybe his wife wouldn’t have gone bonkers and landed in an asylum! I can’t believe I went along with this.” She was pacing now and worked up into a terrible fit. “Yes, history would have been different, but maybe it would have been better, did you ever think of that? It wasn’t my place to interfere. It wasn’t my place. . .” The tears were rolling down her face and she sat dejectedly on the edge of the bed.
Chase could see she had finally spent her rage. It was important that she do that so she could hear what he had to tell her.
“Catherine,” he had never called her that. “Black integration was a tough pill to swallow for most people at that time, both North and South. It wasn’t going to happen overnight and Reconstruction would have been much worse if Lincoln and Grant had not already set the tone. As for Mrs. Lincoln, she was already suffering from instability. I’m sure the loss of her husband made it worse, but she was already traveling that road. And I have it on pretty good authority that General Grant was already well aware his wife did not want to delay their trip and was going to decline the invitation. Even so, none of that should matter to you,” he said.
“Not matter to me? How can you say that? I’m —”
Chase cut her off before she could continue. “Hear me out, Catherine. I’m saying it shouldn’t matter to you because it wasn’t your fault. And it wasn’t your fault because the note Mrs. Grant sent wasn’t the tear.”
Catherine looked at him with wide eyes.
“What do you mean, that wasn’t the tear? I heard her debating whether or not to send the note,” Catherine responded.
“Yes, but you never heard her say she had decided against it, did you?”
Catherine thought about it and shook her head no. She hadn’t heard that.
Chase continued, “You were looking so intently for what you were supposed to do that you assumed that was it, but it wasn’t. Mrs. Grant was always going to send that note. She wanted to go home to see her children and she was adamant about not spending the evening with Mary Lincoln. She couldn’t stand the woman. You probably helped ease her mind about interrupting the meeting between the president and the general, but you didn’t cause her to send the note. With or without your intervention, the Grants were not going
to be in that theatre.”
Catherine’s mind was reeling and she was pacing again. What did this mean? But the president is still dead so what did I do that caused it to happen that way? She was searching her memory for every step she had taken over the past two days.
“Catherine, when these events happen I only know there is a tear in the fabric of history. I don’t know what the tear is and I’m looking for it just as you are. That’s why you didn’t see me yesterday. I had a hunch it might have something to do with the carriage ride and I had gone in search of clues. We kept missing each other all day. But when the tear has been “repaired” I get another message letting me know what it was and how it was fixed. That’s what I’ve come to tell you. Please, Catherine, come and sit down,” he requested.
She sat on the bed beside him again and waited for him to speak.
“Your task here was to make sure the Lincoln assassination happened exactly as it truly did in 1865 and you have done that. You assumed, and I confess I did as well, that meant you were to make sure events lined up to assure the president was shot. Ironically, that part of the event was still intact. But you did repair the tear in the fabric in the theatre tonight. In fact, you did so by so tenderly caring for the fabric,” he said.
She looked at him, confusion apparent on her face. “I don’t understand,” she said.
He continued speaking in a soothing and comforting voice.
“Before the performance you went to the state box and while you were there you carefully smoothed the fabric of the flag that had been fashioned into a swag across the front. You also straightened the portrait of George Washington and tended the folds in the flag. When you were doing this you inadvertently pulled some extra fabric behind the portrait. It wasn’t much and wasn’t noticeable to anyone looking at the flag, but it was enough to cause Booth’s boot to get tangled and turn his theatrical leap to the stage into a leg-breaking fall.”
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