1963

By Robert P. Fitton

Patch Kincaids time travel to 1961 resulted in President Kennedys assassination. The sequel to 1961 begins with Patch in Dealey Plaza, selling CDs and DVDs of President Kennedys life. He is kidnapped and his mind altered as he is thrust through a new time portal back to 1963. Patch enters the life of Lee Harvey Oswald. Oswalds activities as well as the events leading up to the Kennedy Assassination are footnoted in this unusual time travel novel. Patchs memory slowly returns and snaps into place on the morning of the Kennedy Assassination: November 22, 1963. Along with his friend Shari, Patch must try to stop the killing of the thirty-fifth president.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 9, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499023862

Robert P. Fitton

Robert P. Fitton grew up in small town America with an appreciation history. Summers were spent in North Easton, Massachusetts, often competing in baseball and other sports. With television’s increasing infl uence, Fitton reveled in the 1960’s Star Trek and The Twilight Zone programs. On cold winter nights he pointed his telescope skyward and dreamed of traveling to the stars or back through time. He graduated with honors from the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, concentrating in American History and political science. After graduation but he added numerous literature courses, including the study of science fi ction, and began writing science fi ction and time travel stories. Fitton resides on Cape Cod and continues writing new and exciting time travel and science fi ction novels.

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Copyright © 2014 by Robert P. Fitton.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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.

Rev. date: 08/06/2014

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Contents

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Bibliography

End Notes

The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis.

—Dante Alighieri

Italian National Epic Poet

1265-1321

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Let us connect the dots. This is an unusual science fiction—time travel novel that collides with the real Lee Oswald and his activities preceding the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. It is my hope that this novel will be a gateway to all aspects of the complex scenario that produced the death of President Kennedy.

Rather than rely on official stories and character destruction, 1963 refers to validated events. I am not a researcher. This footnoted work is written on the shoulders of countless investigators, who year after year searched for the truth in the face of relentless criticism, humiliation, and weight of government obfuscation. This book is not intended for those who experienced the horrific events in Dallas in November 1963. Nor is it an encyclopedia. The weaving together of the conspiracy is presented to those not yet born when Kennedy died. Contained within is a simple connecting of pertinent facts in the latter part of 1963.

The truth remains alive because witnesses made the courageous choices, as President Kennedy would have admired, to speak up in the face of threat, danger, and loss of position. Like President Kennedy, dozens of these men and women were murdered.

As a time travel author, I am in awe of how history became remarkably altered by the murderers and those complicit in aiding, abetting, and fomenting the plot on President Kennedy’s life. Subsequently, the dogged, pervasive, and mostly ruthless cover-up effort persists fifty years later.

The United States was founded as a republic with representative government. Lincoln so eloquently stated that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom and that government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth. To capture these ideals, this nation needs the truth of just how that government derailed and failed to be a government of the people in 1963. Only then, will we have another new birth of freedom and establish justice for President Kennedy.

Robert P. Fitton

January 20, 2014

This Is a True Story

It is known to the Police Department of one of our largest cities as the most difficult homicide case in its experience, principally because of the diabolical cleverness, intelligence and cunning of a completely unknown killer… The record is set down here factually… as it happened.

Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

—Opening Sequence

He Walked By Night

Eagle-Lion Films

November 24, 1948

Johnny Roselli

Associate Producer

For President Kennedy

1

Dealey Plaza

Dallas, Texas

Sunday

January 13, 2013

11:22 a.m.

Rewriting history carries an expensive price tag. For years, Patch Kincaid had relived John Kennedy’s assassination behind a foldaway aluminum table in Dealey Plaza, Dallas, Texas. The locals knew him as the eccentric bearded fool who once claimed he caused Kennedy’s death in 1963. Little kids would then add up the years from 1963 to 2013 on their fingers. Then, inevitably, someone would proclaim him a liar. How could somebody in his forties have been alive fifty years ago?

Nobody really cared now about what happened half a century past on the street below. Patch did not involve himself in conspiracy theories or what-ifs about JFK. Across his tabletop were the books and DVDs celebrating the career of John F. Kennedy. At times, he would play some of Kennedy’s speeches through his docked MP3 player into the humongous gray boom box below the table. Just last week, three Dallas police officers threatened to have him arrested as JFK’s voice, teaming with optimism, told the world why the United States chose to go to the moon. During the last few days, the unusually cold temperatures prompted him to close down his table and take a break on the front steps of the museum.

He gazed up at the sandstone brick building, once called the Texas School Book Depository Building, where the loner Lee Harvey Oswald shot Kennedy from the corner sixth floor window on November 22, 1963.¹ On the day of the assassination, a huge yellow Hertz Rent a Car sign on the roof displayed the time in white digits.² Patch had no reason to question what Earl Warren and his distinguished commission members had written in twenty-six volumes so many years ago. In his old timeline, he remembered Kennedy being alive in 1986. He understood he had warped history’s fabric because he traveled back in time to 1961 and returned to 2003.

The traffic ebbed and flowed in a fluctuating buzz along Elm Street. From the museum’s stone steps, he checked the triple underpass ahead and the stockade fence to his right atop the knoll, and then he panned down Houston Street to his left. Over the past few weeks, he had seen men watching him from numerous locations. Two intelligence operatives had warned him three months ago to mind his own business and leave Dallas permanently. Even his friend Herman grew nervous.

Herman’s straggly steel hair and deep-set spooky brown eyes gave him the look of a madman. In his denim jacket, he led a group of young students in the cold air toward the museum. Patch smiled as Herman recited in a gritty voice from memory the words on the plaque outside the building.

"Formerly the Texas School Book Depository. The site was originally owned by John Neely Bryan, the founder of Dallas. During the 1880’s French native Maxime Guillot operated a wagon shop here. In 1884 the land was purchased by Phil L. Mitchell, President and director Rock Island Plow Company of Illinois. An office building for the firm’s Texas division, known as the Southern Rock Plow Company was completed here four years later. In 1901 the five-story structure was destroyed by fire. That same year, under the supervision of the company vice president and general manager F.B. Jones, work was completed on this structure, built to resemble an earlier edifice. It features characteristics of the commercial Romanesque revival style.

"In 1937 the Carraway Byrd Corporation purchased the property. Later, under the direction of D.H. Byrd the building was leased to a variety of businesses, including the Texas School Book Depository.

"On November 22, 1963, the building gained national notoriety when Lee Harvey Oswald allegedly shot and killed President John F. Kennedy from a sixth floor window as the Presidential motorcade passed the site."³

Herman brought the group around the corner on Houston Street near the traffic light. The next caravan of cars and a couple of small trucks moved away from the light.

In 1966, the world renowned physicist Richard Wyman was asked by a researcher to study all aspects of the shooting directly in the plaza before you. Dr. Wyman did determine that the final head shot was a slight movement forward and then a violent backward thrust. This was an all-in-one dynamic.⁴

Patch scrolled down his MP3 player’s glowing screen to Kennedy’s Berlin Speech in June 1963—the president’s most inspiring speech. Patch squinted, and his eyes watered as he faced the oncoming breeze. Not many people were in the plaza today. Random snow pellets accompanied the northern air and low-hanging gray clouds and transformed the plaza into a chilled mausoleum. He pushed his thumb on the highlight screen, and JFK’s voice broke through time from 1963. He mouthed the words.

"I am proud to come to this city as the guest of your distinguished Mayor, who has symbolized throughout the world the fighting spirit of West Berlin."⁵

A pudgy young man and his bleached blonde wife looked up the knoll at Patch. The man zipped up his blue Chicago Bears Jacket. Patch stroked his beard. At least he had gotten their attention. Mr. Chicago pointed at the concrete pedestal where Abraham Zapruder had filmed the assassination with an 8 mm Bell & Howell, model 414PD Director Series camera, operated by a spring mechanism. Then they climbed toward Patch.

Hey, how come Kennedy flew backward if he was shot from behind? asked Mr. Chicago in a gruff voice. His dark beard bristles blanketed his rounded chin and the remnants of whatever he drank for lunch lingered in the air.

The woman kept her hands inside her blue nylon Windbreaker. She spoke in a squeaky voice, Ed likes straight answers.

"I’m here to celebrate the life of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Listen…"

He turned up the volume.

"Two thousand years ago—Two thousand years ago, the proudest boast was ‘civis Romanus sum.’ Today, in the world of freedom, the proudest boast is ‘Ich bin ein Berliner’."⁶

That’s great, but the CIA had JFK knocked off, said Mr. Chicago, pretending his finger was a gun.

Isn’t it more important we understand what he accomplished? asked Patch.

We saw that at the Kennedy Library up in Boston, said the lady.

Those people had no friggin’ idea who killed JFK, Delores.

He’s still dead either way, replied Patch.

A cocky Mr. Chicago turned toward Elm Street. So this is where they nailed him?

He thrust his index finger upward toward the knoll and wooden stockade fence next to the curved white pergola. The shots came from the grassy knoll, Delores. To me, that makes more sense. Most of the people in the plaza that day ran up the grassy knoll.⁷

Patch showed him Kennedy in Ireland on the cover of the CD. I can get you all of Kennedy’s speeches for $9.99.

Mr. Chicago just kept walking as Delores shrugged her shoulders. Then he performed an odd alignment with his thumbs and forefingers from behind the fence. Patch had seen the machinations before. People always emerged from the fence, proclaiming the easy shot to the street below.

It was a piece of cake, Delores.

A hefty woman with feathered short white hair walked upright in a white sweater and cream-colored pantsuit along the grass toward Patch’s table. He sensed her scented perfume as she approached. She had a genuine smile and chestnut eyes, and her smooth voice indicated kindness and sensitivity.

"We all loved Jack Kennedy."

Goose bumps covered Patch’s arms under his jacket sleeves. Most people coming through here now were not alive back then.

Like you? she asked, followed by a quick laugh.

Right. Where are you from?

Originally from the Northwest, but now I live in West Palm Beach. I swore I would never come down here to where it happened. She saw him sniffing the air. It’s called Honeysuckle by Avon.

I wondered.

You like it?

Sure.

It first came out fifty years ago. What is your name?

Patch Kincaid.

Cabbage Patch.

Patch grinned at her humor. Then his face resumed its Dealey Plaza solemnity as she focused the tattered X pasted on the Elm Street asphalt. Ma’am, don’t walk down there unless you’re a hundred percent sure you want to.

Her brown eyes suddenly glazed. We watched for four days on the TV. This country was on the rise and Jack Kennedy was a leader. We don’t have leaders anymore, Patch. She wore no ring and extended her hand. My name is Sharon Gorman, one of my names. I’ve been married one too many times.

She looked over her shoulder toward the sixth floor window.

Kind of eerie, isn’t it? Have you been in the museum, Mrs. Gorman?

I walked through that sixth floor very quickly.

Why is that?

She produced an incredulous expression. Where have you been, sweetness?

Patch slowly grinned. Right here.

Let me tell you something and listen good: Oswald was innocent.

I never really looked into it. I’m down here to promote Kennedy’s life.

That’s a good thing. There were other plots against Kennedy. There’s a saying: Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. The third time, it’s enemy action.

Who said that? asked Patch.

Someday you’ll read it and think of me. She held his wrist and starred into his eyes with an intensity that made him uneasy. I’m finding it difficult to go down there.

Do you want me to walk down there with you?

Tears slowly descended over the well-embedded smile lines as she nodded. She removed a tissue and patted her eyes. You don’t know what this did to my generation. You never get over it.

Patch pinched the brim of his Aussie hat and zipped his faded army jacket. It was too damned cold to be selling anything out here today. He squinted into the January glare across the triple underpass toward the Stemmons Freeway. With a single jab, he pushed the on button for the Kennedy Berlin speech. Her head darted to the left, and she smiled. She clutched onto Patch’s extended arm, and they took short steps down the cold Elm Street sidewalk. Her face assumed a new excitement with the president’s words in the background, and her soft scent followed them toward the street.

With just Kennedy’s speech breaking the lonely silence in Dealey Plaza, their conversation disappeared.

"All—All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin. And, therefore, as a free man, I take pride in the words ‘Ich bin ein Berliner’."⁸

Her glassy eyes gravitated away from the asphalt X and toward the railroad bridge’s weathered concrete. The cloud-smeared sun cast a dreamy glow over their shadows on the sidewalk under the lofty Reunion Tower overlooking the plaza. A few more people snooped around the stockade fence atop the knoll.

I’ll tell you what they said about those who visited the Nazi concentration camps at the end of World War II, said Patch softly, like tourists in hell they took pictures. Sometimes I feel the same way about Dealey Plaza.

He looked over his shoulder to the central pergola where Zapruder’s secretary had steadied him on the concrete riser. Zapruder had panned his movie camera toward the motorcade as it proceeded slowly down Elm Street.⁹ Patch winced when he visualized Kennedy’s head blowing apart on that sunny November day in 1963. He had only viewed the film once, and that was enough.

They shuffled onto Elm Street’s smooth pavement. She remained remarkably composed when they reached the spot where the fatal shot hit Kennedy. Her little nose and wide cheeks formed a firm facade, but her dark eyes were fixed to the pavement. She shook her head and looked up at him.

"We must find the truth, Patch."

She released his arm and smiled. Then she checked the road and walked with her head up toward the open grass stretch back toward Main Street. Like a solider parading across a battlefield, she passed under the rippling American flag above the pergola along Houston Street. Then she entered the crosswalk and was gone.

Patch eyed the sandstone facade’s sixth floor window. When he worked at the museum, his job involved steering patrons over to the Plexiglas cubicle surrounding the stack of cardboard boxes that partially obscured the infamous window. The army psychiatrists told his friends that his working in the museum would help him shed the responsibility for Kennedy’s death after traveling back in time. Yet he remained confused as to how his association with the Bay of Pigs Invasion in 1961, the Cuban rebels, and, specifically, Carlos Sánchez’s death had prompted a lone gunman to shoot the president.

He focused on the building’s concrete-framed entry, and then he peered through the twisted oak branches along the quiet side street that led toward the knoll and a parking area adjacent to the rail yard. Every time a train passed, the rumbling cars and the lonesome whistle harked him back fifty years.

The conspiracy buffs had men shooting from catch basins, from cars in the motorcade, or an umbrella firing, and even from surrounding buildings. And they assigned blame to every possible person or group. Now he was condemned to impart the life of JFK to those who would listen. A new history now existed since his time travel journey. Ray Meinkewitz, who had formulated time travel theories into a working embarking chamber, had long since retired in Florida. Meinkewitz would never receive the recognition for pioneering the time dilation experiments. The government had locked it all away in a National Archives warehouse in New Mexico. They lied to Kate about his death, and she married someone else. From a distance, he had seen her family years ago. Now he floated in a comfortable limbo.

He waved at Herman. His drifter friend, a Dealey Plaza tourist guide, had once made five hundred bucks off tourists one day last summer. Herman, like the lady who had just disappeared beyond the crosswalk on Houston Street, did not think Oswald killed Kennedy. Patch did not want to listen to yet another conspiracy theory. From the corner of Houston and Elm at the traffic light, his lanky buddy, clad in a denim jacket, returned the wave.

Near the stockade fence, a mustached man, probably in his thirties, in a dark sports coat and white turtleneck, walked briskly from the parking lot behind the knoll. Patch had a creepy suspicion about this guy and had seen the man spying on him. The man continued up the hill to the concrete triple underpass. On November 22, 1963, railway workers awaited the arrival of the president and Mrs. Kennedy along those railroad tracks. On that Friday, both sides of the road below were lined with people. The mustached man caught up with him as he leaned on the concrete bridge abutment.

Dealey Plaza… Patch did not acknowledge him. Kennedy died there, right?

Patch stared into his serious dark eyes. "X marks the spot, my friend. He pointed at the asphalt down Elm Street. Right there. Kind of sick, isn’t it?"

Not really. Sometimes it’s important to mark moments in time. If you don’t do that, you won’t know who did what and when.

I used to work in the museum. President Kennedy… said Patch as he gazed up to the sixth floor window. President Kennedy was shot by a single gunman from that corner window.

The man, younger than Patch, smiled a quick smile. Listen, Patch.

How do you know my name? There have been people watching me for two weeks. And you’re one of them.

Maybe.

You look familiar.

My name is Nick Tobias. You probably saw me lurking around here, watching you. I am aware of your background. Could you show me around and tell me about the assassination?

"You have me wrong. I’m down here to promote the life of John F. Kennedy and not speculate on crazy conspiracy theories."

Then we’ll talk about Jack Kennedy.

Sure.

He motioned Patch back along the stockade fence toward the pavilion. I work on my own, but I have contacts with many people.

Patch squinted, and as they walked toward the fence, he studied the man’s chiseled face. He gripped the picket fence. Conspiracy theorists believe there were shooters right here behind this stockade fence.

Among other locations.

The Warren Commission fully established that a single bullet passed through President Kennedy and Governor Connally and that a final shot from the sixth floor window destroyed the president’s skull. It never should have happened.

He walked ahead of Nick back to his table near the curved pavilion.

You feel that because of your time traveling to 1961, President Kennedy died, Nick shouted from behind. It’s not your fault, Patch.

Patch spun in front of his table. I don’t know what you know, Nick. But he was alive before I went back in time. He had his own national radio broadcast in 1986.

I know the specifics of Hastings Mountain and the time dilation in the other timeline.

He looked closer at Nick’s dark eyes. How? It’s all classified.

That I cannot reveal.

Who sent you? The government wants me to stop talking about Kennedy and leave Dealey Plaza.

I have come down here to Texas to speak about time travel—the reopening of the time dilation experiments.

Patch’s eyes intensified as a burst of cold air lifted up like a ghost from Elm Street. He motioned Nick around the back of the pavilion. The red sandstone face of the museum loomed overhead. To his left, the parking lot opened behind the stockade fence.

Patch bit his lower lip. Starting the time dilation experiments is quite impossible. All the files on time dilation are also classified.

Doesn’t matter.

Who is behind this?

I can’t comment on that right now.

Well, bullshit. You won’t tell me how you know anything?

That would not be smart.

"Then we have nothing to say, Nick."

He walked silently back to his table. Kennedy’s speech had ended. Traffic accelerated past the green light and flowed freely over the roadway. He gathered up his CDs and books and placed them carefully into the plastic crates he had removed from under the table. Even in the cloudy weather, Nick’s shadow shaded the table. His square shoulders and large frame formed a blackened behemoth against the fuzzy clouds.

Officially, the Meinkewitz version of your time dilation trip is gone. Patch placed his hands on his hips as he stood. Again he looked into Nick’s dark eyes. I know, however, you did prevent the destruction of American cities in 1986 by traveling back in time and killing Carlos Sánchez.

Patch shook his head. Sometimes he thought he saw something move in the sixth floor window. More than likely, the interior images of museum patrons passed by the window. With his brow cut deep into his forehead, he faced Nick. My job was to kill Carlos Sánchez. Meinkewitz shot him. And that caused the lone nut Oswald to shoot Kennedy. Don’t ask me how that happened.

"We need you to stop them from traveling through time."

Who is them, Nick?

I would rather not say.

Patch put his arm behind Nick, and they walked under the scraggly oaks back toward the museum. Herman, his breath foggy, lectured a little guy on the pergola sidewalk. Was Nick telling the truth? Patch stopped on the old School Book Depository steps. I want to meet your contact.

That is impossible. Even after fifty years, Patch, this thing is still very hot. Let me be more specific. My contact is aware that a certain individual has stolen the dilation information from New Mexico. He knows the location of the new embarkation chamber and that the facility is nearly operational due to the efforts of this man.

That’s not good. Time travel should be forbidden. Patch stroked his beard. Why do you need me?

Nick smiled for the first time and panned to the sixth floor window. Patch, I can’t tell you that right now.

You’re a pain in the ass. You know that?

I risk other people getting involved.

"Then more people have been watching me."

Yes.

Many times Patch had tried to envision the world as it once existed with Kennedy alive in 1986. If you could send me back to 1963, I would indeed prevent what happened here. Yes, sir. I’d step into the street and stop the damn motorcade.

Nick looked into his eyes for the longest time. I cannot guarantee that I can send you back to 1963, Patch. Will you help us?

Patch stared at the worn X on the asphalt and pressed his lips. The cold air stung his face. Then he faced Nick. I’ll think about it.

2

Wally’s Texas Barbeque

Main Street

Dallas, Texas

January 13, 2013

6:45 p.m.

The aroma of Wally’s food filtered from the kitchen through the heating ducts. Patch pointed his finger at Herman when he started talking about another conspiracy theory.

You’re the one who told me there’s yellow marking paint still visible on the curb, framing the area where Kennedy was shot.

Patch sunk his teeth into a juicy burger in a soft sesame seed bun. Herman stared at his plate full of ribs. What’s the matter, Herman? Lose your appetite?

You tell me the government is watching us, and yeah, I lose my appetite. Damn, it was cold out there today.

You moved everybody right along.

I ain’t cold when I’m makin’ money. You ought to tell people you went back in time. You’d make some big money.

Patch chewed the fries and the burger. Then he sipped the vanilla shake through the straw. You’re the only one who believes I went back in time.

And caused JFK to be gunned down. Herman ripped the cover off the Coke and downed the drink. Then he smacked his lips. Hell, you believed me when I said I dated J. Lo.

Patch laughed hard enough to stop chewing. I never believed that. Then he produced a serene smile as he thought about the lady in the pantsuit and her connection to President Kennedy. He looked into Herman’s droopy brown eyes. Herman, you are one of a kind.

Hey, man, I thought you said they never used that mountain with all the high-tech machines in this timeline… number one. But it never existed in this timeline. Timeline number two. Correct?

Thank you, Mr. Meinkewitz.

Herman’s teary black eyes reflected the outside taillights. He pointed at his friend. See, you do pay attention.

Everyone forgets Vietnam happened after Kennedy died.

Lost a few friends there.

I understand.

Herman held up his baby back ribs. Used to be another great place to eat here in town. Now they tore it down. Austin’s Barbeque on West Illinois. Then his eyes wandered toward the window. There he is again.

Patch gazed outside. He wiped his lip with a white paper napkin. A short man in his thirties leaned against the store window across the street. He wore a red baseball cap, gray sweatshirt, and jeans. Patch tightened his brow as the guy lit a cigarette and shook the match onto the sidewalk. I saw that guy a few days ago by the museum.

Say what?

I saw that guy before.

Too many dudes just hangin’ out. They’re all watchin’ you, Patch. He removed a toothpick and plied a piece of food from his yellowed incisor. I tell ya, Patch, they show up for a few days and they watch you. Then they leave.

I know. He stood and leaned toward the street. The man looked away. Patch scraped his chair against the floor tiles. I’ll get to the bottom of this right now.

You armed? asked Herman.

He shook his head. Nope.

Well, I am, he said, pulling out his .38. Old Herman is gonna cover you.

Patch raised his brows, pressed his fingers against the cold glass door, and stepped onto the frigid sidewalk. Exhaust fumes choked the night air. He glanced up at the observation tower overlooking the plaza and then headed across the street. The man threw the cigarette off the brick wall when he saw Patch moving toward him. Hey, you.

Me?

The cigarette smoke lingered in the winter air. Patch jabbed his thumb into the guy’s sweatshirt.

What’s the big deal? What are you watching me for?

I wuz out here having a butt.

Who do you work for? CIA? FBI?

Screw you, he said, turning to leave.

Herman, his right hand in his pocket, stood at the curb across the street.

Patch grabbed the guy by his sweatshirt sleeves. I don’t need anybody following me. You got it?

A tall man with neatly trimmed black hair walked from the alley with his hands in his gray London Fog. His face was clean shaven and he had brilliant blue eyes. Maybe you do need someone following you, Patch.

Patch released his grip on the kid. Who sent you? Central casting?

He smiled broadly. The teeth were as perfect as the hair. That’s funny. I’m Mike McCabe.

Patch glanced at his outstretched hand and then finally squeezed his smooth skin. Patch Kincaid.

You can go, George. He turned to Patch. Not often I get to meet a legend.

What makes you say that?

I know your story. He looked across the street as the cars broke at the traffic light. He spoke louder over the traffic noise. Tell your denim jacket friend we have five men with high-powered rifles stationed around the area. So he’d better not try anything with that weapon in his coat.

I’m okay, Herman! he yelled.

Are you aware that man is a cocaine dealer?

Tell me something I don’t already know, McCabe.

And you’ve met with Nick Tobias.

Patch laughed and then motioned McCabe down the sidewalk.

You know something? Things never change. I don’t care what time period you’re in. There’s always some smart ass with all the answers—answers you aren’t sure are true or false. I happened to know somebody has the time dilation technology and has built a chamber.

You are correct. But there is more. That individual is mentally unstable. Dr. Alexander Moon was a scientist at the United States Army’s top-secret Special Operations Division in Maryland.

I know Moon left Meinkewitz’s project.

"Well, he first was institutionalized in 1951 at Wadsworth Veterans Hospital in Los Angeles, California, after returning from the French village Pont-Saint-Esprit.¹⁰ He has been in psychiatric hospitals three times over the years. Delusions of grandeur and paranoid schizophrenia."

How can somebody with those head problems build a dilation chamber?

That had nothing to do with his problems. He was funded by outside sources. McCabe rubbed his hand across his mouth. And he is, unfortunately for the world, brilliant scientifically.

Who told you that? Your intelligence buddies?

I know everything about this man.

I know with intelligence people you never know who’s who or who’s working for who or what their agenda really is.

Interesting.

They walked back along Main Street to Houston Street where Kennedy’s car had taken a right toward the depository. Look, McCabe. I don’t care about this skitzo scientist and his nonsense. I have my table in the plaza every day. I sell things that promote JFK’s life, not his death.

I know that. Commendable.

Glad I have your approval. They strolled along the County Records Building on Houston Street. The upper windows of the museum vividly reflected the passing clouds. Patch rubbed his hands together. How is Uncle Ray? I know about six months ago he wasn’t doing too well.

Meinkewitz isn’t well now, Patch. You heard he’s in assisted living.

Patch stopped and studied his face to see if he was lying. Then he began walking again. Not good.

His mind is fine. It’s just as well. He’s old. His system is shutting down.

Do you know that Meinkewitz will never get the credit he deserves for sending a man back in time?

How can we release to the general public what happened in the other timeline and the resulting death of Kennedy right over there? he said, pointing down Elm Street.

I mind my own business, McCabe. You and Tobias are just like the gawkers.

Gawkers?

You know, people who come down here to gawk at the death site.

McCabe had penetrating blue eyes. I’m a straight shooter, Patch. We don’t want you to tell anyone about Sector 13 in the other timeline. Furthermore, you are in danger from the individual who has stolen the dilation technology.

And you’re afraid this individual will change time and everything we know will be wiped out.

Time travel is too dangerous, and you know it. There’s no way to comprehend how time will spread out and change, especially with this man and whoever he has aligned with. He put his hand on Patch’s shoulder. He and McCabe were both close to six feet tall. I may need your help against the them.

Patch slowly shook his head and began walking away. You have a nice day, McCabe.

We’ll reprogram your goddamned mind with nanoparticles to prevent you from changing time! You’ll lose all your relevant memory. He continued walking as McCabe called from behind. I… one hundred percent mean it, Patch!

3

Patch lay back on his narrow mattress. The incessant dribbling of the basketball kept him awake as he followed the players running up and down the court on the little flat-screen TV. As the thermometer hovered around freezing, the outside drizzle sent a cold breeze through the open window. He turned the knob on the old quartz heater. In the few seconds, the elongated coils glowed red with the expanding heat.

Several beeps sounded on his laptop. The flashing blue icon on the toolbar indicated someone had summoned him on Skype. He rolled across the mattress and clicked on the icon. Seeing the name Retrograde 4572 made him suspicious.

You’re a pain in the ass, McCabe. If it’s you. Who else would talk about time dilation retrograde?

He clicked on the icon, and a light-blue rectangular box popped up on the screen.

Retrograde 4572 is requesting connection

He crunched his brow and accepted the request. A twirling inner circle soon materialized into a man with straight peppered hair and narrow slits for eyes. He had a strong but raspy voice and a square jaw.

His opened his milky blue eyes. Kincaid?

Who the hell are you?

Someone with answers to your problem.

My problem?

Patch swung his legs under the side table.

Another chance.

Listen, I haven’t time for bullshit.

The man raised his left brow, and then his blue eyes opened wide. I need your help. I need to bring you to the restricted area by force if necessary.

I have no idea who you are and what you’re talking about. He clicked off the icon, but he wondered if he had just clicked off the whacky doctor described by McCabe. He needs my help? For what?

Patch fell back on the quilted comforter and fluffed his pillows. He shut down the laptop so only the TV monitor light covered him. Car lights sporadically passed, and the taillights brightened at the corner Stop sign. The crispy tree leaves occasionally fluttered in the night. With his thumb, using the remote, he changed the channel from the basketball game. As he flipped by old black-and-white movies, a documentary on condor birds, and worldwide wrestling, he questioned why so many people were after him right now.

Duplicating Meinkewitz’s work on the other timeline appeared unlikely. Meinkewitz’s original notes from the 1950s and 1960s in the present timeline, locked in the New Mexico warehouse, would have to be studied and verified. An enormous amount of money would be necessary to build an embarking chamber similar to Sector 13 inside Hastings Mountain. And how would any private group or even a brilliant scientist bring in the proper technicians to maintain and implement any time travel programs?

He pushed off the remote and climbed under the covers. The phosphorescent TV image dissipated on the screen, and only the car lights passed across the wall. Patch closed his eyes. He shook his head from side to side on the pillow. Why did Kennedy have to die anyway? Why did Kate marry somebody else? Why had he risked going back in time?

Once the TV timer shut off, he drifted into a light sleep. Then his cell phone’s high-pitched ring broke the silence. His body demanded rest, and he did not want to answer the call. He kept his eyes shut as he reached for the phone.

Yeah.

Mr. Kincaid. This man had an odd foreign accent Patch could not pinpoint.

"Who the hell are you?"

He spoke slowly and deliberately, My name is Qaung. I am part of Dr. Moon’s contingent formed to travel back in time—a contingent based on your debriefing in 2003.

Right.

He pushed off the phone and turned over on the pillow. But the line rang again. He hit the send button.

We want you to travel back in time, Captain, and prevent Kennedy from being killed.

You’re lying. Patch sat up in the dark. You don’t need me, Qaung, to accomplish that.

No, Mr. Kincaid. We have a problem. You know the scientific aspects of time dilation.

Like I’m going to help you.

Also, you’re the only one with the actual knowledge of what happened. You have met many of the major players. You can simply prevent Kennedy from being killed.

You mean not let him go to Dallas?

Dallas, Tampa, Chicago… There were many cities where he was going to be killed.¹¹

Oswald killed JFK in Dallas. Case closed. Don’t start the conspiracy crap.

There’s more to this.

Come on. Patch pinched the bridge of his nose. Get somebody else, Qaung. I think you’re lying, trying to lure me into something else. And just remember, time is much too fragile to be messing with it.

He clicked off the cell and threw it onto the comforter. Then he pounded the pillow with his closed fist. These people had no idea about the dangers of time travel.

*     *     *

The exhaust leaking through the window opening woke him. He sniffed the air and sat up. Two red taillights glowed between the hedge branches outside. The low pitch of a reverberating car engine shook the window glass. He crawled out of the bed, and then, like a dog placing his paws on the windowsill, he peered into the yard. Two shadowy figures stood at the corner just out of range of the streetlight. Something hit the ground with a thud near the garage. Now he wished he had a weapon. These people would pressure him until he forced them to quit.

Patch quickly punched 911 into his cell.

Dallas Police Dispatcher.

I have two men around my home. A breaking and entering.

What’s your address, sir?

435 East Central. My name is Robert G. Kincaid.

They’re there right now?

At the corner of East and Fourteenth.

Sir, stay inside your house. We’re sending officers to the scene right now.

Patch pushed off the cell button. Great.

He slipped on his sweatpants and grabbed the wooden baseball bat kept in the corner. Anger surged within him as he tore through the living room. Hunched over, he stepped through the kitchen and slowly opened the back door. In the icy rain, he circled the rear of the garage and rounded the edge. A lanky man in a hooded yellow slicker held a revolver near the driveway.

He straightened up behind the drainpipe and tightened his grip on the bat as the guy inched closer. In a single swipe, he let loose with a mighty swing into the guy’s ribs. The man buckled over in pain, and his gun flipped into the air. Patch cocked the bat again and, this time, smacked his cheekbone, sending him to the grass.

He easily found the metal revolver and ran parallel to the house along the bedroom. Mist built up on his skin. A middle-aged Asian man in a gray sweatshirt and an older, white-haired man, also Asian, in a gray trench coat stood across the street. Patch crossed the lawn and hid behind the neighbor’s jeep. He wiped the water droplets off his forehead. The two men stood less than twenty-five feet away next to a gray BMW, headlights projecting across the light rain as the car idled at the sidewalk.

Still in the shadows, he crawled on his belly across the wet lawn. When he reached the concrete driveway, he ducked behind a little green Subaru. Now he heard their conversation.

Where the hell is he, Jun? asked the older man in a choppy Asian tone.

Give him a few minutes to get Kincaid out, Qaung, answered the other man.

Patch ran his finger along the trigger. To the right, the guy from the back of the house, his face bloodied, staggered onto the street. Jun… Jun.

Both men drew long-barreled weapons and trotted around the corner. What happened, Zan?

Somebody attacked me, he answered in a weak voice.

Let’s go in there and get the attacker, Quang! shouted Jun. Kill him!

Patch raised his brows and gripped the gun.

I need medical help, said Zan as he collapsed on the street.

This is not what we had planned, said Jun. Get Zan back to the car. I’ll get Kincaid. Call Danforth and Feldman from the car and tell them what happened.

Jun headed diagonally toward Patch’s ranch house as the older Quang lifted Zan from under the armpits and dragged him toward the BMW. Jun reached the front door and kicked it open. He disappeared inside, but, in less than a minute, he emerged back on the front lawn.

Flashes brightened on the surrounding trees and houses. Jun immediately backtracked across the road. He reached the BMW and helped Qaung lift Zan inside the car. Patch memorized the tag number.

4271717

A black-and-white cruiser, roof lights rotating rapidly, drove diagonally onto Patch’s lawn. Patch hurled the revolver into the bushes. Two cops flew out of the car as the BMW, lights out, slowly drove away from the curb. The cops took positions on either side of the house’s open door.

Over here! shouted Patch. I’m Kincaid!

One officer stayed at the door and the other, in full uniform and gun drawn, bounced between the trees toward Patch. What happened, Kincaid?

Three guys in a BMW. I have the plate number. 4271717. The car just went up Fourteenth.

The officer unhooked a small tablet off his belt. He typed the tag number into the tablet. Anyone in the house?

No, sir.

No one in the residence! he said as he jogged toward the cruiser. He quickly slid inside and read the plate number to the dispatcher.

The other cop reached the cruiser. What’s going on here?

Patch looked into his grey eyes. Two of them, Jun and Qaung, waited at the corner near the BMW while they sent the kid, Zan, after me. I hit him with a bat and took his gun. I threw it in the bushes over there.

Okay, we’ll get it.

Why would someone come after you, Kincaid? asked the second cop.

I don’t know. You’ve got the tag. Someone will pull them over, and you can ask them.

4

Dealey Plaza

Dallas, Texas

January 14, 2013

9:35 a.m.

During the night, snow and ice pellets had blanketed the open grass across the plaza. Patch set his steaming Styrofoam cup and jelly donuts on his table. His eyes stung from a lack of sleep, but the cold air kept him awake. Herman was already on the street. He too held a cup of coffee, and his huge brown eyes watered in the freezing air.

Goddamn it, Patch. I heard all about last night. Who were they?

Foreigners. I reported it to the police.

Why have you got your table set up here? If it were me, I would be on the next flat rail out of this friggin’ place. Patch flipped the MP3 switch to a 1963 civil rights speech by Kennedy. Which speech is that?

It was after that ruckus at the University of Alabama. Both Kennedys ruffled a lot of feathers. George Wallace backed down, and two African-American students matriculated.¹²

Say what?

They entered their classes because Kennedy federalized the National Guard.

Good evening, my fellow citizens!

This afternoon, following a series of threats and defiant statements, the presence of Alabama National Guardsmen was required on the University of Alabama to carry out the final and unequivocal order of the United States District Court of the Northern District of Alabama. That order called for the admission of two clearly qualified young Alabama residents who happened to have been born negro. That they were admitted peacefully on the campus is due in good measure to the conduct of the students of the University of Alabama, who met their responsibilities in a constructive way.¹³

Gettin’ back to last night, Patch. They wuz gonna kidnap you?

Patch squished the jelly and sugar donut between his teeth. Then he sent hot coffee into the mixture.

Herman, they can kidnap me and bring me to this gizmo time machine they’ve built. I don’t care. They probably need help from me because Meinkewitz is on the way out. What I’m saying is, I don’t have to cooperate with them.

Wonder if the cops got the Beamer.

Don’t count on it.

Herman spotted a family near the corner of Houston and Elm. He raised his hand to shield his eyes. "Nicer day today. More people. And I gutta make a livin’.

You be careful, Patch."

He held up his assassination newspaper and moved down the sidewalk. For the next few minutes, Patch listened to Herman’s soapbox assassination speech as Kennedy’s voice crackled out of the speakers.

This is one country. It has become one country because all of