Libra - Don Delillo [173]
Lee directed him to Houston Street, where they parked in front of the Old Court House, facing south, their backs to the Book Depository, which was a block and a half away. Ferrie wiped spit from the corners of his mouth. He seemed out of breath. Lee sat calmly looking out the window.
“It’s been waiting to happen, Leon.”
“I have to be at work at eight.”
“That building’s been sitting there waiting for Kennedy and Oswald to converge on it.”
“Just out of curiosity. How did you find out where I live? The Feebees don’t know. They know where I work.”
“They know where you work. That’s how we know. We followed you from work last night. We’re more interested in you than they are. Listen. I sat in the car outside your rooming house half the night. I was afraid to come see you. Now that it’s going to happen, I’m scared half to death. I’ve got fear running through my system. Look at what we’re doing. The chaos? The fucking anguish we’ll cause? We’ll give everybody cancer. I sat in the car. I was afraid to face you. I thought, What are we doing to poor Leon? I thought, Poor Leon’s seen that item in the paper. Harwood to Main. Main to Houston. Houston to Elm. Like a scary nursery rhyme. He’s going to kneel in that window and do it. And I’m one of the ones. I’m the agitator. I’m the fool that’s responsible.”
Lee took a stick of gum out of his pocket and broke it in half. He offered a piece to Ferrie, who slapped it out of his hand.
“Where’s the rifle?”
“In a garage in a suburb, where Marina’s staying.”
“They drive you to Galveston when it’s done. I meet you there. This way we’re one city removed from the scene. There’s a plane all set in Galveston. We fly to Yucatán. A place called Mérida. They drive you across the peninsula. They put you on a boat to Havana. They want you in Havana. It suits their purposes just as it suits yours. The boat’s all set. They’ll give you a name and documents.” Ferrie looked at him sadly. “Or there’s more to it. Something we don’t know about. Like they kill us both in Yucatán.”
Lee gave a little laugh, expelling air from his nose. Then he turned to look at the clock attached to the Hertz sign on the roof of the Book Depository. He got out of the car and walked down the street.
Just after lunch hour he went past Roy Truly’s office on the first floor. Mr. Truly, the man who’d hired him, was talking to one of the textbook salesmen. Lee saw the salesman hand Mr. Truly a rifle. Two or three other men stood in the doorway commenting. Lee walked over. There were two rifles the salesman said he’d just bought. He had a .22 for his son for Christmas. And a deer rifle that Mr. Truly was inspecting. The fellows commented from the doorway. Lee watched the salesman box up the .22 and then he walked over to the elevator and hit six. He wasn’t surprised to see rifles in the building. How could he be surprised? It was all about him. Everything that happened was him.
Thursday. T. J. Mackey stood in front of the County Records Building. He crossed the street to the triangle lawn between Main and Elm. He looked toward the railroad tracks above the triple underpass. Then he jogged across Elm and stood on the sloped lawn in front of the colonnade. He walked up toward the stockade fence that set off the parking lot. He stood facing Elm. He walked back toward the sign for Stemmons Freeway. Cars, everywhere, dashing. He looked at the sky and wiped his mouth.
Later he sat in a dark Ford on the downtown fringe, unwrapping a sandwich. This was an area of old packing houses with train tracks partly paved over and sides of buildings showing brick and mortar exposed by the demolition of adjacent structures. Every usable space was set aside for parking—alleyways, dusty lots, old loading zones. There was a clinging midday