I Sing the Body Electric by Ray Bradbury

Lincoln, deep in his cool Springfield marbled keep, turned in his slumbers and dreamed himself awake.
    And rose up.
    And spoke.
    A phone rang.
    Bayes jerked.
    The memories fell away.
    The theater phone on one far stage wall buzzed.
    Oh, God, he thought, and ran to lift the phone.
    â€œBayes? This is Phipps. Buck just called and told me to get over there! Said something about Lincoln—”
    â€œNo,” said Bayes. “You know Buck. Must have called from the nearest bar. I’m here in the theater. Everything’s fine. One of the generator’s acted up. We just finished repairs—”
    â€œ He’s all right, then?”
    â€œHe’s great.” He could not take his eyes off the slumped body. Oh Christ. Oh God. Absurd.
    â€œI—I’m coming over.”
    â€œNo, don’t!”
    â€œJesus, why are you shouting? ”
    Bayes bit his tongue, took a deep breath, shut his eyes so he could not see the thing in the chair and said, slowly:
    â€œPhipps, I’m not shouting. There. The lights just came back on. I can’t keep the crowd waiting. I swear to you—”
    â€œYou’re lying.”
    â€œPhipps!”
    But Phipps had hung up.
    Ten minutes, thought Bayes wildly, oh God, he’ll be here in ten minutes. Ten minutes before the man who brought Lincoln out of the grave meets the man who put him back in it…
    He moved. A mad impulse made him wish to run backstage, start the tapes, see how much of the fallen creature would motivate, which limbs jerk, which lie numb—more madness. Time for that tomorrow.
    There was only time now for the mystery.
    And the mystery was enclosed in the man who sat in the third seat over in the last row back from the stage.
    The assassin—he was an assassin, wasn’t he? The assassin, what did he look like?
    He had seen his face, some few moments ago, hadn’t he? And wasn’t it a face from an old, a familiar, a faded and put-away daguerreotype? Was there a full mustache? Were there dark and arrogant eyes?
    Slowly Bayes stepped down from the stage. Slowly he moved up the aisle and stopped, looking in at that man with his head bent into clutching fingers.
    Bayes inhaled then slowly exhaled a question in two words:
    â€œMr.... Booth? ”
    The strange faraway man stiffened, then shuddered and let forth a terrible whisper:
    â€œYes…”
    Bayes waited. Then he dared ask:
    â€œMr … John Wilkes Booth?”
    To this the assassin laughed quietly. The laugh faded into a kind of dry croak.
    â€œNorman Llewellyn Booth. Only the last name is … the same.”
    Thank God, thought Bayes. I couldn’t have stood the other.
    Bayes spun and paced up the aisle, stopped, and fixed his eyes to his watch. No time. Phipps was on the freeway now. Any moment, he’d be hammering at the door. Bayes spoke rigidly to the theater wall directly in front of him:
    â€œWhy?”
    And it was an echo of the affrighted cry of three hundred people who had sat here not ten minutes ago and jumped to terror at the shot.
    â€œWhy!?”
    â€œI don’t know!” cried Booth.
    â€œLiar!” cried Bayes, in the same breath and instant.
    â€œToo good a chance to miss.”
    â€œWhat?” Bayes whirled.
    â€œâ€¦nothing.”
    â€œYou don’t dare say that again!”
    â€œBecause,” said Booth, head down, half hid, now light, now dark, jerking into and out of emotions he only sensed as they came, went, rose, faded with barks of laughter and then silence. “Because … it’s the truth.” In awe, he whispered, stroking his cheeks. “I did it. I actually did it.”
    â€œBastard!”
    Bayes had to keep walking up, around, down the aisles, circling, afraid to stop, afraid he might rush and strike and keep on striking this stupid genius, this bright killer—
    Booth saw this and said:
    â€œWhat are you waiting for? Get it over.”
    â€œI will