Henry smiled at the compliment, then asked his father something that had puzzled him all morning. "Dad, when you flew through the arch, weren't you afraid of losing your license? No one else has a plane that looks like this one. What if someone reports us?"

Walter smiled, but his face was filled with sadness. "It doesn't matter, Henry. My medical is up this month, and I wouldn't pass if I tried to renew it. That was my last flight in the Stearman, Son. It's one of the reasons I wanted to go flying with you today. I needed to talk to you about it." Henry put down the french fries he had been about to put in his mouth and stared at his father.

"What do you mean you can't pass the physical? What's wrong, Dad?"

Walter took a very deep breath before answering. "I've got cancer. Renal cancer- that's when it's in your kidneys, and it's one of the really bad ones."

Henry was horrified. His father was in better shape than the parents of almost all of his classmates at school. He could not believe what he was hearing. "Cancer...but...can't they do anything about it?" The boy tried frantically to persuade himself that his father was going to be all right, but he knew he would not. Henry had watched his grandfather, Charles Collins, waste away to nothing from throat cancer five years before.

"They're doing it right now. That's why I'm out flying today. But I've been losing some weight, as I'm sure you can see, and the pain in my sides comes more often. It's one of those things, Henry, just like Grandpa." He smiled with genuine warmth. "I'll be around for a while-you haven't seen the last of your old Dad yet. I'm through with flying, but no aviator ever had a better send-off than the one I just had with you."

Henry stared at his lap. He had entirely lost his appetite. Walter continued matter-of-factly.

"I thought for a long time about what to do with the Stearman. I always wanted it to be yours one day, but you're only fourteen, and wouldn't be able to fly it on your own for another year-and-a-half. Also, it's got some serious expenses coming up. An airshow pilot has made me a very good offer on it. He's got a clipwing Cub with a 140 Lycoming in it, an inverted system, aileron spades, and big tires for landing almost anywhere. It's registered experimental. He's going to trade it to me, along with quite a bit of cash.

"You'll have your own aero ship you can solo on your sixteenth birthday, and the gas costs won't break you. I'm going to put the money in an account that will be yours when you turn twenty-one. Should be worth quite a bit by then." Walter didn't mention the life insurance policy, or that Henry would also start getting his Social Security. "I think that's a better plan for the long run." Henry nodded without looking up. He wasn't thinking about flying. He was imagining what his life would be like without his father.

"When did you find out, Dad?" he asked finally.

"Last week they finished up the last of their tests at Barnes. There's no doubt now. Your mother suspected ever since I first started feeling bad. She's the reason they caught it this early, and were able to give me some medicine that helps with the pain."

Henry turned to look out the window so his father wouldn't see him crying.

Henry Bowman was absolutely miserable as he got out of the car and went to open the garage door for his father. He watched as Walter pulled the car into its space and opened the door to get out. Henry stared at his father as he climbed out of the car. He was searching for a visible sign of Walter's affliction.

His father, however, looked the same as he always had. It was hard to believe that this strong, vital man harbored a fatal disease that was relentlessly killing him. Walter stepped over to the side of the garage where a tarpaulin hung down, covering something.

"If we can't fly together, then you and I are going to have to do more shooting."

Henry could not believe his eyes as his father pulled away the tarpaulin. There were twenty wooden crates stacked against the wall, all with German lettering stenciled on their sides. He'd have to get out his manual to decipher the words exactly, but Henry needed no dictionary to translate '20mm', and the crates themselves were familiar. Two empty ones had been sitting in a corner of the basement for more than a month.

Walter's smile broadened as he watched Henry's reaction. "There's some other calibers coming," he explained, "but I thought I'd better jump on the ammo for your Solothurn first. Your buddy made me a deal I couldn't pass up."

Henry Bowman started crying again, but this time he did not turn away.

"My dad says he's surprised it didn't happen sooner." Some of the students gathered outside the lunchroom nodded gravely at this assessment.

The Sturkes boy did not add that his father had also said 'and I hope they give the guy who did it a medal'. John Burroughs School believed in promoting academic excellence and opening pupils' minds, but some parents differed with the institution's philosophy of racial harmony. Mr. Sturkes wasn't the only father who, in the security of his own living room, was not afraid to assert that the death of Dr. Martin Luther King, jr. was no great loss to the civilized world.

"I still can't believe somebody shot him." This was another student who, like the vast majority of his classmates at John Burroughs, came from a white, upper-class St. Louis family. Like a somewhat smaller (but nonetheless large) number of Burroughs students, if the tenth-grader had been asked twenty-four hours earlier who Dr. King was, he would have been unable to answer. "I'd like to kill the guy who did it," the sophomore added with great conviction.

"To spare Mrs. King from having to return to Memphis?" Henry Bowman asked, deadpan. The others looked at him oddly, but no one said anything in reply.

"Everybody at the paper's expecting real trouble," a short brown-haired girl broke in. Her father worked on the editorial page of the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, one of two dailies that served the metropolitan area. "Dad's afraid we'll have riots."

The girl's father was not the only person in St. Louis to hold that opinion.

"Jesus Christ, do you think you've got enough ammo?" the Mayor of Wellston asked his Chief of Police as he watched the man bring two more cans and put them on the pile. There were now over forty of the metal boxes stacked up against the air vent. It was the first time the Mayor had been on the roof of City Hall, and he marvelled at the number of cigarette butts he saw on die tarpaper. He turned his attention back to the current project.

"And do you really think this is a good idea?" The mayor was not at all sure that placing a live, tripodmounted, heavy-barreled Browning .50 caliber belt-fed machine gun (effective range: 7300 yards) on the edge of the roof of the Wellston City Hall was the most appropriate response to local concerns about possible rioting. "We likely won't see any trouble in this area at all," he added. His tone showed more hope than conviction. Wellston was one of the poorer areas of St. Louis, and in poor neighborhoods, crime is often a major issue. Both the mayor and the police chief knew that any breakdown in security would be recognized as a perfect opportunity by potential looters.

"You're damned right we won't see any trouble," the chief said with mild indignation. His face glistened with sweat from the effort of lugging an 80-pound gun, 40-pound tripod, and several thousand rounds of linked ammunition up from the storeroom. His smile was bright. "Put ol' Ma Deuce up here where every damned one with a mind to bust windows and loot can get a good long look, with me or Jack sitting behind her. Won't be any riot here. Old Uncle drilled it into my head real well in Korea: You take care of Ma Deuce, and she'll take care of you." He looked intently at the Mayor. "You recall any riots in Wellston when they had that mess in Watts back in '65?"

The mayor shook his head. They had erected the big Browning on the roof three years earlier, during the riots in California. They had also called a meeting with local ministers and other community leaders, so that the members of their congregations could be encouraged to take similar measures to protect their homes and businesses. Delinquents in Wellston got the clear message that looting would not be tolerated, and that 'You loot, we shoot' was official city policy. The M2 Heavy Barrel .50 BMG on the roof of City Hall had been a constant reminder of that during the Watts riots. Wellston had avoided the violence and theft that plagued other areas.

As it turned out, the strategy was once again exactly right. Would-be rioters in Wellston rapidly concluded that other neighborhoods offered more opportunity, and Wellston remained peaceful. "Got a safari planned any time soon, Mr. Baxter?" Al Goodman asked in his nasal monotone. Most gun shop conversations across the country that day centered around the King assassination, but at Goodman's the talk, as always, revolved around fine guns and big-game hunting.

"No, got another baby on the way. Maybe in a couple of years. And when I go again, it won't be to Portuguese Angola. Those bohunks are the worst excuse for professional hunters I've ever seen in my life." The man shook his head in disgust at the memory. "They can't imagine doing any stalking on foot-they want you to do all your shooting out of the jeep. And they don't have a clue where to look for the game; I ended up being the guide most of the time."

Max Collins, who was several yards away looking at a Perazzi trap gun, listened in. He had been considering a safari himself, and the booking agent had been pushing him to sign up for three weeks in Angola. The man who was speaking was about thirty. Max had seen him in Goodman's before, and knew him vaguely. He listened as the younger man continued.

"I think Rhodesia, next time," Baxter went on. "That, or back to Kenya, but I'd like to go someplace new." "The booking agent I've been talking to has been pushing Angola," Max said, joining the conversation.

"They always recommend whatever they've sent people on before. That's fine if they've got some basis for comparison, but a lot of these guys have never even been to Africa themselves, and push whoever'll give them the fattest percentage. I'm in insurance, so believe me, I know how that works."

"Sounds like you've got some experience there. You'd advise against Angola?"

"Don't get me wrong-there's all kinds of game in Angola right now. It's just that the Portuguese guides are atrocious, if mine was typical, and I think he was. Give you an example, the pro I had, the trigger on his rifle was screwed up, and he never had it fixed. Striker wouldn't stay cocked unless he put the safety on while he was closing the bolt. Then the gun would fire when he took the safety off."

"So he didn't back you up?"

"That was the problem-no backup would have been fine with me. This idiot used his gun the way it was."

"What do you mean? He'd...close the bolt while engaging the safety, then fire it by flicking the safety off instead of pulling the trigger?"

"Exactly." Baxter paused for effect, then added, "And he said his gun had been that way for over a year." Max shook his head in amazement. Then Baxter remembered something.

"Now, I did meet a white hunter while I was over there who was born here in the states. Don't know much else about him, only talked to him at the airport. Seemed to know his stuff, though. If you're serious about going to Angola, I think you should try to find out more about him."

"Who is he?"

"Guy from-where was it?-Colorado, I think he said. Young for a pro; about my age. His name is Raymond Johnson."

Walter Bowman was down to 105 pounds. He had survi ved ten months longer than the twelve weeks that the cancer specialists had privately given him to live, but it was evident that now all of his reserves had been exhausted. He had been unable to speak for several days.

Henry waved the private nurse out of the way, sat down next to the bed, and took his father's hand. He stared down at the husk of what had so recently been a very strong man. Henry looked at his father for a long time. Walter's eyes were still clear. After a time, the stricken man shook his head almost imperceptibly. Henry saw the gesture immediately. He swallowed.

"It's time, isn't it?"

Walter Bowman's head moved a fraction of an inch in a nod.

Henry nodded in reply. "Keep the front cockpit open for me, Dad. We'll go flying the next time I see you."

Henry felt his hand clasped in a powerful grip that shocked him with its intensity, and he instinctively returned it. As quickly as they had become taut, his father's muscles went slack.

Walter Bowman was dead.

June 5, 1968 "Oh, my God!" Catherine Bowman exclaimed.

"What is it, Mom?" Henry asked, racing into the family room where his mother sat in front of the television set.

"Bobby Kennedy's been shot. Just after midnight, at a reception at some hotel in California."

Her son sat down on the couch without taking his eyes off the television screen. The newsman was explaining what he had been told so far: The shooting had happened at the celebration following Kennedy's victory in the California primary for the 1968 Presidential election. A young man, apparently from a middle eastern country, had shot the senator with a pistol. The number of shots was not known. The gunman had been wrestled to the floor and disarmed. Robert Kennedy had been rushed to the hospital. His condition at the moment was not known, either.

It would later come out that pro football star Roosevelt Grier had been one of those who had thrown Sirhan B. Sirhan to the floor and ripped the gun out of his hand, and that Grier had broken the shooter's finger in the process of doing this.

People across the entire country had an eerie feeling of deja vu as they sat riveted to their television sets, watching the news. Catherine Bowman was no exception.

Henry Bowman's mother was overpowered by two very different sets of feelings. First of all, she was no fan of the Kennedy family. When she was growing up, she had watched the man who had made his fortune through stock manipulation and bootlegging liquor be appointed head of the Securities and Exchange Commission, and later Ambassador to England. She had then seen the Ambassador's admiration for the Nazi regime that had nearly killed her brother, and she had always despised the man and his obvious assumption that his sons were the rightful heirs to Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and the good Roosevelt.

Those feelings, however, did not change the horror Catherine Bowman felt at the thought of a woman having two of her sons slain by murderers. No one should have to experience the loss of a child, and Catherine Bowman's heart went out to Rose Kennedy for what she had endured.

Henry's mother realized with a start that she had felt exactly this way once before. More than twenty years earlier, she'd heard the news that two atomic bombs had been dropped on Japan, over 100,000 Japanese citizens had been killed, Japan had surrendered, and American servicemen including her brother Max were coming home instead of being sent to invade the Japanese mainland. Her thoughts then were the same as those she had now: How horrible and Thank God.

"It's just like his brother," she breathed in disbelief. "He's dead."

"Maybe not, Mom. We don't know how bad it is, yet," Henry said, not very convincingly.

Catherine Bowman was absolutely right in her first comment. A second Kennedy son had just been shot, allegedly by another young, disillusioned misfit with ties to a third-world country. All witnesses would state that the assailant had approached the Senator from the front, yet the three bullets had entered Kennedy's body from the rear. The number of bullet wounds inflicted upon Kennedy and five other people, combined with the number of bullet holes in the walls and ceiling of the surrounding room, was absolutely astonishing considering that the supposedly lone assassin had used one .22 caliber revolver and nothing else. Guests who told police investigators they had seen other men with guns would have their testimony ignored.

All this would be a bit much for many people to be expected to accept for the second time, and questions about both assassinations would persist for decades.

Catherine Bowman was wrong in her latter statement, however. Robert Kennedy was in fact still alive. He had been shot once in the head and twice behind the armpit with a .22 caliber revolver. Due to the low power of the .22 cartridge and the perverse fact that the human brain can often sustain damage to certain areas with minimal apparent effect, a startling number of people have survived head wounds from .22 slugs and recovered fully.

Robert Kennedy was not one of those cases, however, and he was pronounced dead that afternoon at 1:44 p.m. California time.

"Like how it runs?" Max Collins asked his nephew. He and Henry were west of Wentzville, about seventy miles out of St. Louis heading for the live pigeon shoot in Reno, Nevada. Traffic on Interstate 70 that far west of the city was almost nonexistent, and the needle on the Impala's big speedometer held steady on 105.

"It's a lot quieter than I would have thought. Not nearly as noisy as your Riviera was."

"Not working as hard. Got a lot more motor than the Buick. Ron Winterhoff said I should let him do the heads, balance the crank, open up the exhaust, and drop the nose an inch and a half. Damn if that kid didn't know exactly what he was talking about. This 427 Chevy is twice the car that Buick ever dreamed of being."

To make his point, Max pushed his right foot down until the accelerator lay against the carpet. The big V8's exhaust note dropped half an octave, and then both it and needle on the speedometer started to climb. The pointer was closing in on the far right side of the gauge as the full-size Chevy's speed continued to increase. Max relaxed his right foot, and the noise stabilized along with the car's rate of travel. Wind noise and the sound of the engine precluded normal conversation, but the ride was remarkably vibration-free. It felt to Henry as if the car could travel all day at this rate, the Highway Patrol notwithstanding. Max held the car at this speed for almost ten minutes, during which time he and his nephew covered over twenty-two miles and passed nineteen other vehicles. Henry stretched his legs out in front of him and took a deep breath. He and his uncle were both having a very good time.

Max Collins eased off on the throttle when a cluster of five or six cars appeared in the distance. By the time he and Henry caught up to them, he had slowed the Impala so that it matched their velocity of seventy miles per hour.

"I wish the people around here would learn to stay in the right lane if they're not passing anyone. Seems like the folks in this part of Missouri have never heard of proper lane discipline." Henry waited for his uncle to start swearing under his breath at the drivers of the cars in the left lane. Max hated inept drivers. Max, however, stayed to the right and dropped back several lengths. He showed no evidence of irritation, and Henry smiled in understanding. He's having too good a time, heading off to Reno for a big-money pigeon shoot. Even left lane bandits can't spoil his day.

Ever since his airborne experience in the 1944 Normandy invasion, Max Collins had preferred traveling by car for any trip of less than 2000 miles. This was especially true if he himself were able to do the driving, and he was in his own car. Max Collins had great appreciation for competent, high-speed road cars that could carry him and all his gear safely, reliably, and comfortably. The ported, balanced, and lowered 1967 Impala Super Sport that he and Henry were piloting across the country was the best vehicle he had ever owned for that task.

Max Collins was not the only person in the car who was in a good mood. Fifteen-year-old Henry Bowman hadn't smiled so much since his father had been alive and healthy. Max had invited the boy to join him on the ten-day trip to Reno, and Henry had begged his mother to be allowed to go. Catherine had readily agreed. July Fourth was normally Henry's favorite holiday. Without Walter, it had been very sad for both the boy and his mother, but for Henry especially. Max's idea to invite Henry to go to Reno had been an inspired one. There was a big gun show in Reno at the same time as the highest-purse live pigeon shoot in the entire country.

Max had given Henry a Winchester Model 70 in .375 H&H Magnum two years before, and the rifle was now in a case in the Impala's trunk along with Max's pigeon guns. Goodman's had taken it in on trade from an elk hunter who thought it kicked too much, and since it had a few scratches in the buttstock, Al Goodman hadn't given much for it. Henry was delighted with the weapon, and had wasted no time ordering a thousand fired cartridge cases from the Winchester factory and variety of bullets and powders to work up loads. The big dangerous-game rifle grouped almost as well as his target rifle when using ammunition loaded with inexpensive 235-grain Speer bullets and a case full of Hodgdon's surplus 4831 powder. He'd been shooting the gun several times a week since school ended.

"Do you really think there'll be any place I can shoot a rifle at the shotgun range?" Henry asked his uncle.

"Hell, yes, kid. It's out in the middle of a goddamned desert-nothing but sand and cactus and maybe a few lizards crawling around. There wouldn't be any people at all in the state if the bluenoses in California had ever had sense enough to allow gambling." Max saw an opening in traffic and accelerated past the other cars, once again letting the big coupe stretch its legs.

"It's a damned shame I can't get you interested in shotguns. There's a hell of a lot more money in one major trap or pigeon shoot than in a whole year's worth of all the rifle and pistol matches put together." Henry smiled, but said nothing. Shotguns are okay, but they're kind of boring he thought. Max glanced over at him, almost able to read his mind. "Hell, I shouldn't say that," Max relented. "Truth is, I like rifles and pistols better myself. A damn shame you can't make any money with them, though." His face took on a look of irritation as he thought of something else.

"We'll be shooting BB guns before it's all over, if the sons-of-bitches in Washington have their way. That fucking Ay-rab. With a goddamned starter's pistol..." Max left the sentence unfinished. The weapon Sirhan had actually used was an H&R, and Max knew it, but his disgust was quite plain. The idea of an American figure and his Secret Service protectors being bested by a Middle-Eastern street punk with a weapon of only slightly better quality than the blank guns used at track meets was something Max Collins found much more offensive than the basic concept of killing a public servant.

Henry scowled at his uncle's last comments. After the King and Kennedy assassinations, which had come less than three months apart, there had been a frenzy of activity as politicians loudly proclaimed the need for new restrictions on firearm purchase and ownership. Whatever's coming he thought, it's not going to be good.