TEXAS

AFTER DROPPING JEAN-PAUL OFF AT the edge of town, near the motel where he was to meet with his contact, and then driving Ms. Lafleur and their youngest daughter to the mall, Gode and René drove to Dealey Plaza, where, it was said, time had stopped on a certain day in November 1963. They parked the car a bit farther off and sat on the grass of the most famous knoll in the universe to smoke a cigarette. Elm Street faced them. The Texas School Book Depository was a bit higher up, the pergola at their back, the fence to their right, the viaduct and train tracks below them.

“He was farther away than I thought,” René said, looking up at the sixth floor of the book depository.

“He could have shot him straight on, when the limousine was coming down Houston Street and practically stopped as it turned . . . Why wait until it drove past him?”

“He was a sharpshooter.”

“He was not, not for a goddamn second.”

“Maybe there were other shooters. But we’ll never know.”

“No, but the proof of the conspiracy isn’t here, it’s at Dealey Plaza. The proof of the conspiracy is Jack Ruby. He’s the guy who tries to make the pigeon disappear. The proof is the cover-up, you see?’

“Sounds like you’ve thought about this before . . .”

“Maybe I have. Is there really a single person on the planet who believes that Ruby shot Oswald for the First Lady’s pretty eyes?”

“I don’t know, but it gets me thinking: remember what Jean-Paul told us about Jackie?”

“No, what?”

“He said that this one summer, Francoeur tried to convince him to kidnap Jackie Kennedy as she was fishing on the Cascapédia, in the Gaspésie.”

“Really?”