Coincidence. He learned in the bayous, from Raymo, that Castro's guerrilla name was Alex, derived from his middle name, Alejandro. Lee used to be known as Alek.

Coincidence. Banister was trying to find him, not knowing what city or state or country he was in, and he walked in the door at 544 and asked for an undercover job.

Coincidence. He ordered the revolver and the carbine six weeks apart. They arrived the same day.

Coincidence. Lee was always reading two or three books, like Kennedy. Did military service in the Pacific, like Kennedy. Poor handwriting, terrible speller, like Kennedy. Wives pregnant at the same time. Brothers named Robert.

His nosebleeds started again the second night he was home. There was blood on the pillowcase. Marina told him he'd been shaking in his sleep.

They knew all about him, even where to get cartridges for his rifle. Plus the Feebees were reading his mail. Plus Marina was almost eight months pregnant, complaining about the way they lived, sarcastic about his principles as a fighter for progress. He missed two meetings with Bateman. He didn't care about the money. They could keep their money. They didn't own or control him. He lost weight. He could feel the difference in his clothes and see it in his face in the mirror. He took a careful stance on the screened porch and aimed the rifle at a man crossing the street, holding right where the head and neck join, saying the word windage to himself. He decided to study Spanish again.

He got his tourist card from the Mexican consulate. He got his documents and clippings in order. It was all for little Cuba, so the Cubans could see who he was.

He could get his visa and have them stamp it with a future date. He could go back to Dallas and shoot the fascist Walker. Then return to Mexico City, knowing his visa was already set, a solid fact, guaranteed travel to Havana. They would welcome him there as a hero.

He'd studied Spanish once before, or twice before. It would come easy this time.

Ferrie called his rifle the Man-Licker.

He fastened the playpen and stroller to the top of Ruth Paine's station wagon, a green Chevy, a '55, with rust spots and soft tires. He jammed suitcases and boxes inside, everything they owned. It was Ruth Paine's now. He sneaked the rifle in, disassembled in an old blanket wrapped tight with kitchen string. He tied a granny knot.

He told Ruth Paine he might go to Houston to look for work, or maybe Philadelphia.

Marina's eyes were wet with worry and love. He ran his fingertips along her high white neck. He fought off the tears. He thought his face might crumple like a child's, washed in sorrow.

That night he streaked through a heavy rain with bag after bag of leftover junk, pushing old newspapers into a neighbor's garbage can, letting pop bottles crash. Was anyone watching? Did a sleepless old lady keep track of these midnight sprints? He went back to the house at a shambling trot and was out again a moment later, quick-walking down the driveway with more junk pressed to his chest, the boy who spoke to no one on the street.

The next evening he stood on the porch waiting for the bus to pull up at the stop directly across Magazine. When it did, he hurried across the street carrying two canvas bags and owing fifteen days' rent.

At the Trailways terminal he headed for the window to buy a ticket to Houston, which was the first stage of the journey to Mexico City. David Ferrie was standing by the window. He wore a rumpled plaid sport jacket with a newspaper sticking out of one pocket. He looked like a horseplayer with two days to live.

"Where to, Mexico? To pick up a visa for little Cuba?"

"That's right," Lee said.

"Without a word to Cap'n Dave? I don't like this, Leon."

"You won't tell me what it is they want me to do. I have to make my plans best I can."

"They knew you were going. They've been watching extra close. I am personally put out about this. Cuba now, Leon? We haven't done our work yet."

"I'm planning I might come back."

"You'll come back all right. You know why? They don't give visas to Americans so easy. Plus you want to come back. You want to finish our work."

"What do they want me to do?"

"We both know the answer to that by now."

"You know. I don't."

"You've known almost all along. I think you knew before I did. You came to the swamps to shoot your Man-Licker. You know what side we're on. You know we're not about to choose a target suited to your tastes. But you wanted to come. I think you picked it out of the air. I honestly believe you beat me to it."

A Negro in hip boots wandered through the terminal selling yo-yos that lit up in the dark.

Ferrie talked Lee into having a meal together. Raymo would drive him to Houston tomorrow if that's what he wanted. Save the bus fare. Enjoy the comfort of the family car.

They ate scrambled eggs in Ferrie's apartment. There were explosives stored under the kitchen table. Ferrie kept his jacket on, wagged the fork as he spoke.

"I've seen the Fair Play material you keep at 544," he said. "I've noticed something you haven't noticed. Librans never notice references to themselves. The official symbol of the Fair Play for Cuba Committee is a man's hand holding aloft a pair of scales. Two weighing pans hanging from a rigid beam. Everywhere you go. It's all around you. Which way will Leon tilt?"

"I don't know what they want me to do."

"Of course you know."

"Tell me where it happens."

"Miami."

"That means nothing to me."

"You've known for weeks."

"What happens in Miami?"

Ferrie took a while to finish chewing his food.

"Think of two parallel lines," he said. "One is the life of Lee H. Oswald. One is the conspiracy to kill the President. What bridges the space between them? What makes a connection inevitable? There is a third line. It comes out of dreams, visions, intuitions, prayers, out of the deepest levels of the self. It's not generated by cause and effect like the other two lines. It's a line that cuts across causality, cuts across time. It has no history that we can recognize or understand. But it forces a connection. It puts a man on the path of his destiny."

25 September

Lee woke up on the sofa some time after midnight. He was wide awake almost at once. The TV was on a bookshelf, picture flipping, no sound. He heard Ferrie gargling in the bathroom. The smell of hashish stuck to everything, to Lee's hair and clothes, the fabric on the sofa.

He watched Ferrie walk into the room naked. His eyebrows and toupee were gone. He was sad and pasty, decolored, moving out of the background glow into the stutter light of TV. He resembled someone in the land of nudo, a shaved nude in a booth in Tokyo, a nude monk you pay to photograph, some endless variation on the factual nude, a satire for tourists. He looked unclear, half erased. Could he tell Lee's eyes were open?

He stood a moment among the books and pole lamps as if he'd forgotten something. What could he forget, naked? Lee shifted around so that his back was to the room. He shifted like someone asleep, just rolling over. He closed his eyes. He groaned like someone deep in sleep.

Ferrie sat on the edge of the sofa, reaching around to put a hand on Lee's belly over the shirt, a hand on Hidell, leaning closer now, his breath sharp with mouthwash.

"People have to be nice to each other."

He moved his hand around. Wandering hands, Lee thought. An old term, an old thing they said in junior high, what a girl said about a boy. He's got wandering hands.

"People be nice," whispered Cap'n Dave.

He seemed to be easing his body lengthwise onto the sofa, arranging himself behind Lee, the hand circling a central area, moving slowly over Lee's pants. Lee wouldn't let him undo the belt. They actually grappled for a moment. They fought over the belt buckle without changing positions on the sofa. Lee kept his eyes closed. They hand-fought and slapped at each other. Ferrie was strong. He was using one hand, gripping Lee's wrist hard. It's called an Indian burn when you put your hands around someone's wrist and twist in opposite directions. Another old term, a thing from grade school maybe.