Saving Kennedy
By
Don L. Clark
Published by Don L Clark at Smashwords.com
Copyright Don L Clark 2000
PART ONE
Tuesday Night,
November 19, 1963
CHAPTER ONE
“Your Cover's Blown!”
"ROSA—ROSA! Phone for you."
"Thanks, Miguel; I'll take it in my room."
"Remember, you're on duty. Hermano doesn't like personal calls on duty. Make it quick."
"Si, No problema."
The woman Miguel knew as Rosa was dusting crystal animals in the middle of the hall when he had stepped to the top of the stairs and called out her name. She pivoted on her black high heels and walked quickly down the hall away from him, entering a room to her left. She glanced at her wristwatch and noted that it was 9:15 p.m.
Miguel's eyes lingered on her and gleamed with admiration as she strode down the hall. Quite a hermosura, that one, he thought carnally. I like the way she swings it when she walks. Then, he slowly spun around and walked back down the wide and carpeted stairway.
Inside the room, Rosa picked up a phone. "Rosa here." She spoke in a hushed tone and her large black eyes narrowed with anticipation of hearing something important. Only one person knows I can be reached at this number, she thought to herself, and he should not be calling.
"Rosa?" The speaker seemed to be breathing with great difficulty. It was a male voice but it came across the line so listlessly it sounded almost feminine. But then the next words were blurted out with a surge of strength: "Your cover’s blown; GET OUT—GET OUT NOW!"
Then the voice softened again, as if that last gush had exhausted its strength. "Someone has exposed us. Runnnn!” The final word was more gasped than spoken.
"Thump!" Rosa interpreted the concluding noise to mean the phone had been dropped to the floor. The connection was still open, but she sensed she would not be hearing anymore words. Rosa was pretty confident she knew from whence the call had originated. It had to have been from a small wooden house very unlike the carpeted brick mansion in which she was standing. His place had uncarpeted floors and cracking wallpaper. While where she was, even in a servant's room, Rosa’s tiny feet were sinking into an opulent carpet. She cut off the connection with her right index finger and quietly placed the receiver back on the apparatus.
The young woman had been facing a mirror as she'd listened to this baleful warning, but only now did she pay attention to the image the glass reflected. The woman called Rosa was dressed in a black maid's uniform with a stereotypical white apron tied around her slender waist. If she had been paying any attention to the mirror when she’d answered the call, she would have realized that her normally tan skin texture had visibly lightened a bit while she'd heard the brief warning. The woman hesitated a second, took a deep breath, twirled a hundred and eighty degrees around and then strode purposefully over to a tightly made up single bed and dropped down to her knees.
The tense female pulled a beat up looking old suitcase out from under the bed, opened it, and tossed some clothes from it up on top of the bed. She ripped away at the inside bottom of the case and pulled out a pistol in one hand and something round and cylindrical in the other. The something else turned out to be a silencer. It was large, and as she screwed it into the barrel of the pistol it extended the length of the weapon out to more than a foot long. Her mind buzzed with contradictory thoughts.
Get out, Carlos said, but I can't run now; they're here. If I'd already been exposed than Miguel would have grabbed me rather than announcing a phone call. I may not have much time but I seem to have some, and I should use it to try and accomplish my mission.
Rosa stepped the few steps needed to cross the small room and approach a wooden dresser. She opened the second drawer from the top, fumbled with some lingerie and came out with a seven-inch long stiletto shaped knife. She pulled up her skirt and slipped the knife under a garter she was wearing around her right leg about four inches above her kneecap.
She dropped the skirt, turned toward the mirror, raised her left hand and fluffed her shiny black hair. It was set high in the front and then ran down along her back almost all the way to her waist. Of course, that was not all that far, for Rosa just barely topped five feet in height. She looked at the pistol in her right hand, clearly wondering where to stash it temporarily. She finally decided to just lay it along the side of her right thigh, slightly behind the skirt of her uniform.
Rosa cautiously opened the door to the room an inch or two and peered outside, glancing to the left and right. Good, no one, she thought, and then stepped outside quickly. She walked briskly down the hall, not nearly as provocatively this time, stopping mid-hall at a narrow wooden door. She opened it and scanned the shelves of linens, sheets and towels inside. She pulled out a stack of six towels and balanced them on her left hand. She then placed the pistol a third of the way down in the stack.
Rosa trooped over to the stairway and down the first flight. On that floor, the second of this huge mansion, she turned to her left and approached the first room on the left side. She stood momentarily at the door and listened, taking in three big gulps of air like a basketball player between free throws.
Music was audible, but it was not clear to her whether it was coming from the room she was poised to enter or the one right next door. Her ears actually moved slightly forward as she listened intently. Yes, she concluded, the music was originating in the next room. Probably all three are over there, she figured. However, she decided to knock anyway before entering this room and did so—lightly. She did not wish the knock to be heard by those next door.
Rosa heard a response from inside, but it was not clear exactly what the male voice said. These Corsicans have strange accents, she recalled. I noticed that when they first arrived. The sound of footsteps moving toward the door reached her ears and she felt her stomach muscles tighten. The heavy wooden door swung open.
"Ah, little Rosa, is it not?"
"Si, Rosa. I heard you say you were going to take showers, so I thought you might need some fresh towels for after the bath."
Rosa's eyes dropped from the man's face to the towel stack. She found it unpleasant looking into his eyes, partly because of what she had in mind, and even more so because his eyes struck her as hypnotically evil. She did not want her gaze to betray her intent.
"How thoughtful," the way the man spoke the words it sounded more as if he said "Ow-autful" to Rosa's ears. He was a tall thin man, and as he spoke he stepped aside and bent at the waist with mock gallantry as he motioned for her to enter the room.
The maid stepped inside and closed the door behind her with her right hand. The man moved back a couple of steps in order to make room for her, but then he squared up and stood firm, blocking her path around him and into the bathroom.
"You're a very pretty girl, Rosa. I'm alone and tired from a long journey. Perhaps you would like to share a drink or maybe even a few other things." This time the Corsican spoke much more slowly and articulately, and Rosa understood every word perfectly. She understood his lewd glances as well—no trouble interpreting them.
"You're very kind, but I have work to do right now." She glanced around the room and was not at all startled by what she saw, although she realized many people would have been. There were guns everywhere. Mostly pistols but a couple of rifles as well, all laid out in various shapes of break down. Rosa smelled gun oil and saw several of those small white rags used in the cleaning of weapons lying around in various states from clean and fresh to folded and oily. There were two guns on the bed and one on a bedside table with some gun parts even lying on the floor.
The degenerate looking man's eyes followed Rosa's. "We're collectors,” he said as if he thought an explanation was needed. “That's what brought us to Dallas. Don't be afraid; they're all unloaded."
"That's good," Rosa replied. She smiled seductively, placed her right hand inside the towel stack, withdrew the pistol and fired it point blank into his chest. His eyes went from startled to blank in less than a second. The blast, although muffled into a woofing sound, drove the man back from her as if she had suddenly and viciously shoved him. His feet banged up against the bed, and that caused him to tumble backwards on top of the mattress and the partially stripped Italian rifle that lay on top of it.
"Viva la Revolucion." Rosa murmured under her breath. She took three quick steps forward, lifted his dangling legs off the floor and tossed them up and to her left so that they rested upon the bed with the rest of his body. She felt his throat with her left hand and detected a faint but noticeable pulse. Finish the job, the maid thought. She also noticed that her hand was shaking. "Relax, girl," she said several times. "Nerves can kill."
Rosa finished him off methodically and efficiently. She withdrew the knife from its nest on her leg and slit his throat, just below the Adam's Apple. As she sliced, her left hand clamped down over his mouth. When finished, Rosa picked the towels and pistol up off the bed where she had temporarily laid them. Systematically, she rearranged the gun back inside the stack of towels, glanced around the room to make sure she'd left nothing incriminating, and strode calmly, at least outwardly so, to the door.
Again, she opened the door as silently and slightly as possible, peering cautiously out into the hallway in search of human movement. The music played on, loud but foreign, almost Middle Eastern sounding. Rosa decided from the sounds that it must not be a radio. Probably one of those Corsican Musketeers brought a record player along with him, she concluded. These men obviously travel more luxuriously on their assignments than I do. Guess that's the difference between us Cubans and the capitalists.
She twisted the inside handle so that the door would lock behind her and stepped out into the hall. There, she paused, took those three practiced deep breaths and walked over to the door to the room next door from whence came the music came. In front of the door, Rosa paused again, renewing her internal debate about whether to knock or use the loud music to cover the sound and slip inside, perhaps catching them off guard and gaining an edge. She expected two men this time, and she might need an advantage.
Rosa cautiously tried the doorknob, but just as her hand wrapped around it, she heard a shout!
CHAPTER TWO
ALAN WEAVER
"Alan, old buddy, when did you get back in town?"
"Yesterday, about ten last night, as a matter of fact; how you doing, Jim? You look great. Still dating Ginger?"
"Nope, she’s ancient history. You've been gone a long time. It's nice to see you looking like yourself again. Last time I saw you, you were wearing that bus driver's uniform. Still in, aren't you?"
"Yep, I just wanted to see if my old cowboy garb still fit. I hadn't worn boots for more than eighteen months.”
"You've been overseas, right? But I can't remember where."
"Turkey. In a place you've never ever heard of, I bet, Karamursel. When I first heard I was going there I could only find it on Biblical maps. Actually though, it's a hell of a pretty spot, located right on a beautiful bay with great weather."
"What the hell did you do there?"
"Protected you guys back here from the evil communist threat; aren't you grateful?"
"Yeah, although we overpay you—back for good now?"
"Nope, I'm on my way to Alabama for some schooling—sort of an Air Force post graduate school. I've got almost a month's leave before I report in, but even then I'll just be killing time for awhile since the school doesn't actually start until August. Called Donnie this morning, and he told me about this engagement party. I should be able to see all the old gang at the same time What are you doing now?"
"Selling stocks. Got any insider poop for me—things the Air Force is about to invest in or something? How does Turkey look investment-wise?"
"I'm a little too far down the totem pole to possess insider info. Captains don’t make very high-level decisions. Oh, look—there's my old Big Brother, Mike Garber. I'm gonna grab another beer and say hello to him. You want one?”
"Mine's still half full. Great to see you, cowboy. God, we had some great times together in college, didn't we? You look like you've maintained your youthful figure better than those of us who've stayed in Dallas, but then you always were pretty slim."
"The Air Force demands it. I play a lot of handball, and in Turkey I had to get up at four in the morning just to get to work on time. That long a workday burns up a lot of calories. See ya later, let's get together while I'm home."
"Sure, here's my card. Call me, maybe we can get together for lunch. Where you staying?"
"At my Dad's place."
"The ranch, eh? How's your brother?"
"Brian's doing great. He's a Vet, making lots of money and still doing what he’s done most of his life. He works almost exclusively on farm animals."
The two young men shook hands, shouted a bit to be heard over the growing din in the large and well-furnished home and parted. Alan strolled over to a dining room table that was chock full of snacks along with several ice chests. He picked out a Lone Star bottle, popped off the cap and began to drink, looking around to see where his old frat big brother Mike had wandered off to. Ah, there he is.
Alan Weaver glanced at his watch as he ambled over to greet Mike. He was tired. The long flight that had shuttled him from Europe to Charleston and then on to Dallas the day before had taken its toll. It was only 9:45 in the evening, but Alan felt as if it was way past his bedtime. Apparently his body was still on European time: some six-seven hours later. He was also hot, in spite of the air conditioning that cooled this lovely suburban home in ritzy Highland Park regardless of the time of year.
"BANG, BLATT, BANG!!"
Alan's body involuntarily twitched and the noise level inside the room from the chatter and laughter ended abruptly, if momentarily. More than thirty-five people were crowded into the house, but the explosive noises had been heard by and startled almost all. People looked around nervously; some even had the presence of mind to quickly feign wounds, and most broke into a delayed laugh after the unanticipated interruption to their friendly banter. Almost all, however, quickly returned to their conversations after murmuring comments like: "Probably only back fires or firecrackers. After all, this is Highland Park."
Alan moved on over to the side of Mike Garber. When Mike spotted him, the two opened their arms and bear hugged one another.
"You're back, little brother; what a nice surprise. Damn, you look good. This is just like seven years ago. Remember those great after the game blasts we all survived?"
"Yeah, barely survived that is. Great to see ya, Mike. Thanks for the Christmas cards. Where's Laurie?"
"My better half stayed home with a sick daughter. She insisted I come and give our best to Steve. Now I'm really glad I did. When did you get back in town?"
"Just yesterday. Are you as hot in here as I am?
"Hey, Man—you're back in Texas. You must have lost your Texan insulation while overseas."
"Not where I was. We have a base over there in Turkey where it's so hot in the summer they have to close the swimming pool for health's sake. Why don't we step outside for a bit?"
"Sure, your beer fresh?
Alan nodded and the two friends wound their way through the crowd to the front door and the outside. As they stepped through the door, they heard the sound of approaching sirens.
"Responding to those gun shots, you think?" Mike asked Alan.
"Could be. If they were gunshots they must have been fired awfully nearby for us to hear them over the din in there."
Six other people were already standing out in the spacious and well-manicured yard. Four males and two females were congregated into two groups.
"You guys out here when those big bangs went off?" Alan asked of no one in particular.
"I think we all came out because of them," a girl answered. I thought sure we’d see some excitement, but actually we haven’t seen a thing.”
A male who was standing next to the girl added. "But it sounds like someone else must have heard them and called the cops." Indeed, the sirens were obviously drawing near, but as it turned out they petered out before any of the party crowd saw any police cars, fire trucks, or ambulances.
Mike and Alan visited, bringing each other up to date on the latest in their lives. They had been good friends in their college days, frequent double-daters, and even more often had buddied around together. They’d played handball weekly, and Alan had frequently sought Mike's advice on course selections, stereo purchases, etc. However, they had drifted apart after Alan had entered the USAF. What had started out as a regular correspondence had slowly deteriorated into exchanges of Christmas greetings only.
They talked enthusiastically on for several minutes and then, as usual in their rather infrequent meetings of the last several years, the conversation lagged. They now lived in two different worlds. Alan's horizons had been stretched way beyond those of most of his old college chums who had mostly remained in Dallas or somewhere in Texas. Most of them were married, still got excited about things like SMU-Texas University athletic encounters, and were wrapped up in making money and/or local politics.
On the other hand, Alan’s interests had broadened to the national and international level. His decision to become a career USAF officer suggested that he was not at all interested in amassing wealth or continuing his youthful fascination with Southwest Conference sports or Texas politics.
CHAPTER THREE
ROSA'S SECRET
"FREEZE! DON'T MOVE!"
Three men had appeared at the top of the stairs and one of them had frozen Rosa in her tracks with those words. When she glanced in the direction of their voices, she was stunned. “Damn!” She cursed under her breath, her right hand still on the doorknob. For Rosa’s eyes could not have missed the three deadly weapons aimed at her, and the eyes of the gun holders suggested that they might not be at all reluctant to use them.
The man in the middle, Hidalgo, allegedly her master's chauffeur, had both hands extended forward and wrapped tightly about a revolver aimed directly at her face. The other two men alarmed her even more. They were aiming grease guns at her—weapons that could fire a burst of bullets in a split second. Rosa had trained with those inexpensive and highly effective fire power masters down in Cuba, and she knew exactly how easy it was to hit someone at close range with them. They had been effectively used by American GIs in the Korean War.
Rosa made an instant decision not to resist but to stall, play dumb and cooperative while biding her time an awaiting an opportunity to escape. She'd been faced with similar bleak fates twice before at the hands of Batista's secret service, but had managed to stay calm and trick her way free each time. It was worth a gamble again.
“Drop those towels to the floor and place your hands over your head! Don't try anything. We know who you are, Major Reyes." Hidalgo was the speaker, and Rosa was not at all pleased by the words she heard. Clearly, her cover had been blown. She willed an innocent expression onto her face and fought to maintain her composure. She dropped the towels, bending her knees to get closer to the floor in hopes that they might therefore fall to the floor flat and thus enable the pistol to remain secretly nestled between them. It seemed to work. She moved her hands up over her head, and in a feigned, but not totally so, nervous voice she responded.
"Por favor, Hidalgo, there must be some mistake. I was just bringing towels to the guests. They'd said they were going to take showers. I meant no harm."
The men advanced toward her, although Hidalgo motioned for the man on his right to lag behind and keep her covered from a distance. Rosa recognized him as one of several bodyguards of the wealthy Cuban who was her employer. "Roberto," Hidalgo bellowed, "Seize the bitch!"
From Hidalgo's left, the man named Roberto slung the strap on his small assault weapon over his shoulder and stepped forward. He backhanded Rosa across the face with his right hand. The blow not only stung but catapulted the petite woman off her feet. She crashed to the carpeted floor and her head banged against the hallway wall. Rosa had to fight to retain consciousness.
Roberto next grabbed her by her hair and pulled her back to her feet, painfully and ruthlessly. He stepped behind her and locked her arms behind her back with both of his ham-like hands. Rosa felt blood dripping down onto her lips, but she was unsure where the wound had occurred. Her entire face stung.
"What's going on here?" Those unexpected words and sounds off to the side of their focus suddenly distracted the four active participants in this rough encounter. The door that Rosa had almost entered had now abruptly swung open, and two men stood in the doorway. One of them had growled out that inquiry in a deep and chilling voice. He was the shorter of two thin, sharply featured men of dark complexion and dissipated appearance.
Hidalgo turned toward them, at first pointing his gun at the men but then quickly lowered it when he recognized them. "I'm sorry, Gentlemen. We did not mean to disturb your rest. It seems this maid is not a maid after all but a Castroite spy sent here to...well, perhaps even to kill you."
"Really, I thought this was supposed to be a highly secretive venture." The man who spoke stood slightly in front of his partner. He glanced at Rosa as if she were a piece of unattractive meat in front of a not very hungry man. "This little thing is an alleged assassin? No wonder you Cubans have to hire professionals for your important missions. Was she armed?"
"We were just starting to search her," Hidalgo responded. “Mig,” he nodded at one of his henchmen to proceed.
The other grease gun toting henchman slung his weapon and stepped forward. He was the stockiest of the team of thugs, short and wide. Rosa had labeled him Mr. Five by Five the first time she'd seen him about the house. Other domestic employees had pointed him out to her as a man to avoid.
Roberto tightened his grip on Rosa's arms, pinioning them behind her back painfully. She wanted to kick out at the advancing man but fought off the instinct. That gun in Hidalgo's hand was aimed at her again. Mean Mig quickly and gruffly located the knife tucked under her skirt. His body search extended to feeling up inside her crotch, and he lingered extra long along her breasts.
Rosa wanted to kill the son-of-a-bitch as he fondled her, but she was determined not to reveal any emotion at all.
"Well—well, what have we here?” Mig asked, a gloating expression on his face after he discovered the blade. The muscular searcher tucked the knife in his sport coat pocket, and then drove his right fist into Rosa's mid-section.
"Oufffffff!” Rosa had been taken completely off guard. The blow hurt so much she thought he'd killed her, but she steeled herself and stifled the additional groans and moans that struggled to follow her first instinctive reaction. Her task was made easier by the fact she was also fighting to restore her air supply.
"Here's her weapon." Mig stepped back over to his leader and withdrew her knife from his pocket, showing it first to Hidalgo and then to the two men in the doorway.
"Oh my goodness,” they didn't tell me it was so dangerous here in America. I think maybe we better go home, Melor." The speaker smirked and then produced a forced cackle. "We're supposed to be afraid of a little girl with an even smaller knife? Thank goodness your big strong Cubans were here to protect us."
The arrogant Corsican, the only one who had spoken so far, then bent over and rummaged through the towels on the floor in front of the doorstop. "Were these in her possession? I think perhaps...yes, here's her real weapon—silencer and all. Don't you people even know how to search an alleged assassin?"
"We would have looked there next." Hidalgo responded defensively. He then turned his attention to the captured woman.
"So, a mistake is it, Major? You're really just Rosa the maid. But do little maids carry big guns with silencers and knives hidden under their dresses? Come on, take her downstairs. I assure you, gentlemen, you have nothing to fear from Mr. Castro's simple-minded minions. This one will be persuasively asked a few questions, and then given a free trip to Red hell."
Melor finally spoke up. "Just a minute—where's Petra? Could she have already been next door? Why hasn't our compatriot responded to all this activity out here? Wouldn't she have logically stopped at the room closest to the stairs first?"
"Have you been in that room?" The man behind Rosa's back jerked her off her feet as he queried her. His action elicited an instinctive groan as the pain shot through her arms.
"No," she lied between gritted teeth. "I knocked on the door but no one answered."
"Bull shit." Hidalgo snorted. He stepped to the room and knocked. There was no response. He tried the door handle but it was locked.
"Knock it down," Melor instructed
"Not necessary. The so-called maid should have a key. Bring her here."
Roberto roughly shoved the ersatz maid to the door. She tried not to resist but instinctively her muscles did so, more in reaction to his crude treatment than an effort to get loose or stay away from the door. Hidalgo jammed his big hand down inside the pocket of her apron and pulled out two keys. The first one did not work on the door but the second did.
The two Corsicans pushed in ahead of the Cubans. Roberto manhandled Rosa into the room as the last of the crowd. Melor was already moaning at the sight of his dead companion. He then cursed, or at least based on the tonal inflections of his words it sounded like curses to Rosa. He raged about in a tongue totally unfamiliar to this woman, even though she spoke four languages fluently.
"I'm sorry," Hidalgo muttered. "We must have come upon her right after she killed your friend. He's still warm."
"I demand to see Garcia. He promised us complete protection and secrecy. He's obviously failed." Melor's partner now seemed to be taking charge. Rosa remembered hearing the others call him something like Francois. She'd decided the minute she'd first observed him that he was the headman of this team of hired assassins.
Francois went on. "This woman has become a matter for us to deal with now. She's murdered one of our compatriots. Leave her and we'll take care of her. However, I still wish to speak with Senor Garcia."
"I'll tell him, but I can't leave this woman with you. She's our responsibility. She's Cuban, and she violated our protection of you. We must find out exactly how and assume full responsibility for her fate."
"Your responsibility be damned; you already blew that. We'll take care of her."
Rosa smiled. This was taking a nice turn. Roberto still held her tightly in his powerful grip, but the two separate nationalities were staring each other down and tensions were clearly on the rise. They might become so distracted with their mutual distrust that she could yet get away. But Hidalgo surprised her. She had not expected him to come up with the diplomatic resolution he next suggested.
"I apologize in the name of my jefe to you gentlemen and assure you he'll make up for this catastrophe. This Red bitch killed your friend, and I understand your need to seek vengeance on her. What do you say to a little compromise? You take her for now and have all the fun you want. Just promise me you'll not kill her. I'll give you thirty minutes to enjoy yourselves, and then you can turn back what's left of her to us. We’ll then question her and arrange her final Coup de grace. Fair enough?"
"After your inexcusable incompetence, I should refuse any compromise, but all right. Leave her and come back in half an hour. If she can still talk, then you can question her and finish her off. We know how to prolong life while shortening the appreciation of it. But remember, I still want to talk with Garcia."
"It's done. Come on boys. Leave the commie with our friends."
Ricardo shoved Rosa into Melor's arms, and the three Cubans eased out of the room trying to lessen the tensions with forced smiles and pleasant departure statements. "Hasta la vista, we'll be back at…" Hidalgo looked at his watch, "2200."
CHAPTER FOUR
HELP ARRIVES?
A policeman entered the yard and approached the group of revelers. They had all dumped their beers into the shrubbery the minute the police cars had pulled into the cul-de-sac. One of the two females was drinking a Dr. Pepper out of a bottle and she’d continued.
"Good evening, Officer," Mike greeted the slightly swaggering cop as he ambled up the front walk.
"Evening folks. Any of you hear sounds that sounded like gun shots around here a bit ago?"
A chorus of different positive responses followed.
"See anyone running or anything like that?"
This time the choir responded negatively. Alan went on to add. "I think we were all inside when the shots or explosions took place. Mike and I didn't step outside until almost five minutes later. I think some of these folks preceded us."
The slightly plump blonde drinking the cold drink chimed up. "Nick and I were the first ones outside. We came out almost immediately after the noises. Didn't see anything though. It's a pretty dark night. Sure sounded like gunshots though. Were any reported?"
"The call we got said possible gun shots. Did it sound like anything else to any of you folks—like an engine backfire or fire crackers?"
"Too loud for backfires, I thought," a young man whom Alan did not know responded.
"No shooting here?" The officer asked.
"No way. A pretty good party but no shooting."
"Mind if I look around inside?" The officer queried.
A young man whom Alan had met earlier, and who had confessed to the charge of being a lawyer answered. "None of us are the legal owners of this residence, Officer, so we can't provide legal permission. I'll be glad to go inside and ask one of the hosts if it's OK for you to look around, but I assure you there was no shooting on these premises. If any shots were fired, it had to be at least across the street or maybe even over on the next block. I'm Charles Raveling, Attorney at Law."
"Thanks for the advice, Mr. Raveling. I'll wait outside while you seek permission for me to look inside, if you will?"
"Sure." Charles left the group and went inside.
Alan engaged the officer in casual dialog. "Other officers looking elsewhere?"
"Yes sir, we have nothing definite, just a report of loud sounds. Are you another lawyer?"
"Do I look like a lawyer?"
"In Texas you can never tell. They have cowboy every things."
"You're not a Texan, are you?"
"No, Sir, Mississippi. Only been here in Dallas about eight months. Oh, here comes my boy. Guess it's OK to go inside now."
The policeman was responding to a motion from the attorney. The uniformed man walked inside but returned in less than five minutes.
"You folks have a good time," he said, “don't get too loud."
"Good night, Officer."
After the policeman left, the group only milled around outside a few more minutes. They went back inside to renew their defenses against parched lips and empty tummies just as a third squad car also gave up the hunt and drove away, responding to an apparently more urgent demand from the police radio channel.
CHAPTER FIVE
ROSA'S RUN
Melor dragged Rosa into the larger room next door where he and Francois were staying. "So, my little Latina whore, you killed Petra, eh, and with a knife no less? You must think you're some mean cunt."
"You two have made a lot of disparaging remarks about Cubans, but I bet you've never bedded a Cuban woman. They're the very best, you know." Rosa tried to use her body to distract the men since rape seemed inevitable no matter what. She knew she could handle that; she'd been raped before.
"Well, well, so you are a whore. Don't worry, baby, we'll stick you, but you won't enjoy a second of it. You think any Latin woman could hold a candle to our Corsican females? Show's how stupid you are. Corsican women have evolved from the genes of our island. They're the result of blends with Roman, Italian, and French? Where would Cuban women rank in that milieu? Who first, Frankie—me or you?"
"Go ahead, I'm sick at my stomach. I told you this was a bad idea. I never thought we could count on these Cuban bastards. Hell, they can't even hold onto their grab ass country."
Melor wrestled Rosa over to one of the two beds, spun her around and down onto the mattress on her back. He flopped on top of her, first grabbing both of her tiny wrists in his powerful grips. He then jammed her left and right wrists together and grasped them firmly with just his left hand. Next, he fumbled in his pants pocket and pulled out a slim tool that with a mere snap converted into a switchblade.
"See, little Cubana, now this is a knife. I don't mess around with a little frog sticker like you used on Petra. Feel how sharp this Corsican blade is." He raked the sharp edge across her throat. It barely touched her, but Rosa felt pain and a little trickle of blood.
Pressing down on top of his victim, Melor laid his face almost on top of hers and glared boldly and arrogantly into her eyes. She stared back into his hollow eyes and up at a sharp nose with a pimple on the end of it.
"You're a pretty little thing for a murderer. Let's see now. How shall we orchestrate this punishment so that it fits the crime. Attractive ear rings you have there. Yes, your ears have been pierced, haven't they?"
He grabbed hold of the ring in Rosa's left ear lobe. He was still holding the knife in his right hand and her hands in his left, so he had to grasp the small, imitation, gold plated earring with just the thumb and index finger of his right hand. He kissed Rosa on the cheek, and while his lips were still pressed against her skin, he RIPPED the ring out of her ear, tearing the tip of her ear lobe right off with it.
"DIOS!" The shocked and tormented woman screeched, slightly muzzled by his pressing mouth. "You vile bastard," She was able to mouth as his head separated from hers. He chuckled at her pain and obvious distress.
"Aha, what happened to that nice calm composure of a moment ago, Chiquita. Chiquita—that's a good name for you—the banana girl. How bout it, Chiquita—ready to try out my banana?" His eyes gleamed with anticipation and joy at the power he felt he had over this seemingly helpless female.
Melor passed her earring over her face with the still attached dangling ear lobe and dripping blood. Crimson droplets trickled down onto Rosa's forehead and nose.
"Let's begin with a little lesson about anatomy, Chiquita. First, we'll cut away your cute little costume."
The young woman determined not to resist, at least not until she could catch him off guard.
"I don't even need to hold your hands, do I, Cubana? Which do you like best for your endearing little nickname, Cubana or Chiquita? You think you can reduce my pleasure by not offering resistance, don't you? Well, we'll see."
Melor released her comparatively tiny hands, which intuitively sought out separate bars in the headboard behind her. She grasped them and held on tightly, tensing her entire body for whatever came next.
"We'll start on this side."
With his blade, Melor drew a razor thin oozing red line down the left side of her body from collarbone to lower abdomen. At first the victim felt no pain, even though she involuntarily let out a little screech as she watched the knife drag down her body. It rose and fell with the shape of her figure, rising as it cut over her left nipple and dropping as it passed her rib cage.
Slowly the pain from the new wound began to seep into Rosa’s mind. It was as if red-hot oil had been poured along the line Melor meticulously carved. Rosa gritted her teeth and squeezed the headboard with all her might. She thought, I'm going to find a way to kill this inhuman bastard.
"You like that?" Melor flashed a frightful grin down at her.
"Now the other side." He proceeded to do the same to the right side of her body, although this time Rosa thought he dug the knife in just a speck deeper.
Rosa, real name, Myrna Guadalupe Reyes, could not bear to watch in hypnotic fascination this time. So instead, she locked her eyes on a spot up on the ceiling and tried desperately to recall the most glorious day of her life. That was the day Batista had fled Havana, and Fidel himself had pinned a medal on her breast.
When Melor reached the point opposite her left hipbone, he paused, lifted the knife, and let the blood drip off of it and into his open mouth. "Umm, tasty. We're getting down to the fun areas now, Chiquita—the genitalia."
Without pausing, Melor made a lightning fast sweep of his hand and cut a circle around her cunt, slicing through her hosiery and catching her completely off guard. This time Myrna screeched uncontrollably.
"Ha! See how talented I am—I never even drew blood, Cubana. But if you prefer pain, I can give you some preliminary pain, just to give you a preview of the coming attractions."
Melor slowly and meticulously pushed the knife into her abdomen, entering her skin at an acute angle that dug the knife in more sideways than down into her body. The wound only penetrated her tight tummy area a quarter of an inch or so but blood spurted out. The pain was searing, and Myrna Guadalupe lost control of her emotions again and screeched.
"That's better—that's real good. Now louder." Melor made a similar incision on the other side of her navel, jiggling the knife for added pain and increased blood escape.
Myrna tried desperately not to give him the pleasure of a vocal reaction. Nonetheless, her head involuntarily shot up from the mattress; she gurgled, fighting back a screech and then her head flopped back down on the mattress as if she was unconscious.
"Oh shit, Melor," Frankie complained. "Like all these Cubans she's more talk than grit. She's out already. You must have gone too deep. She's bleeding like a squashed leech."
"Hell, I barely cut her. I think she's just one of those bleeders and fainters."
Melor ripped away at her hose tearing it off of her legs. "Let me get to work on her female parts. She'll love that."
"Wait until she wakes up,” his partner instructed. “Hell, go to the bathroom and get some water and some towels to slow down the bleeding. I don't care if you kill her, but don't do it so fast I won't be able to have any fun."
"You get the damn towels, I'm busy."
"Yeah, too damned busy. Come on, it's my turn. You've already had your kicks. Let me show you how to really drag it out." Francois' face flushed with excitement at the thought of torturing Myrna. He'd been watching Melor's work with both envy and disdain. There was a scar across his forehead, and it seemed to whiten while the rest of his face had reddened.
"All right, all right." The cutter reluctantly climbed off his perch and onto the floor. He headed for the bath, and Frankie's eyes followed him.
"Give me your knife. No, wash it off first. It looks sticky. You work like a butcher rather than a surgeon."
"OK. OK."
Myrna had fooled them. She was not really unconscious, even though that part of her brain where pain registered wished that she were. Her left eye sneaked open a bare slit when she felt the Corsican's weight break contact with her body and the bed. She saw Melor with his back to her, and Francois' eyes on his partner rather than her. It's now or never, she thought; so she acted.
Myrna rolled off the bed on its far side in reference to the two men. Her action took her past the night table near the head of the bed. In a sweeping motion, she grabbed a revolver and a clip off that small table as she spurted by it. Apparently, all the Corsicans had been cleaning their professional tools this night. Myrna thrust the clip into the small revolver just as Frankie turned his glance back toward her. A very surprised expression appeared on his face.
"Look, Melor,” he growled. “The Cuban whore wants to play games.” There was a smidgen of urgency in his comment to his partner.
Myrna felt sick to her stomach. Blood was seeping out of the wounds to her abdomen, chest and throat.
"Yeah, now let's see who hurts whom." The Latina tried to snarl out those words, to sound threatening and make it clear who was in charge, but instead her voice sounded frail and nervous—even to her. She had both her hands on the revolver and was waving it back and forth between the wide-eyed Frankie and Melor. The latter had just reentered the room from the bath area.
"Not with that gun you won't," Melor laughed at her. "I hadn't finished putting it back together when we heard the commotion out in the hall."
"I won't fall for that old trick," the girl sputtered, looking around nervously, trying to see if, indeed, pieces of the weapon remained on the small table. She spied an oilcan, an ashtray and—oh, oh—there were also some small metal objects.
"See, there's the firing pin and the slide. What do you say to a little contest, Cubana? Let's see if you can get those pieces in place before my knife reaches you." Melor laughed and cocked his hand as if to toss his switchblade at her.
"You're dead meat—you ass holes," Myrna grumbled and pulled the trigger.
BUT NOTHING HAPPENED!! Melor had not lied. The Corsican flicked his knife at the startled woman while she dodged backwards and to her right. The woman swatted the flying knife aside with her left elbow, luckily the butt-end striking against her funny bone. Weakened by the tension and her wounds, Myrna lost her balance as she scrambled sideways. Then, the two men charged her. The Cuban major instinctively backed away and as she did so she pressed her back against the window. It gave way suddenly, and the woman crashed through it falling backwards into the darkness, still clutching the useless gun in her hand and adding a lot of glass cuts to her already multi-wounded physique.
The two Corsicans looked at each other, laughed for a second and then darted to the window. They had to knock some glass shards out of the way before they could safely stick their heads through it and stare out into the darkness. They strained to pick out her body, figuring that white apron that had been tied around her waist would enable them to spot her in spite of the pitch blackness of the night.
But much to their surprise, when they spied the apron, it was flying through the air. After seconds of adjusting to the night-light, Frankie finally spotted the fleeing figure of Myrna Reyes. She staggered, ran, and stumbled about on a circuitous course away from the house.
"How could she have survived that fall?" Melor queried rather foolishly.
"Who cares, you idiot. Get out of my way. I've got a loaded gun." Frankie aimed and fired off three quick shots.
Those were the shots heard by Alan and his friends at the party. They were desperation shots, but Frankie cheered with glee as the third one brought her down.
"Got her. Let's get down there."
"There's going to be hell to pay over this."
"What can those idiots complain about? They're the ones who let her in here and allowed her to kill Petra. At least I stopped her!"
=
CHAPTER SIX
ALAN MEETS KUBA
Shortly before midnight, after having carefully avoided any beers for the last hour, Alan bid adieu to the newly engaged couple as well as his old big brother and headed out to his pickup and the ride home. He felt good about the evening. It had been fun to see his old buddies and even slightly more satisfying to reaffirm from his conversations that he’d made the right career choice.
He was now wearing an old cowboy hat, one that had not adorned his head for almost nineteen months. It felt good. His car was parked across the street, about thirty yards east of the lovely house and yard where the party had been held. Alan had always felt a bit out of place in Highland Park, even when he'd been attending SMU on a track scholarship. The area was always just slightly too opulent for his comfort level.
Alan cranked the engine of his Dad's Dodge pickup truck and pulled away. About half the revelers' cars were still there. It was 11:48 p.m. He was almost officially into his third day of leave
The erstwhile cowboy mused most of the way home. It seemed strange to him to be in a land again where everybody used their headlights at night, to see so much traffic even after he had left Dallas and its suburbs far behind. It hadn't been that way on the Turkish highways, if you could call them that. He was fighting sleep, but winning the battle in spite of the fact that the oncoming headlights bothered his tired eyes. He had a talk show tuned in on the radio, and most of the callers seemed either upset by or excited about the pending visit of President Kennedy to Dallas.
Alan turned off the highway and onto the farm road that took him rather quickly to his family farm, or ranch as his dad preferred to call it. As on most small Texas spreads, yeah, believe it or not, in spite of the rhetoric to the contrary they do have some small spreads in Texas, the Weavers both farmed and ranched. Alan enjoyed the sound of the pickup banging along over the gravel and dirt road. It reminded him of his high school and college days, even his childhood. He'd spent his entire life in this Dallas area until he'd joined the USAF upon graduation from Southern Methodist University with a degree in Sociology.
Alan leaned over and switched the radio station to one playing Country Western music and started to sing along as he turned again, this time up the family road toward the main house. The singer was new to Alan's ears, a kind of gravely unusual voice, it was some guy named Willie Nelson. Alan had to slow down now for this was not a well-maintained road. "If you don't like it, then just slow down," his dad had lectured his two sons time and time again.
Alan was down to twelve miles an hour and still rocking and rolling along to the point that he was lured into letting out a couple of Yahoos as if riding a bronco.
After one really big bounce, Alan braked. He made a sudden decision to swing over to the main barn and see if that mare had shoaled yet rather than going straight up to the house. He could see some lights on in the barn and figured his brother, and perhaps even his dad, might be in there tending one of their favorite mares, Cindy Star.
Alan cranked the wheel to the right and steered the pickup off the road and into an angled entry across a ditch that ran alongside the road. The truck dropped down slowly into the ditch and then started back up on the other side, the front going up while the rear was still dropping down. Alan had made this maneuver many times in his life, and he still enjoyed trying to do it with minimal impact on the truck's suspension.
"Eeeeekkkk!”
"What the hell was that?" Alan heard what seemed like a scream or a screech, and since it seemed to have come from behind him, he glanced up and into the rear view mirror. As he did so, he swore he saw something fall out of the back of his truck bed.
"SCREECH!" Alan hit the brakes sharply. The front wheels were now out of the ditch but the rear wheels and most of the truck body were still down in it. Surely those hay bales couldn’t have fallen out, he thought. I know they were tied down securely by a tarp.
The air force officer in cowboy garb climbed out of the cab, almost without thinking grabbing the flashlight from its stash underneath the dashboard. He strode quickly down the left side of his pickup towards the rear. As he passed the truck bed he shined the light into it and was surprised to note that the canvas cover over the hay bales had been loosened and pulled back off of them. The bales, however, were still snugly sitting there.
"Holy Hell!" Alan verbalized his thoughts audibly as his light beam next fell on the figure of a woman who was down on her stomach and trying to rise up out of the ditch. She was mumbling some unintelligible words.
"You all right, lady? Jeez, did you fall out of my truck?" Alan stepped forward solicitously as he spoke, reaching out to assist her.
The small woman crumpled back to the ground, obviously unable to get to her feet without assistance. She appeared to wilt as her chest made contact with the ground again. Her whole body and head just collapsed and crumpled back to the earth.
Alan touched her on the back of her right shoulder. "Can I help you? Are you hurt?"
He was bending over close to her left shoulder and head. He gently lifted up on her left arm. Myrna responded to the movement and rolled over onto her back. She barely raised her head and shoulders up off the ground while resting on her elbows.
"Where are we?" The woman spoke English with a slight Latin accent and a very weak voice.
Alan tried to shine his light on her without blinding her in the process. "You're about six miles east of Plano. Were you in the back of my truck? Jesus, lady, you couldn't be this banged up just from a tumble off that truck. You look to me like you need an emergency ward. Can you sit up, stand?
"I'll try." Myrna Reyes sat up slowly and with obvious pain. Her forehead was bleeding with fresh flowing blood running down on top of older clotted blood that was stuck to her skin. The current bleeding came from her fall off the pickup while the blood it was smearing over had resulted from a combination of Melor's special treatment and her harrowing two-story plunge through vines and shrubbery.
"Let me pick you up and put you inside the truck. You don't look in very good shape at all."
"Just help me stand. I have to be able to stand. I have a job to do. Where the hell is this Plano? Are we far from Dallas?"
With considerable assistance from the Texan, the not so tall female tried to get her body vertical. She managed to handle the weight on her right foot, but when the left one touched the ground, she jerked it back up and moaned. "Oh, my ankle. I think I twisted the damn thing in the fall. Dios! I have to be able to walk."
"Well, you may have sprained it all right. It looks bruised, but that's not the worst looking thing on that leg."
Alan was beaming the flashlight directly onto an ugly wound on her inner left thigh. "There's dried blood sticking all over you and fresh blood rolling out on top of that. That's a nasty looking wound. Here, let me just pick you up." Alan’s brain was already making a connection with that wound on her leg and the shots he’d heard, but he was resisting it.
Without waiting for confirmation, Alan swept the trim young woman up in his arms. "Ohhh!” She groaned and then between clenched teeth muttered, "Jesus, Mother Mary I hurt!"
"Where does it hurt?" Alan asked quite solicitously.
"Where doesn't it?" She laughed in spite of the pain. "Damn!"
Alan set her in the passenger seat, not without difficulty since the vehicle was resting at such an inclined angle. He dashed around to the driver's side and climbed in. As he did so, he noted how sticky his hands had become and shined his flash on them. They were now covered with blood.
"Jeez," Alan mumbled as he climbed in. He reached down and pulled a rag out from under the driver's seat and tried to wipe off his hands. "You have blood all over you, Lady. I think I should take you into Plano It’s the closest medical facility to us. Maybe we should even just drive up to that barn over there and see if my brother's still around. He's a Vet—an animal doc, but he could at least deal with the bleeding.”
"I must get back to Dallas." The petite woman spoke firmly, if frailly. "I cannot go to a hospital or a doctor. Thank you for offering, but..."
"Well, lady, if you're going with me, we damn straight ain’t going back to Big D. You need medical treatment. Look at you." Alan turned the flashlight onto her body and noted the matted mass of blood all over her dress just before he froze. "What the hell does that mean?" He referred to the fact that she was pointing a revolver at him.
"It simply means you're to drive me back into Dallas. I mean you no harm. You’ve been very kind, but I must get back to Dallas. You know Oak Cliff and a street there named Beckley?"
"I know them, but it's a long trip, and you're not going to make it."
Alan moved the light beam up and down her body and was shocked at what a mess even that dim light revealed. Not only was her dress torn and matted with blood, especially in the abdomen area, but she was also stained with blood in various forms and amounts from her face to her shoulders and all down her body. He lowered the light and saw even more blood running onto the floor mats off of her left leg.
"Hell fire, lady, you're one hell of a mess. My dad's going to be one pissed off cowboy when he sees what you've done to his truck."
"Take me to Dallas—and please hurry!"
Alan sighed, started the engine, pulled out of the ditch and headed back down the road off of his family's pride and joy. He considered grabbing for the gun, blinding her with the light and then grabbing the gun, or just waiting her out. He settled on the latter as the safest choice for both of them. Either of those other two alternatives could get him shot, even if it was an outside chance. Besides, wrestling her for the gun could possibly wreck the truck, and that might do who knows what to both of them. Still, Alan was not totally comfortable with his choice since it seemed to leave his unexpected passenger subject to a lot of risk.
Alan was pretty sure she was going to pass out from blood loss before he got her to Dallas, but he fretted that if he waited for that to happen, it could also mean it would be too late for professionals to help. Alan knew that shock was a serious problem for people who'd been traumatized as she appeared to have been, so he decided on a simple delaying tactic.
"Can I stop for just a few seconds? I want to take my shirt off so you can use it for a pressure bandage and try to stem some of that bleeding.
The woman seemed hesitant, as if expecting it to be a trick. It may also have been that she was just having trouble tracking logically. Finally, she responded. "OK, but no tricks."