“I think so. Or maybe even eight. You know, the things people used to take with them on vacations that had no sound.”
“Did he film the whole thing?” Natasha asked, a trace of alarm in her voice.
“I don’t know,” he said dryly. “I was attacking a police officer at the time. But I assume he brought it to film the President.”
Natasha blew air through her teeth. “Then they’ll figure out there was a frontal shooter. The force would have knocked the President’s head backwards. If that’s on film…”
“Who knows,” deVere said. “Maybe they’ll never figure it out.”
The asphalt and cement gave way to open spaces and ranches with white picket fences. DeVere was reminded of the words from an old Commander Cody song. He tried to remember all the lines but failed at, “white as a ghost.” That’s what Kennedy was now, he concluded, a ghost.
The Nash rumbled north, leaving each alone with their thoughts. Finally, deVere broke the silence.
“So. Why?”
“Me? You thought I was a loyal Soviet citizen?”
“You certainly acted the part. Leading your Igor to the Accelechron.”
“I had to go back with you and I had no other way of doing it since I didn’t know how to create a second wormhole. I had to be there when you left in yours. And I had to lead Rostov to the Accelechron.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “He had the rifle. I had no reason to requisition one. And I had to go back to change history, not engage in some silly letter writing campaign. Did you really think that would work?”
DeVere winced as he thought of the letters he and Amanda had been sending from the Waldorf. He thought of his pointless meetings with Salisbury, Thurmond and Salinger.
DeVere sighed. “You really killed him?”
Natasha looked at him wordlessly.
“You still haven’t said why,” deVere said.
“Why not? The only reason I took the Boston job was because you were working on time travel. I figured it might give me my chance.”
“Chance?”
“Chance. Why do you think I requested sniper training at Valdavosk?”
“To kill Kennedy?” deVere asked incredulously.
Natasha laughed out loud. “No. To kill someone. Chairman Lenkov or Putin or any of the bastards. You know my file. My parents were killed in the Second Great War. So I took sniper training and when I heard about Boston and you, well, I knew I might be able to do it.”
“But why not simply come to us?”
“What? To help write letters?” Natasha laughed again when she saw deVere grimace.
“I scouted the Trade Mart,” Natasha continued. “Kennedy gave a great… would have given a great speech. But getting in with the Dragunov, getting it assembled, and then getting a clean shot would have been impossible. I traced the parade route and—”
“You knew the parade route?” deVere asked.
Natasha snorted. “I knew about the Trade Mart speech. I had seen the motorcade on film. A search through microfilmed newspapers revealed the parade route published three days ahead of time. And there it was.”
DeVere thought of Tuesday’s newspaper.
“After that it was simply a matter of finding a quiet place that allowed me to set up and get a clear shot. I only needed one,” she added.
The words of another old song swam through deVere’s head. “Little sister don’t miss when she aims her gun.” He couldn’t remember the artist.
DeVere marveled at the dusty, flat landscape.
“Now what? Where are we going?” he asked.
“To New Hampshire,” Natasha answered. “But not together, just in case. We have sixteen days until the wormhole reopens in that little park of yours. We’ll head to Tulsa and I’ll drop you off.”
Tulsa. DeVere grimaced. It was in Tulsa that Peter had died while visiting cousins. DeVere’s father had never gone back. And now here he was heading to Tulsa, again. Strange, but he had grown up in New Hampshire and had returned through the wormhole to New Hampshire. And Peter had died in Tulsa and now he was returning to Tulsa, but with the world changed. Everything changed. Kennedy was dead, and would anything ever be the same?
“Tulsa,” he muttered out loud.
Natasha looked over at him, and nodded. “Sixteen days should be enough time to get to New Hampshire, don’t you think?” she asked.
It was dark when Natasha pulled off the road just north of Sallisaw, Oklahoma and followed the blinking sign that read, “Motel.” She had changed out of her police uniform before crossing the state border and was now dressed in a loose fitting cotton skirt and flat shoes.
DeVere was concerned that at this hour the motel office would be closed. But when they pulled into the parking lot, the neon “Office” sign was lit and a flickering light shown through the window.
“I’ll go in,” deVere suggested. “A Russian accent might raise suspicions.”
Natasha remained in the Nash as deVere walked to the office. As he swung open the screen door he saw five people huddled around a black and white television set. On the screen Lyndon Baines Johnson stood at a podium on a Washington tarmac, next to Jackie Kennedy, addressing the nation.
Chapter 29
Lewis Ginter stood inside the Weston Observatory and surveyed Manchester from the top of Derryfield Park. He was at the city’s highest point. To his left, the access road led to the parking lot. It was the same lot where three months earlier two Manchester police officers searched the area while Lewis and company crawled to the woods.
The lot was empty now. Ginter had arrived before dawn, after parking his Corvette several blocks away in front of an elementary school. He retraced his steps through the woods and up past the stone quarry. Won’t be anyone using it for a swimming hole today, he mused as he peered through binoculars at gathering storm clouds.
He had wanted to be the first to arrive, and picking his way through the pre-dawn light had given him that. Using a crowbar, he had pried open the lock on the rusted iron door to the abandoned granite tower. Once inside, he had climbed the crumbling metal steps to the observation area. He opened one green shutter just enough to gain a view.
He had stayed hidden, inside, waiting for 3:15 p.m. when the wormhole would re-open.
Natasha arrived next, shortly after 2:30. He heard a vehicle straining up the access road and watched transfixed as a green Nash drove slowly past the reservoirs until it reached the center of the parking lot. The driver shut off the ignition, and slowly exited, keeping her hands away from her body. She walked deliberately up through the clearing, wearing a red backpack. Just like the ones in Greece, he thought. Son of a bitch.
Although it was raw and chilly, Natasha paused a few feet into the clearing, dropped the pack, and unzipped her jacket. Then she used both hands to hold the sides of her coat away from her body and slowly turned around.
Ginter smiled. Damn, she’s good. She knows I’m here.
He was about to descend when a second car, a bright yellow taxi, entered the lot and stopped. Paul deVere and Amanda Hutch exited together from the back seat. DeVere reached in through the front passenger window and paid the cabbie. He’s alive after all, Ginter thought. From his vantage point he could hear deVere tell the driver, “No, we’re all set,” before the cab turned and drove off.
Ginter had quietly walked away from the Texas School Book Depository while scouring the frenzied crowd for his friend, the written material to frame Oswald still in his pocket. In the 16 days since, he doubted that deVere was still alive. Not after all that had happened. Coming around the Depository, Ginter had seen Kennedy get hit from what appeared to be a frontal shot from the grassy knoll. He had started to head up there when he had spotted Amanda, trembling, standing alone across the street from the Depository. He changed direction and crossed Elm Street, taken her gently by the arm, and wordlessly led her away.