by Stephen King
I turned off the TV, returned to the sofa, and opened Al's book. As I flipped to the back, I kept seeing that double take. And the grin. A sense of humor; a sense of the absurd. The man in the sixth-floor window of the Book Depository had neither. Oswald had proved it time and again, and such a man had no business changing history.
10
I was dismayed to find that five of the last six pages in Al's notebook dealt with Lee's movements in New Orleans and his fruitless efforts to get to Cuba via Mexico. Only the last page focused on the lead-up to the assassination, and those final notes were perfunctory. Al had no doubt had that part of the story by heart, and probably figured that if I hadn't gotten Oswald by the third week of November, it was going to be too late.
10/3/63: O back in Texas. He and Marina "sort of" separated. She at Ruth Paine's house, O shows up mostly on weekends. Ruth gets O a job at Book Dep thru a neighbor (Buell Frazier). Ruth calls O "a fine young man."
O living in Dallas during the work-week. Rooming house.
10/17/63: O starts work at Dep. Shifting books, unloading trucks, etc.
10/18/63: O turns 24. Ruth and Marina give him a surprise party. O thanks them. Cries.
10/20/63: 2nd daughter born: Audrey Rachel. Ruth takes Marina to hosp (Parkland) while O works. Rifle stored in Paine garage, wrapped in blanket.
O repeatedly visited by FBI agent James Hosty. Stokes his paranoia.
11/21/63: O comes to Paine house. Begs Marina to reunite. M refuses. Last straw for O.
11/22/63: O leaves all his money on dresser for Marina. Also wedding ring. Goes from Irving to Book Dep with Buell Frazier. Has package wrapped in brown paper. Buell asks about it. "Curtain rods for my new apartment," O tells him. Mann-Carc rifle probably disassembled. Buell parks in public lot 2 blocks from Book Dep. 3-min walk.
11:50 AM: O constructs sniper's nest on SE corner of 6th floor, using cartons to shield him from workers on other side, who are laying down plywood for new floor. Lunch. No one there but him. Everyone watching for Pres.
11:55 AM: O assembles & loads Mann-Carc.
12:29 PM: Motorcade arrives Dealey Plaza.
12:30 PM: O shoots 3 times. 3rd shot kills JFK.
The piece of information I most wanted--the location of Oswald's rooming house--wasn't in Al's notes. I restrained an urge to throw the notebook across the room. Instead I got up, put on my coat, and went outside. It was nearly full dark, but a three-quarter moon was rising in the sky. By its light I saw Mr. Kenopensky slumped in his wheelchair. His Motorola was in his lap.
I made my way down the ramp and limped over. "Mr. K? All right?"
For a moment he didn't answer or even move, and I was sure he was dead. Then he looked up and smiled. "Just listenin to my music, son. They play swing at night on KMAT, and it really takes me back. I could lindy and bunny-hop like nobody's biz back in the old days, though you'd never know to look at me now. Ain't the moon purty?"
It was bigtime purty. We looked at it awhile without speaking, and I thought about the job I had to do. Maybe I didn't know where Lee was staying tonight, but I knew where his rifle was: Ruth Paine's garage, wrapped in a blanket. Suppose I went there and took it? I might not even have to break in. This was the Land of Ago, where folks in the hinterlands often didn't lock their houses, let alone their garages.
Only what if Al was wrong? He'd been wrong about the stash-point before the Walker attempt, after all. Even if it was there . . .
"What're you thinkin about, son?" Mr. Kenopensky asked. "You got a misery look. Not girl trouble, I hope."
"No." At least not yet. "Do you give advice?"
"Yessir, I do. It's the one thing old coots are good for when they can't swing a rope or ride a line no more."
"Suppose you knew a man was going to do a bad thing. That his heart was absolutely set on it. If you stopped a man like that once--talked him out of it, say--do you think he'd try it again, or does that moment pass forever?"
"Hard to say. Are you maybe thinking whoever scarred your young lady's face is going to come back and try to finish the job?"
"Something like that."
"Crazy fella." It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
"Sane men will often take a hint," Mr. Kenopensky said. "Crazy men rarely do. Saw it often back in the sagebrush days, before electric lights and phones. Warn em off, they come back. Beat em up, they hit from ambush--first you, then the one they're really after. Jug em up in county, they sit and wait to get out. Safest thing to do with crazy men is put em in the penitentiary for a long stretch. Or kill em."
"That's what I think, too."
"Don't let him back to spoil the rest of her pretty, if that's what he aims to do. If you care for her as much as you seem to, you've got a responsibility."
I certainly did, although Clayton was no longer the problem. I went back to my little modular apartment, made strong black coffee, and sat down with a legal pad. My plan was a little clearer now, and I wanted to start fleshing in the details.
I doodled instead. Then fell asleep.
When I woke up it was almost midnight and my cheek ached where it had been pressed against the checked oilcloth covering the kitchen table. I looked at what was on my pad. I didn't know if I'd drawn it before going to sleep or if I had wakened long enough to do it and just couldn't remember.
It was a gun. Not a Mannlicher-Carcano rifle, but a pistol. My pistol. The one I'd tossed beneath the porch steps at 214 West Neely. It was probably still there. I hoped it was still there.
I was going to need it.
11
11/19/63 (Tuesday)
Sadie called in the morning and said Deke was a little better, but she intended to make him stay home tomorrow, as well. "Otherwise he'll just try to come in, and have a setback. But I'll pack my bag before I leave for school tomorrow morning and head your way as soon as period six is over."
Period six ended at ten past one. That meant I'd have to be gone from Eden Fallows by four o'clock tomorrow afternoon at the latest. If only I knew where. "I look forward to seeing you."
"You sound all stiff and funny. Are you having one of your headaches?"
"A little one," I said. It was true.
"Go lie down with a damp cloth over your eyes."
"I'll do that." I had no intention of doing that.
"Have you thought of anything?"
I had, as a matter of fact. I'd thought that taking Lee's rifle wasn't enough. And shooting him at the Paine house was a bad option. Not just because I'd probably be caught, either. Counting Ruth's two, there were four kids in that house. I might still have tried it if Lee had been walking from a nearby bus stop, but he'd be riding with Buell Frazier, the neighbor who'd gotten him the job at Ruth Paine's request.
"No," I said. "Not yet."
"We'll think of something. You wait and see."
12
I drove (still slowly, but with increasing confidence) across town to West Neely, wondering what I'd do if the ground-floor apartment was occupied. Buy a new gun, I supposed . . . but the .38 Police Special was the one I wanted, if only because I'd had one just like it in Derry, and that mission had been a success.
According to newscaster Frank Blair on the Today show, Kennedy had moved on to Miami, where he was greeted by a large crowd of cubanos. Some held up signs reading VIVA JFK while others carried a banner reading KENNEDY IS A TRAITOR TO OUR CAUSE. If nothing changed, he had seventy-two hours left. Oswald, who had only slightly longer, would be in the Book Depository, perhaps loading cartons into one of the freight elevators, maybe in the break room drinking coffee.
I might be able to get him there--just walk up to him and plug him--but I'd be collared and wrestled to the floor. After the killshot, if I was lucky. Before, if I wasn't. Either way, the next time I saw Sadie Dunhill it would be through glass reinforced with chickenwire. If I had to give myself up in order to stop Oswald--to sacrifice myself, in hero-speak--I thought I could do that. But I didn't want it to play out that wa
y. I wanted Sadie and my poundcake, too.
There was a pot barbecue on the lawn at 214 West Neely, and a new rocking chair on the porch, but the shades were drawn and there was no car in the driveway. I parked in front, told myself that bold is beautiful, and mounted the steps. I stood where Marina had stood on April tenth when she came to visit me and knocked as she had knocked. If someone answered the door, I'd be Frank Anderson, canvassing the neighborhood on behalf of the Encyclopaedia Britannica (I was too old for Grit). If the lady of the house expressed an interest, I'd promise to come back with my sample case tomorrow.
No one answered. Maybe the lady of the house also worked. Maybe she was down the block, visiting a neighbor. Maybe she was in the bedroom that had been mine not long ago, sleeping off a drunk. It was mix-nox to me, as we say in the Land of Ago. The place was quiet, that was the important thing, and the sidewalk was deserted. Even Mrs. Alberta Hitchinson, the walker-equipped neighborhood sentry, wasn't in evidence.
I descended from the porch in my limping sidesaddle fashion, started down the walk, turned as if I'd forgotten something, and peered under the steps. The .38 was there, half-buried in leaves with the short barrel poking out. I got down on my good knee, snagged it, and dropped it into the side pocket of my sport coat. I looked around and saw no one watching. I limped to my car, put the gun in the glove compartment, and drove away.
13
Instead of going back to Eden Fallows, I drove into downtown Dallas, stopping at a sporting goods store on the way to buy a gun-cleaning kit and a box of fresh ammo. The last thing I wanted was to have the .38 misfire or blow up in my face.
My next stop was the Adolphus. There were no rooms available until next week, the doorman told me--every hotel in Dallas was full for the president's visit--but for a dollar tip, he was more than happy to park my car in the hotel lot. "Have to be gone by four, though. That's when the heavy check-ins start."
By then it was noon. It was only three or four blocks to Dealey Plaza, but I took my sweet time getting there. I was tired, and my headache was worse in spite of a Goody's Powder. Texans drive with their horns, and every blast dug into my brain. I rested often, leaning against the sides of buildings and standing on my good leg like a heron. An off-duty taxi driver asked if I was okay; I assured him that I was. It was a lie. I was distraught and miserable. A man with a bum knee really shouldn't have to carry the future of the world on his back.
I dropped my grateful butt onto the same bench where I'd sat in 1960, only days after arriving in Dallas. The elm that had shaded me then clattered bare branches today. I stretched out my aching knee, sighed with relief, then turned my attention to the ugly brick cube of the Book Depository. The windows overlooking Houston and Elm Streets glittered in the chilly afternoon sun. We know a secret, they said. We're going to be famous, especially the one on the southeast corner of the sixth floor. We're going to be famous, and you can't stop us. A sense of stupid menace surrounded the building. And was it just me who thought so? I watched several people cross Elm to pass the building on the other side and thought not. Lee was inside that cube right now, and I was sure he was thinking many of the things I was thinking. Can I do this? Will I do this? Is it my destiny?
Robert's not your brother anymore, I thought. Now I'm your brother, Lee, your brother of the gun. You just don't know it.
Behind the Depository, in the trainyard, an engine hooted. A flock of band-tailed pigeons took wing. They momentarily whirled above the Hertz sign on the roof of the Depository, then wheeled away toward Fort Worth.
If I killed him before the twenty-second, Kennedy would be saved but I'd almost certainly wind up in jail or a psychiatric hospital for twenty or thirty years. But if I killed him on the twenty-second? Perhaps as he assembled his rifle?
Waiting until so late in the game would be a terrible risk, and one I'd tried with all my might to avoid, but I thought it could be done and was now probably my best chance. It would be safer with a partner to help me run my game, but there was only Sadie, and I wouldn't involve her. Not even, I realized bleakly, if it meant that Kennedy had to die or I had to go to prison. She had been hurt enough.
I began making my slow way back to the hotel to get my car. I took one final glance back at the Book Depository over my shoulder. It was looking at me. I had no doubt of it. And of course it was going to end there, I'd been foolish to imagine anything else. I had been driven toward that brick hulk like a cow down a slaughterhouse chute.
14
11/20/63 (Wednesday)
I started awake at dawn from some unremembered dream, my heart beating hard.
She knows.
Knows what?
That you've been lying to her about all the things you claim not to remember.
"No," I said. My voice was rusty with sleep.
Yes. She was careful to say she was leaving after period six, because she doesn't want you to know she's planning to leave much sooner. She doesn't want you to know until she shows up. In fact, she might be on the road already. You'll be halfway through your morning therapy session, and in she'll breeze.
I didn't want to believe this, but it felt like a foregone conclusion.
So where was I going to go? As I sat there on the bed in that Wednesday morning's first light, that also seemed like a foregone conclusion. It was as if my subconscious mind had known all along. The past has resonance, it echoes.
But first I had one more chore to perform on my used typewriter. An unpleasant one.
15
November 20, 1963
Dear Sadie,
I have been lying to you. I think you've suspected
that for quite some time now. I think you're planning to show up early today. That is why you won't see me again until after JFK visits Dallas the day after tomorrow.
If things go as I hope, we'll have a long and happy life together in a different place. It will be strange to you at first, but I think you'll get used to it. I'll help you. I love you, and that's why I can't let you be a part of this.
Please believe in me, please be patient, and please
don't be surprised if you read my name and see my picture in the papers--if things go as I want them to,
that will probably happen. Above all, do not try to find me.
All my love,
Jake
PS: You should burn this.
16
I packed my life as George Amberson into the trunk of my gull-wing Chevy, tacked a note for the therapist on the door, and drove away feeling heavy and homesick. Sadie left Jodie even earlier than I'd thought she might--before dawn. I departed Eden Fallows at nine. She pulled her Beetle up to the curb at quarter past, read the note canceling the therapy session, and let herself in with the key I'd given her. Propped against the typewriter's roller-bar was an envelope with her name on it. She tore it open, read the letter, sat down on the sofa in front of the blank television, and cried. She was still crying when the therapist showed up . . . but she had burned the note, as I requested.
17
Mercedes Street was mostly silent under an overcast sky. The jump-rope girls weren't in evidence--they'd be in school, perhaps listening raptly as their teacher told them all about the upcoming presidential visit--but the FOR RENT sign was once more tacked to the rickety porch railing, as I'd expected. There was a phone number. I drove down to the Montgomery Ward warehouse parking lot and called it from the booth near the loading dock. I had no doubt that the man who answered with a laconic "Yowp, this is Merritt" was the same guy who had rented 2703 to Lee and Marina. I could still see his Stetson hat and gaudy stitched boots.
I told him what I wanted, and he laughed in disbelief. "I don't rent by the week. That's a fine home there, podna."
"It's a dump," I said. "I've been inside. I know."
"Now wait just a doggone--"
"Nosir, you wait. I'll give you fifty bucks to squat in that hole through the weekend. That's almost a full month's rent, and you can put your sign back in the window
come Monday."
"Why would you--"
"Because Kennedy's coming and every hotel in Dallas-Fort Worth is full. I drove a long way to see him, and I don't intend to camp out in Fair Park or on Dealey Plaza."
I heard the click and flare of a cigarette lighter as Merritt thought this over.
"Time's wasting," I said. "Tick-tock."
"What's your name, podna?"
"George Amberson." I sort of wished I'd moved in without calling at all. I almost had, but a visit from the Fort Worth PD was the last thing I needed. I doubted if the residents of a street where chickens were sometimes blown up to celebrate holidays gave much of a shit about squatters, but better safe than sorry. I was no longer just walking around the house of cards; I was living in it.
"I'll meet you out front in half an hour, forty-five minutes."
"I'll be inside," I said. "I have a key."
More silence. Then: "Where'd you get it?"
I had no intention of peaching on Ivy, even if she was still in Mozelle. "From Lee. Lee Oswald. He gave it to me so I could go in and water his plants."
"That little pissant had plants?"
I hung up and drove back to 2703. My temporary landlord, perhaps motivated by curiosity, arrived in his Chrysler only fifteen minutes later. He was wearing his Stetson and fancy boots. I was sitting in the front room, listening to the argumentative ghosts of people who were still living. They had a lot to say.
Merritt wanted to pump me about Oswald--was he really a damn commanist? I said no, he was a good old Louisiana boy who worked at a place that would overlook the president's motorcade on Friday. I said I hoped that Lee would let me share his vantage point.
"Fuckin Kennedy!" Merritt nearly shouted. "Now he's a commanist for sure. Somebody ought to shoot that sumbitch til he cain't wiggle."
"You have a nice day, now," I said, opening the door.
He went, but he wasn't happy about it. This was a fellow who was used to having tenants kowtow and cringe. He turned on the cracked and crumbling concrete walk. "You leave the place as nice as you found it, now, y'hear?"
