by Wil Mara
“Tell me about it. I’ve definitely learned that money isn’t everything, that’s for sure. But look who I’m discussing this with—a billionaire. What irony.”
“It’s not as ironic as you might think. Remember, my fortune was built by my father, not me. It’s useful—don’t get me wrong. I couldn’t do what I do without it. But I don’t worship it. I’m not one of these sneering, arrogant types who lives by the motto ‘Being rich means never having to say you’re sorry.’ I know people like that, and they make me sick to my stomach. It’s money, but that’s all it is.”
What he left out here was his ongoing conviction that his family would likely still be alive if they hadn’t had the so-called privilege of extreme wealth in the first place. Ordinary people took vacations in ordinary planes, not planes they owned and kept on their estates. Furthermore, Hammond doubted there would have been as much space between him and his father had the latter not been so hard-driven to accumulate such a vast fortune. But he wasn’t going to discuss any of this now, not only because he didn’t want to expose this part of his soul but also because he had come to understand that people who weren’t wealthy found it impossible to believe anyone could resent wealth as much as he did.
Moving back to a more comfortable topic, he said, “So if you’re not going to be tending to these fitness centers of yours forever, what’s your next big career move?”
“I’m just not sure. It’s funny—when you’re young, you seem to be able to see the road ahead pretty clearly. You just kind of know what’s next. Now that I’m older and my grand plan has been scrambled, I don’t have that kind of vision anymore. No obvious career path, no burning ambitions, no significant relationships.”
Hammond felt the pull of hesitation here. He’d only known this woman for a few hours and wasn’t sure if it would be appropriate to delve into personal topics. He decided to play it lighthearted. “You aren’t in a relationship? And here you seem utterly charming.”
She laughed again, and he decided her initial apprehension toward him had abated somewhat. “Not that charming, apparently. I was in a serious relationship for more than two years. Then, a few months ago, I caught him with someone else. One of my customers.”
“Wow. I’m very sorry.”
Staring out the window, she smiled. “What a blow to the ego that was. You really think you know a person, and then . . . I don’t mean to ramble on like this. I apologize.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, this can’t be making you feel very comfortable.”
“It’s no problem, really. I’m the one who should apologize for prying. I’m just trying to make small talk.”
“Yeah, well, long story short, I haven’t even thought about having another man in my life since then, and I’m in no rush, either. My heart’s still got too many bruises on it.”
“That’s a good attitude. You need to give yourself time to fully recover.”
“From that and from everything else going on lately. It seems I’m at something of a crossroads right now.”
“Except the intersection doesn’t go four ways—it goes about a hundred, right?”
She thought about this for a moment, then said, “Yes, exactly. That’s a perfect way of putting it.”
“I’m a regular Ernest Hemingway.”
“Yeah, and you sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
Hammond felt his smile fade away to nothing. Then he said quickly, “Your mom was an amazing woman. I’ve been thinking about what it must have been like for her all those years, knowing about that film, knowing what was on it.”
“Absolutely.”
“I’m guessing this has crossed your mind already.”
“My heart breaks whenever I think about what she went through. Keeping that secret to herself, living every day in fear.”
“I’ll bet. Oh, and by the way, I uploaded the digital safety copy of the film onto my online storage site. That’s what I was doing when you were getting changed before. I hope that’s all right.”
“That’s fine.”
“The first thing I need to do is make sure the file was fully uploaded.”
“Aren’t you concerned that it’s floating around in cyberspace?”
“No. The site has passwords, encryption, all that.” Hammond took out his phone and unfolded it. It was fairly large by contemporary standards, and there was no brand name printed anywhere on the case.
“Never saw a phone like that before,” Sheila said.
“It’s a satellite phone made by Hammond Communications. It’s an experimental model, so technically there’s no record of its existence.”
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“The company has a license to develop new technologies. They have to have that kind of freedom or they wouldn’t get anything done. Besides, the stuff they’re coming up with will be beneficial to everyone. For example, they’re putting together a GPS tracking system whereby ordinary cell phones can be located in an instant.”
“Isn’t there already a technology like that?”
“There is, but it has limitations. We’re trying to make significant improvements.”
“Some will consider it an invasion of privacy.”
“A phone can still be turned off, and I’m sure plenty of third-party hack services will come up with blocking software. Also, phones with advanced encryption and security features—like, say, the one the president keeps in his jacket pocket—will be immune. And of course, you need to know the number of the phone you want to track in the first place. But think of the advantages. For example, parents will be able to locate their children at any time, and some criminals will be caught. We’re just about finished with the first version of the software, and the results thus far have been very promising.”
“Sounds cool.”
“It is.”
“So what’s next with my mom’s film?”
“I need to see if I can get a better look at Storm-Drain Man. That’s where the image-enhancement software comes in. I have no idea who the guy is, but maybe someone else will. I have a friend in the area who knows more about the assassination than I do, maybe more than anyone in the world. He should be able to offer some insight.”
“And let’s say you identify the guy. What happens then?”
“Then things could get a little dicey. I don’t think I need to tell you how sensitive a subject this is. Remember, for decades more than half the public has believed the assassination was a conspiracy and not the work of Oswald alone. When you were upstairs getting changed before, I did some brushing up on the assassination via the Internet. The Warren Commission’s report, which was the official government ruling on the killing released in 1964, concluded that Oswald was the so-called lone gunman. But in 1976, the House of Representatives formed the Select Committee on Assassinations for the purpose of further investigating the murders of both President Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Their findings on Kennedy were remarkable. They discovered, for example, that the FBI’s investigation of the assassination, upon which the Warren Report was largely based, barely touched on the idea that more than one person was involved. They simply didn’t want to deal with—or perhaps they were instructed not to deal with—the notion of a conspiracy. Also, the CIA gave the commission minimal cooperation. In the committee’s mind, that increased suspicion of the CIA’s possible involvement. I’m not saying that’s conclusive, but it seems highly unusual. Finally, the Warren Commission was under pressure from both the public and many political leaders to issue some kind of conclusion, because the general population couldn’t deal with the idea of such a heinous crime going unsolved. An answer was needed, so the Warren Commission came up with one.”
Sheila shivered. “I can’t stand stuff like this. It’s terrifying. Dark, sinister figures getting away with dark and sinister things.”
“That’s not the half of it. The number of people connected with the assassination who have died under mysterious or unusual circu
mstances over the years is enough to send you diving under the bed. For example, there was a man named Gary Underhill, a Harvard graduate who worked for military intelligence during World War II. After the war, he did some freelance work for the CIA. Shortly after the assassination, he began telling friends that he believed the agency took part in the killing and that he was terrified because they knew he knew. In May of ’64, he was found dead with a bullet hole behind his right ear. The death was officially ruled a suicide, but Underhill was left-handed, making it extremely difficult for him to have fired that shot.
“Then there was Jim Koethe, a reporter for the Dallas Times Herald. He interviewed several people while researching the assassination, including a man named George Senator, who was a friend of Jack Ruby’s. Senator visited Ruby in jail after he killed Oswald, but it isn’t known what Senator told Koethe about the visit. Senator did, however, allow Koethe to search Ruby’s apartment on the evening of November 24, 1963. Eventually, Koethe began writing a book about his findings on the assassination, but he never got the chance to finish it—he was murdered in his home in September of 1964.
“Dr. Mary Sherman’s case is particularly interesting. She was an orthopedic surgeon from New Orleans who had apparently been involved in a CIA-funded project under the Kennedy administration to secretly develop biological weapons for the purpose of killing Cuban leader Fidel Castro. As you may know, the Kennedy administration tried several times to eliminate Castro after he overthrew Fulgencio Batista’s regime in 1959 and seized all American-owned property, claiming it for his new government and costing its original owners billions. In July of 1964, members of the Warren Commission came to New Orleans to obtain testimony from Dr. Sherman—but she was murdered the same day. Quite a coincidence, to say the least. She was stabbed multiple times, and her apartment was set on fire. Her lab was also destroyed, erasing all evidence of the project. To this day, her killing remains unsolved.”
Sheila looked at him incredulously. “That’s insane.”
“I know. The evidence certainly suggests there were some very evil people involved in the president’s death. The kind of people we pretend don’t exist so we can sleep at night.”
“I never should have contacted you about any of this. I should’ve just burned the film and forgotten about it.”
“No, what you did was absolutely right, Sheila. If there’s a chance that your mother’s film will help to finally solve this case and maybe catch those responsible, then how can it be wrong?”
“But at what cost? How many more lives will be put in danger? Yours? Mine?”
“You won’t be involved in any of this—I promise. Your name and your mother’s will never come up.”
“What if someone asks where the film came from?”
“None of their business.”
“Then they won’t believe you. They’ll think it’s a fake.”
“I’ll prove that it isn’t. I’ll get historians and film experts involved. I’m not worried about that.”
“And what will it matter in the end? Will it bring the president back?”
“No, but maybe figuring out who was behind his murder will finally give the Kennedys—along with a whole generation of Americans—some peace of mind.”
“I think that’s the only reason my mother kept it. She figured it might help catch the people responsible one day.”
“And why you couldn’t bring yourself to destroy it either, right?”
“I guess.”
As they turned onto her street at last, Hammond said, “Well, let me gather up my things and get out of your hair. I think you need for this day to be over.”
“I really do.”
12
AS THEY WENT down the basement steps, Hammond said, “If you give me your cell phone number and e-mail address, I’ll make sure you get regular updates.”
“That’d be great.”
The laptop was sitting on the washing machine, the screen blank. Hammond thought this was odd, since he didn’t use the automatic standby feature. At most, it should’ve launched the screen saver.
“How did that get turned off?” he asked aloud. He checked the power cord. Still plugged in. Maybe the outlet’s faulty. He turned on an old radio that was sitting on the shelf above the dryer. It worked fine. “What the—?” He hit the power button.
Then Sheila said, “What did you do with the film?”
He turned. “Huh?”
She pointed to the bare spindle on the projector. “Wasn’t it on here? Or did you move it?”
“I—” he began. Then he froze as he spotted the error message on the laptop’s screen.
DISK ERROR. NO DISK FOUND.
Hammond began to understand. “Oh no.”
“What’s wrong?”
He cut the power, turned the unit over, and took a Swiss Army knife from his pocket. Using the tiny flat-head screwdriver, he removed the bottom panel. There was a rectangular gap where the hard drive should have been.
“The hard drive’s been taken out.”
“What?”
He showed her. “Someone was in here.”
“No, don’t tell me that.”
“Yes. Someone actually came into this house and took it. And the film. They knew what we were doing. Somehow they knew.”
Hammond ran back up the steps with Sheila close behind. He grabbed a knife in the kitchen from the wooden block by the toaster oven. Then, methodically, they went from room to room. After he was satisfied the intruder had gone, they returned to the basement. As Sheila looked on, he took his phone from his pocket and checked his FTP site.
The file was there, and it was complete.
“Thank goodness.”
“Did the file fully upload to your storage si—?”
“Wait, no!” Hammond put a finger to his lips, but he knew it was too late. His shoulders sagged.
“What? What’s wrong?”
He leaned in close and whispered in her ear. “This house is probably bugged.”
The look she gave him said, Are you serious?
He nodded. “I’d bet anything on it, and I’ve seen it before. Listening devices can be planted anywhere these days. It’s the only way they could’ve known what we’ve been doing. That’s why I didn’t want to say anything about the online file. C’mon, we’ve got to get moving.”
Out in the street, Birk heard the comment about the file and cursed out loud. He got his employer on the phone, and the old man erupted again. Birk imagined him with veins bulging in his neck like cables.
“Take them out,” he said. “And make sure it looks right.”
Back upstairs, Hammond and Sheila went from room to room, turning off lights and pulling down shades.
“Why don’t we just get in the car and take off?” she whispered.
“We don’t know who’s out there. Maybe no one is. But I’m not willing to take that chance. Not yet.”
It would be so much easier to just blow them both away, Birk thought as he moved toward the house. But that wouldn’t “look right,” as his employer had ordered. That would look like they’d been murdered. He knew the authorities would figure it out in the end regardless. With investigative science being what it was, it was almost impossible to perform a clean homicide anymore. But he was obligated to try.
He moved in the darkness to the side of the property, the earpiece still in place so he could continue monitoring their movements. They were upstairs, hiding in the dark. That’s good, Birk thought. It would make his job that much easier.
Kneeling along the foundation, he pushed open one of the basement windows. When he was down there earlier, he had unlocked it in case he needed to reenter. This kind of forward thinking was a critical skill in his profession, and those who didn’t practice it usually ended up in a body bag. When he was going through the house to plant the bugs earlier in the day, he’d made scores of mental notes. You never knew when something was going to be useful.
He had formulated the method of thei
r execution in the short walk from the car, and now he was excited to see the plan unfold. He passed through the window, his black sneakers barely making a sound as they hit the floor, and found the dryer. There was a flexible hose behind it, which he snapped off. Gas began breathing out, and Birk propped the hose over the dryer’s control panel to direct it more efficiently. Then he went to the steps and crept to the top. He grabbed the door along the side rather than at the knob—knobs could be noisy—and pushed it back in one smooth, decisive motion. Opening a door too slowly, he had learned long ago, gave the hinges a chance to groan.
In the attic, Hammond went to the bare bulb glowing in its ceramic fixture and pulled the string to snuff it. Then he moved to a window and looked out. The landscape was bathed in moon glow.
“Anything?” Sheila asked.
“No, no movement of any kind. Even the trees are still. Just shadows out there.”
Birk went back down to perform the last step. There was an old couch along one wall, and next to it was an end table. Sitting on the table was a rotary telephone. In the home of a modern family, such an item might have been kept around as a novelty. Birk suspected Margaret Baker hadn’t thought of it that way.
He picked it up once to check for a dial tone. Then he popped off the case, set that aside, and replaced the receiver in its cradle. One spark—that’s all we need, he thought. He had already memorized the number.
With the sour scent of natural gas growing thicker, Birk descended the basement stairs and crawled out the window.
They saw nothing out the other attic window either.
“I really don’t think anyone’s there,” Sheila said.
Hammond continued scanning, then nodded. “Yeah, maybe.” But his gut told him otherwise. Something just didn’t feel right.
“Should we go downstairs?”
“I guess.”
As Birk approached his car, he took out his cell phone. He did not dial the number but rather checked the time. The gas had been running for about ten minutes. He’d give it a few more to let the place really fill up. Then the fun begins.