Chapter 3: All Dreams Must End
Jonas Carpenter walked down the steps of the old Executive Office Building carrying a tattered leather briefcase; he paused at the bottom and surveyed the chilly landscape before he stepped into the waiting car. He told the driver to go to Senate entrance of the Capital, then sat back on the cold vinyl bench and rubbed his burning eyes. His gut burned, and the fear that had been eating at him for several days clawed at his throat. He put on his glasses and looked out at the noonday traffic, resisting the urge to look and see if he was being followed. After events of the past few days it seemed likely. All bets were off now.
The car pulled up to the stand reserved for government business, and he got out and walked toward the entrance. After his car pulled from view he backtracked and looked at Union Station and started to walk that way. He looked over his shoulder at the Capital Building as he walked away from one life and into another, and he wondered if the clowns cloistered away in their ivory tower had any idea what had just happened to America. And, he asked himself grimly, would they even care if they knew? All that was required now was their silent acquiescence. The pieces had all been moved and yet all were still in play; and the outcome was still far from certain.
He walked inside the station and crossed the huge expanse of travertine and walked up to the New York Central's ticket counter and paid for his sleeper on the one o'clock train to Boston, then puttered across to a newsstand and picked up a New York Times. The headlines were still full of speculation about what had really happened in Dallas; had Oswald really been the lone gunman, and if that was so, what about witness statements about gunmen on what was fast becoming known as the grassy knoll? Smoke behind the fence? Carpenter took in the picture of the President's son saluting as the funeral procession passed, and he bit his trembling lip while he pushed back memories of happier days with the President.
He paid for the paper then walked to the concourse and waited for his train to be called. He turned and looked at the clustered faces, tried to pick out any too inquisitive eyes - there were none - and when his train was called he walked down the ramp to the platform. His train - a long line of gray Pullman cars - was to his left; on the platform to his right was a Seaboard Meteor due to leave for Miami within a minute, and he turned again and looked for a tail - and once again satisfied no one was following - he jumped up on the Meteor and walked back to the lounge car and took a seat as this train began to pull smoothly away from the platform.
Carpenter watched the people on the platform - watched for any sign of confusion, any sign the cutout had been spotted - as the train pulled away from the platform and began to head toward the light of day. He squinted at the hard November light as the train burst into the hard afternoon light, and his chest hurt when he looked out at the White House and the EOB as it drifted by.
The Conductor walked up and asked for his ticket, and he reached inside his blazer and pulled out the envelope for this train and handed it to the man. The conductor flipped through the tickets and punched one several times, then handed it back to Carpenter.
"That's compartment 2318a; three cars up from here. Dinner begins at five."
"Hmm - oh, thanks." Carpenter took the tickets from the man and looked down as he put the envelope back inside his blazer. When the train began to pick up speed after it crossed the Potomac, Carpenter went to the bar and ordered a Scotch and water, then walked quietly to his compartment. He sat and looked out at the Virginia countryside as it rolled by outside his window, then caught sight of his reflection in the window and looked at the empty eyes he saw there.
'Hollow,' he said to himself. 'I'm a hollow, empty shell now . . .' he thought as his eyes filled with tears. He watched a tear fill his eye, then roll down his cheek. Through his reflection he saw his the President's head exploding - white pulpy lumps in red mist - and in the echoes of the explosion he knew that America - his beloved America - had just been killed.
He looked across at people who mourned for the man.
Carpenter mourned for his country.
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He stepped down from the train into a hot Miami sun and - with his briefcase still in hand - walked to the taxi stand and grabbed the second cab in the line, then headed off for the Fountainbleu Hotel. Now - more out of latent instinct than for any other reason he could name - he looked out the back of the cab as the station receded; only a family with a couple of kids was left now on the sidewalk outside the station, so he turned and relaxed for a moment . . . let out a long repressed sigh. He looked out the window as the cab rolled through an industrial wasteland, then burst out into quaint palm lined suburban streets. The cab turned and crossed the Intra-coastal and it was if he was thrust into a new world in that briefest moment; already, so soon after Castro's ascent, the character of Miami was changing. He could see the deep blue waters of Gulf Stream out his window, and he rolled his window down and took in deep breaths of the warm, salty air that now danced to a deeper rhythm . Shadows of palms danced across his face and for a moment he felt almost happy - happy like a childhood memory had found him unawares- and he smiled as this new sun warmed his chilled face.
The cab turned into the hotel's huge covered drive; Carpenter read the fare on the meter and passed the money to the driver as he pulled his lean, almost lanky body from the back seat, then he walked through the revolving door into the lobby and into an apparel shop off the main lobby. He bought a couple of golf shirts, a pair of Ray Ban sunglasses and some toiletries, put these in his briefcase, then walked to a nearby men's room. He changed his shirt in a stall, then walked out of the lobby and hailed a taxi, then told the driver to take him to Miami International. As the cab made it's way through the heavy afternoon traffic he took out his purchases and carefully rolled up the shirts and slipped them back into his briefcase. He took the shirt he'd been wearing since Washington and shoved it under the driver's seat.
The ticketing concourse at MIA was almost empty when he walked in, and though the blast of air conditioning that hit him felt good after the sweltering Florida heat inside the unairconditioned cab, he felt on edge again. He made his way to the BOAC counter and bought an economy ticket to Heathrow, then made his was to a coffee shop and ordered a pastrami sandwich and an iced-coffee. He looked at newspaper headlines that expressed shock and dismay at Oswald's murder, and this revelation tore into him like a hurricane. So the third phase of the operation was already in high gear, he thought. All those loose ends were going to be taken care of now. His stomach began to burn again, and he regretted ordering coffee.
The BOAC flight was called, and Carpenter walked down the concourse toward the gate. He ducked into the men's room across from the boarding area and changed shirts again, put on the sunglasses and a maroon ball cap with a white H embroidered on it, and walked out of the restroom and onto a Mexicana 707 that was in the final phases of boarding for Mexico City. He watched the passenger's eyes as we walked on-board, and made his way to the back of the plane and took his seat.
In Mexico City he walked across the terminal, checked in for a Braniff flight to San Antoniio, then made his way to a Varig flight leaving for Rio de Janeiro, and only when he felt this jet rotate and climb into the sky did he feel some of the tension he had felt during this long, frantic evening lift from chest. He picked at his meal on the little plastic tray and tossed off a scotch, then closed his eyes and went to sleep.
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