Saving Yesterday (TimeShifters Book 1) (27 page)

“To the theatre. Can you believe it? On a Christian day?”

My mind races over any bit of information I might have retained from history class. Anything to do with a president and a theatre, but I come up void. “That does sound odd. Why would the President … I’m sorry, who is the President again?”

“Are you certain you didn’t hit your head on the road? My pa is a physician if you need help.”

“I just need you to tell me who the president is.” A bell tower somewhere across town rings out half after the hour. But what hour? What time is it?

He backs away from me a few steps. As if he’s afraid to catch my crazy. “Mr. Lincoln, ma’am.”

Mr. Lincoln.
“Can you show me where the theatre is?”

“No, Miss. I don’t know the way.”

I take off running without thanking the boy. Without knowing the direction to go, I stay on the street where I landed. What I wouldn’t give for a cell phone with Google Earth. Surely Nicholas wouldn’t put me far from the target, would he? I don’t even know. Nicholas is still ambiguous to me. Is he all good? Worth following? I can’t answer either of those questions. All I know is that people I care about—Michael, Lark, Eugene, and Darnell—all trust him. So for now, my best option is to imitate what I’ve seen them do.

Something else wiggles its way into my brain. People like Donovan also follow Nicholas and do his bidding. I shake that thought from my head. Confusing myself now will only lead to despair. And I don’t have time for that, at least not now.

I’m sprinting down the side of the street. A large crowd parts for me. Women gasp as I pass. Amidst complaints, I shove through a group headed in the opposite direction. Like lightening bugs, candlelight winks out of windows as I pass. There are buildings on either side of the road now. Two, three stories at most, they stack side by side. No alleys in between like we have in Chicago. The air reeks of animals and trash and mud. Every intake of air sears my lungs, making a cough tickle my throat. How long have I been running? A stitch pulls at my side and I stop. I cup my waist as I drag in deep breaths.

My eyes burn and I blink them a couple times. Is Lark alive? She has to be. I have to believe that Michael got her back in time. Will the Shifters in the medical center be able to fix Michael’s face? I relive the gun hitting him, and my stomach coils into a tight knot. If only he never had to shift again. He’d be out of danger forever. Although, I don’t think he’d agree with that plan. Something inside of him lives for helping people, and putting himself at risk to rescue them. At this point, I just hope I get to see him again someday.
Don’t even consider that.

A shiver races through me, drawing a crop of goose bumps to my arms. I trail my fingertips back and forth over the raised skin, trying to warm myself. Good Friday means the beginning of spring. Where I grew up, this translates into cold evenings.

I don’t recognize anything on this corner. Fewer people travel here. A sandwich board plaque is propped near the intersection. Hopefully it lists the cross roads. I shuffle forward to read it. No luck. The sign announces that tonight is the last evening to see actress Laura Keene in a play called
Our American Cousin
. The play will show at the Ford’s Theatre on Tenth Street.

I’m halfway across the street when my muscles freeze.

Information rushes into my mind. President Lincoln. Ford’s Theatre. The name John Wilkes Booth. Booth killed him. Right after the Civil War ended, President Lincoln was assassinated.

I finish crossing the street. Touch the spot on the back of my neck. It’s ridiculous that I remember the assassination only because of the time when Emma, Porter, and I went paintballing and Emma came up behind me and shot me at pointblank range in the back of the neck. She called it getting Abe Lincolned. It hurt bad enough that I gave up paintballing from that day on. With no clue what she was talking about, I laughed, but looked it up on Wikipedia later.

I can picture the internet page. There was a cartoon drawing of Abraham Lincoln, his mouth open, and his arms thrust forward as a man with a dark mustache shoots him from less than a foot behind.

I’m supposed to save him.

Impossible.

My skin feels feverish. Who am I to fend off a madman with a vendetta and a gun? Oh sure, I’ll just wrestle the weapon from his hand and do a couple fist pumps with the president. Come on. I pinch the bridge of my nose. Close my eyes. I don’t have to do this. It’s my choice, right? I can spend the evening touring Washington City. Go dip my feet in the river and let Lincoln get shot. It’s happened before and the world carried on fine.

Someone needs help. And I’m going to ignore it? My dad taught me better than that.

What transpires tonight is completely up to me. The knowledge feels like a fifty-pound weight around my neck.

I snap my eyes open, and my vision lands on a castle across the street. From where I stand, it appears to be made of stones. Tall towers flank either end. It belongs somewhere in Europe, not here. The building is beautiful and somehow familiar. Using both my pointer fingers and my thumbs, I make a frame, looking at the tall spires. I have a photo like this at home. It’s me in front of that building. I’m ten and wearing frayed, cut-off jeans shorts and an oversized pink T-shirt. The Smithsonian. In my old picture, you can see the street signs. Constitution and Tenth Street.

A bell tower rings out, closer now than before. I count the loud dings. Eight … nine … ten. I search the sky for the tower. Maybe it’ll lead me to Lincoln. My palms sweat. Have I already failed my first solo mission? Do I care?

I start running again.

Yes. I do care. I do want to save Lincoln.

I
will
save him.

Not because I have to. Not because Nicholas wants it or even because that’s what Michael would do if he was here. I’ll complete this mission because I am a Shifter. This is what I was born to do. I am not my mother.

I have to stop focusing on getting home. I mean, what if I never figure out how? My life needs to count for more than just existing. My shoes pound the ground harder, faster. I can do this. My good record will wipe away my mother’s in Keleusma. Then they’ll want me there.

I never fit in my time. Porter and Emma were kind and Dad needed me, but I always felt like a fish stuck in an aquarium when I wanted the ocean.

Maybe, if I follow the rules and complete my missions, I can belong in Keleusma. With Lark and Michael and the others. As long as I can convince people to see me for me instead of for my mom’s mistakes, they’ll accept me. I just have to do this. Acceptance will be based on my success. If I can’t change their minds, I don’t know what I’ll do, because then I’ll belong nowhere.

That’s a future I refuse to face.

I keep running.

Like a beacon leading the way, the bell tower I heard earlier comes into view. Churchgoers clad in their finest spill out the front of the building. I stare at the bell tower for a moment. What time was Lincoln shot? Why aren’t history teachers more interesting? If they were, I might have actually listened in class. The notes Emma and I passed back and forth were hilarious, complete with cartoon scribbles of our teacher, but they’re definitely not coming in handy on these missions.

Am I too late? No. If Lincoln was dead already, I’d have shifted. Right? I should have asked Michael about that. I have no money and no place to sleep tonight. Unless I go the homeless route, but that seemed like a better idea when Michael was nearby.

Up the street twenty or more carriages are hitched along the front of a building. Sticking to the drier parts of the road, I squint at all the signs I pass. Right above the line of carriages, a plaque reads
Ford’s Theatre
. I dart across the street and push through some coachmen standing together in conversation.

“Watch where you’re going!” one man snarls.

I trip on the lip of the raised boardwalk and thrust my hands in front of me. The uneven wood rips into my palms when I land, blasting pain into the cut from earlier. In less than a second, I’m back on my feet. My heart pounds into my ribcage like a battering ram against a castle gate. With a grunt, I shove the heavy front door open and stumble inside. Rich red carpeting covers the floor and marches up a wide set of stairs with a polished wood railing. Spotless white walls are decorated with framed paintings and yellow details.    

I catch my breath. Lincoln is upstairs. They’d have him seated somewhere alone, probably in a private booth. I try to recall the picture from Wikipedia—which side of the theatre?

A young man approaches me at a quick clip. He wears a coat the color of the carpeting with large shiny buttons that catch the glare of electric lights hanging above us. I hold up my chin like I saw Lark do. Hopefully he’ll see me as a refined woman, late for the play.

He extends his hand, palm up. The smell of cigar and cinnamon clings to him like an overcoat. “Ticket?” His voice has a squeak to it and he’s fighting a losing battle with acne.

I make a show of patting my sides, which makes his eyes pop. “Oh, dear. I must have misplaced mine.” I move to walk around him and he sidesteps to stop me.

“You can’t enter without a ticket.”

“I don’t have one on me, that doesn’t mean I’m not supposed to be in there.” I gesture toward the theatre. A twitter of laugher echoes from behind the closed doors. The audience must be enjoying the play. If they knew….

“I have to ask you to leave.”

Another usher paces over and stands next to the younger one as if they’re some intimidating ticket taker gang. “Please exit the theatre or else we’ll have to assist you out.”

I cross my arms. Glare at them. “You’ll have to make me.”

Each man grabs one of my upper arms and hauls me back out onto the street. They weren’t kidding. I drag my feet. Make them rumble over the ground.

I latch onto their shoulders, steadying myself. “Listen. The President is in danger. You have to let me see him.”

The young usher narrows his eyes at me. “You stay out of here.”

They both brush me away.

I stagger. “You have to believe me.”

The front door slams hard. I rush forward and grab the handle. Locked. I slam the heel of my hand against the door. “Let me in. You don’t know what you’re doing. This is a huge mistake.”

The coachmen have all stopped talking.

Heat rises to my cheeks and tears threaten to tumble from my eyes. Lincoln is going to die. I’m so stupid.

I kick the door, then spin around. All the coachmen are watching me. They part without a noise as I stalk into the street.

The building is sandwiched between others. There isn’t a side alley with an escape ladder that I can climb. And the bricks wall looks too high even to attempt to scale. Yeah right, like I would have even tried.

I doubt the ushers will unlock the door anytime soon. So I’m left with the back of the building as my only option. I just have to hope that none of the coachmen grow curious and follow me.

With careful steps, I fade into the shadowed area that lamplight doesn’t reach. I back away slowly, then pick up my speed when I’m a good distance away from the theatre. Because of the way these blocks are built, I have to make it to the very end of the block first. When I do, I swing around the corner and slink against the side of the end building. The smell of alcohol and the twang of rowdy music pour from a tavern just across the street. It makes me think about my dad. Is he okay? What has he eaten for dinner all these nights? I halt my thoughts. None of that will help me right now.

Finally I locate the back alley. I spread my hand along the brick wall and hope I’ll be able to recognize the theatre from behind. Lamplight doesn’t reach into the alley, and the buildings are angled so close together that not much moonlight slips down here either. The alley is only six or seven feet wide. The stench blisters my nostrils, worse than a full garbage truck on a one-hundred-degree day. Breathing through my mouth doesn’t help at all. In fact, that just makes it feel like I’m tasting trash. I pull up my shirt, and breathing through the fabric helps. Not much, though. It looks like people heap all the waste from their businesses right back here, but who cleans all this up?

A strange feeling washes down my spine, raising goose bumps on the back of my neck. As if someone or something is watching me. Shades? I imagine one tip-toeing less than a foot behind me but am too afraid to check.
Stop, Gabby!
Keep walking.

I slip on a pile of garbage and have to fling my body against the wall to stay upright. Something large scurries across my foot. I can feel the pressure of its claws through my boot. I have to slap my hand over my mouth to hold in my scream.  

With a rattling breath, I shuffle forward. Must keep my eyes open. My vision adjusts to the lack of light, at least enough to tell that a horse is tethered less than ten feet from where I am. Nearby there is a door with
Ford’s Theatre
painted across the frame. Bingo. I pat the horse as I walk past it and hold in a laugh. Michael and Lark would probably instruct me to steal him, but it’s not like I can bring the animal into the theatre with me. Maybe it’ll still be tied here when I’m done. There’s something to be said for having a quick getaway planned.