Luckman was bewildered. Mel sought to offer him reassurance. “He’s not trying to bamboozle you, this is how he speaks. I can see his thoughts clearly. He’s old this one – as old as humanity itself.”
“I know every word mankind has uttered,” said Favaloro. “I have spoken them all. But you must go now.”
Luckman relented, ushering Mel ahead of him back through the secret entrance. “Are you coming?” he asked Favaloro.
Favaloro shook his head. Luckman found his eyes drawn back to the windowsill. The light seemed to be creeping inside the room like a liquid flowing over the rim of a glass. He re-entered the passageway, pulled the door closed behind them and dashed down the stairs without a backward glance.
The vault had suddenly become a sanctuary. He collapsed to the floor in relief, enjoying the cool, smooth surface on his weary, sweat-soaked body. It felt comfortingly stable even as everything else around him pulsed with uncertainty. He breathed coarsely through the silence, feeling the beat of his heart banging on the wall of his chest. Every fibre of his being was suffused with exhaustion.
“In a town this size, how does someone build a golden pyramid without anyone noticing?” he wondered.
“One brick at a time,” Mel replied.
Thirty-Two
Luckman looked at his watch. It was just after one AM. They still had half the night ahead of them. God only knew how long they would be forced to remain down here.
“We should try the viewing chair,” Mel suggested.
“I’m not going near that thing, I have no idea how it works.”
She smiled in sympathy. “Honey, you’re so tired I’m amazed you can still speak. Leave this one to me. Your friend upstairs has given me a few pointers.”
“Did I nod off and miss that bit?”
“When I touched him – or tried to touch him – I felt all this information pop into my head, like a mental download.”
She placed herself carefully down on the velvet cushioned chair and closed her eyes. “It’s a beautiful piece of machinery – it allows you to witness historical events in real time. Even in slow motion. It responds to your thoughts and intentions.”
“Think you can drive it?”
“Let’s give a test run. Name a big moment in history and I’ll see if I can go there.”
“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this.”
“Luckman, you brought me here to help you.”
“It’s dangerous Mel.”
A sly grin crept across her face. “Don’t turn pussy on me now,” she goaded. “Have a little faith.”
He didn’t have the strength to argue. “I’m guessing we will need to be very specific.” He thought about it for a moment, trying to pick a potential target. “OK, I’ve got one – 12.30pm, November 22, 1963. Elm Street in Dallas.”
“The JFK assassination,” she realised. “Brilliant.”
She closed her eyes again and focused on that moment in time. In an instant it was like she had been physically transported to the streets of the Texan city. But it was so much more than virtual reality. She felt the wind in her face and smelt the freshly cut lawn on the infamous grassy knoll. It was just a few steps away. It’s real. She breathed it all in, willing herself to relax. “It’s like the most vivid dream I’ve ever had.”
“Where exactly are you?” he asked her.
“I’m standing on that semi-circular monument above the road.”
“Dealey Plaza.”
“Yeah, that’s it. I’ll walk forward. There aren’t too many people here. There’s a man I can see fumbling with one of those old eight-millimetre movie cameras.”
It had to be Abraham Zapruder. “That camera’s top of the line for 1963,” he told her.
“The Presidential motorcade has just come into view a couple of streets away.”
“Do you have a clear line of sight from where you are?”
“I’m moving forward to the top of the plaza steps. I should be able to see everything from here. There are people lining the side of the road in the park across from me. And there – oh wow, I can see the book depository. Holy shit.”
“What?”
“I’m pretty sure I just saw a rifle barrel poking out of a top-floor window.”
It was all happening too fast. But even before she had time to form a clear intention in her mind the chair had already responded to her instinctive wish to slow things down. “Everything just shifted to quarter speed. I think I did that – I was worried I was going to miss it. I guess the chair read my mind. I can see Kennedy clearly now. My God, this is incredible.”
The convoy moved slowly around the final turn and into Elm Street. She looked up again. The rifle was clearly visible through the window. Can’t the police see him up there?
“When you hear the first shot I want you to stay focused on the motorcade,” Luckman told her. “Don’t look up.”
Despite her best intentions to do as he suggested she found herself instinctively gazing up toward Lee Harvey Oswald’s window as the shot rang out. The muzzle of the rifle was still visible. The sound was strangely distorted in slow motion.
But now everything around her was quiet.
She returned her gaze to the road and saw an expression of shock and pain register on Jack Kennedy’s face. “The first shot’s just been fired,” she confirmed. “Kennedy’s been hit.”
“Now believe me Mel, you do not want to be looking at Kennedy. You need to search for a second shooter somewhere immediately behind the President’s limo.”
“What makes you so sure there is one?”
“Trust me on this,” he told her.
She gazed around urgently, trying to spot anyone with something resembling a gun. As the seconds passed, it became clear that no-one in the crowd had anything even resembling a weapon pointed at Kennedy.
“I can’t see anyone. No, wait. There.”
In the back of the convertible directly behind Kennedy’s car. A man in a dark suit had risen to his feet.
“Who are those men in the car directly behind the President?” she asked.
“That’s the Secret Service.”
“One of them has a rifle. His head is swinging around wildly like he’s looking for the shooter. He stood up.” She watched in fascinated horror at what happened next. “There’s smoke all around him now. Oh my God. That’s too awful.” She had seen the man who fired the fatal shot and its devastating impact on the skull of the President.
It wasn’t Oswald. It was a member of the President’s own Secret Service detail. Mel willed herself to leave. It took far greater effort than she had expected to open her eyes but she was relieved when she found herself back in the vault. She noted Luckman’s expression of concern and tried to push herself out of the chair towards him. He caught her as she collapsed to the floor under her own weight.
She began to cry uncontrollably. With nowhere else to lay her down, he knelt slowly and cradled her in his arms. She curled up around him like a sick child. He stroked her hair gently.
“It’s OK, you’re safe.”
“It was a Secret Service man… I saw it. He was right in front of me.”
“I know,” he admitted.
Her eyes widened. “How could you know?”
“General Shearer told me – years ago, one night when he was very drunk. But Mel you have to understand it was a terrible accident. Their car braked suddenly and he fired the weapon in error.”
“That’s one hell of an error. I thought they were trained not to do dumb things like that.”
“A lot of bad decisions were made that day. The Secret Service detail commander put the sniper’s rifle in the hands of a man who wasn’t trained to use it. He was one of the few men on that protection detail who hadn’t been out drinking all night. Kennedy’s excesses had started to rub off on them.”