The Bone Tree (33 page)

“I saw the movie. How could I forget?”

“Exactly. Oliver Stone’s film did an even greater disservice to the head shot—the kill shot. District Attorney Jim Garrison created the theory of the improbable ‘magic bullet,’ then tried to prove that the shot to Kennedy’s head was fired from the grassy knoll. You remember?”

“Back, and to the left,” I say, quoting Kevin Costner from the movie. “
Seinfeld
even had an episode mocking that.”

Dwight nods in the bed. “Oliver Stone almost single-handedly elevated two glaring forensic errors into myth, which always trumps truth in the public mind.”

“What were his errors?”

“First, the magic bullet wasn’t magic at all. Oswald was firing fully
jacketed rounds designed for winter war in the Alps, meant for penetrating multiple layers of heavy clothing. His bullets were slow—eighteen hundred feet per second—but very powerful. In Dallas, they performed exactly as they were designed to.”

“The
real
magic bullet,” Kaiser says, “was the head shot. It blasted open Kennedy’s skull, blew out a third of his brain, and left only tiny fragments in the skull case.”

“And practically vaporized in the process,” Stone finishes. “Which no Mannlicher-Carcano 6.58 round ever did after hitting a human skull at eighteen hundred feet per second. We’ve verified that under the most rigorous field conditions, and also through exhaustive research.”

“There had to be another shooter there,” Kaiser asserts. “One firing a rifle with a muzzle velocity greater than three thousand, two hundred feet per second, the speed required for a bullet to reliably and effectively explode. A rifle like the Remington 700 you identified from Brody Royal’s basement. A hot load for that rifle can reach four thousand feet per second.”

“Why didn’t ballistics experts see this long ago?” I ask.

Stone smiles sadly. “The forest and the trees, Penn.”

“Contrary to popular belief,” Kaiser says, “Oswald had the skill to make that shot. What he didn’t have on that day was the rifle or the bullet.”

“But Dwight said Oswald hit Kennedy in the back,” I point out.

“Even a blind pig finds a truffle now and again,” says Stone.

“That was luck,” says Kaiser. “The scope on Oswald’s Carcano was a cheap Japanese add-on, and it wasn’t even zeroed. In fact, it
couldn’t
be zeroed. It only had two screws holding it on. But even if it could have been, that Carcano couldn’t fire a bullet fast enough to explode, and Oswald wasn’t using frangible rounds.”

“Okay, let’s say I buy all that. If Oswald didn’t kill JFK, who did?”

Stone and Kaiser share a long look. Then Stone says, “Frank Knox.”

I shouldn’t be surprised to hear this, but the conviction with which Stone said the name has rattled me—not least because I know my father knew Frank Knox.

“On November twenty-second, 1963,” Stone goes on, “Frank Knox—the ex-marine from Ferriday, Louisiana, and founder of the Double Eagle group—fired the bullet that blew John Kennedy’s brains out. Knox was sent there by Carlos Marcello. He fired from a lower floor of the Dal-Tex Building, probably the second floor. He fired one
reasonably silenced shot from deep within the room, and he accomplished his mission, just as he’d done so often during the war.”

Stone sounds as sure of this as any man has ever been sure of anything.

“Can you prove that?” I ask.

“Some of it. With your father’s help, I think we can prove the rest.”

My skepticism quickly morphs into an almost frantic exasperation. “Dwight . . . I love you, man. But this is pretty hard to take. Last night John told me that you think Dad knows who killed Kennedy.”

Stone shakes his head. “No, it’s worse than that, I’m afraid. Your father actually made Frank’s shot possible.”

These stunning words trigger the disorientation of an unexpected blow, when your brain tries haltingly to fathom the cause and extent of the damage. Stone closes his eyes as though he feels the same pain I do, but when he opens them, I realize that he doesn’t even see me. He grimaces in agony, and then his hands go to his emaciated belly.

“Dwight! Are you okay?”

“I need to get to the bathroom,” he croaks.

Kaiser has already sprung to his feet. He unfolds the wheelchair, and together we transfer the old agent from the bed to the chair. Dwight’s quivering muscles tell me he barely has the strength to hold himself erect. With Kaiser’s help, moving him into the bathroom isn’t that difficult, but once he’s there we stand anxiously outside the door, listening closely in case he should pass out.

“I can’t believe he flew down here in such bad shape,” I whisper.

Kaiser shakes his head, then whispers back, “This really may be his last ride. That’s how much this case means to him.”

Sobered by the nearness of mortality, I blow out a rush of air. “John . . . what the hell was he talking about? My dad made Frank’s shot possible? Even if Knox
did
shoot Kennedy, that’s just nuts.”

Kaiser gives me a long look, then shakes his head. “Let’s just wait for Dwight, okay?”

This doesn’t reassure me. “I haven’t got all night, man.”

“It won’t take that long. But you’ve got time for this. Stone wants to solve this case, but he also wants to help your father if he can. So how about you make time for him?”

A groan and a thud come through the door.

“Oh, fuck,” says Kaiser, grabbing the knob.

BILLY KNOX SAT
on the front deck at Valhalla, staring out through the cold dusk toward the Mississippi River. Billy had his chair tilted back, his feet on the rail, and a big glass of bourbon in his hand. His father sat in a teak glider to his right, Forrest’s pit bull curled up beside him, and Sonny Thornfield stood at the rail beyond Snake. The cheep of crickets and the calls of night birds filled the air, but Billy was listening for the deep rumble of barges passing on the river, a mile to the west. Most of the land directly across the river was unpopulated wildlife refuge, but the clouds had begun to glow to the southwest as the lights of Marksville, Louisiana, came on.

The past two hours had been the most uncomfortable of Billy’s life, outside of prison. After Forrest and Ozan flew away in the big state-police helicopter, Snake had begun saying all the things he hadn’t had the guts to say to his nephew’s face. Worse, he kept looking to Billy for agreement, and even prodding him for information. Billy had claimed that Forrest had spent their time alone giving him instructions on how to protect their financial assets during this crisis, but his father wasn’t buying it. And the more Snake drank, the nearer he came to what Forrest would consider treason.

“You know what I think?” Snake mumbled into his glass. “I think he’s got Dr. Cage already. That’s why nobody can find him. I think Forrest has the doc holed up in some safe house, and he thinks he’s working some kind of deal. But what’s really happening is the doc is working
him
.”

When no one responded, Snake jabbed Billy’s shoulder with his fist. “What do you think, son? Only stands to reason, don’t it?”

“No,” Billy said wearily. “If Forrest had Dr. Cage, he’d be a lot less worried than he is.”

“So you say. And another thing. I don’t like Forrest bringing his SWAT guys into our business. What the hell do we need them for?”

“Keep your voice down,” Sonny said. “We don’t know who the hell
might be out here right now. Or whether there might be microphones around here.”

Snake waved his hand as if to brush these worries away. “And why’s he jamming the cell phones? Huh? Who’s he afraid we’ll talk to?”

Billy had puzzled over this himself (and he’d actually switched off the jammer momentarily to make a couple of calls). “Forrest told me it was to help block FBI surveillance. But I think that’s probably for the Black Team as much as anything. He doesn’t want anybody being able to prove they were here, later on.”

Snake grunted, obviously dissatisfied with his explanation. “I tell you, those Black Team bastards wouldn’t hesitate to kill us if Forrest ordered them to. In fact . . . that might be why he’s calling them in. You ever think about that?”

“You’ve had one too many drinks, Pop. Seriously.”

“Black Team, my
ass,
” Snake went on. “I can outshoot every one of those pissants. They never shot nothing but nigger dope dealers through a night-vision scope. They don’t know nothing about
war
.”

Billy looked over at Sonny, who looked older than ever with a white frizz of stubble on his normally clean-shaven face. Sonny was staring back with naked fear in his eyes.

“You boys listen to me,” Snake said. “Walking into the CPSO tomorrow to get arrested don’t make no damn sense, with meth charges waiting for us. I don’t care what Forrest has planned for Walker Dennis. That’s just plain suicidal. I think Forrest
wants
us in jail.”

“That’s crazy, Pop,” Billy said finally. “What’s Forrest got to gain from you going to jail?”

“It’d take the heat off him, for one thing. You seen his name in the newspaper yet? No.”

“Forrest can’t let you go to jail. You could rat him out any time you wanted.”

“If we lived long enough.” Snake clutched Billy’s arm. “Forrest could have us killed
in jail
.”

“Come on. . . . You need to get some sleep.”

“He’s done it before.” Snake’s eyes flashed with certainty. “I know that for a fact. So do you.”

Billy was thinking about Forrest’s final words to him, but he forced himself to chuckle. “He couldn’t kill all of you, could he?”

“He wouldn’t have to,” Snake said, his eyes still shining with animal cleverness. “If he killed me, the rest would fall right into line.” Snake looked back over his shoulder. “Ain’t that right, Sonny?”

Sonny Thornfield swallowed audibly. “I say we’re already
in
line. I don’t see what the problem is. Forrest will take care of us. Let’s just get this thing done tomorrow, then start the move to the businesses Forrest’s talking about.”

“Sonny’s right,” Billy said. “All Snake told me after you guys went out was to keep you calm and get you there in the morning. Forrest isn’t looking to kill you. He’s trying to save you. We’re family, for Christ’s sake.”

Snake let his hand fall from Billy’s sleeve and slumped in his chair, his gaze once again lost in the vast darkness over the river. Half a minute later, he sat up suddenly, his head cocked like that of a hunting dog. Traveller came to his feet, puzzled but curious.

“What is it?” Billy asked.

“I heard something,” Snake said. “
Listen
.”

WALT HAD BEEN LYING
beneath the bed for so long that his back and legs were numb. Just once he had crawled out to check if the pit bull was still outside—it was—and then to listen at the door for the drone of voices.

The men below were still talking.

Walt’s only consolation was that a half hour ago he’d received a coded text message from Tom telling him his location. He didn’t know how the message had come through, since he’d begun to suspect the presence of a cell frequency jammer. But apparently Tom had found a way to cross the river and had made his way to Quentin Avery’s house in Jefferson County. This gave Walt a destination to aim for, if he could ever get out of this place. But the transmission of that message had also put Tom at risk. Walt had deleted it immediately, for if the men downstairs dragged him out from under the bed, they would find his phone before they killed him.

Though he was almost frantic with the desire to escape Valhalla, he knew he’d be insane to do anything but lie as still as he could and sweat as little as possible. If the pit bull outside caught his scent, he was
doomed. Walt was wishing he’d hid his truck better when the sound of a helicopter coming over the trees reached him. Seconds later, the window began rattling as the chopper settled over the lodge as though preparing to land.

Walt dragged himself from beneath the bed, then struggled to his feet beside the window. Through the crack in the curtains, he saw the chopper disgorge six men and one German shepherd. Clad in black, the men moved easily beneath the rotor blast, and each carried a heavy gear bag as he trotted toward a building about thirty yards to the south. Walt felt a wild compulsion to use the cover of the rotors to run downstairs and make a break for the woods, but he knew better. Those rotors meant nothing to a dog’s nose, and now there was more than one dog down there.

He had no choice but to sit tight.

SONNY THORNFIELD WATCHED THE
state police JetRanger bore in low over the trees and hover above the lodge, blasting leaves and pine straw and other debris into the air in a mini-tornado. Its rotors buffeted the air so hard that Sonny felt the waves like a bass drum in his chest.

“Why don’t he land down at the goddamn strip?” Snake shouted, flipping the bird to the pilot. “Lazy motherfucker!”

Sonny watched the big helo settle earthward on the other side of the lodge. Five seconds later it disappeared from view, and the noise dropped by 50 percent.

“That’s the beauty of having a chopper,” Billy said, a note of envy in his voice. “You can land where you want.”

Snake grumbled something unintelligible.

“I better go check on them,” Billy said, getting to his feet. “Forrest told me to make sure they had everything they needed.”

“Yeah, jump to it, Hop Sing,” Snake said. “Make sure they’ve all got butt wipes and a hair dryer.”

As Billy opened the sliding doors and walked back through the house, Snake shook his head and muttered, “SWAT, my ass. A SWAT team oughta be able to live on bugs in the middle of hell for ten days. These assholes need a goddamn babysitter?”

Sonny didn’t bother answering.

Suddenly Snake got up and walked down the steps of the deck, then made his way to the corner of the lodge and disappeared around it. Forrest’s pit bull followed at his heels. Sonny reluctantly got up and went after them.

The big JetRanger had landed in the clearing before the lodge. Three men clad in black were trotting between the chopper and bunkhouse, heads ducked beneath the spinning rotors.

“We got a problem, Sonny,” Snake said, loud enough to be heard over the rotors. “You know that?”

Sonny shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not so sure. Don’t you think maybe we ought to let Forrest try it his way first? Let him de-escalate the situation?”

Snake looked back at him like he was a fool. “Boy, you wanna close your eyes and follow the cattle right into the kill chute, don’t you? Anything’s better than facing the truth, I guess.”

“What truth are you talking about?”

“The fork in the river, Son. The parting of the ways.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

“Blood, boy. It don’t mean the same thing to everybody.”

“Huh?”

Snake spat and turned back toward the chopper, which looked like a gigantic metal insect that had risen out of the swamp. “You’ll find out soon enough. Mark my words, Son. I just hope I’m still around to say I told you so.”

Snake stepped from behind the wall and started toward the chopper and the bunkhouse.

“Where you going?” Sonny called. “Snake!”

Snake looked back and grinned. “Just bein’ friendly. I’m gonna make these boys feel at home, like Forrest said to.”

Then he began to trot toward the chopper, one hand raised in greeting.