I Love Paris

By P.L. Hawks

In 1972 the world still lives in the wake of chaos created by the assassination of President John F. Kennedy and the Vietnam War rages on. After a young farmboy by the name of Templeton Hawks escapes an infamous Vietcong prison camp, unprecedented events are set into motion as he makes his way home after many years of being presumed dead.

When he finally returns to his Texas hometown, Natalie, the girl he left behind, is overcome by the happiness of discovering him alive. But their joy is soon disrupted by the unexplainable abduction of Natalies four year old daughter. Feeling his return and the disappearance of the little girl are somehow connected, Temp sets out on an elaborate search for the child. As he pieces together the terrifying clues and dodges the suspicions of a wily police lieutenant, Temp must avoid an array of deadly traps set before him by using his knowledge of the past, the gifts of his physical prowess and the superior abilities of his cunning mind.

The search for the four-year-old soon becomes a labyrinth of mystery leading him through the dark streets of Dallas Texas and finally to a clandestine state of the art security compound hidden deep within the city. Temp soon discovers that the truth of JFKs death lies not with Lee Harvey Oswald, but with a child who wasnt born until five years after the presidents murder---Natalies little girl, Paris.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Oct 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781480844971

P.L. Hawks

P.L. Hawks is a writer and historian specializing in the John F Kennedy administration and Cold War era. Hawks has written seven independent screenplays including Aquatica, Legends of Sir Valentine, Aloha Aloha, The Last Son of Charlie Duke and Out Mates, which the writer also produced and directed. Hawks is also the author of The Art of Motion Pictures, an acute study of the history and technique of film from the 1870s to modern-day. Hawks currently lives with her family in Paris Texas where she continues to be inspired by the stories of her father (pictured).

Book preview

I

Love

Paris

An Original Novell

P.L. HAWKS

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Copyright © 2017 Robert Brian Safstrom.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-4496-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-4497-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017904277

Archway Publishing rev. date: 09/29/2017

For my family

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They say that you only fall in love once. But this is not so. For every time I see you, I fall in love all over again.

Templeton Hawks

CONTENTS

Introduction

Prologue

Chapter 1     A Paris Morning

Chapter 2     A Paris Afternoon

Chapter 3     A Paris Evening

Chapter 4     Future Through The Past

Chapter 5     A Paris Night

Chapter 6     A Paris Wedding

Chapter 7     Candles

Chapter 8     Departure

Chapter 9     Huey

Chapter 10   The Hamlet

Chapter 11   Into The Jungle

Chapter 12   Captain Hawks

Chapter 13   Hoa Lo

Chapter 14   The Code

Chapter 15   The Transfer

Chapter 16   The Strela Escape

Chapter 17   Tonkin

Chapter 18   Lucy

Chapter 19   Templeton

Chapter 20   The Pearl

Chapter 21   Home Again

Chapter 22   Natalie

Chapter 23   Tea Cups And Rattles

Chapter 24   Abduction

Chapter 25   Nebulous

Chapter 26   The Old Barn

Chapter 27   Rumors Of Logic

Chapter 28   Shadows Of Venality

Chapter 29   Roscoe

Chapter 30   The Suspect

Chapter 31   The Hunch

Chapter 32   Agent Orange

Chapter 33   The Hunt

Chapter 34   The Case

Chapter 35   Polygraph

Chapter 36   The Phone Call

Chapter 37   The Shadowing

Chapter 38   Conspan

Chapter 39   The Great Gambit

Chapter 40   Lily Of The Valley

Chapter 41   Paris

Chapter 42   Union Station

Chapter 43   Booth

Chapter 44   Room 1970

Chapter 45   Hazards Of Truth

Chapter 46   The Gang

Chapter 47   Five Flying Doves

Chapter 48   Honey Grove

Chapter 49   Over The Grassy Knoll

Chapter 50   Friction

Chapter 51   Reverchon Park

Chapter 52   16Mm

Chapter 53   Dial Tone

Chapter 54   Snake In The Grass

Chapter 55   Labyrinth

Chapter 56   Thank You Dick Van Dyke

Chapter 57   Longitudes And Latitudes

Chapter 58   Love Field

Chapter 59   Flight

Chapter 60   My Little Girl

Chapter 61   The Desert

Chapter 62   Rails Of Insight

Chapter 63   Enamorada

INTRODUCTION

I have always thought ‘Dixie’ one of the best tunes I have ever heard…I now request the band to favor me with its performance. Abraham Lincoln. April 10, 1865

Dead! she screamed. Oh God no, he’s dead! The reflection in her eyes swelled into large tears almost camouflaged by the shooting beads of sweat that had already covered most of her face.

It was quite hot that day in Paris Texas, so they told me; nearing seventy-five degrees. Exceptionally hot for this part of the country in that early date of March 23, 1968.

Who’s dead? yelled her grandfather, leaping from the plow tractor he referred to as Maudine and catching Natalie as she fell into his arms. He held onto her waist, consciously preventing her parturient belly from bumping against the hardness of his left knee. Walter Strege was his name, as it still is. A rather large man he was, at the mid of his sixth decade, standing six foot three and a half inches tall with a full shock of salt and pepper hair lapping over his light green eyes. His two farm hands Jared Ford and Perry Radley looked on as the young girl sobbed into the arms of her grandfather.

I couldn’t help but remember the wish I had as a lad, Walter would tell me years later, "as I held my granddaughter in my arms. The wish I had to be a part of history…a part of important history. All of my life I heard many men ask my grandfather where he was when General Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox after the Civil War. Or hear men ask my father where he was when he heard of the horrible tragedy of that unthinkable unsinkable ship they called the Titanic. And they would ask my brother Jack how he had escaped the doom of the Arizona on December seventh 1941. Of course I was alive during, and involved in the Great War, and World War II, but for me nothing would compare to what was ahead.

"I was picking peaches in the orchard in November of 1963 when Pearl had walked down from the house and stood below me at the base of my ladder. I still remember her crossing her arms and looking up at me.

‘Walter’, she said.

‘What is it, Ma’, I asked, knowing the look on her face all too well.

‘They just shot Kennedy’. I stood there atop the ladder for several moments before climbing down.

‘What did you say?’ I asked her.

‘The president has just been shot, in Dallas’.

I knew right then and there that many of the poor boys that had been drafted into Vietnam would not be coming home. But looking back now, the strangest part of November twenty-second 1963, was that even though we had been miles away when it happened, we would later become a bigger part of the events of that day than most could have ever imagined. It was that late day in March 1968 that had changed everything; not just for me and my poor sweet granddaughter, Natalie, but for the whole world, even if they didn’t realize it."

The wonderful man could hardly get the words out of his mouth when thinking of the misery that his heartbroken granddaughter had been tortured with. Her days of whistlin’ Dixie in that great Lone Star state south of the Red River were now over. Natalie had just received word by a mail delivery Sergeant by the name of Burt Worthington that her best friend and beloved husband Templeton Hawks had been killed in Vietnam.

His dog tags had been retrieved from off a soldier about five miles north of a small village called Pinkville on the sixteenth of March, seven days before. However the story that I am about to tell you, dear reader, did not by any means begin here. It had begun about seven months before, in the early summer days of 1967. Then still, after Natalie had been notified of her husband’s passing in March of 1968, it would be another four long years before the main events of this story actually took place.

Templeton Hawks — The brilliant farm boy from Paris Texas

Natalie Hawks — The beautiful young woman and skilled car racer

Paris — The missing child

Walter Strege (Streg-ee) — Natalie’s maternal grandfather; Paris’ great grandfather

Charlie Toban — The film and lock expert

Bobby Grewit — Charlie’s right hand man

Bethany Snow — The girl with the photographic memory

The Babushka Lady — The woman that no one knew

Bruce ‘Rev’ Raft — Templeton’s hometown rival

Lee Harvey Oswald — Accused of killing President John Fitzgerald Kennedy on November 22, 1963

Roscoe Traggit — The highly intelligent homicide lieutenant in the Dallas City Precinct.

Chey Tong — Forensics expert and brilliant crime lab technician

Roderick Fichtner (Fikk-ner) — Black Operator 9

Earl Warren — Hired by succeeding President Lyndon Baines Johnson to head the Warren Commission: The assassination investigation of President John F. Kennedy

Allen Dulles — Fired by Kennedy before his death then rehired by President Lyndon B. Johnson on November 29, 1963 to be part of the Warren Commission

A.P.B. — All Points Bulletin

B.C.I. — Bureau of Criminal Investigations

Clarian Model X 600 — Locates defects in metal materials such as on ships and submarines by producing extremely high-pitched sound frequencies

Mannlicher-Carcano — An Italian bolt-action rifle supposedly used by Oswald

Zapruder Film — Film containing the northern point of view of the JFK assassination

Zideo Officer/Z-O — Critters

PROLOGUE

Things in our country run in spite of government. Not by aid of it. Will Rogers

We met him at the train station in Paris, I declared. "Then me and my momma took him home. We played games with grandpa and Charlie and Bobby and Bessy and watched ‘Hogan’s Heroes’. My momma made him go to bed early on account she missed him so, and they’s was up real late the next day for the same reason."

I don’t want to hear all dat silly stuff, snorted Billy Jean in her natural Ozark drawl. I wanna know more about dat ‘great gambol’ or whatever it is dat ya cawled it.

The Great Gambit, I said. My mother calls it ‘the Great Gambit’.

What’s a gambit? asked Billy Jean. I ain’t never hear’d no word like dat ba-fure. Billy Jean was about the same height as me, about three foot nothing. She had light brown hair and dark green eyes. Her real name was Betty Jean Harding from the Arkansas Hardings, but they called her Billy Jean on account of her tyrant demeanor and the bad habit she had of butting adults and children alike with the top of her head when she felt that they had done her some kind of wrong. The typical attitude of an only child, so it was told me. How I was so thankful that I didn’t remain one for very long, as Billy Jean always did.

Well? Billy Jean impatiently waited.

It’s a heist, I said with assurance. "You know, like to steal."

Stealin’s wrong she berated, I’m gonna tell my momma your daddy’s a filthy stinkin’ robber!

No he’s not! I shot back with the usual force whenever anybody talked badly about my daddy. You don’t understand. They’d stoled first, then my daddy come and stoled back. Besides, it ain’t stealin’ if it belongs to ya anyhow.

I don’t understand what you mean by dat, she said, you’s jist too dumb to know right from wrong. My daddy done teached me right from wrong, and my daddy said stealin’s from the devil, the devil I say!

Well I rightly know that, I defended, but you ain’t hearin’ me, Billy Jean. They’d stoled from my momma first!

Billy Jean stiffened her jaw and set her hands restlessly upon her hips.

"Well I isn’t understandin’ all dat jargon about the re-mote-car and the matches and all. Or all dat talk about dat freezin’ liquid stuff nor dat jazz about’n dem critters neither. Why my momma says we ought not be takin’ to fibbin’ P.L., fibbin’s wrong. Y’all know durn well there ain’t no critters outside’a Lamar County."

Ain’t fibbin! I protested even harder on account that she called me P.L. Only my daddy and momma and granddad could call me that I reckoned, and disliked just about anybody else who called me that without me first deeming them worthy. This was where the critters came from, I went on. That’s what I’m tryin’ to tell ya!

It was no use trying to explain it to her. I knew even at the time that Billy Jean’s tiny little head didn’t go far beyond the intellectual understandings of Br’er Rabbit. And I realized I was too little to explain it to her. For I didn’t rightly know the big words it took to tell it like it should. Nor did I have the insight on government doings and the organizations of conspiracy so prevalent in the world now. Neither did I have the comprehension on the technical details it took to explain not only what really happened, but exactly how it happened as well. Though I’ve always wanted to tell the story, as many times as I could, no one seemed to believe me other than my family and close friends; no doubt because they knew the story anyway. My momma told me that such a story might not be believed by all I told it to, and it didn’t matter as long as I knew what the truth was and that those who meant the most to me did as well. My daddy assured me that just because the other kids didn’t believe me, didn’t mean that it didn’t happen, They’s was just too dumb to understand, he said.

I guess I should start by stating my name. For now, dear reader, you will simply know me as P.L., because on account of the fact that you are taking the time to read this, I deem you worthy.

I shall start at the very beginning of what I believe the beginning of the story truly is. As I said, it was in the early part of 1967. The place was Paris Texas. The fly fishermen here love the season because the streams are always full of large rainbow trout and catfish, which are relatively a simple catch and tasty supper for the natives of Paris town. It is a wonderful town. I should know, because I was born here. I guess I should tell you when that was…

March.

A hot country it may be, but this quiet little piquant town of mine has too many redeeming qualities to be rendered what most citified passersby would call a distasteful and dry desolate tundra of dirt, dust and clay. I resented this very much and it cut me deeply when these non-natives would bring such harsh words down upon the town that I was so happily born into. Sure it’s no white beach on the north shore of Hanalei Bay, but it was here where I became and where my mother began to raise me. Paris is my home, and I love it here.

My favorite thing about Paris is the people. So warm and friendly, everyone is family here, as is usual I suppose of a small town with the then less than 976 populating the 44.4 square miles—not including the surrounding outskirts. The area is mostly rolling hills and flats, but with rivers a plenty, including the grand ever roaring Red River.

Averaging a hundred and ten degrees on mid-afternoon summer days this intense heat will often give creation to the ever mysterious optical illusions scientists call the mirage. When the atmosphere and humidity are just right, formed in the vast distance are the most beautiful and colorful illusions. These illusions range from the typical giant lake of water about two miles ahead, to the ever mysterious yet so real sight of giant moving beasts with elongated heads and necks strolling about the desert plains in the far distance. These sites have frightened a great number of visitors to Paris who have never seen these mystic art forms drawn by the delicate strokes of nature’s paintbrush. They frightened me too when I was little until my mother told me that these visions were actually the great canyons and monoliths many miles to the west. She explained that given the right circumstances of air and temperature, the images of these great towering rocks would bounce optically by the curve of the earth from their part of the world all the way over to ours. After she told these things to me I was both comforted and yet disappointed that the images I was seeing were not really giant dancing animals, as is the mind of a small child. I would still however pretend that they were, but now I would not be frightened, now they were to become my giant friends off in the distance protecting me and my mother and friends, and my daddy I hoped, wherever he was.

I guess deep down, I knew that they were what my mother said they were: illusions, as is much of life, as I grew to a more disappointed understanding. But not all of it, no sir, not by any means all of it.

When my mother told me about the mirages I thought she was the smartest woman in the world, so I asked her how she came to know so much about these things. She looked at me with tears filling the bottoms of her eyelids and said, Your daddy did.

How I love the trees here. For we boast not the great pine tree forests nor any great sequoias or evergreens. But here we have what I believe to be the most beautiful and the most eloquent of all of God’s glorious trees. The tree my father later taught me was the cherry tree. So big and so round and so tall these great monsters of the earth; the great thick branches growing up into the sun, intertwining one over the other like the arms of wonderful friends, grasping each other for comfort and strength against the violent winds of this world. On certain summer mornings each branch would have thousands and thousands of little round sequins of passion berry red, gleaming with little shaking rainbows of dew hanging proudly from the twigs that sprouted them. As are the many blessings and gifts of wonder I have received from the special people in my life that have been so much a part of me for so long. It is as though we have been weaved together like those big beautiful branches and twigs linked so tightly into such a grand and complicated structure, and yet without one of them the tree would certainly not at all be the same, as is this story and the Great Gambit.

Though the gambit does not end my story, it is definitely one of my most favorite parts. A story much like that great old cherry tree; so intertwined and weaved with so much of the confusion that would become the totally unforgettable and most terrifying beginning of my life.

CHAPTER 1

A PARIS MORNING

Listen, I spoke to the man up there on many occasions. I’ve always had deep faith that there is a Supreme Being, there has to be. To me that’s just a normal thing to have that kind of faith. John Wayne

It was April 15, 1967. Walter Earl Strege sat on the porch of his three story ranch house in his rocking chair reading the early edition of The Paris Star. The chair squeaked with every rock forward. The house itself was built in 1870, though rooms had been added and reformed a time or two, the air and the antique quality of the house never left it.

The Paris Star, a local newspaper Walter would say was more accurate and truthful than any other paper in the world. Mostly articles on agriculture and farming were the main word of news in our small nook of the world.

Walter wore a rolled sleeved red plaid shirt under his light blue coveralls. His face was about three days unshaven. The roughness of Walter’s exterior hid from many the ever loving warm heart he held within him. He was the kind of man who would break a hundred dollar bill just to spare me a nickel for a piece of bubble gum.

Walter had enlisted into the United States Army in the summer of 1918 after lying about his date of birth. He was not even close to legal age for enlistment, but at only fourteen years old Walter towered above most of the flyboys that he would eventually learn to pilot with. He remained in the army for several years after the Great War and soon earned himself the rank of captain. And a captain is what he would remain on account of a charge of insubordination to a higher ranking officer who had set eyes on a young lady in the Army Nurse Corps whom Walter himself had grown quite fancied to. Lieutenant Colonel Henry Murray may have made sure that Walter would never see the rank of colonel, but Murray’s crooked nose set sure that he would never be able to smell his way to the mess hall again. Walter’s wide round-house punch was something he had become known and very much admired for. Not just for his size, strength and ability to fight, but for his kind heart and valor for which all his division came to love him for, as did the young lady whom earned Murray his jagged profile on account of him touching her, as Walter said, inappropriately. Her name was Pearl O’Hara, later to become Pearl Strege. They had married in the spring of 1925 and had their first and only child, Angela, the very next year. When World War II came around, Walter enlisted again, soon becoming a bombardier squadron leader. After flying B-52s and B-17s over France and Italy for eighteen months he happily returned home to his family vowing to never kill another man ever again. He was a trustworthy man inasmuch as he was a loving one, and anyone of the citizens of Paris town counted themselves very fortunate to be called a friend by Walter Strege.

Walter sat with his reading glasses peering down at the black and white. His gray old captain’s cap was lying on the table beside his steaming mug of coffee as it had every morning while he sucked on his unlit alabaster pipe.

The shadows grew shorter as the sun made its way over the hills and above the center of the valley floor below.

A young girl emerged from the house.

Lovely.

She was eighteen years old, five foot six, with a thin small frame of a hundred and fifteen pounds. The cutest nose perfectly positioned itself upon her soft round delicate face. Her narrow shoulders were dark, kissed by the sun. Suspended firmly below them were two rather bravura attributes that much to her irritancy had over stretched many of her best sweaters. One of her most striking features was undoubtedly the fact that she had the thickest, longest, wavy, most beautiful dark brown hair running plentifully passed the midway of her slender waist, which she often wore in pigtails like today. But it was her eyes though that made her standout even more so than any of her otherwise blatant blessings. Dark brown chocolate pearls of the night, was what Temp said them to be, with gleaming irises like black carbonado diamonds mined from the tropic caves of Brazil. She has an inherent natural beauty that neither Michelangelo, DaVinci nor Monet could have captured. When the light catches her face just right she is a portrait of perfection, and nothing else seems to exist but her.

Yes, it was certainly true. The word gorgeous was to say the least of Natalie Watkins.

Natalie had come to live in Paris with her grandparents Walter and Pearl when she was only a baby. Sadly, Natalie’s parents, Burton Stephen Watkins and Angela Marie, had died together in a Cessna 150 after an impossible snowstorm landing near the Black Hills of South Dakota on April 3, 1951. Her father was a skilled transport pilot of French and Welsh ancestry. He was originally from New Orleans, which is where he had learned to fly, but moved to Paris Texas in the spring of 1947 where he met and fell in love with Walter and Pearl’s daughter Angela. Like Natalie, Angie was a lovely girl as well, of Irish and Italian ancestry. Irish from Walter’s side and Italian from Pearl’s. Burt and Angie were married on May 18, 1948, and in the first week of the following April, Angela had given birth to a healthy dark haired, brown eyed little girl named Natalie Pearl Watkins. Natalie was a post-term baby overdue by nearly three weeks. Not tremendously uncommon for well nourished first time mothers of the South who conceive in the spring.

Not two months after Natalie was born, Burt was offered a flying position in North Dakota which no one could talk him out of taking. They had promised to move back to Texas one day, but unfortunately their baby daughter would be the only one to do so. Walter and Pearl had driven up and brought Natalie back to Paris on her second birthday, April 4, 1951.

Though it may have been a very unusual childhood for most, Natalie would later say that it was hard to remember too much of moving away from where she was born in Pierre North Dakota, and that even though she didn’t have her parents, her grandfather Walter and grandmother Pearl made up for it in almost every possible way they could, and she would never think of living in any other place in the world than with them in Paris Texas.

Needless to say, it was a very sad day indeed when Pearl passed away from cancer in the winter of 1964. She had spent years teaching Natalie how to knit and sew, cook and bake, dance and swim, and most importantly to smile and laugh. But it was just Walter and Natalie now, and Walter often feared the day that she would grow up and leave him too.

Good morning, grandfather! said Natalie with the slightest hint of a North Dakota accent suffused with a Texas inflection. Sleep well?

Good morning, my dear, replied Walter with his thick Texan drawl. Oh, about’s the same as I always do I suppose…You?

Oh yes, replied Natalie. You know I never have trouble sleeping.

She gathered her books which she had left overnight on the porch table into her backpack. This was a very special year for Natalie, she was a senior.

Yes I’m sure of that, said Walter, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Dreaming about your darling, Mr. Templeton perhaps?

Perhaps, Natalie playfully replied.

The Robins are sure a-whistlin’ this mornin’, said Walter, looking to the cherry tree about thirty feet to his left. Could be it’s fixin’ to rain later on.

Could be, she said, looking up at the cherry tree full of budding pink blossoms.

I thought today was Saturday, he asked. Where are you goin’ off to so early, darlin’?

"To school, play rehearsals for The Sound of Music."

Would you like a ride?

No, that’s okay. I like the exercise, and Temp’s going to bring me home.

Walter clicked his tongue inside his mouth and nibbled the right side of his bottom lip. It was a habit he had of doing when something troubled him. Natalie knew the sound and the meaning all too well.

I don’t rightly understand why he worries you so, grandfather, she said, rubbing the back of his shoulder. You have known him all of his life, even before me. He really loves you grandpa. He tells me often. He says you’re the best mechanic he’s ever known.

Yes, he responded, taking the pipe from his mouth and rubbing it against his darkly tanned upper lip. Those are right fine things to say to the girl whose grandfather he’s plannin’ on takin’ her away from.

Natalie frowned.

What makes you say that? she asked, lifting her heavy backpack up and over her right shoulder.

"I’ve been around my dear. A young man doesn’t look at a girl as he looks upon you without something serious on his mind."

She put her arm around Walter. He’s always been a complete gentleman with me, grandpa, I wish you liked him better.

Oh now don’t be going and gettin’ me wrong my dear, he said, tapping her on the nose lovingly with his pipe. I like Templeton just fine. The kid’s smart, no doubts about that. He’s a right fine windmill fixer. He could find a whisper in a whirlwind. He comes from good collection. Walter’s left brow went upward, his voice softened. His mother was a fine woman, a very fine woman. She was smart too. Though I never did see what she saw in that man Harry Hawks that she married. I remember what sensitive hands she had. That girl could feel the shell of an egg and tell me what kind of hen laid it. It’s no wonder he takes to you so, reminds him of her I suppose, you’re not unlike her ya know. Walter’s eyes rested on the edges of the table. It’s a shame about her, dear shame. She used to pick peaches in the orchard with your mother when they were girls…But whether or not I deem her son worthy of you is quite another circumstance.

A smoky cattle dog lifted his front legs up onto Walter.

Alright, Duke, Walter scorned to the dog rapidly wagging his tail, down now, down! He was a medium sized black and white Airedale. His mouth was pink inside, which is an important factor in the South when looking for an intelligent pup, and that he was. But Duke was as lazy as he was smart.

Duke likes Templeton, said Natalie, he’s trying to tell you to keep an open mind about him. Templeton is nothing like Harry. He hardly even sees his dad anyway. I care for him deeply, and he deeply cares for me, and you too grandpa, he really does. He loves talking to you about engines and tractors. He jumped at the opportunity to put the new battery in Maudine for you. But he says you never smile at him.

He’s a right fine boy, my dear, said Walter, petting the top of Duke’s head. He’s a real fine boy. His mother, dear girl, certainly made sure of that.

Yes she certainly did, Natalie replied, looking sadly to the tips of her fingers. Walter tugged on her arm pulling her downward and kissed her on the cheek. I just want you to have the best of all, my darling. And when I know for sure that there is no one better than he for you…then…and only then, will I smile on him.

Natalie kissed her grandfather.

I know you will, she said, I pray about it every night. Because I know in my heart that there is absolutely no one better for me than him.

Natalie jumped off the porch. She ran to the driveway and began trotting down the road. She looked back at Walter.

I love you! she yelled. See you tonight! Walter stood to his feet and looked out to his darling granddaughter. His eyes narrowed as he pulled the pipe from his mouth and worry filled his expression.

CHAPTER 2

A PARIS AFTERNOON

A strong man doesn’t have to be dominant toward a woman. He doesn’t match his strength against a woman weak with love for him. He matches it against the world. Marilyn Monroe

The dunes were a dusty and desolate place to be about five miles outside of the most northern part of Paris town, just one mile north of Pat Mayse Lake and just south of Red River. This land wasn’t much good for anything up here besides what the ruffian school boys used it for…Buggy racing.

Every few weeks all the boys in town who had scrimped and saved enough money working at the Jersey Dairy to build a buggy would be here to test out their skills as machinists and drivers against the town’s, and many rival town’s, best.

Most of these Rube-Goldberg contraptions were nothing more than a few pieces of rusty tubing welded together by a weak bead of slag to make a steel frame on four wheels. Their engines came out of any old place they could find them, from old motorcycles to spent plow tractors. In any case these boys, and a few girls, were here for one thing and one thing only—to race.

Eastern Bluebirds flew over the landscape. Their chirping was over noised by the sounds of fifteen revving engines about five minutes before flag down. My reports suggest that there were no less than a hundred kids present that day. Most all the jocks and grease junkies from all over town were there to join in some aspect of the race or another. Some were mechanics, others drivers, but the rest were here as onlookers to see who would be the first one back around the two mile circular course.

The track was covered with deep crevices and giant boulders sported as obstacles. A small creek flowed through the landscape almost cutting the course exactly in half. As the boys worked on their racers music played in the background from a large make shift stereo wheedled together by one of the more intelligent juniors named Brandon ‘Charles’ Toban, but everyone called him Charlie.

Charlie was a rather good looking boy of twenty. He stood five-eight and half inches tall—and believe me he reminded you of that half inch every time. With light brown hair and green eyes he had his share of high school flirts with the young ladies but nothing serious enough to write home about.

Charlie’s interests ranged from music, to auto machines, lock picking, collecting Zippo lighters and photography. He was a great photographer, specializing mostly in landscapes which were his favorite in black and white. Most of his efforts however were towards his 16mm movie camera. Whenever there was any kind of event such as today, he was there with his camera gate clacking away.

Over the years, Charlie had collected many films he had acquired from random places. Films of Apollo rockets, wildlife, car races, boat races, air shows and you name it. Held most valuable among his film collection however, were the bootlegged copies of films taken during John Kennedy’s presidential motorcade through Dealey Plaza in Dallas Texas on November 22, 1963. Charlie had recently procured many of the 8mm color films from that day filmed by onlookers near the street. Four of the most notable were the Mark Bell film, the Orville Nix film, the Marie Muchmore film and the one most famously known as the Abraham Zapruder film. Charlie had so happily gotten his hands on these rare films during a cross country fieldtrip to Berkley University in the first week of the present month of April. The school was said to have received the highly sought after films after being subpoenaed by District Attorney Jim Garrison when indicting a man by the name of Clay Shaw as being part of the conspiracy to kill President Kennedy. The indictment of Shaw had been officially issued just a little over a month before on March 1, 1967.

The films of the John Kennedy murder had been on Temp and Charlie’s minds for years, and they were immensely pleased now to have finally gotten the chance to see the films with their own eyes. Over the previous several weeks, Temp, Charlie and Bobby had projected the films countless times onto an old bed sheet in Charlie’s garage. They had never been more enthused to find a hint of truth to what had really happened that day in Dealey Plaza. Unfortunately, as they already knew, none of the four known films showed a clear view of the fence on the grassy knoll during the kill shot.

The assassination of John Kennedy was certainly far more than just a curious hobby for Temp and the boys, especially now with the recent arresting of Shaw. The boys were seekers of truth, and really just wanted to know the answer, or rather, prove the answer many Americans already believed to be the case. Temp and the boys had spent days dissecting these films frame by frame in hopes of finding the answer that no other investigator of the tragedy had ever been able to prove: Was there in fact a gunman behind the fence on the grassy knoll?

If there was someone up there, he definitely wasn’t seen in any of the films. One of the main hopes that Temp and the boys had always had during their sleuthing of the JFK assassination was to find out who that strange woman was standing on the grass between Elm and Main Street. She was dubbed the Babushka Lady by detectives on account of the light-pink headscarf she wore over her head. She is clearly seen in several of the assassination films aiming her own 8mm movie camera towards the Kennedy motorcade from the opposite angle of Abraham Zapruder. Many believed the film would in fact prove a second gunman behind the fence on the grassy knoll since the woman was filming from such a close and low vantage point opposite the knoll. But the mysterious fact of the matter is that police were never able to uncover the identity of the strange woman in the scarf, a subject that Temp, Charlie and Bobby never tired of discussing.

Charlie was wrenching the oil pan underneath a rather silly looking racer. The roll bars were bent and had little pieces of tape and wire hanging all about them. Above, handing him tools was Robert Baerick Grewit. Bobby Bear, as everyone called him. He was nineteen and stood five feet ten inches with sandy blond hair and blue eyes. For most junior girls he was a treat for the sight but not at all for the intellect. Bobby’s interests ranged from Bobby to, well…Bobby.

No, I need a nine-sixteenths wrench, said Charlie, this is a half.

Oh, sorry, Bobby replied, I can’t ever get that straight.

Don’t worry about it. You won’t have that trouble once everything goes metric.

Hey, said Bobby handing Charlie the nine-sixteenths wrench, after the race ya wanna see if Temp will feel like goin’ down to the bayou for some frog giggin’?

Temp’s got big plans with Natalie this evenin’, remember?

Oh, that’s right! said Bobby. I keep forgettin’!

Hiya guys! said Bethany, a darling brunette girl of thirteen whom everyone simply called Bessy. She had also been brought up by her grandparents when her mother couldn’t take care of her and skipped town never to be heard from since. Over the years Natalie and Temp had taken quite a liking to Bethany Joann Snow. Bessy viewed them as her big brother and sister. Charlie and Bobby on the other hand she viewed more as obnoxious annoying cousins.

Hey, Bessy Joe, said Charlie, Where ya been?

Sorry I’m late, said Bessy. The critters got to my granddad’s big bull last night. I had to stay and help bury the leftovers.

Oh, really? said Charlie. Was there much left of him?

Two horns and four hooves.

Damn, they sure are gettin’ a might fierce in these parts ain’t they?

Them critters give me the creeps, said Bobby. I done seen one last night out in Mr. Hanks longhorn pasture. Often they’ll kill just for the wicked fun of it.

Seems to me there are enough boars and hogs around here to feed them just fine, said Bessy, but they always seem to go after the prized steers.

They sure are mean varmints, said Bobby, fast too.

Charlie stood high and looked to the horizon.

"Any sign of him?"

Not yet, said Bessy, but he’ll be here.

It was then that another boy walked up to them, greasy and dirty. One look at him and everyone knew right away by his walk that he was the town jackass. He was about five foot ten inches tall, and a hundred and forty pounds with dirty blond hair. He had gray lifeless eyes, much like the dark ball beads you find in the heads of wooden statuettes; dark and devoid of feeling or any kind of emotion. He had a slight but noticeable split between his two front teeth. His name was William Bruce Raft and he was almost twenty-four. Some called him Billy, others simply Bruce, but most everyone else called him Rev on account of his reputation of pushing his racers to the limit and blowing the engines. I hate to even spell out his name here, but for the purpose of this story I must.

Why waste your time, Toban? said Rev, mockingly, with his thick and purposely annoying exaggerated Texas accent. He pulled out a screwdriver from Charlie’s tool box. Y’all know as well as I do that this slug-heap ain’t gonna last two minutes on the track. Why don’t you just shove this screwdriver through the petrol chamber and say you lost by default. Sure would save you a hell of a lot of embarrassment.

Charlie shot to his feet grabbing the screwdriver from Rev and threw it into the tool box where it clattered loudly. Forget it Rev. I plan to finish this one whether you think I can or not, right Bobby?

You’d better believe it, said Bobby, putting his arm around Charlie. We’re gonna finish!

Not only are we gonna finish, chimed in Charlie, re-setting his small brimmed dark brown Stetson cowboy hat to the top of his head and rakishly tilting it to the side, you are gonna be suckin’ down all the clay our tires throw in your face today.

Suit yourself, Rev said, don’t say I didn’t try to spare you the humiliation. A lot of sexy gals are here today and you boys know how they love to smother the winner with all that tasty attention, Rev smiled, then scoffed, Then again, maybe you wouldn’t.

Just then the town slut walked up and stood beside Rev. Her name was Sally Ann Garner. If you’ve ever known a town floozy, think of her, and then combine her with persona of a mother mutt who has just had ten puppies of all different likings. She had blonde hair about five foot two with pale blue eyes. Her well oversized cheek bones only went unnoticed by sporting her low cut spaghetti strap T-shirt that exposed and exaggerated her less than impressive breasts.

Hey Rev, she said, taking his arm and putting it around her.

We were just talkin’ about you Sally Ann, quipped Rev.

Even if you do beat us today, you are still gonna lose, said Charlie. You are forgetting about somebody.

Yeah, there ain’t no way you’re gonna beat Temp, agreed Bobby, No way!

That’s right, nobody beats Temp, said Bessy.

Rev wrinkled his forehead. You are forgettin’, he said, I beat that sheep dip twice last summer.

Charlie frowned, Once because of a cracked rim and another because somebody stuffed grease into the float bowl of his carburetor.

Yeah, I wonder who that could have been? scorned Bobby. And don’t you be callin’ him no ‘sheep dip’ neither! If anybody around here is a ‘sheep dip’, it’s you! We all know you sabotaged Temp’s engine last time.

Hey now this is America, defended Rev. We’re innocent until proven guilty by fact. Ain’t that what those boys in the jungle are fightin’ for over there?

Bessy’s eyes rolled.

Yeah, wish you were there with ‘em, her natural wit shot back. Of course we all know that your daddy has made darn good and sure that that hasn’t happened.

The truth was that no one really knew too much about Rev, except for the fact that he was a purebred jackass whose favorite pastime when a child involved a hill of ants and a magnifying glass.

Bruce Rev Raft had moved to town in the fall of 1957 when he was about fourteen, but at the time no one really knew from where. Temp had always guessed he was from somewhere near Virginia-way based on his accent. But it was hard to be sure with Rev’s forced Texas drawl, as Rev considered himself a true dyed in the wool Texan.

His stepmother Elmira was reclusive to say the least. Town’s folk would see her wandering about on few occasions but not many people had ever spoken with her. She was reclusive to say the least. But no one seemed more of a mystery than Rev’s father.

Other than a few pictures, no one in town had ever said to have actually seen the Rev’s dad. The rumors were bounteous on the subject of Charles Raft. Some had him a drunk with three other wives and twelve children between them, but most held to the belief that Charles Raft was in some form or another, "in the government."

Must be nice to have a daddy that keeps you safe at home like that, continued Bessy. I sure wish you could talk him into lettin’ you go off onto a long vacation, like somewhere on parallel twenty-one longitude one-zero-five. That would put you right smack in the middle of Hanoi. Naturally Rev did not fully understand Bethany’s slam against him, but Charlie did. Hanoi was the Viet Cong capital in North Vietnam. It was not unlike Bessy to be so quick with her tongue, in fact she was known for it. Her I.Q was several points above the norm and scholastic achievements were just some of her many noteworthy powers. Though she didn’t let on about it very often, Bethany Snow shared something quite unique with Templeton Hawks: both of them had been gifted with a photographic memory, with which her and Temp would often engage in a battle of wits and recollection when reciting events of the past.

Well that’s just too bad, honey, Rev said crudely. Whether you like it or not, I ain’t goin’ anywhere.

Charlie smiled. Well you’re gonna wish otherwise after Templeton smokes you today, Rev. Besides, win or lose, he’ll have the prettiest gal this side of the Rio Grande smothering him with all that ‘tasty attention’ you were so talkin’ about.

Yeah, agreed Bobby, the girls that hang on you only dream about lookin’ like Natalie.

Sally Ann took a finger full of grease from the front wheel rim and flicked it onto Bobby’s face just under his right eye. Rev smiled as Charlie handed Bobby a rag. Bobby wiped the grease from his face leaving a dark smear from his cheek to his chin.

Natalie, Rev scoffed. That bitch ain’t as gorgeous as everybody thinks she is. Bessy as well as Bobby and Charlie cringed in anger at the comment, but couldn’t help but laugh at how stupidly Rev had put it.

"If everyone in fact thinks she is so beautiful, Bessy shot back, then how in the Sam Hill could she not be?"

Rev looked pathetically dumfounded.

It’s just a good thing for you she ain’t comin’ today, replied Charlie with a twinkle in his eye. She might have a mind to get behind the wheel of Temp’s new buggy and wallop your ass into the dirt just like she did all them times before. Bobby and Bessy laughed as Rev’s face turned into a deep red burn. For it was true that Natalie had beaten Rev during one of the races last year, and two others before that. Though the whole county and country side knew Natalie for her smart head, spunk, fiery personality, sharp wit, and of course her beauty, the fact was that she was also a fantastic driver and a great racer.

Rev Raft was almost a whole year older than Templeton. They had both graduated eleventh grade together in 1962 just before Rev dropped out. Temp graduated from high school the following year when he was twenty. It wasn’t at all uncommon for many of the young men in Paris to graduate a few years later as they missed so many school days when helping in farming the land during the harvest seasons. Temp’s skills were especially needed, not just by his father, but by many other farmers as he could fix any tractor faster than most of the best mechanics in the region. Most of the boys in town were jealous of Temp and the great things said about him by so many. But no one was ever more jealous of him then Rev.

Over the years Templeton Hawks had become the most famous Johnny Reb since Robert E. Lee. Templeton had become something of a prodigy since his very beginnings. A few of the old timers had even compared Temp to Stonewall Jackson on account of the fact that he had such vibrant steel blue eyes, coupled with the fact that Temp had the curious habit of sucking on oranges, limes and lemons, a most unique peculiarity that Temp would later share with only one other member of his family.

Taking most unusually after the genes of his mother Lauraline, Temp was quite the athlete in school much like his grandfather Brave Eagle and his uncle Standing Bear. Temp’s mother’s maiden name had been Lauraline Running Deer before being wed to Harrison Purvis Hawks. Lauraline was a beautiful dark haired woman with the biggest and most beautiful blue eyes. She was one half Native American Comanche Indian which meant that Temp, although he didn’t look it, was one quarter of the famous and most fear inspiring tribe of the west. No one doubted this to be a chief reason why Temp excelled so greatly above the rest in his class athletically. Though he played basketball, baseball and football, Temp’s real enjoyment came during the quarter mile race, in which he broke the state record in 1960 finishing in an astonishing 52.295 seconds. The excessive physical prowess of Templeton Hawks was so well known in town that some said he must have been kinfolk to that unbeaten all American known as Jim Thorpe.

Temp’s grandfather had given Temp his own Indian name, Little Lobo, the Spanish word for Wolf, on account that Temp could run so very fast. But it was not Temp’s dream to pursue a career in sports, nor was it his dream to become a farmer. Temp had a unique mind, and with that came unique endeavors.

Many of the towns folk knew of Temp’s interest in history and famous crimes, even Rev. While most of Paris town graduates remained in town to carry on at their family farms and ranches, few went on to college and other things. Temp decided he wanted the best of both worlds. Becoming a private investigator would both create a scenario where he could stay in the town that he loved so much and still have a job delving into what he was interested in most…crime and history. Reality though had pulled him back from becoming one as of yet. The Hawks ranch needed tending as the cattle and fences needed fulltime attention. Temp’s father Harry was a self proclaimed oil tycoon and a rather unsuccessful one at that. He was often out of town on business trips for months at a time. Naturally the responsibility to take care of the ranch rested on Temp.

Well, Mr. Detective ain’t here yet, Rev chortled, probably ain’t gonna show his ugly face at all knowin’ how I’m gonna beat his ass again so badly.

He’ll be here, responded Bessy in her usual defiant way. You can talk like you’re bigger’n Dallas all you want, Rev. But Temp is still gonna wup your hide today just the same.

You betch your butt he will, added Bobby.

Behind them a plume trail of dust spewed up high into the air about a half mile to the east. Bessy let out a smile from ear to ear.

Talley ho! she yelled. He’s here! He’s here!

Charlie looked to Rev and smiled. You were sayin’?

In a spiral of dust a very pronounced looking buggy came roaring over a dune from the east. It looked like an Indy 500 racer built over the shortened body of what used to be the chassis to a 1936 Ford Roadster. It was complete with a spoiler on the back and paddled tires. All the kids ran to greet Templeton and his newly built racer with much excitement, yelling joyously and cheering him on as he drove forward.

Temp pulled up to the starting line, shut off his engine, stepped out of his racer and took off his blue short brimmed cowboy hat. Revealed was Templeton Robert Purvis Hawks. He had just turned twenty-three. He stood strong and tone at six foot two inches tall and a hundred and ninety-five pounds. He sported thick wavy gold-blond hair that became brighter at the tips on account of the bleaching sun. He had dark blue eyes and was wearing his trademark red high-tops. His cobalt leather jacket hugged his shapely torso with much delight, for he had the kind of body that would bring the most agamous woman to a shiver. His jeans were stained with grease in classic Templeton charm and fashion. There was a light blue alligator skin belt wrapped around his slim waist and clasped together below his stomach by a bright and shining silver buckle. Temp had not only roped and killed the ten foot alligator sixty miles downstream of Red River two years prior, but he had forged the silver to make the buckle as well.

Being the youngest of three older sisters Temp had a uniquely charming personality. Sure he was the baby of the family, but Temp had developed a quite stern and a more self-reliant persona, unnatural of most children who come along last. Temp’s un-relentless charm made him famous in Paris town, and had become a main staple to the entertainment of all the girls as well as many of the boys—that is if they weren’t as jealous of him as Rev was. Rev was an out and out miscreant whose fatuous disposition pied with his most unprepossessing face made him the starkest contrast to Templeton Hawks since chocolate and vanilla—the only difference being that both ice cream flavors keep amiable qualities depending on who you ask. However that was not to be said of Rev Raft.

Hey Rebs! Temp shouted to Bobby, Bessy and Charlie as he walked towards them. How’s the gang?

Charlie and Bobby began howling the famous Rebel Yell of the Civil War as they usually did upon Temp’s arrival. The gait of Templeton’s walk was always the same. His long legs took big strides always certain of his next step. Most distinctive though were his palms. They were never closed, always kept open, almost flat, as he was so habituated to do as he strode along seemingly always ready for action. It was the same way most everyone had remembered him to walk since he had moved to Paris from Piqua Kansas in February 1949 when he was only six years old. Templeton’s mother Lauraline was originally from Paris, but after they married Harry had moved them around for several years pursuing his little investments before finally returning back home to Texas.

Your buggy looks awesome, Temp! said Charlie.

Wow it looks great! agreed Bobby, I can’t believe you did all that work to it in just two weeks!

Thanks, boys, said Temp. But I couldn’t have done it without ya.

Well now, Rev said insultingly, lookie who gathered up enough guts to show his ugly face. The town tit puller. Hope you didn’t have to take to leavin’ from work too early. This town needs all the grunt workers it can get at that dairy. Ain’t that right boys? The few in the crowd partial to Rev laughed at his sly remark.

Why you’re absolutely right, Rev, Temp said in his soft Texas accent. His face froze as was his way when being insulted. "Ever since you and Billy Zane were fired last year, I’ve been havin’ to work my job and yours. The crowd partial to Temp, the majority by far, laughed back even more as Rev’s face burned with anger.

Well, said Rev, are you gonna just flap your tongue all damn day or are we gonna race!

The crowd of kids emphatically hollered, Yeah!

Although I hope you know that piece of shit’s never gonna get you across the finish line, Hoyks, said Rev, in an attempt to demoralize Temp’s last name. "I’m gonna show you what’s what when I cross that finish line. I’m gonna beat your ass once again. And afterwards I’m gonna