Backfire, he thought. No. Gun. A moment later he heard the great lift and drop of voices like an ocean surprised by a landfall which stopped it dead. A door banged. Feet ran. An usher burst through his office door, glanced swiftly about as if blind, his face pale, his mouth trying words that would not come. “Lincoln . . . Lincoln . . .” Bayes glanced up from his desk. “What about Lincoln?” “He . . . he’s been shot.” “Good joke. Now—” “Shot. Don’t you understand? Shot. Really shot. For the second time, shot!” The usher wandered out, holding to the wall. Bayes felt himself rise. “Oh, for Christ—” And he was running and passed the usher who, feeling him pass, began to run with him. “No, no,” said Bayes. “It didn’t happen. It didn’t. It couldn’t. It didn’t, couldn’t . . .” “Shot,” said the usher. As they made the corridor turn, the theater doors exploded wide and a crowd that had turned mob shouted or yelled or screamed or stunned simply said, “Where is he?”
