American Quartet (23 page)

“You’re gonna put my ass in a sling.” The eggplant told her. “They’ll crap all over me if they know I’ve been doing this on my own.”

“I need a little more time,” she lied. There was no end in sight.

They had also not found any connection with the previous two killings. She had, perhaps deliberately, raised impossible expectations in the eggplant’s mind. Besides, there were only the two of them and all the old leads were ice cold. But the theory was still tantalizing, too tantalizing. The problem was that, so far, it had led nowhere.

“It can’t go on forever,” he said.

“We’re trying,” she said lamely.

“The chief finds out, I’m dead as Kelsy’s.” His bloodshot eyes were pleading. “It’s one thing to hate my guts, FitzGerald. And another to cut my balls off. Somebody is going to find out about this.” He appeared on the edge of exasperation. The full force of her guilt surfaced. She had, she knew, betrayed him. She had talked too much to Bruce. We have no secrets, he had said.

Oh, yes, we have, she thought angrily.

“We’ve been careful,” she said, hoping to placate him.

“People know you’ve been poking around,” he said. “It’s the Kennedy connection that’s got to be kept under wraps.”

“I promise you. It’s separate.”

“It better be.” He strode off unhappily. Poor bastard, she thought. As if for spite, she put money in the machine and pulled the lever on Milky Way. Nothing came out. She banged the machine. The eggplant turned around and shook his head sadly.

She made a gesture of futility. It conveyed the meaning of both situations.

It was also wearing down Jefferson. Essentially a man of action, he had left the research to her. But when it brought forth no new leads, he became rebellious.

“But we’re no nearer to the dude,” he pointed out. Surprisingly, he had been gentle and cooperative as they went over all the old ground. Now he was getting antsy.

“It’s there, somewhere,” she told him, flogging herself to continue.

Her date with Bruce at Tiberio’s had all the trappings of an important “event.” It was, after all, the scene of their first date, and they had gone there only on their most festive occasions. Unlike then, he had begged her to come. “I need you to be there,” he had pleaded.

She wondered about his urgency. Was the moment of truth at hand? Fish or cut bait? She wasn’t mentally prepared to make any lifetime commitments at that moment. Why couldn’t he just leave her alone?

His lips were cold when he kissed her. A blast of icy air had come surging out of Canada and the papers had begun to express concern for the cherry blossoms. She smelled his shaving lotion, the brand she liked. He had shaved at the office and changed his shirt. Please, Bruce, don’t force any decisions now, she wanted to cry out. She followed Julio to the table under the floral paintings, a burst of bright yellow and reds that matched the table flowers.

Sitting beside him, he gripped her hand under the table, lifted it to his lips, kissed it, then continued to hold it. He ordered a double Scotch and she asked for a martini.

“I’m living dangerously,” she said. “I’ll get smashed.”

“Good. It will take the edge off.”

“You think so?”

“I hope so.”

It was, of course, the banter of courtship, the bright repartee that had punctuated those early moments together. He was deliberately playing recall. Coming up, she was sure, was the moment she dreaded.

Their drinks came and he lifted his glass.

“To us,” he said, kissing her on her neck. His lips had warmed. His touch was soothing. She could not deny the feel of it, the sweetness of it. If only she could be more mindless, more instinctive.

“When are we going to get off the merry-go-round?” The question seemed more teasing than imperative and she let herself drift along. Squeezing her hand, he moved it along his thigh, touching hers as well.

“This is my woman,” he whispered.

“Maybe my priorities are all screwed up,” she said.

“The pot calls the kettle. What the hell is driving us, Fiona? Why don’t we give it up? Fifty years from now who will give a damn?”

She sipped her martini. Her tongue was growing heavy.

“Maybe we’re afraid to stop striving,” he continued. “Afraid of the boredom. Sometimes I think boredom is the real enemy, worse than defeat. I mean, what would I do with my life if I didn’t have this?” He shrugged, letting the question hang in the air. “I don’t know which is worse. Boredom or loneliness.

“This business of politics. It takes you right up the road to meglomania. So I won’t make senator. So what? It’s not the end of the world. As much as I tell myself that it doesn’t make a difference . . . I want it so badly . . .”

At least he knew what he was, she thought with growing irritation.

“Like you, Fi. We’re driven people.”

Like me! It was a view of herself she resented.

They were interrupted by Julio, who rattled off pleasantries in his rapid Italian accent. He started to offer culinary suggestions.

“Whatever you think,” Bruce said. Fiona nodded. With a courtly bow, he moved away, flashing hand signals like a traffic cop.

“See,” she said, “everybody’s striving.”

“I had an idea, Fi,” he said.

She braced herself. Perhaps it
was
time for surrender. Don’t throw love away, she warned herself. When this obsession passed what would be left? Save yourself. Loneliness would come again. Who cared who killed whom? What was so important about Kennedy’s killer? Or Pringle’s? Or anybody’s? Let society fend for itself? Enough overbearing self-righteousness? Out moral flame? She was sick of dealing with death. The thought made her smile and she squeezed his hand. Ask me now, she begged in her heart. I’m ready.

“I need something so big, so overpowering, that everyone will have to stand up and take notice.”

“What?” she was confused.

“They’re out there like jackals, Fi. Everyone is jockeying for position. I’ve got to outfox them now. Take the initiative.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“This Kennedy thing. It has an infallible aura about it. A mystique. I doubt if I could get a budget for it. But it’s got a kind of pizzazz. This whole crime thing is heating up again. It hooks right in. And maybe you can make a breakthrough. Who knows?”

The waiter brought pasta for starters and he quickly began to eat.

“You mean publicity?”

“It would play well, Fiona. It always has.”

“I told you all that in confidence.”

“I’m not betraying it. I trust my people.”

“Your people?”

“Crime sells, baby. And what’s going on in the Big Apple alone is scary. Murders up fifty percent. They’re really frightened out there. Don’t you see how the Kennedy thing ties in? It’s a springboard. A headline grabber. Not a year goes by that some publisher doesn’t try to set off an explosion. The idea is to use it with deftness.”

He looked at her and held up his hand, as if to stem her growing anger.

“Fiona, really! They’re not going to let you use it. They’ll take it away from you. Hell. I’ve got a shot at a Senate seat. And you can come along. That’s the whole point of the exercise.”

“I can hook right in . . .” she mimicked.

“Damned straight . . .” he hesitated.

“I’m not saying you have to quit your job. Hell. Now that would be a plus . . .” His voice droned on, impervious, self-obsessed.

“. . . the timing has to be perfect. Connected somehow with some terrible crime. Some humiliating travesty for all of us. What we’re looking for is something that engraves itself on the public mind. Clark says . . .”

“You told him as well?”

He looked at her strangely.

“If I can’t trust Clark, then the ballgame’s over.”

‘Do you trust me, Bruce?” Her head had fully cleared now.

“You, Fiona?”

“Me.”

“How could I love you if I didn’t trust you?” he said with indignation.

“Don’t,” she said emphatically.

He looked at her strangely. She barely missed a beat.

“. . . because if I hear one single word about this from anybody . . . anybody . . . you included . . . I will personally, publicly, tell the world. Every outlet I can find. About our little cover-up at Remington’s house. The whole sordid little story. Grist for the mill, you called it. The mill would love it.”

The blood drained from his face, “You’re serious?”

“Dead. As dead as your career will be.”

“What about yours?”

“Mine? Since when does that matter?”

“I think you’ve misinterpreted this. Fiona. I love you. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt that . . .”

She stood up and the plate of pasta splashed to the floor. Eyes turned toward them. Julio came running forward.

“It’s nothing. Nothing.” He snapped an order to the waiter, who scurried off to the kitchen.

Pushing the table aside, she slid out into the aisle and stormed out of the restaurant.

REMINGTON
hefted the little brass Derringer in his palm. It felt smooth and cold and good. A gun dealer in Arizona had sold it to him, complete with balls and caps. All he would need was one of each. For years, he had kept the Derringer in its velvet-lined case in the drawer of his bedroom chest.

For this mission, he knew, he would be allowed poetic license. He would not be jumping onto any stage, or wearing spurs, as Wilkes had. In his belt he would carry a long dagger, emulating Wilkes, although that would be more for historical accuracy than for action. If someone tried to thwart him, however, he would not hesitate to use it.

He would carry the Derringer in the hip pocket of his tuxedo pants, the right pocket, ready for action at that crucial moment when laughter would be rolling through the theater. He would have ample time to aim and fire the ball into the President’s brain. To be certain that the message of similarity would sink in, he planned to shout out the words: Sic Semper Tyrannis! Someone would surely hear them.

There would be other parallels to Wilkes’s act. He hoped the time of the shooting would match. Lincoln had been shot precisely at 10:15. Naturally, he hoped he would be apprehended alive. It would give him a wider forum, a pulpit for a greater expression of his views. In the letter addressed to the editor of the
Washington Post,
he had laid out in clear terms the reasons ordained upon him by the cosmic force.

“Right or wrong, God judge me, not man,” the letter began, just as Wilkes had done. Written in his own hand, Remington had set forth the simple caveat: “We can no longer suffer the consequences of less-than-great presidential leadership. Some way must be found to provide the conduit for the best qualified, absolutely the best, to step forward and stand for this high office. We no longer have the luxury to be led by second-rate men.” He had agonized over the addition of “women” and finally had succumbed. He needed the broadest possible base of empathy. “Men and women,” he had written finally.

“What I have done, I have done solely to establish that point for all future generations. History, I know, will vindicate me.” In another paragraph, he confessed the three previous killings, although he did not attempt to offer reasons. The investigations would tell their own stories. Surely, his acts would set off a chain reaction that could easily span the entire millenium. Perhaps beyond that. The name of Thaddeus Remington III would forever be engraved on the public consciousness. Coming generations, once the enmity of the moment disappeared, would surely understand the divinely inspired logic of his acts.

“Mama. You will be proud,” he said to the split mirror images. He knew she was watching. She had always been watching. Nothing could possibly go wrong now. Every detail would fall into place for the final climax, the crowning act. Hadn’t they done so in the past?

His deep research into the history of Lincoln’s assassination had convinced him of this long before the signs had emerged, proving the existence of the grand design. Tiny details, like a routine mix-up in ticket sales at the Ford Theater, four weeks prior to the fatal day. It was the policy of the theater to move patrons to more favorable empty seats further forward at the end of the first act. Four ticket holders had arrived at the beginning of act two to discover that other patrons had taken their seats. The ticket seller, determined to placate the irate patrons, led them to the box seats above the stage. He discovered that the boxes were locked and with a swift kick broke the lock clasp and opened the door. The lock was never repaired, providing what could only be deemed divine access, assuring Wilkes’s success.

Then there was the case of Lincoln’s guard, John F. Parker. He was supposed to be sitting on a chair outside the President’s box. He was an unreliable fellow, also a bit of a drunkard. As soon as the Lincolns were ensconced in their box, the bodyguard left his post to have drinks in the tavern next door. Without these two circumstances, Wilkes could never have accomplished his purpose. Surely, a master puppeteer was at work.

All four of the people in Lincoln’s box when the shot was fired faced doom. Mrs. Lincoln went mad. Major Rathbone, who was stabbed trying to apprehend Wilkes, attended his fiancée, Clara Harrison. They later married, but years later, the major murdered his wife and spent his last years in an insane asylum.

If Garfield had appointed Guiteau minister to Paris or, for that matter, to anything, his death, too, might not have occurred. And McKinley. His meeting with the public had been an afterthought. Kennedy was reluctant to go to Dallas.

Remington knew that these assassinations were irrevocable. Once the machinery was set in motion, the final act was preordained. Nothing could stop them. Just as nothing could stop him. Nothing!

Through his friends at the Kennedy Center, he had reserved the box next to the presidential one for the entire run of
Tonight at 8:30
. Also, through these friends, he was going to ascertain what night the President had chosen to go. He would know this on the day of the performance. How could he possibly arouse suspicion? Wasn’t he known to the President? The Secret Service would ignore him as a threat.

He would invite others to join him for that performance, all in formal evening wear. He knew exactly where he was going to sit, where the President would sit. It was completely worked out in his mind. All previous tests had been passed. The signs were unmistakable. He was the instrument.

“They will rue the day,” his mother had said after his Senate defeat. “You must make them pay for their ignorance.”

He spent the first week in April walking around the city, observing details he had never stopped to notice before. He visited the National Gallery, that very spot where he had achieved his first “breakthrough,” lovingly viewing the pictures that had served as the backdrop for this historical act. At the Pan American Union, he strolled through the atrium, looking up to see the dome of light that fed the plants around the fountain. He walked from the White House following the route of the inaugural, east on Pennsylvania Avenue, past the stately buildings, their styles reflecting the entire panorama of American history. At the Capitol he proceeded across the park to the Library of Congress. He even went upstairs to the very room where he had done the third deed, following the pattern of the grand design.

It was thrilling to know that of all men, he alone had been chosen to be the lightning rod to warn this great nation of its peril. He alone! The instrument! Retracing his steps along the historic route, he moved westward to the Lincoln Memorial, standing in awe again at the remarkable likeness of the Great Emancipator, sculpted in perpetual reflection. He, too, had once saved America.

“You could be greater than Jefferson or Lincoln,” his mother had assured him during one night of bliss.

He put his worldly affairs in order, leaving instructions for the disposition of his papers in his safe deposit box. On the chosen day, he would make arrangements for the key to be delivered to his lawyers, as well as the letter to the
Post
.

“This house and everything in it is to be kept intact in perpetuity,” he had instructed, recommending how his chosen executors were to handle its financing, using the vast inheritance that would ensue, the entire proceeds of the family fortune.

At first, he knew, it would be a museum of infamy, but time would heal that. One day it would serve as a symbol to the concept of greatness itself, a historical memory to the one man who dared use the symbols of assassination as the lightning rod of communal memory. He also designated that space on his library shelves be reserved to the hundreds of books that were sure to be written about his divinely inspired acts. One day he would be revered as the apogee of human courage. America would heed his warning and acclaim him.

Yet he remained on the lookout for further trials. They were necessary to goad his courage, test his mettle. Euphoria was a dangerous condition.

When the call came from Fiona FitzGerald, he knew what it meant, another obstacle to be conquered.

“I must see you,” she said.

“When?”

“Now.”

It was, he was certain, the last gauntlet.