by Wil Mara
He stepped out of the bathroom and into the small sitting area. This included a couch, CRT television, faux fireplace, and coffee table. He had set the duffel bag on the couch and taken out only those items required to become Louis Cooper. But now he noticed that something was different. Many items were scattered around the bag helter-skelter, as if a small bomb had gone off inside it. Then came the sound, instantly familiar and doubly chilling.
Click.
He turned slowly, already knowing someone was there holding a gun. What he did not expect was who. With a sickening acceptance, he figured it would be someone from the agency, maybe some wet-behind-the-ears kid who took a chance on this largely forgotten safe house and could now expect a citation for his brilliance, maybe even a promotion. Or perhaps it would be Vallick himself, mad as a hornet and ready to parade his catch in front of every camera in town. Neither guess was correct, and a hundred more would not have made any difference.
Ben Burdick’s face was a study in murderous hatred. The eyes, deep set under a tightly furrowed brow, were locked on his prey. His lips were pressed together hard. And there was a slight tremor in the cheeks, which Rydell recognized as the burbling of loosely controlled rage.
Fear blew through him like hot gas. “But . . . you’re dead.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but no.”
“That’s impossible. You were shot.”
Burdick undid the second and third buttons of his shirt with his free hand and pulled the placket aside. The large gauze pad taped there was spotted with blood. “But not killed. A broken rib and a punctured lung. Your hired thug could have easily finished the job, but he didn’t. What should’ve been the last day of my life turned out to be the luckiest because it gave me the chance to hunt you down.”
“The press . . . The stories about your death . . .”
“My kids helped with that, and a doctor friend who came through when I needed him most. All misinformation. The bit about my being cremated and my ashes scattered in a private location? That was their idea. Brilliant, just brilliant. You remember my kids, right, you sniveling little worm? If memory serves, you threatened to kill them on several occasions too.”
The look on Burdick’s face was truly terrible now, and Rydell’s fear was rapidly morphing into unadorned terror.
“Maybe we can make a deal,” he said unevenly, his throat as dry as a chimney flue. “I have two hundred thousand in cash with me. You take half of it for yourself.” That amount would be covered by the fee he had no intention of paying Birk. “In return, you let me leave th—”
Burdick strode briskly forward and backhanded him across the face. Rydell spun around like a ballet dancer, blood flying, and crashed to the floor. The false mustache that had so impressed him dangled ridiculously from one side. The hat and glasses had also been jarred into new and awkward positions.
“You think you can buy your way out of this?” Burdick screamed, leaning down as if scolding a dog. “Are you out of your mind? YOU RUINED MY LIFE! YOU DROVE ME OUT OF A PROFESSION I LOVED! YOU ENDANGERED MY FAMILY!”
Burdick delivered a soccer-style kick to the stomach, and Rydell twisted into a fetal position.
“If I get a hundred thousand, then how much do you suppose you owe the Kennedys? What’s the going price for a dead son or a murdered father in your book? And for that matter, how much will it take to repay the American people for their lost president?”
Burdick kicked again, this time in a location where no man likes to be struck, and Rydell cried out.
“No,” Burdick said, shaking his head, “there’s no out for you this time, you heartless monster. This time you pay your bill, and I get to be the collector.”
He wound up for another shot, but Rydell surprised him by swinging his own foot up and connecting at the point where he’d seen the gauze pad. The pain was impossibly radiant, snatching the breath from Burdick’s throat and causing him to take several staggering, robot-like steps backward. Then he lost his balance and went down, clutching at the site of the blow as the gun bounced away on the cheap Berber carpet.
Rydell got sluggishly to all fours and began crawling for it. Burdick wrapped his arms around Rydell’s thigh. Rydell responded by using his open palm to piston Burdick’s head into the floor several times. Burdick released his grip, and Rydell started forward again.
But Burdick wouldn’t quit, grabbing him around the ankle this time. When he pulled, Rydell fell flat. Cursing, Rydell sat up more quickly than Burdick had thought possible and drove a fist into the wound site. Burdick screamed and rolled over, a burst of blood exiting his mouth. Then, with a strength fueled by absolute hatred, he lunged forward just as Rydell reached for the weapon.
They both let out guttural moans and crashed to the floor together. Burdick scrambled over him and got his hands around the butt of the pistol. He wasn’t even certain how good a grip he had, but it would have to do. He rolled over, swung the gun around, and with trembling hands fired off a single round.
Rydell was on his knees at that moment, about to pounce on him. When he froze like an image in a photograph instead, Burdick thought he’d killed him. Then he realized the bullet had in fact gone up and to the left, through the ceiling to who knew where. What he found encouraging, however, was the fresh overlay of dread on Rydell’s face.
Burdick rose slowly and with great effort. He was aware of the warm flow coming from the reopened wounds in his chest and the matching one on his back. The pain was like nothing he ever imagined a human being could endure. Worse, it was beginning to make him feel light-headed again. He had experienced this many times since the shooting. It was normal, he had been told, and would pass in time. Meanwhile, it was relatively harmless as long as he didn’t engage in any stressful activity. The adrenaline was compensating for now, but he knew that wouldn’t last forever. If he grew dizzy in front of this man, if he began to lose consciousness . . .
Get on with it.
“Okay,” he said with labored breaths, “now . . . for all that you’ve done to me and my family, for what you helped do to the president you swore an oath to serve, and for every other crime you have committed in direct violation of the laws and ideals of this country . . .”
Burdick pulled the hammer back and took careful aim.
Then a familiar voice said softly, “No, Ben.”
The two battle-weary men turned at the same time and found Jason Hammond standing there with three agents behind him. Several more could be heard thundering down the steps out of view. The trio had their own weapons drawn but not raised, as Hammond had one hand open to signal that they should hold their fire.
“Ben, if you pull that trigger, he will never stand trial, never be held accountable for his crimes. At least not in his mortal life. Is that what you want? Is that what you really want?”
Burdick gave this some thought but did not lower the gun. “The things he did . . . to me, to Kennedy . . .”
“No one’s doubting that. And no one’s doubting that he’ll be made to pay for his sins.”
“Who knows how many other victims there are? How much more suffering has he caused?”
Hammond walked toward Burdick slowly, hands raised. “I know. Everyone knows. But if you pull that trigger, you become like him. You become him. You are a man of peace and justice, whereas he is a murderer. He possesses no regard for human life, no sensitivity toward the effect his actions have on others and on the world at large. He only understands his own wants. Remember when you and I talked about how America changed after the assassination, how you thought it marked the beginning of the end of America’s innocence? That’s exactly what the Rydells of the world want. They have no innocence of their own, no humanity, so they devote their energies to shattering whatever beauty they encounter. Their selfishness, their ego, their arrogance . . . when these things are empowered, they act like poison, infecting and polluting every good thing in their path. It is his willingness to kill in the first place that makes him what he is. Yes, h
e should be held accountable for what he has done. Yes, he deserves to be punished. But do you want to sacrifice yourself just to expedite his sentence?”
No one moved or spoke. Burdick maintained his lethal gaze and kept the gun at the pale expanse of Rydell’s forehead.
Hammond took another step closer; now they were inches apart. “He’s been trying to destroy you for years, Ben. Are you really going to hand him that victory now?”
Another moment unwound slowly. Then Burdick brought the weapon down, his shoulders fell, and all the strength went out of his body.
Hammond stepped in to catch him while a team of agents descended upon Rydell, who was cuffed behind the back and led away.
47
A BLUE SEDAN pulled into the lot behind the infamous picket fence and rolled into one of the empty spots. Ben Burdick got out first, camera in hand. Then Hammond, who had taken out his cell phone and was reading something on the screen. Sheila emerged from the backseat and slipped on a pair of sunglasses to shield against the late-morning sunlight. Then Noah, looking as affable as ever in his ubiquitous felt cap. He had already been here for three days, readying Jason’s private plane for the return flight to New Hampshire. The other three had landed at Dallas/Fort Worth International just a few hours earlier.
“This was a stockyard in November of ’63,” Burdick said as they moved southeast toward the triple underpass. “Nothing but dirt and gravel. Now it’s a parking lot for the Sixth Floor Museum.”
“The railroad tower’s still there,” Hammond said, nodding toward the tiny structure behind them, “where Lee Bowers was when he saw two unidentified men.”
“When he testified for the Warren Commission, he claimed they were near the underpass. A few years later, however, he said they were closer to the fence.”
Hammond shook his head. “Everyone had a story to tell. Everyone but the people who knew the truth.” He sighed. “Well, at least that’ll be taken care of now.”
They walked down the hill to the mouth of the underpass. All the major landmarks in Dealey Plaza could be viewed from here—the grassy knoll, from which countless conspiracy theorists insisted the fatal shot was fired; the concrete pergola where Zapruder filmed the assassination; and the former Texas School Book Depository, since sold to Dallas County in 1977. The first five floors had been repurposed as administrative offices. The sixth, from which Lee Harvey Oswald finally satisfied his obsessive desire to write his name into the pages of history, eventually became a memorial center to the president whose future he stole.
“In so many ways,” Burdick said, “it seems like nothing’s changed. I can still feel it.”
Hammond nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. The ghosts of that day, the emotions . . . it’s like they linger here, trapped forever.”
Sheila slipped her hands into the pockets of her jeans and shuddered. “That’s eerie.”
“It certainly is.”
As they began walking, Sheila asked, “Do you think they’ll bring Galeno Clemente back here? As part of his testimony?”
“Chip thinks there’s a chance of that,” Hammond said. “They might ask him to reenact what he did, not just for the case but to fill the gaps in the historical record.”
“How’s he holding up?” This question came from Noah.
“He’s fine. He’s so at peace with everything it’s scary. Lawyers are coming out of the woodwork in droves, trying to get involved in either side of the case so they can get their names attached to it. What case is there, though? He wants to confess everything.” Hammond smiled. “He said he’s going to start a prison ministry once he’s permanently incarcerated. He mentioned getting help with it from someone he knew when he was doing missionary work. Father Breimayer, the name was.”
Sheila said, “I know this is going to sound strange, but did Galeno technically commit a crime? I mean, he didn’t fire, after all.”
“No,” Burdick replied, “but you’re still not allowed to take part in an assassination plot against the president—or anyone else, for that matter. Actually, that reminds me of an interesting point. A lot of people don’t know this, but in 1963, there was no specific law against assassinating the president. Oswald was charged with ordinary murder.”
“He killed that police officer too,” Noah said.
“Yes, but I mean where the president was concerned. That murder charge was the same as the one for Officer Tippit. Can you believe it?”
“A murder’s a murder, I guess,” Sheila said.
“I suppose.”
“And how are you feeling now? Any better?”
“Yeah, a little bit. When I told my doctor what happened, he went ballistic. Actually yelled at me through the phone.”
“Ben, if this is an uncomfortable topic,” Noah said, “just tell me to go jump in a lake. But what actually happened after you were shot?”
“Well, when I regained consciousness, my first instinct was to call 911. That’s what most people would do, right? But then it hit me—if I let them think I’m dead, maybe I can work that to my advantage. Remember, this Rydell guy was on my back for years, but if he thought I was out of the picture, he’d finally leave me alone. So I called my doctor, whom I’ve become pretty good friends with, and told him what had happened. He came right over and treated me on the spot. He wanted me to go to the hospital, but I wouldn’t. I told him the whole story at that point—about how I was being threatened because of the book, how my kids had been threatened, all of it. Finally he agreed to keep everything quiet. He came and checked on me every day. Then my daughter, Crystal, got involved. She was the one who came up with the idea of leaking the story to the press, and man, did they run with it. She said she had me cremated and all that. Brilliant. She’s always been the smartest kid in the class.”
“Had us fooled,” Hammond said.
“I had to do it, Jason. I needed the cover. Crystal and I began researching all the guys in the intel community to see if we could find the person or persons who might be responsible. We eventually came up with a list of twenty-two names—people who had high clearance, who had been around since ’63, things like that. Rydell was on it, and when I got that call from you confirming him, I knew then . . .”
“Knew what?” Sheila asked.
“That I had to come to D.C. to face him. Yeah, the Feds might’ve caught up with him sooner or later. But it was more personal to me. Too personal to not at least take a shot at it—no pun intended. That’s why I didn’t tell anyone when I went there. I knew you’d try to talk me out of it.”
“You could’ve been killed,” Noah said. “He was one sly character.”
“I know; I know. I got very lucky. I admit that.”
“So are you going to publish the second book?” Hammond asked.
“Of course. But I need to add a bit more now, obviously.”
“Good,” Hammond said. “Somebody should certainly write all this down.”
“I’m going to head back to D.C. once I’m fully healed. I want to follow both trials—Rydell’s and Clemente’s. And can you believe I’ve already been contacted by two publishers? They’re offering big advances too. I can finally get the house in order, maybe start seeing a personal trainer and get some of this weight off.”
“No word on the lunatic, though?” This was Sheila’s question. “Birk?”
With the help of the blood samples found at the abandoned boat works, Birk’s identity had been confirmed. Ex-military, with a long disciplinary record culminating in a dishonorable discharge following an altercation that left a superior officer with a shattered jaw. Worked as a soldier of fortune for many years afterward, building something of a reputation. Held no national loyalties, always willing to sell his services to the highest bidder.
Hammond shook his head. “No, no word yet. But the FBI is searching hard for him.”
He took Sheila by the hand and crossed to the other side of Elm, stopping at a point about fifteen feet from the curb, just across from the storm dr
ain. There were other people walking around, on the pergola and the knoll and the sidewalk by the former book depository, taking their own photos and making their own observations. Dealey Plaza had become more of a tourist attraction now than anything else, as if the events of that day had been part of a popular movie rather than reality.
“This is where your mom stood that day,” he said.
Sheila nodded. “I know.” She tried to imagine what it must have been like for her. Margaret Baker had been just another citizen, excited at the prospect of seeing the handsome young president and his beautiful wife. What promise the future held for America! The bustling economy . . . the civil rights movement . . . the Peace Corps . . . the Space Race . . . New ideas were pouring forth from his White House as the nation moved toward a future that seemed unlimited with possibilities. Margaret had never given much thought to politics one way or the other, but Sheila knew her mother had genuinely liked John Kennedy of Massachusetts.
“And there’s where Galeno Clemente sat waiting,” she said. Ben was over by the drain, kneeling down in the road taking pictures.
“That’s right. There’s too much asphalt built up now to try something like that again.” Hammond nodded toward a spot in the road, in the middle lane a bit north of center, where a simple X had been applied with the same luminescent paint as the traffic lines. “And that’s where it ended for the president.”
“But for my mama and me,” Sheila added, “it was just beginning.”
When it was just the two of them in the car on the way back to the hotel, Hammond said, “So are you sorry? Sorry you didn’t destroy the film instead?”
“There hasn’t been an hour since you first came to the house that I haven’t asked myself that question. I’ve tried to weigh both the good and the bad. Getting kidnapped versus exposing Rydell and putting Birk on the run. Nearly getting killed a few times while having one of the most unforgettable experiences of my life. Losing my childhood home but helping to complete one of the greatest unfinished chapters in history. It’s tough.” She shook her head. “I’m just glad my mama didn’t have to go through it.”