by Wil Mara
Jason’s mother, Linda, played the role of referee during these episodes. A boundlessly patient individual, she was a physician by training who had set her career aside while her children grew up. Once they were old enough, she returned to the medical profession, making missionary trips to developing nations. Her last was a three-week stay in the Democratic Republic of the Congo to treat river blindness with the UFAR organization.
Jason’s older sister, Joan—who agreed with most of Jason’s positions concerning the family fortune but was not as willing to spar with their father about it—followed her mother’s lead into the medical profession and became a pediatric nurse. She, too, decided to devote her life to charity work and had just returned from Burkina Faso when the family left for the islands.
Jason was a postgrad at Harvard at the time, building on his love of history while trying to minimize his lack of talent for mathematics and certain scientific disciplines. He hoped to earn his doctorate and eventually secure a professorship. He also wanted to do some teaching in Senegal, perhaps take part in the planning and construction of schools in areas where there had never been formal learning institutions before.
The Hammonds arrived in the Bahamas together and planned to leave together. Then Jason received word that Pulitzer Prize–winning biographer and historian Doris Kearns Goodwin was due to give a seminar back at Harvard, followed by a Q&A session, so he left four days early. The following Friday, the news came that his family’s single-engine Cessna had lost power and fallen into the Atlantic less than a hundred miles from Miami. The search-and-rescue mission found floating debris but little else.
After their deaths, Jason withdrew from the world. He left Harvard, stopped attending church services, and remained within the grounds of the estate, communicating with no one. He did not succumb to the lure of alcohol or drugs or any of the other traditional poisons. He simply turned inward and stayed there. It was rumored that he hired a parade of personal trainers, martial arts experts, combat veterans, and a host of others to develop his physical skills and complement his already-formidable intelligence, even while he remained cut off from the rest of the world.
Then Hammond reemerged. He made headlines a few years later when he launched, with his own money, an investigation into the disappearance of Michael Rockefeller, son of former New York governor and U.S. vice president Nelson Rockefeller. Michael had been studying the Asmat tribe in southwestern New Guinea in the early sixties. While traveling down the Eilanden River, his double-pontoon boat capsized. He tried to swim for shore but was never seen again.
Hammond threw himself into the investigation and eventually found human remains that would be positively identified as those of the missing heir. This brought him international attention, and he dove into other high-profile mysteries. With his considerable family fortune, his father’s ongoing business ventures, and his global connections, he was able to succeed where others had failed and became a kind of folk hero. It appeared as though he had found meaning in his life again.
Noah wasn’t so sure.
Lunch included poached salmon and mixed vegetables. Hammond ate, as he always did, in the anteroom just off the kitchen rather than in the formal dining hall where he and his family, in a somewhat dynastic fashion, had taken all of their meals together. The anteroom’s furnishings could have come from medieval England—a heavy slab of wood for a table and a pair of long benches.
Aside from Noah, Hammond’s dining companions included the few other people who lived on the estate full-time. They had all been close to the family and grieved deeply at their passing, and they now served the sole survivor with the same loyalty and devotion. As with Noah, his pain was their pain.
Hammond said very little, sitting at the end of the table by himself. He was as polite as always, but his emotional demeanor set the tone for the household regardless. The others huddled in a group and spoke quietly. Noah felt a stitch of guilt, wondering whether his earlier comments in the bedroom had triggered this latest bout of melancholy.
Following the meal, Hammond went to the office he kept for himself on the first floor. It was far too small for its intended purpose; the hulking L-shaped desk barely fit. But it had previously been a sitting room that no one ever used and thus held no memories.
Noah paused at the door, which was open a crack, before knocking. He had received the phone call a few moments earlier, and now the caller was on hold. He considered letting her stay there until impatience drove her to hang up, but he had a feeling she’d just call back. He didn’t have a problem with the caller as a person; actually she seemed quite nice. But he did have a problem with the reason for the call in the first place.
He knocked softly.
“Come on in.”
He sounds different already, Noah thought, now that he’s in there.
As the door swung back, a familiar image was revealed—Hammond behind his paper-littered desk, hunched over an open book under the green banker’s lamp. This, too, struck Noah as bittersweet. It was the image of What Could Have Been, of Hammond as a university professor had he stayed on track and completed his studies at Harvard. Same man, same scene, but with a very different emotional undercurrent.
“Jason, you have a phone call. She’s been on hold for a few minutes.”
“Who is it?”
“A woman named Sheila Baker. She’s in Dallas, and she says she has some new information about the Kennedy assassination.”
The only change in Hammond’s expression was a quick raise of one eyebrow. “And you thought it legitimate enough to put the call through?”
“I did.”
“What, specifically, is this new information?”
“You really should talk to her.”
Hammond’s skeptical gaze remained in place as he reached for the phone. “Okay, thanks.”
“Sure.” Noah closed the door quietly.
Hammond lifted the receiver and pressed the Hold button. “Ms. Baker?”
“Yes.”
“This is Jason Hammond.”
“Thank you for taking my call.”
“No problem. I understand you might have some new information regarding the assassination of President Kennedy?”
“I do.”
“Can I ask the nature of it?”
“I have a film.”
“A film?”
“Yes. Taken on the day of the shooting.”
“Okay. You mean, like, as the president got off the plane at Love Field? Or on his way down the—?”
“In Dealey Plaza.”
Hammond’s heart skipped a beat. Even if this turned out to be nonsense, just the thought of it was stimulating.
“Excuse me?”
“In Dealey Plaza, Mr. Hammond. Right there, as it happened.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m dead serious.”
“It’s a generally accepted fact that all film taken that day and in that location has been accounted for.”
“This one was shot by my mother, who was there when the president was struck, and it’s been kept by her in a safe-deposit box ever since.”
There was a pause here as Hammond tried to detect any signs of duplicity. She certainly sounded truthful.
“Do you mind my asking what, exactly, is on it?”
“Everything, Mr. Hammond.”
“Is it all clear? I mean, can you see—?”
“Crystal clear. You can see it all in great detail. The president’s limousine, the officers on motorcycles, the people standing on the sidewalks—” she paused before continuing—“and something else.”
“I’m sorry?”
“There’s more.”
“Such as?”
Another pause, and then she said the words he would never forget.
“A second assassin.”
Hammond’s shoulders sagged. “Ms. Baker, I’m sorry if this sounds rude, but I’m not altogether certain I believe you.” He didn’t like saying this, but what choice was there
? He did get loonies from time to time—practical jokers, nobodies looking to be somebodies, even occasional outright jerks.
“Mr. Hammond, I’m sorry if this also sounds rude, but I really don’t care if you believe me or not. I know I’m telling the truth. I’ve got the film right here.”
“Then why don’t you go to the government? I would think they’d be very interested in it.”
“I don’t trust them. My mother didn’t trust them. Would you?”
“Well—”
“She believed she was being followed, watched.”
“By whom?”
“She was never sure.”
“That’s convenient.”
“I swear it.”
“Then why not go to the media with all this? Tell the papers?”
“I don’t trust them, either.”
“Okay. Then why me?”
“Because you’re the only one who . . .”
“Yes?”
“. . . who I think might know what to do.” Her voice faltered, finally. Hammond hated himself for putting her through this.
“I’m scared,” Sheila said. “Very scared, Mr. Hammond. Please . . .”
He lowered his head. “I really want to believe you, Ms. Baker, but . . . a second assassin? Also, as I said before, there is very little uncovered evidence of the Kennedy assassination believed to still be—”
“Mr. Hammond, my mother was the person they called the Babushka Lady.”
The distance between them seemed endless, the movement of time and space ropy and out of sync. Hammond absorbed this last bit of information and came to the only conclusion possible.
“Ms. Baker, stay where you are and don’t tell anyone else about this, okay? Don’t tell anyone.”
“Okay.”
“I’m on my way.”
10
THE FRONT DOORBELL rang just after six, and Sheila had to stop her current project—going through the kitchen cabinets—to answer it.
She stepped into the hallway and opened the door, and the figure that had been silhouetted against the curtain a moment earlier became a person. The face was familiar—from television, the Internet, and most recently, an issue of People she had been browsing through while in her dentist’s waiting room.
The first thing she noticed was the smile. Dazzling was the word that came to mind; perfect teeth framed by a rugged jaw. Then the eyes, as cheerful as the smile, with a spirited glow that so many people lost over time. He wasn’t handsome in the conventional sense, like a movie star. But he had . . . presence, she thought.
It reminded her of the time she ran into Dustin Hoffman in New York City. She’d gone into a camera shop to pick up some film, and Hoffman was there with his youngest son. They exchanged brief hellos and no more. She figured he probably got pawed by people all the time, and she didn’t want to be one of those types. But she couldn’t help sensing a certain power about him, a feeling that the universe just might be revolving around the spot where he stood at any moment. She never thought she’d sense that in anyone again, but Jason Hammond had a touch of it for sure. But does charisma necessarily make him trustworthy?
“Hi,” he said. “I hope I have the right house. Are you Ms. Baker?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, great. I’m Jason.” He said this as if he were a door-to-door salesman rather than a minor celebrity.
“Hello, Jason. I’m Sheila.”
“Hello, Sheila.”
“Please come in.”
“Thanks.”
He pulled the screen door back and stepped inside. He was nicely dressed, with dark trousers and a pea-green short-sleeved shirt. Both were immaculately pressed and made from some exotic material. The Piaget watch had a black strap and matching face. One of the guys Sheila had dated back home had worn a similar model, but it was an obvious fake. The gold trim had begun to fade, but he kept wearing it instead of having the good sense to buy a new one every few months to maintain the illusion. Sheila didn’t have to consult a professional jeweler to know that the one wrapped around Hammond’s wrist was genuine. She also noticed the backpack slung over his shoulder, which was bulging and looked very heavy.
“I’m sorry about the short notice,” he said. “I hope it isn’t too much of an imposition.”
“Oh no, that’s okay.” At least he’s polite, she thought, and another comparison came to mind—all the stories she’d heard about other people meeting celebrities and coming away with the opinion that they were jerks or full of themselves.
“This is a nice home. It looks like your mom kept it well.”
“She was very big on neatness and order.” Simple, ice-breaking talk. “So was my dad.”
“Then you must be too.”
She slipped her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “I try, but I usually don’t succeed.”
“Ah, well, the fact that you try is good enough.”
“Can I get you something to drink?” It felt like a dumb thing to say, but she couldn’t think of anything else. So do you want to go downstairs and watch the film my mother made of our thirty-fifth president being murdered in broad daylight? She doubted there was proper etiquette for this occasion. “I have Coke, Diet Coke, Sprite, orange juice, bottled water . . .”
“Water would be fine, thank you.”
As they went to the kitchen, she opened the fridge and realized that it, too, had to be cleaned out. There were piles of leftovers from the postfuneral reception, and there was no way she’d eat even a fraction of them.
She found a bottle of Poland Spring and held it out. “Here you go.”
“Thanks. Looks like you’re doing some organizing.” The contents of the cabinets were scattered everywhere.
“It needs to be done now that my mother is gone.”
“Sure, of course. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“She had lung cancer; is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“She battled it for about three years.”
“Brave woman.”
“She really was.” You have no idea. . . .
After a brief and awkward silence, Sheila surprised herself by laughing. “Well, this is a strange situation, isn’t it?”
“A little bit, yes.”
“I’m guessing you’d like to see the film?”
He took a deep breath. “I just hope I’m ready for it.”
“It’s pretty harsh.”
“Based on your description, I’d say it’s pretty historic.”
“I think you’re right. Please don’t scare me any more than I already am.”
“Sorry.”
They went down the basement steps, careful not to trip on more piles of soon-to-be-organized stuff. When they entered what Sheila now thought of as the “film room,” Hammond spotted the projector, and she saw the twinkle in his eyes intensify. He moved toward it in a cautious, almost-reverent manner, leaning down to inspect the reel.
“Kodachrome Super 8,” he said, “just like Abraham Zapruder used.”
“Is that good?”
“Well, it’s correct. The time frame is right. And it appears to be in great condition. Your mom was smart to keep it at the bank, in a climate-controlled environment. Even some movie studios haven’t been so smart. Do you know how many original classics have been lost or almost lost because they were stored improperly?”
“Didn’t something like that happen to My Fair Lady?”
“Yes, that was one. It was salvaged just in time. A few more years and poof—” he accompanied this with a hand gesture—“it would’ve been gone forever.” He moved to the other side of the table, as if the film might look different from that angle. “But that’s not the case here. This one’s immaculate, which is very fortunate.”
“Depends on what you consider good fortune,” Sheila said.
Hammond looked at her, his smile disappearing. “This is probably very difficult for you, isn’t it.”<
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“Um . . . It’s been a bizarre few days for sure.”
“Well, please don’t worry about this. Everything will be okay.”
She wanted to believe it, wanted to be able to set all her fears aside and place her faith in this man. He had a remarkably soothing way about him. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was going to come from all this—if not from him, then from somewhere else. Maybe I should’ve followed my first instinct and thrown it in the fireplace.
She took her mother’s letter from her pocket. “I guess you should read this before you watch.”
He took the letter and unfolded it. As his eyes moved over each line, his lips parted in astonishment.
“So do you want to see it now?” She wasn’t sure if she could stand to watch it a second time herself, but she’d at least get it rolling for him.
“Yes, but before we do that—” He slid off his knapsack, set it on the couch, and removed two large items—a silver laptop with the familiar Apple symbol and a second movie projector. The latter was about the same size as her parents’ but with more buttons, meters, and other bells and whistles. It had an expensive look about it. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to run it through this projector instead of that one. Okay with you?”
“It won’t damage the film in any way, will it?”