by W. Green
No other cars passed them in either direction. A swollen sun rolled over the horizon and the world was now more dark than light. Ethan checked his road map. They had traveled about two hours from New Orleans. Ahead was the small town of Eunice, Louisiana just west of Baton Rouge, a pit stop on a meandering path leading to Texas.
“How far are we going tonight A.C.?” asked Ethan.
“Not too far. I think we could use a good night’s sleep. Maybe another half hour. Or maybe the next town. It’s getting dark. We better look for a sure thing rather than find ourselves driving all night.” The Chevy rolled along into the cover of trees. True darkness was now upon them. Ahead, just past a bend in the road, a stopped car came into view. It sat half way on the shoulder, lights on. Two people emerged from either side and walked to the front of their car. Something was wrong. In seconds, A.C. drove smoothly onto the shoulder and brought the convertible to a dead stop just behind the parked vehicle. The time travelers looked at each as if wondering what lay next. Night noise swam in the dark, moist air. The engine of the parked Ford still churned noisily. A.C. was the first out followed by Ethan and the other two.
Ethan cautiously trailed Currant around the car. Like theater spots, its headlights illuminated the dramatic night scene in heavy contrast. Two people stood next to someone on the ground. One kneeled. As Ethan got closer, he saw that the prone body was that of a woman. She moaned.
“Hello,” offered Currant. “Can we help?”
The man was old, probably not as old as Currant, but he looked 20 years older. He wore the clothes of a farmer—clean but worn. “She’s hurt,” he said.
Ethan looked again at the woman—then the old man. “Did you hit her?”
His wife, a small woman, nervously shook her head. “No. No. I should say not,” she almost shouted.
“She was here. Right where she is now. Just layin’ there. I think she’s hurt. She’s got some cuts. And she’s out of it. Not makin’ sense.”
Ethan bent over the woman. She moaned again softly. She appeared about forty although he found it very difficult to guess the age of people of this time. To him, they all looked older. She had a pie face set in a puffy horse collar of hair. Her eyes were wet and glassy. A bit of drool eased out of her mouth. She had a few cuts on her arms and face but no other visible damage. She may have internal injuries, he thought. “We shouldn’t move her. Can you go for help? We’re just traveling through.” Ethan said these words quietly and calmly to the elderly couple. He could tell they were shaken.
“We can,” said the man. “We’re from Eunice just up the road. We’ll call someone.”
“Fine,” said A.C. “You do that. We’ll stay here with her until help arrives.”
The older couple nodded dumbly and then slowly receded into their car. Carefully they reentered the highway and once clear, moved off quickly.
Emma now stood over the woman along with the others. “How is she?”
“She looks OK,” said Ethan. “But she’s on something or else she took a blow to the head.” He knelt down and bent over the woman. “Miss. Can you hear me? Tell me your name.” She wasn’t a pretty woman he thought. She looked worn out—old before her time. High forehead, big bad hair, a tired mouth and eyes with bold nose, she looked like someone who had been around the block more than a few times. He asked her name again.
This time she stirred as she tried to lift her head, but gave up quickly. For about ten seconds, she appeared to be thinking. “Melba.” The word came out slow and slurred. It sounded like ‘Mayba’ to Ethan.
“All right Mayba.” Her eyes offered only a blank stare. “Were you hit by a car?” The woman did not respond. “Emma. Can you get me something to put under her head?”
Zak peeled off his sweatshirt and handed it to Emma who rolled it and passed it over to Ethan. Gently he lifted her head and slid it into place.
“Thanks,” the woman said as if drugged. “Nobody hit me. They just tossed me out of the bar—‘Silver Slipper’.”
Currant moved in and kneeled next to her. “Who are they?”
She swallowed hard.
Ethan looked up. “Zak. Can you get that bottle of soda?”
Zak retrieved a bottle of Dr. Pepper and an opener for Ethan. He flipped the top off and then lifted her head pouring a tiny shot into her mouth. This seemed to bring her back to the living.
“Who tossed you out?” pressed Currant.
She looked at him with cold eyes. “Those two bastards I came up here with. They said I was ‘deadweight’. Deadweight. Those bastards.”
“What happened?” Emma asked.
Melba checked out the source of the feminine voice. “Hi. Honey. Didn’t see ya.” She squinted at Emma. “Say you’re a pretty one. So young…”
Ethan arose and spoke quietly to his friends. “I’d say she is or was on drugs. All we can do is wait for the ambulance.”
The woman on the ground spoke again. “I jus’ walked over here and fell down. Nobody came by. ‘Til you.” She rolled her head to one side. “Say—anybody got a smoke?”
“No. Sorry,” said Currant.
She lifted her head slightly. “Gonna’ kill Kennedy,” she mumbled almost imperceptibly.
The four time travelers looked at each other. Currant moved in closer to her leaning his ear into the space above her head. “What’s that?”
“Those guys are gonna’ kill Kennedy.” She dropped her head back and moaned.
“How do you know that?” demanded Ethan.
“I was with them in a car for a couple days. Comin’ up from Florida. Really bad guys. Don’t let them find me.” She began choking. Ethan offered her more soda. She sipped.
“Thanks kid.”
Emma leaned in and spoke softly, “There’s nobody here Mayba. Just us. You’re safe. Help is coming.”
Her lips mouthed a word...“Rose.”
“What?”
“Call me Rose, honey—Rose Cheramie.”
“OK. Rose.” Currant took charge, he got right into her face. “Where are they going to kill Kennedy?”
“Dallas.”
“Where in Dallas?”
The woman looked puzzled. She blinked. “Don’t know. Don’t...” Then she closed her eyes.
Currant grabbed her chin gently and waggled it back and forth. “She’s out ”
Ethan spotted the flashing lights of the ambulance in the distance. In a minute, a white ‘50s Cadillac ambulance pulled up along side. The pulsating safety lights cut across the faces of the travelers. Red flashing lights—black night—croaking frogs—a woman passed out on the ground, the two white smocked attendants jumped out and quickly went to work. To Ethan, they didn’t seem to care about her injuries. They just got her onto the stretcher rapidly and slid her into the back. “She’s going to Moosa Memorial. If you want to follow.” With that said, they climbed back into the vehicle, made a quick three-point turn and drove away quickly.
“Let’s get out of here,” said Currant. The others needed no invitation. They jumped in the convertible, put up the convertible top and A.C. laid rubber in a getaway. They worked their way through the sleepy small town respecting the speed limit and attracting no attention. But once outside the city limits, Currant pushed the car into the 70’s traveling at least twenty miles before easing back. There was no mention Rose Cheramie’s proclamation until then.
“You believe her?” asked Ethan.
“I do. It’s happening,” said Currant excitedly.
“I guess we’re going to Dallas,” said Ethan. “It’s not over.”
Currant looked over to him. His eyes danced in his head. “That’s right, Ethan. We’re part of history now.”
“Wonder if that’s good or bad,” said Ethan.
In the back seat Zak and Emma gazed out into the bayou blackness. Emma looked at Zak with tears in her eyes. “I feel sorry for that woman. She looked a thousand years old—without hope or dreams.”
Zak reached over and held her hand.
O.A. LOG TTA2028-4
INVESTIGATOR: Joell Costas
DATE: November 21, 1963 (July 23, 2028)
PROJECT: JFK-11.02.63
PROGRESS REPORT:
I entered Dallas yesterday. If the four time travelers are able to determine that Dallas is the location of the next attempt, they may also arrive here. If they do, it is my intention is to intercept them. Today, I surveyed the assassination site at Dealey Plaza. The local papers have printed reports and maps of the 45-minute motorcade route that JFK will take from Love Field (airport for arrival from Fort Worth) to the Trade Mart building (a luncheon destination). The maps are basic, but the related stories provide detailed descriptions indicating the exact route including the difficult 120-degree left turn from Houston Street onto Elm Street in front of the Texas School Book Depository. The current History declares that at 12:30 p.m. CST, a single shooter, LEE HARVEY OSWALD will inflict mortal wounds upon the PRESIDENT. Shortly after the assassination, OSWALD will be killed by an organized crime operative JACK RUBY/Rubenstein. It should be noted that the six nearby buildings surrounding Dealey Plaza have multiple floors offering excellent shooting positions from windows, fire escapes and roofs. Triangulation of gunfire is assured, given the many excellent shooting locations from the upper floors of adjacent buildings, from ground level positions on either side of the plaza, and at the railroad overpass at the bottom of Elm Street. Frequent freight train movements across this overpass increase visual confusion and may provide a possible escape route. The entire site is shaped like a scoop. The motorcade will enter the scoop heading southwest at the top of the hill at Houston and Elm streets traveling at a very slow speed due to the tight turn. After the turn, there is no reason why the President’s car could not speed ahead. The parade will be finished. But as we now know, the limo will move slowly through the shooting range to assure the outcome. The Dealey Plaza location provides an excellent enfilade-killing zone. Some guns will have silencers, others will not. All shooters will have spotter/radio men. Several assassins will be positioned in multiple locations. They will fire as one, on radio command, in sequence to create the illusion that only one man is shooting. Considering the adjacent parking lots, streets, and railroad tracks, the opportunity for the shooters to escape is excellent. In summary, this is an exceptional location for Executive Action. I walked the entire area today and saw no sign of anyone fitting the description of the travelers. Nor did I see any suspicious activity. I watched people enter the Depository building this morning looking for LEE HARVEY OSWALD, the future designated assassin, with negative results.
THOMAS QUINN, the reporter for the Chicago’s American is in Dallas staying in a hotel frequented by newsmen. It is my intention to approach him today regarding the time travelers.
Per my most recent contact with the Office, I am preparing for the arrival of additional investigators, as required by the Director. They are due here at about 11:00 a.m. tomorrow, November 22, 1963. I have acquired time-appropriate communications equipment for our use during the event.
TRANSMITTED VIA CODED TIME JUSTIFIER AT 11:42 CT 07/21/28.
-Chapter 20-
Shooting Fish in a Barrel
Joell Costas entered the lobby of Quinn’s downbeat downtown hotel. The room clerk, a thin, middle-aged white man with long stringy sideburns and bad teeth spotted him coming. His lips pursed and eyes narrowed. Costas knew the part he must play.
“Good morning sir,” said Costas as he assumed a deferential posture. “I’m here to meet with Mr. Thomas Quinn. He’s staying here.” The time cop maintained a flat New York accent that seemed to perplex the man behind the counter.
The clerk turned down the volume on the small desktop television and the voice of Don Pardo announcing a game show slipped into the background. The man’s eyes tracked over Costas’ body as if it was a cow up for auction.
Costas waited.
“And who are you?” His drawl was laced with disdain.
“My name is Lucas. Art Lucas. I’m Mr. Quinn’s photographer. He’s a reporter for Chicago’s American.” Costas lifted up the 35mm Nikon camera that hung on a strap around his neck as evidence.
“Photographer,” said the man. “I see. Pretty fancy camera ya’ have there.”
“Yes sir.”
“Well OK. Le’ me check t’ see if he’s in.” The clerk dialed Quinn’s room but received no response. “He’s out. You’ll have to leave.”
Costas lowered his head in mock dejection. “Couldn’t I wait here for a few minutes? Mr. Quinn is expecting me.”
The man squished his mouth apparently trying to think. “OK. A few minutes. Sit over there.” He motioned to section of beat up chairs. “But don’t sit in the window.”
“Yes, sir,” said Costas. “Thank you.” He took a seat in the corner, his presence obscured by an artificial palm tree.
The man watched him closely. Then nodding in satisfaction, he kicked up the TV volume and resumed his viewing.
Costas attempted to relax into a nearby stuffed chair, but soon stuck to its plastic membrane. He glanced at his bare arms. His bronze skin glistened with tiny drops of sweat. The underarms of his shirt were water-stained. The lobby was not air-conditioned and the temperature outside was rising. . The clerk kept a watchful eye on him. It was getting uncomfortable. For about twenty-five minutes, he toyed with the camera and sat on the edge of his chair. He waited. In his wallet, Costas had a photo of Quinn that he had boldly stolen off the reporter’s desk in the American’s offices. But, he didn’t have to refresh his memory. The image was locked into his brain—Quinn, his wife and two kids all smiling. A noise in the vestibule marked Quinn’s entrance. One look achieved positive identification. Costas rushed to greet him.
“Tom. Glad we could meet up like this,” said Costas. Quinn pulled back at first and then took a good look at the investigator and his camera. “You are?”
Costas smiled broadly. “Art Lucas—action photographer—and a friend of some friends. Can we talk?” Costas motioned toward the chairs. Quinn nodded in agreement.
The desk clerk lifted his head to check out the two. He lit a cigarette and studied them for a moment. Then apparently satisfied, he drifted back into the game show.
They sat next to each other. “So you’re in town to cover the president,” said Costas.
“Right. And who are these ‘mutual’ friends?”
“Your journalism students and their teacher. The people you met in Chicago. I spoke with Miss Kostik. She was most helpful.” Costas watched Quinn carefully. Quinn appeared to connect to the words.
He paused then spoke. “Yeah. I remember the kids. All big for their age as I remember. Brother-Sister act and another young guy who said nothing. So?”
“Well it appears that you all have a serious interest in JFK. Is that true?”
Quinn’s face contorted into a scowl. “Listen Art. It’s my job to be interested in newsmakers. But I usually ask the questions. What’s in it for me? Let’s get beyond the ‘action photographer’ gig. Are you a cop or a babysitter? What do you care about those kids?”
Costas smiled and reached in pants pocket and retrieved his wallet. With some flair he showed a badge and handed over a laminated identification card.
“Arthur Lucas, Detective Investigator. New York Police Department: Division of Field Investigators,” Quinn mumbled the words quietly to himself as he returned the I.D. “Fishing quite a way from home aren’t you?”
“Not fishing at all. In the sporting sense. Although we do have a net set across the country. I’ve just come from Chicago. I’m tracking the ‘teacher’, Earl Teliphin.”
“Never heard of him,” said Quinn.
“You may know him by another name. But he’s with the three kids that you met. He’s got them convinced they can solve crimes. Change history. Be heroes. And those kids are just young enough and dumb enough to believe it. You remember them right?”
“Yeah. I remember that crew. They stopped by my office.
Said they were journalism students. I kinda’ gave ‘em the bum’s rush. We don’t have too much time to waste on aspiring reporters. Job’s tough enough without trying to make it sound good.”
“So did they say where they were from?”
“Thought you would know that,” replied Quinn. “You’re trailing them. This guy Earl, is he some kind of pervert or something?”
“Let’s put it this way. We consider it a possible kidnapping.”
“Big kids for napping. Why not the F.B.I. then?”
Costas nodded. “They’re on it too, but my Commissioner has a personal interest in this matter.”
“Yeah. What’s that?”
“Sorry can’t say,” said Costas. “What about it? Did they mention where they were from?”
Beads of sweat showed on Quinn’s forehead. Costas knew Quinn was either hot or feeling pressure. He hoped it was the latter.
“Out East some place. I don’t remember the name of their high school.”
“What about this fellow Earl. Did you see him?”
“No. Just the kids,” said Quinn.
“Did they ask about JFK? He was scheduled to be in town when they visited you wasn’t he?”