Frame 232 (41 page)

Hammond stepped in to catch him while a team of agents descended upon Rydell, who was cuffed behind the back and led away.

A BLUE SEDAN
pulled into the lot behind the infamous picket fence and rolled into one of the empty spots. Ben Burdick got out first, camera in hand. Then Hammond, who had taken out his cell phone and was reading something on the screen. Sheila emerged from the backseat and slipped on a pair of sunglasses to shield against the late-morning sunlight. Then Noah, looking as affable as ever in his ubiquitous felt cap. He had already been here for three days, readying Jason’s private plane for the return flight to New Hampshire. The other three had landed at Dallas/Fort Worth International just a few hours earlier.

“This was a stockyard in November of ’63,” Burdick said as they moved southeast toward the triple underpass. “Nothing but dirt and gravel. Now it’s a parking lot for the Sixth Floor Museum.”

“The railroad tower’s still there,” Hammond said, nodding toward the tiny structure behind them, “where Lee Bowers was when he saw two unidentified men.”

“When he testified for the Warren Commission, he claimed they were near the underpass. A few years later, however, he said they were closer to the fence.”

Hammond shook his head. “Everyone had a story to tell. Everyone but the people who knew the truth.” He sighed. “Well, at least that’ll be taken care of now.”

They walked down the hill to the mouth of the underpass. All the major landmarks in Dealey Plaza could be viewed from here
 
—the grassy knoll, from which countless conspiracy theorists insisted the fatal shot was fired; the concrete pergola where Zapruder filmed the assassination; and the former Texas School Book Depository, since sold to Dallas County in 1977. The first five floors had been repurposed as administrative offices. The sixth, from which Lee Harvey Oswald finally satisfied his obsessive desire to write his name into the pages of history, eventually became a memorial center to the president whose future he stole.

“In so many ways,” Burdick said, “it seems like nothing’s changed. I can still feel it.”

Hammond nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. The ghosts of that day, the emotions . . . it’s like they linger here, trapped forever.”

Sheila slipped her hands into the pockets of her jeans and shuddered. “That’s eerie.”

“It certainly is.”

As they began walking, Sheila asked, “Do you think they’ll bring Galeno Clemente back here? As part of his testimony?”

“Chip thinks there’s a chance of that,” Hammond said. “They might ask him to reenact what he did, not just for the case but to fill the gaps in the historical record.”

“How’s he holding up?” This question came from Noah.

“He’s fine. He’s so at peace with everything it’s scary. Lawyers are coming out of the woodwork in droves, trying to get involved in either side of the case so they can get their names attached to it. What case is there, though? He wants to
confess everything.” Hammond smiled. “He said he’s going to start a prison ministry once he’s permanently incarcerated. He mentioned getting help with it from someone he knew when he was doing missionary work. Father Breimayer, the name was.”

Sheila said, “I know this is going to sound strange, but did Galeno technically commit a crime? I mean, he didn’t fire, after all.”

“No,” Burdick replied, “but you’re still not allowed to take part in an assassination plot against the president
 
—or anyone else, for that matter. Actually, that reminds me of an interesting point. A lot of people don’t know this, but in 1963, there
was
no specific law against assassinating the president. Oswald was charged with ordinary murder.”

“He killed that police officer too,” Noah said.

“Yes, but I mean where the president was concerned. That murder charge was the same as the one for Officer Tippit. Can you believe it?”

“A murder’s a murder, I guess,” Sheila said.

“I suppose.”

“And how are you feeling now? Any better?”

“Yeah, a little bit. When I told my doctor what happened, he went ballistic. Actually yelled at me through the phone.”

“Ben, if this is an uncomfortable topic,” Noah said, “just tell me to go jump in a lake. But what actually happened after you were shot?”

“Well, when I regained consciousness, my first instinct was to call 911. That’s what most people would do, right? But then it hit me
 
—
if I let them think I’m dead, maybe I can work that to my advantage.
Remember, this Rydell guy was on my back for years, but if he thought I was out of the picture, he’d finally leave me alone. So I called my doctor,
whom I’ve become pretty good friends with, and told him what had happened. He came right over and treated me on the spot. He wanted me to go to the hospital, but I wouldn’t. I told him the whole story at that point
 
—about how I was being threatened because of the book, how my kids had been threatened, all of it. Finally he agreed to keep everything quiet. He came and checked on me every day. Then my daughter, Crystal, got involved. She was the one who came up with the idea of leaking the story to the press, and man, did they run with it. She said she had me cremated and all that. Brilliant. She’s always been the smartest kid in the class.”

“Had us fooled,” Hammond said.

“I had to do it, Jason. I needed the cover. Crystal and I began researching all the guys in the intel community to see if we could find the person or persons who might be responsible. We eventually came up with a list of twenty-two names
 
—people who had high clearance, who had been around since ’63, things like that. Rydell was on it, and when I got that call from you confirming him, I knew then . . .”

“Knew what?” Sheila asked.

“That I had to come to D.C. to face him. Yeah, the Feds might’ve caught up with him sooner or later. But it was more personal to me. Too personal to not at least take a shot at it
 
—no pun intended. That’s why I didn’t tell anyone when I went there. I knew you’d try to talk me out of it.”

“You could’ve been killed,” Noah said. “He was one sly character.”

“I know; I know. I got very lucky. I admit that.”

“So are you going to publish the second book?” Hammond asked.

“Of course. But I need to add a bit more now, obviously.”

“Good,” Hammond said. “Somebody should certainly write all this down.”

“I’m going to head back to D.C. once I’m fully healed. I want to follow both trials
 
—Rydell’s and Clemente’s. And can you believe I’ve already been contacted by two publishers? They’re offering big advances too. I can finally get the house in order, maybe start seeing a personal trainer and get some of this weight off.”

“No word on the lunatic, though?” This was Sheila’s question. “Birk?”

With the help of the blood samples found at the abandoned boat works, Birk’s identity had been confirmed. Ex-military, with a long disciplinary record culminating in a dishonorable discharge following an altercation that left a superior officer with a shattered jaw. Worked as a soldier of fortune for many years afterward, building something of a reputation. Held no national loyalties, always willing to sell his services to the highest bidder.

Hammond shook his head. “No, no word yet. But the FBI is searching hard for him.”

He took Sheila by the hand and crossed to the other side of Elm, stopping at a point about fifteen feet from the curb, just across from the storm drain. There were other people walking around, on the pergola and the knoll and the sidewalk by the former book depository, taking their own photos and making their own observations. Dealey Plaza had become more of a tourist attraction now than anything else, as if the events of that day had been part of a popular movie rather than reality.

“This is where your mom stood that day,” he said.

Sheila nodded. “I know.” She tried to imagine what it must have been like for her. Margaret Baker had been just
another citizen, excited at the prospect of seeing the handsome young president and his beautiful wife. What promise the future held for America! The bustling economy . . . the civil rights movement . . . the Peace Corps . . . the Space Race . . . New ideas were pouring forth from his White House as the nation moved toward a future that seemed unlimited with possibilities. Margaret had never given much thought to politics one way or the other, but Sheila knew her mother had genuinely liked John Kennedy of Massachusetts.

“And there’s where Galeno Clemente sat waiting,” she said. Ben was over by the drain, kneeling down in the road taking pictures.

“That’s right. There’s too much asphalt built up now to try something like that again.” Hammond nodded toward a spot in the road, in the middle lane a bit north of center, where a simple X had been applied with the same luminescent paint as the traffic lines. “And that’s where it ended for the president.”

“But for my mama and me,” Sheila added, “it was just beginning.”

When it was just the two of them in the car on the way back to the hotel, Hammond said, “So are you sorry? Sorry you didn’t destroy the film instead?”

“There hasn’t been an hour since you first came to the house that I haven’t asked myself that question. I’ve tried to weigh both the good and the bad. Getting kidnapped versus exposing Rydell and putting Birk on the run. Nearly getting killed a few times while having one of the most unforgettable experiences of my life. Losing my childhood home but helping to complete one of the greatest unfinished chapters
in history. It’s tough.” She shook her head. “I’m just glad my mama didn’t have to go through it.”

Hammond thought she might start crying then. But no tears came. She was all cried out
 
—or so he imagined. “And what’s next for you?”

“When I was sitting there in captivity, wondering if I would ever see sunlight again, I got to do some serious thinking. When your life’s on the line, you suddenly see things very clearly. I made a promise to God that I intend to keep. I asked him to save my life, and here I am. It’s funny
 
—so many of us have it so good when we’re young, but then we abandon certain things because we feel we’ve outgrown them or because we think it’s time for a change or we
have
to change or whatever. One of the things I really liked as a kid was when I went to church with my parents. And I have to admit, I’ve been pretty inspired by Galeno Clemente’s story too.”

“No doubt,” Hammond said, nodding.

“There’s a pastor in my complex back home, and he’s asked me a few times if I’d be interested in attending services on Sundays. Maybe it’s time I took him up on his offer.”

“And what about your fitness centers?”

“I’m just about out of debt, like I said before. Once that’s out of the way, I’m going to sell the
 
—”

“It
is
out of the way.”

“Hmm?”

Hammond turned to her and smiled. “It’s already out of the way. The debt’s been satisfied.”

“What do you mean?”

“Noah and I took care of it this morning.”

At first she seemed confused; then her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. “No . . . Jason!”

“Yes, Sheila.”

“Jason, no . . . seriously. I can’t allow you to
 
—”

“It’s already done. Can’t undo it; sorry.”

The smile that was spreading across her face gave him boundless pleasure.

“Jason!” She reached over and slapped him on the shoulder. “How could you do something like that!”

“It wasn’t a big deal, really.”

“I can’t believe you!” A few more whacks, and then she settled back into her seat and started shaking her head. “I’m going to pay you back. Every penny.”

“You absolutely are not. You are going to go on with your life without this millstone around your neck anymore. You’ve been through enough in the last few years, don’t you think? Sell the property where your mom’s house used to stand, then take the money and run.”

Now the tears did come, but Hammond was reasonably sure they weren’t the by-product of grief.

“I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”

“Also, I think you said you had a love of children?”

“Yes . . . ?”

“And a passion to give rather than take?”