27.
Mink and I kneeled beside Spear. Mink fussed with holding his oxygen mask and taking his pulse. I pried his claw-like fingers from my wrist.
“Seriously, dude,” John Wilkes Booth said, waving his hunting knife. “Should we go home or what? My band has a gig at the Red Lobster tonight and I’ve got to get out of this stupid make-up.”
“I don’t know,” I said, rubbing the numbness from my wrist. Spear’s finger imprints burned red. “I didn’t hire you.”
“Fine. Then I’m out of here,” Booth said.
“Me, too,” Lincoln said, lifting his head again. Others mumbled agreement.
Booth started to leave.
“Stop!” Spear shouted, his voice suddenly clear and strong. He pushed himself shakily to his feet, grabbed his two canes, and took a deep breath. “You’ve all been paid for the entire day, and you’ll stay until we’re done.” He turned to Mink and me. “Let us continue, shall we?”
Spear walked across the stage to the presidential box, his two canes thumping loudly on the wooden stage. Lincoln sighed with annoyance and laid his head back down on the banister. “This blood smells like liver,” he muttered.
“Okay, kid,” Spear said to me, gesturing at the actors with one cane. “Dazzle me.”
I swallowed hard. “I don’t know about dazzle,” I muttered, suddenly nervous.
Mink poked me in the arm. “C’mon, Max, butch up. Show him.”
I picked up the derringer that Booth had dropped after shooting the president. I stuck my pinky finger in the muzzle. “This is a .32 caliber. The real gun was a .44.”
Spear shrugged. “Too easy. Every kindergarten child knows that.”
Mink snorted. She had a great snort. It gave me confidence.
I walked over to Major Rathbone. “Excuse me,” I said to him as I reached into his military jacket pocket and pulled out an old pocket watch. I pressed the button at the top and the ornate gold lid flipped open. “This watch is set at 9:15. The assassination took place at about 10:15.”
Spear yawned. “Big deal. You can tell time. A circus chicken can do that.”