"In the end, I just got lucky."
***
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 30, 2013
Leaning on crutches, his right leg bandaged and splinted from hip to ankle, his left arm and hand encased in a fiberglass cast, Jake Miller stood on the apron at Love Field with Gordon McCay and Stacy Chapman. They were watching a motorized loader slide a simple aluminum coffin into the belly of an Air France jet.
"Are we sure he's in there?" Jake asked.
Gordon smiled. "Who's the conspiracy kook now?"
"I'm serious," Jake said. "I tried to open the casket, but the lid was screwed down."
"I heard he's being buried in a family plot," Stacy said.
A Learjet 60 that belonged to the FBI was standing by to take Jake and Stacy back to DC.
They stood in silence for a moment. Then Jake pointed to the tattered black and white composition notebook clutched in Gordon's hand. It was Andre Favreau's notebook, the same one the Frenchman had been scribbling in when Jake first met him at the diner. Something that seemed to have happened in another lifetime. "Where did he leave it?" Jake asked.
"In the motorhome," Gordon said. "It's the whole story, names, dates, locations. Everything."
"Are you going to write a new book?"
Gordon hesitated a long time before saying, "I don't think so."
"Why not?" Stacy asked.
"Those were bad times—JFK, Martin Luther King, Bobby, Watergate, Vietnam—and in some ways this country is only just now starting to heal. I don't want to be responsible for knocking us back down."
Jake said, "That doesn't sound like you."
Gordon smiled. "Maybe I'm just too old."
"Too old to write a bestseller about solving the biggest murder mystery in history?" Stacy said.
Gordon laughed. "You think anybody would even believe it?"
"I think enough of them would," Jake said, his tone serious.
Gordon held the notebook out to him. "Maybe it should be your generation that sets the record straight."
Jake shook his head. "It's your story. And I think it needs to be told. Besides, you're the only writer in the family."
Gordon nodded. Then he swallowed hard and cleared his throat. He patted Jake's shoulder and turned to Stacy. "So what do you think of this guy, huh? About to have the FBI Medal of Valor personally awarded by the president of the United States."
Stacy smiled and rubbed Jake's back. "I'm so proud of him."
Gordon gave a nervous cough, then looked at Jake. "Listen, uhh, you mind if I...if I come out to DC for the ceremony?"
"I'm counting on it," Jake said.
Gordon smiled.
Jake grinned back at him. "But are you sure your motorhome will make it?"
Waving off the comment, Gordon said, "That old girl's got another hundred thousand miles in her."
"You should call Mom," Jake said. "She misses you."
"She said that?" Gordon asked, his face showing his surprise and skepticism.
"Call her and find out."
"Maybe I will." Gordon took a half-step toward Jake, then hesitated before giving him an awkward hug. "I'm proud of you, son."
Jake glanced at Stacy. She was smiling. He hugged Gordon back, also a bit awkwardly, but he meant it. "Thanks...Dad."