Lee, Kennedy & Doug

Friday, October 18, 1963, 10:02 pm

One month and four days before the assassination

The Oval Office, Washington D.C.

John F. Kennedy leaned back in his leather chair, ankles crossed, heels resting on the corner of his resolute desk, a half moon washing through the windows. He chewed on a cigar, set it in its tray and scooped up his generously filled tumbler. He slugged back a shot, set the glass down. And switched the phone to his other hand. A distant voice squeaked from the receiver.

“Well, er, Marilyn, that, uh, sounds nice and all, but the thing is…” John grimaced, pulling the phone from his ear as the voice on the other end quietly shrieked. Gingerly, he set the receiver back to his ear and nodded a couple of times. “The thing is, I, er, I, uh, I think Jackie’s on to us.” He winced again as he yanked the phone away.

A blue light sparkled across his face. An electric static crackled from a dark corner. Kennedy’s eyes grew wide as a vortex of blue, electric energy swirled. It reached a peak and as it subsided a man appeared. He wore a white labcoat, a grey tie tucked into it and a head of unkempt, unhappy hair. He held out his hands, gaining his balance. He glanced around the room before his eyes fell on the President. He stumbled toward him grasping for his bearings, he clutched the corner of the desk with both hands, steadied himself and gave the president an interminable glare. “Mr. President, you’re in danger”

Kennedy studied the panting man for a long moment before pulling the phone close to his ear again. “I uh, er, let me call you back.” He hung up the phone, the garbled, protesting, distant voice snapped off. He snatched up his cigar, puffed it back to life, and blew a plume as he pointed the business end of it at his unexpected visitor. “This sounds like a serious matter, Mr…?”

“I’m Doug, I’m from the future, I’m here to help you stop your own assassination.”

Kennedy gave him a broad smile. “Assassination, you say? Sounds like a serious matter.” Again, he pointed his cigar. “It’s not you is it?”

“No, Mr. President.”

“Is it McCone?”

“No.” Doug leaned in. “Have you heard of Lee Harvey Oswald?”

“Oswald, huh?” Kennedy rubbed his chin. “Oswald. Oswald.” He shrugged. Can’t say as I have.”

Doug nodded gravely. “We’ve got to stop Lee Harvey Oswald.”

“Dont’ suppose you could stop him for me, Mr…. uh, er Doug?”

Doug hung his head, a conceiting nod. “Possibly, yes. But,” He held up a finger and took a deep breath. “because of a series of mathematical variables, it might be the case that you are the only person that can alter your future, without the possibility of erasing your timeline.”

“Of course.” Kennedy waved the complication off as if it was an everyday matter, a conclusion of common sense. “How long until this… unfortunate event?” then before he could answer, “It’s not tonight is it?”

“Just over a month, Mr. President.”

“So we’ve got time.” He finished off his drink, thumped the glass on the heavy blotter and sat forward.

“Honestly, sir, we’re running out of it. You’ve really got to come with me.”

“Where? To the future?” He glanced around the room. “Can’t I just arrest him before he does it?”

“That’s a great question, sir, but there’s no time to explain it. You’ve just got to come with me, sir.” Doug let go of the desk and took a step toward the dark corner he’d emerged from, gesturing with a wheeling wave for him to follow.

Kennedy didn’t move for a long moment, sizing Doug up and glancing past him toward the dark corner where the swirling, neon-blue electric vortex was beginning to reemerge. He snuffed out his cigar, stood and straightened his jacket. “Let’s er, uh, let’s get going then.”

The blue electric swirling vortex grew. Doug stepped into it and Kennedy followed.

Tuesday, Sept. 5, 1950, 10:02 pm

Thirteen years, two months, and seventeen days before the assassination.

Lee’s bedroom, Louisiana

The moon shone over the top of heavy clouds, retreating to the east, its light spilling through the windows and onto the floor, washing a worn rug in pale squares. Between the windows was a simple single bed, the edge of a thick checkered quilt caught the moonlight. An electric blue light began to dance across it.

The vortex formed in the darkest corner of the room, a swirling light, silent save the constant crackles and snaps. Doug stepped through and Kennedy followed, the portal disappeared behind them with a snap. In the new darkness the room was silent, then a whisper.

“Shh.”

Floorboards creaked. A silhouette stepped into the light of the first window as a black shadow flashed. Floor boards creaked. Another silhouette stepped into the light of the other window. Both figures, on either side of the bed, raised bats over their heads. The breath was sucked from the room before both figures began to beat the bed with their clubs. Thick, muted, the quilt tucking up. Thud. Womp. Thunk.

They beat the bed with their bats in the light of the moon until they were tired, panting and holding their knees. With the end of his bat, one of the figures pushed the covers aside. An empty bed.

A door opened. A dim lamplight washed the room, both Doug and Kennedy guarded their faces, holding their bats.

A small Lee held a lamp and a glass. “Hello?”

A voice called from another room. A door opened and shut with a thump. Stomping steps echoed in the distance.

Doug and Kennedy shared a nervous glance.

“Someone’s coming,” Kennedy whispered.

“Shh,” Doug scolded him.

Lee watched them both. “Who are you?”

They both flashed a quick glance his way as they listened, steps in the hall continued, then a shout, still distant but closer.

“We’ve got to go,” Doug shout-whispered.

“Let’s, uh, er, let’s get out of here,” Kennedy agreed.

The vortex opened in the corner of the room. Doug and Kennedy ran into it and it shrunk away behind them.

Lee stood in the door to the bathroom, still holding his lamp and his glass. His bedroom door flew open. The angry face of his father looming from the dark. “Dammit, Lee.”

Monday, March 11, 1956, 6:03 am

6 years and eight months before the assassination

Marine Corps Recruit Depot, San Diego

“Dammit, Oswald. Your locker is a disgrace.” The drill sergeant, hand behind his back, hat tucked low, poked through Lee’s belongings with his baton. “The rest of you gather round, so you can see exactly what your footlocker should not look like.” The recruits drew closer, warily. With a flip of his bat the drill sergeant tossed a handful of Lee’s belongings across the floor. “Oswald, I want your locker perfectly stowed before company has assembled, or we will add three miles to today’s PT.”

The other recruits groaned and grumbled and cracked their knuckles.

“Yes, sir, sergeant, sir.” Lee stopped tugging at his sheets, abandoning his bed making mission and leapt to gather and organize the strewn items. He bundled them together in an armful and lay them on his bunk, instantly folding them with practiced movements.

The drill sergeant turned an eye on Lee, then back to his recruits, “Company… out!”

Lee had repacked his footlocker and was already onto his bunk as the last of the would-be-soldiers passed. The barracks grew silent as Lee folded a crease into his sheet and folded a neat tuck into the corner.

The hairs on his neck and arms stood up. A static crackle and snap came from down the hall beyond the bunks. A blue flash of light. Footsteps. A gunshot

Lee flinched, the wind of the bullet whistling through his ear. He fell to the deck behind his bunk

“You missed.”

Kennedy hushed Doug. “Quiet.”

Lee peered over his almost perfectly made bed.

Kennedy and Doug came into view, creeping forward. Kennedy with a rifle raised, Doug craning his neck, his hand on Kennedy’s shoulder as the president aimed his gun.

Doug pointed. “There he is.”

Kennedy wheeled the rifle barrel around, catching Lee in his sights.

Lee froze.

Kennedy shot.

Lee dove behind the bunk

Kennedy shot twice more into the competently made bed, tiny tufts spitting cotton and feathers.

A rabble came from beyond the entrance of the barracks.

Doug tugged at Kennedy’s shoulder. “Someone’s coming.” He pointed in the direction of the growing commotion.

“Let’s uh, er, let’s get out of here”

Doug and Kennedy ran through the bunks vanishing into the swirling blue electric vortex. It disappeared behind them as Lee’s company, led by the drill sergeant stormed in. The drill sergeant marched up the aisle and loomed over Lee, cowering behind his bunk. “Dammit, Lee.” The drill sergeant eyed the still smoking bullet holes in his bunk. “What the hell is going on in here?”

Wednesday, October 30, 1963, 10:02 am

23 days before the assassination.

Oswald family ranch, Texas

Lee sat in a rocking chair on the porch of their two-story farmhouse, sipping an iced tea and smiling, from an opened window upstairs a baby's crying was being soothed and slowly waning. Lee smiled as he watched his older brother, Robert, hold his older daughter, June, by the waist as she gently petted the muzzle of their newest pony, Starry.

Lee took a deep breath as he heard the cries of his youngest daughter finally subside. He felt like everything was finally starting to work out. Maybe he and his family finally had a chance.

From around the corner of the porch, behind a great elm, electricity crackled as a blue vortex emerged. Dog and Kennedy stepped through it and poked around either side of the tree trunk. The vortex vanished. They whispered back and forth before Kennedy brought out a bundle of dynamite and a lighter. He held the lighter under the wick and began to spark its wheel. After a handful of strikes it lit a small flame. Kennedy held it to the wick and after a second or two it caught, spitting to life. Kennedy stared at it wide eyed.

“Throw it already!” Doug shouted.

“I, er, uh, okay.” Kennedy held the dynamite over his head and heaved it toward the house.

Lee rocked in his chair as the bundle landed at his feet. He stared at it for a long moment trying to understand what he was looking at. A bundle of red sticks tied together with black tape, a coarse wick hissing. He shot up from his seat, snatched the bundle up and threw it past Dog and Kennedy into the forest. After what felt to both parties as much too long the dynamite exploded, setting the forest on fire and throwing a shockwave against the house. The pony in the paddock bucked and whinied. Robert pulled June into his arms as the horse whinnied and bucked. The baby upstairs began to cry again.

Lee ran to the edge of the porch, grasped the railing and scanned the foliage. He spotted the two heads poking out from behind either side of the great elm. “I see you. What the hell do you want from me? This is the last straw.”

“Let’s get out of here!” Doug shouted.

“I, er, uh, okay,” Kennedy nodded.

“I know who you are,” Lee shouted after them.

Both of them bolted into the brush, the blue electric vortex swallowing them up.

Friday, November 22, 1963, 12:24 pm

6 minutes before the assassination.

Book depository, Texas

The dusty abandoned east wing room of the book depository was gloomy, towering stacks of cardboard boxes piled around the room intermittently, festooned in cobwebs. A wall of small windows faced out to the square, their blinds closed, light leaking through their broken spots. The blinds were drawn on a single open window, cheers and shouts of celebration from the square below flooding through.

Kennedy sat, his back resting against the wall next to the open window, his knees pulled up against his chest, resting his head against the barrel of his rifle. “If you don’t do this he’s just going to keep coming. It’s either him or me.” He tightened his grip on the rifle. “Him or us. I mean, what if something happened to the girls, for god’s sake.” He hit his head against the barrel. “You’ve tried everything. No one will listen. This is the only way.” He thumped the rifle stock on the floor and rose to a knee, pulling the bolt open and closing it again, sending a bullet into the chamber. He held his head low as he shouldered the rifle, spun around, and pointed it out the window.

The fan fare from the square swelled, cheers growing as the pomp of a marching band bled into the room. Lee steadied the gun, peering through its sights.

After a long minute, Lee pulled his gun from the window and fell back against the wall again. “Who am I kidding? I can’t do this. I’m not a killer.” Just as he let out a resolute breath, shots rang out from the square, followed by screams and shouts, screeching tires and honking horns..

Lee listened, wide eyed.

Slowly, staying low, he swiveled around and peered over the sill, again, this time without his rifle. “Oh my God.”

A dark corner of the room sparkled with the electric blue lights, a vortex swirled and stumbling out came Doug. He glanced around the dark room, blinking, before his eyes landed on Lee. “Lee Harvey Oswald, I’m from the future. They’re setting you up.”

Lee stared at him unblinkingly, mouth open, footsteps and shouts grew louder from the hall.

Doug came to a stop in front of Lee. “Have you ever heard the name Jack Ruby?”

Lee squinted. “Ruby?”