by Greg Ahlgren
“I’m coming,” he spoke into his handheld unit. DeVere saw the clock change to 12:26 as he stepped into the street. To his right he could sense the crowd begin to stir.
“Where’s he now?” deVere asked on the run. “Can you catch up with him?” But all he heard was more static.
Across the street a grassy slope extended to deVere’s left, past the Depository, up to the fence where he had last seen the police officer. As the crowd’s excitement grew, deVere stepped over the far curb and began striding up the hill.
At the crest was a stark wooden fence. He moved toward a break fifty feet away. When he reached it and turned to go behind the fence he heard what sounded like a firecracker coming from behind him and to his right. A gunshot? He instinctively turned and looked back down the hill. The front of the police escort was approaching the overpass. One of the motorcycle officers turned and looked back over his right shoulder.
As deVere crossed behind the fence, he saw a Dallas police officer in full uniform, standing on a tree limb, holding a rifle. It extended across the top of the barricade. DeVere recognized it as out of place in 1963: a laser scoped sniper rifle.
A second shot rang out, sounding like yet another firecracker. DeVere was confused as to why there was no explosion. To his right he saw an open black Cadillac begin to slow.
Even as deVere’s brain urged him forward, the officer took careful aim. DeVere stumbled over twisted tree roots. The officer remained steadfast, face against the stock, staring down the sight.
DeVere concentrated on the shooter’s trigger finger as he launched himself. He cringed for the rifle blast but heard only a dull whoosh, and, for an exhilarating moment as he and the officer tumbled down the back of the hill, he thought that the rifle had jammed.
At the bottom deVere scampered to his feet, but the officer was up before him.
“My God,” deVere gasped. The officer’s cap had come off and Natasha Nikitin’s long brown hair tumbled around her shoulders.
“Surprised to see me?” she asked, tossing back her head.
“I . . . I . . .” deVere stammered.
“There’s no time,” Nikitin answered, looking back behind her across the railroad yard. “We’ve got to get out of here. Quick. We can’t be found.”
Natasha turned away and then hesitated. She turned back and tossed the rifle to deVere who surprised himself by catching it.
“Disassemble it,” she barked. “Then let’s get out of here.”
Natasha picked up her policeman’s cap, shoved her hair into a ball, and jammed the cap back on before turning and hurriedly striding to a green Nash parked a few feet from the bottom of the embankment.
DeVere hesitated, the rifle in his hands. Natasha grabbed the handle to the driver’s side door before again turning back to deVere. She stood there, looking him straight in the eyes. Paul deVere tightened his grip on the rifle’s metal stock. He could shoot her. He could try to wound her. He could kill her. He could level the rifle and hold her until the police arrived.
He did none of those things. He took a deep breath and lowered the rifle. He walked over to the Nash. Natasha nodded and ducked in the driver’s side. He yanked open the passenger door, got inside, and slammed the door shut. The Nash was already running and Natasha gunned the accelerator with a roar.
“I don’t have much experience disassembling a rifle,” he said dumbly.
Natasha ground the car into first gear and let the clutch out quickly. The car lurched forward with a squeal and almost stalled.
“I know,” she said. “Hang on.”
DeVere grabbed hold of the door handle. As the car rocked toward the exit he turned and watched a dust cloud rise behind them.
“Rear wheel drive,” he said dully. “You tossed me the rifle to get my trust, didn’t you?”
Instead of answering Natasha gunned the Nash across the parking lot past two men who stared open-mouthed. They see us and the car, deVere thought.
“And should I trust you?” he asked.
Natasha smiled thinly as she guided the car across the twisting parking lot behind the Depository and out onto Houston Street. “I could have killed you as you came up the hill and still made my shot. Plenty of bullets, a silencer on the rifle, no one else around. No one would have seen your body until after the motorcade had passed.”
DeVere sat, gripping the door handle. He still found it difficult getting used to no seatbelts. The car swayed with each turn.
“Why didn’t you?” he asked.
“If you can’t break it down, put it in the back seat,” she said.
“What? Oh.” DeVere turned and laid the rifle across the back seat.
“Cover it with the blanket,” she ordered.
Natasha removed her policeman’s cap and tossed it on top of the rifle just as deVere pulled a woolen Hudson Bay blanket over it.
“Did you get the shot off?” he asked.
“I did,” she answered.
“Did you get him?”
She just turned and looked at him.
“Why?” deVere asked.
“Because your plan had failed. Kennedy can’t be allowed to pull out of Vietnam this Sunday. And now he won’t,” she said simply.
DeVere ignored the switch in verb tense, a pattern he had found himself using since his arrival. He nodded dumbly.
“I thought you were someone else,” he said.
“As you can see, I’m not.”
“It wasn’t Collinson or Pomeroy. You were the Russian asking about recent defectors.”
Natasha nodded.
“You followed us back to New Hampshire,” deVere said. “It was never them.”
Natasha didn’t answer. She reached the main street and slowed the Nash. A police cruiser sped past in the opposite direction, its siren wailing and bubble light flashing. DeVere turned and watched it head toward Dealey Plaza. Natasha furtively followed it in her mirror.
“How?” deVere asked. “And why?”
“You weren’t going to convince Kennedy to invade Cuba, or stay in Southeast Asia. He had to be stopped. I told Rostov to bring the rifle with him to the lab. It’s a Dragunov SVD-S. The best. He even carried it up the stairs.”
She laughed derisively when she saw deVere’s confused expression. “He couldn’t exactly leave it in the cab now, could he? When he went in to the lab I crossed over the ceiling to your precious Accelechron you had so thoughtfully turned on for me. I had the pack with the Dragunov. I jumped in ahead of you by a couple of minutes and came back through the wormhole landing in the park with the cannons. I grabbed the pack and ran. Some children hollered at me but I cut through the woods. I hid the rifle in the brush and followed you to the hotel and tracked you from there,” she added as she downshifted and braked at a downtown red light.
Paul grimaced and turned away. “Rostov. That was the other Russian at the lab?”
Natasha nodded. “Igor Rostov.”
“And then you followed Ginter to Mexico City?” he asked.
Natasha took her eyes off the intersection and turned to deVere.
“I know nothing about Mexico City,” she said.
“Then how did you know Ginter came to Dallas?”
The light turned green and Natasha started forward at a normal speed.
“I didn’t,” she said, keeping her eyes on the road. “I came to Dallas on my own. Although I should have figured that Ginter would develop a plan to stop Oswald. He’s been fixated on him and Guevara from the beginning.”
Natasha slowly maneuvered the Nash out of the city. An occasional police siren wailed in the distance. He thought better than to ask where they were heading.
“Why did you come to Dallas?” he asked.
“For the same reason as Ginter. But with a different intent. Rostov told me what day he’d be arriving in Boston. I knew what wormhole would be open that day. The first thing Rostov would do would be to hack into Professor Hutch’s home computer. Remember, I am actually qualified for my inter
nship.” She laughed again.
“This was Kennedy’s last top down motorcade before November 24,” she said. “This last chance to get him. Your original plan would never have worked. Professor Hutch has the brains but you needed Ginter. Ginter has the military training but not the historical perspective. I should have figured he’d go for Oswald, though,” she added thoughtfully.
“How did you find Ginter in Dallas?”
“Purely by chance.” Natasha guided the Nash onto a highway and shifted the car into fourth gear. She swung into the outer lane and accelerated quickly, heading north.
“I needed a cover in Dallas, so I contacted the Russian community to tell them I had defected and my husband had died and I was alone. That’s how I found out about Oswald. I recognized the name of course, but knew he was supposed to be in Cuba. When I heard that he wasn’t, I figured that Ginter was involved. What I didn’t understand is why he just didn’t kill Oswald outright.”
“Did you know what was planned?”
“Not until I smoked him out.”
“What?”
“Smoked him out. I mentioned to the Russians that Oswald was supposed to be in Cuba hoping that would get back to Ginter. I also mentioned something about President John Lindsay and everyone looked at me and I made a big deal out of it hoping that some of that would also get back to Oswald and then to Ginter. And I guess something did. They met and I tailed Oswald to their meeting and then tailed Ginter back to his apartment.”
“Lewis thought it was your Igor fellow.”
“He did?”
“Oswald only mentioned a Russian émigré. And the detail about Cuba.”
“And Ginter assumed it was a male?” Natasha scoffed. “Of course. Sexist pig.”
The pair traveled in silence, past the suburbs, and north through the Texas fall. DeVere would have turned on the car radio, but the Nash didn’t have one.
He turned to Natasha. “Are you sure?”
She nodded glumly. “In the morning we will get a newspaper but I am quite sure. That was my training at Valdavosk. Sniper. I had a clear shot. Right front head shot. I saw you coming but knew I had time.”
“What will happen to Oswald now?”
Natasha shrugged. “What was he supposed to do?”
“Miss. The gun was supposed to blow up.”
Natasha laughed derisively. “And blame it on the Soviets because Oswald had once been there? Stupid plan. What did Ginter do, rig the cartridges?”
“Something like that.”
Natasha shook her head. “I would think in a day or two he’ll get arrested. Or maybe shot during arrest. Three days at most and they’ll have him behind bars.”
“Won’t they know that Kennedy was shot from the front?”
Natasha shrugged again. “So maybe Oswald had an accomplice. A second shooter who never got caught. So what? Nineteen sixty-three forensics are not so good. Maybe they’ll think that it was a shot from the rear.”
“There was a camera,” deVere said.
“What?” Natasha twisted toward him. “Where?”
“In the front of the building. I saw it. Some guy with one of those old non-video things.”
“Sixteen millimeter?”
“I think so. Or maybe even eight. You know, the things people used to take with them on vacations that had no sound.”
“Did he film the whole thing?” Natasha asked, a trace of alarm in her voice.
“I don’t know,” he said dryly. “I was attacking a police officer at the time. But I assume he brought it to film the President.”
Natasha blew air through her teeth. “Then they’ll figure out there was a frontal shooter. The force would have knocked the President’s head backwards. If that’s on film . . .”
“Who knows,” deVere said. “Maybe they’ll never figure it out.”
The asphalt and cement gave way to open spaces and ranches with white picket fences. DeVere was reminded of the words from an old Commander Cody song. He tried to remember all the lines but failed at, “white as a ghost.” That’s what Kennedy was now, he concluded, a ghost.
The Nash rumbled north, leaving each alone with their thoughts. Finally, deVere broke the silence.
“So. Why?”
“Me? You thought I was a loyal Soviet citizen?”
“You certainly acted the part. Leading your Igor to the Accelechron.”
“I had to go back with you and I had no other way of doing it since I didn’t know how to create a second wormhole. I had to be there when you left in yours. And I had to lead Rostov to the Accelechron.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “He had the rifle. I had no reason to requisition one. And I had to go back to change history, not engage in some silly letter writing campaign. Did you really think that would work?”
DeVere winced as he thought of the letters he and Amanda had been sending from the Waldorf. He thought of his pointless meetings with Salisbury, Thurmond and Salinger.
DeVere sighed. “You really killed him?”
Natasha looked at him wordlessly.
“You still haven’t said why,” deVere said.
“Why not? The only reason I took the Boston job was because you were working on time travel. I figured it might give me my chance.”
“Chance?”
“Chance. Why do you think I requested sniper training at Valdavosk?”
“To kill Kennedy?” deVere asked incredulously.
Natasha laughed out loud. “No. To kill someone. Chairman Lenkov or Putin or any of the bastards. You know my file. My parents were killed in the Second Great War. So I took sniper training and when I heard about Boston and you, well, I knew I might be able to do it.”
“But why not simply come to us?”
“What? To help write letters?” Natasha laughed again when she saw deVere grimace.
“I scouted the Trade Mart,” Natasha continued. “Kennedy gave a great . . . would have given a great speech. But getting in with the Dragunov, getting it assembled, and then getting a clean shot would have been impossible. I traced the parade route and-”
“You knew the parade route?” deVere asked.
Natasha snorted. “I knew about the Trade Mart speech. I had seen the motorcade on film. A search through microfilmed newspapers revealed the parade route published three days ahead of time. And there it was.”
DeVere thought of Tuesday’s newspaper.
“After that it was simply a matter of finding a quiet place that allowed me to set up and get a clear shot. I only needed one,” she added.
The words of another old song swam through deVere’s head. “Little sister don’t miss when she aims her gun.” He couldn’t remember the artist.
DeVere marveled at the dusty, flat landscape.
“Now what? Where are we going?” he asked.
“To New Hampshire,” Natasha answered. “But not together, just in case. We have sixteen days until the wormhole reopens in that little park of yours. We’ll head to Tulsa and I’ll drop you off.”
Tulsa. DeVere grimaced. It was in Tulsa that Peter had died while visiting cousins. DeVere’s father had never gone back. And now here he was heading to Tulsa, again. Strange, but he had grown up in New Hampshire and had returned through the wormhole to New Hampshire. And Peter had died in Tulsa and now he was returning to Tulsa, but with the world changed. Everything changed. Kennedy was dead, and would anything ever be the same?
“Tulsa,” he muttered out loud.
Natasha looked over at him, and nodded. “Sixteen days should be enough time to get to New Hampshire, don’t you think?” she asked.
It was dark when Natasha pulled off the road just north of Sallisaw, Oklahoma and followed the blinking sign that read, “Motel.” She had changed out of her police uniform before crossing the state border and was now dressed in a loose fitting cotton skirt and flat shoes.
DeVere was concerned that at this hour the motel office would be closed. But when they pulled into the parking lo
t, the neon “Office” sign was lit and a flickering light shown through the window.