by Tim Kring
“Ah, here they are. Leave a note for Helen to order me another pair tomorrow, would you, Clyde.”
“Already did.” A pause, then: “Your dinner disagreeing with you, John?”
“What? No. Just”—an audible sniff—“someone used too much Lysol when they cleaned tonight.”
A chuckle. “I’ll have someone fired, okay, John?”
The chair squeaked as Hoover stood up. “Very funny, Clyde. I want them shot.” A guffaw, then: “Come on, let’s go home.”
Footsteps receded across the carpet.
“So’d you hear about Caspar?”
“The friendly ghost?”
“Just came back from Mexico City. Spent a few days trying to get a visa to Russia.”
“Didn’t he just come back from there?”
“Last year.”
“Interesting. I wonder what the Company’s cooking up now.”
“The Dallas office sent a man to his house twice, but he’s been conveniently out both times, so they’re going to pay him a visit where he wo—”
A sputtering motorcycle on the street below drowned out the director’s voice, and by the time it sped away the door to the Vault had closed. BC waited a moment to make sure they were gone, then let out the biggest sneeze of his life.
TWA Flight 2697, SFO to Idlewild
November 7–8, 1963
Melchior did his best to relax on the flight back to DC. It was hard. His brain was whirring and whizzing around like clock parts spun free from each other, cogs, gears, levers, and arrows all floating free inside the vast cavernous space that was his mind. Because that’s what Chandler had done. He’d made Melchior’s brain real to him. Physical. Not physical like a bunch of cells, but physical like a space. A place. An underground city populated by memories so far gone that he’d forgotten he’d forgotten them. Chandler’d walked around his mind like a beat cop, poking his nose in this door, peeping through that window. Who knew how much he’d seen, how much he’d learned before Melchior, with a supreme effort of will, had been able to lead him to that particular memory. To the one event in his life he’d taken greater care to conceal than anything else. He suspected that he’d only half chosen it. That Chandler had gone looking too. For the thing that had turned Melchior into Melchior. Well, it certainly explained the narrative of his life. Whether it explained his character was anybody’s guess.
And then … what? What the fuck had Chandler done? He’d made it real somehow. Melchior knew it had just been an illusion. But there was no way you could’ve convinced him of that while it was going on. He’d been twelve years old again, Caspar was four, the Wiz was still compos mentis, and Doc Scheider was still looking for guinea pigs to turn into zombies. But at the same time he was still Melchior, the thirty-three-year-old field agent whose two decades of experience changing identities the way other people change clothes had made him able to see this history as just another illusion, just another legend. He’d watched himself with an unparseable combination of hope and hatred, unsure which were his feelings now and which the feelings of the boy in the orphanage. And even as he raised the slingshot and fired at the Wiz, he couldn’t decide if he was making the biggest mistake of his life. If he should have killed the man who stole his life—stole his life but gave him a new one in exchange—rather than impressing him with his marksmanship.
And now, like the Wiz, he’d made his own discovery. As assets go, Chandler was off the charts. There’d never been anything like him before, and if the information Melchior had gathered on Ultra and Orpheus was complete, there never would be again. It wasn’t some new drug that Joe Scheider had cooked up that had turned Chandler into Orpheus and could create a legion of similarly super-powered soldiers. Logan had given the same cocktail to too many people for that to be true. No, it was something inherent in Chandler. Call it a gene, call it a receptor, call it the Gate of Orpheus, but if anyone else out there possessed it, the chance of that person getting hold of the kind of pure LSD that Chandler had been given was virtually nonexistent. All Melchior had to do now was figure out how to control him—though he had a pretty good idea how to do that. Because all the time Chandler had been poking around in his brain, he’d been looking for something. For someone. Naz. Melchior was pretty sure he hadn’t found out what had happened to her, because if he had, he would have ripped Melchior’s mind apart. Four days he’d known her, and he’d apparently spent several of those in a delirium. Yet the immensity of his desire was such that Melchior knew that as long as he could keep Naz’s fate a secret, he could control Chandler. Melchior had bedded women on five continents, but he’d never felt a thousandth of what Chandler felt for Naz. She must have been something else in the sack.
It was funny that he hadn’t seen what had happened to her though. He’d missed a few things, chief among them Melchior’s real name, and Caspar’s. Who knows, maybe it was because it’d been so long since he’d thought of himself as anything other than Melchior, or thought of Caspar as anything other than Caspar. Or maybe Chandler was so overwhelmed by his newfound abilities that he couldn’t fully control where they took him—if Melchior’s brain was a city, then it was a labyrinth on the order of Venice or Paris, and Chandler lacked a map and could only fumble about blindly, looking for beacons or signposts that stood out in the maze. That day in the orphanage was certainly a landmark. It was the day the Wiz gave him a chance at a life that mattered. But the name he’d had that day, that name hadn’t meant shit. If someone called it out on the street, he wouldn’t even turn around. Caspar, of course, still had to go by his real name, but it was a hollow symbol at this point, as unreflective of the man who bore it as the dog-eared copy of Marx he carried into boot camp.
The love, though. That had been real. Melchior had loved pale, pudgy, defenseless Caspar more than he’d ever loved himself, and, too, he knew Caspar’s first loyalty would always be to him, no matter how much Joe Scheider fucked with his head.
If all was going to plan, he should’ve been back in the States, an American “defector” having been “doubled” by the KGB. He wondered if Drew Everton or whoever the hell debriefed him would put any more stock in his intel than they had in Melchior’s, or if Caspar would end up out on his ass. In which case, who knows? Maybe the friendly ghost was looking for a new job.
The thought of Caspar reminded Melchior of BC. The two men shared a quality of naivete and misplaced trust in authority figures. He’d done his best to destroy Beau’s faith in men like J. Edgar Hoover and John F. Kennedy during their train ride, but he doubted he’d succeeded. The young FBI agent was simply too much of a momma’s boy, and it sounded like his mother had been a piece of work. But who knows what kind of effect Millbrook had had on him? Melchior couldn’t help but wonder if BC had found the ring he’d hidden in the cottage wall, and, if so, if he’d taken the bait. In a way, Melchior almost hoped he hadn’t, because if he did manage to track down Melchior, Melchior would have to kill him. BC may have been a suit without a soul, but he was no Drew Everton. Drew Everton was someone Melchior wouldn’t mind killing. Not at all.
Just then a stewardess came down the aisle. She refilled his drink and plumped a pillow behind his head, leaning so close that Melchior could’ve bitten her tit if he’d wanted to.
“Do you need anything else?” the stewardess asked, then, almost reluctantly, added, “Sir.”
“No thank you, darling,” Melchior said, and anyone looking at his smile would’ve thought he’d already banged her. “I’m pretty sure I got everything I need.”
San Francisco, CA
November 8, 1963
Again the prick, again the swimming to consciousness. Chandler felt like a fish irresistibly drawn to a fisherman’s hook yet thrown back each time for being too small. When would he be big enough to keep? Which begged the question: when would he be big enough to kill?
Keller stood over him with the usual array of tools. His movements were slow but precise, and Chandler knew even without trying to push into the do
ctor’s brain that he’d dosed himself with Thorazine already. The drug turned Keller’s brain into something soft yet impenetrable. Chandler had pushed at it last night but had never been able to get inside. Now, with the LSD gone from his system, all he felt was a staticky void where Keller’s consciousness should have been, and, pulling once against his restraints, he closed his eyes and waited for the next shot. But this time Keller had something to say to him first.
“Mr. Melchior was nice enough to provide you with some company. I think you will find him very interesting.”
Chandler opened his eyes, looked around the little room again. All he saw was Keller, preparing the shot of LSD as he had yesterday, the empty bed where Melchior had lain, the dark window beyond. But at the edge of his perception he felt a tingling. Not Keller’s brain, but someone else’s. A friable consciousness that seemed to crumble when he pushed at it, glinting like dust motes in a beam of sunlight. It was like no other mind he’d ever felt before. He found himself wondering if it was an infant’s, or a monkey’s. He was almost eager for the shot, to find out what kind of brain this was.
Keller injected him and left the room. A moment later light erupted from the other side of the dark window. A disheveled—decrepit—man stood in the middle of a room about the size of the one Chandler was in, though in lieu of hospital accoutrement it was filled with stacks and stacks of sagging shoe boxes. The man was clearly itinerant—his clothes bedraggled and filthy, his hair unwashed in so long that it hung off his head in tangled ropes an inch thick. A beard as coarse and matted as a sheet of felt covered his mouth and fell halfway down his chest. His features were so lost inside filth and hair that he could have been twenty-five or fifty-five.
A crackle, and Keller’s voice came over a speaker mounted on the wall.
“This is Sidewalk Steve.”
Chandler felt a flush spreading over his skin, knew it was from the amphetamines Keller had used to wake him up. But the itch underneath the flush was the acid, working its way toward his brain.
“Sidewalk Steve is a literary man, like you. He is a great fan of Kenneth Kesey.”
The acid filled him with a nervous energy, and Chandler tried to fight the twitching in his arms. A pink slit had appeared in Sidewalk Steve’s beard: a smile. His grubby fingers were snatching at invisible shapes in the air.
“One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is a turgid example of solipsistic, nihilistic American romanti-romanti-romanticism,” Chandler managed to spit out, doing his best to resist the insane images beginning to flicker into his consciousness from Sidewalk Steve’s.
“He claims to have taken more than a thousand acid trips,” Keller continued. “He is also a diagnosed schizophrenic. The line between reality and fantasy ceased to exist for him long ago, so if you’re going to make an impression on him, you’re going to have to try harder than you have before. Nothing you can pull from his mind will scare him. You will have to supply something of your own.”
Chandler closed his eyes, which brought out Sidewalk Steve’s visions more clearly. Polychromatic bubbles floated in the air around him. When he touched them, they popped, revealing naked, shockingly nubile pixies, who flitted away from his fingers.
“What about … an image of … your face?”
“Sidewalk Steve is a bad man. He needs to be punished.”
Sidewalk Steve’s brain was like a cross between a magnet and quicksand. It seemed to suck Chandler in and down, into a soup of chicken broth and breasts and rainbows. Chandler opened his eyes and concentrated on the bare wall in front of him, tried to pull his brain from Steve’s.
“I—I don’t understand.”
“He has shirked his duty to class and country, just as you have. I want you to punish him the way you know you deserve to be punished. In return, Miss Haverman will not be harmed while she remains in custody.”
“Naz!” Chandler felt his heart beat faster, and in the other room Sidewalk Steve jumped backward, as who knew what apparition appeared in front of him. “Naz is alive?”
There was a pause, and Chandler could have sworn he heard Keller curse under his breath.
“Is she alive?” Chandler demanded again, jerking uselessly at his restraints. “Where is she? You have to tell me where she—”
“I want you to show Sidewalk Steve how bad you think he is,” Keller’s voice practically shrieked from the loudspeaker. “I want you to devise his punishment. Do you understand me, Orpheus? Don’t take something from Steve’s mind. Make it up yourself, and show it to him.”
“Where—is—Naz?” Chandler demanded, and in the other room Sidewalk Steve jumped again, whirled around, jumped back one more time, his hands batting at the air.
“The only way you will see Miss Haverman again is if you do as I tell you. Punish Steve, Chandler. Punish him as you deserve to be punished, and I will make arrangements for you to see Miss Haverman again.”
“Please,” Chandler hissed. “Don’t hurt her. I’ll do anything, just don’t hurt her.”
In the other room, Sidewalk Steve was swatting at the air, squinting and ducking as though a swarm of bees were buzzing out of the sky around him. He smacked at his skin, danced from one leg to the other as though snakes or crocs snapped at his legs.
“It’s your fault we have her,” Keller said implacably. “If you’d done what you were supposed to, you would’ve never ended up here. Never would have dragged Miss Haverman into it with you.”
Keller’s disembodied voice had acquired an echo, and an outline as well. Pink, puffy clouds came out of the speaker like particolored smoke. In the other room, Sidewalk Steve was tossing himself from one wall to another. The shoe boxes stacked in the room added their flimsy shape to whatever imagined terrors attacked him, and he grabbed them and ripped them to pieces, but whatever was attacking him wouldn’t be kept away. His mouth was open, but no sound penetrated the window.
“Please,” Chandler whispered, “don’t hurt her.”
“Oh, but she is hurting,” Keller hissed through the speaker, the pink smoke coiling out like a serpent, “and it’s all your fault. Now the only way for you to save her is to punish Steve. Create a hell for him and drop him in it. Do it, Chandler. Do it!”
“LET HER GO!” Chandler screamed, and from the other room came the faint echo of a reply.
“No.”
But there was no stopping it now. It walked through the door of Sidewalk Steve’s room like a flaming ghost. Chandler remembered it from Millbrook. From the cottage, right before Naz had been taken. The boy made of fire. But who was it, and why did it keep coming back? Was it friend or enemy?
But the apparition had no time for any of these questions. It swept Sidewalk Steve up in blazing arms and engulfed him in a corona of flames. Sidewalk Steve writhed in the inferno for two or three agonized seconds, then fell to the floor, his brain as blank as a freshly washed blackboard. Only his twitching fingers and feet gave any sign that he was alive.
But it wasn’t quite over yet. The flaming boy turned toward Chandler and stared at him through the window. Its eyes were empty, dark sockets, its mouth an open, questioning O, but what it was asking, what it offered, Chandler had no idea.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
But the boy just stared at him for another moment, and then, sputtering like a pilot light, he disappeared.
Washington, DC
November 8, 1963
The linoleum floor of the Salvation Army was coated with a layer of dirt that crunched beneath the soles of BC’s shoes. A mildewy tang floated through the moist air, over which came the faint sound of Christian Muzak and the hum of innumerable fluorescent tubes.
BC had never set foot in a thrift store before and was amazed at how big it was—a gymnasium-sized space filled with clothes that had been worn by other people. Not just worn. Worn in. Worn out. Though the silver-wigged old lady at the counter assured him all the clothes were washed before they were put on the racks, BC saw innumerable sweat-stained armpits and yel
lowed collars and any number of faint and not-so-faint bloodstains. There was even an entire rack of used underwear: limp boxers and listless jockey shorts, their leg bands stretched and flaccid from being pulled on a thousand times, their flies sadly puckered from who knew what kind of fumbled or fevered gropings. Though BC felt that it was somehow violating the industry standard not to take a disguise all the way down to the skin, there was no way in hell he was putting on another man’s skivvies.
Which still left him with the dilemma of trousers, shirt, jacket, hat. It was reasonable to assume Charles Jarrell’s house was being watched—at any rate, it was not unreasonable to assume. And, too, he wasn’t sure how Jarrell would react to a particularly G-man-looking G-man showing up on his doorstep. He might run, and BC would lose the closest thing to a lead he had to Melchior. BC had to get Jarrell to open the door. After that, he would worry about getting him to talk.
Many of the shirts had names sewn over the left breast—bowling shirts mostly, but also mechanic and gas jockey and repairman’s uniforms, the thick, shiny threads of their embroidered names often in better condition than the threadbare garments onto which they’d been stitched. That was American job security: your name, on a shirt. You knew you were there for a while. The names flashed by like index cards until:
CB
Red letters, green background. But that wasn’t what caught BC’s eye. It was, rather, the words below the name:
Hoover Vacuums
How could he resist?
It took twenty more minutes to find pants that matched the shirt’s green, a belt, a pair of battered shoes (he wasn’t about to destroy another pair of Florsheims). But the real coup was the cap. It wasn’t an actual Hoover cap, but it did bear the motto “Suck It Up.” After waving it around in what was probably a futile effort to dislodge any lice eggs, BC tried it on, glanced in the mirror. But even through the healthy coating of dust on the glass, all he saw was a G-man in a goofy cap.
