The SUV's blue grill
lights were flashing urgency when Trueblood saw it pull up in front
of the house. Not taking time to kiss his wife and son, both
transfixed in front of the TV, he dashed out to his ride, iPhone in
hand, and climbed into the psychedelic maelstrom of President
Morowitz's animated voice launching the WACKO song. Joe Secord took a
moment to study Trueblood's face, which reflected a three-way mix of
shock, confusion and horror, before punching the accelerator and
squealing the tires back onto the roadway.
“Bart know
anything?”
“He's so upset he
kept breaking the connection.”
“You get Chapman?”
“He called me.
Called Bart, too. Watching the game when it started. He's probly
there by now.”
“Good thing
traffic is light.”
“Yeah. Everybody
inside watching. What we gonna do?”
“Let it play out,
whatever it is. Probly be over by the time we get there, anyway.
Morowitz will be in a straitjacket by daylight.”
Trueblood's iPhone
chirped. Bart. Trueblood put it on speaker.
“Where the fuck
are you?”
“Almost there,
Bart.”
“Joe?”
“He's driving.
Roger there yet?”
“Huh?”
“Chapman.”
“Oh, the hacker.
Just got here. Told him to shoot the damned thing down.”
“Anybody from
WACKO?”
“Oh, yeah.
Sonofabitch sitting at my desk when I got here.”
“Buford?”
“Little one. I
told him I'll shoot that big bald-headed bastard I ever see him in my
office again. Don't fuck with Bart, goddammit!”
“WACKO guy still
there?”
“He's with the
hacker. I told him...the hacker...to shoot the bastard down, get him
off the air.”
“He's still on,
Bart.”
“WACKO guy said
no, let him kill himself. I said OK, wackjob, your call, ya know?”
The SUV's radio went
silent, except for static. Trueblood spoke into his iPhone, “What's
happening, Bart? The president finished?”
No response.
“Bart! What's
happening?”
“Holy shit!”
“What?”
“Sonofabitch
playing that video! Oh, shit!”
“What video,
Bart?”
“The Kennedy one!
The Dallas one. Shit!!” Bart was shouting, “SHOOT THE SONOFABITCH
DOWN! GET THAT GODDAM THING OFF THE AIR!!”
They were arriving
at the West Gate. Trueblood ended the call and slipped his iPhone
into his pocket.
Secord said, “What
now? Bart losing it?”
“Sounds like
President Morowitz has let the cat out of the bag. He's put up the
one card WACKO wanted to keep face down.”
“Did he say
Dallas?”
“Yes he did, Joe.”
“You mean...”
“Joe, they have
photos of the assassination. Like none anyone has ever seen, except
those people WACKO shows them to.”
“Sorry, Harry. I
still don't get it, unless...”
“Photos that could
have been taken only by someone in on it. Bart says they're from the
Grassy Knoll.”
“You shitting me?”
“You know I'm not,
Joe. I haven't seen them, but Bart has. The damned things
self-destructed – turned black – before he could show them to
me.”
“He was jivin'
you. That damn Bart...”
“No way, Joe. He
was scared.”
“Bart? Scared?
C'mon!”
“I swear.”
“With Photoshop
and all that...I mean...”
“No, Joe. He was
FBI. Said there was no way they could've been doctored. Real McCoy,
unfortunately.”
“Well, damn...here
we are. I guess we're about to find out, huh.”
Secord eased the SUV
up the drive from 17th Street to the West Wing garage. The White
House windows were ablaze with light. Distant sirens, too many to go
unnoticed.
I keep forgetting to tell you that each time I see the name of Joe Secord I envision a Canadian heroe called Laura Secord.
ReplyDeleteSecord is known for having walked 20 miles out of American-occupied territory in 1813 to warn British forces of an impending American attack. I hope Joe is of similar good stock..:)
Never knew that. Coincidence, choice of name. He's in Executive Pink, too.
ReplyDelete