The Second Shooter (25 page)

Stacy and Gordon climbed into the back seat, leaving the front seat open for Jake. He slid in and pulled the door shut.

The car was immaculate, complete with white leather upholstery and a fake leopard skin steering wheel cover.

"There's even a TV back here," Stacy said.

Favreau rested his fingers on the stereo's power button. "Music, anyone?" He was smiling again.

Jake glanced over his shoulder. Stacy and Gordon were smiling. Then it got to him too, and he felt a smile crease his own face. He couldn't help it. Maybe that's exactly what they needed, something, anything really, to smile about. He looked at Favreau and nodded. "Play that song again, the one that was playing when you drove up."

"Brick House," Stacy said. "It's my favorite song to dance to." She caught Jake's eye in the sideview mirror. "You like to dance?" she asked.

"I wish," he said. "But I've got two left feet."

"Nothing will teach you rhythm better than seventies funk."

"Maybe you can show me," he said, but at the same instant Favreau switched on the stereo and Brick House drowned out his words. In the mirror Stacy was still smiling. And so was Jake.

A few minutes later they were barreling south on US Highway 75 toward downtown Dallas, listening to
The Commodores
.

After nearly an hour on the cramped bus, Ray Fluker got off two stops early. He just couldn't take sitting in the narrow seat any longer as the bus rocked back and forth, crawling forward, then lurching to a stop in the endless downtown traffic. He was feeling claustrophobic and sweating despite the autumn chill. The dark-skinned man seated next to him had made him nervous, mumbling to himself in some incomprehensible foreign gibberish and scribbling notes on the back of a crumpled receipt. Maybe the guy had been praying to Allah. Maybe he had been writing a song. Fluker didn't care. He just wanted off that damned bus.

So he got off at Broom and Law streets. A check of his watch showed it was 8:20 a.m. He was already late and was going to be even later now that he had to walk the rest of the way. Late to George's and then late to work. But George was his friend, and he'd promised to do his friend a favor.

Fluker had never been to George's apartment. He had the address written down and he knew it was a tall building, something like thirty stories. The sidewalk was crowded with people headed toward Dealey Plaza. Fluker hated crowds. He scanned the skyline to the west. He saw a few tall buildings. One taller than the others. That might be it. It was, at least, in the right direction.

He walked west.

***

"How do I know you're not full of shit?" Blackstone said.

Downtown traffic was tied up in knots. The Dallas Police, backed up by state troopers, had thrown a cordon around Dealey Plaza that extended east to west from Lamar Street to the Stemmons Freeway, and north to south from Ross Avenue to Wood Street. Everything inside the perimeter was locked down. Only people on foot were allowed into Dealey Plaza to hear the president's speech, and they were thoroughly searched by police and Secret Service. Every window inside the security zone with a line of sight to the front steps of the County Administration Building was closed and sealed.

The lead Tahoe was barely moving. The follow-up Tahoe with the four operators inched along behind it.

"Full of shit about what?" Max Garcia asked.

Blackstone glanced over at him, then looked back at the road. "About today. About what's going to happen. About everything."

"You have a control officer, right?" Garcia asked.

"Of course."

"Who relays orders and provides logistical support."

"That's what control officers do."

"Did you call him last night?"

"Yes."

"And what did he tell you?"

"Nothing about an earth-shaking plan being executed today."

"But what did he tell you?"

"My instructions," Blackstone said, "are to back you up and provide you with full operational support."

"Does that sound like I'm full of shit?"

"No, I guess not."

"All right then."

"Still doesn't explain why I'm here."

Garcia reached for his briefcase.

"Hey," Blackstone said, dropping his right hand to the pistol on his hip. "You be careful what you pull out of that thing."

"Just pictures," Garcia said. Moving slowly so as not to make Blackstone nervous, he opened the briefcase and pulled out a thick stack of 8 1/2 x 11-inch paper. Each sheet was a copy of what had been mocked up to look like a wanted poster. Under a bold banner that read 'ALERT—WANTED FOR QUESTIONING' were mugshot-style photographs of Jake Miller and Stacy Chapman, taken from their FBI credentials; and Andre Favreau, taken from his passport. Garcia hadn't been able to find a photograph of Gordon McCay. Below the photos was an 800 number. There was no mention of what government agency had produced the posters or any specific charges.

"Where'd you get those?" Blackstone said.

"I had somebody at Langley put the poster together for me last night and email me a PDF. Then I used my US Marshals badge to convince the front desk clerk to make copies."

"What are you going to do with them?"

"There are at least two hundred cops and Secret Service agents out here," Garcia said. "That's two hundred pairs of eyes we can have looking for these people, but we have to show them who to look for."

"That's pretty old school, but still a good idea," Blackstone said. "You're just going to pass them out by hand?"

"That's exactly what I'm going to do."

"What are you going to say they're wanted for?"

"Miller is a highly-trained FBI agent, armed and extremely dangerous," Garcia said. "He has recently manifested paranoid behavior, violent delusions, and an obsession with political assassination. He's traveling with three companions, a known terrorist and international fugitive, a mentally unbalanced conspiracy advocate who thinks the president is Satan, and a female accomplice trained in intelligence work. The Marshals Service feels these four people are a serious threat to the president."

Blackstone nodded. "That's good. That's really good."

"I'm glad you approve."

Garcia looked at the line of traffic stretching to a police barricade a half a mile ahead. The cops were forcing every car to turn. "That's the perimeter up there. Let's get out and walk."

"Why?"

Garcia pointed to the people walking down the sidewalks on either side of them, all headed toward Dealey Plaza. They were moving faster than the cars. "Number one, we'll get there quicker. Number two, we can cover more ground if we split up. Let two of your men take this vehicle. They have radios, right?"

Blackstone nodded.

"I'll give each pair a stack of posters. They can put those ATF credentials to work and pass the posters out to every cop they see."

Pointing to the 800 number at the bottom of the poster, Blackstone asked, "Where does that ring?"

"An off-site in Virginia. Any legit calls get forwarded to me."

Blackstone edged the Tahoe toward the curb.

Garcia pulled a single sheet of paper from his briefcase. This one was dense with typing. "If they get arrested, I have a federal writ ordering their immediate transfer into our custody."

Blackstone pulled to the curb and stopped. He glanced at the paper in Garcia's hand as the follow-up Tahoe pulled in behind them. "Is it real?" he asked.

"What do you think?" Garcia said.

***

Jake felt conspicuous as hell in the green Cadillac, jouncing through traffic in stops and starts. The congestion had started at the I-635 Loop and had gotten progressively worse the closer they got to downtown. Some of it was normal morning rush-hour traffic, but a lot of it had to be due to the president's visit. There was nothing he and the others could do except fight their way through it and hope the Dallas Police Department hadn't gotten a report about a stolen lime green Cadillac.

From the back seat, Gordon said, "Now that we have wheels, the question is, do we have a plan?"

Jake had been thinking about that very thing. Which was why he'd turned off the stereo again. Listening to the '70s funk songs had brought smiles to all their faces and helped relieve the incredible pressure of their predicament, if only for a little while, but Lionel Richie and company could not change their situation.

He turned in his seat so he could see Gordon and Stacy. "It's a public event. We're four people among thousands, all trying to jam through a few checkpoints. They'll probably run a wand over us, but we won't be carrying weapons, so there'll be no reason for them to even notice us."

"What if they ask for ID?" Gordon asked.

"They won't," Jake said. "There are too many people. A cursory check for weapons is all they'll be able to manage."

"Getting into Dealey Plaza won't help us find the shooter," Stacy said. "Especially if he's a thousand yards out."

"I realize that," Jake said. "But there's no way we can search every building within sight of the president. Maybe once we're in the plaza we can spot—"

"The shooter's building was circled on the satellite photograph," Favreau said. "There were also photographs of two buildings...taken from the ground. One was the Book Depository."

Jake looked at Favreau but didn't speak, didn't want to interrupt his train of thought.

Favreau continued. "The other building was definitely the shooter's. There were notes on the photograph...and a number." He turned to Jake. "I know what the building looks like. I can find it. And I remember the number, two-two-zero-five."

"Is that an apartment number?" Stacy asked.

Favreau glanced at her in the mirror. "I don't know."

"It's a start," Jake said. "A lead. More than we had. And better than wandering around Dealey Plaza hoping to spot the sniper poking his rifle out an open window a thousand yards away."

"How do we find the building?" Gordon asked.

Looking down the highway, Jake saw a line of cars extending several miles. He pointed to an exit sign a hundred yards ahead. "Take the next exit and get off the highway. There's no need to go to Dealey Plaza. We know it's a thousand-yard shot. That's...a little over half a mile. We'll circle the plaza, start on the outside and work our way in."

A car horn shrieked behind the Cadillac as Favreau bulled his way into the next lane, cutting off a middle-aged woman driving an old minivan with a faded yellow 'BABY ON BOARD' sign stuck to the windshield. Jake gave her an apologetic wave, thinking that if she could hear him, he would say something like, Please excuse my friend. He's not rude. He's just French. But she raised her middle finger and shook it at him, her lips mouthing something Jake was glad he couldn't hear but was pretty sure he understood.

Blackstone stopped on the sidewalk a block from the pedestrian-only checkpoint into Dealey Plaza, where at least a hundred people were waiting in line. Four uniformed Dallas cops and two men in suits, whom Garcia took to be Secret Service, were manning the checkpoint. One of the cops ran a handheld magnetometer over each person who entered. It was a slow process.

Garcia asked, "What's wrong?"

"Something's been bugging me," Blackstone said.

"What?"

"If you're not involved operationally with...what's happening today, then why do you even know about it?"

"I told you," Garcia said. "I'm only here to find the Frenchman."

"That's my point," Blackstone said. "You mentioned regime change yesterday, so you've known about this for a while. But there was no need for you to know, not if we had caught Favreau in DC or Oklahoma."

"You're right," Garcia said, knowing that anyone experienced in operational security, as Blackstone certainly was, would see the flaw in his explanation for knowing about what was planned for today in Dealey Plaza. Now he had to explain the part he had left out. Blackstone was staring at him, waiting for more. "I'm not involved with the main operation." He nodded toward the plaza. "Not with what's going on in there. I'm just here for the Frenchman, but the people who worked this up asked me to review the plan, as a sort of consultant."

"No offense," Blackstone said. "But why you? You're retired. Right?" Saying the last word with more than a hint of skepticism.

"They asked me to review the plan because I was here in '63."

Blackstone stared at Garcia for a long moment. Then he said, "On that day? You were here on that day?"

Garcia glanced up the street. He could see the top floors of the old School Book Depository. He looked back at Blackstone and nodded. "I was here," he said, "fifty years ago today."

"Doing what? Exactly."

"I helped plan it," Garcia said. "But when it came time to execute the plan, I recommended against it." He could still taste the bitterness, like bile on the back of his tongue. "My recommendation was duly noted. And overruled."

"Were you here when it actually happened?"

"Yes," Garcia said, "but more as an observer than a participant."

Blackstone continued to stare at Garcia. The crowd flowed around them, paying no more attention to them then if they had been a pair of telephone polls or lampposts blocking part of the sidewalk. Finally, Blackstone said, "What about the Frenchman?"

"What about him?"

"What was his involvement?"

"He was on my team."

"So I was right."

"About what?"

"Favreau was the second shooter," Blackstone whispered. "He took out JFK."

"I didn't say that. I said he was on my team."

Blackstone pressed on. "And he knows enough to take everybody down."

"There are only a few us left," Garcia said. "But there are a few more who know about. Some of them weren't even alive at the time. But they have an institutional interest in making sure the past stays in the past."

"Meaning your old outfit couldn't survive the truth coming out."

Garcia nodded.

"So why is he here?" Blackstone asked.

"He wants to stop it from happening again," Garcia said. "And I suspect he wants to come clean about what happened fifty years ago. He's got lung cancer and seeks to unburden himself before the clock runs out."