by W. Green
Emma stopped at a concession counter reaching out to grab Zak’s hand. “Hold up,” she said. “I’m going to buy a camera. I don’t want to have to rely on our memories.”
Zak signed the words: “Very dangerous. You’ll be creating evidence of our trip.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll thank me for this.” She had just enough money to buy a Kodak Instamatic and a couple rolls of film. She studied the camera instructions and loaded the film. To test the camera, she immediately took a photo of Zak standing in front of a tall bronze statue of a Texas Ranger complete with ten-gallon hat—gun drawn—ready to duel. Zak appeared embarrassed. “Hold it,” she said. “And smile...” Zak obeyed and she clicked off a shot. “Looking good Black Bart. He had his gun pointed directly at your head.” As she walked up to him she whispered quietly: “It’s a good cover Zak. Two high school kids—maybe two love sick puppies—taking in the sights—creating a special keepsake photo album.”
Zak quickly signed. “You’re weird. Let’s get down to business.”
They continued down the concourse. Ahead there was a commotion at one of the counters. Emma watched as a small parade of very special looking people moved quickly past her—not thirty feet from where she was standing.
“Zak,” she said in an excited but hushed voice. “I know that man. That nose. It’s like a Bob Hope. Yeah—that’s Richard Nixon. He’s going to be a president. He was Vice-President with Eisenhower. He lost to the election to JFK in 1960.” He looked very ordinary, she thought—not ordinary like “a man of the people”, but just ordinary, inconsequential, slightly nervous and tense.
Zak followed her eyes and his landed upon the assembled entourage. He looked closely and then nodded affirmatively.
“What the heck is he doing here in Dallas? I’m getting his photo.” She grabbed her camera from her purse and quickly snapped off a photo. “Got it,” she said proudly.
Zak shrugged his shoulders. And as fast as Nixon appeared into their world, he and his group pushed on and were given a pass by the gatekeepers. They marched away from the two travelers. It had all happened so quickly Emma was astounded. “Zak,” she said. “We may get to see two presidents in one day.” She smiled. “Remarkable. Simply remarkable.”
Zak signed, “Maybe three. If they get Kennedy, then Johnson will be president. Maybe we’ll see him.”
Emma sighed. “Pleasant thought Zak,” she said. “Let’s hope not.”
A light drizzle laid a misty haze over the grassy green undulations of Dealey Plaza. A. C. Currant and Ethan sat on a stone bench facing Houston Street under the cover of Currant’s large black umbrella. Currant checked his watch—9:12. Kennedy would not arrive at this location for another three hours. They had time. They waited for Quinn.
“What time did he say he’d be here?”
Currant checked his watch again. “Between 9:00 and 9:30. He’s still got a few minutes.”
“What’s our plan? What can we do? The only thing we think we know is that this is the spot.”
“Right,” agreed Currant. “Unless they go after him at the airport—or the Trade Mart.”
“Doubt that. I think they’ll stick with their plan like Chicago. Open top car. Slow him down to a crawl and kill him.” Ethan dropped his voice as an old woman walked by. She glanced at the two as if they were creatures from outer space. Out of earshot Ethan commented. “You know Doctor. Is it my imagination, or do we attract a crowd? Is there something funny about the way we look or dress? I don’t see it.”
Currant looked Ethan up and down. “Maybe she figured you should be in school. You know that’s a requirement in this time. School age kids shouldn’t be wandering about. That’s what they called ‘playing hooky’. They were very strict when I was a kid. In school every day of the week except Saturday and Sunday.”
Ethan smiled. “Well that’s one thing I wouldn’t miss. Except for our required history classes with Mr. Dufour and those silly sex education classes, I haven’t been in a classroom since I was seven years old. Finished up my ‘socializing’ courses and Emma and I went right into the Educapsules. Dad would buy new ones every other year.”
“Well it was different when I was a kid. We went to school. We sat in a classroom. We were never loose on the street like you are now. We were solid, reliable, boys and girls.”
“Well good for you ‘Daddy O’.” Ethan chuckled. “But you have a point. I keep forgetting I’m considered a schoolboy here. I’ll try to play the part. Say,” he said looking up the street toward the Book Depository building “isn’t that Quinn?”
“Right.” Currant waved and Quinn nodded in recognition.
The reporter looked tired. Currant gave him some bench. He looked as if the had been sleeping in his clothes. He ran his fingers through the remains of the hair on his head, but didn’t say anything. He just pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Currant who waved him off. After lighting up and sucking in a voluminous drag, holding it, then exhaling loudly he spoke. “Well here we are—‘The Three Stooges’—Larry, Moe and Curly.”
Currant smiled and glanced over to Ethan who had a quizzical look on his face.
“Greetings Tom. Happy to see you. Want a little of the umbrella?” offered Currant.
Quinn shook his head.
“Were you followed?”
Quinn lifted his head and with very tired eyes stared back at A.C. “By whom?”
“Does it make a difference? This guy Lucas for one?”
Quinn smiled. “You’ve got some strange things going on don’t you? Out to save the president—the kidnapper detective—or is it the joker of journalism? Before we go any further Dr. Currant. Who the hell is that guy Lucas? He didn’t look like any cop I’ve ever seen.”
Currant asked Quinn for a description, and the reporter gave him a detailed description of the time cop’s physical features, mannerisms, and credentials.
“My guess is that he is on to us Tom. I’ll tell you this. I’m not a pervert, child molester, kidnapper, whatever. I am an inventor. I am a scientist. But, I know nothing about journalism.”
“Now we’re getting someplace.” Quinn looked over to Ethan sitting next to A.C. “What about you junior? You vouch for the elder’s statement here?”
Ethan smiled. “Dr. Currant is at times annoying, but he’s no kidnapper. Heck, Zak and I could take him whenever we wanted. Anyway let’s focus on JFK. He really is in trouble.”
Quinn nodded. “Gotta’ point there son. So what’s the plan of attack?” He blew out a couple of smoke rings while waiting for their response.
Currant brought Quinn up to date on their meetings in New Orleans with Ferrie and Banister. Quinn said Banister was a dangerous right wing activist, and that he had heard that Ferrie had C.I.A. and Mob connections. Currant told him about their chance meeting with the prescient roadside victim named Melba or Rose and about the two nasty men who tossed her out of a car—‘assassins’ she said, ‘headed for Dallas to kill JFK.’ He walked Quinn through the motorcade route and pointed out the ambush qualities of the place that now surrounded them. And he mentioned that a man named Lee Oswald might be involved.
Quinn laughed when they told him he was another former Marine like Vallee and himself. He agreed Oswald might be another designated fall guy. If so, he would work near Dealey Plaza just like Vallee worked at the Jackson Boulevard sniper’s nest location. But where?
Ethan was given the job of going door to door at all nearby buildings that might offer a clear shot. He would make inquires whether Oswald worked in one of them. Maybe he could talk to the man—tell him he was being set up.
Currant repeated aloud Jack Martin’s words about “Oswald the Rabbit—May he pop out of his hole and fire a shot heard around the world.”
“Oswald the Rabbit,” said Quinn. “This thing gets stranger by the minute. Maybe Bugs Bunny will show up next wearing six shooters and a black hat. Anyway, I’m going to visit my newspaper friends here. They’ll have a feel for things. It’
s not far from here.”
“All right. I am just going to set myself at the corner of Houston and Elm and keep my eyes open.” Currant checked his watch, “10:06. Let’s meet back here at about noon. JFK’s not due until about 12:25. OK?”
They agreed. The drizzle had stopped and the sun was creeping around the remaining clouds. Currant folded his umbrella and walked on towards the corner of Houston and Elm while the two others headed out in different directions. Quinn headed south to the newspaper offices, and Ethan walked across the street to the county buildings.
O.A. LOG TTA2028-5
INVESTIGATOR: Joell Costas
DATE: November 22, 1963 (July 23, 2028)
PROJECT: JFK-11.02.63
PROGRESS REPORT:
I am ready to for the 11:00 AM arrival of the three ADDITIONAL INVESTIGATORS. I have prepared all required communication and mission related equipment.
Yesterday, after my meeting with the reporter THOMAS QUINN, I monitored QUINN’S telephone conversations. This morning he was contacted by a man he called DOC. They agreed to meet at Dealey Plaza. QUINN also informed DOC that I was looking for him and the others. Based on this discussion, I must assume the time travelers are aware of my intention to stop them.
Earlier this morning I observed QUINN, an older man (presumably DOC), and a young man meeting in the plaza area. They talked for about 20 minutes, and then departed in different directions. I did not see a young woman or the other young man.
It will make contact with the man called DOC this morning after I conference with our incoming ADDITIONAL INVESTIGATORS. DOC appears to be the leader of the group of time travelers. I am not ruling out executive action with regard to him or his associates. However, I will first attempt to confront DOC to reason with him in an effort to minimize the number of event disruptions.
I can assure The Authority that our team will preserve The History. Our primary goal is to provide back up, if necessary, to achieve the desired outcome. If the time-local participants fail in their efforts, we will assure temporal continuity. With regard to the secondary goals of the plotters such as manipulation of evidence, elimination of witnesses, media coverage, political scheming and other misdirection, these are beyond our ability to control. However, considering the known complexities of the upcoming event, it is doubtful that the time travelers will be able to interfere with any of these secondary intentions of the plotters.
Lastly, the previous diagnosis of a cancer in my body by the Chicago doctors appears to have been totally incorrect. All negative health symptoms have disappeared. My health is now excellent. I can report that I am fit for duty. Therefore, I hereby withdraw my previous report (O.A. LOG TTA2028-3) of health limitations.
TRANSMITTED VIA CODED TIME JUSTIFIER AT 10:22 CT 07/23/28.
-Chapter 22-
Matryoshki
Quinn quickly walked the four blocks to the offices of The Dallas Morning News. He entered the building seeking his reporter friend, Dwayne Tillis, and was directed to the City Room. He felt at home. The News had the same old shoe look as the American in Chicago. Large industrial windows with cast iron radiators below, round concrete columns, a high ceiling, school house hanging lights and rows of reporters busy typing, talking and telephoning at desks filled with scattered papers and files. Somehow amidst the din and disorder, Tillis spotted Quinn and rushed over to him.
“Tom Quinn. Thought you’d wash up on a beach by now. Welcome to Dallas.”
“Good to see you, D.W. “
“Guess you’re here for the festivities. Didn’t think your boss would be too interested in our little burg.”
“I’m working on my own,” said Quinn. “Say is there someplace we can grab a coffee, if you got time?”
“Follow me friend, but I don’t have much time—today’s a big day.”
Tillis guided them to the first floor cafeteria. They sat in quiet corner. Quinn chomped on his donut while he waltzed through the pleasantries. The B.S. banter was soon put to rest and Quinn settled in and told Tillis about the Chicago JFK threats, the cancelled presidential visit, and his trek across the country following JFK. “What about it D.W. You hear anything about an attempt here?”
“God no,” said Tillis. “But I don’t have a hot line to heaven. I work the police blotter. You know that Tom.”
Quinn leaned in to Tillis and semi-whispered, “I got wind of an F.B.I. bulletin a few days ago that warned that a militant group is going to try something. Here in Dallas.”
“Shit.” Tillis shook his head. “We heard nothing about that. But this is the place, if something’s going down. There’s a whole lot of hate here. It’s the Wild West Tom. Wild West.”
Just then Quinn spotted a guy wolfing down a breakfast a couple of tables away— heavy set—widow’s peak—dark hair—dark suit. He appeared to be studying their conversation. When their eyes met, the man removed the napkin he had tucked in this shirt, wiped his mouth clean, flipped the napkin back onto the table and walked toward the two reporters. He stood over them.
“Hello D.W.” he said casually. “Always a pleasure. Here to run an ad for the ‘Carousel’. Just grabbed a breakfast while I’m at it.”
“Jack.” Tillis nodded.
The man looked at Quinn.
“This is a reporter friend of mine from Chicago. Tom Quinn.”
“Chicago. My old hometown. Still miss it. Don’t miss the winters though. Nice to meet ya’ Tom. Here.” He pulled a card from this shirt pocket. “Jack Ruby. I own a club here. Stop by. Anytime. It’s a fun place. Lots of girls. Have a drink on me.”
Before Quinn could reply, the man flashed a quick smile, just as quickly removed it, and then walked away. He had a funny gait—like a duck crossing a busy street.
“Quite the glad-hander. Isn’t he?”
Tillis nodded. “Jack’s a piece of work. He’s all over this town. Connected they say.”
“The world’s full of connected people. Sometimes I wish I was,” said Quinn. “You know, I got the feeling he was listening to our conversation about the F.B.I. Telex. He seemed a little jumpy.”
“That’s the way he is Tom. The man walks around like his ass is on fire.”
They cut short the Ruby conversation and continued. Tillis suggested the F.B.I. bulletin would increase security around the president. But then, he remembered something he heard when he came to work in the morning. One of the night-beat reporters said that he got a tip that ten Secret Service agents were out drinking last night in a place called ‘The Cellar’ in Fort Worth.
“’Til five in the morning. That’s what I heard,” said Tillis.
Quinn slid his chin over to one side thinking. “Well it seems like it’s all coming together. Bad guys on the loose. The guards are all drinking. I hope I’m wrong but…”
The two men talked for another five minutes. Tillis provided Quinn with background on the city players—the cops—the politicians—the route. Then he offered his opinion. “If somebody wanted to do him in, it wouldn’t be too hard. Anyone could take a shot at him. But if you wanted him dead for sure. That’s another story.”
“How’s that?”
“Well—cops, the military, the Secret Service, the F.B.I.—I’ll bet they’re all here today. That’s a boatload of protection for someone to get through.”
“It only takes one shot D.W.”
“Agreed, but it better be a good one. Kennedy’s agents will get in front of him the moment something happens. They’re trained to jump into action immediately. That’s their job. And there’s a bunch of them. It’s not good that some of them have been out partying. But you remember how they saved Harry Truman’s hide. They stopped two Puerto Rican nationalists out to get him. Armed to the teeth. Quite a gun battle. Maybe some of those same agents are on this detail. I’m not saying it can’t be done, but it wouldn’t be easy. I’d put my money on the Praetorian Guard,” his words drifted for a moment, “unless of course the ‘fix was in’. Then all bets are off.”
“It
happens,” said Quinn.
Tillis thought.. “A lot of dead emperors would agree with you.”
“You think the ‘fix is in’?”
“Sorry Tom. I just read the blotter—not tea leaves,” Tillis smiled and stood. “Gotta’ go my friend. See you tonight Tom. We’ll swap old war stories over drinks.”
A.C. Currant strolled the Elm Street sidewalk walking toward the white concrete pergola that capped the north side of Dealey Plaza. To his right was an open parking lot, to the left another walk that followed Elm Street into the dark underbelly of the triple overpass. Straight ahead was a quiet place—overhanging trees, dappled sunlight on the ground, and empty of people. The motorcade was not due for at least an hour. He sat on a low concrete wall looking west across the plaza. His umbrella, now closed, lay next to him. No more rain today except maybe raining bullets. His eyes took in the killing zone. He was fascinated by the consistency of the planned attack from place to place—Chicago, Tampa, and now Dallas all the same. Bottle up the quarry and shoot at him from many directions. Chop him down. Allow for no escape. Be merciless. In some overarching way, this methodology of death was enlightened. Like the slaughter of an animal—a clean kill—happening so fast that there is no time for the victim to experience pain, or have awareness of his doom, or the luxury of contemplation. Throwing the switch, and turning out the light was the plan. No lingering, no agonizing, and no hope—just a well-executed execution. Everyman dies, he thought. Everyman is erased from the ledger. Possibly history will remember him, but ultimately even this is little consolation to a dead man. Life is for the living. His brother Patrick is now living, at this moment, in that little town in Louisiana. This was the truth. And for Currant, that was the only thing that had any meaning to him. He wanted his brother to live. Patrick had a life ahead of him. He had the right to live. All else was irrelevant.