by W. Green
Why would Ruby pretend to be a reporter—stalk Oswald for two days—wait for the ideal moment—and then kill him on live television? In retrospect, it seemed totally premeditated. Later, Ruby would say he shot Oswald to save Mrs. Kennedy the pain of testifying at an Oswald trial—bring on the love Jack—bring on the love.
Quinn tracked the ambulance carrying the moribund assassin to the hospital and waited. A short time later, at 1:07 p.m. Sunday, November 24, 1963 Lee Harvey Oswald died. America cheered, thought Quinn—swift justice. But Quinn wasn’t biting. Afterward, there was a news conference at Parkland Hospital. Oswald’s emergency room doctors participated. When it was over, one of them ducked out, took off in his car, and Quinn followed him home. There was a crowd gathered when they arrived. The doctor cut a quick swath into his driveway, exited his car, dodged reporters and rushed to his house. Quinn fired out a question.
“Doctor. You were there. Did Oswald confess before he died?”
The doctor looked back and said cryptically, “Why don’t you ask LBJ? He’s the man in charge now.” With that found his key, opened the lock, entered, and shut the door behind him.
Unable to move, Quinn stood in place long after others had left. “LBJ?” He was puzzled by the doctor’s response—a persistent, dull, sucker-punch pain churned in Quinn’s gut—somehow he felt manipulated—the bizarre events of the past few days overwhelmed him. Slowly he regained his composure and returned to his car. He sat quietly, alone, listening to his breathing. His eyes watered. What was happening? His gut tried to tell him, but his raging emotions drowned out the subtle thoughts of the muse that warned of the unspeakable.
O.A. LOG TTA2028-6
INVESTIGATOR: Joell Costas
DATE: November 25, 1963 (July 26, 2028)
PROJECT: JFK-11.02.63
PROGRESS REPORT
President JOHN FITZGERALD KENNEDY was pronounced dead on November 22, 1963 at 1:00 P.M., CST. The mechanism of his death was created and implemented by the people of 1963, and The Authority only monitored the event. It did not instigate, aid or implement his demise.
LEE HARVEY OSWALD was arrested as the President’s assassin on November 22, 1963 at 1:51 P.M., CST
The three ADDITIONAL INVESTIGATORS were found concealed in a railroad boxcar and taken into custody immediately after the assassination at approximately 2:00 P.M., CST. After providing suitable cover stories, they were not charged and were subsequently released.
LYNDON BAINES JOHNSON was sworn in as the 36th President of the United States on November 22, 1963 at 2:39 P.M., CST
OSWALD was pronounced dead on November 24, 1963 at 1:07 P.M., CST after being shot by JACK RUBY, a nightclub operator.
The TIME TRAVELERS have now been identified as three youths (two boys and a girl) and one older man. They are posing as high school journalism students and their teacher. We have the name DOC for the older man. We have no other names. We do not know if they remain in the area, but we are certain their presence here in Dallas has had little effect on The History. Since I have no idea of their current whereabouts, I have decided to return home today in order to minimize the possibility of my contamination affecting future events. As of this moment, the events of The History are intact. It is my opinion, that our team has accomplished our goal. However, against my recommendation, the ADDITIONAL INVESTIGATORS have determined to exploit their credentials to contact local and federal authorities regarding the TIME TRAVELERS whereabouts. It is their intent to track and apprehend them. I do not agree with this action, as I believe it may result in unwanted temporal deviations. They will report directly to The Authority regarding their progress, if any.
THOMAS QUINN, the reporter, remains in Dallas. I have had no additional contact with him. Although, he might be able to provide additional information, I have strongly suggested to the ADDITIONAL INVESTIGATORS that this approach be avoided. QUINN is of this time, and by profession, is extremely cautious and inquisitive.
Subject to debriefing and analysis, this concludes my activities related to JFK-11.02.63. I shall return home ASAP.
TRANSMITTED VIA CODED TIME JUSTIFIER AT 1:17 P.M.CT 07/26/28.
-Chapter 24-
Return to the Rabbit Hole
Late afternoon on the 22nd of November, 1963, the Chevy convertible cut northeast across the Texas plains. The road was a straight, black line connecting an otherwise unbroken dark red, sea of soil to the clear blue sky. Currant kept a steady pace, about three to five miles over the posted speed limit—not to hot—not too cold, he thought. He didn’t want to attract the attention of any police—local or time cops. Ethan rode shotgun, and seemed fixated on the wildly waving foxtail tied to the radio antenna. Currant looked in the rear view mirror. Zak was writing his log. Emma wore the face of a widow. She hadn’t said much since they left Dallas. Currant was pleased to notice that every so often Zak would take hold of Emma’s hand and give it a gentle squeeze to comfort her.
“How are you doing back there?”
Zak nodded.
“Emma?”
She stirred. “OK, Doctor, but I could use something to eat.” Her voice crackled.
He was pleased she had broken out of her funk. “Not a bad idea. I could use a bite myself,” said Currant. “How ‘bout you brother Ethan?”
Ethan broke away from the captivating rhythm of the fluttering foxtail. “That’s an idea with merit. Come to think of it. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. Let’s do it.”
Stretching, Ethan leaned back in his seat and looked up at the sky. Something caught his attention. “Hey. Look at that.” He pointed to a small black and white airplane sliding across the sky maybe 3000 feet in the air on the right side of the car.
Currant glanced up. “Think it’s following us?”
For the first time since Dallas, Emma laughed. Then Zak and Ethan. “Relax ‘Dr. Paranoid’. It’s a big country. Anyway. How would anyone know who or where we are?”
The physicist gripped the wheel tighter. A minute later the engine noise above continued, but it was diminishing. He took another quick look at the sky and he spotted the black and white dot. This time more distant—it seemed to be heading away. Another minute, and it was no longer in sight. Satisfied that Emma was correct, he refocused on the highway ahead. Not more than a mile down the road they spied an eatery. He pulled the Chevy off the highway, and dustily bounced the car through a rutted parking lot sliding into a spot in front of the weatherworn diner. It was dead quiet now. They were in the middle of nowhere—nothing around them but miles of dirt, scrub grass, fence posts and barbed wire.
Ethan sniffed the air like a dog in heat. “Ribs,” he declared. “Damn, they do smell good.”
They removed themselves from the car slowly unpacking their bodies and minds. It had been a terrible day, thought Currant. A good meal would help turn things around. He checked the sign above the door and chuckled: Rib-A-Rama—Best Grub East of the Pecos. “This is the place to chow down,” he announced. “Come and get it.”
Entering the diner, they found three patrons and the owner watching a tiny black and white television that hung off the wall. The regulars hardly noticed the newcomers.
Two seasoned cowboys book-ended a redheaded fat lady who sat on stool between them. “Son of a bitch got what was comin’ to him. What’s all the fuss about? He won’t be missed. We got Lyndon now. He’ll straighten things out,” said the taller of the two Levi’s-clad ranchers.
“They should give that guy a medal,” said the other.
The woman behind the counter leaned into the three. “We’ve got company.” She turned to the travelers. “What can we do for you?”
They ordered ribs, chicken and seasoned fries with mayonnaise. The woman twisted the TV dial looking for the better reception. She got a Dallas station. News commentators droned on and speculated about the assassination—police had arrested the killer of JFK—a man named Oswald—they found the rifle—the killer was probably a Communist sympathizer—he had lived in Russ
ia—his wife was a Russian—a man named Zapruder told the announcer he shot a home movie of the whole thing. He talked about the wound to the head. Hearing this, Emma who was obviously still shaken, asked if they could eat outside. They a found picnic table around the side of the building, and spread out the food and drink. The comfort food did its job. They ate quietly and said little. The heat of the late afternoon sun was tempered by a light breeze.
It could have been a pleasant late lunch thought Currant—some other time. Zak appeared to carry a heavy load. “Zak. You OK? You must be worn down with all the emotion that’s in the air.”
Zak nodded balefully. He ate his ribs without conviction.
“Ethan?”
The tall twin traveler smiled at Currant. “Don’t worry about me. We did what we could. Maybe some good will come out of this. I hope so.”
“Emma. What are you thinking?”
Emma sipped on her lemonade. She shrugged her shoulders. “I’m thinking, he was a nice man. I’m thinking, he didn’t have to die. I’m thinking, I was better off before I ever set eyes on him and he on me. He was betrayed. He was butchered. Why?”
The table talk went dead. Tears welled up in the girl’s eyes. Zak offered her a paper napkin that she used to stem the flow.
“I’ll tell you what I think. If you want,” said Currant. “Maybe we should all say something. Clear the air. Lighten our load.”
Zak looked very despondent. He signed that the weight was very heavy. The combined pain of hundreds of millions of mourners around the world was almost unbearable. He asked if he could take a walk while they talked. Currant agreed and Zak wandered away seeking solace in the emptiness of the surrounding country.
“What did the time cop Joell say?” Ethan asked. “Did he know who was behind this? Obviously it’s the same setup as Chicago and Tampa. That strange woman in Eunice sure knew it was coming to Dallas. The F.B.I. issued their warning bulletin. Then we saw the twin ‘Oswalds’. Remember what Banister said in New Orleans. He said there were multiple ‘Oswalds’—an army of little rabbits ready to fight.”
“What about Harvey?” asked Emma in a quiet voice.
The others looked at her blankly.
“The pooka—an Irish legend—a benevolent shape-shifting six foot three inch tall invisible rabbit. Guys—the movie Harvey. 1950. James Stewart. Seriously, do you not know anything? You are cinematically challenged.” She was regaining her strength. She looked up at the sky as if for divine guidance to help her relate to these lesser minds.
Ethan looked puzzled. “So...”
“So. It’s Lee ‘Harvey’ Oswald. The invisible rabbit. Maybe that name is simply a code. A cover for a type of programmed assassin created by someone in power. Maybe somewhere there’s a big guy named ‘Harvey’ who’s pulling all the strings—the rabbit puppeteer. There are too many bunny references here to be ignored. Doctor Currant you said that Banister talked of ‘Oswald’ bunnies hopping all the way to Cuba.”
A.C. looked at Emma with sympathy. “We drank quite a bit that night in New Orleans, Emma. I wouldn’t put too much into that rabbit discussion, except that we accidentally found out about Lee Oswald.”
Emma smiled. “Hey, I was the last one to get on this conspiracy bandwagon. You can’t fault me for using my imagination.”
“A thousand robotic rabbits charging up San Juan Hill—at this point I’ll believe anything. We’ve gone down into the rabbit hole of time, and it is a ‘Wonderland’,” said Currant.
“No doubt it’s a conspiracy,” Ethan declared. “Zak’s mute friend. That guy named Ed. He saw the one of the shooters. But who?”
Currant shook his head. “He wasn’t that helpful. I have to believe we will never know who pulled the levers to activate the machine. The designers of the process are no doubt unknown to people at the bottom—Oswald, his ‘twin’, Ferrie, that cop that was killed, all the rest of the bit players, the shooters, the spotters, the radiomen—they’re all encapsulated I’m sure. You could beat them bloody in a torture chamber, and you’ll never find a way to the top.”
“What about an investigation?”
“No doubt there’ll be some kind of investigation and formal cover-up report. But in the past, those have offered minimal disclosure—or none. Someone will take the fall. Maybe one person—maybe several. Expendables. They’ll bury the file in time until there is nobody left who cares.”
“Somebody has to take the fall,” said Emma absentmindedly. “That’s what Bogart said.”
Ethan perked up at the mention of Humphrey Bogart’s name. “What’s that?”
“Oh. Nothing. Just a line from the Maltese Falcon. It’s a movie about a metal bird encrusted with jewels lost in time. Lots of people want it and they end up killing each other in the process.”
“I like Bogey. Anyway it sounds like the American Eagle to me,” said Ethan. “Somebody wanted that bird also and they grabbed it in ’63. But who’s the fall guy here?”
“Gotta’ be Oswald. It’s the same set up as Vallee in Chicago,” said Currant.
Emma jumped in. “I keep thinking maybe we could have stopped it. Maybe we could have done something.”
“Emma. Give it up. Remember, we were guessing about everything. We couldn’t expose ourselves. What could we do? Run out in the street waving our arms, shouting ‘Hey JFK! Duck’.”
“I wish I had,” she said.
“You would be in jail right now instead enjoying these dustbowl delights for lunch. No, we didn’t fail. This had to happen—and it did. It was destiny,” said Ethan. “No one is more frustrated than me.”
“It was a public execution,” said Currant. “Very messy. Very ugly. This was a warning put out by people who feared they were losing control. I think everyone got the message.”
“No changes wanted. No outsider agitators allowed. Stay out. The U.S.A. is our game and we own the ball, the players and all the spectators,” said Emma.
“That’s right. So now we know more about the real history—not just The History. And, we just have to let it be,” said Currant.
At that moment, Zak rounded the corner of the building on the run. He was breathing heavily. He made grunting sounds.
“Sign Zak—sign,” said Emma.
Zak took a deep breath and then signed hectically.
Currant knew it was trouble. He looked to Emma for answers. “What?”
“The plane is coming. It’s landing on the highway,” said Emma translating, her voice full of emotion.
They jumped up and ran around to the front of the building. Up the road, the black and white monoplane shot toward them shuttling along the empty blacktop highway as if it were a winged car. It turned in gently at the parking lot entrance kicking up a cloud of dust. About a hundred feet from them, the pilot revved the engine and spun it around to face the road. A blast of dirty prop wash kicked up. In defense, they hid their faces. The pilot cut the engine and the prop spun to rest in silence—until giving up a final cough. Their world was empty and quiet, except for a soft humming sound that came and went as wind rustled the plane’s taut antenna wire. High above, two black buzzards silently scanned the ground for dead meat. Miniature dust devils scooted about the parking lot. Currant brushed his forehead with the back of his hand, squinted and read the insignia on one of the side doors: Texas Highway Patrol. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath. “Stay cool kids. Don’t move. And don’t say anything.”
Four men exited the plane. The pilot, a tall, skinny, rangy sort, was dressed in a well-pressed uniform of the Highway Patrol. The other three wore plain clothes—one tall, one old, and one scrawny with a mean, hard face. The latter wore a strange outfit—heavy tweed sport coat with fat lapels—a pink short-sleeved golf shirt buttoned to the neck—too-tight blue jeans—and scuffed shoes with pointed toes. His shirt collar stood straight up and out as if it had a mind of its own. He looked like a wayward Frenchman—not quite able to fit in to the “1963 Dress Code Americana”. Currant knew immediately that t
hey were time cops.
As they approached the four time travelers, Currant’s mind spun into a “fight or flight” mode then locked down into a “screw it”’ state of mind. The uniform cop only glanced at them as he passed on his way to the restaurant entrance. He gave a little tip of his cap to Emma. She smiled weakly. The other three drifted behind in single file—Frenchy stayed glum and kept walking. Nearing them, the tall one slowed down and he and the old one stood together facing them. It was like a budget version of one of Emma’s spaghetti Westerns, thought Currant. He could almost hear the music from The Good, Bad and the Ugly playing in the background.
“Howdy buckaroos,” said the old guy as if he meant it.
Currant smiled. “Nice day pilgrim,” said Currant as if he meant it.
The tall one looked over to the Chevy and back. “Nice car. Mind if I take a look?” Without waiting for a response, he drifted over toward the car.
“No problem. Knock yourself out,” said Currant.
The old man moved closer. “Say, you’re a mighty nice looking batch of buckaroos. You remind me of my youth.” He looked into Currant’s eyes. “Captain Bobby R. Sykes, Texas Rangers—didn’t catch your name, friend.”
Currant stayed with his eyes. “Didn’t throw it—but you can call me Doc.”
The old guy smiled broadly, took off his hat and beat it into his knee creating a puff of dust. OK, Doc. Nice knowing ‘ya. How’s the food in this cantina?”
Currant played along. “Best food East of the Pecos.”
“So they say.” He summoned up a silly grin. “Would you all mind if I took a quick snapshot? Something for the wife to see so she doesn’t get the idea that me and my boys are just out eating and drinking all day. She’d be mighty pleased to know that I’ve been talkin’ a pretty little cowgirl like you Miss.”