Tales of Tinfoil: Stories of Paranoia and Conspiracy

by David Gatewood (ed)

  But there was no nugget for Don Petterman. And there never would be. He had wasted his life.

  “Bit of a loser,” he muttered. “Yes, indeed.”

  He turned away angrily, looking for someplace to throw his hot chocolate cup. He followed the railroad tracks back to the parking lot atop the knoll, leaving the overpass and circling behind the fence again, peering over the pickets, watching the distant crowd mingling on Elm Street below. He sighed. Wexler had taken Don’s place on the manhole cover—and was doing decent business from the looks of it.

  Don stumbled and glanced down. His heel had caught between the bars of a drainage grate just behind the picket fence. He dropped his cup through it. It bounced into a wide tunnel, rolled downhill in the direction of Wexler, and disappeared.

  This is part of the same drainage system.

  He knelt and peered into the space beneath. The bore of the tunnel stretched downward at a forty-five-degree angle. It must catch rainwater from the parking lot and carry it downhill, Don decided. Downhill under the knoll to spill into the main pipe alongside Elm, probably intersecting right at the catch basin where his iPad waited.

  He bit his lip, thinking. This tunnel was plenty wide enough to squeeze through… if he could get the grate open.

  He tugged at the bars. Also rusted solid, but…

  The chain.

  He returned to his truck, backed it up to the grate, and pulled the chain out of his toolbox. He wasn’t taking shit anymore. He was not going to putter off and let Dealey Plaza steal his iPad too. Not Amy’s Christmas present, not when the place had stolen so much already. He was taking something back. The same way he’d seen souvenir hunters steal pickets by smashing the fence with their cars: by brute force.

  He threaded the chain through the grate, attached the other end to his tow hitch, and got behind the wheel. He started the engine, kissed his fingertips, and pressed them to the poster of President Kennedy, riding shotgun.

  He hit the gas. The truck leapt forward, flying for the railroad tracks.

  He thought for a second that he’d leap the tracks, tumble down the far side, and explode, but the truck stopped as suddenly as if it had struck an invisible wall. Kennedy flew forward. The tires gripped the pavement and threw gravel at the picket fence. Something behind Don—behind and to the right—made a sound like a gunshot. The truck lurched again, President Kennedy fell sideways onto the floorboards, and Don hit the brakes.

  The Lee Harvey Oswald bobblehead doll glued to his dash nodded and smirked. Sometimes brute force is how you get things done. And the job was done. Don climbed out and found the grate ripped completely from its bolts, exposing a rabbit hole leading… somewhere.

  Maybe even to Wonderland.

  He untangled the chain and parked his truck down the row.

  He moved quickly, grabbing his flashlight and swinging his legs over the hole. Someone would have heard that sound; it had echoed across the whole plaza. He was liable to get arrested if he didn’t hurry. He jumped down, wincing at the jolt to his ankles. He turned and pulled the grate closed over his head.

  The hollow tunnel felt like a jail cell. The shadows of the bars above slanted across Don’s belly and arms. The walls were poured concrete. A thick carpet of debris covered the bottom. A dead bird lay eyeless and ant-eaten nearby. Don nudged some wet leaves over it. Poor thing.

  A wide passage sloped downward toward Elm Street. Don played the flashlight around the walls of the endless rabbit hole. He crouched and took a tentative step inside.

  He froze. Someone was speaking down there in the dark. A man’s voice, distorted by echoes. Don followed the sound, and the words sharpened into focus.

  “It appears as though something has happened in the motorcade route. Something, I repeat, has happened in the motorcade route!”

  Don’s breath caught.

  Another voice whispered sadly from the darkness below. “The air of the plaza was filled with the most incredible screaming. It was as if every choir in the country had gathered there and they were all singing out of tune. Off-key. It was the most incredible sound…”

  Don began to tremble. He felt as if he were creeping into the past, down into those dark days. But that was impossible, wasn’t it? The voices went on, speaking of Parkland Hospital, of the heroic efforts by medical personnel. Don heard a soft whirring sound growing behind the voices. The sound of distant traffic. His flashlight found the end of the rabbit hole. The catch basin at the side of Elm. Walter Cronkite was waiting for him, the familiar voice rising from the floor.

  “From Dallas, Texas, the flash apparently official. President Kennedy died at one p.m. Central Standard Time, some thirty-eight minutes ago…”

  Don knelt. His iPad lay among the leaves. It was still playing—the documentary section of his DVD. Cronkite cleared his throat, regaining his composure.

  “Vice President Johnson has left the hospital in Dallas, but we do not know to where he has proceeded; presumably, he will be taking the oath of office shortly and become the thirty-sixth president of the United States…”

  Don picked the iPad up. Oswald appeared on screen. The screen was cracked, but the device was otherwise okay. The leaves must have cushioned the fall. He messed with the touchscreen until he was able to pause the movie, just as Jack Ruby stepped out of a crowd, pistol in hand. Don tucked the iPad under his arm and stood, grateful to finally straighten his back.

  Light poured into the space through the receiving gutter. A set of wheels blurred past, puffing dust particles through the gap. Don waved the air and sneezed. The manhole cover was just over his head. He wondered if he could get it open from below and climb out. He imagined surprising Wexler, popping his head up like a jack-in-the-box. But the metal disc wouldn’t budge. Don shrugged, wiped his hands, and turned to climb back up to the parking lot, mission accomplished.

  But what was the hurry? This was a part of the plaza he had never seen, might never see again. What had the hipster said? Was it possible for an assassin to fire from this position?

  Don inspected the opening to the road. The asphalt had been built up over fifty years. About five or six inches had been added, narrowing the opening. He ran his finger across the lowest strata, the original pavement, the actual Elm Street of November 1963. He felt a strange wonder and dread, both at once. He peered out, blinking against the light and dust. A car whipped past, surprising him.

  That’s the flaw with this sniper position, Don thought. How would an assassin even be able to see the president coming? How would he know when to be ready? Would a 1963 radio be able to get a signal down here?

  Don raised a finger, cocking it, and pointed it up the road, toward the air where Kennedy’s head would have been. “Back and to the left,” he whispered thoughtfully.

  Yes, with the wider opening it would have been possible for the shot to have come from here. It was actually an ideal spot. No one would have seen him; he wouldn’t have been captured by any camera, or noticed by the Secret Service. And as far as being ready for the car when it came… Well, if he had a spotter…

  What about Umbrella Man? There’d been that fellow standing on the sidewalk with an open umbrella, just up the road from this position, pumping it up and down as Kennedy approached. That could have been the heads-up. It made a chilling kind of sense and—

  —and it was his own original theory.

  Don blinked and grinned. Could he have actually come up with something new? It wasn’t much of a nugget but—it was an idea, arrived at first-hand, here in the drain.

  A tiny wonderful thing, an original idea.

  He leaned back against the stone, amused with himself for being so excited about something he couldn’t prove. But this had been his most productive day of research ever, and it made him feel—oh, like he was moving, somehow. Shaken off his sandbar, asking questions, getting something done.

  But he was also claustrophobic and his nose was running.

  He said goodbye to the drain, picked up his iPad
, and climbed back up the rabbit hole. He heard voices again, saying, “It sounded like a gunshot.” “Did you see anyone back here?” “No, but it was definitely behind the fence and toward the bridge.” “If this is a joke…” “No. I swear.” “Why would we lie aboot it?”

  It was the Canadian girl, the hipster, and Irish, walking back and forth beyond the grate.

  Shit.

  Don wasn’t about to pop back out and be banished from the plaza forever by that Sixth Floor bastard. Irish could do it, too. The police always took the Lone Gunman side when called to Dealey. Don scooted backward down the hole, back to the chamber along Elm Street. He’d have to wait for the heat to blow over.

  Don smiled. The shooter would have had the same problem, wouldn’t he? Witnesses had run up the knoll to mill about in the parking lot behind the fence, just as the hipster and the girl and the big red asshole were doing right now.

  Okay, so I just shot the president but I can’t get out that way. The shooter wouldn’t have stayed put, though.

  Two other tunnels stretched off to the right and left, following Elm. In which direction might the assassin have made his getaway? Don scratched his beard. To the south these storm drains emptied into the Trinity River. Was that the answer? Had the killer gone south and out at the Trinity? It wasn’t that far. Or had he gone north? There were other tunnels under downtown Dallas, going back a century or more…

  He drummed his fingers on the stone. South felt right. Downhill, away from the crowds. Away from downtown Dallas and its throng of motorcade watchers. He turned his flashlight on and played the beam down the cramped tunnel.

  No. Don’t even think about it.

  But he knew he would. He was going to follow the killer, find out if he was right, if it could be done. He stuck the iPad under his arm again and crouched. The tunnel was tight, but he fit.

  If Santa can go down a chimney…

  He waddled awkwardly down the shaft, like a sumo wrestler entering the ring. Yeah. That’s exactly what he was doing. He was in the game now, mixing it up, wrestling with history mano a mano.

  Gravity helped him along. He followed a trickle of rainwater that ran sluggishly down a rust-orange groove in the pipe.

  Thank god it’s not a sanitation sewer.

  The place smelled oddly pleasant, like homeroom after banging erasers.

  Admit it, Petterman. You’re having the time of your life.

  He dropped the iPad a couple of times as he traveled, felt himself displaying plumber’s crack more than once, and sweated bullets. But the grin never left his face.

  Until he felt the tunnel shaking all around him.

  He felt a twang of panic. He pressed his fingers to the stone. What was going on? Was it a cave-in? It felt like he was inside a concrete bell striking midnight. Was it an earthquake up there? World War Three? He made a guesstimate of how far he’d traveled, drew a mental map of Dallas, and the answer came to him. He was under the interstate. The traffic on I-35 was shaking his little tunnel, that was all. Nothing to be worried about.

  As he pushed on, he found himself glancing warily at the tiny cracks in the concrete—the sinister little lightning bolts to his left and right and above.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea. But I ain’t going back. No sir. I’ve got to know. I’m never getting another shot at this.

  Other tunnels joined his own, like the three rivers of Dealey Plaza—the joining of roads into one central throughway. Don stubbed his toe and dropped the flashlight. It went out. He blurted curses and fumbled for it, grateful when his palm wrapped around it again and the switch brought glorious light. If he lost his light he’d be screwed royally.

  Let’s just get to the Trinity, get the hell out, and be done. You’ve satisfied your curiosity.

  Don scowled, realizing he’d have to walk all the way back to his truck—find a way to cross the interstate—on foot this time, and—

  Something struck his forehead, bringing stars. He blinked and cursed. He’d wandered right into a barred gate, floor to ceiling. He rattled it. It barely budged. The water could still get out, but he sure as hell couldn’t.

  Well, shit. There went that idea. Now what?

  A voice cried out from his armpit: “Oswald has been shot! Lee Oswald has been shot!”

  The damned iPad had started playing again. He stabbed at the screen, messing with it for a full five minutes, trying to make it stop, as Oswald was rushed to Parkland hospital. He finally killed the damn movie in the middle of Kennedy’s funeral. Jackie looked up at him from the screen, her face ashen behind a veil of black.

  Don shifted around with difficulty and duck-walked back uphill. But he reached an intersection of three pipes, all identical, and didn’t remember which one he’d entered through. He cursed himself for not dropping breadcrumbs. He felt panic gathering, remembered the moment when the flashlight had failed. He felt his age and the danger of his predicament. His back ached like a bitch. What if he wandered down here forever?

  He chose a tunnel and pressed upward, pulling himself along with one hand, imagining that at any moment he’d pop out of someone’s toilet with a tale to tell. But his tunnel veered leftward, which wasn’t right, and closed in until he had no room to turn. He found another intersection, tried to double back. The concrete walls became crumbling brick. Roots poked through the stone. Piles of dirt marked past cave-ins.

  This was the worst idea ever.

  He reached another gate and screamed at it. He scootched backward, inch by inch, unable to see where he was going, his sweater riding up, blubber dragging the floor, skinning his knuckles, dribbling tears and snot into his beard.

  Then the floor vanished.

  Something popped under his knees and fell away. His legs swung, his feet slammed against the side of some sheer drop. His own girth dragged him backward toward the edge. It might be a five-foot drop or a thousand. He tried to brace himself and dropped the flashlight. It slipped farther and farther away, out of his reach…

  … and he fell.

  For a moment he thought he was falling forever. He hung in midair, like Alice in the Disney cartoon, drifting down the rabbit hole, buoyed by the umbrella of her skirt. Had he been caught by an angel? He felt hands in his armpits, saving him from death. His breathing slowed. No. His red cardigan had saved him. The thick knots of it had snagged some piece of metal. He dangled, his feet bicycling the air. He reached—feeling for the edge of the pit—

  And something ripped.

  The cardigan tore, ever so slowly, with a sound like popcorn in a microwave. He lurched downward once, twice, then plummeted with a cry of terror. The ground kicked him in the knees and his pants split. He fell forward with a shout, shielding his face, and the ground smacked both his funny bones for good measure. He lay on his belly in the dark, groaning, wondering if he’d broken his legs or his back, afraid to move and find out.

  At last he rolled onto his side and looked up. He’d fallen through a sluice gate into some reservoir pit. By the distant, dim glow of his dropped flashlight, he could make out the nub of metal that had saved his life. The only remaining piece of a ladder, the rest gone to rust. He wouldn’t be getting out the way he got in.

  He sat up, happy to discover that he could still wiggle his toes. His knees and elbows throbbed, but he hadn’t broken anything, as far as he could tell. A sharp ache above his navel told him he’d aggravated an old hernia. It could have been far worse.

  He leaned forward and felt for the wall, searching for an exit, finding none. He followed the stone leftward and found a drain hole about eighteen inches wide. That was no help. He turned around, to try the opposite direction.

  He didn’t know at first why he froze, stock-still, like a deer under the eyes of a predator. He’d gasped, too, before his conscious mind had a chance to analyze or understand. Blood flushed his cheeks and throbbed in his ears.

  He wasn’t alone.

  A shadow sat slumped against the far wall. Unmistakably human. Its head lay
cocked to one side, and its legs were splayed out. The shadow was watching Don, waiting for his approach, waiting to be introduced.

  “H-hello?” Don stammered, stepping back until his wet shoulders pressed cold stone. “I-is someone th-there?”

  He waited for a reply, but none came. Just his own breathing, magnified by echoes. He moved toward the figure tentatively, not crossing the open space but hugging the stone like a security blanket. The form grew more distinct.

  It was a corpse.

  Don did not shriek. He did not flee. He had nowhere to run. He did not wet himself. He might have done any one of these things, or all of them, but surprise overrode his fear. Surprise at what lay across the corpse’s lap.

  A rifle.

  Don stepped away, trembling, trying to process what he had found. Surely it wasn’t—

  Music sounded from beneath his left foot. Taps. The iPad had resumed playing the Kennedy funeral. He paused the film and, by the screen’s light, saw the corpse clearly.

  The body had lain in this place for a long time. It was the body of a young man. A man with a military haircut. The flesh of his cheeks had long since mummified, and his nostrils had retreated, widened as if to sniff the dusty air. His mouth hung open ever so slightly, the brittle lips parted by the tongue attempting to fall away. And he wore the uniform of a Dallas police officer. Not the modern uniform, but the old-style black with the half circle of an insignia on the shoulder.

  The rifle on his lap was distinctive. Don recognized it from Livingstone’s High Treason. A Remington Fireball X-100, an experimental model manufactured in 1962. Shorter than a normal rifle, more like an elongated pistol, perfect for firing from an enclosed space. Like…

  A storm drain.

  Don slipped to the floor, trying not to pass out. He was lightheaded. Could this be—could this actually be who he thought it was?