by W. Green
Now, on the other side of Houston Street, Ethan looked back and studied the Dal-Tex building. Fire escapes ran up the side of the building facing Dealey Plaza. Windows were open and populated with onlookers. Plenty of windows to shoot from, and the hanging fire escapes provided good cover. He turned and focused on the last building—the big, red brick Texas Book Depository. He jogged toward the plaza, clearing the building corner and skillfully dodging spectators who lined the street. When he reached the top of the entrance stairs, he glanced back toward the plaza and Houston Street. The crowd was growing. A noisy nervousness gripped the air. A young woman stood nearby. Assuming she was an employee, he inquired whether she knew Lee Oswald—negative. She turned back to the action. He saw another woman who was obviously pregnant. Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he asked her if she knew Lee Oswald. Surprisingly, she said she did. In fact, she had just seen him in the adjacent lobby. Ethan thanked her and entered the building. Inside, the massive masonry structure was dark, cool, and quiet. Straight ahead was a set of double doors. He pushed through and found himself in a large warehouse room full of boxes piled high. He saw nobody.
“Oswald,” he shouted without response. The word bounced around the concrete surfaces.
Everything was dead quiet. He checked his watch—12:16. Impulsively he backtracked to the stairs in the front lobby. He bounded up the stairway two steps at a time. His footfalls echoed off the walls. As he made the turn at the first landing, he looked up and saw a man standing on the second floor landing. The man’s empty hands rested on the railing. His view from the second story was of Houston Street. He looked like someone waiting for the motorcade to arrive—a young man—light brown hair—receding hairline—thin build. Ethan’s abrupt entry did not startle him. He was calm.
“Lee Oswald?” The words coughed out of his mouth.
“That’s right,” said the man. “Who wants to know?”
Ethan paused and breathed deeply. He was amazed. Somehow he had found the man Oswald. Slowly, he climbed the few remaining stairs, and when he reached the landing he spoke. “I’m Ethan Callan-Wright. I don’t have much time. So I’ll be quick. Do you know a man named David Ferrie?”
Oswald turned to face Ethan. He put his hands on his hips. “I don’t know why you would ask me that. Who are you? Who do you represent?”
Ethan opened his hands in front of him and tried to find the words. “I don’t represent anybody. I met Ferrie in New Orleans. I know you know him. I know he’s part of something. I know you think you are part of something. There’s not much time—I believe you’re being set up.”
“Set up. For what?”
“Look. JFK will be riding right by this building in a few minutes. You’ve got something going today. Something strange. Are you hanging a banner out? Something about Cuba? Do you work for the government?”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Oswald. He looked intense. He didn’t say anything for the next few seconds. “Who are you?”
Ethan paused not knowing what to say. “I’m a guy who saw a guy just like you get set up in Chicago. A guy named Thomas Vallee. Another motorcade. You know about Chicago, right? I’m sure you do. You’re here. This can’t be coincidence. Your life is in danger. So is the president’s.”
“Listen. I don’t know who you are. I don’t know where you got your information. And I don’t have time to find out. If you’re trying to be a hero—forget it. I appreciate the effort. But the deck is stacked against you. Believe me—heroes are out of fashion. Clear out while you have a chance. You’re right about the danger. You’ve entered a minefield. This is my business. This is the stuff of professionals. Don’t get involved. Why don’t you go watch the parade? You stay here and you’ll have more trouble than you can handle.”
Ethan stood. “But…”
“But nothing. Go.” Oswald waved his hand toward the stairs. “Let it be. Go. Now. Enjoy your life.”
Ethan could hear the rising voices of the crowd outside. JFK was coming. Slowly he turned away from the man. He didn’t know what else to do. Obviously, Oswald was unarmed and apparently disinterested in the main attraction outside. Something was missing. There was nothing or nobody to stop here. He knew he had to get outside. He scrambled down the stairs. When he reached the lower landing, he looked back. Oswald had moved to the entry door leading to the second floor offices. As he held the door open, their eyes met one more time. Oswald shook his head and pursed his lips. He glanced one more time at Houston Street and then stared out into space. He appeared to be deep in thought—he wore a look of sadness and resignation.
“We’re not going to make it,” announced Emma. “Forget about the Trade Mart. We’ve got to get to Dealey Plaza. Can’t you go faster?”
Zak looked over and made a face. He pointed ahead to the traffic jam. After having looped south around downtown to avoid the motorcade traffic, the Chevy convertible was stuck on the Stemmons Freeway heading north.
“They must have stopped all traffic because of the motorcade.” Emma looked ahead. The next crossing was Commerce Street. She checked the dashboard clock—12:22. “Zak I have to go. I can’t wait here or I’ll miss the whole thing. Move the car over to the curb. I’m getting out.”
Since traffic was not moving, there was no way Zak could move the car from the center lane to the right lane. Zak expressed his frustration with his hands. He told her they were stuck. Emma struggled with her emotions. “I’ll meet you at the plaza later. I’m out of here. Be careful,” she said.
Zak signed, “OK,” and warned her, “bullets may be flying.”
Emma grabbed her new camera, opened the door and jumped out into traffic. Horns honked at her and people shouted. She ignored the uproar she was causing and focused on getting to Dealey Plaza. She ran ahead, cutting between cars, and finally reached the road shoulder. Then she scrambled up the sloping grade. She guessed she was heading in the right direction. At the top, lay a small parking lot. She rested—hands on her knees—she sucked in air—gathered her senses and then climbed the next obstacle, a railroad embankment. Once on the tracks she looked left. A scattering of people walked about the triple overpass, but a policeman directed them away. Security, she thought, that’s good. She hopped across five sets of tracks, climbed a small fence and found herself in another parking lot. She was out of breath. She paused for moment at the south pergola. She stood in the shade it provided and surveyed the view. All traffic was stopped on the roads and freeway ramps. People dotted the green hills of the plaza. She was able to orient herself. She had memorized the motorcade route map. She knew she was close. The big clock on the roof of Depository building showed 12:25. The home stretch, she thought. She ran across the lawn through the cars on the ramp, across more lawn, through the cars and trucks stopped on Main Street then onto Dealey Plaza Park. It was 12:26 now. But she was in position. The crowd noise was increasing. Looking to her right she could see the lead motorcycles of the motorcade approaching on Main Street. He was coming. She stood dead opposite the north pergola and the grassy knoll across Elm Street. She rested her hands on her knees again and tried to catch her breath. The run had done her in, but she knew she would be in perfect position to see everything. JFK was coming.
Quinn had moved up the street and positioned himself at the curb at Elm and Houston in front of the Records building. The two men in the upper windows were not visible now. He looked toward the Depository building. A few minutes ago there was some kind of disturbance going on. People gathered around one man who was lying on the ground. After a couple of minutes, an ambulance arrived. They loaded the man into their vehicle and took off. Now, at the top of the Depository entry steps, a crowd of watchers had gathered. One of them could be Ethan, he thought. He rescanned the Depository façade. This time he spotted a gun barrel hanging out of an open window on the right side of the building. He couldn’t see the man holding the rifle, just his elbow resting on the sill. Another man was visible standing next to the gunman. Are the
se the same two he had seen a few minutes earlier at the other end of the building? He couldn’t say. He looked across Houston Street. People were filling the corner. Quinn noticed a stocky man on the sidewalk across the street talking into a small walkie-talkie as he looked toward Main Street. The crowd noise increased. The Kennedy entourage approached—an unseen, moving energy field.
Ethan had given up on Oswald and positioned himself on the front entrance steps of the Depository. His conversation with Oswald had gone nowhere. That the rabbit-man was at this location at this time was a calcifying event—it seemed to lock into place with his New Orleans information. But Oswald had showed little interest. He knew now that man was not the assassin. History rolled on. There was nothing more he could do. The pilot car of the motorcade had made the right turn onto Houston Street. Motorcycles, then a white car followed by the big blue Lincoln with more motorcycles leading the way. The crowds of people on either side of the street screamed wildly. People jumped up and down to get a better view. Ethan steeled himself against the possibility that there was a shooter in the building behind him at this moment. If so, he would have the JFK target moving toward him in bright sunlight on level ground. A perfect shot. This could be the moment. But no shots were fired. The vehicles kept coming. Before the cars reached the turn, one of the three lead motorcycles left the motorcade and headed straight ahead on Houston. The others made the turn and headed down Elm. The lead white car made the difficult 120-degree turn. The Lincoln followed making the turn wide and slow. Ethan saw the occupants now. The driver and another Secret Service man sat in the front seat. Governor and Mrs. Connally occupied the back jump seats. Behind them, in the rear bench seat, sat Mrs. Kennedy and JFK. The car almost stopped in that difficult turn. Another opportunity for a shot, thought Ethan. No shots were fired. Maybe he would live. Maybe there were no shooters. JFK looked to his right waving gently, smiling brightly, Ethan’s eyes met his for an instant. Then the car slid down the hill toward the underpass followed by another car full of Secret Service agents. A sharp noise from above—Ethan looked up. Startled pigeons on roofs flew skyward. He refocused on the car, but everything looked normal. Was this a shot?
A.C. Currant stood on the grass near the sidewalk just uphill of the large green traffic sign. No rain now—he squinted in the bright sunshine. But his black umbrella was open and he held it above his head. This was his opportunity to be a part of history. He knew that cameras would be recording the moment. He wanted attention and he wanted proof that he was the man there at that moment—integral with history—the Umbrella Man. He knew it was all vanity. He also knew JFK would not survive this little downhill run. To his right, Joell Costas stood almost on the curb. A.C. heard the first report—almost like a firecracker—not very loud. JFK stopped waving and leaned forward slightly. Then, he reacted to something else. His arms flew up as if to fend off an on-rushing football opponent. But this was no game. In the excitement, Currant raised and lowered his open umbrella. It was his way of defining this moment. It was happening. Below, Joell also reacted to the shots. He threw up his right arm almost in a salute. Then made a fist. Currant had no idea what this meant, but he guessed he was providing a signal to someone that the president was hit. Seconds later the limo slowed to a crawl—and almost stopped. Currant watched in awe. Everything seemed to stop.
Across the street Emma watched the procession. She stood on the lawn; empty of people but for an isolated few. She had taken another photo as the limo struggled through the hard left turn—utterly ridiculous from a security standpoint. He was a sitting duck. This was the end of the road, the end of the motorcade, and the end of JFK. As the limo approached, two women in front of her stepped off the curb onto the street. One of them held a camera. A second ago, Emma spotted A.C. Currant standing across the street his black umbrella elevated, a symbol of impending doom. He’s nuts, she thought. Then she looked back at the limo. JFK smiling—just like when he had taken her hand—he looked fabulous one moment, then hurt. His arms rose as he defended against attack—forearms against bullets. How pitiful, she thought. The car moved on. Connally was a smiling cowboy one moment and a grimacing victim the next. Then he fell out of view. The crossfire, bullet-ballet continued. JFK’s head drifted downward as if he was falling asleep. Calmly Jackie moved closer to him one arm around his back the other gently touching his raised arm. It’s a shooting gallery—pull him down Jackie, Emma screamed silently. What was she thinking?
The limo slowed to almost a stop. Time seemed to stop. The Secret Service driver looked back at the wounded president. Why? Why do that? Didn’t you hear the damn shots? Drive you fool. Go. Now. Instinctively, she took another photo. At the same moment—more shots—bang-boom—two noises as one. The first a distant rifle shot—the second nearby and muffled. The top of JFK’s head opened like a can of beans. Stuff flew upward—a pink rainbow of brain matter. At the same instant, above his head in the darkness beyond the car, up on the hill, out of and above the wooden fence, a large yellow-red ball of flame erupted through the dense green foliage. Scorched live leaves produced white smoke that billowed out the trees above the wooden fence. Only after a good portion of JFK’s head disappeared did the driver return to his duty. The car, that had momentarily stopped, moved rapidly ahead. Jackie immediately raised her arm as if to rid herself of the bloody corpse at her side. With her left hand, she used her lifeless husband’s body for leverage as she tried to escape over the trunk of the death car. One of the Secret Service agents from the follow-up car leaped onto the limo and pushed her back into the car. Then he flipped onto the pile of bloody bodies as the car rushed away. It all happened in seconds.
Emma was stunned. So quick, she thought. So efficient. So brutal. Her new friend JFK was dead.
People screamed. Sirens wailed. While all others ran amok, Joell Costas carefully took one step off the curb and sat down. A.C. Currant closed his umbrella and joined Costas on the curb—two spectators resting. The time cop had a little closing business. He pulled out a walkie-talkie from his back pocket and said something into it. Currant heard the same word twice. It sounded like “86”. Costas set the radio on the ground, and looked back at Currant. For a few moments, neither man said anything. A line of motorcade cars kicked up dust as they rumbled past chasing the dead Kennedy. In seconds, the last of these slid down Elm Street and was swallowed by the underpass disappearing into darkness. Motorcycle policemen braked hard and laid down their bikes—scurrying about—guns drawn. Concerned parents shielded their children from bullets on the fly. Angry throngs of people cried out and rushed up the grassy knoll chasing the killers. No one paid any attention to the two curbside time travelers. They were invisible.
“Well, Doc. There’s your history. All nice and tidy. And we didn’t have to do a thing. All I did was raise my arm to say hello to JFK,” he smiled. “Everything else was done right here, right now, in this year. The actors played their parts perfectly. Very nice. And no interference from any of your people.” Joell looked at Currant with intensity. “For your sake, I’m going to give my three boys up. However, that won’t last long. They have the finest phony identification available. The cops won’t hold them long. You better get your friends, and go back to where you came from. You may have a couple of hours or a day or two lead, but I wouldn’t chance it. Get out of town now.” He stood up and Currant stood next to him.
“We will. But why? Why are you letting us go?”
Joell smiled. “Part of history Doc. You solved your problem, and that solved mine.”
“You know about my problem?”
“I have an idea. I know you went to New Orleans. Trying to go home to fix something weren’t you?” He paused and looked up the hill toward the pergola and the wooden fence. Then he focused on the one person who was walking away from the grassy knoll.
Currant followed his eyes and saw a man walking deliberately along the sidewalk in front of the white concrete structure. He wore a hat, carried a small case and walked quickly amidst the c
haos. Joell spotted him too. “Shooter,” he said.
“Oh. Right,” acknowledged Currant as if it was obvious. He looked across Elm Street. He spotted Emma with a camera in her hand. She had one knee on the ground. She looked dazed but unharmed.
Joell spoke his final words capturing Currant’s attention again. “Assume we know everything. We probably do. Goodbye Doc. Have a good trip back. Don’t do anything foolish.” He turned and walked past the grassy knoll toward the triple underpass.
Currant watched the man disappear into history. Then his eyes panned the scene. He knew this was his last chance to survey the conspiratorial carnage and its aftermath. All was sadly and devastatingly quiet. Only fears, tears and pain remained. He turned and strolled slowly the other direction, up the hill, tapping the tip of his folded umbrella on the concrete walk. The horror of what he had just witnessed rattled about his brain like a steel marble in the glass jar. Enough, he thought.
Ethan stood frozen at the top of the Depository stairs. Now, just seconds after the killing, the scene before him was still full of sound and fury. A motorcycle policeman drove up, dropped his vehicle and jumped off. He ran up the steps gun drawn, past Ethan, and entered the building followed by another man. Ethan stumbled down the stairs in a state of shock. His foreknowledge of the possibility did not shield him from the horrible reality of the crime. He leaned against one of the entrance columns and collected his thoughts. Looking about, he saw A.C. Currant sitting on a curb down the hill along Elm Street. Moments passed. Then he looked back at the building entrance. To his surprise, his quarry, Lee Oswald calmly exited the front door, casually walked down the steps and worked his way through the crowd heading toward downtown on Elm Street. He watched him until he disappeared from view. Ethan looked back at Currant. The physicist walked up the hill toward him and Ethan walked down to meet him.
