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Authors: Chuck Hustmyre
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other explanation for everything that had happened tonight. Some logical explanation. There just had to be. And surely whatever that explanation was, it did not involve the fifty-year-old assassination of the country's thirty-fifth president. It couldn't. Because that was crazy.
"I see you looking at me," Favreau said.
Jake turned away, feeling like he'd been caught doing something wrong. Then he realized how stupid that was. He looked at Favreau again. "How'd you get out of the handcuffs?"
Favreau smiled. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."
"That's not funny."
The Frenchman slid a worn billfold from his back pocket. From a concealed slot inside the wallet, he pulled out a small piece of hard plastic and handed it to Jake. The piece was a quarter-inch wide by three inches long. Jake turned it over in his hand. In the dim ambient light he could see a magnetic strip on one side and part of a bank name and logo on the other. It was the top edge of a credit card, sliced off neat with a razor or a well-honed pair of scissors.
Jake handed it back. "Your credit score must really be bad if that's all they gave you."
"It's how I opened the handcuffs." Favreau flicked a thumb nail against the end of the strip of plastic. "The tip slides inside the ratchet mechanism."
"You have to live pretty dangerously if you need to carry that in your wallet."
"You've only spent a few hours with me and look how much trouble we've gotten into," Favreau said. "And remember, I've mostly been sightseeing."
Jake smiled. It felt good to smile. He needed something to break the tension of the last...Reflexively, he glanced again at his graduation Rolex, built, according to his stepfather, to last his entire career and beyond, into his golden years, his retirement years. Now he had to wonder if his FBI career had any chance of lasting past daybreak.
Had it really been only six hours since he'd first laid eyes on this lunatic, this self-confessed "presidential assassin"? Yes, it had. Just six hours. Six hours that seemed a lifetime ago. Back when he had been on his way to RFK Stadium to watch the Redskins game with a beautiful girl and maybe lay the groundwork for a real date. Now he was here, hiding in a closed park, inside a stolen van, with a madman who was convinced he'd killed John F. Kennedy.
"What's this really about?" Jake asked.
"I told you what it's about."
"And stop with all the Kennedy bullshit." Jake spun to face Favreau. "I've heard all I can possibly stand to hear about that. This isn't a fantasy about an assassination that happened...Do you know how old I am?"
"Twenty-five."
Jake was a little taken aback. "How do you know that?"
"Research."
"On me?"
Favreau nodded.
"So this thing you're going on about," Jake said, "the JFK thing, it happened twenty-five years before I was even born. It's ancient history. And it was solved. Case closed. Let it go."
"Is that what you think I should do?"
"Yes," Jake said, "because that's the only way we're going to figure out what's really going on. Because what happened tonight has nothing to do with what happened fifty years ago. It's about something that's happening now...today, tonight, right here, right now."
Favreau sat still and silent, looking straight ahead over the steering wheel. After a long moment, he turned toward Jake. Their eyes met. "Your instincts are good. Just like your father's."
"My father?" Jake said. "What could you possibly know about my father?"
"I know he's a good investigator."
"How do you know that?"
"I told you...research."
Jake recalled an article that ran in the Eastern Maryland Gazette the day after his graduation from the Academy. A short piece about how Jake, as the son of a retired FBI agent, was carrying on the family tradition within the Bureau. "Of course he is," Jake said. "He spent twenty-five years in the FBI." Maybe Favreau really had done his research and even found that obscure article in a low-circulation, three-day-a-week suburban DC
"I see you looking at me," Favreau said.
Jake turned away, feeling like he'd been caught doing something wrong. Then he realized how stupid that was. He looked at Favreau again. "How'd you get out of the handcuffs?"
Favreau smiled. "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."
"That's not funny."
The Frenchman slid a worn billfold from his back pocket. From a concealed slot inside the wallet, he pulled out a small piece of hard plastic and handed it to Jake. The piece was a quarter-inch wide by three inches long. Jake turned it over in his hand. In the dim ambient light he could see a magnetic strip on one side and part of a bank name and logo on the other. It was the top edge of a credit card, sliced off neat with a razor or a well-honed pair of scissors.
Jake handed it back. "Your credit score must really be bad if that's all they gave you."
"It's how I opened the handcuffs." Favreau flicked a thumb nail against the end of the strip of plastic. "The tip slides inside the ratchet mechanism."
"You have to live pretty dangerously if you need to carry that in your wallet."
"You've only spent a few hours with me and look how much trouble we've gotten into," Favreau said. "And remember, I've mostly been sightseeing."
Jake smiled. It felt good to smile. He needed something to break the tension of the last...Reflexively, he glanced again at his graduation Rolex, built, according to his stepfather, to last his entire career and beyond, into his golden years, his retirement years. Now he had to wonder if his FBI career had any chance of lasting past daybreak.
Had it really been only six hours since he'd first laid eyes on this lunatic, this self-confessed "presidential assassin"? Yes, it had. Just six hours. Six hours that seemed a lifetime ago. Back when he had been on his way to RFK Stadium to watch the Redskins game with a beautiful girl and maybe lay the groundwork for a real date. Now he was here, hiding in a closed park, inside a stolen van, with a madman who was convinced he'd killed John F. Kennedy.
"What's this really about?" Jake asked.
"I told you what it's about."
"And stop with all the Kennedy bullshit." Jake spun to face Favreau. "I've heard all I can possibly stand to hear about that. This isn't a fantasy about an assassination that happened...Do you know how old I am?"
"Twenty-five."
Jake was a little taken aback. "How do you know that?"
"Research."
"On me?"
Favreau nodded.
"So this thing you're going on about," Jake said, "the JFK thing, it happened twenty-five years before I was even born. It's ancient history. And it was solved. Case closed. Let it go."
"Is that what you think I should do?"
"Yes," Jake said, "because that's the only way we're going to figure out what's really going on. Because what happened tonight has nothing to do with what happened fifty years ago. It's about something that's happening now...today, tonight, right here, right now."
Favreau sat still and silent, looking straight ahead over the steering wheel. After a long moment, he turned toward Jake. Their eyes met. "Your instincts are good. Just like your father's."
"My father?" Jake said. "What could you possibly know about my father?"
"I know he's a good investigator."
"How do you know that?"
"I told you...research."
Jake recalled an article that ran in the Eastern Maryland Gazette the day after his graduation from the Academy. A short piece about how Jake, as the son of a retired FBI agent, was carrying on the family tradition within the Bureau. "Of course he is," Jake said. "He spent twenty-five years in the FBI." Maybe Favreau really had done his research and even found that obscure article in a low-circulation, three-day-a-week suburban DC
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