Justice by David Wood Page B

beneath their feet bore mute witness to this being yet another forgotten, or at least lightly traveled, space. Faint, yellow light gleamed through the crack beneath the door at the top of the stairs, giving them hope.
    “Wonder what we’ll find on the other side,” Bones mused.
    “Can’t be worse than what’s behind us.” Maddock pocketed his MagLite and opened the door. As light poured in, a loud voice called out.
    “Take one more step and you’re dead!”
    Maddock froze. Had the Sons of the Republic somehow gotten ahead of them? And then another voice rang out in the narrow hallway beyond the door.
    “You don’t understand. Just listen to me.”
    “What the hell have we stumbled into?” Bones asked.
    “I don’t know.” Maddock listened. “They’re somewhere that way.” He pointed to his left.
    “I’m through listening to you, Ryan,” the first voice said.
    “Justin, put the gun down!”
    The sharp report of a pistol reverberated down the hall.
    “I say we go the other direction,” Bones said. He shouldered past Maddock and took off at a trot. They ascended another staircase and found themselves at another locked door. Bones didn’t have to kick this one in. A little fiddling with the doorknob plus a bit of main force was all it took. He stepped through and stopped.
    “It’s a play.”
    “What?” Maddock moved to his friend’s side and froze.
    They stood on a small balcony overlooking a packed theater. To their left, two tiers, one for seating and one for lighting, looked down on the stage. The walls were painted cream and white, the carpet a bright red. Down below, heads turned their way as patrons noticed their presence. Someone pointed up at them and said something Maddock couldn’t quite hear. An angry murmur rippled through the audience.
    “This box is fancy,” Bones said. “I wonder why no one’s sitting here. The tickets must be too expensive.”
    For the first time, Maddock looked at the box in which they stood. American flags framed the small space, and bunting adorned the rail. His eyes fell on the antique chairs and his stomach lurched.
    “Bones, this is Ford’s Theatre.” He swallowed hard. “And we’re standing in the box where Lincoln was shot.” Bones’ eyes went wide. “Holy crap. Let’s get out of here.”
    Down below, Maddock saw two uniformed, armed security guards, scurry out of the theater. “I don’t think we have much time.”
    Bones opened the door, looked out, and closed it again.
    “Sons of the Republic coming up the stairs.”
    “That was quick,” Maddock grumbled.
    “I guess we’ll jump.”
    “The last guy who tried that broke his leg,” Maddock said.
    “Was he a SEAL?”
    “It was John Wilkes Booth.”
    “Three names? Sounds like a wuss to me.” Bones turned and approached the rail. The actors on stage, probably distracted by the noise of the crowd, had stopped the play, and now stared up at Bones and Maddock in shock.
    Bones didn’t miss a beat. “You shot my brother!” he shouted at the actor who still clutched his prop pistol. “I’ll kill you for that.” He flashed a grin at Maddock and then vaulted the rail. He hit the stage with a loud thud, but regained his feet in an instant. As he rose to his full height, the actors on stage took one look at the massive Cherokee, turned, and ran.
    Grinning, Maddock vaulted the rail, felt the tingling sensation of falling, and hit the stage. He felt the impact all the way up to the top of his skull, but he didn’t think anything was broken. He stood and turned to the audience.
    “There will be brief intermission and then our play will resume.”
    He and Bones leaped off the stage and sprinted up the aisle toward the exit. More shouts filled the air, this time from the direction of Lincoln’s box. He stole a glance back and saw their pursuers, pistols in hand, turning to face the security guards who had just burst into the box.
    “It’ll be cool,” Bones said. “The rent-a-cops will back