“I don’t think you should be getting up, John,” Herold said.

Booth had already stood up, grimacing from the pain. He looked at Herold squarely before responding.

“I’m not interested in what you think, David,” Booth said coldly. “Don’t you understand how miserably we failed?”

The word ‘failed’ lingered in the air like a foul stench. He could still see Lincoln’s face in his mind – not lifeless, not fallen, but alive.

“We need to get back to Mary’s,” Booth continued, his voice tightening. “This is not finished. It cannot be finished until Lincoln is dead.”

“I understand that John. But can we at least wait until it gets dark?” Herold said. “It would be suicide to try and sneak back into the city in broad daylight.”

Booth realized David was right. He sat back down on the bed.

“Would you please grab the laudanum from the dresser and give to me then, David,” Booth asked irritably.

Herold did as he was asked. Booth drank directly from the bottle, the bitter liquid burning down his throat. He welcomed the sensation. Pain reminded him he was still part of the world and that he had not already passed into obscurity.

He drank again, longer this time. At least in sleep, he could become what he was meant to be.

“Let me rest then, David. Wake me when it gets dark.”

Booth laid back down in bed. Herold took a seat by his side. In no time, both men were sound asleep.

A few hours later Sarah brought in supper for Booth. She invited Herold to dine with her and her husband downstairs, which Herold declined. She put the tray next to the bed and gently wakened Booth.

Booth woke with a start, his heart racing. For a moment he was disorientated. His head clearing, he turned toward the window.

“Mrs. Mudd, I want to thank you for your hospitality. You have been an admirable nurse and I shall remember you always. David and I will be taking our leave within the hour. Would you be kind enough to ask the doctor how much I owe him for his services.”

Booth picked at his food while Sarah went downstairs to talk to Samuel. Soon the doctor entered with an itemized bill and a crutch.

“How much I owe you, doc,” Booth asked.

“Including the crutch, I think $10 should cover it,” Samuel said. “I suppose you won’t take my advice to stay a few more days to recuperate?”

“Sorry, doctor, but David and I have business to attend to back in town. We’ll be taking our leave within the next few minutes. I hope you understand when a man has work to do, he can’t lay around in bed all day and night.”

Booth pulled a wad of money from his pants pocket and handed the doctor $12.

“Your discretion with this matter would be greatly appreciated, Mr. Mudd,” Booth said.

He studied the doctor’s face carefully, searching for hesitation, for judgment, for betrayal. He saw none.

But he trusted nothing. He wondered if he would need to shoot the doctor and his wife to secure their discretion.

“Yes, I understand,” Samuel replied, guardedly.

With that, Herold made his way to the barn to retrieve their horses. Booth sat on the front steps waiting for Herold to return. The doctor sat with him. A few minutes later Herold returned with both mounts. When Booth tried to mount Juliet, he nearly fell. Herold ran over and helped him up. Booth was sweating profusely with the effort, though the night air was cold. His hands trembled, not only from weakness, but from something deeper.

He had imagined this moment differently. He had imagined triumph. Instead, he felt hunted by something he could not yet see.

“Mr. Booth, you are not a well man,” Samuel began. “It is my suggestion, again, for you to go back upstairs to bed. In addition to your leg, your system is weak and you might catch a cold or infection, both of which would be extremely unhealthy to you. In fact, you might catch pneumonia, which could possibly kill you.”

Booth looked down from his horse at the doctor.

“Thank you again, doc, but we must be off.”

Samuel handed him the bottle of laudanum. “Take this with you, but for God’s sake, use it sparingly.”

Booth grabbed the bottle and put it in his coat pocket. “Thank you, doc. I am forever in your debt.”

With that, the two men headed back to the city. Booth had to stop and rest frequently, each time taking a sip of the laudanum. The drug dulled his pain, but it sharpened something else.

He saw again the moment his pistol was knocked away and the bullet shot into the ceiling. He saw again the failure. Lincoln still lived. The thought returned again and again, merciless and unavoidable.

He was nearly asleep by the time they reached the outskirts of town, laying on Juliet’s mane.

Herold led him to the side road he had used to escape town earlier. He tied Booth’s horse to a tree so that he could scout to be sure there would be nobody waiting for them on the back road as they entered town. He returned about ten minutes later to find Booth sound asleep, still on his horse.

“John, wake up,” Herold said.

Booth opened his eyes at the sound of his name. He was close to going back to sleep and hardly recognized his friend. Herold tied Juliet to the back of his saddle and slipped back into town.

When they got to Mary Surratt’s everyone was there waiting for Booth’s arrival. George Atzerodt, who had been told to attend to matters concerning the Vice President, had not done so. Instead, he was drunk. Lewis Powell and John Surratt Jr. helped Herold get Booth into the house. They brought him into the parlor and laid him on the davenport.

The men looked down at Booth. This was not the man they had followed. Not the man who had spoken of destiny and history. This was a broken man, unconscious and dependent. And without him awake, there was no plan.

Though his body lay still, Booth’s mind did not rest. He stood again in Lincoln’s box in the theater. He fired and this time Lincoln fell. The crowd gasped. History bent around him.

But then the scene shifted. Lincoln stood. Lincoln looked at him, not with fear, but with pity. Booth tried to fire again, but his hand would not obey him. He woke inside the dream, unable to escape it.

The men removed his boots while Mary grabbed a blanket to throw over him.

“Mary, will  ya take my boots off and tuck…tuck, me in, too” Atzerodt slurred lasciviously, a dopey grin on his face. He had always craved for Mary and when drunk, wasn’t shy about his intentions.

Suddenly, John Jr. struck Atzerodt with a blow to the side of the head that no one saw coming. Atzerodt went down in a heap while Jr. stood over him. He was out like a light.

“You son of a bitch, I’ll kill you if you talk to my mother that way again.”

“John!,” Mary shouted. “You shouldn’t have done that. I can take care of myself. Now you will need to be watching over your shoulder that that big oaf doesn’t try to extract his revenge? Worse, now we have to take off his boots and cover him up!”

“Just leave him where he’s at, Mary,” Herold said. “Son-of-a-bitch didn’t hold up his end of the plot last night. Didn’t even try. Got drunk instead according to Billy Williams, who got drunk with ‘em. Had Lincoln and Seward died, but Johnson lived, our whole plan woulda been all for naught.”

Just then the front door opened and in stepped Michael O’Laughlin, Booth’s childhood friend and at one time, supposed to have been with them for last nights plan, but had disappeared two days before the 15^th.

“Where ya been?” Herold asked.

“Back home with my ma,” O’Laughlin replied. “She’s really sick and my sister thought she might die, so I went home to see her.”

“Well, did she die?” Powell blurted out.

O’Laughlin looked at Powell with disdain. The two men had never liked each other, and given the current circumstances, liked each other less.

“No, you uncouth son-of-a-bitch. She did not. Your mother have any kids that lived?”

“Boys!” Mary screamed while pointing at Booth. “Enough, already. If you’re going to bicker and fight then do it elsewhere. But I’ll warn ya, when that man wakes up, he’s going to want to go right back to another plan and ya’ll better be ready.”

O’Laughlin  spoke up. “I ain’t gonna be here when he wakes up, Mary. I’ve got to get back to my ma. I don’t think she’s got much time left. Will ya tell John I was here, what happened to me, and where he can run into me next time. If she does pass, I’ll come back here after her services.”

“Yes, I will Michael,” Mary replied, putting a hand on his shoulder “And I think it is damned admirable you are going to be with her until the end. She had you at your beginning, it’s the least ya can do to be at her ending.”

“Thanks, Mary,” O’Laughlin replied. With that, he left.

As he left the city and disappeared into the darkness, he did not see the figure standing motionless across the street. The man had watched the house for hours. He had seen who entered. He had seen who left. And he would remember every face.