Shift: A Novel

Dallas, TX

November 21, 1963

He was disoriented when he opened his eyes. His senses were cloudy: vision blurry, hearing muffled, skin floating a fraction of an inch off his body. His limbs were so sluggish that he thought he was tied up again, and he thrashed to free himself.

“Easy there,” a voice came to him. “You’re okay.”

He sat up quickly, his head whipping from side to side. A bed. A sour-smelling room. Grimy green walls, cigarette-scarred furniture. A strange man sitting in a straight-backed chair with a glass in his hand, his delicate-boned face full of concern—first for the man on the bed, but then, when he realized what the man was going to do, for himself.

“Chandler, no! It’s BC! I’m your friend!”

The man on the bed launched himself into the air. His hands shot from his sides like striking snakes. A blow to the chin, the gut, the chin, the gut. The man in the chair toppled to the floor and his assailant ran for the door.

“Chandler, wait! I can help you find Naz.”

The man paused.

Naz.

He turned.

“BC?”

BC daubed at the blood on his lip. “Chandler? Are you back?”

For a moment Chandler just stood there, wavering slightly. Then his nose wrinkled. “Since when do you drink whiskey?”

BC retrieved his glass, poured a fresh round for himself and Chandler. “I’ve learned that a little drink takes the edge off.”

He handed a glass to Chandler, which the latter tossed back gratefully, then poured himself another.

“You sure you want to do that?” BC said, sipping at his drink. “You’ve been out for twenty-four hours.”

“Twenty-five actually. And eleven minutes. How’d you get me away from Melchior? No, wait. How’d you find me in the first place?”

“The Company has a tap on Song’s phone. A friend in Langley pulled the tapes for me. Turns out she put in a call to Jack Ruby two days ago, right after Melchior was sent here, asking if he was looking for any new dancers.”

Chandler nodded. “And? After you got there?”

“One of the dancers called Dallas’s finest. I flashed my badge, told them you were wanted in connection with a major drug trafficking ring.”

“Melchior—”

“He got away. I’m sorry.”

BC would have expected Chandler to be bothered by this news, but all he said was, “What about Naz?”

“I spoke to Ruby. He said Song never sent him a girl.”

“He’s lying. I saw it in Ivelitsch’s mind.”

“What did you see?”

Chandler wracked his brain, trying to sort through the thousands of fragments of various consciousnesses that now took up space in his own head.

“Melchior. He called them. He told them to send Naz here.”

“But did you ever see them actually send Naz here?” When Chandler shook his head, BC said, “I think the whole thing was a trap. Melchior’s order, Song’s call to Ruby. It was all designed to get you here.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Melchior knows it’s impossible to lie to you, so he did the next best thing. He fed Ivelitsch and Song false information, figuring you’d probably end up at Song’s establishment sooner or later. The call to Ruby was just insurance. In case—oh, Jesus.”

BC jumped for the phone.

“What’s wrong?”

BC ignored Chandler. He screwed ten digits into the phone, tapping his foot impatiently as the dial scrolled back between every number.

BC swilled his drink. “Come on, Jarrell, pick up.”

“What is it?” Chandler insisted.

“Melchior must’ve suspected someone was watching him at CIA. If he finds out it was Jarrell—” He slammed the phone down, dialed another number. “May I speak with Charles—I’m sorry, with Virgil Parker?” There was a pause, and then BC’s face fell. “When did this happen?” he said, and then, “No, I don’t need to speak to anyone else. Thank you.”

“BC?” Chandler said. “What’s going on?”

“Charles Jarrell’s house burned down this afternoon.”

“He was killed?” Chandler said, and when BC nodded: “You think it was Melchior? But what’s this Jarrell fellow got to do with me or Naz?”

“Nothing.”

“Then—”

“Don’t you get it? Melchior wanted us to know he was going to be here. He’s killing everyone who’s seen his face or knows something about him.”

“You think he’s going to kill us?”

“Me? Yes. You, I don’t know. Depends on whether he still thinks he can use you.” BC’s hand trembled as he reached for his glass. “It’s my fault. Jarrell told me I compromised him by going to his house, and then I kept going.” He looked up at Chandler. “But he was my only lead to you.”

“You can’t blame yourself, BC. Melchior dragged you into this. Melchior had him killed.” When BC didn’t say anything, Chandler said, “Why’s he here anyway, if he wasn’t bringing Naz to Ruby’s club?”

“He was sent here to bring in an operative called Caspar.”

“Do you have an address for him?”

“Four, plus his work. The addresses are all in rooming houses, though, which means there are going to be other people around.”

“So?”

“Chandler, please. I know how anxious you are, but you have to be reasonable. In the first place, if we cause a disturbance, someone’s likely to call the police. And since you’re supposed to be in federal custody, that’s not going to look good—especially when they find out I’m carrying forged FBI credentials. And if Caspar’s armed, someone could get hurt.”

“I’m not worried—”

“Not us, Chandler. Other people. We can’t risk their lives to save Naz.”

Chandler slammed his fist into the bedside table.

“Look,” BC said. “I know you’re frustrated. But it’s two in the a.m. Melchior’s either already seen Caspar, or he’ll find him tomorrow. We’ll intercept them in the morning.”

Chandler was so jumpy his hands were twitching. He was afraid he was going to hit something again—he was afraid he was going to hit BC—so he got up and paced the tiny room, trying to stamp the nervous energy out of his body.

As he passed the bed, he saw the newspaper lying on top of the blanket.

PRESIDENT ARRIVES IN FT. WORTH FOR CAMPAIGN TRIP

He picked it up, stared at it a moment, then tossed it away.

“I meant to ask you. That picture in the paper.”

BC looked up in confusion. “The president?”

“The boy. The burning boy.” Chandler walked to the bottle, poured two more drinks. “How did you know that was me?”

“Oh.” BC’s eyes glazed over for a moment, then he snapped back into focus. “Because it came from my mind.”

“It’s—you?”

BC shook his head. “It’s my nightmare. You must have seen it when I came to Millbrook.”

“You were at Millbrook?”

“At the end. When Melchior took you and Naz.” He sipped at the drink Chandler handed him. “My father was in Korea. It was a horrible war, he said. Pointless. Millions of civilians killed on both sides, only to end up right where we were before the whole thing started. He said they used a new kind of weapon. It’s called napalm. A liquid, extremely flammable. The infantry was usually far away when the bombers went in, but my father told me one time they got the timing wrong. His unit was only half a mile outside the drop zone—a city of about fifty thousand. The flames were two, three hundred feet high. Entire buildings turned into ash in seconds. Most of the inhabitants died instantly, of course, but the people on the outskirts of town weren’t so lucky. My father said he could see them. Dark shadows outlined against the flames. They’d jerk around like puppets and then fall down. But one boy got a little farther. Far enough for my father to see that he wasn’t dark at all. His entire body was consumed by flames. My father said he ran straight at them and they just watched him come. It was like, if he reached them, if he touched them and set them on fire, it was what they deserved.” BC shook his head slightly. “But he fell down before he reached them. Of course. It was a quarter mile. No one could’ve covered that distance. Not on fire.”

Chandler’s mouth hung open a moment.

“I’d say something about what a terrible world we live in, but what’s the point?”

BC shrugged. “I don’t know why it made such a big impression on me. I mean, it was my father’s memory, not mine. But I’ve dreamed of him for years. That boy. I don’t think he was going to attack them. I think he was going to tell them something.”

“Tell them what?”

“I don’t know. Warn them maybe.”

“Warn them?”

“That there are consequences. That no victory is ever clean, or total.” He looked up at Chandler. “We’ll find her, Chandler. I don’t care how long it takes.”

Chandler didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “Do you have any acid?”

BC pulled a small rectangle of blotter paper from his pocket. “Courtesy of Richard Alpert. If you’d just waited for me—”

“Okay, okay,” Chandler said, laughing BC’s protest away. “At least we don’t have to worry about that.” He reached for the bottle and poured a couple of tall drinks. Six hours later, when BC woke up, thickheaded, dry-mouthed—and completely naked—Chandler was gone.