Countdown

"Last September, after General Sherman's Union army captured Atlanta in one fell swoop, the Union launched its 'March to the Sea.' As it advanced, it completely destroyed the enemy's military infrastructure and dealt a heavy blow to the enemy's economic power, paralyzing the Southern economy. On the eastern front, General Grant led the Northern army in driving the enemy back to the vicinity of the rebel 'capital,' Richmond."

"At the beginning of the year, Black freedmen in the Southern slave states fled in droves, bringing the plantation economy to the brink of collapse. The Union Navy's blockade had nearly cut off the South's trade with Europe. At the same time, opposition movements had sprung up throughout the South, and many small farmers joined the 'Unionists' and began campaigning against the war. Southern deserters were increasing by the day, while food and daily necessities were in short supply. The war's total victory had entered its final countdown!"

After James finished reading the front-page article titled "The Countdown to Victory" in the latest issue of the New York Times, he looked over the paper's date: April 2, 1865. The article summed up the state of the war over the past few months, then went on to lavish praise on the Union's righteousness and progress. James felt there was something strange about the date, as though he had forgotten something important.

He glanced at the food on his plate and let out a deep sigh. Every meal, every day, had become a form of "torture."

It was as if he were feeding a ferocious beast something it hated most. Every time it ate, it took a spiteful bite out of him, and all he could do was endure the gnawing and keep feeding it.

His extreme self-discipline and boxing practice over the past six months had helped somewhat. He could stay mentally composed for longer and had gained better control over his blood and energy, but the improvement was still limited.

James finally understood why Victor had struggled so much in his advanced boxing training. The savagery in one's mind was always disturbing one's inner peace, and the interference of vampire strength only made the chaos worse.

Facing pain underground in the darkness, pain that his healing ability could not mend, James felt profoundly defeated by the loneliness.

How many friends did he still have in this world? Butler Vane, his teacher Daniel, Abraham—they would all leave him eventually.

Abraham! Abraham Lincoln!

The name of President Lincoln struck James's mind like a thunderclap. He snatched up the newspaper from the stone table, checked the date again, and hurriedly rang the summons bell.

He remembered what he had forgotten.

John Wilkes Booth had been drinking brandy for two days straight. His face still showed traces of good looks beneath his mustache, but his eyes were puffy and his hair lay slick against his forehead.

Booth hadn't expected the war to end so quickly. The South had suffered one defeat after another, but all hope wasn't lost. General Joseph Johnston still had thirty thousand troops, and the South still held two states. Yet that weakling Robert E. Lee had gone and announced his surrender! He still had more than twenty thousand men. He should have fought to the death!

And Booth had once praised Lee as the greatest military commander of the age. Bah!

For the South, John Wilkes Booth had given everything. His fame as an actor had let him travel and perform all over the country, gathering vital intelligence and obtaining much-needed medicine for the South. He was a hero in this war of ideals, yet a few words from the traitor had erased all his efforts and sacrifices.

He picked up the bottle and took two more swigs. The venom in his eyes was almost tangible.

Knock, knock. "John, are you there?"

At the sound of the knock, Booth reflexively hunched his shoulders. He recognized the voice as Herold, a colleague from the theater. He hurriedly smoothed his greasy hair, then went to open the door.

"There you are, John. Good Lord, the smell in here..."

Herold covered his nose and mouth, then thought it might be rude and forced himself to continue. "I haven't seen you around lately. The owner of Ford's Theatre has two invitations for guests. Would you like to see a new play on the fourteenth? It's about the Battle of Gettysburg. The president and other government officials will be there."

"Gettysburg? Heh, I'll pass. Wait—who did you say would be there?" John Wilkes Booth suddenly perked up. His listless eyes lit up at once.

"The president, the vice president, the secretary of war, and General Grant. I hear there'll be plenty of other important military and political figures, too." Herold counted them off on his fingers.

"Good! I'll go. The evening of the fourteenth, at Ford's Theatre, right?"

Herold was surprised by Booth's sudden burst of energy. He'd been acting strangely lately, as though he'd suffered some terrible blow. But he'd kept praising the Union in public, so perhaps the thought of seeing President Lincoln had excited him.

Booth thanked Herold and said goodbye. The moment he closed the door, a sense of noble purpose welled up inside him. He made up his mind.

Washington, evening of April 14, 1865.

The train had yet to come to a complete stop. Through the swirling steam, Jack Pitt and his two companions watched the platform slowly slide into view, their faces weary.

"Let's find an inn first, then report to the White House tomorrow morning and meet the president?"

Lauren spoke to Jack from across the compartment. This sudden assignment had kept them on the move for days without a moment's rest, and they had finally reached Washington. It was only natural that they wanted to get a good night's sleep first.

Jack yawned and rested his chin in his hand. He was tempted by Lauren's suggestion, but then he remembered how frightened and desperate young Master James had looked in the underground chamber that day. He shook his head.

"Master's orders were to come to Washington as fast as possible without stopping, and see the president. We're not to delay for any reason before we've seen him with our own eyes."

Jack spoke with a serious expression. He didn't know why James had ordered them to rush to Washington to help protect President Lincoln for a time, but the memory of his master's terrifying rage and blood-red eyes still made Jack's hair stand on end.

Lauren and Chris exchanged helpless glances. None of them dared question or disobey young Master James's orders. The fear James had instilled in them during their training years ago was too great.

At the White House, Mary took Lincoln's hand with a worried look and spoke softly.

"Are you only taking Stephen as a guard? Isn't that too few? And this young man seems a little flighty..."

"Don't worry. Grant and the others will be there tonight, and they all have several guards with them. Besides, we're in Washington. Nothing will happen."

President Lincoln patted his wife's hand and led her to the carriage.

Ford's Theatre, close to ten o'clock.

John Wilkes Booth gave his pistol one last check in the washroom. His ambitions were great: if he could take out the president, vice president, General Grant, and the others all at once, perhaps he could turn the tide of the war!

The brandy certainly had a kick. After checking his pistol, Booth slipped up to the second floor, where the presidential box was. He had already observed that the president's only guard had sneaked out for some unknown reason. All Booth had to do was rush in and fire. Then everything would be settled.

"Jack, are you really going to the theater to see the president?"

Lauren asked helplessly. The three of them had hurried to the White House without stopping and explained their situation to the staff. Quite a few White House employees recognized Jack. During the war, James had brought Jack and the others to meet with the president more than once, so they told them that President Lincoln had gone to Ford's Theatre that evening.

"Yeah. I'll go see him after all. I'll wait by the entrance and say hello. You two go to the inn first. I'll join you later." Jack thought it over and decided he should meet the president first. They had already spent days traveling, so a little longer wouldn't make a difference.

The carriage pulled up outside Ford's Theatre. Jack stepped down and glanced curiously at a man across the street, standing outside a tavern and sipping from a small bottle. He seemed familiar. Jack thought he'd seen him once before; he was one of the guards assigned to the president.

Jack had meant to wait outside the theater, but for some reason he felt compelled to go in and take a look. There were no security personnel in the theater. As he entered the lobby, a handsome-looking man came out of the washroom and headed tensely toward the second-floor boxes. One hand was pressed tightly against his pocket, where something hard seemed to be hidden.

Jack grew more uneasy. He followed without thinking. The man ahead of him quickened his pace. Suddenly, a tremendous cheer erupted throughout the theater. The play seemed to have reached a climax, and the man seized the moment to shove open the box door and rush inside.

John Wilkes Booth drew his gun and aimed it at President Lincoln's head as he watched the play.

Bang!

That was how casually Lincoln had died in history. Of course, it was possible someone had paved the way for the assassin.