Shift. Part 11

BC didn't let himself think about that either.

Jenny Burton answered the door, a baby on her hip, two others screaming in the room behind her.

"Oh, hi, Mr., um, Query?"

"Please," BC said, then added something that would have made his mother turn over in her grave. "Call me Beau-"

"Gerry!" Jenny pffted pffted a wisp of hair off her forehead. "Sit wherever's safe," she tossed over her shoulder-she hadn't actually invited him in-then disappeared into the kitchen. a wisp of hair off her forehead. "Sit wherever's safe," she tossed over her shoulder-she hadn't actually invited him in-then disappeared into the kitchen.

A small square of parquet inside the front door gave way to a marginally larger rectangle of carpet whose color was indiscernible beneath a layer of children's toys. A boy and a second child of indeterminate gender, both around three years old, were playing a private version of Monopoly that involved acting out the characteristics of their various pieces.

"No, horse jumps over hat, you moron!" the one who was definitely a boy screamed.

There was a heavy footstep on the stairs. BC knew little of Gerry Burton save that he was a big man and, apparently, virile. In addition to the three children present, BC was aware of at least two more.

"Mom! Jack called me a moron!"

Burton's progress down the stairs was a series of groans, creaks, whines, and wheezes, though it was impossible to tell which came from him, which from the complaining treads. He appeared in the doorway, a dark robe pulled over his white T-shirt, and stepped with exaggerated care around the toys scattered on the floor.

"Evening, Mr. Query." Burton had a cautious, curious look on his face. Everyone in the neighborhood knew BC worked for the FBI. "Pardon the mess. Five kids, you know. Tiny house. Jenny does the best she can."

"Dad! Jack called me a moron!"

"Hush up, Lane. Can't you see we got company?"

BC steeled himself.

"I'm sorry to have to come to you in your home, Mr. Burton."

Burton squinted, his small eyes disappearing into his plump cheeks, as though he were reading BC's words rather than listening to him speak. After a moment he nodded, as if he'd reached the end of the sentence. "What can I do for you?"

BC took a deep breath. "As you know, an enormous amount of sensitive material pa.s.ses through the Department of Justice Building, and it's vital that none of it be seen by the wrong eyes. I'm sorry to say that it's come to our attention that there have been several breaches in areas where you have been a.s.signed."

In the silence after BC finished, one of the children screamed, "Car parks inside hat! Inside Inside hat! In-SIDE hat!" hat! In-SIDE hat!"

"Jack."

Apparently Jack knew this voice. He grabbed Lane and hightailed it into the kitchen.

"Agent Query?" Burton said when his kids were gone. "No one called me. This the first I heard about it."

BC smiled and nodded. "In light of your excellent record, the director felt you deserved the courtesy of a personal visit." As soon as he spoke, BC almost kicked himself. What was he doing, mentioning the director? As if J. Edgar Hoover would take notice of something this trivial.

"But I got Level 3 clearance, Agent Query. It was renewed less'n six months ago."

"My mother spoke very highly of you," BC said, though he had no idea why he was mentioning her either. "I'm sure you've done nothing wrong. Nevertheless, there have been breaches-minor breaches, but breaches nevertheless-" He broke off, tripping over the fact that he'd used the word "nevertheless" twice in one sentence.

"Is this about that thing with Ashley? Because, you know, me and the wife've already-"

"No, no, it's nothing like that. Look, Mr. Burton, I'm sure you've done nothing wrong, but until we can find out exactly what happened, I'm afraid I'll need to collect your ID badge."

"I'll call the office," Burton said, stepping toward the phone. "I'm sure it's just a misunderstanding. Ashley and me was just-"

"Mr. Burton!" BC tried to make his voice forceful, but it just sounded desperate in his ears. "There's no one to call. I'm in charge of the matter." He held out his hand and prayed it wouldn't shake. "Your ID badge, please."

Burton's feet shuffled back and forth until something squeaked beneath them and he started. He walked dazedly to a side table and retreived his badge, then gave it to BC with a fatalistic air, as if he'd always known his time would come. BC couldn't help but think of the conductor on the train to New York. Mr. Handy. Did every black man in America feel this way? As though his existence continued on sufferance only? But that in turn made him think of Melchior. No, he thought, at least one black man in America was unwilling to live on handouts anymore. Two, if you counted Dr. King. Oh, and Malcolm- "Do you want to search the house or something?" Burton's somber voice broke into BC's reverie. "Cuz you'll see, we ain't got nothing to hide. We're honest people, Agent Query. We love this country. We wouldn't never breach security."

BC stuffed the badge in his pocket. "As I said, it's just an investigation, and, because of your close relationship to my mother, I'm going to handle it personally. In fact, I plan on returning to the office and clearing it up tonight. And I've made sure you'll be paid for the day. Think of it as a little vacation."

Burton sighed heavily and handed over the badge.

"Well, I wouldn't mind that. Be nice to sleep when it's dark out for a change." He stepped backward, and whatever had squeaked beneath him squeaked again. "G.o.d d.a.m.n-I mean, gosh. Gosh darn. We're crammed in this place like the old woman in the shoe."

"Indeed," BC said. He lingered on the parquet.

"Is there something else, Agent Query?"

"It's p.r.o.nounced Querrey," Querrey," BC said. "And I need your uniform, too." BC said. "And I need your uniform, too."

San Francisco, CA November 7, 1963

Melchior stared at Chandler Forrestal's body through the window of Chandler's makeshift hospital room like a father looking at his first child in the neonatal ward. Asleep, Orpheus looked like nothing so much as what he was: a twenty-eight-year-old white man with a face that was a little old Hollywood, a little new: Gary Cooper circa of Chandler's makeshift hospital room like a father looking at his first child in the neonatal ward. Asleep, Orpheus looked like nothing so much as what he was: a twenty-eight-year-old white man with a face that was a little old Hollywood, a little new: Gary Cooper circa The Virginian The Virginian crossed with the young star of crossed with the young star of Splendor in the Gra.s.s Splendor in the Gra.s.s, Warren Beatty. Even in a hospital robe there was something about him that could only be described as dashing, however fruity that sounded. He had that combination of hard muscles and soft hands that the children of privilege possess; the only lines on his body were faint wrinkles around his mouth from a lifetime of nervous frowning (although on Chandler they looked less like wrinkles than dimples). Melchior had read the files in BC's briefcase, so he knew about the money Chandler's family had had and lost, the Wall Street and Beltway connections that still leant a sheen to his name even if they'd long since evaporated. He'd also read everything the Bureau's spies inside CIA had managed to ferret out about Project Orpheus, which pretty much confirmed what Everton had said. Either they weren't telling him much, or there wasn't much to tell. Wh.o.r.es. LSD. Unwitting test subjects and one-way mirrors. Putting aside the scandal that would erupt if the Mary Meyer-Jack Kennedy connection came to light, it sounded like Ultra all over again, and ten years of Ultra had produced nothing besides a couple of Company Christmas parties that got out of hand. Certainly no one seemed to have expected what Melchior had experienced at Millbrook three days ago (although the thought of a telepathic president was enough to make him chuckle). If he were the kind of man p.r.o.ne to self-doubt, he might've tried to convince himself he'd dreamed the whole thing up, rather than attempt to figure out how Chandler had managed to project hallucinations into Melchior's head. But Melchior had never been wrong in his life.

"So, Doctor?" he said, turning to the other man in the room. "You've had seventy-two hours with Orpheus, not to mention ten thousand dollars to kit yourself out with all manner of toys. What have you learned?"

Heinrich Keller was almost the definition of nondescript: of medium height, medium coloring, medium age, he seemed to fade away if you looked at him directly. But if you glanced at him out of the corner of your eye, half listened to the things he said, you caught a glimmer of something. A hunger. His nickname in the SS had been der Anasthesiologe der Anasthesiologe, "the Anesthesiologist." Some people said it was because he put his interlocutors to sleep, but others said it was because he never, ever provided the same mercy to his subjects, no matter how much they begged or how loud they screamed.

"First of all," he said, his soft voice only mildly inflected by a German mad-scientist accent, "let's make sure we know what we're looking for. Have you confirmed what Agent Logan gave him?"

"I went through Logan's files as well as Scheider's, and everything else I could find about Ultra and Orpheus. Unfortunately, Agent Logan didn't survive his encounter with Orpheus, and it didn't seem prudent for me to ask Doc Scheider too many questions-"

"Because you told them Orpheus was dead," Keller said, a little smile twitching across his lips.

"Because it didn't seem prudent," Melchior repeated. "As far as I can tell, the only thing Logan had access to was pure LSD. A lot of LSD, but completely unadulterated. And he was spreading it around pretty widely too. Presumably if he'd been giving out some kind of altered or amped-up version of the drug, we'd have Orpheuses popping up all over the place-including the White House."

"So the president is safe," Keller said. "That still doesn't tell us much."

"That what's I hired you for."

"Indeed," the doctor said, and it was hard to tell if he was being ironic or ruminative. "So: it was difficult to do anything at first, since being around Orpheus when he's on LSD is disorienting, to say the least. However, it occurred to me that Thorazine, which has been used to bring people down from the 'acid trip,' might also protect the minds of the people around Orpheus when he's exercising his power. My surmise proved correct, and, after adding some Preludin to counteract the numbing effects of the Thorazine, I was able to make some progress with my observations. As near as I can tell," the doctor continued in his sibilant voice, "Orpheus externalizes LSD's hallucinatory effects. He pulls images from the unconscious minds of people around him and manifests them to their conscious senses."

"How do you know he's not making up the images himself?" Melchior asked, without looking away from Chandler. He lay unconscious on a hospital bed, an IV dripping into his arm, his ankles, wrists, and waist fastened to the bed by leather straps.

"Suffice it to say that he's produced some rather, ah, singular singular images during our time together." The smile flickered at the edges of Keller's mouth again. "However, I think Orpheus images during our time together." The smile flickered at the edges of Keller's mouth again. "However, I think Orpheus can can manufacture images of his own, once he grows more accustomed to his new ability. But for now he's seems to be like a television, only able to broadcast external data. But there's more." manufacture images of his own, once he grows more accustomed to his new ability. But for now he's seems to be like a television, only able to broadcast external data. But there's more."

"Namely?"

"I said Orpheus's power is like a television: it can only broadcast what it receives. But the similarity is deeper: the person supplying the content-the other mind-can, once the channel is open, push thoughts into Chandler's head."

"And you know this because?"

Keller looked up from his clipboard, and this time the smile was broad and constant. Melchior was torn between the urge to vomit or hit him in the face. "The first time I gave Orpheus a dose of LSD and felt him in my mind, I panicked. When I am afraid, I imagine myself in the position of some of my past subjects. In their place. It was so real that if I hadn't locked myself in the room adjoining Chandler's, I am sure I would have killed myself as Agent Logan did."

A part of Melchior was dying to know in what position, exactly, the ex-n.a.z.i had imagined himself, but Keller was still speaking.

"The second time I gave Orpheus the drug, I was more prepared. When I felt him feeling around in my mind, I pushed back, and for a few moments what I concentrated on is what manifested itself around me. It was hard to maintain focus, though, and the illusion faded after just a few seconds. But I think that if someone learned to discipline himself-"

"He could manipulate Chandler without him even knowing it."

"Exactly."

"It's very important that you keep this information from Chandler, Dr. Keller," Melchior said. "Presumably once he learns it, he can also learn to defend against it."

Keller nodded. "Of course, of course. Here," he continued eagerly, "take a look at this." He showed Melchior a couple of sheets of paper from an EEG printout. "This," he said, tapping a wavy line on the top sheet, "is Chandler's beta wave pattern after I gave him a combination of Thorazine and Valium to put him to sleep. And this"-the doctor pulled out the second sheet-"is Chandler's beta wave immediately after an LSD session, before I'd given him anything."

Melchior studied the two doc.u.ments. "They look the same."

"Exactly! Chandler's nervous system seems to go into a kind of stasis after he's been given LSD. First there's an incredible acceleration-his heart rate reaches two hundred beats per minute, yet at the same time he doesn't seem to feel any cardiac distress. And the trip itself only lasts for an hour or two, even though the normal duration is anywhere from eight to twenty-four. And then immediately afterwards he appears to go into some kind of hibernation so that his body can recover."

"Hibernation?"

"Look," the doctor said, pointing at Chandler through the gla.s.s.

"At what?"

"His face."

Melchior looked. "He's a good-looking guy, Doctor, but not exactly my type."

"There's no stubble! It's been at least four days since he shaved, but his cheeks are completely smooth! Nor has he urinated or had a bowel-"

"I get the picture, Doctor. So, what next?"

"There are still a thousand tests to run. But I need a subject. Someone on whom I can gauge the extent and effect of Chandler's abilities."

Melchior looked back at Chandler for a moment, and then his gaze flicked to the right. To a second bed, accoutred with straps like Orpheus's, but empty.

"I was hoping you'd say that."

Chandler felt the needle's p.r.i.c.k, the adrenaline entering his bloodstream. For the first time in days he became aware of his body, although it felt heavy, immobile, less flesh and blood than steel sarcophagus. Something flashed far off in the darkness that surrounded him, bright, fiery. The boy! The one who'd led Naz inside him, the one who had tried to save her right before she, before she ... before she disappeared. He tried to follow but his legs wouldn't obey him, and almost as soon as he'd appeared, the boy winked out of existence. The adrenaline was coursing through his veins now, nudging, prodding, accelerating. needle's p.r.i.c.k, the adrenaline entering his bloodstream. For the first time in days he became aware of his body, although it felt heavy, immobile, less flesh and blood than steel sarcophagus. Something flashed far off in the darkness that surrounded him, bright, fiery. The boy! The one who'd led Naz inside him, the one who had tried to save her right before she, before she ... before she disappeared. He tried to follow but his legs wouldn't obey him, and almost as soon as he'd appeared, the boy winked out of existence. The adrenaline was coursing through his veins now, nudging, prodding, accelerating. Wake up Wake up. Chandler stared at the after-image of the fiery angel until the last glow died away, and then, reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

Strange, but he knew what the room was going to look like before he saw it. The unpainted drywall, the crooked asbestos tiles in the ceiling, the metal cabinetry. A typical examining room, sure, but he knew this particular one before he opened his eyes. Knew, for example, that there was a wastebasket in the corner behind him. Army green on the outside, black on the inside, rust on the bottom from a mop pushing against it a thousand times.

He turned. There was the can. But how did he know it was there?

"Welcome back to the land of the living."

Chandler jerked his head around even as a wheeled stool creaked up to the side of the bed. He knew he was tied to the bed but he pulled once anyway, felt the restraints bite into his wrists and ankles. A man in his fifties sat on the stool, graying blond hair combed back from a pinched, pale face, white coat draped over his shoulders. Chandler thought he was the one who'd spoken until he saw the second bed off to the right, the second man.

"Howdy," this man said. A big man, with olive skin and curly hair coming free from a layer of brilliantine. The s.h.i.t-eating grin on his face seemed at odds with the fact that he, too, was tied in place.

"Who are you?" Chandler said.

"You'd be amazed how often I get asked that."

There was a clink, and Chandler turned to see that the older man had set a vial containing clear liquid on a metal tray. More to the point, he had a syringe in his hand, from which he was squeezing the air. A tiny bubble emerged from the tip of the syringe, and Chandler felt an ice cube of fear slide down his back. He pulled at the restraints again, uselessly.

"Where am I? What are you doing with me?"

"Settle down, Mr. Forrestal," the man on the bed said. "You're state property now, no point getting all worked up." He twitched one of his hands against his bonds. "Scratch my nose, would you, Keller?"

The man on the stool ignored him. Instead he wiped the hollow of Chandler's elbow with an alcohol swab. Chandler jerked at the chilly sensation, but of course his arm only moved a fraction of an inch.

"What are you talking about? And what in the h.e.l.l have you done with Naz?"

"Miss Haverman is no longer of concern."

"I swear to G.o.d, if you've hurt her-"

Chandler broke off as the needle entered his arm like a sliver of ice, freezing the blood in his veins.

"What are-what-" It was hard to speak. Even his jaw seemed frozen.

"Relax, Chandler," the man on the bed said. "It's just a little acid. Well, not a little. About two thousand mics, which, if I understand these things, is several hundred times the normal dose."

Almost as quickly as the ice came, it thawed. Within seconds his blood was boiling. Beads of sweat appeared on his skin and popped like balloons, releasing vaporous genies. Already the room was starting to swim.

"You see it happens quickly," Keller said, even as he pulled a second syringe from his pocket. "Faster every time." Chandler expected him to inject the man on the bed, but instead he swabbed his own arm. "I give myself the Thorazine now," he continued, "lest I suffer poor Agent Logan's fate."

Chandler closed his eyes against the rippling walls, but the vision continued to dance behind his shuttered lids. Only-only it had shifted slightly. To the right. It was as though he was seeing the room through the eyes of the man on the bed beside him. When the man turned his head toward Chandler, he had the disconcerting experience of seeing himself with his eyes closed.

"Talk about mise en abyme," mise en abyme," the man beside him said. "I feel like I'm inside an Escher drawing. You don't know what you're missing, Doc." the man beside him said. "I feel like I'm inside an Escher drawing. You don't know what you're missing, Doc."

There was a grunt and then a click as the door locked behind Keller. The sound echoed in Chandler's ears like cathedral bells, so loud that he almost missed the other man's question.

"How'd you kill him anyway?"

Chandler squeezed his eyes tighter, but still he saw everything. The man on the bed turned his head from side to side and Chandler saw the room swirl and melt before his eyes.

"Whoa. Heavy." The man's head continued to turn, the room fracturing into a kaleidoscope of colors and sounds. "Miss Haverman struck me as one tough cookie," he continued in a voice that was somewhat distracted, but not confused or overwhelmed. The only other person who'd reacted like that had been Naz-everyone else had been terrified, but this man was excited by what was happening. "But I'm pretty sure she couldn't've got the drop on Eddie, let alone stabbed him in the chest. And Leary Malarkey just ain't the type. Which leaves you. So fill me in. Did you really stab him? Or"-he turned back to Chandler, and once again Chandler saw himself repeat and retreat in an endless, diminishing stream of reflections-"did you use your mental powers?" mental powers?"

Chandler opened his eyes, turned to the man next to him.