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."
"The people running this operation," Blackstone said, "the ones who asked you to review the plan, did they ask for your recommendation?"
"They did."
"And?"
"I said it was a bad idea. A terrible idea, actually."
"Then why are they going through with it?"
"Because just like last time," Garcia said, "my vote didn't count."
***
Fluker found the building with less trouble than he thought. Turned out, it was the tall one. As he stood on the sidewalk and craned his neck to glance up at the top of the high-rise, the sight of the fast-moving clouds scuttling past the glass-and-chrome monolith made him dizzy.
He looked down at his watch, mainly as a stationary focal point, something to get his head straight. It took several seconds, maybe half a minute, but it worked. The dizziness faded, then disappeared. He also noted that it was 8:45 a.m.
Fluker circled around to the back of the building and walked up a set of concrete steps to the loading dock. The big bay door was closed. They probably keep it closed for security, Fluker thought, unless there was a delivery coming. Next to the bay door was a standard-sized steel door. It too was closed. And probably locked, Fluker expected. But out of habit, he tugged on it and was surprised when it opened. He peeked in but didn't see anyone. "Hello," he called out. "George?"
Nothing.
He stepped inside. The door was on some kind of spring and pulled closed behind him. He was in a huge room that seemed to be used for storage and maybe maintenance. Wire cages ran along one wall and locked inside them was a lot of equipment. Most of it Fluker didn't recognize. He'd never been that handy. He had a knack for taking certain things apart and putting them back together, an M-60 machine gun or a Chevy small-block 305, but he wasn't so good using tools to build things from scratch. Which, he thought, probably explained why he worked where he did. Some of the equipment locked up behind the cage doors he did recognize and knew how to operate. There was an industrial carpet cleaner and a floor buffer, plus weed trimmers and a riding lawnmower. Stuff he'd used in Basic Training in the Army.
What he didn't see was George. His friend was supposed to meet him here. But maybe because Fluker was late with all of that traffic, having to walk the last mile, George had already left. George was a busy man. He didn't have time to wait around.
Fluker stepped farther into the cavernous room. No one seemed to be around. He took a few more steps. Then he saw a beat-up plastic case, five feet long and two feet wide, leaning upright against the wall. A folded piece of paper taped to the front of the case had his name handwritten on it in big black letters: 'RAY FLUKER'.
He walked to the case. Then glanced around again. Well, it had his name on it. No mistaking that. The tape was stretched across the seam of the folded piece of paper. He unfolded the paper without removing it. The note, written in the same hand and with the same black marker as his name, read:
Ray,
Washer and dryer delivered. Got them upstairs by myself, but threw my damn back out. Still need your help, pal. Can you bring up this heavy case?
—George
Fluker smiled at the note. George had mentioned something to him once about having a bad back. From football, was it? No, maybe he said soccer. Or lacrosse. Rowing. Some fancy sport. You should have waited on me, pal. I would have helped you haul them up. That's what friends do. They help each other.
Fluker pulled the note off the plastic case, folded it carefully, and slipped it into his pocket. He was going to save it. Then he tilted the oblong case away from the wall. Giving it a test lift, he realized it wasn't that heavy, maybe thirty-five, forty pounds. It was more awkward than heavy. He bent a little and hefted it onto his shoulder. Now what?
He scanned the big room, feeling more like he belonged here, helping a friend who lived in the building. If anybody asked, he had a legitimate note in his pocket.
There was a service elevator in the back. Fluker lugged the case into the elevator and punched the button for George's floor. The metal door slid shut and the elevator rattled as it lumbered upward. It was going to be a long ride, so Fluker set the box down easy. Up in the top corner of the elevator car to his right, he saw a tiny security camera. He nodded into the lens, hoping he looked like he belonged here enough so that whoever was monitoring the camera wouldn't activate some sort of intercom and ask him a bunch of questions. Or worse, an alarm. He had the note from George, but he was already late and didn't want to disappoint George any further.
Finally, the cage-like elevator jerked to a stop and the door banged open. Fluker hefted the case easily onto his shoulder. His injuries had affected his brain more than his back. He was proud of the fact that he was still strong. Sometimes at work, guys would ask him to lift things for them. It made him happy.
He stepped out of the elevator into a kind of service area. A metal door led out. He opened it and found himself at the end of a long, carpeted hallway with framed pictures on the walls. He walked past the main elevators and past a comfortable-looking sofa. He had never felt like he had to sit down to wait for an elevator, but maybe some people did. Old folks, maybe disabled people. Who knew? Maybe rich people just liked to sit down a lot.
George's apartment was about three-quarters of the way down the hall. Fluker stood in front of the door, the long box still balanced on his shoulder but angled along the wall now so he could reach the door. He wasn't sure if he should knock or ring the bell. Seems like he'd heard somewhere that friends knocked, strangers and salesmen rang the bell.
He knocked.
The light shining through the peephole went dark for a couple of seconds. Then the door opened. George smiled at him. "I was hoping you'd see the note."
"Yeah, I saw it. Didn't figure there were any other Ray Flukers around."
"If you had a cellphone I could have called you."
Fluker waved a hand, dismissing the suggestion. "Haven't had need for one since I got back."
George stepped out of the way. "Don't stand out there all day, pal. Come on in. And thank you so much for lugging that old thing up here."
Fluker stepped inside. Behind him, George said, "I really wrenched my back something fierce getting that washer and dryer up."
Fluker couldn't see George anymore, but he said, "Why didn't you wait 'till I got here to give you a hand?"
The apartment was fantastic. Fluker had never seen anything so nice. Like it belonged in a magazine or something. A den with a stone fireplace, a kitchen with stainless steel and copper pots and pans hanging from hooks, looking like they'd never even been used, and a balcony. Oh, Lord, what a view. Like the whole city was the back yard except that you were two hundred feet above it.
The only thing that seemed out of place was the table. It looked like it had been dragged over from the little nook where it was supposed to go and set in front of the sliding glass door that led to the balcony. A pile of small sacks sat on top of the table. Bags of dry beans, maybe? Fluker was about to ask when he heard George say, "Just set it by the fireplace, if you don't mind." George was behind him, somewhere out of his sight.
"What is it?" Fluker asked, walking toward the stone fireplace.
"It's a telescope," George said.
"Like for looking at the stars and stuff?"
"Something like that," George answered, sounding like he was standing right behind Fluker.
Craning his neck to try to see his friend, Fluker said, "I didn't know you were into that sort of—" He felt two cold spots touch the base of his neck. Like metal...Then he heard, and almost seemed to smell, the crackle of a sharp electric discharge.
Then everything went black.