The Sixteenth Man

by Thomas B. Sawyer

  He wished she wasn’t about to depart for Montana.

  “Mmhmm. That and ‘am I several cards short of a deck?’ Making the wrong move.” He stood up. They gathered their cups, plates and crumpled napkins onto a tray.

  “Of taking charge of your life – and maybe being happy. Who can blame you for that?”

  It took Packard a second to read her twinkle. “Jesus, you are a pain in the ass.”

  “Hey, did I lie?”

  “I promise...” Packard assured Kate as they emerged from the stairwell onto parking level 4. “...The minute I learn anything. You sure you’ve had enough sleep to get back on the---?” Packard tensed, drawn to something further up the ramp.

  Kate quickly followed his gaze. Fifty feet away, just beyond a parked Miata, was his white Cherokee. A man, his back to them, was leaning in through its open, passenger-side door. Packard broke into a run, followed by Kate. The sound of their approaching footsteps caused the man to turn. He was slender, moustached, wore large, dark sunglasses, a leather jacket and knit cap. The broad cheekbones, black hair and deep tan gave Packard the impression he might be Hispanic.

  The man dashed out from between the vehicles, turned to run up the ramp, but Packard reached out and caught him by his jacket. The man whirled. Something in his right hand flashed. It cut into Packard’s left biceps, causing him to lose his grip on the coat. Kate screamed. And the man was gone. Packard clutched his upper arm. Blood oozed between his fingers. He jerked his head toward the Jeep. “There’s a first-aid kit in the center console.”

  Kate went for it. “Jesus.”

  “What?”

  He moved up behind her, peered in over her shoulder. The interior of the vehicle was a disaster, seats and headliner slashed, ripped, carpeting torn askew, glove-box emptied, its contents strewn. Even the padded sun-visors had been slit, their foam stuffing pulled partway out.

  Kate and Packard looked at each other for a long, sober moment.

  SIXTEEN

  1963

  Friday, November 22nd

  Shit, I have got to be out of my fucking mind.

  It was maybe the umpteenth time the thought had occurred to Charlie. Each one deepened his gloom. Back in Reno – what was it, a month ago – it all seemed like such a straightforward piece of cake.

  “Here you go, ma’am. Gate four...” The red-haired woman behind the Braniff counter handed Marjorie her ticket, glanced at the clock on the wall behind her. It was 12:34. “They started boarding a few minutes ago. Oh – and you’ll have about a two hour wait for your connection out of Denver.”

  Charlie watched Marjorie pocket the ticket, finish counting her change. He was unable to read her face. Wordlessly, they moved toward the gate. The Lubbock Municipal Airport terminal was fairly busy. Charlie noted a few families and a number of salesman-types with their sample cases, presumably heading home for the weekend. Suddenly, halfway across the floor, in front of the Trans-Texas Airline desk, Marjorie stopped, turned to him.

  “God, Charlie...”

  She was choked up, her eyes teary. She took his face in both hands, kissed him. First on the cheek, then she pulled back a little so they were nose-to-nose, Charlie looking down, her up at him. Then she tilted her head to one side, pulled his down onto hers, kissed him full on the mouth. Charlie wasn’t expecting it.

  Marjorie pulled back. “Like-like I said, when you get home – I’ve got some cash of my own...”

  He rubbed the side of his trousers, felt his nearly empty pocket. “Now that you mention it, right now fifty would be a big---”

  She placed her finger against his lips, smiled, dug into her bag, thrust a bill into his hand. Charlie looked down at it. $100.

  The clerk at the Trans-Texas desk picked up her mike. It howled some feedback, subsided, then: “This is the last call for Trans-Texas flight 32, bound for Midland-Odessa and – what---?” Her voice started to rise, then stopped, followed by a “thook.”

  Which Charlie read as a hand being clapped over the mike. Correctly, as it happened. He saw a baggage-handler whispering something which seemed to shock her, was also aware that the general sound level had changed. Like someone had abruptly thrown a switch. muting the background-noise. Charlie scanned the nearby faces for a clue. Several wore expressions ranging from open-mouthed surprise to the beginnings of anguish. And then – fragments of a low but growing buzz reached him and Marjorie. Disconnected words. Voices. But – different from before. What – was – it...?

  There was no laughter.

  “Dallas.”

  “No shit?”

  “Shot.”

  “‘Bout the fuckin’ time.”

  “Ohdeargod.”

  “Motorcade.”

  The red-haired clerk at the Braniff counter broke in on the P.A. system, her voice up in her throat, shaky, verging on hysteria: “Excuse me? Excuse me? Could I please have your attention?” She cleared her throat. “There’s um some news. I thought y’all should um President Kennedy was – over in Dallas was shot. The – the report just came in. They say he’s – uh – being taken to the hospital. Parkland Hospital they said.”

  Her voice wavered on the last part, which was mostly drowned out by groans. Charlie felt a wrenching sensation that started below his belt and moved upward. It passed. He drew in a gulp of air and realized he hadn’t taken a breath in probably 30 seconds. He glanced at Marjorie. Neither spoke. All around them people were beginning to move toward the ticket counter, where the young woman who delivered the news appeared to have a small transistor radio.

  “Charlie, I – I want to get on the plane.”

  He nodded, took her arm, guided her to the gate, where they paused. A tear ran down her cheek, and another. With his thumb, Charlie gently wiped them away, idly wondering if they were for JFK, Joe Bob, or her. “I hope Stan goes easy on you.”

  “Thanks... Listen, I...”

  “Hey, we’ve said it all.” He kissed her forehead, then, gripping her shoulders: “One more time. Anybody asks, you ditched the guy in Amarillo. That’s the last you saw him. Period.” He gently propelled her through the gate, then he moved to the window, watched her cross the tarmac, climb the ramp of the old Martin 202 and disappear inside.

  She didn’t look back. Another thing Charlie liked about her.

  Charlie cranked his window down, poked his head out into the cold windstream. It helped. Less than thirty miles to Albuquerque. The dashboard clock indicated 10:41. Still on Texas time. He had been driving through the darkness for hours. Monotonous. Like the endless repetitious blur of the radio coverage. The motorcade. The deathwatch at the hospital. Lyndon Baines Johnson sworn in as President aboard Air Force One. Earlier, at 1:57 PM, exactly one hour after JFK was pronounced dead, a suspect, Lee Harvey Oswald, apprehended in Dallas’s Texas Movie Theater. At 7:15 Dallas time Oswald arraigned for the murder of Police Officer J.D. Tippit.

  Depressing.

  Light, misty rain began to fleck the windshield. Charlie cranked the window up, reached for the radio, intending to shut it off. Instead he grabbed the right-hand knob and began searching the dial. Adding to his general irritation with himself – which he recognized as unreasonable – was his inability to recall any of the Texas frequencies he’d listened to over the past couple of days. He sampled several before picking up, via a weak, staticky signal, the unmistakable drawl of a West Texas newscaster. The man happened to be nearing the end of his litany about the events in Dallas, promising local news after the station break.

  Charlie started the wipers, settled back behind the wheel. Following a Lone Star Beer commercial were plugs for a hardware store and a Ford dealer, both allegedly serving someplace known as “Greater Orrinsville.” Charlie had no idea where it was, but when the Texan returned to the microphone it became apparent that much of the local population – or at least its newsmakers – consisted of people whose first-or-middle names were ‘Floyd.’ Floyd Atchison’s longhorn bull, Golgotha, had won a blue ribbon at the county fair. Billy F
loyd Snead’s barn had caught fire, but thanks to the Orrinsville Volunteer Fire Department, damage was minimal. And high school running back Floyd Berryhill was, thankfully, pronounced healthy for the big Thanksgiving Day game.

  Charlie was reaching for the dial when he heard: “...Over in Beals Creek this afternoon, the body of an unidentified male was discovered, an apparent homicide victim. And out on Route 115 just west of Mustang Draw, a tanker truck---”

  Shit.

  Charlie shut off the radio.

  Well, any luck, they’ll be awhile sorting that one out.

  The rain became heavier, harder. And the road was climbing, which could mean snow. Charlie badly wanted to make it all the way into Albuquerque before calling it a night. The further from Big Spring, the better. He squinted, ducking his head to see through the small arc of windshield cleared by the inefficient left-side defroster. Another item in the long line of stuff he’d been meaning to take care of. Suddenly, the engine sputtered, the car bucked. He pumped the gas pedal and it revved – but without much conviction – and a beat or two late. Charlie sensed the tappets were noisier than before – as if he might be losing oil pressure. Again, the engine spazzed – only this time it failed to respond to his right foot. He jammed the shift-lever into neutral and tried restarting it. Nothing. The uphill road-slope was causing the Chevvie to drastically lose speed. Charlie pounded the wheel with both fists.

  Shitshitshitshit. In the middle of fucking nowhere.

  An air-horn blast jarred him out of his momentary self-pity. The headlights of the eighteen-wheeler laboring up the grade behind him more than filled his rear-view mirror. He twisted the wheel to the right. The Chevvie had just enough momentum to get him safely off onto the shoulder, where he quickly killed the lights. The truckdriver flashed his as he rolled past.

  Over the next few minutes Charlie tried several times to restart the engine. Once it caught for a few seconds, then stopped. The other attempts were less successful, each weakening the battery till finally it would barely crank. Traffic was sparse-to-nonexistent, the wind-driven rain beating now on the windows and roof. He zipped his jacket, raised the collar, climbed out, peered up and down the two-lane road. He was in a draw, where the roadway had been blasted through a section of mountain. No lights were visible in either direction. The cold rain stung his face. Charlie climbed back inside, reached for the pack of Camels on the dash. Empty. It was going to be a long, chilly night. He locked both doors, removed his revolver from beneath the glove-box, placed it on the seat beside him. Then, thrusting his hands into his jacket pockets, he leaned his head back. Between the wind-howl and rain-beat, he doubted he’d get any sleep.

  Charlie got crankier and crankier.

  What kind of asshole keeps tapping like that? Don’t they know who I am?

  It seemed to go on forever. When he finally, resentfully looked into the light-glow on his left, it startled the hell out of him. Why would anyone do such a thing? He gripped the revolver with his right hand, used the other to wipe away the condensation.

  “State Police.”

  Ogod.

  Charlie quickly slid the gun beneath his thigh.

  “You okay in there?”

  Charlie cranked the window partway down. The rain had died down, but not the wind. He wondered how long he’d slept.

  “Yeah. Engine conked out.”

  “I’ll call for a tow-truck.”

  “Nah. She’ll probably start right up.”

  Charlie turned the key, pressed the starter-button. It made a clicking sound. Nothing. He quickly paged through possible excuses to get rid of the cop, drew a blank. Then he looked at the officer, who was now eyeballing him suspiciously.

  Sonofabitch must be reading my mind.

  Charlie shrugged, managed a friendly grin. “Maybe you’d better...”

  The Trooper threw him a brief look, walked toward the rear of the Chevvie. Charlie watched in the mirror till he saw the cruiser-door swing shut, then he returned his revolver to its hiding-place under the glove-box.

  Vern Orwell had another hacking fit, then continued where he’d left off. To the syllable. “...’Siree, this here’s the last o’ yer---” He coughed again, took a curative drag of his Lucky Strike.

  Which, to Charlie’s incredulity, stopped the cough. He hadn’t seen that one since his father, who used to light up another in order to quiet his emphysema-wheeze.

  “...yer well-made Chevvies.”

  Vern had repeated the same comment to Charlie at least four times on the drive back to Vern’s Auto Service, just east of La Tijera. Interspersed with coughs and chortles of pleasure that “God finally got that sumbitch Kennedy.” Now, beneath the lights of his gas-pump canopy, Vern was getting his first good look at the Chevvie’s recent, rudimentary bodywork. He ran his hand along the front left fender, shook his head.

  “Which is why, spite of the beating she’s taken...” This was said with a more-than-telltale touch of accusation, which Charlie ignored.

  You don’t know how right you are, pal.

  “...We’ll putcha back on the road in no-time.” Vern worked the pulley-chains of his ancient tow-truck, lowered the front wheels of Charlie’s car to the damp gravel surface. “Yep. Good thing old Mac happened by when he did’re you’d of been in fer a long cold one.”

  About the fifth time he’d said that.

  He raised the Chevvie’s hood, noticed Charlie blowing into cupped hands. Vern jerked his thumb toward the shabby building behind them. “Whyn’tcha go inside and getcherself warm for a few minutes? Little Vern’s prob’ly got some coffee on.”

  Charlie nodded, thankful for the prospect of shelter from the raw wind. The rusting corrugated roof, cracked windows and rotting car-hulks out in back diminished his already minimal confidence in Vern. The interior didn’t help. A single, bare light-bulb hanging on a frayed cord illuminated the cramped, dingy office. An outdated wall-calendar featured a zaftig, mostly naked young woman sexually aroused by a crankshaft. At first-glance Little Vern’s legs seemed to go on forever, from the large, booted feet planted on the cluttered desk all the way to the old swivel chair that supported the upper part of his semi-reclining going-on-seven-foot frame.

  Little Vern barely acknowledged Charlie, picked at a chin-zit amid his stubble, intent on the tiny, blurry, rabbit-eared black-and-white TV that was showing a replay of the late President’s body being off-loaded from Air Force One at Andrews Air Force Base in Maryland.

  Charlie spotted the dented percolator on the hotplate. He helped himself to a paper cup, half-filled it with the last of the pot’s steaming black-brown, gritty contents. He sipped it, winced. It could have been ten hours old – or ten days. Hey, at least nothing visible was growing in it. And thanks to the glow of the rusting electric heater beneath Little Vern’s legs, the place was comfortably warm.

  Charlie made a pass at small-talk: “So, how d’you feel about youknow what happened in Dallas?”

  Little Vern grunted something unintelligible.

  Charlie noticed the pack of Luckies on the desk, pointed to it. “Mind?” He chose to read Little Vern’s grunt as a “yes,” took one, groped his pockets till he located a match, lit up. On the TV, views of the Texas Book Depository, and the window overlooking Dealey Plaza.

  Creaking hinges. Big Vern entered, elbowed the door shut, wiping his hands on an already greasy rag, cigarette butt in the corner of his mouth. His expression was more judgmental than before, but with a touch of sadness, as if Charlie was a hopelessly wayward, truly irresponsible son. “We sure don’t take real good care of our car, do we, mister?” He coughed, inhaled a drag, found a pencil-stump in his breast pocket, started scribbling on a pad. “Okay...hoses, belts, fan bearing looks like you need, oil, battery-charge, minor tune-up...to get her runnin’ good enough to maybe getcha back to Reno – assuming no surprises...”

  On TV, the image of a Dallas cop holding a rifle aloft – supposedly the death-weapon – was followed by mug shots of a bruised Lee Ha
rvey Oswald. Charlie was mesmerized.

  Jesus, is that maybe the ultimate fucking loser, or what? But – there’s something about him---

  Vern continued. “...an’ I mean that’s without goin’ anywheres near them valve-lifters – we’re lookin’ in the range of oh – a hunnert – a hunnert-twenny. Oughta be done by---”

  Abruptly, Charlie moved to the door.

  “...Hey, mister, that’s a square count I’m givin’---”

  “So work out the numbers – and what time you’ll have it ready.” The door swung shut behind Charlie. He was almost running toward the Chevvie.

  Vern watched perplexedly. Even Little Vern looked away from the TV and out the window at Charlie leaning into his car, frantically searching behind the driver’s seat.

  SEVENTEEN

  Present Time

  Wednesday

  Reed Crocker’s arms were folded, his weight on one foot, upper-back against the wall. He stared ahead, focused on nothing, Packard guessed, except his resentment of Kate Norris, Packard himself, and the large, uniformed Black woman jotting notes about the assault and vandalism.

  She shook her head. “I have to tell you, this guy sounds a whole lot like the badass who’s been operating up Gunnison County...”

  Barbara Litton, Borrego Junction’s Chief of Police, pocketed her notepad, guardedly looked up, then quickly away as the campus infirmary nurse jabbed Packard’s deltoid with a tetanus shot. The wound several inches below, which fortunately severed no nerves or major blood vessels, had required a half-dozen stitches. He was amused by Barbara’s reaction. And noted that, predictably, Crocker was not.

  Barbara had never made a secret of the reason for her LAPD career ending just two days after she graduated from the Academy. Riding patrol on her South Central home turf, Barbara and her new partner/mentor responded to a homicide report. It was her first, and – when it quickly became apparent to detectives and fellow uniforms that she was constitutionally unable to stand the sight of blood – her last. Barbara thought it was irrelevant then, and she still felt that way.