Caitlin sat up. “Really?”

“Mm-hm. He took a famous photograph of two Secret Service agents guarding Jackie Kennedy at Parkland Hospital.”

A brief black-and-white image flashed through Caitlin’s head: the Praetorian Guard and their widowed queen. Caitlin no longer knew where Jordan was going.

“Daddy wasn’t home much when I was growing up,” Glass said. “He was always on assignment somewhere, from Asia to the Congo. But after that day in Dallas, he came home to Oxford and stayed almost a month. All he did was drink. I remember him lying on the couch, stinking of gin, unshaven, his eyes glued to the TV while the phone rang and rang. I asked my mother about it when I was older, and she said everything I described was accurate. She also told me that he’d been within two hundred feet of the limo when Kennedy was shot. I don’t know exactly what he saw . . . but whatever it was wounded him in some way. We’re talking about one of the best war photographers in the world, remember—a man who’d seen everything. But something went out of him that day. He was collateral damage of those gunshots. Daddy was no gullible romantic; he was as cynical as they come. But he’d believed in Kennedy and the possibilities he represented.”

Jordan stared into her cup as if at a screen playing footage from her past. “When I was older, I found a cache of pictures from that trip. JFK and Jackie getting off the plane, the president speaking at the Hotel Texas in Fort Worth the previous day. Daddy didn’t save many prints, but he kept those. And every shot communicated either resolve or optimism, which definitely wasn’t what he usually memorialized on film.”

Caitlin expected the story to go on, or to end with some insight or revelation, but Jordan simply stopped speaking. As she stared into the cup, Caitlin said, “Did you ever get to ask him about it?”

Jordan shook her head. “He’d already been missing for four years when I discovered the pictures. I found out a few years ago that he survived his wound and lived on until 1979. Over there. But I never saw him again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. He wasn’t the same man. I doubt he even remembered me.” At last Jordan looked up, her jaw set tight. “As for your question . . . yes, I will ask Fidel Castro John’s questions. This new line of inquiry could be bullshit, but somehow I don’t think so. And if I can help get to the truth, then I intend to.” Jordan reached out and set her empty cup on Caitlin’s desk. “Do you keep any vodka at the office?”

Caitlin shook her head. “Sorry.”

“That’s a tragedy.”

Caitlin smiled, but her brain was racing. As soon as Jordan left, she was going to get out Henry’s letter and journals and highlight every fragment of information about John and Robert Kennedy, Carlos Marcello, Marcello’s contacts with Brody Royal, and the “insurance” Frank Knox had kept to protect himself against Marcello. Perhaps most tantalizing of all was Snake Knox’s statement to Morehouse that the “insurance” document had been written in Russian. Something told Caitlin that while she’d been focused on the civil rights murders that had preoccupied Henry Sexton for so many years, the real story had been unfolding at a much deeper level.

“We’d better get some sleep,” she said. “We’re pulling out before dawn.”

Jordan closed her eyes for a moment, then stood and zipped her jacket. “Maybe I can get to sleep before John gets back to the hotel. I don’t fancy a long night of lying.”

“But you’ll do it if necessary?”

Glass gave her a crooked smile. “Same as you, right?”

CHAPTER 44

TOM AWAKENED IN a fog of pain and terror. A swarm of black, insectile faces hovered above him, peering down as if they meant to devour him any second. He fought to get off his back, but a flurry of strong hands pressed him back down. When his eyes adjusted to the backlighting, he saw one human face in the alien crowd. A boy, earnest and sweating, leaning over his left shoulder. The boy was working on his gunshot wound.

A syringe floated into his field of view, then stung his shoulder. Blessed relief washed through him. He hadn’t realized how painful his wound had been until the local anesthetic took effect. With relief from pain, his surroundings took on more detail. An IV line ran fluids into his right wrist. For a few seconds he wondered if he was in some kind of ambulance, but then he remembered that the black masks belonged to a SWAT team—the same killers who had broken into Quentin’s house and shot Melba.

“Melba,” he croaked.

“Don’t try to talk,” the boy advised. “You’re severely dehydrated, and your heart’s in bad shape. Let me take care of this wound.”

“Is she dead?”

“What’s he saying?” asked one of the masked faces.

“I think he’s asking about the nurse,” answered another.

“Don’t worry about her,” said the first man. “She’s fine.”

They’re lying, Tom thought. Melba’s dead.

He jerked as the boy medic probed flesh that was not quite numb. Then his stomach rolled as the chopper began to descend rapidly. He wanted to ask the boy a question, but it kept drifting out of his head, like a flashlight fading into darkness. Then all was night once more.

“IS MELBA ALIVE OR DEAD?”

“Does it matter what I say? You won’t believe me either way.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“She’s fine, Doc. They just darted her, same as they did you.”

Hope flamed in Tom’s chest, but he tamped it down, wary of being manipulated.

VOICES IN THE DARK.

One more powerful than the others . . . An officer being deferred to by noncoms and enlisted men.

This time Tom kept his eyes closed.

“What’s his status?” asked the officer’s voice.

“He needs to be in a hospital, Colonel. No shit. We’re lucky that dart didn’t stop his heart.”

“What about his bullet wound?”

“I pumped him full of antibiotics. If his heart doesn’t give out, he should be okay for a couple of days. But he’s also diabetic. Somebody needs to be checking his sugar regularly.”

“For the next twelve hours, that’s your job. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. Give me a minute with him. Then we’ll move him out of the chopper.”

There was a shuffle of boots on metal, and then someone squatted on his haunches beside Tom. Tom heard the knees creak.

“Hey, Doc,” said the officer. “You can quit playing possum. I got your message. If you want to make a deal, open your eyes.”

Tom did.

He saw a dark, intense face and a deformed ear that barely qualified as one at all, in the cosmetic sense. Beneath the face he saw a lieutenant colonel’s oak leaves on the epaulettes of a state trooper’s uniform. The uniform threw Tom back to the borrow pits, and Walt killing the trooper beside the van.

“Do you know who I am?” asked the man.

“I don’t recognize you. But I’m guessing you’re Frank Knox’s son.”

The trooper smiled. “That’s right. Forrest Knox.”

“What happened to the ear? War wound?”

Knox looked almost pleased by Tom’s frankness. “Lost it in the Vietnamese Highlands.”

“You didn’t want to fix it?”

Knox shrugged. “I like keeping the civilians off balance. You know?”

Tom didn’t answer. He knew the type all too well.

“So, you want to make a deal,” Forrest said.

“That’s right.”

“You offering to guarantee I stay squeaky clean if I can get you out of hot water on this cop killing? Is that about it?”

“Not just that. I want you to close the Viola Turner murder, too.”

Forrest nodded as though intrigued. “I suppose you didn’t kill her?”

“That no longer matters. The only question now is who gets blamed for it.”

Forrest smiled. “You have a suggestion?”