“Get away from me.” Kicking and batting at the rats only made her head throb harder, and the damn creatures didn’t scurry far. She couldn’t stop them from coming back. It hurt too much to try. She rolled to her side and raised herself to a sitting position, pulled her knees to her chest, and struggled to remain alert. If she had to lecture today, what would she teach the students?
In the middle of the lecture, she fell asleep again, and woke with a jerk and a scream. A rat had burrowed beneath the cuff of her trousers and clawed its way up her leg. She held her head between her hands to keep it steady and kicked frantically. She couldn’t get the rat out. It was next to her knee, inside her pants. She pounded on it through the material. Its teeth sank into her skin at the side of her calf.
“Oh God, it’s eating me.” She hit it again and again until warm liquid flowed down her leg and its teeth relaxed. She shook her leg and it fell away.
Her mouth was cotton dry, and her voice was barely a whisper.
She dozed again, head lolling against the wall. She woke to a rat nibbling on crusted blood on her neck. She lifted her hand and swatted it away, then leaned back against the wall, and very slowly, as to not jostle her head, she pulled the wig the rest of the way off and used it to cover her face. It smelled of blood and sweat.
She closed her eyes, needing to see the stars again, her light in the darkness.
If she removed the binding around her breasts, she could wrap her hands and face and neck. She needed to do it now. If she waited, she might not have the strength in an hour, but if she took off the binding, her ribs might hurt even more. No, leave the binding in place. She wasn’t sure whether it was onion-hand’s squeezing or Gordon’s punches which had damaged her ribs. It didn’t matter now. The pain of breathing was getting worse, probably because she was panicking. Slowing her breath, she fell back asleep.
A rat woke her, gnawing on her bitten, bloody ear. “Get off me,” she slurred. She grabbed it, yanking and tearing the soft flesh of her ear before its teeth released. She threw it as hard as her exhausted arm could manage.
God, she was thirsty. All she wanted was a little sip. And a cracker would settle her stomach. Water. A little bit of water would be enough. Something was wrong with her. She was tired, so tired. And her brain couldn’t think. Were her eyes even open? In the pitch black, she couldn’t tell, but she could see the stars.
A bee stung her butt or a damn rat bit her. “Ouch.” She dug her hand down inside her trousers and found a hot, hard spot high on her hip. It was the same spot where she had noticed a bug bite while at MacKlenna Farm. But now the spot was tingling. She was so tired. She slid down the wall to the ground again, curled up tightly, and went back to sleep.
A flash of light from above woke her. A rat’s sharp toenails clung in her hair. A shadow, black against black, glided stealthily toward her, much bigger than a rat. She cowered in the corner, shivering. “Where are you, David? Help me.”
87
Washington City, 1865
Braham and Cullen returned home tired but exhilarated after a long day in court. The prosecution had produced four witnesses in their case against Jack. Each one testified to seeing him with Booth within weeks of the assassination. Braham had been unable to shake the witnesses’ testimony until he asked the question, “Was the defendant writing in a journal or on a piece of paper during the conversation?” Each witness answered yes, which bolstered Jack’s defense of being in the process of interviewing Booth for an article.
On redirect, General Holt asked the witnesses if Jack was talking in a low or normal voice, and if he seemed concerned others might overhear the conversation. Each witness testified he wasn’t whispering.
On recross, Braham asked the witnesses if they overheard any of the conversations. Each testified they heard Jack and Booth talking about their favorite playwrights, and which theaters in Philadelphia and New York had the best performance spaces. The witnesses claimed the conversations were boring.
General Holt asked on re-redirect why they hadn’t mentioned the conversations during their initial interviews. Two witnesses claimed they hadn’t been asked. The spectators snickered, and General Hunter slammed his gavel, demanding order in the courtroom.
If anyone was keeping a tally, the defense was ahead, but the prosecution’s most damning witnesses, the carriage driver and Henly, were scheduled to testify the next day. Braham and Cullen had a long night of preparation ahead.
Although Braham wanted to go straight home to see Charlotte, Cullen insisted they stop at the Willard for drinks. They didn’t need the alcohol, but they did need to be seen in public. Jack was innocent, and swaying public opinion was part of their strategy. Being at the Willard made them accessible to other lawyers, businessmen, members of society with influence, and, most importantly, President Johnson’s political supporters.
They arrived home around nine to find Jonathan Clem alone in the parlor, dozing in a straight-back chair. Braham tossed his briefcase on top of a table hard enough to rattle its legs. The porcelain knickknacks clinked, and he cringed. Kit had bought them during a visit to Washington, claiming the room needed a feminine touch. He turned back quickly, holding out his hands in case any toppled off the table.
Cullen laughed. “Kit wouldn’t be happy if ye broke one of her treasures.”
Startled, Clem jumped to his feet, clearing his throat, his hat gripped in his hands.
Braham straightened the figurines. “A soldier doesn’t need breakables in his
