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the usual nasty speculations and conspiracy theories, but we can guarantee you that you’ll come out of
this looking pretty good. If you even care about such things, that is. Marina Oswald will support your
story right down the line.”
“You’ve already spoken to her, I take it.”
“You take it right. She knows she’ll be deported if she doesn’t play ball. The gentlemen of the press
haven’t had a very good look at you; the photos that show up in tomorrow’s papers are going to be
little more than blurs.”
I knew he was right. I had been exposed to the cameras only on that one quick walk down the hall
to Chief Curry’s office, and Fritz and Hosty, both big men, had had me under the arms, blocking the
best photo sightlines. Also, I’d had my head down because the lights were so bright. There were
plenty of pictures of me in Jodie—even a portrait shot in the yearbook from the year I’d taught there
full-time—but in this era before JPEGs or even faxes, it would be Tuesday or Wednesday of next week
before they could be found and published.
“Here’s a story for you,” Hosty said. “You like stories, don’t you? Things like this ‘Open
Window’?”
“I’m an English teacher. I love stories.”
“This fellow, George Amberson, is so stunned with grief over the loss of his girlfriend—”
“Fiancée.”
“Fiancée, right, even better. He’s so grief-stricken that he ditches the whole works and simply
disappears. Wants nothing to do with publicity, free champagne, medals from the president, or
ticker-tape parades. He just wants to get away and mourn his loss in privacy. That’s the kind of story
Americans like. They see it on TV all the time. Instead of ‘The Open Window,’ it’s called ‘The Modest
Hero.’ And there’s this FBI agent who’s willing to back up every word, and even read a statement that
you left behind. How does that sound?”
It sounded like manna from heaven, but I held onto my poker face. “You must be awfully sure I can
disappear.”
“We are.”
“And you really mean it when you tell me I won’t be disappearing to the bottom of the Trinity
River, as per the director’s orders?”
“Nothing like that.” He smiled. It was meant to be reassuring, but it made me think of an old line
from my teenage years: Don’t worry, you won’t get pregnant, I had the mumps when I was fourteen.
“Because I might have left a little insurance, Agent Hosty.”
One eyelid twitched. It was the only sign the idea distressed him. “We think you can disappear
because we believe . . . let’s just say you could call on assistance, once you were clear of Dallas.”
“No press conference?”
“That’s the last thing we want.”
He opened his briefcase again. From it he took a yellow legal pad. He passed it over to me, along
with a pen from his breast pocket. “Write me a letter, Amberson. It’ll be Fritz and me who’ll find it
tomorrow morning when we come to pick you up, but you can head it ‘To Whom It May Concern.’
Make it good. Make it genius. You can do that, can’t you?”
“Sure,” I said. “Romance at short notice is my specialty.”
He grinned without humor and picked up the champagne bottle. “Maybe I’ll try a little of this
while you’re romancing. None for you, after all. You’re going to have a busy night. Miles to go before
you sleep, and all that.”
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