Destination Dealey: Countdown to the Kennedy Conspiracy

by L. D. C. Fitzgerald

  “Yeah, we get it.” Dee’s ego was still smoldering. “We’re not morons, you know. We did manage to time travel fifty years into the past. I think we’re capable of understanding simple concepts.”

  “We’re good, Tolson.” Bick’s shoulders unclenched slightly. At least the officials had been apprised of the circumstances. FBI and Secret Service agents would be well-equipped to deal with Soviet assassins. As they rounded the corner, he relaxed even further when he observed the shining chrome of his ’58 Harley Davidson DuoGlide in the exact spot where he’d left it the day before.

  Dee, however, scanned the parking lot and abruptly stopped walking. Other than the bike and parked vehicles, only one black sedan was visible—obviously an unmarked car. “Okay. Where the hell is everyone?”

  The G-man headed toward the official-looking vehicle.

  “Wait! Where is everyone who’s coming to the rescue? You know, the cavalry.”

  Tolson didn’t break his stride.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

  11:45 AM – CST

  At the Texas School Book Depository, two pairs of employees rode the side-by-side freight elevators in the rear of the building near the northwest corner. The crew had been laying plywood to fix the floors in the six-decade-old warehouse and were now racing each other down from the sixth floor to the first.

  Laughing, thirty-eight-year-old Charles Douglas Givens emerged from the east-side car first, making his team the champions. But as he patted his pocket, he discovered he’d left his smokes upstairs in his jacket. Sighing, he retraced his steps. After he’d retrieved his coat containing his cigarettes, he spotted Lee Harvey Oswald on the sixth floor. With clipboard in hand, the new employee walked toward him from the southeast corner of the building—the front side facing Elm Street. Oswald was a fellow who kept pretty much to himself. He never had too much to say.

  Givens paused before entering the elevator. “Boy, are you going downstairs? It’s near lunchtime.”

  Oswald appeared startled, as if he hadn’t been conscious of the clock. “No, sir. When you get downstairs, close the gate to the elevator.”

  Givens nodded, realizing Oswald meant the elevator on the west side where you could pull both gates closed and it would come up by itself. “Okay.”

  Givens got down to the first floor and grabbed his lunch. He thought no more of his coworker as he went outside to watch the president’s parade.

  11:50 AM – CST

  At the kitchen table of his home at 238 Glencairn Drive, J.D. Tippit finished the last morsel of his sandwich and fried potatoes, washing it down with a cold glass of milk. He and his wife had spent his brief midday break discussing JFK’s visit, but now the Dallas cop felt he ought to resume his tour. Cutting his time well short of the allotted hour, he explained that with the majority of police resources in the city center, he would be needed in the suburbs. J.D. openly expressed relief he had not been assigned to the motorcade. Secretly, however, he wished he could help protect the presidential party on this pivotal day in history.

  As always, Marie understood his work ethic and sense of duty.

  Having married his high-school sweetheart, J.D. knew her almost as well as he knew himself. His three jobs and long hours meant too much time apart, missing each other. But Marie hid her disappointment well. She never complained.

  This weekend would be the first in a month that J.D. wouldn’t have to work. He promised himself he would make it up to her.

  He kissed his wife good-bye and returned to squad car number 10, thinking how blessed he was to have married such a wonderful woman.

  11:53 AM – CST

  At the conference table in Hoover’s office with wings, Jay leaned in closer with both fists propping up his chin. He looked the director straight in the eyes. “So, basically, you have an attempt being made on the lives of one in three US presidents, counting from Lincoln until now. Of course the statistic only holds true if you include Kennedy and the attempt that was supposed to be made today.” Jay grinned with the knowledge that they were succeeding in the mission.

  “And?” Hoover raised his eyebrows and held his palms up.

  Jay mistook his impatience for attentiveness and continued. “Right. From the sixteenth president through the thirty-fifth, seven out of the twenty were shot at, and three of those men died: Lincoln, Garfield, and McKinley. Assassins also targeted both Roosevelts—Theodore and Franklin Delano—as well as Truman and Kennedy. However, those plots failed and the leaders survived.”

  Hoover struck a patronizing tone. “I don’t think you’ll find my grasp of history lacking. What I’m interested in is the future.”

  “What was I thinking? Naturally those events are in the past for you.” Jay whipped off his glasses and shook his head. “Sorry. As we move forward into modern times, that is, into my era, the one-in-three odds remain about the same. On a trio of additional occasions, the Commander in Chief will have a virtual bull’s-eye on his back. I say his because regrettably the position still seems to be held by men. Anyway, as you can see, presidential safety continues to be an issue. We need to put more stringent measures in place in the next few decades or suffer disastrous consequences.” He hooked his frames over his ears and blinked rapidly. “But let’s start at the beginning. In Kennedy’s second term . . .”

  “You misunderstand me, son.” Hoover gripped Jay’s forearm in an effort to get him to refocus. “Politicians come and go. You must know that. I want to hear what happens with the Bureau. My Bureau.”

  11:55 AM – CST

  The door slammed shut behind Sam Morales as he strode down the back stairs of the Carousel Club. In his wake, a surprised Jack Ruby remained the sole watchman over the KGB. Sam didn’t hesitate. He needed to plant himself in a position of consequence. Ruby could handle the Russians for under an hour.

  With satisfaction, Sam noted that Quin, Sera, and Iggy had taken the Chevy. He’d gambled on Quin’s love affair with the turquoise car—and won. Sam approached the Ford Coupe, a hulking tank sitting next to the putrid dumpster.

  Sam crouched low behind the extended rear bumper. What was it called? Oh, yes. A Continental Kit. He reached behind the spare tire housing and trawled around until he found a cold metal object.

  The panacea for peace. His Locklier H2 2011.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

  12:00 PM – CST

  Jack Ruby sat in the Carousel meeting room with his .38 caliber Colt Cobra leveled at Viktor and Dmitriy of the KGB. He was inflamed by these commies who had the gall to come to his country in order to assassinate his president.

  Now alone, Ruby was tempted to snuff out their pathetic lives. He slumped in his seat, suddenly aware of his sleep-deprived condition. Perhaps he shouldn’t act rashly. If only he could close his eyes for just a short while. He tipped back and propped both legs on the table. His eyelids fluttered.

  At the unmistakable sound of the rear door banging shut again, the proprietor started. Must be Sam returning. Relieved, Ruby realized barely five minutes had passed since his co-captor had departed. Maybe they could take turns guarding the Russians.

  He heard someone enter the room behind him. “Glad you’re here. I was about to nod off.” Ruby had just begun to turn his head when he felt the chair back shoved down underneath him. In an instant, he was flat on his back, legs in the air. The impact loosened his grip and the gun thunked to the floor. He stared at the inverted image of his assailant. “You! How the hell did you get in here?”

  Lee Harvey Oswald casually picked up the weapon. “You left the back door open, Jack. You really should be more careful.”

  Ruby struggled to his hands and knees. He reached out, expecting the return of his revolver. When it didn’t come, he glanced up, his face flushed in anger. To his astonishment, the reprobate was pointing the menacing snub-nosed revolver at his head. “How dare you point my gun at me in my club, you filth!”

  “Shut
up and don’t move.” Oswald kept the pistol trained on the burlesque owner while he rummaged around for a sharp object. He found a razor blade resting on a box of champagne.

  Ruby goggled as Oswald slashed the ropes restraining Dmitriy’s wrists.

  Dmitriy ripped off his own gag and hurled a few nasty expletives at Ruby. He freed his remaining bonds, and then released Viktor. Both KGB tied Ruby’s extremities to the chair, leg to leg, arm to arm, using the same ropes that had restrained them.

  Ruby tried to protest, but Oswald threatened him with the firearm.

  When they’d finished, Dmitriy snatched Ruby’s weapon from Oswald and opened the cylinder, letting the ammunition clatter onto the table. He scooped up the bullets and dropped them into his pocket.

  Oswald smirked as he approached Ruby with a gag.

  “You won’t get away with this,” Ruby snarled. “I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch!”

  12:05 PM – CST

  Sera paced across the Pergola steps in Dealey Plaza, surveying the onlookers meandering in the bright sunshine. The crowd expected the motorcade any second, but she knew JFK was running late and wouldn’t pass their location for twenty-five minutes.

  The scene unfolded as it would have in Sera’s timeline. Unwitting chronicler Abraham Zapruder climbed onto the concrete abutment jutting out from the Pergola. Then he helped up his twenty-three-year-old receptionist, Marilyn Sitzman. In the history books, she steadied the dressmaker’s arm as the fifty-eight-year-old shot the most explosive film of the century. Then again, not anymore.

  Sera contemplated the severe hardships Team Orbis had battled to land at this moment. Through bitter arguments and conflicting objectives, they had been thrust together and forced to form a solid alliance. What would happen when it was over? She’d never been this close to anyone, except her long-departed parents. In truth, the crew would risk their lives to defend one another, like a family. Would they remain so in the future? Sera gazed wistfully across the road at her mentor and friend.

  Iggy had positioned herself in the infield of the common, where scant spectators waited and she had an unobstructed view of Elm Street. She tucked a few wayward strands of blonde hair underneath her babushka as she examined her neighbors. Immediately on her right an unidentified man and child loitered. To her left stood Mary Moorman, the Polaroid shutterbug, with her friend Jean Hill, in a bright red trench coat. The Moorman photos constituted key evidence in the Jackie K. assassination. They would become personal souvenirs in this revision.

  Iggy wondered where Dee was. Probably trying to race here. Too bad, she would have enjoyed this event more than anyone. In the meantime, the team in the plaza would monitor the situation until the coast was clear. Iggy’s eyes traversed the incline along Elm Street toward Houston, where their pilot-turned-leading-man roamed the intersection with a determined grimace.

  Quin had ambled up the hill to the intersection at Houston Street to patrol the denser multitude, several feet deep at the corner. The buzz of animated conversation hung in the air. Zilch for concern so far. But his shoulder blades remained clenched together in high alert.

  In a matter of moments, the exciting journey would end and Quin would travel back to his own epoch. Would his Fly with Flynn flightseeing plane still be parked at Arcata airport in Eureka? He would need it to resume his life as a fugitive. Shoot. Hadn’t thought about that. Living under the radar was a lot less thrilling than it sounded. Mostly it involved not getting caught, not drawing attention. And not getting attached. He couldn’t live with himself if someone got nailed for fraternizing with an outlaw. He glanced toward the Pergola where Sera was standing sentry. Back to life as a loner.

  12:10 PM – CST

  Bickford Haycock spun his Harley to a screeching halt in the alleyway behind the Carousel Club. Funny. Only the Ford sat parked in back; perhaps the Chevy was out front. He popped the kickstand and checked his watch—T minus twenty. Dammit, what was keeping Tolson?

  A minute later, the black sedan arrived with the Fed driving and Dee riding in the passenger seat. Without a word, they jumped out of the car and all three scurried up the back stairs to find the door unlocked, with nobody acting as lookout. They exchanged worried frowns.

  As they entered the meeting room, their adrenaline response kicked into overload. The room’s solo occupant—Jack Ruby—was bound to a chair and gagged.

  Bick adroitly liberated the wannabe gangster and asked him what had happened.

  Incoherent with rage, Ruby ranted maniacally about how the others had left and Oswald had attacked him. Now the club owner was dead set on going after that pinko commie. With Tolson assisting, Bick and Dee pacified Ruby and convinced him they would take care of Oswald and the Russians. It was too dangerous for him to get involved. They told Ruby to go about his customary business. If possible, he should establish an alibi for the last hour.

  Bick and Dee realized they had to move, fast.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1963

  12:12 PM - CST

  Bick and Dee pelted down the rear stairs of the Carousel, Tolson lagging behind by several yards.

  The associate director finally reached the pavement, car keys cupped in his hand. “Climb aboard. I’ll drive.”

  Bick spared a moment to covet his Harley, but he needed to be practical. Tolson was a G-man who could gain access through the police roadblocks set up for the motorcade. Bick squelched his gut intuition and threw himself into the front passenger seat of the sedan.

  Dee jumped into the back, sliding to center, while Tolson slowly cranked the ignition. Come on, come on. He pulled out of the alley and made a left onto Field Street.

  “Turn around, dammit!” Bick gripped the dashboard. “You’re going the wrong way.”

  Tolson shrugged. “Can’t. Too much traffic.”

  Bick furrowed his brow and nodded warily. However, after they’d crossed over Jackson, a perfectly legitimate avenue leading to their destination, he watched in alarm as Tolson made another left onto Wood. “Whoa, whoa, pal!”

  Dee hoisted herself forward, hovering over the front seat. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  Bick jabbed his thumb behind him. “Yeah, Dealey is in the opposite direction.”

  “Calm down. We will arrive at our destination shortly.”

  “That had better be destination Dealey.” Dee smacked Tolson in the head. “The First Lady’s life is at stake.”

  He winced from the blow. “Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t have you running around chasing assassins. It’s too dangerous”—he squinted at Bick—“for ordinary citizens like yourselves.”

  “Ordinary citizens? Ordinary?” The nasally tone of Tolson’s rebuttal was more than Bick could bear. “You wouldn’t even know the presidential party was in jeopardy without us. I’m a decorated Secret Service Agent. My experience alone would be invaluable to—” He cut himself short and anchored his shoulders back. “I refuse to defend myself to you. For the sake of humanity, turn around!”

  “Please exercise some restraint and let the professionals do their job. In the meantime, I’m returning you to J. Edgar for your own protection.”

  “Whose protection?” Bick knew a coward when he saw one. “We’re not afraid of confronting the KGB, are we?” His eyes blazed at Dee.

  She resolutely shook her head.

  In a lightning move, Bick wrenched the dash-mounted emergency brake, jamming the rear wheels. Screak! Rubber vaporized on the blacktop. Bick and Dee simultaneously flung open the doors and got out, the acrid stench wafting around them while Tolson sputtered.

  “Take care of yourself, Tolson. I guess that’s what your best at, isn’t it?” Bick slammed the door, muffling his feeble protest.

  As the pair began their mad rush back to the Carousel, Bick fingered his motorcycle keys. His first instinct had been correct. Figured.

  They arrived at the bike two minutes later. He lobbed a helmet to Dee and swung his leg over the saddle. She clamb
ered on, gripping his midsection.

  Bick had spent a decade protecting the president to the exclusion of a personal life. Given another chance, he swore he wouldn’t make the same mistake. Ironic he would be sucked in again, fifty years in the past.

  “Ready?” He throttled the engine, and they sped off.

  12:23 PM – CST

  On the infield of Dealey Plaza, Iggy continued her lookout. Nothing but regular spectators to the north, south, east, and west. From up the incline along Elm Street, Quin was making his way toward her. Evidently, that area was copacetic as well. As per the historical records, the temperature bordered on seventy degrees.

  Iggy glanced at the Hertz Rent-a-Car billboard on top of the Texas School Book Depository. The digital clock displayed 12:23. Seven minutes until the motorcade. She skimmed the seven-story warehouse—the dominant structure in the park—scrutinizing the abundance of windows lining the front. Wait. Several people were lingering inside the tall windows on the fifth floor with virtually their entire silhouettes showing from the knee up. Who would be inside when the leader of the free world was about to pass by? After a moment, Iggy almost laughed out loud at her foolishness. Of course. They had a great vantage point to see the parade.

  She noted peculiar movement on the far side of the sixth story. Only a head and torso were visible. Why? The frame of the farthest window on that floor opened, and a shiny object glinted in the sun. Could it be a pistol?

  Flooded with dread, Iggy pushed her palm forward to stop Quin as he strolled closer. She had to communicate without drawing attention. Locking her elbow, she stiffened her arm at an angle, aiming at the offending window.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT