by W. Green
Currant thought about his confrontation with Ferrie in New Orleans. If somehow JFK survived, David Ferrie might assume that Currant and his gang of junior reporters broke up the scheme. And, he might risk resuming his relationship with Patrick. Currant knew he could not rely only on his attempted intimidation of Ferrie. Therefore he had a couple of other plans in place. Neither plan involved killing Ferrie. Currant was not a killer, and that certainly was not the smartest approach. He had chosen a more subtle resolution. While in New Orleans, he had hired a private detective. The man would watch Ferrie to make sure he had no additional contact with Patrick. If there was even one such contact, his mother would get an anonymous telephone call telling her that Ferrie was a dangerous pedophile—she should keep Patrick away from him at all costs. Lastly, the same detective had provided him with photostats of Ferrie’s earlier arrest records on morals charges. These he mailed to his mother without explanation or sender identification before leaving New Orleans. This was risky. He preferred not to interfere with his family’s history anymore than absolutely necessary. He knew the alteration of historical human events required a light touch. For some reason, he believed Ferrie would stick by their bargain. After today—after JFK—he assumed Ferrie would want to maintain a very low profile—no more morals arrests. Currant was comfortable that he had done everything that could be done for Patrick.
The sun beat down on A.C.’s head, slowly distilling his thoughts into an almost alcoholic brain brew. His mind drifted like a rudderless boat in choppy waters. He wondered about Emma, Ethan and Zak. He wanted them safe too. Actually, he wished he could keep them away from the maelstrom that was soon to be upon this peaceful place. But that would not happen. They were dedicated to saving JFK—even at the risk of revealing the truth of their existence here in Dallas, Texas, U.S.A. 1963. He had drilled into their heads the dangers of being exposed, the danger of altering events, but even as he warned them, he had thoughts of his own need to save his brother. Changing history was a tempting proposition for young and old alike—Ethan wanted JFK alive—Emma wanted to make the world a better place—and he wanted his brother to have a life. They were time travelers for a reason—not just time tourists. They all wanted a better world. A universal desire, thought Currant—a noble quest—but each man’s ideal world was different. Each bet on his own horse in every race. There could only be one winner—except for a ‘dead heat’. Even that was an unsatisfactory outcome. Nobody wanted to just run a good race. Every life was a one-time wager—most people wanted to win. But there would be other races. Babies born—lives lived—lives expired. The human race continued.
A dark shadow fell upon him. Uneasy, Currant sensed someone near him. Death was in the air. He looked up to his left. The sun formed a bright halo around the head of a man. His face was dark and shaded. He wore eyeglasses. His black hair was tucked into a dark gray beret. He was tall and thin with large hands. His clothes, a light colored jacket, baggy pants, white socks and worn shoes, looked as if they were purchased at a thrift store on another planet. He was an odd-looking fellow, thought Currant.
“May I?” the stranger asked pointing to a vacant seat next to Currant. His voice was well modulated, deep and without a trace of regional accent.
“It’s a free country,” replied A.C waving his hand with unconcern. “Fine with me.”
When he sat, Currant took a good look at him—a light-skinned man of color—early forties. His features were delicate except for a prominent nose. The new neighbor smiled. Currant just watched him like he would watch a coiled snake.
“Doc. Or should I say Doctor?”
Currant reacted to the use of his name.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. But I have been waiting for you and your friends. I have a good idea who you are. If you know what I mean.”
A.C. looked at the man without commenting. Then he turned his head away and gazed into the artificial valley that was Dealey Plaza.
“Your reporter friend calls you ‘Doc’. What kind of doctor are you?” His easy tone had not changed.
“Physicist,” said Currant.
“So you’re the man behind the machine. We’ll congratulations. That’s one significant accomplishment. We don’t get many cases like yours anymore. It’s always fun isn’t?”
“What?”
“Time travel.”
Currant’s mind froze then recovered. “I guess we’re busted.”
“That you are.”
“What about the kids? They’re just kids.”
“Right. Journalism students on holiday I heard. Nice cover Doc. Very imaginative. My name’s Joell. You?”
“I go by A.C.”
“Great A.C. How would you like those initials to stand for ‘all clear’?”
Currant gave him a look of bewilderment. “I’d like the kids to be in the clear. They really are just kids.”
“Not to worry A.C. I’m actually on your side. You and your friends did commit the cardinal sin of time travel—you altered The History. As you can guess, that’s truly frowned upon by the folks in charge. But thankfully, maybe things can work themselves out—if there is no more warping of the fabric. For sure, you’ve changed The History with your Chicago shenanigans, but apparently nothing really radical changes. That is if everything goes as intended today. As I said—I get it.”
“You know our original intention was strictly fact finding—kind of a history super-lesson—but then things just got out of hand,” said Currant.
“They always do,” said Joell. “That’s why the process is forbidden. Joy riding through time is too dangerous a game to play at home. Even trained professionals like us walk softly and carefully over these eggshell moments. But what’s passed is past. Now you have to play ball”. Joell smiled. “Or we take everything away. The Office will suck you and your little friends up, like dirtballs on a carpet. You will be expunged.” He shook his head and exhaled before speaking again. “Our people sent out three other time cops today to make sure that everything goes smoothly. It’s not my idea. But after the big show, they will take you back with them, and you will spend the rest of your time in isolation chambers. Maybe they’ll let you out to become test dummies, walking beta programs, zombies, whatever. Nothing nice.”
“Look, Joell. I just want to go back to the future and take my charges with me. This JFK thing is done now. I can see it’s a waste of time to even think that we could change the inevitable.”
“You won’t change anything today, A.C. This thing will happen. Do you see that intersection?” He pointed to Houston and Elm streets. “It will happen there. At the turn. Or if it doesn’t happen there, it will happen just down the hill near that sign. Or maybe that will fail. Then it will happen just before the underpass. And if the deed is not be done by then, it will be done just on the other side of those tracks. The other end of the tunnel. Or if not there, then on the freeway. I hope not.”
“Why not?”
“Bad, of course for JFK, but that would also be very bad for America—very demoralizing. Each failure and each subsequent attempt ratchets up the action and the number of people who will be killed or injured in addition to our friend JFK. But make no mistake. It will be done.”
“This is history isn’t it?” said Currant.
“Big time Doc. And you are a part of it.”
Currant thought for a moment. “Who? —Who is behind this?”
Joell looked at Currant in amazement. “Who? Who’s doing this? Better yet—who cares? The man made a mess of things. He was a political mistake who took himself too seriously. The whole family does. Including his wife and her family. They’re the kind of people who can really screw things up. A little bit of power is dangerous. We’re not all floating around on some yacht off Hyannis Port. We’re on this one planet packed with people and every one thinks he’s smarter than his neighbor. There are rules Doc. There are rules. His demise will be the result of mob action. Not the crime syndicate—but groups of people—some good and som
e bad—some sophisticated and some crude—but not a dissenter in the bunch. It’s time to do it, and time for everyone to see it done. Even JFK knows that. He’s known it for months.”
“Are you saying he has been told?”
“No.” Joell chuckled. “But he’s a smart guy. He knows he’s at the end of his rope. He’s been on a political binge trying to fix everything his way fast because he knows he is history. Time has caught up with him today. And you my friend will be a part of history. Now how does that sound?” Joell said it as if he was closing the deal on a automobile purchase.
A.C. twisted his head and considered. “I’m ready,” he said. “We’ve done what we can do. Honestly I get the picture too. I’m an old guy. I’ve been around this block a few times. We will go quietly. But can we go?” His eyes pleaded with Joell.
“You mean leave this godforsaken cow pasture?”
“Yes.”
“I think so. I have to keep my three friends occupied after the deed is done. I think that’s possible. But I warn you—even if you do get away. Don’t think that they won’t catch you. I don’t want to know where you are from. I’m not giving you advice. But I am giving you freedom.”
“Why?”
“You ask too many questions Doc. You should be saying ‘thanks’. But I’ll give you a quick answer that probably won’t be very satisfying. Something you did—somebody you talked to—something changed history for the better. It made the world a better place for a whole lot of people, including me. Probably just a stroke of luck. But it happened. So now we, you and me, don’t want to change another thing. I just want to go back to the future and stay there and so should you. No more questions. OK?”
“OK. I’m with you. Thanks.” A.C. looked around. The plaza area was filling in with people waiting to see the president. “He’ll be coming soon. What should I do?”
Joell smiled. “Just grab your umbrella and follow me. You’re about to become part of history. And I know that’s what you want—right?”
“Yes,” said Currant quietly. “Why not?”
The announcement came over the airport speakers: “President John F. Kennedy and First Lady, Mrs. Kennedy are now arriving”. As Zak and Emma rushed out of the terminal building, she cursed under her breath about having wasted so much time. Zak had demanded they eat breakfast. Then they searched terminal for ambush locations and ate up too much time trying to get their bearings. Finally they decided that nothing good or bad would happen inside the building. Unless the gunmen were on the roof, or willing to shoot through the thick window glass, the only real opportunities for ambush were outside. Now, as Zak and Emma ran towards airport runways, they saw the assembled crowds. The largest congregation of people was directly in front of the Air Force One taxi area. The white, blue and silver four-engine jet was low in the sky, wheels almost touching the tarmac. They watched from a distance. The plane landed and the crowd cheered. People surged forward. Some ran frenzied toward the taxiing plane. Fire trucks trailed the plane into its final position. Emma surveyed the area for options. She saw policemen on the rooftop of the airport terminal building. She saw the sunglass wearing Secret Service men forming a security barrier between the people and the plane. Every thing looked secure.
Movable stairs were rolled into place, and the door of Air Force One opened. Soon Mrs. Kennedy made her appearance. The crowd cheered. Her pink designer outfit included a cute little matching hat. She looked like a doll. JFK came out next. He was all teeth, suntan and muscles, thought Emma—a stunning man—a radiant being straight out of the Camelot story. He did look the part. The royal couple quickly moved through mobs of people who reached out to touch the blessed. Emma looked quickly to her right and in the distance she saw the waiting motorcade cars. She grabbed Zak and tugged him in that direction. About half way along the parked line of cars, she spotted an area where the crowd thinned. She ran to it. She was part of the event now. In seconds, JFK approached. A seasoned politician, he knew how to shake hands and continue moving fairly rapidly, hesitating, but never really stopping. Then he stood about ten feet from Emma. He looked like one of her Hollywood movie stars—impeccably dressed, tall and very handsome.
“Mr. President!” she shouted. “Mr. President!”
JFK heard her call, spotted her and smiled broadly. He took a few quick steps in her direction. The crowd surged against Emma. Many hands sought to make a connection. She strained and reached over the fence as far as she could, her fingers beckoned him to come closer. He leaned in to her and grabbed her hand with both of his. Strong hands, she thought. She looked into his eyes. They danced magically.
“Thanks for coming. You’re a very lovely young lady,” he said this in a soft voice close enough that it could be heard over the crowd. It seemed like he held her hand too long to maintain his momentum, as if he didn’t want to say goodbye. Emma didn’t hear the crowd sounds anymore. She was lost in the moment. She had met the king. Then, as quickly as he had arrived, he was gone. Jackie Kennedy caught up to her husband. She followed a few feet behind him. Emma looked in her eyes. They focused coldly on her— black and empty—disturbing. Then, in a second, Jackie’s total appearance changed back to the smiling angel image. Tiny hairs on the back of Emma’s neck screamed with primitive recognition. Something was very wrong with this picture. She experienced a tremendous, overwhelming psychic disconnect—an instantaneous nightmare that pounced on her like a vicious hyena.
Zak caught up with Emma and tapped her shoulder from behind. She looked at him with glazed eyes. “This is all wrong. I know it. It’s all terribly wrong. I hate this.”
“Bad vibes,” he signed. Then he pointed to the motorcade cars. No more time to think—the time travelers ran ahead twisting through people to get a better view. The king and queen were positioned in the back seat of the big Lincoln. Slowly the limo rolled away. A Secret Service agent-filled Cadillac followed close behind. Kennedy looked back in their direction. Emma watched sadly.
“Zak. Did you see that?” She realized the Secret Service agents running next to the car at the back didn’t get onto the rear bumper. They appeared to be called off by someone in the Cadillac. One of these two agents who had been told stay off the rear bumper, now stood blank-faced as the presidential Lincoln drew away. He threw out his outstretched palms as if to say ‘What’s happening?’ His face quickly contorted into concern, frustration and then possibly resignation as he recognized the disorganized and dangerously inept behavior of the security team.
“Zak. They’re leaving him unprotected. Damn it. They’re dumping him.” She retrieved her camera and took a photo.
The Lincoln drove toward downtown Dallas. The president was unaware he had no protection from the rear—no agents on the bumper. Emma and Zak watched the cars go.
“Let’s go,” said Emma. “We have to get ahead of him.” They quickly returned to their parked Chevy. Zak put the top down and climbed behind the wheel. He started the engine and looked up. “One second.... smile,” demanded Emma again. She backed up to capture the entire car and driver. “There you go,” she said as she snapped the shutter. “I’m getting good at this.”
Quinn walked toward the intersection of Houston and Elm along the County buildings lining this side of the street. He checked his watch—12:12—and realized he had plenty of time. The motorcade was not due for another 15 minutes. He stopped walking when he reached the middle of the block. The stone and brick of the Criminal Courts building rose to his right. This was a good spot the thought—maybe not a safe spot—but one that offered a great view. Looking catty-corner across the road and beyond, he thought he saw Currant standing on the north side of Elm Street. He couldn’t be certain, and he wasn’t going to move from his spot. A young couple in front shared the view with him. Nearby, from a motorcycle cop’s radio, a voice said that the motorcade had reached Cedar Springs Road.
“Look!” said the man to the young woman near him. “See that. Must be Secret Service.”
The woman looked
up, as did Quinn. “Where?”
“There in the Depository building. On the far left. Next to the round windows,” answered the man.
Quinn scanned the building and found the location at the west side of the Depository structure. He saw someone through the windows. Quite clearly, the man was holding a rifle in front of him. There was another man at his side. This is it. Maybe they’re Secret Service or maybe they’re killers. The men moved back out of view. Quinn looked at the entire façade. The Depository building offered an excellent view of the oncoming motorcade as it approached on Houston heading north—an easy shot—dead on. He waited with a rising sense of fear. The crowd that had grown appreciably in the few minutes since he arrived—three deep along the curb. The people were jubilant.
Ethan Callan-Wright crossed Houston Street. He hadn’t seen either Quinn or Currant. He moved quickly now. In his mind, he had spent too much time in the two County buildings trying in vain to determine if Lee Oswald worked in one of them. The last building was the Dal-Tex building. The guard there had little to offer—he didn’t know all the people who worked in the building by name—hundreds worked there. He seemed surprised that JFK was coming.
