Shift. Part 14

He slammed a foot into the center of the door. It rattled on its hinges like an alarm clock, but remained in place. The vibration traveled up the bones of his ankle. For one brief moment it felt painful-it felt like tibia and fibula were splintering along their seams-but then the sensation pa.s.sed, was nothing more than a tingle, a tickle. He was Sidewalk Steve. He was indestructible.

Again he kicked. He felt the door give, just slightly. A small dent appeared in the steel sheet.

He set his mouth in a scowl of grim determination. This was going to take a while.

On the other side of the wall, Chandler heard the dull thuds of Sidewalk Steve's foot striking the door. He also felt the stress fractures in the man's ankle, the multiplying microbreaks in his tarsals. It took all his concentration to keep the image of the invincible hero front and center in Sidewalk Steve's mind, to suppress what would have been paralyzing agony as the bones of his foot and leg splintered and ground against one another. side of the wall, Chandler heard the dull thuds of Sidewalk Steve's foot striking the door. He also felt the stress fractures in the man's ankle, the multiplying microbreaks in his tarsals. It took all his concentration to keep the image of the invincible hero front and center in Sidewalk Steve's mind, to suppress what would have been paralyzing agony as the bones of his foot and leg splintered and ground against one another.

It took fifteen minutes for Sidewalk Steve to kick down the door, which was in fact made of steel, but was fortunately hollow. When, finally, it buckled on its hinges, Sidewalk Steve's leg also buckled-or, rather, snapped just below the knee-but as he fell to the floor Chandler managed to switch the image in the vagrant's brain: he was a werewolf now. The full moon was shining down on him through a skylight, causing him to transform into his half-human, half-lupine state. minutes for Sidewalk Steve to kick down the door, which was in fact made of steel, but was fortunately hollow. When, finally, it buckled on its hinges, Sidewalk Steve's leg also buckled-or, rather, snapped just below the knee-but as he fell to the floor Chandler managed to switch the image in the vagrant's brain: he was a werewolf now. The full moon was shining down on him through a skylight, causing him to transform into his half-human, half-lupine state.

On all fours, Sidewalk Steve crawled from his cell. He sniffed at the locked door next to his, smelled the imprisoned damsel on the far side of the wall. He hoped his strange appearance wouldn't frighten the poor maiden out of her wits.

He didn't want to admit it, but his leg hurt. Well, heroes felt pain too, but they kept going anyway. That's what made them heroes.

Nevertheless, he trotted down the hall in the opposite direction. No need to kick down a second door if he could find a key.

The hall spilled onto a large open s.p.a.ce crowded with tables piled high with lab equipment. He went from table to table until he found a set of keys that he picked up in his mouth, then galloped back to the other locked cell. Once there, he realized he needed a hand again, to open the door. As he transitioned back to his human shape the pain in his leg hit him. He wobbled, spots danced in front of his eyes, his spasming fingers dropped the keys.

Concentrate, Chandler! a voice screamed in his brain. He didn't know who Chandler was, but there wasn't time to worry about that. A damsel needed saving. a voice screamed in his brain. He didn't know who Chandler was, but there wasn't time to worry about that. A damsel needed saving.

It took both hands to lift the key chain, and they were shaking so badly that it took a dozen tries before he managed to slip the right key into the lock. It turned. He pushed.

The door fell open and Sidewalk Steve collapsed on the floor. Chandler could just see the man's ruined right leg, the foot trailing off the ankle like a fish on a line. open and Sidewalk Steve collapsed on the floor. Chandler could just see the man's ruined right leg, the foot trailing off the ankle like a fish on a line.

The LSD was almost completely out of his system now, but he was still strapped to the table. If he couldn't get Steve to free him, all of the pain he'd inflicted on the vagrant would have been for nothing.

"Steve, please. You have to get up. You have to untie me."

On the floor, Steve moaned.

Chandler gathered his energy. He had seen the damsel in Steve's mind-a gypsy-looking girl with ridiculously large b.r.e.a.s.t.s bursting from her ludicrously low-cut blouse-but he didn't have the energy to sift for something more believable. He pushed. The walls melted into a mountainous vista, the hospital bed faded away, replaced by railroad tracks.

"Hurry, Steve!" the gypsy girl pleaded. "The train is coming!"

Steve lifted his head. When he'd pushed open the door, an image of the fire demon who'd attacked him earlier had floated before his eyes, but it was gone now. The damsel-a very masculine-looking damsel, with a jaw like Steve McQueen's-lay trussed on a pair of gleaming railroad tracks. He couldn't see the train but felt its rumble in the ground. He didn't have the strength to move, but he had to find it. Had to save her, even if she wasn't quite as pretty as he'd first thought. It was still his duty. His purpose in life. his head. When he'd pushed open the door, an image of the fire demon who'd attacked him earlier had floated before his eyes, but it was gone now. The damsel-a very masculine-looking damsel, with a jaw like Steve McQueen's-lay trussed on a pair of gleaming railroad tracks. He couldn't see the train but felt its rumble in the ground. He didn't have the strength to move, but he had to find it. Had to save her, even if she wasn't quite as pretty as he'd first thought. It was still his duty. His purpose in life.

He pulled himself up with his hands. Each moment was an agony. Spastic fingers pulled ineffectually at the ropes.

"Hurry, Steve!" the damsel called in her curiously deep voice. "Don't give up!"

But he could only free one of her hands. He looked up to see the train barreling down on them, then slumped atop the damsel's unfortunately flat chest. At least she wouldn't die alone.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, just as the train ripped through their bodies.

It took another ten minutes for Chandler to work himself free from the table. In the course of searching the factory-turned-laboratory, he found a bottle of morphine, and he shot ten ccs into Sidewalk Steve's arm in the hopes that it would keep him unconscious. He also found an ampoule of LSD, which he pocketed. ten minutes for Chandler to work himself free from the table. In the course of searching the factory-turned-laboratory, he found a bottle of morphine, and he shot ten ccs into Sidewalk Steve's arm in the hopes that it would keep him unconscious. He also found an ampoule of LSD, which he pocketed.

Melchior and the doctor might well kill Steve if Chandler left him here, so he hitched his hands under the unconscious man's arms and dragged him toward the door. For a big guy, he didn't weigh nearly as much as Chandler expected-and, as well, he, Chandler, wasn't nearly as tired as he thought he'd be after four days on his back. He suspected his freshness was somehow related to the changes LSD had wrought in him, but he wasn't sure how. After all, increased physical const.i.tution and the ability to project images into other people's minds didn't seem to be related, unless there was some kind of physiological connection he didn't know about. It would have been fascinating to investigate, if it wasn't his own mind he was contemplating, his own body.

He lowered Sidewalk Steve to the floor to unlock the outer door and push it open. He'd just bent over again when something caught him in the small of the back. He heard it, actually, just before it struck, but couldn't dodge fast enough to avoid the blow. A sharp pain erupted in his lumbar spine, needles of pain strobed up and down his legs, and he fell head-to-feet on top of Sidewalk Steve. He had the presence of mind to roll, though, and the next blow-a baseball bat, he saw now-slammed into Sidewalk Steve's stomach. The homeless man was so drugged up that he barely flinched, but Chandler didn't have time to worry about him. His legs, still tingling from the blow to his spine, were sluggish as he pushed himself backward, but with each inch he felt the pain recede. The whole time his eyes never wavered from his batwielding a.s.sailant. A short Spanish fellow, with shoulders like softb.a.l.l.s beneath his tight jacket. Chandler pushed at the guard's mind, but there was nothing: his reserves had been depleted, and, as well, he guessed that the guard had been dosed with Thorazine like the doctor, because Chandler didn't even sense the man's mind. This would have to be a physical fight. One on one-no, one on two, he saw, as a second guard, armed with a length of iron pipe, stepped into the door behind the first.

All this had taken a second, perhaps two. Now, as the thugs advanced toward him, Chandler held up his hands.

"I don't want to hurt you."

He was still sitting on the floor when he spoke, and all the two men did was look at each other and laugh.

"We was told that if you managed to get out, we could do everything short of killing you," the guard with the bat said.

"Three days we been hanging around," the second guard threw in, smacking his pipe against his palm, "just waiting to have a little fun."

"Please," Chandler said, looking around for something to use as a weapon. "You know this isn't right."

The room was filled with broken-down factory machinery too big to move, let alone use as a weapon, but here and there were a few beakers and test tubes and pieces of lab equipment. Rubber tubes, metal pans. Nothing resembling a scalpel.

The man with the bat lunged. Chandler rolled, avoiding a blow to the head-the guard had a generous idea of what he could live through-then shot his leg out, knocking his attacker's feet from under him. Even as he reached for the bat he noted how differently he and his a.s.sailant moved. The guard seemed ever-so-slightly slowed down. Chandler could almost believe it was the Thorazine making the man groggy, except he fell to the floor with the same slowness. Chandler's limbs, by contrast, darted from his body like striking snakes. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the man's bat before he'd even hit the ground, used the fat end like a pool cue, slammed it into the guard's temple. At the last instant he pulled back slightly, afraid of shattering the man's skull, but there was still a sickening snap, and the man went limp on the ground.

Chandler whirled to face the second guard, bringing the bat up to protect his face. The pipe smashed into it close to the handle, and Chandler found himself holding four inches of splintered wood. Another inch and the fingers of his right hand would have been shattered.

"I thought you were told not to kill me," Chandler said, dodging a second blow, then a third. The guard aimed for his head every time.

"We're not paid enough to care," the guard said, swinging fiercely again-but carefully, Chandler saw. The man was making sure not to leave himself exposed as his partner had.

By now, Chandler's backward movement had taken him to the nearest table, and he put it between him and the guard. He tried to push the table but it was bolted to the floor, so he started grabbing objects and throwing them. His aim was good, but so was the guard's, and he smashed one beaker after another with his pipe, seemed almost to enjoy the spray of gla.s.s and liquids, smiling grimly through gritted teeth and slitted eyes.

"Best hitting practice I've had in a while."

"Yeah?" Chandler grabbed an alcohol burner, aimed right for the guard's strike zone. "Hit this."

Gla.s.s and liquid sprayed into the air in a sparkling mist. Chandler's fingers had already sparked a match on the slate tabletop. He threw it, and the air erupted in flames.

"My face!" the guard screamed.

The alcohol from the burner had mostly flown away from the guard, and his skin was nothing more than singed. But the flash had blinded him long enough for Chandler to leap the table and clock him with a fist to the jaw.

He stood there a moment, panting, not from exertion, but adrenaline. The whole fight had taken perhaps a minute. Finally he turned back to Sidewalk Steve, still sleeping on the floor.

"All right, Steve. Let's get you back outside where you belong."

Washington, DC November 9, 1963

Melchior got the call just after 3 a.m.

"I'm sorry to disturb you at such an unG.o.dly hour. I'm trying to reach Thomas Taylor. Tommy."

"Sorry," Melchior mumbled. "Wrong number."

He dressed without turning on the light. Keller's use of the word "unG.o.dly" meant the situation was urgent; a man's name meant the call concerned Orpheus; the addition of a diminutive meant something had gone wrong. It was just after midnight in San Francisco, which suggested Keller had been contacted by the guards. Either that or the doctor was working after hours. Neither scenario boded well.

Funny he should use the name Tommy, though. Melchior would have to ask about that.

Melchior had no doubt that anyone listening in would spot the call-the wrong number was a staple contact protocol. As a field agent with twenty years' worth of contacts, it would be easy enough for Melchior to explain it off as any of a dozen different people. No doubt the Company wouldn't believe him, and depending on just how suspicious they were feeling, they'd probably trace the call back to Frisco. But none of that mattered, as long as they didn't find out what was really going on before he took care of Keller's problem.

Melchior used the building's rear exit (whose light fixture kept mysteriously shorting out no matter how often the super repaired it) and hurried up the tree-shadowed street to the Chevy the Wiz had given him. He took four consecutive left turns to make sure he wasn't being followed, then drove randomly for eleven minutes before pulling over at the next pay phone he saw. He dialed the rendezvous number exactly thirty minutes after Keller had called his apartment.

"He's escaped!" the doctor screamed into his ear before the phone had finished its first ring.

Melchior swallowed his fury. He'd prepared himself for news of Chandler's death-Keller's time experimenting on Jews in concentration camps hadn't exactly left him with a delicate hand-but escape was unacceptable.

"What happened?"

"He got Steve to break down the door. Then he overpowered those thugs you hired."

Melchior wanted to know how, exactly, Chandler had gotten Steve to break down a steel door, but there wasn't time for that now.

"Did the guards say anything?"

"Only that Orpheus was very ... unusual."

"We already know that."

"I mean physically. They said he moved with incredible speed."

"You're sure it wasn't the Thorazine?"

"I don't know, but ..." Keller paused, and Melchior could hear the doctor's mind racing.

"What?"

"It's probably nothing. But a.s.suming that the guards' perceptions were accurate, then their testimony suggests that Chandler's power is less mental than neuronal."

"In English."

"CIA theorized that the Gate of Orpheus would activate some specifically mental ability. But Leary felt the Gate was a processing station that would affect all all the senses. He believed LSD didn't so much activate a dormant part of the brain as increase the central nervous system's ability to process stimuli that the senses weren't normally aware of." the senses. He believed LSD didn't so much activate a dormant part of the brain as increase the central nervous system's ability to process stimuli that the senses weren't normally aware of."

"Once again, Doctor: in English."

"Chandler's ability to pull images from people's minds might simply be one aspect of an augmented ability to perceive sensory impulses. If that's the case, he can also see better, hear better, react faster than normal human beings. Who knows, he might be able to slow or increase metabolic processes to give himself extra energy when he needs it, or speed up his healing time in response to an injury. Certainly that would explain the hibernation effect that seems to happen when he's sleeping."

"Jesus. Are we talking Superman stuff, or what?"

"Well, given the fact that he wasn't able to break his restraints, I don't think we're facing a serious increase in strength. But he knocked two armed men unconscious in about forty-five seconds."

Melchior whistled, then stopped himself halfway through. A shadow had ducked behind the trunk of an elm halfway up the street. It could have been nothing. But if he'd been followed, the Company would dump the pay phone's call log and find the lab in San Francis...o...b..fore Keller could clean it out-and thus discover that Chandler was alive, in which case Melchior would not only have to chase Chandler, but beat CIA to him.

"Et in Arcadia ego," he whispered. he whispered.

"What?"

"Nothing," Melchior said. "Listen carefully: I want you to go to checkpoint four. You'll find a phone number written on the bottom of the coin bank. Add seven to the odd numbers and nine to the even numbers. In the case of double digits, use the figure in the ones column. Do you have that?"

"Checkpoint four, seven odds, nine evens." One thing you could say about n.a.z.is: they were good at taking direction.

"Good. Call that number. Say that you're a friend of the senator's and that you won't be able to come in on Friday. Is that clear?"

An excited tremor fluttered the doctor's voice. "It's the girl, isn't it? Miss Haverman? You didn't kill her after all."

"I'll call you at checkpoint five in twelve hours. If I don't call, a.s.sume the worst."

"What should I do about"-a little tremor of eagerness vibrated Keller's voice-"the guards?"

"Do your worst," Melchior said, and hung up.

He'd glimpsed the shadow twice while he gave Keller his instructions. Definitely a tail. Even worse, he was practically on top of Melchior's car. If Melchior walked back to the vehicle, he was as good as caught. But if he walked away, the tail would know he'd been made and would take off. And Melchior needed to find out what this was about-Cuba, or Orpheus, or if the Company was just watching him for the sake of watching him.

There was nothing else to do. He exited the booth and started for his car. He kept his hands out of his pockets to allay any suspicion he was reaching for a weapon, kept moving his head slightly, as though he were still looking out for anyone watching.

He'd picked a residential street to discourage gunfire. He guessed that the tail would circle the tree as he pa.s.sed, come out behind him with his weapon drawn. If the tail just stepped out in front of him, he was caught. But ...

He pa.s.sed within a foot of the tree. He didn't see any movement. The tail was good. He'd kept the tree perfectly between him and his target. As soon as Melchior was abreast of the tree, he reached for his gun. It was out as he stepped off the sidewalk and began to loop around the tree.

A blur shot from the shadows. Melchior felt a sharp pain in his hand as his gun was kicked from his fingers, bounced off the hood of a parked car, and skittered into the street.

He didn't wait to see his a.s.sailant. He brought his hand down in a wide arc as fast as he could, let his attacker's momentum carry him into harm's way. His hand connected with the man's wrist before the rest of his body was visible. The man held on to his gun, though, and Melchior grabbed the wrist and smashed it into his kneecap. The man grunted in pain but still kept hold of his gun, and now his left fist was smashing into the side of Melchior's face. Melchior continued to pound the man's right wrist into his knee. After nearly a dozen blows the gun fell from the man's spasming fingers and Melchior kicked it under the nearest car. He jumped back, panting heavily, blood leaking down his cheek from a cut beside his right eye. Only then did he see his attacker's face.

"Hey, Melchior," Rip Robertson said in a voice that still carried a faint reek of Cuban rum. "Long time no see."

San Francisco, CA November 9, 1963

San Francisco didn't live up to the hype. For one thing, the famous hills, so pretty in postcards and movies, were a pain in the a.s.s to trek up and down, particularly in a pair of sockless loafers two sizes too big (Chandler's clothes were long gone, so he was wearing Sidewalk Steve's; the homeless man had turned out to have freakishly large feet). For another, despite the city's reputation for friendliness, not a single citizen had been kind enough to leave the keys in his or her car. Quite a few were unlocked-once, when Chandler saw a shadowed figure approach, he hid inside a Packard that must've dated to the forties-but even though he'd seen thieves and spies and adventurous teens hotwire cars in any number of movies, he himself had no idea how to do it. You were supposed to reach under the steering column and produce a fistful of wires, but all he managed to do was bang his knuckles on the underpanel. hills, so pretty in postcards and movies, were a pain in the a.s.s to trek up and down, particularly in a pair of sockless loafers two sizes too big (Chandler's clothes were long gone, so he was wearing Sidewalk Steve's; the homeless man had turned out to have freakishly large feet). For another, despite the city's reputation for friendliness, not a single citizen had been kind enough to leave the keys in his or her car. Quite a few were unlocked-once, when Chandler saw a shadowed figure approach, he hid inside a Packard that must've dated to the forties-but even though he'd seen thieves and spies and adventurous teens hotwire cars in any number of movies, he himself had no idea how to do it. You were supposed to reach under the steering column and produce a fistful of wires, but all he managed to do was bang his knuckles on the underpanel.

But one way or another, he had to get out of the city. Had to go east. To DC. A few scattered images he'd seen in Melchior's mind had told him Naz's fate was somehow connected to the nation's capital. A beautiful Asian woman in a long black car. A song-wordless, toneless, but somehow central to Naz's location. If only he'd been able to concentrate better! As disturbing as his new power was, he was going to have to learn how to use it if he wanted to find Naz. If he wanted to save her.

Meanwhile, though, he had no money. There were people he could call in Cambridge, but how to explain his situation? A prost.i.tute working for the CIA slipped me some kind of experimental drug, and now I have mental powers? Oh, and a n.a.z.i scientist held me captive, and I killed my best friend's brother? Somehow Chandler didn't think that was going to fly. And besides, wouldn't Melchior and his cronies be watching his closest friends? Listening in on their phones? Hanging out in front of their houses in repair vans outfitted with eavesdropping equipment? Who was to say they wouldn't kidnap the first person Chandler called and threaten to hurt or even kill him unless Chandler surrendered?

None of which changed the basic facts. He was penniless. Nameless for all intents and purposes. Orpheus in the Underworld, looking for Eurydice, his only protection his song. His ability to melt men's hearts and minds.

He put a hand in his pocket, pulled out the vial of LSD. The inch of clear liquid looked like viscous water, yet it was enough to soften the solid shape of the world. He pulled the stopper from the vial, pressed his index finger to the lid, turned it upside down. He felt the spot of dampness fit itself to the grooves of his fingerprint as if the acid was the mirror image of his ident.i.ty. He pulled his finger from the vial, looked at the glistening tip in the streetlight. It was hard to believe in the power there. But it was all he had to get him to Naz. He poured a dollop of clear liquid into his palm, then, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his face like a five-year-old about to take a spoonful of cod liver oil, slurped up his medicine. Salvation tasted bitter, and he had to fight the urge to spit it out.

An hour later found him walking up the steep incline of Lombard Street. The world seemed to have a colored transparency laid over it, painting woodwork and masonry with a pulsing array of colors that might've been soothing had it not been so unnatural. Visions appeared in the windows, in the air, on the street-giant rabbits and lollipops and girls in pinafores, tanks, soldiers, mushroom clouds, a blizzard of books, a sudden riot of grapevine and pill bottles, a lone pterodactyl cruising silently down the urban defile. If he squinted, he could see through these apparitions, but it was easier just to let them roll over him. To trust that the world would continue to be solid even though his eyes told him he was walking on a crystalline lake over a bed of multicolored stones. No, not stones. Eyes, winking at him knowingly. The only thing he worried about was the return of the flaming boy. Chandler didn't know who or what it was, whose mind it had come from, but he knew he couldn't control it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. found him walking up the steep incline of Lombard Street. The world seemed to have a colored transparency laid over it, painting woodwork and masonry with a pulsing array of colors that might've been soothing had it not been so unnatural. Visions appeared in the windows, in the air, on the street-giant rabbits and lollipops and girls in pinafores, tanks, soldiers, mushroom clouds, a blizzard of books, a sudden riot of grapevine and pill bottles, a lone pterodactyl cruising silently down the urban defile. If he squinted, he could see through these apparitions, but it was easier just to let them roll over him. To trust that the world would continue to be solid even though his eyes told him he was walking on a crystalline lake over a bed of multicolored stones. No, not stones. Eyes, winking at him knowingly. The only thing he worried about was the return of the flaming boy. Chandler didn't know who or what it was, whose mind it had come from, but he knew he couldn't control it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

A pinkish purple sea turtle swimming toward him slowly resolved into a ma.s.sive mauve Imperial from the late fifties, before Chrysler scaled them down. An expensive car, immaculately maintained. Just what Chandler was looking for.