Prologue

by Greg Ahlgren

  “Do you two still go to games?” Amanda asked.

  He shook his head. “Taking care of an infant was a lot of work,” he said quickly. “For both of us. Kids come first. One of us stayed home, and it didn’t make sense for the other to go alone. Sometimes I’d go with someone, but she never wanted to go with a girlfriend much. She kept telling me to go with Lewis. That’s how we became friends.”

  He shifted uncomfortably.

  “She moved out,” he said.

  When Amanda didn’t react he suspected that somehow she already knew.

  “Thursday,” he said, and then added with a chuckle, “whatever that means.”

  He sighed deeply. “Now, sometimes Grace and I go. She’s a huge fan.”

  “I’m sorry, Paul, I really am. But not going to sporting events together couldn’t be what happened to you guys.”

  Paul was uncomfortable. He was nearing a point in considering his marriage that he never allowed himself. “No, not a cause. Maybe, it was just a symptom.”

  Amanda turned serious. “So what is all this for you, Paul? A huge Quixotic Quest?”

  He considered. “No, not Quixotic at all. The planning got all screwed up but we still have a real chance. We might get in to see Kennedy. And whatever the hell Lewis is doing, heck, maybe that will pan out.”

  “You surprised me, Paul.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “When I learned about the project, it surprised me. I don’t mean that you could figure out time travel. I’m surprised anyone could do that. But you are so committed to doing this. Back in Ithaca, you weren’t political at all.”

  “How can you say that?” he challenged. “I always hated the Soviet change. Sometimes it seems like only people in the trade zones gave a damn about what was happening, but I was one of them. My God Amanda, look what they did to you.”

  “Yeah, but it’s one thing to feel opposed to it, to grumble while sitting around The Chestnut Tree on a Saturday night with pizza and a pitcher. It’s another thing to risk everything to try and change it. Your actions threaten everything. Your whole existence might be altered.”

  “That’s not what David-”

  “Oh bullshit on David,” she retorted, suddenly angry. “That’s a theory. If we change history we change everything, including ourselves. Maybe we create a past in which a full blown nuclear war happens. Now Lewis, he’s single, no children, he’s used to offering his life for his country. Anyone in the military faces that.

  “But you,” she continued, softening. “You’re in a different situation. You’ve got a great kid who you’re crazy about, a beautiful home, and you’re tenured at one of the best universities in the country. Great retirement package. Are you sure you’re ready to risk all that for an abstract political change?”

  “I’d hardly call it abstract,” he said dryly.

  “Paul, I know why I’m here and what I’m willing to do. But what about you? You have to figure out your motivation. A few minutes ago you were antsy about committing blackmail. Before December 8, we’re all going to have to figure out just how far we’re willing to go. And to do that we’re going to have to understand what’s driving us.”

  Without warning the car lurched forward and began rolling. Paul turned and made a show of looking out the window as the train gathered speed and hurtled toward Washington.

  Pamela Rhodes walked past the front desk of the Dew Drop Inn on the outskirts of Dallas. She smiled at the desk clerk as she exited out the front door. He didn’t look up, intent on adjusting the rabbit ears on the portable television balanced on the counter. It was dark and drizzling outside, a bit odd for October in Texas, but she didn’t mind. The Corvette was waiting at the curb.

  “How was Mexico?” she asked as she got in.

  “Hot,” he answered as he pulled out from the parking space and rounded the corner, throwing her against the door.

  “I didn’t mean the weather,” she said.

  She reached over and turned on the radio. “Can’t get used to these knobs,” she said as she cranked the tuner clockwise. She passed a radio station playing music, and then wiggled it back to tune it in. Sam Cooke’s “Having a Party” was half finished.

  “I would’ve gone,” she pouted.

  “You have no ID,” Ginter said. “You could have crossed the border but couldn’t have returned. You need an ID.”

  She sighed. “You could have gotten me one. You still can.”

  She turned up the volume. “Lousy weather. No top down today.”

  “Can’t anyway,” he said. “We can’t be seen together.”

  “Jesus, Lewis!” she exploded. “I don’t know what scares you more, Collinson and Pomeroy, or the rednecks. I’ve been hanging out day after day in cheap freaking motels bored out of my mind, while you zip around working on some super secret plan. And riding with you every few days ain’t cutting it.”

  Ginter eased the Corvette back into the business district. Through the rain-smeared windshield Pamela could make out shoppers hurrying along under open umbrellas.

  “You should have left me behind with Amanda and Paul,” Pamela said. “It can’t be any worse there.”

  Ginter gestured at the sidewalk and smiled. “They’re at the Waldorf. You’d prefer that to all this?”

  “They’re still there?” she asked. She pondered. “Gee, I don’t know, Lewis, Texas or Fifth Avenue?” she asked sarcastically.

  Ginter frowned. “Say the word. I can always put you on a plane for Idlewild.”

  “Just tell me about Mexico. Make it up for all I care. I’ve already seen every Leave It To Beaver and I love Lucy rerun there is and they weren’t any better when they were newer.”

  “Mexico City was boring,” Ginter said as he cut up a side street. “It’s a dump.”

  “So tell me,” she pleaded.

  He shook his head. “There’s no reason for both of us to know. It’s safer if you don’t know what I’m up to.”

  “Safer for who?” she challenged. “Don’t you trust me? Lewis, it was me, not them, you left Manchester with. If it wasn’t for me you would’ve shot that guy in New Orleans, and gotten arrested or lynched. In case you haven’t noticed I don’t exactly have anywhere to go around here. Or should I say ‘back here.’ If you tell me what’s up, what could I possibly do with that information? Go back to Portland and tell everyone at State Farm what your plan is? They haven’t even been born yet.”

  She slouched back in her seat. “Where are we going?” she asked, staring out the side window.

  Ginter pulled in to a parking lot adjacent to a five-story motel. Pamela sat up and peered at the sign over the front door.

  “Gee, Lewis, you certainly know how to show a girl a good time. Is this your new digs or does this place rent by the hour?”

  “Both,” he said, and shut off the engine. “I’ll stay here for a few days before moving on again. This place is O.K. for both whites and blacks. Not too many places around here I can say that about.”

  He reached into his pants and pulled out a key. “I’ve got Room 105, first floor. We can talk there. It’ll be more comfortable than the car. You go first.”

  He handed her the key. Without a word she took it, got out of the car, and splashed across the parking lot at a full trot. Once in the room she grabbed a threadbare towel from the bathroom and was rubbing her hair when Lewis entered and locked the door behind him.

  “It’s not fair to be always bitching,” he said. “You know how risky it is to be seen together. And I don’t mean by Collinson or Pomeroy. Pam, I don’t even stay in places that have phones in the rooms. I have to use pay phones, and have to pay cash every day before I can stay that night. You and I can’t go out to eat together, go to the movies, or even go bowling together. Even when I pick you up, you have to duck in and out of the car and I have to have the top up.”

  Pamela paused in her toweling and turned toward him.

  “I know,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. It
’s hard for you too, back here. It’s just that, well, being here, I thought I could help, you know, make a difference. This is better than any chance I ever had in Portland to do something that matters.”

  Ginter swallowed hard and nodded. He moved to a chair and sat down.

  “Speaking of Portland,” he said. “I had another question about your friend. How was Arthur going to get on that ship to blow it up?”

  Pamela shrugged. “He had a friend in-”

  Ginter waved her off. “I know all that. You told me. A friend in the Harbor Guard. He’d get Arthur on the ship. But what doesn’t make sense is that you said that Arthur was staying in Boston because things had gotten hot for him up in Maine.”

  She nodded. “Since he tried to blow up that guy in Portland.”

  “But if things were so hot for him that he had to hide out in Boston, then that means they knew who he was,” Ginter said. “In that case there’s no way he gets past anyone to get on any ship, fake ID or no.”

  “I don’t know,” Pamela said, and frowned. “Maybe that’s why he never tried it. Maybe he knew he’d never get on the ship. It did seem like he was planning it forever.”

  “Why not just give the bomb to his friend?” Ginter persisted. “Just set it and tell him where to place it. His friend obviously knew ships, being in the Harbor Guard. Why did Pomeroy have to get on that ship himself?”

  “God, Lewis!” Pamela stood up. “Questions, questions, questions. How the hell would I know?”

  She moved over to his chair and stood in front of him. The rain pelted against the glass.

  “I have my own question, Lewis,” she said, locking her eyes on his. “Why’d you bring me here? We could have ridden around and talked.”

  Lewis Ginter didn’t answer. He remained immobile for several seconds before slowly standing up. He put his right arm behind her and pulled her close. Her eyes remained locked on his but she didn’t resist.

  He held her there, their faces inches apart, while neither spoke.

  Pamela slowly placed her right arm on the small of Lewis’ back.

  “I thought you were going to try this in your apartment in Cambridge,” she whispered. “The night we left. I thought that was why you asked me there.”

  He nodded. “It was.”

  “That night, the answer would have been no.”

  She smiled then, and reaching up with her mouth she closed her eyes. It was exciting; it was always exciting, especially the first time, but here, in Dallas, in 1963...

  Ginter pushed her back toward the bed. She reached back with her left hand and felt for the mattress. When she touched it, she dropped down while holding his kiss. She kicked her feet out on the bed and lay back. Already he was working on her blouse. She knew she had to say something, it was awkward, it was never a good time, she didn’t want to stop, but still...

  She pushed him away gently. He sat back, bewildered.

  “Lewis, I, I’m not on the pill back here. My prescription is back in 2026.”

  His mouth curled into a smile and he reached back and removed his wallet from his back pants pocket. He held it up in front of her.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” she laughed. She put her hand to her mouth. “When did you get them?”

  “Cambridge,” he said. “And don’t worry, we’ve got a long ways to go before we worry about the expiration date.”

  Paul and Amanda walked into the Senate Office Building and took the elevator straight to Senator Strom Thurmond’s office without passing through metal detectors or security checks. At every turn he expected someone to stop him, but no one did. They walked into the Senator’s reception area without an appointment and were greeted by a woman behind the desk who smiled. Behind her a door stood partially open into what Paul surmised was the Senator’s private office.

  When the receptionist inquired as to their business, Amanda handed her a sealed plain white business envelope with no writing on it. “Please tell the Senator that Dr. Hutch and Dr. deVere are here from MIT and would like to speak with him briefly.”

  The woman frowned, took the envelope, and turned it over in her hand before disappearing through the rear doorway. His heart pounding, Paul sat next to Amanda on an overstuffed couch. The woman returned and said icily, “The Senator will be with you shortly.”

  Paul had stomach knots. Each time the door to the hallway opened Paul expected a trail of police to tumble in and arrest them. Twice, messengers dropped off paperwork to the receptionist who gave them the same bland smile she had offered Paul and Amanda.

  Amanda appeared calm and collected. Whenever the hallway door opened, she looked straight ahead while Paul cast panic stricken looks around the room.

  The phone on the receptionist’s desk buzzed. After listening for a few seconds, the receptionist informed them that the Senator would see them. She led them to the door but did not announce them. Rather, she merely closed the door behind them, leaving them alone in a large room with deep blue walls covered with photographs. A man sat behind an immense desk. He neither stood to greet them nor introduced himself.

  Paul estimated him to be about 60. He spoke with an unmistakable drawl.

  “I’m not accustomed to getting notes like this from unscheduled guests and I want to know the meaning,” he said.

  Despite the words, the man spoke without hostility. In his hand he held the white envelope that had now been slit open across the top. The single sheet that had been inside was not in view on the desk.

  Amanda sat in one of two chairs opposite the desk. She looked at the one next to her and Paul took it. He had barely settled in when she began.

  “Senator, do not believe for one moment that we are here to do you harm. We are American patriots in every sense of the world. I am Dr. Amanda Hutch, and this is Dr. Paul deVere. We are both associated with MIT, although if you check, you won’t find us currently listed on the faculty list.”

  The Senator placed the envelope on the desk and leaned back in his swivel chair. He put his hands together in front of him with his fingertips touching, and carefully studied his visitors.

  “What makes you think that anything in this letter of yours is true?” he asked cautiously.

  “Senator,” Amanda answered, “that letter talks about something that happened a long, long time ago. You were what, maybe 22 years old? The girl was a domestic servant in your parents’ house, just a teenager.”

  Amanda shrugged. “How we know doesn’t matter. It’s true. You know it. We know it. We have proof of it. And you don’t want it coming out. We are willing to make sure that it doesn’t.”

  “You want something,” the Senator said. “What is it?”

  Amanda leaned forward. “We don’t want anything for ourselves. We know about that,”-she nodded at the envelope-“and we know about other things too. What we want from you will help this country. We want you to get us in to see President Kennedy-alone.”

  The Senator started. “The President?” he asked. “You want to get in to see The President?” His eyes narrowed. “Tell me why, even if I could do such a thing, why? You can’t kill him, you’ll be checked by the Secret Service. Are you going to try and use something on him too?” he asked with the faint crease of a smile.