Chapter 28 #6
I smiled, then leaned forward and kissed her. “Race you,” I said, and started up the stairs. Over my shoulder I called, “If I fall asleep, he’s all yours!”
13
“You folks crazy,” I heard Bonnie Ray Williams say in a mildly remonstrative tone of voice.
Then there was the light thud of footsteps as Sadie followed me.
I crutched on the right—no longer leaning on it but almost vaulting on it—and hauled at the railing on the left.
The gun in my sport coat pocket swung and thudded against my hip. My knee was bellowing. I let it yell.
When I hit the second-floor landing, I snuck a look at my watch.
It was twelve twenty-five. No; twenty-six.
I could hear the roar of the crowd still approaching, a wave about to break.
The motorcade had passed the intersections of Main and Ervay, Main and Akard, Main and Field.
In two minutes—three at most—it would reach Houston Street, turn right, and roll past the old Dallas courthouse at fifteen miles an hour.
From that point on, the President of the United States would be an available target.
In the 4x scope attached to the Mannlicher-Carcano, the Kennedys and Connallys would look as big as actors on the screen at the Lisbon Drive-In.
But Lee would wait a little longer. He was no suicide-drone; he wanted to get away.
If he fired too soon, the security detail in the car at the head of the motorcade would see the gunflash and return fire.
He would wait until that car—and the presidential limo—made the dogleg left onto Elm.
Not just a sniper; a fucking backshooter.
I still had three minutes.
Or maybe just two and a half.
I attacked the stairs between the second and third floor, ignoring the pain in my knee, forcing myself upward like a marathoner near the end of a long race. Which, of course, I was.
From below us, I could hear Bonnie Ray yelling something that had crazy man and say Leela goan shoot in it.
Until I was halfway up the flight to the third floor, I could feel Sadie beating on my back like a rider urging a horse to go faster, but then she fell back a little.
I heard her gasping for air and thought, too many cigarettes, darlin.
My knee didn’t hurt anymore; the pain had been temporarily buried in a surge of adrenaline.
I kept my left leg as straight as I could, letting the crutch do the work.
Around the bend. Up to the fourth floor.
Now I was gasping, too, and the stairs looked steeper.
Like a mountain. The cradle-rest at the top of the beggar’s crutch was slimy with sweat.
My head pounded; my ears rang with the sound of the cheering crowd below.
The eye of my imagination opened wide and I could see the approaching motorcade: the security car, then the presidential limo with the Harley-Davidson DPD motorcycles flanking it, the cops on them wearing white chin-strapped helmets and sunglasses.
Around another corner. The crutch skidding, then steadying. Up again. The crutch thudding. Now I could smell sweet sawdust from the sixth-floor renovations: workmen replacing the old plank boards with new ones. Not on Lee’s side, though. Lee had the southeast side to himself.
I reached the fifth-floor landing and made the last turn, my mouth open to scoop in air, my shirt a drenched rag against my heaving chest. Stinging sweat ran into my eyes and I blinked it away.
Three book cartons stamped ROADS TO EVERYWHERE and 4th AND 5th GRADE READERS blocked the stairs to the sixth floor.
I stood on my right leg and slammed the foot of the crutch into one of them, sending it spinning.
Behind me I could hear Sadie, now between the fourth and fifth floors.
So I had been right to keep the gun, it seemed, although who really knew?
Judging from my own experience, knowing you are the one with the primary responsibility to change the future makes you run faster.
I squeezed through the gap I created. To do so I had to put my full weight on my left leg for a second.
It gave a howl of pain. I groaned and grabbed at the railing to keep from spilling forward onto the stairs.
Looked at my watch. It said twelve twenty-eight, but what if it was slow? The crowd was roaring.
“Jake… for God’s sake hurry…” Sadie, still on the stairs to the fifth-floor landing.
I started up the last flight, and the sound of the crowd began to drain away into a great silence. By the time I reached the top, there was nothing but the rasp of my breath and the burning hammerstrokes of my overtaxed heart.
14
The sixth floor of the Texas School Book Depository was a shadowy square dotted with islands of stacked book cartons.
The overhead lights were burning where the floor was being replaced.
They were off on the side where Lee Harvey Oswald planned to make history in one hundred seconds or less.
Seven windows overlooked Elm Street, the five in the middle large and semicircular, the ones on the ends square.
The sixth floor was gloomy around the stairhead but filled with hazy light in the area overlooking Elm Street.
Thanks to the floating sawdust from the floor project, the sunbeams slanting in through the windows looked thick enough to cut.
The beam falling through the window at the southeast corner, however, had been blocked off by a stacked barricade of book cartons.
The sniper’s nest was all the way across the floor from me, on a diagonal that ran from northwest to southeast.
Behind the barricade, in the sunlight, a man with a gun stood at the window. He was stooped, peering out. The window was open. A light breeze was ruffling his hair and the collar of his shirt. He began to raise the rifle.
I broke into a shambling run, slaloming around the stacked cartons, digging in my coat pocket for the .38.
“Lee!” I shouted. “Stop, you son of a bitch!”
He turned his head and looked at me, eyes wide, mouth hung open.
For a moment he was just Lee—the guy who had laughed and played with Junie in the bath, the one who sometimes hugged his wife and kissed her upturned face—and then his thin and somehow prissy mouth wrinkled into a snarl that showed his upper teeth.
When that happened, he changed into something monstrous.
I doubt you believe that, but I swear it’s true.
He stopped being a man and became the daemonic ghost that would haunt America from this day on, perverting its power and spoiling its every good intent.
If I let it.
The noise of the crowd rushed in again, thousands of people applauding and cheering and yelling their brains out. I heard them and Lee did, too. He knew what it meant: now or never. He whirled back to the window and socked the rifle’s butt-plate against his shoulder.
I had the pistol, the same one I’d used to kill Frank Dunning. Not just like it; in that moment it was the same gun. I thought so then and I think so now. The hammer tried to catch in the pocket-lining but I dragged the .38 out, hearing cloth rip as I did so.
I fired. My shot went high and only exploded splinters from the top of the window frame, but it was enough to save John Kennedy’s life. Oswald jerked at the sound of the report, and the 160-grain slug from the Mannlicher-Carcano went high, shattering a window in the county courthouse.
There were screams and bewildered shouts from below us.
Lee turned toward me again, his face a mask of rage, hate, and disappointment.
He raised his rifle again, and this time it wouldn’t be the President of the United States he’d be aiming at.
He worked the bolt—clack-clack—and I fired at him again.
Although I was three-quarters of the way across the room, less than twenty-five feet away, I missed again.
I saw the side of his shirt twitch, but that was all.
My crutch struck a stack of boxes. I tottered to the left, flailing with my gun-hand for balance, but there was no chance of that.
For just a moment I thought of how, on the day I’d met her, Sadie had literally fallen into my arms. I knew what was going to happen.
History doesn’t repeat itself, but it harmonizes, and what it usually makes is the devil’s music.
This time I was the one who stumbled, and that was the crucial difference.
I could no longer hear her on the stairs… but I could still hear her rapid footfalls.
“Sadie, down!” I shouted, but it was lost in the bark of Oswald’s rifle.
I heard the bullet pass above me. I heard her cry out.
Then there was more gunfire, this time from outside.
The presidential limo had taken off, driving toward the Triple Underpass at breakneck speed, the two couples inside ducking and holding onto each other.
But the security car had pulled up on the far side of Elm Street near Dealey Plaza.
The cops on the motorcycles had stopped in the middle of the street, and at least four dozen people were acting as spotters, pointing up at the sixth-floor window, where a skinny man in a blue shirt was clearly visible.
I heard a patter of thumps, a sound like hailstones striking mud.
Those were the bullets that missed the window and hit the bricks above or on either side.
Many didn’t miss. I saw Lee’s shirt billow out as if a wind had started to blow inside it—a red one that tore holes in the fabric: one above the right nipple, one at the sternum, a third where his navel would be.
A fourth tore his neck open. He danced like a doll in the hazy, sawdusty light, and that terrible snarl never left his face.
He wasn’t a man at the end, I tell you; he was something else.
Whatever gets into us when we listen to our worst angels.
A bullet spanged one of the overhead lights, shattered the bulb, and set it to swaying.
Then a bullet tore off the top of the would-be assassin’s head, just as one of Lee’s had torn off the top of Kennedy’s in the world I’d come from.
He collapsed onto his barricade of boxes, sending them tumbling to the floor.
Shouts from below. Someone yelling “Man down, I saw him go down!”
Running, ascending footfalls. I sent the .
38 spinning toward Lee’s body. I had just enough presence of mind to know that I would be badly beaten, perhaps even killed by the men coming up the stairs if they found me with a gun in my hand.
I started to get up, but my knee would no longer hold me.
That was probably just as well. I might not have been visible from Elm Street, but if I was, they’d open fire on me.
So I crawled to where Sadie lay, supporting my weight on my hands and dragging my left leg behind me like an anchor.
The front of her blouse was soaked with blood, but I could see the hole.
It was dead-center in her chest, just above the slope of her breasts.
More blood poured from her mouth. She was choking on it.
I got my arms under her and lifted her. Her eyes never left mine. They were brilliant in the hazy gloom.
“Jake,” she rasped.
“No, honey, don’t talk.”
She took no notice, though—when had she ever? “Jake, the president!”
“Safe.” I hadn’t actually seen him all in one piece as the limo tore away, but I had seen Lee jerk as he fired his only shot at the street, and that was enough for me. And I would have told Sadie he was safe no matter what.
Her eyes closed, then opened again. The footfalls were very close now, turning from the fifth-floor landing and starting up the final flight. Far below, the crowd was bellowing its excitement and confusion.
“Jake.”
“What, honey?”
She smiled. “How we danced!”
When Bonnie Ray and the others arrived, I was sitting on the floor and holding her.
They stampeded past me. How many I don’t know.
Four, maybe. Or eight. Or a dozen. I didn’t bother to look at them.
I held her, rocking her head against my chest, letting her blood soak into my shirt.
Dead. My Sadie. She had fallen into the machine, after all.
I have never been a crying man, but almost any man who’s lost the woman he loves would, don’t you think? Yes. But I didn’t.
Because I knew what had to be done.