Frame 232 Read online

  This was also when a small group of curious persons began to ponder the identity of the woman, previously overlooked, whom they provisionally named “the Babushka Lady.”

  She was there in a few photographs, grainy and unfocused. One was taken a good distance behind her but clearly established her proximity to the president’s limousine. Another had the woman in midstride across Elm along with several others exiting the scene. And she was there, albeit briefly, in Abraham Zapruder’s grisly record of the killing.

  Most researchers believed the Babushka Lady—so dubbed because of her distinctive headscarf—was holding a motion camera of her own and had witnessed the assassination from a unique angle. If this was the case, then perhaps her film had caught something equally unique. In particular, they wondered if there was clear evidence to support the growing theory that a second shooter was positioned behind the stockade fence that stood atop a tiny hill just a few yards away from the Bryan pergola, a region of Dealey Plaza that would eventually become known as the “grassy knoll.” If so—if the Babushka Lady did, in fact, have such evidence—why hadn’t she come forward with it? Had she been tracked down by the conspirators and killed, as many believed others had been? Or was she still out there now, waiting for just the right time to come forward? Perhaps she had already sold the film to some powerful media presence, like Time or Life, for an astronomical sum, and they were the ones sitting on it. There was also the suggestion that the woman in question wasn’t even aware of what she had and that the film had been innocently relegated to a forgotten box in her home somewhere.

  Whatever the case, two points were now very clear to Margaret Baker. One was that she was the person known as the Babushka Lady. The other was that many people associated with the assassination wanted to find her.

  She took a final puff and dropped the cigarette onto the cement floor, crushing it out with her shoe. A part of her had always suspected this day would come. In the end, it wasn’t the film’s potential implications or the quest for justice or even the thought of shadowy figures searching for her that brought about this moment—it was the blood she saw in the toilet three days ago following her morning routine. The hypertension that was gradually obliterating her strength had begun with the usual symptoms—fatigue, occasional dizziness—then moved to the more severe—blinding headaches, irregular heartbeat, labored breathing. They made life difficult, no doubt, but she had tolerated them. There was something about the sight of that blood, however—something about the thought of her insides coming apart—that pushed her past her limits. The time had come, she decided, to rid herself of this burden, to take the steps necessary to put the matter to rest once and for all. And the first step, she knew—against every instinct and desire—was to watch that film.

  She let out a final, defeated sigh and placed her foot onto the ladder. With each step she felt increasingly sensitive to the sickness that was consuming her. It was as if the film still possessed a kind of emotional radioactivity after all and moving closer to it magnified the symptoms. Sliding the tile aside had a ghastly familiarity to it, like she’d stored the package up there only a day or so before. The actual interval between then and now shrank to zero, and she was reminded of the dim awareness she’d felt on that day—and which had never fully left her waking thoughts since—that she would one day have to do this.

  She felt around on the gritty surface, and at first there was nothing. What followed was an almost-relieved kind of confusion. Is this the right tile? Did I forget where it was? Then, slightly more alarming—Did Ronnie find it and do something with it? And finally, almost inevitably, the paranoia—The men in the shadows . . . They found me and searched the house one day. . . . They know everything, and they know that I know. This got her heart pounding like a parade drum.

  It was only after she moved to the stepladder’s top rung that her fingers found the wrinkled paper bag. It had been there all along, right where it was supposed to be. She supposed she had subconsciously lingered on the lower step as a kind of passive self-sabotage.

  Like everything else up there, the bag had been dusted by time. She gave it a shake before bringing it down. She could feel the hardness of the box inside, and it filled her with revulsion.

  Stepping to the floor, she unrolled the bag and took the box out. A part of her fantasized that it had been damaged somehow, perhaps from a pipe leak. The box would be corroded, the film warped and water-stained. . . .

  No such luck. The box was firm and solid, its corners sharp. When she lifted the lid, the reel was so healthy it still bore malodorous traces of the chemical processing that had been performed twelve years earlier. The first few inches of dark celluloid hung out like the tail of some sleeping beast. Waiting for me, she realized angrily. It has always been up there waiting for me. Once again, she entertained thoughts of destroying it, more aggressively than ever before. Douse it with gasoline and throw a match on it, then pour the ashes down the drain. If anyone asks, deny it all. There won’t be any evidence, so what can they do? But it was too late for that now, and she knew it.

  In another eerie reenactment of 1963, she went upstairs to lock the front door and secure the sliding chain. Ron had moved into a management position in 1971 and was rarely home early . . . but still. Their daughter was down the street with a retired schoolteacher who supplemented her income as a neighborhood babysitter.

  Margaret went back to the basement with the projector in hand and set it up on a folding snack tray, aiming it at one of the bare walls. Her shaking hands made it difficult to feed the film through the spools. When it was finally in place, she took a deep breath and summoned all the nerve she had left. Then she turned the switch.

  For a moment there was nothing but the purr of the projector’s gears and a run of scrambled letters on the wall. Then came the first images of the president’s motorcade as it flowed onto Houston.

  Margaret was overwhelmed by sensory recall—the warmth of the sun on her cheeks, the scent of grass in the plaza and a nice perfume that the afternoon breeze had carried from one of the other women nearby, and the uncomfortable sliminess of perspiration mounting under her too-heavy outfit. She also remembered, for the first time, what she had planned to do with the rest of her day once Kennedy had passed—put the camera and her disguise back in the car, then return to the office and say she felt a little better and wanted to carry on. Lomax would’ve liked that. And if Kennedy had waved to her, she would’ve confessed everything to Ron over dinner that evening and laughed when he shook his head.

  The motorcade eased onto Elm, and the president came into view. It occurred to Margaret then that the film’s quality was, as many researchers had theorized, outstanding. The images were sharp, the colors vivid, and her hand had been remarkably steady. A hundred times better than the Zapruder film, she thought. And closer . . . much closer. . . .

  As the president and First Lady drew nearer, she could see Abraham Zapruder clearly on the Bryan pergola with his receptionist, Marilyn Sitzman, behind him. As Margaret had suspected all along, there was no view of the sixth-floor window in the book depository building in her film. And the assassination was mere seconds away.

  She could not bring herself to look at Kennedy as he was struck. She had been unable to pull her eyes away twelve years earlier, but she would not witness it now. That’s not why you’re watching anyway, is it? Of all the conspiracy theories that had been put forth over the years, one that had really gained traction concerned a supposed second shooter behind the fence atop the grassy knoll. When that area of the plaza came into view, Margaret fixed on it. When the president was hit—she was aware of it even though she wasn’t looking there—she searched for any signs of that elusive second shooter. A rifle barrel being leveled between the pickets, perhaps, or the head of a man in sunglasses. Even a puff of smoke as a shot was fired. . . . But there was nothing, nothing at all. Just the trees and the shade and the few bystanders who had long since been identified. There was no one there.

&n
bsp; She smiled with an unpolluted elation she had not felt in ages.

  Nobody. All those nuts who’ve been poring over blurry photographs with their magnifying glasses have been—

  Then she saw something else, something well away from the stockade fence and the grassy knoll and Abraham Zapruder and the book depository building. Something unbelievable.

  She rewound the film and played it again. Once again the motorcade turned onto Elm. . . . The president and First Lady waved cheerfully to the adoring crowd. . . . Zapruder lifted his Bell & Howell and began filming.

  And again she saw it.

  “No,” she said in a tone soaked with dread. “No . . .”

  She watched it again, just to be sure, then a fourth time.

  When she went into the upstairs bathroom a short time later, there was more blood.

  Margaret had never been to Texas First National before. She and Ron did all their banking at Dallas Fidelity, on the other side of town. That was exactly why she had come here.

  She went to a teller window and asked to see the manager. The woman, with a turtleneck sweater and a beaded eyeglass chain, gave her a once-over. It was highly unusual for a female customer to make such a request. In fact, it was unusual for any married woman to come in without her husband. What was this lady up to?

  “I’m not sure he’s available right now.”

  “He’s expecting me.”

  The teller’s carefully drawn eyebrows rose. “Oh?”

  “Yes.”

  The appraisal continued. Then, in a tone that suggested she wasn’t ready to admit defeat just yet, the woman said, “I’ll see if I can find him.”

  “Thank you.”

  Margaret retreated to a quiet corner so as to not attract further attention. The teller returned a moment later, followed by a tall, well-built man in a pin-striped suit. His black hair was combed like that of a child on school-picture day. The rest of his all-female team stopped what they were doing when he appeared, their faces drawn with concern. He was the rooster of this particular henhouse.

  “Can I help you?” There was no attempt at friendliness. His precious time was being wasted.

  The teller hung around until Margaret shot her a look, then stalked off.

  “I believe you spoke to Mr. Moore earlier this morning?”

  The manager, whose name tag read Kelso, said, “Moore?”

  “Henry Moore. The attorney?”

  Kelso stiffened; he clearly did not like being contacted by attorneys.

  “He’s a friend of my husband’s,” Margaret said, her stomach tightening, “and handles all of our legal matters. I think he told you I would be coming here to put some things in our new box.”

  “Box? You mean—”

  “A safe-deposit box.”

  “Oh, uh-huh. And you are . . . ?”

  “Margaret Baker.”

  “Margaret Baker, right.”

  “It was opened for us yesterday.”

  “I believe I remember that.”

  He paused to study her, the faintest trace of a smile on his otherwise-dour face. Margaret felt fear begin to crawl through her. The struggle to maintain a casual air was beginning to slip out of its leash. He’s seen women do this before. He’s going to call Ronnie. . . .

  “Do you have the items with you?”

  “Yes, right here.”

  She drew a small cloth bag from her pocketbook and held it open for Kelso to inspect. Inside was an impressive cache of gold coins, dull-shiny and in various denominations that Ronnie had collected over the years. He kept them in a small lockbox under their bed.

  Kelso’s face brightened, revealing the actual—and unabashedly greedy—soul underneath. “Well, look at those.”

  “They belonged to my grandparents, and I don’t feel comfortable leaving them around the house.”

  He reached in, removed one, and admired it. “I wouldn’t want these lying around either.”

  “So is it all right if I . . . ?”

  “Hmm? Oh yes.” He tossed the coin back in the bag resentfully. “Follow me.”

  He led her to the bank’s spacious vault. The safe-deposit boxes were in a separate, smaller room on the right.

  “I believe Mr. Moore reserved number 423 for us.”

  “Number 423.”

  “I have the key right here.”

  Moving to the far right corner, Kelso opened the little door and then pulled the box out by its loop handle. It was auto-primer gray and about the size of two shoe boxes set end to end. He carried it to the small table in the middle of the room. The lid opened like an alligator’s mouth.

  “Here it is.”

  “Thank you.”

  Kelso lingered until it became obvious that his guest was not going to do anything while he was there, then left.

  Margaret put the cloth bag back into her pocketbook and took out the film. Just having the box in her hand again made her feel nauseous. She also took out a standard-size envelope with the words For Ronnie or Sheila written across the front. The flap had been sealed.

  She wondered for the millionth time if this was the right thing to do. It could be that this was just one of those situations where there was no perfect solution and you simply had to go with your best guess. If that’s true, then please, God, please let this guess be the right one.

  She felt tears coming on again, so without further hesitation she placed both items into the receptacle. It slid back into its cavity easily, and she locked the swinging outer door. Then she returned to the lobby, where Kelso was making time with his harem.

  “You’re finished?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Will there be anything else today?”

  “No, that’s it.”

  When she stepped onto the sidewalk, she paused to scan her surroundings. This had become a habit now, born from the fear of being watched or followed. Every stranger had become a threat, every glance in her direction a cause for concern. Were they really out there, searching for her? Were there really men in dark shadows, monitoring her every move, listening to her every conversation? Were they waiting for an opportunity? Did they plan to eliminate her, as they had apparently done to so many others associated with the assassination?

  It was a beautiful clear day, cheerful under ordinary circumstances. But then November 22, 1963, had started out the same way. Margaret couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt anything even close to cheer. It seemed like a part of someone else’s life, a long time ago. She didn’t want to think about it anymore. She had done what had to be done; whatever happened now was out of her control.

  She took one last look around, then hailed a cab and disappeared into the afternoon traffic.

  1

  PARKLAND HOSPITAL

  Present day

  IT WAS NOTHING but a waiting game now, a cruel and macabre waiting game.

  Sheila Baker watched her mother’s face, framed within the hospital pillow. The eyes, reduced to sunken orbs covered by parchment skin, had been closed for a while now. Her nose and mouth were trapped inside the oxygen mask, clear plastic with pale-green straps. Her breathing was erratic, as it had been for the last two days. A drip bag hung nearby, filled with fluid that streamed into her ravaged body, and a mile of gauze ran around her wrist to hold the needle in place. The room was kept immaculately clean by the hospital staff, the sheets changed daily. Yet the reek of death hung heavy in the air. The clinical-looking clock on the wall held no relevance; time was measured in here by the rhythmic hiss of the respirator. For Margaret Baker, who had turned seventy-eight nine weeks earlier, this room was her universe now, her gateway from this world into the next.

  She had smoked for years, a habit she’d first picked up in the 1950s, when smoking was considered safe and fashionable and people puffed away in airplanes, offices, restaurants, and elevators. The idea that you could die from it was as distant as the notion of committing gradual suicide from the sustained consumption of fried foods, the use of dirty needle
s, or living down the street from certain types of power plants. By the time academics started publishing their studies proving otherwise, she was hooked. When she finally mustered the willpower to break free of its grip, the cancer had already set up shop. Doctors were summoned, friends rallied round, and a spirit of cautious hopefulness arose. But lung cancer was almost always a nonrefundable ticket to the grave, and the light of optimism first dimmed and then flickered out. Margaret had accepted the truth and, with characteristic courage, focused not on fighting a losing battle but rather on making the final stage of her journey as uncomplicated as possible.

  She’d been a patient at Parkland twenty-six times over the last three years. The first few visits were overnight stays for observation and an endless litany of tests. Then they became longer—two days, four, six . . . Names and faces of the hospital staff became familiar. The need to stop at the information desk faded. One of the nurses in the oncology section, it turned out, had been a year behind Sheila in high school. People from the past came to visit in a depressing revival of This Is Your Life—the owner of the pharmacy in downtown Addison, several church friends, a former coworker, a few others. But no relatives. Sheila was Margaret’s only child, and her husband had passed away in ’98.