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CHAPTER 22
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The afternoon of April tenth was clear and warm, a foretaste of summer. I dressed in slacks and one of
the sport coats I’d bought during my year teaching at Denholm Consolidated. The .38 Police Special,
fully loaded, went into my briefcase. I don’t remember being nervous; now that the time had come, I
felt like a man encased in a cold envelope. I checked my watch: three-thirty.
My plan was to once more park in the Alpha Beta lot on Wycliff Avenue. I could be there by fourfifteen
at the latest, even if the crosstown traffic was heavy. I’d scope out the alley. If it was empty, as
I expected it would be at that hour, I’d check the hole behind the loose board. If Al’s notes were right
about Lee stashing the Carcano in advance (even though he’d been wrong about the place), it would be
there.
I’d go back to my car for awhile, watching the bus stop just in case Lee showed up early. When the
7:00 P.M. newcomers’ service started at the Mormon church, I’d stroll to the coffee shop that served
breakfast all day and take a seat by the window. I would eat food I wasn’t hungry for, dawdling,
making it last, watching the buses arrive and hoping that when Lee finally got off one, he’d be alone. I
would also be hoping not to see George de Mohrenschildt’s boat of a car.
That, at least, was the plan.
I picked up my briefcase, glancing at my watch again as I did so. 3:33. The Chevy was gassed and
ready to go. If I’d gone out and gotten into it then, as I’d planned to, my phone would have rung in an
empty apartment. But I didn’t, because someone knocked at the door just as I reached for the knob.
I opened it and Marina Oswald was standing there.
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For a moment I just gaped, unable to move or speak. Mostly it was her unexpected presence, but there
was something else, as well. Until she was standing right in front of me, I hadn’t realized how much
her wide blue eyes looked like Sadie’s.
Marina either ignored my surprised expression or didn’t notice it. She had problems of her own.
“Please excuse, have you seen my hubka?” She bit her lips and shook her head a little. “Hubs-bun.” She
attempted to smile, and she had those nicely refurbished teeth to smile with, but it still wasn’t very
successful. “Sorry, sir, don’t speak good Eenglish. Am Byelorussia.”
I heard someone—I guess it was me—ask if she was talking about the man who lived upstairs.
“Yes, please, my hubs-bun, Lee. We leeve upstair. This our malyshka—our baby.” She pointed at
June, who sat at the bottom of the steps in her walker, contentedly sucking on a pacifier. “He go out
now all times since he lose his work.” She tried the smile again, and when her eyes crinkled, a tear
spilled from the corner of the left one and tracked down her cheek.
So. Ole Bobby Stovall could get along without his best photoprint technician after all, it seemed.
“I haven’t seen him, Mrs. . . .” Oswald almost jumped out, but I held it back in time. And that was
good, because how would I know? They got no home delivery, it seemed. There were two mailboxes on
the porch, but their name wasn’t on either of them. Neither was mine. I got no home delivery, either.
“Os’wal,” she said, and held out her hand. I shook it, more convinced than ever that this was a