Time Travel Twins (Book 1): Saving JFK

by W. Green

  “Maybe. I think they said they wanted to see him drive into town. But he never showed. Why are you in Dallas?”

  Quinn stood up as if to end the conversation. Costas followed suit.

  “We got a tip. As I said, Teliphin is moving them around. We think he has them convinced that JFK is a possible target and that they can break the case.”

  “Is he?”

  “What?”

  “A target?”

  Costas cleared his throat. “The president always is. That’s why they have the Secret Service. But I doubt that Teliphin gives a damn about Kennedy. He has something funny in mind. We don’t know what. But I’ll tell you this. He’s been busted before—molestation. You’re right. He’s a pervert and a con man. These kids need all the help they can get.”

  “Give me a card. If I see them or if any thing pops up I’ll give you a call. Say what’s with the camera anyway?”

  Costas pulled out a business card and wrote something on the back. He handed it to Quinn. “Down here they might be amused by a black man with a camera. But, they won’t be smiling at a black man with a gun. Better for me to work around the edges. This isn’t exactly a bastion of tolerance if you know what I mean,” he said this quietly with a quick glance at the room clerk.

  Quinn nodded. “Gotcha.”

  “I wrote my local number down. Call me, if you see them.”

  Quinn got up—looked at Costas as if he was memorizing his face—then turned away saying nothing and entered the elevator.

  On his way out, the time cop thanked the room clerk again and gave him a big smile. The man returned a “don’t come back” look. Costas ignored it and walked outside onto the sidewalk to collect his thoughts. He was pleased move out of the spotlight of hate. 1963 Texas race relations made everyday interaction between people of contrasting skin colors a painful experience. His thoughts swung to Quinn. The man was tight-lipped. And he suspected he was not revealing as much as he knew. But he could be a good tail—if the travelers were in town. Costas figured they would connect with Quinn soon. When they did, he would have them.

  They arrived in Dallas mid-afternoon on the 21st of November 1963. Their second stop, after buying a couple of newspapers, was a drive-in restaurant that featured carhops who served lunch on roller skates. Zak and Ethan enjoyed the girls in their silver and blue cheerleader outfits. Emma scoffed at the whole idea. A.C. Currant was preoccupied thumbing through the newspapers. After delivering the cheeseburgers, fries and drinks, the roller girls exchanged teen-age giggle-banter with the two studs from the future. Zak was animated and enthusiastic, but muted as usual. Currant brought the two romantics back to the present.

  He held the first page of the Dallas Times-Herald and pointed to a map of the JFK motorcade route. “This is all we have to work on. We know from the Chicago attempt that this will be an ambush. Multiple shooters from different positions. This fellow Lee Oswald may be in on it. Here’s a map of the parade route.”

  “Oswald was handing out pro-Castro leaflets in New Orleans when he was arrested,” said Ethan. “Our friend Vallee was also a Castro supporter if you believe his famous last words—‘Long live Fidel’. And according to Zak’s sensing devices, Oswald has a special place in Ferrie’s love box. And Ferrie has a history of training Cuban rebels just like Vallee. Is there a pattern here?”

  “We don’t even know if this man Oswald is in Dallas,” said Emma.

  “That’s true,” said Currant. “But you remember someone named Lee blew the whistle to the F.B.I. about the proposed Chicago hit. We’ve got dots here that have to be connected.”

  Zak munched on his burger and swallowed hard after making solid eye contact with a blonde waitress. She smiled at him, and he flashed a broad bright smile back.

  Emma glanced at him. “Zak? You with us? You know we’re working here.”

  Zak nodded and signed an apology.

  Currant looked back at the newspaper. “I think we should drive the motorcade route today. Let’s look for likely spots. According to the map, there are three or four hard, slow turns that will have to be made. We’ll look for a situation like Chicago. Remember, in the old history, the Lincoln came up the expressway exit ramp and stopped. Then it made a hard left turn into the firing range. My guess is that we’ll find something like that here.” He tossed the newspapers in Ethan’s direction and checked his watch. “Getting late. Let’s get out to the airport and work our way back in. Tomorrow it will be JFK’s turn, but today it’s ours. Ethan, you’re the navigator. Just follow the map”

  It was a short ride to the Love Field area. Mockingbird Lane connected to the main exit of the airport in an area that was devoid of tall buildings or any buildings close to the road. They headed north checking the route.

  “This is the first hard turn ahead,” Ethan’s words were lost in the sounds of an incoming four-engine jet blasting overhead.

  Currant drove the convertible steadily along the divided lane four-lane highway. “Easy turn,” he said as he negotiated the bend in the road from Mockingbird to Lemmon Avenue. He pushed the Chevy to the speed limit.

  “There’s no cover around here. They’d be traveling pretty fast too,’ said Emma.

  Lemmon Avenue was a quiet, fast ten-minute ride to the next turn onto Turtle Creek Boulevard. Another soft turn led them on a road with wooded park areas on one side and suburban nothingness on the other. This road then changed names to Cedar Springs Road that offered more of the same.

  “Nothing here,” said Currant. “They’ll be traveling safe and free as the wind.”

  The divided highway narrowed as they approached the heart of the city. When they reached North Harwood Street, they faced a 90-degree turn. Currant stopped at the light, and then made the left turn. It was an open area of low warehouses and open parking lots. “Not exactly a sniper’s killing zone,” commented Ethan to Currant.

  They motored on through an area scattered with low office buildings and finally made a hard right turn on Main Street—the heart of downtown Dallas. Tomorrow, these sidewalks would be filled with people, thought Ethan. The roof of the municipal building could offer a firing position for a rifleman. Moreover, near this 90-degree turn onto Main Street, the other adjacent lots were vacant or filled with one-story buildings. The limo carrying JFK and his entourage might be vulnerable here. The roadways were narrow. “This might be it. He’d have to slow down here,” Currant commented. He parked the car on Main Street, but kept the engine running.

  “So...?” he asked.

  Emma jumped into the conversation. “Good sniper’s nest possibilities on the roof of that old building.”

  “City Hall,” said Currant.

  “But that’s it. Not enough positions,” said Ethan. “We’re looking for a real shooting gallery. Lots of sniper’s nest possibilities. One of them will be a spot for the ‘designated chump’—some guy like Vallee ready to expose a banner or something equally sinister.”

  “I agree. Let’s move on,” said Currant. He donned a pair of sunglasses to fight off the bright sun.

  For the citizens of Dallas, Main Street would provide the best view of the young president. JFK was known to love to press the flesh so the motorcade might stop at any time. But the assassins could not know when these moments would occur. Currant thought about the possibilities. Anyone could run to the limo and toss in a hand grenade. Or just as easily dash out of the crowd to fire a pistol at JFK. But this would mean almost certain death for the assassin. The Secret Service would surely shoot him as soon as they spotted a gun. Or they would throw themselves in front of the president in accordance with their training. There was no guarantee of success. The grenade may be the best method, he thought. But very messy—terrible public relations—so brutal a killing that the public would demand a full investigation. And this method would be no sure thing either. A wounded but surviving Kennedy would be the worst case for the conspirators. Dead yes—a martyr yes—but not a surviving hero. Currant speculated the most likely scenar
io would be a quick, clean kill that could be blamed on someone that fit the “lone nut” mold. Up to this point, the motorcade route did not provide a killing zone as suitable as the Chicago’s Jackson Boulevard had been. Maybe the time travelers would be successful after all. Maybe the assassins would fail for lack of a proper shooting gallery. Right, he thought, and maybe pigs will fly. They continued on through a canyon of tall buildings in the old section of downtown. Then at Houston Street everything opened up. Ahead Main Street continued down into the triple underpass, and Dealey Plaza welcomed them with outstretched grassy green arms, fountains, trees, and colonnades all under a bright blue sky. Currant, dazzled by the scene before him, almost forgot to turn right up Houston Street. Then he saw the sign—the street was one-way going the wrong direction. They were forced to stay on Main Street and continue down the hill beneath the underpass into the dark abyss. Lost for about fifteen minutes and doubling back, they eventually found themselves again approaching Dealey Plaza this time from the north on Houston, going with traffic now. They parked the car adjacent to the massive red brick building on the corner of Elm and Houston and jumped out of the Bel Air, happy to stretch their legs.

  Glancing up that the big building they read the bold raised letters over the door—Texas School Book Depository. The four time travelers viewed the plaza and the nearby tall buildings that framed the corner. Across Houston, opposite the Depository, stood the seven-story Dal-Tex building, and on the south side of Elm catty-corner to the Depository stood the slightly taller Records building. In all, three tall buildings looked down upon the 120-degree slow turn from Houston Street to Elm—a significant challenge for the president’s security team. As they stood at the corner curb waiting to cross, they looked west. On the grassy knoll to the right of Elm Street stood a curved, white-painted concrete pergola. Beyond that, a wooden fence framed the edges of a large open parking lot. The stoplight changed and they crossed Elm to the plaza. Together they looked down the street of death that ended in the blackened underpass. The grassy knoll with its shadowing assemblage of fences, walls, and bushes provided excellent forward shooting positions. Behind them, the tall buildings had their own ominous potential. Currant gathered his flock in a circle.

  “Is this it?” Everyone nodded in agreement. The inventor shook his head up and down absentmindedly. “This is it,” he mumbled to himself. “This is will be the site of the ambush. This is where they will kill him. Like shooting a fish in a barrel.”

  LOG of Zak Newman

  November 22, 1963: 07:12 (Day 25 of time travel)

  Today is another day of terrifying possibility. I’m outside our motel room sitting in a rusty lawn chair beneath a leaky canvas awning. It’s drizzling, but the clouds seem to be heading elsewhere taking the rain with them. That’s good for the parade today. What a night for the time travelers. We were lucky to find a room. The town is booked. In fact, one room is all we had last night. To say the least, it was an uncomfortable evening. Two beds and a sofa for four people. I took the sofa. Emma got one bed for herself, and Ethan and A.C. Currant shared the other. I’m really glad this is the first and last time for us to become even closer buddies—a little too cozy for my blood.

  Just a minute ago, a young boy about ten or eleven came wandering by carrying a pile of handbills. He was shoving them under the doors of the motel units, but he handed one to me.

  “Last one,” he said in a squeaky little cowboy voice, “ you’re a lucky man.”

  He seemed a likable kid, but the small poster he handed me was frightening. It had two photos of JFK, arranged front and side profile, as if it were a police wanted poster. In fact the headline read—WANTED FOR TREASON. Below the photos were a list of his “crimes” which included generally giving the Communists a pass and encouraging them to create race riots, screwing up relations with other countries, and lying about his personal life, including an unreported previous marriage and divorce. Nice greeting for the president. I wish him luck in Dallas. Also, the morning newspaper has a full-page ad paid for by prominent citizens of Dallas. These people probably belong to the John Birch Society or the Minutemen (two of the more radical and powerful right wing groups around in 1963). The words are wrapped in a black border as if to mourn him. A banner welcomes “Mr. Kennedy” but then follows with more negative commentary about JFK—soft on Commies. In fact so soft, that the head of the Communist Party of America had praised the good work being done by his administration. This town will be tough going for JFK. It is filled with nut-balls. Even The History provided a little story about Adlai Stevenson who was the Ambassador to the United Nations under JFK. He made a stop here last month in late October. A woman bopped him on the head with a protester placard because she didn’t like his politics. Of course, if our thinking is right, all of this local hate mongering is but a background for the real thing—a plot to kill the president done by professionals.

  Last night before we drifted off to sleep, Emma made a suggestion. Even though yesterday’s simulated motorcade trip leads us to believe that there is only one viable shooting location—the plaza at the end of Main Street—we should still inspect the Love Field airport and the Trade Mart (JFK’s proposed entry and luncheon locations). It was agreed this should be done. Of course, what are we going to do anyway? We can’t tell the police that something bad is going to happen. We might end up in jail. And Dr. Currant has lectured us not to take chances. He doesn’t want any of us hurt. He’s allowing Emma and me to go to the other two sites, and he and Ethan will head to the plaza site. The good news is that I get to drive A.C.’s car. I really like that machine. Late last night, he let me test-drive it in the motel parking lot. I think I have the hang of it. At least I hope so.

  Emma and I will drive to the airport—check it out—make sure JFK gets on the road safely or—who knows? Anyway, assuming he does, we will then head to the Trade Mart. Afterward we will meet Ethan and Dr. Currant in Dealey Plaza to report our findings. A.C. has instructed us to act like detectives—keep our eyes open, mentally record what is happening, and yell for help if necessary.

  That’s the plan. I’m hoping nothing happens. Then we can leave the Dallas “nut house” and head back home. I’ve had enough. We’ve been lucky so far, but each day we stay in 1963 we are pressing. These are dangerous times. We’re running out of time to make it back to Mystic Heights and 2028.

  END 11-22-63

  -Chapter 21-

  Lone Nuts in a Lone Star State of Mind

  On the morning of the 22nd, A.C. called Quinn. He got the local number from the blonde at the American’s offices. They didn’t talk long. Quinn was surprised they were in town. He was to Dallas because his Chicago F.B.I. contact told him of an urgent telex bulletin sent to all the Bureau offices five days earlier at 1:45 a.m. EST on November 17th. The telex stated that there was a threat to assassinate Kennedy in Dallas on the 22nd or 23rd by a militant revolutionary group. Currant told him about Dealey Plaza, suggesting this site most resembled the Chicago attempt situation. The two men agreed they would meet later at Dealey Plaza. Almost as an afterthought, Quinn mentioned his meeting the day before with a New York cop named Arthur Lucas who was looking for three high school kids in the company of an older man. He left off the fact that Lucas told him Currant was a pervert, and he did say that there was something fishy about the cop. Currant agreed the man sounded bogus, but offered no more. With that, they ended the conversation. Space was at a premium in the motel room and Currant assembled the troops in a conversation circle—he sat on the bed and the youths sat on the sofa. They spoke in hushed tones as if someone might be listening to their conversation.

  “I just spoke with Quinn. He’s in town. He gave me disturbing news. I think we have company from the future,” said Currant.

  “Who?” asked Ethan.

  “A fellow who calls himself Arthur Lucas. He showed a New York City cop I.D. to Quinn. Says I kidnapped you three. I’m guessing he told Quinn that I was some kind of child molester.”

&n
bsp; The youths laughed.

  “Funny,” signed Zak.

  “Any description of this guy Lucas?”

  “Quinn said he was a skinny, black man, about my height. Talked with a New York accent.”

  “If he’s a time cop, we better get moving. I’ll bet he’s watching Quinn’s movements and most likely he’s recording his phone calls including your call today. Did you mention our location?”

  Currant thought. “Just Dallas. He’ll know we’re in Dallas.”

  Ethan stood. “Let’s get it together and get out of here. Emma you and Zak are off to the airport. Dr. Currant and I will head downtown.”

  Fifteen minutes later, bags packed and bill paid, Zak drove the Chevy out of the motel parking lot. Currant, the driving instructor, sat next to him. Right away, Zak managed to cut off a pick up truck featuring a full shotgun rack. Currant understood why it happened. The Bel Air top was up. Its plastic rear window only offered a small view of the road behind and no view of the next lane over. Currant looked back gave the truck driver the double upturned palms “We screwed up—sorry”. The pick up truck driver and his buddy glowered menacingly as they raced defiantly past the convertible.

  “Sorry boss,” signed Zak as best he could while driving. Emma passed on his condolences.

  “That will happen. Use your side mirrors,” said Currant. “Let’s face it, you only have about fifteen minutes experience. Just be careful with my beauty. OK?”

  It was just past eight a.m. and traffic was light. They drifted through downtown Dallas driving down Elm Street until Currant told Zak to pull over and park. Ethan and Currant left on foot heading for Dealey a few blocks distant. Emma moved to the front seat next to Zak. After reviewing a gas station city map, she directed him to move on. It was a six-mile ride to Love Field and Emma proved to be an excellent navigator. For his part, Zak was a much more relaxed driver. Emma looked at him behind the wheel and was amazed at the speed of his learning. It’s in the genes, she thought. They arrived at the airport and parked in an open lot. The terminal building was a modern glass and steel structure patterned in greens and earth-tone reds. As the two time travelers walked the long spike of a covered pedway into the building, Zak checked the wristwatch he had purchased in Chicago—8:40. JFK was due in two hours, and although they had successfully reached their destination, they didn’t know which gate was reserved for Air Force One. They bumped along the American Airlines portion of the terminal. Passengers—men in suits and ties and women in tidy outfits capped by the latest hats—hurried in an organized, frenzy of anticipation. Emma could see it in their eyes. Air travel was still an exciting novelty in 1963, and jet travel was the latest experience.