Last Witness

by Glen Carter

  Jack had a hell of a time fitting it all into one hour. And while it played on millions of televisions around the world, he was headed home. To Bark Island. To Kaitlin. The network had provided a helicopter and, before dark, he’d spot the lighthouse that had always been his beacon to the things that mattered most.

  He thought again about his documentary and the impact it would have. There would be doubters and critics, yes. But there always were. It didn’t matter to Jack that he would be labeled a liar and a fraud. What mattered was the story had finally been told, thanks in large part to a man named Ed Malloy, to whom the documentary was dedicated. To him and Helena.

  “Over the next sixty minutes, I’ll be taking you on an unbelievable journey that begins with the assassination of a president on November 22nd, 1963. We’ve been told a lot about the murder of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, but we were not told everything. In the decades since that tragic day, America has had its share of fact and fiction,myth and misinformation.The truth is, the JFK story continues to be written— part heinous crime, part frustrating, never-ending mystery.Until now.”

  The shot tightened on Jack, a slow zoom. “What you are about to see and hear will lay to rest forever the official finding that Lee Harvey Oswald was the only gunman in Dealey Plaza. But more shockingly—what we will present to you is undeniable proof that the evil which spawned the murder of John Fitzgerald Kennedy was the same evil behind the attempted assassinations of President Frederick Denton and President Pilious Ortega in Havana, Cuba.”

  The shot was all the way in now. Just a head and shoulders. Jack paused. “We know what the record says about Dealey Plaza. Tonight, that record will change, forever. And, it all begins, perhaps where it should have started so long ago.With the last witness.”

  EPILOGUE

  Kaitlin watched Tommy as he carried the last of his tools from the house, threw them in the back of his truck, and slapped the sides of his coveralls.Thank goodness for Tommy Shanks. Sweet Tommy who had rescued her husband from renovation hell. Tommy had a kind heart and a single mindedness in applying it.

  “Sure you won’t stay for dinner?” Kaitlin called out from the garden. “Steaks have been marinating all day. Lots of beer in the fridge.”

  Beer and steaks. Normally an invitation that brought a smile to Tommy’s face, especially at the end of a long hard day. The wall separating the master suite and the spare bedroom where Helena Storozhenko once slept was gone. Tommy had done a wonderful job at the finishing work, which included a new maple floor and cove mouldings. A couple of coats of paint and Kaitlin would be happily furnishing the new space with antiques that fit the character of the house, including a settee and dresser that had been in her family for more than a hundred years. She was praying Jack was a better painter than carpenter.

  Tommy brushed the dust from his hair. “Thirsty work alright and sure as hell that husband of yours owes me a nice rib steak. But got a date.”

  Kaitlin smiled, genuinely happy for her friend. Tommy was quite good looking in a boyish blond way, though he was certainly no lady’s man. In fact, it was a rare event when Mr. Shanks was seen in the company of a female. “Promise a raincheck if you’ll tell me who the lucky gal is.”Kaitlin was instantly certain Tommy wouldn’t know what a rain check was. So much about this kind man was endearing to her, including his naiveté.

  Tommy gave her a conspiratorial grin. “Up to hang a new door for the Kraut Ostheim last week. She got a visitor from…” His eyebrows bunched together, “Dossendorf. Her niece from Dossendorf.”

  “Düsseldorf, Tommy.”

  “What? Youmet her too?”

  Kaitlin simply shook her head.

  “Name’s Ursula,” Tommy continued. “Knows pretty good English which is great cause I don’t speak any Nazi. She says I remind her of some soccer player from back home. In Dossildorp.”

  Kaitlin wondered where he’d gotten the courage to ask Ursula out and decided it was likely Ursula who had done the asking. Kaitlin also knew language wouldn’t be a problem because Tommy could be sweet and attentive without need of words. “Well, Tommy, she’s probably a wonderful girl if she’s Adelita’s niece. I’m sure you’ll have a great time, and it’ll give you a chance to brush up on your German.”

  “Yeah,German,” Tommy replied. “Anyway, gotta get goin. Oh, and you might wanna get in there. Jack’s thinking about getting out the paint brush.”With that Tommy jumped in his truck, waved, and drove off.

  Kaitlin heard the shower when she walked into the house. She was grateful Jack had put a hold on painting since the vapours would have meant a night on the couch for her. She went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The steaks were swimming in thick syrupy sauce and for a wavy moment her stomach somersaulted. She was unusually tired, even though it had been weeks since the impromptu broadcast from Air Force One. Walter had told her to take some time, which was his way of saying nicely done, O’Rourke. Indeed, the news conference had gone well. Really damn well. The two leaders had signed the accord and for ten incredible minutes Kaitlin had played ringmaster for a world audience, deftly alternating between presidential speeches and her journalist’s narrative.Through all of it, Jack beamed from the sidelines.

  Even M.J. Dumont, in a display of gender solidarity, had given her a warm hug and invited them to lunch as they left the presidential aircraft. A couple of weeks later, they visited Ed Malloy’s grave. Jack knelt and said a few quiet words. His thanks, and his goodbye.

  At that moment, Kaitlin was thinking about dinner and decided she’d have fish instead tonight. Ten minutes later she was paying for a fillet of fresh halibut at Donegal’smarket. On her way home she stopped at the drugstore where she picked up a few items. When she walked back into the house she heard music coming from the back deck. Jack was just coming in from the barbeque. “Got your note,” he said kissing her on the cheek. “I’ll have the other steak with breakfast.” He took her halibut and dropped it on a plate, and after collecting a beer from the fridge he walked out, humming to the music.

  Kaitlin picked up her drugstore items and headed upstairs to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later she returned to the kitchen to find Jack fiddling with silverware and candles. Two steaming plates were cosily arranged on the table along with a bottle of chilled white wine and a platter of grilled vegetables. Jack had already poured, and after setting the forks and knives, he reached for Kaitlin’s chair. “My lady,” he said in a perfect cockney accent.

  They both sat and after breathing deeply the aroma of good food, Jack raised his glass. “To Kaitlin O’Rourke and her first Emmy for live reporting.”

  “You’re an optimist, darling,” she smiled. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”

  “A realist,” he said. “And I adore your modesty.”

  Jack sipped his wine and noticed she wasn’t. “Anything wrong with the vintage?”

  Kaitlin stared out the window. In the distance a pair of minke whales breached the surface of the calm dark water. A third, smaller orca bobbed up between them and in the gathering dusk it rolled playfully aside its parents.

  Kaitlin placed a hand on her tummy. “The vintage is fine,” she said softly, the candle’s flame sparkling in her eyes. “In fact,my love, everything is perfect.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  MY THANKS TO THE many whose encouragement helped propel this novel from its very beginning.Once again,my appreciation to the fine crew at Breakwater Books and, in particular, managing editor James Langer whose careful eye and sound counsel helped to shape and polish the final manuscript. I am also grateful to Gary Mack, curator for the Sixth Floor Museum at Dealey Plaza, for his background information on the men and women whose photographs and film are the historical record of the assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. It is fact that one of those photographers was never located. To this day, she remains a mystery, as are the photograph(s) she may have snapped on November 22, 1963. We may never know what really happened that day, but by heaping fiction upon fact, we can br
ing a tantalizing answer to the tormenting question:

  What if?

  GLEN CARTER is an award-winning journalist who has spent more than thirty years in the high-pressure world of television news. He has covered everything from national politics and crime to world leaders and deadly disasters. His first novel, Angels of Maradona, was published by Breakwater Books in 2008.