The Third Bullet - Страница 85

“See, those are the things I’d never think of,” said Marty.

“Marty, do you have a magnifying glass? I’d like to look at the shipping tags.”

“Of course,” said Marty. He went to his desk, got the glass, and returned to give it to Bob. “I’d prefer to handle the tags with the gloves.”

“You got it,” said Bob.

Richard crowded next to him, and Marty hovered close on the other side, leaning to lift the tags for Bob’s inspection.

In the circle of the glass, the red one floated in and out of focus until Bob found the right distance between eye, lens, and object for clarity. He examined every square inch. In black crayon clerk’s scrawl against the stiff red paper under the company rubric BRANIFF AIRWAYS, INTO THE BRIGHT TOMORROW, he saw:

Date: 11-24-63

Flt: 344 DAL/RICH

Psnger: Scott, L.D.

The tag was looped over the double handles of the case, sealing them together. Since the handles were on different halves of the case, that meant it had not been opened since 11-24-63. The heavy paper appeared unrotted and, at least under Marty’s gentle handling, didn’t show any give-and-take when manipulated, suggesting that whatever adhesive unified the two ends of the loop, it held solid, itself without decay or much in the way of loosening. But it looked brittle, as if to bend it would send flakes of dead glue to the floor.

“Looks goddamn genuine to me,” said Bob. “I guess we’d have to find an expert of some sort to verify that as the proper Braniff tag, in the proper time frame, and do some chemistry on the glue to make sure it’s the same kind Braniff used.”

“Where would we find such a guy?” said Marty. “That’s pretty arcane knowledge.”

“The FBI forensics people are good at document interp. And this is a piece of evidence in a crime, don’t forget. I’m thinking we’re going to have to bring in law enforcement.”

“I’m not wild about that,” said Marty. “Those guys might want to hog the spotlight. They’ll sniff the gold. I hate to be mercenary, but I have a house to paint. This thing is pure gold.”

“If it’s got what we think it has. Let me look at the other tag.”

Marty let the shipping tag fall and scooped up the other. It was less frail, a luggage ID locked in place by a leather case, its face spared the elements by a sheet of plastic.

LON DUNN SCOTT, it said in blue fountain pen, presumably in Lon’s own handwriting. And below that, SCOTT’S RUN, RR 224, CLINTONSBURG, VA.

Bob said, “It’s possible Lon’s fingerprints are under the plastic. I’m assuming they’re all over the locks and the stuff inside. The more, the better. Marty, could I see that X-ray again?”

“Sure,” said Marty, disappearing to his desk, reappearing in seconds. He laid the heavy dark celluloid sheet over the case. Bob could see that it was a one-on-one ratio.

“Got any backlighting?” he asked.

“Yeah, I have a light table over there. I use it to go over contact sheets for the picture books.”

Marty led them to the light table, a large metal frame supporting a square sheet of white-frosted glass. He turned a switch, and the fluorescent bulb inside blinked to life. Marty laid the X-ray out, and it displayed the case’s contents in perfect outline, everything recognizable.

The incomparably graceful Monte Carlo stock, the ovoid trigger guard still on, bolt, action, containing receiver, bolt slot, barrel, with the scope-a long tubular construction belled at the muzzle end, maybe fourteen inches-held parallel above the action by the ancient Redfield mounts and rings of the time, and above them all, a long tube with a flange at one end that had to be the Maxim suppressor. In the corner were a collection of screws, what looked to be a folded gun cloth, and a small bottle, presumably cleaning fluid. In the other corner, the silhouettes of three cartridges.

Bob took something out of his pocket and laid it next to the three. It was a.264 Win Mag cartridge with a 140-grain spitzer hunting bullet. “Look at it,” he said. “The shells are the same size. Two-sixty-four Win Mag. See how Lon’s have a blunt tip compared to the point on the hunting bullet? That’s because he’s loaded a Carcano bullet into the.264 shell.” He went on with a brief description of his newly revised theory on the ballistics deceit that lay at the heart of the issue. Possibly Marty understood, or at least took it on faith; Richard gave no sign of being awake.

“I think we’ve figured it out,” said Marty.

“No,” said Swagger. “There’s the big issue of speed. We won’t have anything till we have that. If the route wasn’t chosen until late on November 19, they only had two and a half days to set it up. Impossible in that time. They couldn’t have done it. But they did it.”

“You’ll figure it out,” said Marty. “It’ll be something stupid and obvious that everybody’s missed.”

“If it’s stupid and I haven’t figured it out,” said Bob, “then I guess that makes me stupid.”

“I think we’re already there,” said Richard. “You’ve got stuff nobody has gotten before. Believe me, I know this crap up and down, I-”

“What did you say?” said Bob.

“I said we’re already there. You’ve got it. The rest is just details.”

Already there.

“Already there,” he said. “Goddamn, already there.” The insight hit him blindside.

“What on God’s earth are you talking about?” said Marty.

“It’s the final piece of the puzzle,” Swagger said, as much Swagger as Brophy in the flash of revelation. “I couldn’t figure out how they could put it together so fast. They were already there on some other job. They had Oswald under discipline, they had the ballistics, they had Scott in town, ready to shoot. Then fate brought them Jack Kennedy, and they couldn’t resist taking him down. It would have been so easy!”

“Does this call for champagne?” asked Marty. “Shall we toast? I don’t need much of an excuse to pop a bottle.”

“Nah. It’s just something I’ve been working on.”

“This is exciting,” said Marty.

“Marty, please put the case away and lock it up tight,” Bob said, pointing at the case.

“I will.”

Marty did as requested, and the three returned to the couches around the coffee table. Under the raging glass eyes of animals dead nearly a century, they talked a little bit more business, mainly schedules. Swagger’s job was to refine his theory and put it in writing, striving for clarity and simplicity. Marty thought photos would help, because both he and Bob knew that many Americans had no idea what “reloading” was and how plastic it made the medium of the cartridge. They’d have to be talked slowly through Bob’s theory. Richard’s job was to find the various experts that the project would require. Meanwhile, Marty would put together a proposal, forward it to the others for comment, and then, with their permission, send it to his agent. He thought Bob ought to be ready to come to New York to meet the agent, and then meet the publisher, the editor, and the team who would handle the book. Once that process was in shape, Marty would draw up an outline and they’d begin to deal with ancillary rights.

When no one could think of anything more, they ambled outside, and Bob took a deep breath of the pine-and-oak-scented air, enjoyed the pure blue of the sky, and felt the pleasant, persistent pressure of the breeze. It felt good to be out of that mausoleum.

“I think we’ve got something here,” said Marty. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am. In fact, now that you teetotalers are gone, I believe I will open a bottle of bubblelicious and drink that toast to Jack, to Richard, to our good fortune in coming together, and to our bright and shining future.”

“I still can’t believe this is happening,” said Bob.

“It is. Pinch yourself, it hurts. You’re awake.”

“I guess I am.”

The three walked to the car. Handshakes all around. Then Bob said, “Richard, do you mind if I drive?”

“Sure, no problem,” said Richard.

“Great.” He got in and slammed the door behind him as Richard eased into his seat.

Swagger pulled out, and Marty watched them go.

And so at last the mighty day had arrived.

My killers had infiltrated two days before and lay without moving over that long stretch of time in case any rogue surveillance had been put in place, as unlikely as that might seem. Besides movement discipline, they maintained radio silence throughout and simply lay in place, vectored on the kill zone while passing the time in isometric hell.

Meanwhile, at no time were the approaching Swagger and Richard monitored. Part of the plan was to place no human eye upon them. Besides Swagger’s sensitivities, there were practical reasons: the super-cautious Swagger might have hired or gotten from his pal Memphis at the Dallas FBI his own team of countersurveillors to stay with him from a discreet distance and look for signs of followers. We couldn’t run that risk. But we did have Richard under control, though he had no idea for what purpose, and his constant e-mail updates by iPhone informed us that he and Swagger had flown the day before from Dallas to Hartford, secured a blue rental Ford Focus, license number given, spent the night at a Marriott in Hartford, and would leave early the next morning for the assignation. They were slated to arrive at the rural Adams estate at 9 a.m.

I was pleased, therefore, when I received, at approximately the appropriate time, the notification from Richard: “Everything cool. Leaving now.”