The End of Camelot

By Diana Rubino

November 22, 1963: The assassination of a president devastates America. But a phone call brings even more tragic news to Vikki Ward—her TV reporter husband was found dead in his Dallas hotel room that morning. Finding his notes, Vikki realizes her husband was embroiled in the plot to kill JFK—but his mission was to prevent it. When the Dallas police rule his death accidental, Vikki vows to find out who was behind the murders of JFK and her husband. With the help of her father and godfather, she sets out to uncover the truth. Aldobrandi Po, the bodyguard hired to protect Vikki, falls in love with her almost as soon as he sets eyes on her. But he's engaged to be married, and she’s still mourning her husband. Can they ever hope to find happiness in the wake of all this tragedy?

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Apr 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781628308433

Diana Rubino

Visit me at www.dianarubino.com. My blog is www.dianarubinoauthor.blogspot.comand my author Facebook page is DianaRubinoAuthor.My passion for history has taken me to every setting of my historicals. The "Yorkist Saga" and two time travels are set in England. My contemporary fantasy "Fakin' It", set in Manhattan, won a Romantic Times Top Pick award. My Italian vampire romance "A Bloody Good Cruise" is set on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean.When I'm not writing, I'm running my engineering business, CostPro Inc., with my husband Chris. I'm a golfer, racquetballer, work out with weights, enjoy bicycling and playing my piano.I spend as much time as possible just livin' the dream on my beloved Cape Cod.

Book preview

Inc.

It was New Year’s Eve, they were alone, and he was harmless. So far. So she took the necessary two paces over to him and placed the honey ball between his custom-made choppers.

He closed his eyes, and she watched him savoring the sweetness. She didn’t dare say another word as she ran her index finger over a glob of cream on the cannoli plate, raised it to her lips and licked. Mmmm, she voiced, wishing she hadn’t.

Their eyes met and locked. Faster than lightning, they came together like magnets. Their lips met, sweet and sticky and hot. She didn’t want him to stop, but her inner voice screamed how wrong it was—It’s forbidden!—echoing the nuns in Saint Gustina’s. She shooed it away like an annoying fly. Leave me alone. I’m not a kid anymore. Her arms circled his neck, and his hands slid down to the curve of her back. Dare she move in closer, pelvis to pelvis, an unthinkable act three seconds ago? Her body was betraying her, betraying Jack, taking on a will of its own as she crushed herself to him. The kiss intensified. She tasted cannoli, and her fogged mind told her he’d been sampling them all day. She breathed in his cologne, so foreign it repelled her, so new it aroused her even further. Her tiara slipped off her head. She caught it just as he pulled away.

He held her at arm’s length as in a tango. "Oh, cara mia," he growled—and if he said another word in Italian, she knew she’d explode. A passion long dormant stirred inside her.

Praise for Diana Rubino

You have TALENT. Hip hip hooray! Listen to me. Carefully now. You write beautifully...your writing is sooo nice.

~Julia Kendall, aka Katherine Kingsley

~*~

Other books by Diana Rubino

available at The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

Fakin’ It

A Bloody Good Cruise

For Love and Loyalty

~*~

Other books in the New York Saga,

soon to be released at The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

Bootleg Broadway

From Here to Fourteenth Street

The End

of

Camelot

by

Diana Rubino

The New York Saga, Book Three

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

The End of Camelot

COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Diana Rubino

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Diana Carlile

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Vintage Rose Edition, 2015

Print ISBN 978-1-62830-842-6

Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-843-3

The New York Saga, Book Three

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To my husband Chris

Acknowledgments

My thanks go out to:

Melvin Lee Ewing for the expertise on sniper techniques and hardware;

My cousin Paul W. Rubino for the advice on firearms and police procedure;

Angela Rosati for the Italian opera advice, Napolitan dialect, and for reading the manuscript;

Rosalia Bengardino for Campobello di Mazara;

Vince Pilgrim for the facts about cameras and television production;

Linda Unger for the fashion details;

Janet Adams for reading the manuscript, for all your support, and for believing in me;

My gifted editor Nan Swanson and The Wild Rose Press for believing in me. I’m so grateful to all of you.

Edgar Allan Poe for teaching me about irony. In pace requiescat.

Prologue

Washington, D.C., September, 1959

Vikki McGlory aimed her Smith & Wesson .38 and fired at the metal target. Bull’s eye. She kissed the gun’s warm barrel. A smudged red lip print bloomed against the steel gray metal.

The gun now empty, she didn’t bother to reload. That was enough target practice for one day. She slipped the weapon into its customary place, the leather holster hidden in the center pocket of her crocodile tote.

She headed back to work. But, God, she hated her job. Trying to follow her grandmother’s footsteps into politics had been a huge mistake. Vikki longed to get back to her painting and costume designing, to the sunny studio waiting for her on Fire Island. Only one thing kept her here: NBS’s star reporter, the free-spirited, captivating, and eligible Jack Ward. She never missed his newscasts and had devoured his autobiography in one sitting. He didn’t know she existed, but she planned to fix that. She’d already decided he was the man she was going to marry.

****

Christmas Eve, 1960

Larchmont, New York

Vikki trembled as her two heroes met in front of the twinkling tree. Dad, this is Jack Ward. Jack, this is my father.

How do you do, Mr. McGlory. Jack offered his hand.

Billy to you, he insisted with a wink, as he returned the firm handshake. It’s great to have you join us for the holidays.

The evening raced by in a swirl of introductions, delicious food, fine wine, and a live orchestra. Billy threw fabulous parties, and this one was no exception. Late that night, Jack walked Vikki to her room in the family wing of the mansion. Through her champagne-heightened haze of happiness, she heard him promise to love her always. He kissed her goodnight, and as his kiss deepened, she responded willingly. Her dreams were coming true. But they weren’t married yet, and if there was one thing her dad had taught her, it was that she was a prize worth waiting for.

The next morning, Jack drew her into the library, dropped to one knee, and slid a diamond solitaire on her finger.

They exchanged vows the day after John F. Kennedy took the Oath of Office. So began the fairy-tale life she’d always dreamed of. And she called it Camelot.

Chapter One

April 2, 1963

In one day, Benzo Battolini became the world’s most sought-after hit man for one simple reason: he’d just been hired to assassinate the president of the United States.

But that wasn’t till November. Now, he crouched behind a clump of trees at the water’s edge, stalking his current hit. His witness, a CIA operative, squatted next to him, nibbling on a chicken wing. Battolini wished they didn’t have to work in pairs like this. He was a loner, on and off the job.

But it was a chance to show off, although this hit was gravy: the subject spent more time on his fishing boat than on dry land, so the getaway would be even easier. Conditions were perfect: no crowds, no obstructions, no wind. The hardest part was the waiting around.

So they waited. And waited.

He drained the last drop of Kool-Aid from his flask and sang every Jimmy Roselli song ever written. He was dying for a puff of a Camel and a shot of Jim Beam, but smoking or boozing on the job was out—an old Army rule that stuck.

Another hour dragged by.

The CIA operative didn’t say much. Battolini wasn’t the chatty type either, so after a brief exchange about Cuba, sniper rifles, and the best cathouses in their native New Orleans, they clammed up and waited some more.

Finally, the boat glided into view. The target proudly held up his catch of the day while a crony snapped pictures with a Brownie.

Battolini peered through the 10x scope of Scarlett, his Winchester 70, and steadied her barrel on a log. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and during the lull, counted to three. He squeezed Scarlett’s trigger. The man’s head exploded like a hand grenade.

A primal surge shot through Battolini and he let out a satisfied grunt, as if sexually sated.

Bull’s-eye! The CIA operative clapped him on the back. I wish I was as good a shot as you.

Keep practicin’, Lee, and you just might be.

With Scarlett wrapped in a blanket and tucked under his arm, Battolini strolled back to his car, Lee Harvey Oswald at his heels. A smirk spread Battolini’s lips. After November, I’ll be cruisin’ around in my own yacht, he muttered. Too bad about having to take out JFK, though. He had nothing against the guy personally—but business was business.

****

November 1, 1963

This job might be a challenge, Battolini commented to his fellow assassin Vero as they cleaned their rifles. They been beefin’ up security at JFK’s latest appearances. I never seen so many Secret Service agents around a president.

Yeah, they went whole hog at the Four Seasons fundraiser last night. Vero spoke with a cigarette dangling from his lips. The limo ducked into a garage, so he didn’t even step outside, and three Secret Service men stayed at the front entrance the whole time. You know who else was there? Jack Ward.

That nosy bastard reporter from NBS? Battolini ran a hand over his chin stubble. Come to think of it, I seen him at every JFK rally and news conference since we got our orders. He either got demoted to the White House Press Corps or he’s onto us.

Maybe he oughta get taken out. Vero sucked on his cigarette.

I ain’t no boss, but I wouldn’t mind gettin’ him outta my hair. Battolini attached his telescopic sight to Scarlett and peered through her with one eye closed. He’s such an arrogant son of a bitch, I reckon a lotta people want him six feet under.

Then wait till one of them calls you, so you’ll get paid fer it. Vero tossed his cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it with his heel.

They snickered.

Ward actually thinks we don’t notice him lurkin’ around? Battolini shook his head. He’s on TV more than Gleason, fer Chrissakes.

Hey, I’m goin’ to Miami a few days early, to rest up before the hit. Vero lit another cigarette. Wanna join me?

Yeah, why not? It’s the twenty-first, sneakin’ up on us fast. Battolini glanced at the calendar. The boys are makin’ arrangements with the Miami cops. Then we can scout the motorcade route and figger out all the picayune details. Ya know, this is the first presidential assassination that won’t be done at close range with a handgun.

Shur ain’t easy to get near the president, not like in the old days. Times they are a-changin’, Vero commented.

The phone rang and Battolini went to answer it. Marc Antony here…Yep…Oh, yeah?…Is that right? he drawled smoothly. That sonofabitch…Yes, sir, Cassius is right here.

Vero gave Battolini a What’s up? gesture. Battolini exchanged a few more words with the caller and hung up.

Vero held his rifle up like a coveted award. So who’s the son of whose bitch?

They just changed the date and place on us. Now it’s Dallas on the twenty-second, Battolini replied in his usual unruffled manner. I was aimin’ to take a speedboat to Cuba on Thursday from Miami, right after the hit. Fidel’s throwin’ a shindig that night. Now we have to hightail it to Dallas on Friday. Screws up all my plans.

Well, sometimes life just throws ya a curve, don’t it? Vero said. How’s the saying go, ‘I was plannin’ the future when the present hit me in the face’ or some such?

Yep, sometimes it just hits you in the face. Or, in our business, in the back of the head, heh, heh. Battolini stretched and grabbed his car keys. Hey, let’s go for ice cream.

Ice cream? Vero laughed. You’re like a little kid sometimes, you know that?

So? Battolini headed for the door. Come on, let’s go. I’m dyin’ for a vanilla cone with them colored bugs all over it. His mouth started to water.

They got into Battolini’s car. He drove down the strip and past the city limits sign.

Hey, slow down, will ya? Vero warned. Whatcha doin’, seventy? I don’t wanna die in a car accident tonight.

Trust me. You won’t.

Battolini smirked as Vero peered around at their surroundings growing darker and less familiar. Hey, uh—where we goin’, Ben? There ain’t no ice cream places around here.

Battolini slowed down, turned onto a dirt road, and stopped. He whipped out his Colt Cobra and aimed it at Vero’s head. Get out. Now.

What?

Get out, Battolini repeated patiently, like a suggestion.

Ben, what—what’d I do? Vero threw the car door open, scrambled out, and broke into a run.

Battolini shook his head. Who did this sorry idjit think he was messing with anyways? He got out, squeezed the trigger, and watched Vero’s skull shatter. The body keeled over with that satisfying thump Battolini always enjoyed hearing.

Nice shot. Hope I do that good on ‘The Big D’ day. Ask what you can do for your country, heh, heh. He blew on the end of the smoking Colt’s barrel.

Battolini didn’t kill for fun. He’d learned over the phone from his handler that Vero had blabbed to some French Quarter hooker about being hired to assassinate the president. Now, just as JFK was heading south for more politickin’, rumor had it that the media was onto the plot. That must be why that nosy reporter Jack Ward was scoutin’ all the JFK events with his eagle eye. Now that Vero got his, that bigmouthed hooker was next—and if Jack Ward knew too much, he’d have to go, too, before all hell broke loose.

Battolini drove back into town and raced up his street, blowing his horn. He shouted out the open window, Hey, wait! Hold your horses!

The Good Humor truck pulled over.

****

November 21, 1963

The Dallas Hilton

He pulled the curtain aside and glanced down at the pool area. It was warm for November, and he could see Ward down there doing his expert breast stroke.

You love water so much, I’ll give you water, Jack, old boy, he muttered, turning away from the window.

At midnight, he snapped on a pair of surgical gloves and rapped on Ward’s door. It opened, and the popular reporter, draped in a satin robe, flashed his trademark Pepsodent smile, like he was on the air. Oh—hello, Ward chirped.

It’s goodbye, you vulture. He slammed Ward’s head against the wall and smothered him with a chloroform-soaked rag.

Ward struggled for all of three seconds before sliding to the floor in a crumpled heap.

After turning on the water full force, he stripped Ward’s body, hauled it into the filling tub, and held the head under until the breathing stopped.

He felt for a pulse. None.

A feeling of raw power surged through him. Watching this bastard die was better than hot sweaty sex.

He drained the tub, washed the chloroform off Ward’s face, and filled the tub again. For good measure he tossed in a cake of soap.

A half-empty bottle of Scotch stood on the bar. He took his time polishing it off while he did some snooping. He didn’t want Jack Ward’s credit cards or fancy jewelry. But the stacked blonde in the wallet photo, her hair draped over her bare knockers, sent another raw surge to his loins. He flipped it over and read, To my loving husband, yours forever, Vikki, in neat script. I could screw you into the floor right now, bitch, he growled, sliding the photo out of the wallet and leering at it. Now that you’re a widow, maybe I will. He slid the photo into his own wallet.

He finished off the Scotch and placed the empty bottle on the edge of the tub without giving the submerged corpse another glance.

Did Ward actually believe he could thwart a presidential assassination? Who the hell did that two-bit reporter think he was anyway? The Man from U.N.C.L.E.?

Glancing around, he noticed the portable tape recorder still running. Ward must’ve been dictating into it before he answered the door. Holy smokes! The entire murder was on that tape!

He yanked the reel off the machine, looking forward to playing it over and over, reliving his triumph again and again.

On his way out, he saw something else he could use, lying on the floor next to Ward’s robe. He slid it into his shirt pocket, closed the door, and strolled down the hallway, whistling Dixie.

Chapter Two

November 22, 1963

Larchmont, New York

Vikki entered her foyer and dropped her shopping bags on the floor. As she locked the door and kicked off her alligator pumps, the phone rang. She answered it in the kitchen, so she could raid the pastry box while she chatted.

Vikki, it’s Linc Benjamin. His ragged voice came over the line. I have terrible news. Jack is dead.

What? She couldn’t have heard right. What did you say?

Jack was found in the bathtub of his hotel room this morning—

She dropped the phone and slid down against the wall. Her glasses fell off her face. The room spun. Sunlight glared. She smelled the new coat of wax on the kitchen floor.

Vikki? Vikki? came faintly from the dangling receiver. She crawled over and grasped it. He would tell her it was a mistake, they had the wrong man, or it was another of Jack’s practical jokes.

My Jack? she whispered.

Vikki, I’m so sorry, he sobbed.

Linc—no, please. Tell me it wasn’t Jack. Are you sure? There must be a mistake. Not Jack. Her heart thudded like a hammer. A stabbing pain pierced her chest. She held the receiver away from her ear.

Vikki, are you there? His voice came through the earpiece. If you want, I’ll be right over. I can tell you everything when I get there, or right now, whatever you want.

Now! she demanded.

The Dallas police found him drowned in his hotel bathtub—

Dallas? What was he doing in Dallas? He’s supposed to be in Chicago doing a story on the FBI, she screeched, beyond rational thought. No, this had to be a mistake!

I don’t know, Vikki. The maid found him. The Dallas police tried to call you all morning, but you weren’t home, so they called here, at the network. Do you want me to come over and—

Wait! She squeezed her eyes shut. Now—where is he now?

Parkland Hospital. They’re going to bring the bod—er, bring him back to New York after the autopsy. His voice broke again. God, Vikki, I’m so sorry. I feel like I lost my brother.

She went blank, too stunned to think. Her hands shook so much she could hardly hold the phone.

Vikki, do you want me to come over—

No. She released the receiver. It swung away and banged against the wall. She curled up on the floor as the ticking clock echoed the thudding of her heart.

She wept in unbearable grief, shutting her eyes tight, her head cradled in her arms. A jumble of thoughts rendered her helpless.

Please, God, she prayed, Let it be a mistake and Jack will come walking through the door.

The doorbell rang. Jack? She forced her eyes open.

Vikki!

Her head throbbed with each pound on the door.

Vikki! Are you okay? Can you hear me?

The voice was her father’s, and as much as she wanted him with her, holding her, rocking her, the present was too much to bear. She wanted one last visit to the past with Jack, happy and alive and free from harm.

But the raw truth seared her soul: The past is gone, and so is your beloved Jack!

Too weak to walk, she crawled to the door, reached up, and unlocked it.

Her father rushed in and knelt beside her. Vikki, honey?

She collapsed into his arms, heaving gut-wrenching sobs.

It’s okay, I’m here, he crooned, like he was singing the songs he wrote for her.

Dad, Jack— She couldn’t bring herself to say it yet. The words were too ugly, too real.

Yeah, I know. He got shot. When I looked in the sidelight and saw you lying on the floor, I thought you were hurt.

She gulped. I answered the phone and it was… That seemed like a hundred years ago already.

He helped her up, and she forced herself to gulp enough air to stay conscious while he said, I’ll turn on the TV and see what the news says about the shooting—

No, he wasn’t shot! They found him in the tub—

Vikki, here, let me get you on the couch. Come on, babe, that’s it. He helped her off with her coat. Now, what are you saying?

Dad—Jack…

I know. He nodded. JFK was shot in the head. The governor of Texas was shot, too.

No! My Jack! They found him— Sobs burst from the depths of her soul.

Huh? What…Your Jack?

Unable to speak any further, she nodded.

Something happened to him? He sat her down on the couch.

She drew in a ragged breath, and he grasped her hands.

Oh, God. Oh, Jesus Christ, Vikki. He held her and stroked her hair as she sobbed, her tears staining his scarf. Okay, Dad’s here, I’ll stay with you. I’m sorry, I thought you were talking about President Kennedy. He just got shot.

President Kennedy? She shook her head in disbelief. No. Jack’s friend from the network called, and— She couldn’t go on.

Don’t talk. I’ll get you a brandy or something. He glanced over at her liquor cabinet.

She didn’t even want him leaving her for a few seconds. He hung her phone up, and it started ringing instantly. She heard spurts of conversation. His voice sounded like an echo in a marble tomb. He finally stopped talking and came back with a brandy bottle, a snifter, and her eyeglasses. I found your glasses on the floor. He took her into his arms and rocked her back and forth. You’ll be okay, you’re strong, you’re my girl, he murmured, and she wished he’d sing to her.

Instead he explained that President Kennedy had been shot on the motorcade route in Dallas.

Dallas?

She finished off the brandy, curled up, and cried herself to sleep. When she awoke, it was dark out. Her father sat by her side, hunched forward, staring at the television. Jesus, I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it, he kept repeating, shaking his head.

Another flood of horror assaulted her.

President Kennedy is dead, too.

She stared blankly at the screen, a glowing gray blur without her glasses.

Walter Cronkite’s voice quavered as he fought tears. The president of the United States…is dead. President John F. Kennedy…is dead. The president was pronounced dead at one-thirty Eastern time, twelve-thirty Dallas time. Like a lesson, they had to repeat it again and again to the disbelieving public until it sank in.

She put on her glasses and watched images, filmed earlier that day, of the open limousine gliding through downtown Dallas, a tanned and beaming president and a radiant Mrs. Kennedy waving to the adoring crowd.

She knew exactly what Jackie was going through now.

As of 1:30 Eastern time, 12:30 Dallas time, the fairy tale was over for both of them.

Chapter Three

Mrs. Ward and Mrs. Kennedy both buried their husbands on Monday, November 25. Vikki didn’t watch any of the television coverage; she’d been too busy with her own Jack’s wake, funeral procession, and last goodbye at the gravesite. Thank God the reporters and hangers-on went to the nation’s capital and left her alone.

Only later did she hear about some Dallas strip club owner killing Lee Harvey Oswald on live television. I know that guy from someplace, Billy commented, studying the New York Times front page.

How her father knew a shady character like Jack Ruby, she didn’t want to ask.

****

Through a blur of tears she stared at the photo of Lyndon Johnson taking the oath of office on Air Force One, a dazed Jackie Kennedy at his side, still wearing her blood-spattered suit. With the entire world gawking at her, the now-former First Lady stood brave and strong.

Give me strength like Jackie, please, Jesus, get me through this! she prayed.

She called on that strength when the Dallas Police ruled Jack’s death an accidental drowning and closed the case.

****

One day slid into the next. She staggered through each hour, her body a numb column. Billy stayed with her, and they spent hours at the piano together. All she could choke down were animal crackers and cream soda, and he finally called his cook over to whip up her favorite Italian feast. The garlic and gravy aromas teased her appetite, and she ate some of it with a few sips of Chianti Classico. She later threw it all up. No, she wasn’t ready to hold down a meal.

But she attended 5:30 mass every day, received communion, and walked home.

On the days when she could think straight, she asked the same question over and over: How could Jack have drowned in a bathtub?

Unable to go near their bed, she slept in the guest room, but only in spurts, between nightmares and cold sweats. Visions haunted her: Jack laughing and full of life, then flashes of his face drained in death.

Again the question badgered her: How could Jack have drowned in a bathtub?

Praying kept her sane, along with her father’s company and his music. Her ninety-year-old Grandma Vita came over, and they sewed together. And for a little while each day, she escaped into the world of cartoons and game shows.

Her hair grew unruly and her nail polish chipped, but she didn’t care. She had no interest in laundry or ironing, either. She wore wrinkled blouses; she went without her girdle.

She didn’t give a damn what she looked like anymore.

Another question plagued her: What was Jack doing in Dallas when he’d told her he was going to Chicago?

Now that the police had made it clear they were done, she had to get the answers herself.

She started with a call to the president of NBS. He was out of town, so she left a message.

Later that day, as she and Billy played gin rummy, NBS delivered Jack’s personal belongings. Please stack the boxes in the study at the end of the hall and close the door after you, she instructed the courier. With Jack’s scent still lingering there, and his favorite pipe propped on the ashtray like he’d be back any minute, she couldn’t bear to set foot in that room.

Linc Benjamin called at least twice a day. Vikki, is there anything I can do? he begged once again.

About to say, No, thanks, there’s nothing, one more time, she stopped. Actually, Linc, there is something. Can you come over tonight after work?

****

For the first time since Jack’s funeral, she starched and ironed a blouse and arranged a hairdo. She forced herself to pull on a girdle and nylons. Applying lipstick was a chore. But she couldn’t let Jack’s best friend see her looking like a frump.

Her father was at a meeting in the city, so she was alone when Linc arrived.

She handed him a dry martini, and made an even drier one for herself. Linc, NBS delivered three boxes of Jack’s things. They’re in his study, and I’d appreciate it if you could go through them for me. I need to find some information.

He swallowed, and fidgeted with his tie clip. If you want me to. But I’d feel—you know, like an intruder, snooping through his personal stuff.

You won’t be snooping. I know he wouldn’t mind you doing this. Please? Her voice broke. For me?

Are you looking for something in particular?

Well, yes, the fountain pen I gave him when he won his second Emmy. But something else has been bothering me. She swallowed and took a breath. I need to see if he wrote any notes about why he went to Dallas. He doodled all the time, everywhere, on his arm, on the walls when he talked on the phone…maybe you’ll find something in there, on a pad, on a matchbook, anything.

Why don’t we both go in there together and—

No, Linc, I can’t. He—his presence lingers in there. I can’t face it. Her eyes filled with tears.

Sure, Vikki. I’ll bring the stuff out here. He got up and jangled his pocket change. Uh—where’s his study?

She sensed his anxiety to get out of there and leave her alone. End of the hall. Three cardboard boxes. She raised her chin in the direction of Jack’s sanctuary. I can’t go in there. I hardly set foot in there while he was alive, but now…

As Linc did an abrupt turn and headed down the hall, she sank into her recliner. She’d given away Jack’s matching chair. With the cushion conformed to his body, it had been too agonizing to look at.

Linc returned and placed one box on the floor, brushed his hands together, and went back to get the others.

Cracking her knuckles one at a time, she peeked through the opening at a pile of composition books with the black-and-white cloud-pattern covers. A Dallas business directory stood upright. Why Dallas? she wondered out loud, as if the book would give her the answers she so desperately needed. She flipped through it but found none of Jack’s scribblings.

Linc came back with the second box and placed it beside the first. Jack’s leather briefcase is in here. He pointed, then headed to the study for the third carton.

Why hadn’t Jack taken his briefcase to Dallas?

Linc returned with the last box. He opened one of the composition books. Jack was always writing in these notebooks, even during a broadcast, on the commercial breaks. He released a weary sigh and polished his glasses on a handkerchief. Then he slowly turned the pages, each one covered with Jack’s scrawl. His notes for his interviews with the astronauts. Yeah, here’s a bio sketch of John Glenn, directions to Cape Canaveral…

Vikki’s thoughts drifted back to Jack’s take on the space program.

Even that was too tame for him. Kid stuff, he’d scoffed, watching Alan Shepard skyrocket into space and back to earth. Let’s see him cover a race riot in Alabama.

She forced herself back to the present. Nothing to do with Dallas, though, she said.

Linc shook his head.

I need to go through each notebook with a fine-tooth comb if I’m going to find any useful information, she said, mostly to herself. I can’t overlook the tiniest detail. Knowing how painful this was going to be, she shuddered. She’d have to force herself. What else is in there?

Pens, stapler, that globe paperweight UNICEF gave him. He shuffled through the contents. Just all the stuff they scooped out of his desk drawers.

Pens? She leaned over and scanned the items lying at the bottom of the box: odds and ends, just like he’d said. To be sure, she tipped the box toward her and rifled through it. Her glasses slid down her nose, and she pushed them back up. It’s not here.

What isn’t?

Jack’s fountain pen, the one I gave him when he won the Emmy last year. I had Cartier engrave ‘Emmy Award Winner’ and the date into the barrel. It was eighteen-karat rose-and-yellow gold.

Yeah, I remember seeing him with that. He nodded with a hint of a smile. It was pretty flashy.

It was a work of art. The police didn’t return it with the personal items he had on him in Dallas, and it’s not here, either. She rummaged some more, although she knew she wouldn’t find it.

You’re assuming he had it with him in Dallas, Linc said.

He always had it with him. He even wore it clipped to his robe when he was walking around the house. He never let it out of his sight.

Is it in his car maybe? he asked.

Unable to inhale the car’s leather-and-pipe-tobacco aroma, she’d given her father that job. Billy certainly would’ve retrieved the pen, along with the loose change and driving gloves he’d cleaned out of Jack’s Ferrari. No. He never kept anything valuable in the car.

Maybe it’s in the briefcase. Linc reached over and popped the locks. He shook his head as he swept his eyes over the contents. "Nothing but a Wall Street Journal and a LIFE magazine from last August seventeenth."

She glanced at the cover, featuring a close-up of the glammed-up Marilyn Monroe, who’d died—under mysterious circumstances—two weeks before this issue came out. Try the last box, Linc.

He pulled the flaps apart and took out a Burberry raincoat, emptying the pockets of a cab receipt and a half-used roll of Certs. Nothing written on? she asked as he folded the coat with the precision of a tailor and laid it on the sofa.

Nothing. He looked at her and flinched. Vikki—can I keep this roll of Certs?

Certs? What an absurd request.

"To remember him by. He always sucked on Certs. It’s something personal