Cole felt a lump rising in his throat. “Did he really love…” He hesitated. “Andrea Sage?” He couldn’t decide whether to refer to her as Andrea or his mother. The emotional disconnect from her was still strong.
“More than anything, son. He told me it was love at first sight many times. Andrea was a real stunner, I’ll tell you. That’s where you get your looks, not from your father.” Bennett chuckled. “She was an intelligent woman, too. She was all he talked about when we were away on missions. I told you before that he didn’t usually do irrational things, but in Andrea’s case he did, and he never regretted it.” Bennett took a deep breath. “Half of him died the day he found out she’d been murdered. I was there with him. But he realized he had to get on with his life. One way he did that was to start taking a big interest in you, through your aunt.”
Cole gazed toward the Lassiter. “Really?”
“Yes. He knew everything about you. About how you were such a good fly fisherman, how you loved this river, how you were a star football player at the University of Minnesota and a hotshot Wall Street trader after college. He talked to your aunt every few weeks to get an update on you no matter where in the world he was. But he always told her not to let you know he called. I don’t know why he was like that. Maybe he thought it would be easier that way. Maybe he figured he’d been away from you for so long, you would resent him if he tried to speak to you directly. Anyway, I heard every damned detail of those phone conversations. He probably made up a few things, too.” Bennett smiled warmly. “But I enjoyed it. I never had children of my own, so I sort of adopted you from a distance.”
The two men glanced at each other, then quickly looked away.
“How much longer until we reach the mouth of the river?” Bennett asked after several minutes of silence.
“A few more hours.” Cole stood up from the rock on which he had been sitting. “We’d better get going.”
9
Bennett Smith sipped his Jack Daniel’s and gestured at an emblem mounted on the wall behind the bar. It read KRO BAR. Beneath the letters was a large black crow and in its talons was a long metal bar, curved at one end. Bennett elbowed Cole, who sat on an adjacent stool nursing a beer. “I like that,” Bennett remarked, pointing at the emblem again. “A crow holding a crowbar, and the spelling is incorrect in either case just to add a little spice.”
Cole smiled. Bennett was slurring his words.
“It’s like life,” Bennett continued. “There are always two sides to every story. It’s always a guessing game. This place could be named for the bird or the hunk of metal it’s holding. I bet if you asked the owner what he named the place for, he’d give you a different answer depending on the day.”
Cole laughed loudly. The pearls of wisdom had continued all the way down the river that afternoon. There was one every few minutes, and he had enjoyed them all. He glanced at Bennett, an imposing man with that tall, broad build and the unkempt shock of curly yellow hair. A man of above-average intelligence, Cole judged. No rocket scientist, but someone who seemed to possess more important qualities than a sky-high IQ. Qualities like sincerity, honesty and loyalty.
They had reached the mouth of the Lassiter at Lake Superior around five, as darkness was beginning to fall over the territory. Then they had hitchhiked back to the Lassiter headwaters to retrieve their vehicles, eaten at the Erdman Diner across State 7—the lonely road connecting the tiny town of Hubbard to the outside world—and afterward walked across the road to the Kro Bar for drinks. Bennett had turned out to be excellent company. In between the pearls of wisdom, he had continued to answer questions about Jim Egan and Andrea Sage. The more alcohol Bennett consumed, the more Cole learned, and everything was good. Cole’s bitterness over being abandoned was dulling with each answer—and each beer.
“This place is starting to get crowded,” Cole observed, raising his voice as someone fed quarters into the jukebox and the first selection began to play. It was after nine-fifteen. When they had first arrived after their meal of homemade stew across the road at the Erdman Diner, the place was almost deserted. Now it was packed with locals from all corners of Oswego County. Cole turned back toward Bennett. “Bennett, you have an interesting way of looking at life.” Cole heard himself slurring a word or two as well.
“I’ll take that as a compliment, son,” he said, winking at Cole.
“As you should,” Cole assured him.
Bennett finished his whiskey, caught the eye of the scraggly-haired bartender and ordered another drink for himself and another beer for Cole. “I don’t usually say things like this, but I really enjoyed coming down the river with you today, Cole. It was like being with your father again.”
“Thanks.” Those words meant a great deal to Cole.
“I’ve missed him.”
“Me too.”
“Hey, you’re hell with that paddle.” Bennett changed the subject quickly. The conversation was becoming too personal. “I couldn’t follow you into some of those rapids. I never like to take the easy way out of anything, but a couple of times I had to bail out into the calmer side channels. I would have tipped over if I’d followed you through the white water. But I should have known you were good. Your father said you spent a lot of time on the Lassiter growing up. At least that’s what his sister told him.”
“I did spend a lot of time here. I was on the river almost every weekend in the summer when I was in high school and college.”
The bartender returned with the drinks and without a word snatched the twenty-dollar bill Bennett had put down on the bar.
“People aren’t too friendly around here,” Bennett observed.
“Don’t worry,” Cole said. In all his years on the Lassiter he’d never had a problem with the locals. “They won’t give you any trouble.” He finished his beer, pushed the empty glass across the sticky bar and picked up the full one the man had just delivered. “You know, you still haven’t answered one of the questions I asked you on the river today.”
Bennett watched a young woman drag her partner out onto the empty dance floor. She wore a tight top, tight jeans and cowboy boots. Around her delicate neck hung a red bandanna, knotted at the front. “Oh?” he asked aimlessly. “What question was that?”
“When you called me on the trading floor you said you were delivering the envelope ‘for the agency.’ But it was really for my father. Why did you mention the agency?”
“There were no individuals at the DIA. We were trained to think as a team. When I mentioned the agency it was a slip of the tongue. It was what we always said.”
“Mmm.” Cole took a sip from the next beer as he too watched the young woman with the red bandanna move to the music. Other women had stepped onto the floor, but she was by far the prettiest, and the best dancer. “Bennett, you said you always believed there was more than one shooter in Dealey Plaza.”
“Yes, I did.”
“What do you base that on?”
“Three things. The pristine bullet, Houston Street, and Jack Ruby.” He listed his reasons quickly. “As I said before, I don’t believe the pristine bullet went through Kennedy and Connally. One bullet certainly could have done the damage—there was no ‘magic’ involved. With Connally turned in his seat, the two men were lined up perfectly if you really study the Zapruder film. But the bullet would have lost a lot more than three grains. Somebody was trying to manipulate something there.”
“You mentioned Houston Street,” Cole prompted.
“Yes. If the assassin in the Depository building had been the only shooter, he would have gone for Kennedy as the limousine was coming at him on Houston, not as it was moving away from him on Elm. He would have had an unobstructed shot when the limousine was on Houston. But with the limousine on Elm Street, someone in the sniper’s nest on the sixth floor of the Depository building would have had to fire through the tree branches of a live oak. They wa
ited until Kennedy was on Elm so that all the assassins would be able to fire at Kennedy simultaneously. So that they could trap him in a crossfire.”
Bennett drew himself up on the barstool. “And the Jack Ruby thing is ridiculous. I don’t care how distraught you are over the assassination, you don’t kill the accused that way, on national television in front of millions of people. I was standing right next to your father as they brought Oswald out of the Dallas Police and Courts Building. Ruby jumped out and shot him before anyone could do anything. It was so public. That action doesn’t make sense unless you owe someone big-time, which Ruby did, and you’re dying of cancer, which he was. He was repaying a debt. I’m convinced of that.” Bennett took another swallow of whiskey. “I know a lot of people say Jack Ruby had no idea when Oswald was coming out, which would indicate that the murder wasn’t premeditated and that Ruby was simply being opportunistic. But I don’t buy that argument. I think the murder was carefully planned and that Oswald was executed. Jack Ruby had lots of friends on the Dallas police force. I saw him around the station all the time myself. He could have easily found out when they were bringing Oswald out to transport him. There’s no doubt about it.”
“But Oswald requested a change of clothing right before he was transported,” Cole pointed out. “If he hadn’t asked for the change of clothes, he would have been gone long before Ruby ever got there, because Ruby had just made it to the scene.”
Bennett lifted an eyebrow. The kid wasn’t getting it. “You read that in a book, right?”
“Yes,” Cole said hesitantly. Then it hit him.
“Try this on for size instead,” Bennett said. “What if it was really the other way around? What if one of the deputies ordered Oswald to change clothes at the last minute?”
“To give Ruby time to get there,” Cole finished the thought.
“Exactly. See, you have no idea where that author you read got his information. Even if the author had all the best intentions—which he might not have had, depending on who he was—he had no way of really knowing whether his source was telling him the truth or was leading him astray. Maybe the author’s source was telling the truth, as far as the source knew, but the source’s source was paid off. Maybe the trail goes back several iterations so no one can ever find the truth. It’s beautiful.”
It could so easily be the case, Cole thought to himself. “Why is there such fascination with President Kennedy’s assassination, Bennett?” Cole asked.
Bennett gazed at the Kro Bar emblem on the wall behind the bar. “Because there’s never been anything bigger than his assassination to hit this country. Almost everyone over the age of forty remembers exactly where they were the instant they heard Kennedy was shot, or at least they say they do. Some people can’t remember proposing marriage, or being proposed to, but they can remember every detail about being told Kennedy had been shot. And everyone under forty has heard so much about the assassination that they naturally consider it to be one of the most important events ever.” He took another sip of Jack Daniel’s. “The assassination marked the end of innocence for us all. It was a watershed event in our history. The world went downhill from then on. Drug abuse became prevalent, Vietnam poisoned us, Martin Luther King was killed and a second Kennedy was too.” Bennett ticked off the events on his thick fingers. “And the media didn’t protect us after the assassination. They started reporting everything in graphic detail. The idyllic fifties were gone forever. After the killing shot tore through John Kennedy’s head, we couldn’t hide from the reality around us any longer. We had to accept it because it was right there every day on the front page of the morning paper and on the evening news. First Kennedy’s murder, then Oswald’s. The king was dead, and so was the patsy.”
Cole had been waiting all day for the right moment to ask this question and he sensed the time was now. “Do you think my father was asked to join the DIA so they could watch him—that DIA operation you were talking about, I mean? I know you said you two weren’t part of the operation, but if it did exist, having him in the DIA certainly would have made it easier to monitor him and control what he did. Do you think maybe the senior people thought there was truth to what Andrea Sage claimed and, by getting my father to join the DIA, they could keep a close eye on him?”
Bennett rubbed his lips as he stared down the whiskey glass. Slowly he began to nod. “Yes, your father and I always thought that. And we figured they wanted me to join as well because they knew your father and I were such close friends. They figured he might have said something to me about the film—although, as I’ve told you, he didn’t.”
“You said my father died in Colombia forty-seven days ago.”
“That’s right.”
“How did he die?”
Bennett shook his head. “I told you before. I can’t say anything about that, because it involves a covert operation that is ongoing. I would put people at risk if I gave you any details about his death. The other things I’ve told you are simply speculations about the past by your father and me. Still, if we were correct about those things, I wouldn’t care if I did put those people at risk.”
“You’re certain my father died in Colombia?”
“Positive. I buried him next to a river in a grave I dug myself.” Bennett could see that Cole was having a difficult time accepting his father’s death. “I know it isn’t easy to deal with, son, but you need to.”
“But the death certificate was signed in Texas,” Cole protested.
“Yeah,” Bennett said softly. “As you pointed out before, I can usually overcome little details.”
“I see.”
“It’s an awful thing, and ironic too.”
“What are you talking about?” Cole asked.
“Colombia was our last mission. We were going to retire when it was over.” Bennett stirred his drink with his finger. “So how is that girl you brought out here on the plane?”
Cole glanced up. He hadn’t mentioned Nicki to Bennett.
Bennett saw Cole’s surprise. “Intelligence. It’s my business, son, remember? I know you lived with her. I know about the explosion in your apartment that killed her friend. It’s always a shame when an innocent bystander dies.”
Cole said nothing.
“You care about Nicki, don’t you?”
Cole stared down at his beer. Yes, he cared. But no, he’d never actually said so. Perhaps that Wall Builder nickname Nicki had tagged him with so long ago was accurate after all, much as he hated to admit it. He suddenly realized how hard he had been working all his life to erect emotional barriers to protect himself from being hurt again. It was better not to care so much, better not to let people get to you. Then if they abandoned you and left you with your aunt and uncle, the pain wouldn’t be so bad.
“Yes, I do care about Nicki. She’s a wonderful woman. She’s beautiful, smart and sincere.” He closed his eyes tightly. “And she’s going to hate me if she finds out I’m responsible for her friend’s death.”
“You weren’t responsible for the explosion, Cole.”
“I should have anticipated the danger. I should have made certain no one went back to the apartment.”
Bennett steered the conversation in a different direction. “You told me earlier you never blamed your father for leaving you with your aunt and uncle. But you did, didn’t you?”
“Maybe.” Cole started to say something more, then stopped.
“What is it, son?”
“Yeah, I felt abandoned, as if I wasn’t wanted, but I dealt with that. But there’s something else, too. There’s the not knowing what you’re supposed to be like. Other kids can look at their fathers and see how they react in certain situations and how they approach life. I never could.”
“You had your uncle.”
“It’s different. That’s why he’s called an uncle.”
“Maybe not having your father around wa
s an advantage,” Bennett offered. “You had no preconceived notions about what you were supposed to be or how you were supposed to act. Maybe that actually helped you achieve what you have achieved.”
Cole laughed out loud.
“What?” Bennett asked.
“Like I’ve achieved so much, Bennett.” He was becoming sardonic, which was a sure sign that the alcohol was taking effect. “I’m as good as bankrupt and I—”
“What are you talking about?” Bennett interrupted.
Cole took another large swallow of beer. Suddenly the combination of the alcohol and the stress of the last few days overwhelmed him, and he felt like unloading in a way he never had before. Maybe Nicki was right. Maybe it made sense to seek emotional support in certain situations.
“I enjoyed some success on the Gilchrist trading floor the first few years I was there. Nothing earth-shattering, but enough for the senior people to take notice and throw me some pretty good cash at bonus time in January. I thought making money would always be that easy, so I went out and bought a big penthouse with a meager down payment and a big mortgage. I bought at the top of the Manhattan real estate boom. I was living large, living the dream. Then suddenly it wasn’t so easy. The trades went away from me and I lost a ton of money. It happened that fast.” Cole snapped his fingers. “I didn’t get a bonus last year and I probably won’t get one this year either. As anyone on Wall Street will tell you, a trader’s salary is peanuts. You live and die by your bonus. Now I can’t meet my mortgage payments, and I can’t sell the place because the real estate market has tanked and the price I’d get wouldn’t cover the mortgage. And my credit cards are just about maxed out.” He didn’t bother telling Bennett about his gambling debt at the Blue Moon. “But it’ll work out.” His sarcastic tone became sharper.
The Legacy Page 11
