“He just got back from almost two years in the Soviet Union. Angleton thinks he might’ve been doubled by KGB, told Melchior he wants him brought in for more debriefing.”
“Do you have an address for him?”
“I took the liberty of looking that up, just in case.” Jarrell reached into a stack of papers. It was impossible to conceive that he could find anything amid the thousands and thousands of sheets of paper, but he had to sift through only a couple of pages before he pulled out a copy of the Dallas Times Herald. The front page was covered with hatch marks—no, not hatch marks, but a series of red and black X’s and O’s drawn around single letters. Jarrell scanned them a moment, then began copying out an address a letter at a time.
“I meant to ask you about that,” BC said. “The X’s and O’s.”
“Old cipher system from OSS days,” Jarrell said, moving on to a second address. “Computers made it pretty much obsolete, but I still use it. Keeps my mind sharp.” He was on to a third address, a fourth.
“Good lord,” BC said.
“Guy seems to move around a lot,” Jarrell said, although BC had been referring to the fact that somehow Jarrell had managed to encode four different addresses on the front page of a newspaper that had come out only that morning.
“This is the most recent address Everton had,” Jarrell said, tapping the first, “but they gave him these others too. This is the wife, who lives in Irving, a suburb of Dallas. The Bureau’s sent men out there a couple of times, but apparently he’s only around on the weekends.”
BC nodded absently. His eyes had been caught by the two-line headline that stretched almost all the way across the page.
PLEA FOR SPACE PLAN
KICKS OFF JFK TOUR
“BC?” Jarrell said.
“Melchior isn’t the only one going to Dallas, is he?”
Below the headline was a map of the president’s motorcade route. BC and Jarrell stared at the diagram—Main Street, Houston, Elm, and on to the Trade Mart—and then Jarrell wrote down a fifth address on the page, labeled it “Texas School Book Depository.”
“What’s that?” BC said.
“It’s where Caspar works.”
“Why are you—”
“Because it’s right there,” Jarrell said, circling the intersection of Houston and Elm on the motorcade map. “Right across from—”
“From Dealey Plaza,” BC finished for him, and reached for Jarrell’s bottle.
Dallas, TX
November 20, 1963
He was on his hands and knees. He had no idea how long he’d been—
A foot caught him in the side of the head and he went sprawling.
“I’m starting to wonder why I’ve invested so much energy in you,” Melchior said. “I mean, if you’re this easy to take out, what good are you?”
It felt like ice water was flowing through Chandler’s veins. His hands and feet were numb, his head a sodden pillow, save for the sharp pain where Melchior’s shoe had made contact.
Melchior kicked him again, and Chandler’s shoulder slammed against the wall. He slumped there, too heavy to move, head hanging, eyes staring at the dart dangling from his chest.
“What’s in the dart?” he said weakly.
“I believe the preferred term is fléchette.” Melchior giggled. “Thorazine mostly. Keller figured out that it protects our minds from you, although we have to chew amphetamines like vitamins to counteract the sedative effects. Between that and the other downers flowing in your veins, you should be out cold. I’ve been wondering for a while if whatever Logan gave you did more than change your brain. Now it looks like the answer is yes. Fortunately, however—”
Melchior popped another dart into the gun, leveled it at Chandler.
The numbness seemed to have peaked. Chandler felt that if he could just stay conscious for a few more seconds, he could figure out how to fight it.
“Why do you want me?” he said, stalling for time.
“Duh. You can do things no one else can. You could walk right up to Nikita Khrushchev in front of the Politburo and kill him with no one the wiser. You could kill anyone else for that matter, from the president of the United States to some two-bit guerrilla that someone was willing to pay five or ten grand to have knocked off. No facility would be secure, no mind safe, no target out of reach.”
“You have to know I’d never do those things for you.”
“You’d be surprised what people can be convinced of doing. A tape recording of Miss Haverman’s screams might prove to be very motivating.”
Chandler would have launched himself at Melchior if he could have mustered more than a twitch. But he could feel things changing inside him, the warmth coming back into his body, the strength beginning to return to his muscles. Just a few more minutes …
“Of course you’re right,” Melchior continued. “Coercion’s a poor substitute for voluntary action. At this point we’re less interested in you as an operative than a research tool. We’re pretty sure Logan gave you nothing but garden-variety acid, which means that whatever made you into you is inherent. In your genes, or your blood, or your brain. But wherever it is, whatever it is, Dr. Keller’s gonna find it and cut it out of you, and then we’re gonna make us a whole army of Orpheuses. So if you don’t mind”—Melchior raised his gun—“let’s just put you back to sleep and get you as far from Dallas as we can, cuz in a couple-a days no one’s gonna want to be anywhere near this town.”
Chandler gathered himself. He heard the click of the trigger, saw the dart’s needle emerge from the barrel. It was too late to dodge. He would have to—
His arm swung, his hand smacked against something. He wasn’t sure it was the dart until it thudded into the far wall.
The expression on Melchior’s face was half-stunned, half-delighted.
“Well now, that is impressive.”
Chandler launched himself at Melchior. The spy didn’t panic. Just brought the handle of his gun down on the back of Chandler’s head, slamming him to the floor. He stepped to the side and kicked Chandler toward the staircase. The spindly rails snapped and he clattered down the narrow treads.
“Yep,” he heard Melchior say at the top of the stairs. “I’d say the changes are definitely more than mental. Keller’s going to have a lot of fun taking you apart.”
Chandler managed to roll his bruised body through the doorway just before another dart pounded into the wall. He wasn’t sure how many darts Melchior had, but he wasn’t shooting like a man with a limited supply of ammo.
He ran toward the bar. As he ducked under the drop-down door, a figure stood up in front of him, gun in hand. The bartender. He wasn’t a threat—Chandler punched him six times before the man managed to open his mouth—but he’d had no sense of the man’s mind. His juice was gone. He was on his own.
He grabbed the gun on the floor, sighted on the doorway, and waited for Melchior to come through it. But no one came. Instead a voice called through the curtain.
“Chandler?”
The curtain rustled. A figure stepped through. It was BC.
“Chandler? Are you here?”
“BC! Get down!” But it was too late. Melchior’d somehow gotten behind BC, and now he pressed a gun to his temple—a real gun, Chandler saw, not the tranq shooter.
“Hail hail, the gang’s all here. Put down the gun, Chandler.”
“Chandler, go,” BC said firmly, calmly. “I’ll deal with Melchior.”
“Chandler, stay,” Melchior said, “or I deal with BC.” He knocked his gun against the detective’s temple. “I gotta tell you, Beau, you surprised me when you showed up at Song’s. I didn’t think you had that kind of initiative. But then I read up on you. You’re like a latter-day Melvin Purvis, ain’t you? Spotless case record, bright future ahead of you, but then you made the mistake of getting your picture in the paper, at which point J. Edna pulled you out of Behavioral Profiling and made you write book reports. You ever read that novel by Mr. Dick?”