"I hadn't seen my...I hadn't seen Gordon McCay since I was a kid, since probably fifth grade. And I hadn't heard from him in years. I think the last thing I got from him was a card when I graduated from high school. A card and a copy of his latest book."
***
"It's good to see you, son," Gordon McCay said. His eyes were moist as he turned from Jake to Favreau. "But why...how?"
"You two know each other?" Jake said, then immediately felt stupid. "Of course, you know each other, or I wouldn't be here." He turned to Favreau. "The question is, why am I...Why are we here?"
Everyone was staring at Favreau as he reached out a hand to Gordon McCay. "I'm Andre Favreau."
Gordon shook his hand. "Gordon McCay. Glad to finally meet you."
"So you two don't know each other?" Jake asked, more confused than ever.
"We've corresponded," Gordon said.
With a gesture to Stacy, Favreau added, "And may I introduce Miss Stacy Chapman."
Gordon took her hand. "It's a pleasure."
"What are we doing here?" Jake demanded, still staring at Favreau.
"I'll explain everything," Favreau said. "But first, I suggest we go inside."
"Yes. Yes, of course," Gordon said, stepping out of the way, then casting a nervous glance into the motorhome. "It's just that...I wasn't expecting company."
Jake didn't move.
"I think that's a good idea," Stacy said.
Jake still didn't move.
Stacy laid a hand on his shoulder. "Jake, we can't stay out here." She took a quick look around the trailer park. "Our pictures are probably already on the news."
"What happened?" Gordon asked.
"Long story," Stacy said. "But one we should talk about inside."
Gordon waved them in. "Come in, please."
Stacy led the way. Jake gave Favreau a hard look, then followed her. Favreau came in last.
The inside of the Winnebago was just as shabby as the outside. The main cabin was a cramped amalgamation of den, dining room, and galley. Homemade plywood shelves lined the walls and sagged under the weight of scores of books. Stacks of cardboard file boxes overflowing with file folders took up a big chunk of the floor space. The fold-down dinner table had been converted into a desk and was covered with legal pads full of handwritten notes, piles of printed reports, and discarded Diet Coke cans. Sitting a bit incongruously on the table, amid all the dreck, was a gleaming MacBook Pro laptop computer, connected by wire to a tall modem with a column of flashing lights of various colors. The overall look of the cabin was that of a cross between a makeshift research library and an unsuccessful garage sale, stuffed into a thirty-foot aluminum box.
Gordon shut the door and locked it, then pointed to a tattered sofa and a couple of wooden chairs with flat cushions arranged around a stunted coffee table. The coffee table too was covered with books, files, and notes. "Have a seat and I'll make some coffee."
"I don't want any coffee," Jake said.
"Let's at least have a seat," Stacy said. "So we can talk."
Jake eyed the sofa for a moment, then took a seat on one end. Stacy sat next to him. "I'd actually love some coffee," she said. "Thank you."
The galley was a tiny space wedged between the den and the cab and equipped with a two-burner stove, a compact refrigerator, a small sink, and a mini-microwave. Gordon put on a pot of coffee. Favreau sat in one of the chairs.
A few awkward minutes passed, during which no one said anything. Jake noticed the coffee table was bolted to the floor, which was covered in worn-out shag carpet. He assumed the table was bolted down so it wouldn't move when the motorhome was on the road, although he doubted this old clunker had gone anywhere in a long time. Through a narrow curtained door at the rear of the main cabin, he glimpsed a tiny bedroom and bathroom.
Then Gordon set four mismatched mugs of steaming coffee on the table. "I'm sorry I'm out of cream, but I do have sugar," he said as he placed a chipped China bowl on the table and laid a spoon beside it. Inside the bowl was an assortment of sugar packets that looked to have been pilfered from restaurants and coffee shops. Gordon sat in the chair next to Favreau, across the table from Stacy and Jake.
Stacy ripped the tops off two packs of sugar and dumped them into her coffee. She didn't bother with the spoon. Andre drank his black. Gordon picked up his cup but didn't take a sip.
Jake left his untouched. "I told you I didn't want coffee."
Gordon set his cup down without drinking from it. "How's your mother?"
"I'm not here to talk about my mother," Jake said. "Although...to be honest, I don't know what else to talk about, because I have no idea why I'm here." He turned to Favreau. "How do you two know each other?"
Gordon cleared his throat. "Like I said, we've corresponded, but this is the first time we've actually met in person."
"Corresponded about what?" Jake asked.
Gordon glanced at Favreau, then said, "Andre is helping me with some research...for a new project."
"We're not here to help you write a book," Jake said. "People are chasing us. They're trying to kill us."
Gordon looked at Favreau again as if expecting some elaboration, but all Favreau did was nod. Jake wasn't sure if the nod meant Favreau was merely confirming what Jake had just said, or if it meant he and Gordon knew a lot more than they were saying. Jake guessed it was the latter.
"Okay, enough with the sidelong glances and secret handshakes," Jake said. Then he turned to Favreau. "You stole an airplane and flew us halfway across the country to Shady Point, Oklahoma, because you said there was someone here who could help us. Now, it turns out that someone...used to be my father. Why?"
"I promise you, son, this is the first I've heard of any of this," Gordon McCay said. "I had no idea you—"
"Let's get something straight right now," Jake said. "My name is not son. It's Jake. Jake Miller."
Gordon didn't say anything, but there was pain written in his expression. Jake recognized it easily enough. And again he was struck by how much of himself he saw in the face staring back at him. It was like looking into some kind of magic mirror, one that aged you.
Stacy looked across the low coffee table at Favreau and Gordon. "How do you two know each other? I know you said you've been corresponding, but corresponding about what?"
"I'm an investigative journalist," Gordon said. "I specialize in conspiracies and government cover-ups. A lot of my work deals with the Kennedy assassination."
Jake rolled his eyes. "Here we go again."
"I've read his books," Favreau said, speaking directly to Stacy and ignoring Jake. "A few months ago I sent him an email. Since then we've been exchanging information...about what really happened."
"About how you killed Kennedy," Jake said, hoping his tone carried the full measure of his derision.
"I believe him...Jake," Gordon said.
Jake snorted.
Gordon leaned forward in the chair and braced his elbows on his knees. "I've studied this case for decades, and what he says," he nodded at Favreau, "fits perfectly with everything I've learned about what happened that day in Dallas."
Jake stared across the low-slung table at the man who had once been his father and shook his head. "He said he read your books. The reason you think his story fits so well is because he concocted a scenario to match your own kooky theory."
"I've read a lot books about that day," Favreau said, "and your father's books are the most—"
"He's not my father," Jake snapped.
Stacy laid a hand on Jake's arm. She looked at Favreau. "Why would you kill President Kennedy?"
Jake opened his mouth to protest the insanity of the question, but Stacy cut him off. "Please, Jake. We've come all this way and been through so much. I just want to hear what he has to say."
Jake leaned back into the old sofa. It creaked under the pressure.
Favreau glanced at Gordon, then looked across at Stacy and Jake and took a deep breath. "I was shown proof that President Kennedy had been compromised."
"What do you mean compromised?" Stacy asked.
"He's talking about Ellen Rometsch," Gordon said, pronouncing the last name Rome-etch.
Favreau nodded.
Jake looked back and forth between Gordon and Favreau. Finally, he said, "Okay, I'll bite. Who's Ellen Rometsch?"
Gordon stood and walked to one of the stacks of old cardboard file boxes and dug a worn accordion folder from the top box. He returned to his seat and held the folder in his lap. It was stuffed with documents, and the elastic cord that was supposed to hold the folder closed had snapped, leaving the two frayed ends dangling. A thick rubber band now held the flap closed. Gordon slid the rubber band off and thumbed through the folder's contents. He pulled out a color copy of an eight-by-ten-inch photograph and laid it on the coffee table.
Jake stared at the photograph. It was a head and shoulders studio portrait of a beautiful woman in her late twenties. Her dark hair was arranged in an old-fashioned beehive, and she wore a white jacket with a thin choker around her neck. The woman's pouty lips were thick with lipstick, and her eyes reflected a glint of mischief. She looked like a young Elizabeth Taylor.
"That's Ellen Rometsch," Gordon said. "She was a Soviet spy, and for two years she had an affair with President Kennedy."