The Chevy went over a b.u.mp and the paper-wrapped package in the backseat reverberated with a loud metal clank.

"Curtain rods," Caspar said, even though Wesley didn't ask. Even though he'd said it when he first got in the car, had said it yesterday, too, when he'd asked Wesley for a ride to work this morning. He'd told Wesley he was going to spend the night with Marina in Irving to see his daughters and pick up some curtain rods she'd bought for him so he could have some privacy in the rooming house he stayed in on Beckley Street.

"All the same I think I'll go see him." Wesley was prattling on. "The newspaper said the motorcade's supposed to pa.s.s by work around noon, twelve thirty, so maybe I'll eat lunch in the park and wave to him and Jackie when they go by. She's She's a cla.s.sy lady. Motorcade," he added. "Mo-tor-cade. Kind of a strange word when you think about it." a cla.s.sy lady. Motorcade," he added. "Mo-tor-cade. Kind of a strange word when you think about it."

"I think it's a combination of motor and parade," Caspar said.

"But then it'd be motorade. It's more like motor and arcade."

"Arcade?"

"You know," Wesley said. "A shooting gallery."

When they got to work Caspar got out of the car almost before it stopped and grabbed the package from the backseat and tucked it up under his arm to make it as inconspicuous as possible. As soon as he did that, however, he thought that maybe it looked like he was trying to hide it, but at the same time he was afraid that if he rearranged the package it would draw too much attention to it, so he left it where it was and started off at a fast walk to the main building. Wesley stayed in the car gunning the engine to charge the battery, but he rolled down the window and asked if Caspar needed a ride home. Caspar said he wasn't going back to Irving that night. Wesley didn't ask why.

"d.a.m.n it, d.a.m.n it, d.a.m.n it, d.a.m.n it, d.a.m.n d.a.m.n it!" it!"

Melchior stared at BC's facedown body, the umbrella still quivering in his hand. This wasn't the way it was supposed to have happened. Chandler Chandler was supposed to have come. The tranq was for was supposed to have come. The tranq was for him him, not BC. Keller'd phoned him the new formula yesterday, and Melchior'd raced around town after he got out of jail, buying some ingredients here, stealing others there, but even so, he'd only been able to rig up a single shot. Keller was sure it would be enough to knock even Chandler out. Melchior'd asked how strong it was. "Don't p.r.i.c.k your finger" was all Keller said, "unless you want a chemical lobotomy."

The fallen detective's bladder had released, and a dark stain was spreading out in the dingy flat pile of the carpet. Melchior kicked BC over, did a cursory pulse check, but it was clear he was dead. The fat needle hung from his stomach. A b.u.t.ton was missing from his shirt and the skin underneath was stained with a few drops of blood. It was the shirt that got Melchior. Not the blood, not the corpse itself. The G.o.dd.a.m.n shirt. Mercerized white cotton, with silk piping and French cuffs held closed with knots of silver. This wasn't the same man Melchior'd met on the train three weeks ago. He'd remade himself entirely to pursue this thing. To pursue Melchior, and Chandler, and Naz. Remade himself first into a dandy, and now into a corpse.

"Aw, f.u.c.k it. f.u.c.k you, BC Querrey. f.u.c.k you." you."

Melchior fell to his knees, careful to avoid the puddle of urine, ripped the man's shirt open so violently that three more b.u.t.tons flew across the room. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a flat zippered case, opened it. There were more syringes in there, including one with a three-inch needle, and a couple of vials, one of which was filled with epinephrine (there was also a Medaille d'Or tucked into a corner of the case, which Melchior planned on smoking after he got Chandler on Song's plane). Keller had made Melchior carry the epinephrine in case the sedative c.o.c.ktail proved too strong even for Chandler's souped-up const.i.tution. Melchior prepared the shot, then slammed it into BC's chest so hard he heard a rib crack. BC's body convulsed so violently that the needle on the syringe almost broke off inside his body, which really would have been the coup de grace, but Melchior was able to jerk it out and step out of the way before BC coughed and choked and spewed a thin spray of vomit into the air.

Before BC was fully conscious, Melchior plopped him into the chair and duct-taped his wrists and ankles to it, making sure to pull the man's sleeves and pants out of the way so the tape adhered directly to BC's skin. He did this not out of any concern for BC's expensive clothes but to make sure the detective wasn't going to get himself free in a hurry. By now some semblance of awareness was coming back to BC's eyes, but his limbs still seemed beyond his control. His head sagged on his shoulder, and he could only watch dully as Melchior tied him to the chair. He was so quiet that when he did finally speak Melchior almost jumped, because he'd almost forgotten BC was there.

"Why?"

Melchior didn't answer. He'd secured BC's thighs now, his upper arms, his chest.

"Why did you save me?"

Melchior pulled a long piece of tape from the roll.

"Spit."

"Wha-"

Melchior slapped him in the face.

"Spit."

BC spat a thin stream of blood, bile, and saliva onto his thighs, and then Melchior put the piece of tape over his mouth and wrapped it all the way around his head, twice. Only then did he answer BC's question.

"I don't know really," he said, stepping back and looking at the trussed detective as though he were a mannequin being dressed for a window display. "Call it a hunch. An impluse. Everybody needs someone to keep him honest, and I guess that's what you are for me. In case I ever forget what I'm doing is illegal, immoral, and entirely selfish. In case I start to confuse it with virtue or vision. I'm just a thug, Beau, and having you on my a.s.s reminds me that that's all I'll ever be. Timor mortis exultat me," Timor mortis exultat me," he said. "The fear of death excites me." he said. "The fear of death excites me."

He leaned in close now, so close that BC could feel the heat radiating off his face.

"The way I see it," he said quietly, "you didn't really get into this fairly. Started off at a disadvantage, as it were, a p.a.w.n in somebody else's fight. h.e.l.l, I thought you were completely incompetent when I first met you, but somehow you managed to survive, and learn, and look at you now: you came this close to taking me out this morning. So I'm going to give you a piece of advice: next time you see me, shoot first, ask questions later. Because that's what I'll do to you."

He paused a moment, looking into BC's eyes with equal parts contempt and curiosity. Sweat rolled out from beneath the wig he was wearing, and his exhalations were wet on BC's skin.

"They're going to say that what happened today changed things," he whispered finally. "Don't you believe them. The shift happened a long time ago, and it's a lot bigger than you or me or Chandler or even Jack Kennedy. You should read that book the director gave you-or Fahrenheit 451 Fahrenheit 451, or 1984 1984, or, h.e.l.l, The Manchurian Candidate The Manchurian Candidate, the very novel that inspired Project Orpheus. The sci-fi guys have always known good and evil aren't mutually exclusive, let alone capitalism and communism. That two opposing forces come to look more and more like each other the longer they fight. Up till now it's been fiction. But after this it'll be truth. The thing is, though, the truth will have turned into lies, because everything will be about 'subjectivity,' everything will be about 'distrust of authority.' It'll be chaos masquerading as reason until someone or something comes along with the authority to lull people into believing that some truths really are incontrovertible: G.o.d, maybe, or country, or, who knows, maybe just selfishness as opposed to self-inspection and self-improvement. But no matter how it plays out, it translates into big profit for anyone willing to exploit people's fears." Melchior stepped back slightly. "Twenty years in intelligence and I never really got that," he said, shaking his head. "Not till I met you-someone idealistic enough to actually believe everything his government told him, even though it resulted in his own persecution. And to show you how much I appreciate your gift, I want to give you you something too." something too."

With grotesque intimacy, he leaned in again and put his mouth on BC's, pressed hard enough that BC could feel his lips through two layers of tape. It didn't hurt. It didn't even feel like a kiss. But BC felt his stomach churn and had to fight the urge to vomit.

After what seemed like an eternity Melchior stood up. He smiled down at BC like a proud father, then brought his hand to the tip of BC's nose to wipe away a drop of moisture. It could have been a bead of sweat or mucus or even a tear. Even BC didn't know.

"Beau-Christian Querrey," Melchior said in a voice whose solemnity was all the more oppressive for being genuine, even caring. "You "You are the burning boy. You-are-a- are the burning boy. You-are-a-f.a.ggot."

But he wasn't finished. He stuck his fingers in BC's pants pocket and wormed his hand over BC's thigh. BC turned his face away, his eyes squeezed closed, his breath whistling out of his nostrils with drops of snot.

Suddenly the hand was gone. It was a moment before BC could open his eyes. Melchior was holding Naz's ring up to the faint light.

"I don't think you need this anymore, do you?"

Before he left he turned on the television.

"I know daytime TV's for housewives," he said as he headed for the door. "But keep your eyes peeled. There just might be something interesting on today."

As soon as he left Wesley, Caspar went straight to the sixth floor. He wove his way through the dusty stacks of book boxes until he reached the southeast corner window, where he stood his package upright behind a stack of boxes. The tall parcel made a heavy metallic clunk as he set it on the bare concrete floor. He moved a few stacks of boxes to create a blind around the window, set three more underneath it to serve as a stand. He couldn't bring himself to look out the window, but he did notice that the clouds were breaking up and the sunlight streamed into the little nest he'd made for himself. It was going to be a beautiful day. The park would probably be full of people at lunchtime, all waving at the president and First Lady as they drove by. he left Wesley, Caspar went straight to the sixth floor. He wove his way through the dusty stacks of book boxes until he reached the southeast corner window, where he stood his package upright behind a stack of boxes. The tall parcel made a heavy metallic clunk as he set it on the bare concrete floor. He moved a few stacks of boxes to create a blind around the window, set three more underneath it to serve as a stand. He couldn't bring himself to look out the window, but he did notice that the clouds were breaking up and the sunlight streamed into the little nest he'd made for himself. It was going to be a beautiful day. The park would probably be full of people at lunchtime, all waving at the president and First Lady as they drove by.

Chandler loitered in the shade of an oak on the eastern edge of Dealey Plaza, as far from the Book Depository as he could get without losing sight of the entrance. He'd waited to take the second half of the acid after he arrived, then maneuvered close enough to the six-story building that he was able to sift through the minds of the dozens of people inside. He didn't have to look far. Caspar's anxiety was like a beacon, and there, front and center in his thoughts, was Melchior. Melchior and President Kennedy and a rifle he'd hidden on the sixth floor, right by a corner window. What Chandler didn't see was Melchior himself. in the shade of an oak on the eastern edge of Dealey Plaza, as far from the Book Depository as he could get without losing sight of the entrance. He'd waited to take the second half of the acid after he arrived, then maneuvered close enough to the six-story building that he was able to sift through the minds of the dozens of people inside. He didn't have to look far. Caspar's anxiety was like a beacon, and there, front and center in his thoughts, was Melchior. Melchior and President Kennedy and a rifle he'd hidden on the sixth floor, right by a corner window. What Chandler didn't see was Melchior himself.

When he saw the gun-saw what Caspar planned to do with it-he was brought up short. If he confronted Caspar now or, G.o.d forbid, dragged the police in, he knew he was losing any chance he had to catch Melchior and extract Naz's location from him. And he could see also that Caspar didn't want to do it, and didn't expect to. Melchior was supposed to make contact. Supposed to call it off before Caspar had to pull the trigger. Caspar seemed to think he was actually going to show up here. Chandler was inside Caspar's head, so he knew the would-be a.s.sa.s.sin wasn't lying to him-it was just a question of whether or not Melchior had lied to Caspar in the same way he'd lied to Song and Ivelitsch about sending Naz to Dallas. Chandler knew he was risking a lot-not just a man's life, but the president's and, who knows, the country's. But the alternative was losing his last, best chance of finding Naz, and so he found the most sheltered spot he could and waited.

Searching Caspar's mind from such a distance had used up a lot of his juice, however, and now there was the familiar fatigue. It wasn't nearly as bad as it'd been other times, but still, yawns were splitting his jaws, and he had to smack himself in the face to stay awake. He should've waited, he realized now, not taken the second hit until he saw Melchior.

"Excuse me," he said, stopping a middle-aged black woman pushing a white baby in a stroller. "Do you know what time the president's supposed to come by?"

"Why, you early, ain't you? Didn't the paper say he wasn't supposed to get by here till half past noon? It's only-"

"Ten forty-two," Chandler said. He made a show of looking at his wrist, but since he wasn't wearing a watch, it didn't help. The woman frowned and pushed her charge away.

The thoughts of pa.s.sersby flickered in and out of his head. It was amazing how ba.n.a.l the minds of most people were. Something to eat, something to drink, something to screw. G.o.d, I hate my boss/my wife/my husband/my parents. A man sat down on the retaining wall beside the little reflecting pond. He was waiting for his secretary, with whom he was having an affair, and when he said to himself, Could you take some d.i.c.k-tation, Miss Clarkson, he and Chandler chuckled at the same time. The man peered at Chandler nervously, and Chandler quickly turned away. He realized that at some point over the past month this state had become natural to him. That the time he spent unaugmented had come to seem not only vulnerable but incomplete and, even worse, boring boring. The thought filled him with self-loathing, and the self-loathing filled him with fantasies of revenge. He would make Melchior pay for what he'd done to him, and then, if he couldn't find a way to reverse the condition, he would take his own life to end this terrifying cycle of flight and violence. Once Naz was safe, he would bring it all to an end, one way or another.

But where was Melchior?

All morning long he had the intermittent sense that someone was peering over his shoulder. He'd whipped his head around so many times that one of his coworkers said he was acting jumpier than a man in his marriage bed with another woman. Finally, at a couple minutes before noon, he stood up from his desk. he had the intermittent sense that someone was peering over his shoulder. He'd whipped his head around so many times that one of his coworkers said he was acting jumpier than a man in his marriage bed with another woman. Finally, at a couple minutes before noon, he stood up from his desk.

"Guess I'll take lunch," he said. His manager waved at him without looking up.

He walked to the stairwell slowly, but as soon as the door was closed he bounded up the stairs to the sixth floor. As he was walking past the elevator it opened, and Charlie Givens stepped out and asked him if he was going downstairs to eat.

"No, sir," Caspar said. He just stared at Givens, and after a moment Givens shrugged, picked up the pack of cigarettes he'd left on top of a stack of boxes, and got back in the elevator. Caspar waited until the doors closed before he headed to the southeast corner of the building. He pa.s.sed a plate with some chicken bones on it, but saw no sign of anyone else. The faint sound of motorcycles floated through open windows.

He retrieved his package from behind a wall of boxes, ripped it open as quietly as possible. He a.s.sembled the Carcano quickly, rested it on the short stack of boxes beneath the window, and then, for the first time that day, looked outside.

"f.u.c.k."

A line of live oaks blocked his view of this end of Houston Street, as well as the beginning of Elm. He'd seen the trees dozens of times before, of course, but never really noticed just how much they shaded the street in front of the depository-it wasn't the kind of thing you would notice unless you were planning to shoot someone from an upper-story window. He would have to wait until the motorcade turned on Elm and was directly below the building and moving away from him-and he would have to lean halfway out the window to get a clear shot to boot. Someone in Dealey Plaza would almost certainly see him and shout, warning the president's guards.

Not that he would do it. But Melchior had said he had to play it straight. Right to the end.

There were dozens of people in the park already. Caspar put his eye to the scope of his rifle and moved it from face to face.

Where the h.e.l.l was Melchior?

Traffic had thickened in the past hour, and the lunchtime rush was backed up for blocks around the motorcade route. Melchior was coming in from the north, so he missed most of the tie-up, but still it slowed him down, and it was after noon when he finally reached Dealey Plaza. He abandoned BC's Rambler behind the depository and made his way around the west side of the building, figuring that if Chandler was already at the scene he'd most likely take cover in the park itself-probably in the line of trees that skirted the park's eastern edge. It had turned into a warm, humid day, and, what with the wig Song had packed for him, he was sweating buckets. It was almost like being back in Cuba. f.u.c.king Cuba, where this had all started. It seemed like years ago, but it had only been a month. Four f.u.c.king weeks. in the past hour, and the lunchtime rush was backed up for blocks around the motorcade route. Melchior was coming in from the north, so he missed most of the tie-up, but still it slowed him down, and it was after noon when he finally reached Dealey Plaza. He abandoned BC's Rambler behind the depository and made his way around the west side of the building, figuring that if Chandler was already at the scene he'd most likely take cover in the park itself-probably in the line of trees that skirted the park's eastern edge. It had turned into a warm, humid day, and, what with the wig Song had packed for him, he was sweating buckets. It was almost like being back in Cuba. f.u.c.king Cuba, where this had all started. It seemed like years ago, but it had only been a month. Four f.u.c.king weeks.

But four weeks, four months, four years, four centuries, it didn't matter, it could all come to an end in the next four minutes if he didn't figure out what he was going to do now. Why in the h.e.l.l h.e.l.l had BC shown up at the house without Chandler? And how had the detective gotten the drop on Melchior, forcing him to use the tranq meant for Orpheus-who, presumably, had followed what was otherwise a pretty obvious trail of bread crumbs leading straight to the Book Depository. All Melchior had now was a vial of acid and the Thorazine-phenmetrazine combo that protected his brain from Chandler's when the latter's was souped up. Oh, and the dart-shooting umbrella Ivelitsch's techies had cooked up for him. He had that, too. He was going to have to wing it. had BC shown up at the house without Chandler? And how had the detective gotten the drop on Melchior, forcing him to use the tranq meant for Orpheus-who, presumably, had followed what was otherwise a pretty obvious trail of bread crumbs leading straight to the Book Depository. All Melchior had now was a vial of acid and the Thorazine-phenmetrazine combo that protected his brain from Chandler's when the latter's was souped up. Oh, and the dart-shooting umbrella Ivelitsch's techies had cooked up for him. He had that, too. He was going to have to wing it.

As he came around the side of the depository he saw that a substantial crowd had gathered in Dealey Plaza. Spectators sat on a gra.s.sy ridge this side of Elm, and more stood along both curbs. At least a hundred people were in Dealey Plaza itself. Dozens of them had cameras out, and Melchior saw one man with an eight-millimeter movie camera aimed at the gap between the two courthouses at the top of the park. That's what he should have had Ivelitsch rig up. Not a ridiculous umbrella that managed to shoot a single dart at a time, but a bullet-shooting camera. Something that would give you a chance to fight your way out, if it came to that. Oh well. Next time.

He slipped a beret from his pocket and pulled it low on his forehead, added a pair of gla.s.ses with thick black rims, then eased himself into the crowd. He was conscious of the Book Depository on his left, row upon row of open windows looking straight down on him. For the next several minutes he was wide open. It was all up to Caspar. Either he was loyal to Melchior, and he would wait for the president to show, or someone had supplanted him in Caspar's esteem-Scheider, the Wiz, Giancana, who knows, maybe even Ivelitsch himself-in which case Melchior was dead to rights. Here's hoping Caspar's marksmanship hadn't improved in the last few years.

"All right, Chandler," he said under his breath. "Show yourself."

Chandler wasn't sure how long the void had been there before he felt it. Two minutes? Ten? It crept up on him like white noise until suddenly it was all he could hear. how long the void had been there before he felt it. Two minutes? Ten? It crept up on him like white noise until suddenly it was all he could hear.

Melchior.

But where was he? It was hard to pinpoint a silence, especially in the midst of so much commotion. He barely had any juice left and didn't want to waste it. He did his best to ignore his brain, searched the crowd with his eyes instead. The feeling came from the north, toward the depository, and he began to make his way in that direction as stealthily as he could.

It was hard to see people's faces because everyone was turned toward the eastern edge of the park, waiting for the first sign of the president's motorcade. (Funny word, motorcade, he thought as he walked past a young black man sitting on the gra.s.s eating a sandwich. Probably supposed to be a combination of motor and parade, but it sounded more like a combination of motor and arcade-a shooting gallery-which didn't make any sense when you thought about it.) He searched the sides of people's faces, their physical profiles, anyone big enough to be Melchior. He found himself staring at a lot of plump women with beehives-what more unexpected disguise could there be for a man as aggressively masculine as Melchior? But unless he'd found a way to alter the shape of his face, none of the women was him.

Suddenly it came to him. Cavalcade. That's where the cade in motorcade came from.

Jesus Christ, Chandler, he said to himself. That's really not important right now. Focus Focus.

He made his way closer to Elm. On the far side of the street, on the edge of a gra.s.sy embankment, a large man carrying a closed umbrella15 caught his attention. The man was staring right at him, holding his umbrella in the middle so that it pointed out from his abdomen, and Chandler mistook it for a gun at first. He started to look away, then glanced back at the man's face. A black beret was pulled down over a dense cap of stiff, straight black hair, and the rims of the man's gla.s.ses were nearly as thick as a racc.o.o.n's mask. Chandler had been looking for an elaborate disguise, but now he saw that the simplest could be just as effective: he wasn't 100 percent positive it was Melchior until the rogue spy smiled at him. caught his attention. The man was staring right at him, holding his umbrella in the middle so that it pointed out from his abdomen, and Chandler mistook it for a gun at first. He started to look away, then glanced back at the man's face. A black beret was pulled down over a dense cap of stiff, straight black hair, and the rims of the man's gla.s.ses were nearly as thick as a racc.o.o.n's mask. Chandler had been looking for an elaborate disguise, but now he saw that the simplest could be just as effective: he wasn't 100 percent positive it was Melchior until the rogue spy smiled at him.

Chandler kept his eyes on Melchior's hands as he crossed the street, but the big man merely stood there with that smile on his face. He heard motorcycles a few blocks away, a sputtering rumble punctuated by frequent backfires pulsing out of the canyon of Main Street. People strained to see the president and First Lady. Their thoughts flitted through Chandler's head like whispers from a hidden PA system. Almost here Almost here, he heard, and I wonder if she's as pretty in real life I wonder if she's as pretty in real life, and He may be a Yankee and a papist, but he's still the president He may be a Yankee and a papist, but he's still the president, and then, louder than all these other thoughts, more desperate: Where are you, Tommy?

The cry was so urgent that Chandler looked up at the School Book Depository. The anguish was like a beacon drawing his eyes to the sixth floor. The southeast corner. The window. He saw an outline low above the sill, as if someone was kneeling just behind it. He couldn't see the face, though, because it was concealed behind a- He heard the pfft pfft and tried to jump to the left, but it was too late. Something punched his abdomen just below the ribs, hard enough to knock the wind from him. Spots danced in front of his eyes and he braced himself for the numbing effect. Instead the spots danced faster, gained size, intensity, color, and he realized Melchior hadn't shot him with a tranq. He'd shot him with LSD-a and tried to jump to the left, but it was too late. Something punched his abdomen just below the ribs, hard enough to knock the wind from him. Spots danced in front of his eyes and he braced himself for the numbing effect. Instead the spots danced faster, gained size, intensity, color, and he realized Melchior hadn't shot him with a tranq. He'd shot him with LSD-a lot lot of LSD. Chandler fought to get control of the trip, but the world got brighter and brighter and louder and louder. Jesus, he thought. Melchior must have injected him with thousands of hits. He'd never felt anything like this before. of LSD. Chandler fought to get control of the trip, but the world got brighter and brighter and louder and louder. Jesus, he thought. Melchior must have injected him with thousands of hits. He'd never felt anything like this before.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, looked up in confusion to find Melchior beside him.

"Come on, old buddy. Let's get you out of the street."

"What did you ..." He couldn't get the words out. The ground was churning beneath him and it was hard to stay upright. He clutched Melchior's arm for support. People's thoughts knifed through his brain, a thousand Technicolor razor blades cutting his mind to mush. Someone was thinking of the case of Ken-L Ration he needed to get on the way home, and someone else was wondering how to tell her boyfriend she was pregnant. An eleven-year-old boy was dreaming of being the first black superhero and a forty-seven-year-old woman was wondering what would happen if she put a little dill in the mashed potato salad, or a little ground gla.s.s.

But none of the minds was more potent than Caspar's. Chandler saw him in the orphanage again, looking up at Melchior adoringly, saw him as a little boy in his home in New Orleans with his mother and stepfather and brothers, nervously sitting apart from the group, knowing he was different from them. Saw him as a thirteen-year-old in New York City facing a truant officer, a seventeen-year-old enlisting in the Marines, saw him in California, j.a.pan, Russia, England, Finland, America again, rafting through the South like a latter-day Huck Finn until he ended up in Dallas, dressed all in black with a rifle in his hand, telling Marina to hurry up and take the picture. So much travel for such a young soul! He'd seen half the world before most men had finished college. And everywhere he went, he was looking for someone to love him, and someone to kill.

And still there was more: Caspar in Mexico at the Soviet Emba.s.sy. Caspar in a Dallas hospital looking down on his newborn daughter. Caspar looking through the scope of a rifle at Melchior at this very moment and not knowing it was Melchior.

"Here you go, Chandler."

He felt something in his hand, looked down to see Melchior wrapping his fingers around the handle of a cane. No, not a cane: the umbrella. Despite the fact that it came from Melchior, he leaned on it gratefully. There were red spots on Melchior's fingers and he focused on these. If he could just make these spots go away, he told himself, he could get control of the trip. But a moment later he realized the world had in fact stopped spinning, that the voices and pictures slicing through his brain had subsided to an indistinct murmur. He was was in control, or at least as much in control as a mahout astride a seven-ton bull elephant. But still the stains remained on Melchior's fingers. in control, or at least as much in control as a mahout astride a seven-ton bull elephant. But still the stains remained on Melchior's fingers.

He looked up at his enemy's face.

"What have you done?"

Melchior peered into his eyes. "Don't you know?" His eyes opened wide then, and for a moment it seemed his mind did as well. Chandler saw Melchior standing in front of a sharply dressed bald man sitting behind a highly polished desk, saw Caspar on his knees in front of Melchior, saw BC fall on the floor at Melchior's feet, saw Melchior stab him in the heart and drag the body- "C'mon, Chandler," Melchior said. "Push." "Push."

Chandler pushed, harder than he'd ever done. Melchior staggered, took a step back. His eyes closed, but his mind opened wider. Chandler had seen the beginning of his incarnation as Melchior. Now he would see the end.

He beat Song to the airstrip in north Dallas, parked BC's Rambler in the hangar she'd rented, and paced the concrete for the next ninety minutes. Just after nine, Song's Gulfstream finally taxied through the wide-open doors. Melchior couldn't help but be amazed. A little more than a decade ago, Song had been a homeless runaway in Korea, caught in the middle of a proxy war fought by the newly christened superpowers, with 500 million Red Chinese thrown in for good measure. Now she ruled her own empire, not just of girls, but of intelligence services and a series of shrewd investments that had boosted her net worth to millions of dollars. Ivelitsch had told him: she was worth a lot more than a few compromising pictures or a roll in the hay. She could bankroll them for years, until their own schemes began to pay off. But now Melchior had to ask himself: was it worth the price? to the airstrip in north Dallas, parked BC's Rambler in the hangar she'd rented, and paced the concrete for the next ninety minutes. Just after nine, Song's Gulfstream finally taxied through the wide-open doors. Melchior couldn't help but be amazed. A little more than a decade ago, Song had been a homeless runaway in Korea, caught in the middle of a proxy war fought by the newly christened superpowers, with 500 million Red Chinese thrown in for good measure. Now she ruled her own empire, not just of girls, but of intelligence services and a series of shrewd investments that had boosted her net worth to millions of dollars. Ivelitsch had told him: she was worth a lot more than a few compromising pictures or a roll in the hay. She could bankroll them for years, until their own schemes began to pay off. But now Melchior had to ask himself: was it worth the price?

Chul-moo killed the engines and the hangar went silent. The hatch opened and a staircase descended from the fuselage with a nearly silent whine of hydraulics. The fur collar on Song's jacket was more suited to DC than Dallas at this time of year, and she pulled at it as she descended into the stale air of the hangar. By way of greeting, all she said was: "Have you heard from Pavel?"

"He docked at No Name Key about twenty minutes ago. They're in the process of moving the bomb from Giancana's boat to ours. They should be ready to head north by ten."

"And Naz is with Garza?"

Melchior nodded. "What about Everton?"

Song's smile was tired but, underneath that, mischievous. "Like I told you: second and fourth Thursday of every month." Then, more seriously: "How did your meeting with Caspar go?"

Melchior was silent a moment. "Don't worry," he said finally. "He'll play his part."

She was on the ground now. She reached up and adjusted Melchior's wig slightly, let her hands sit on his lapels while she inspected his appearance like a mother about to send her child off to his first day of school.

"The whole world's going to be looking for you."

Melchior shook his head. "I don't exist anymore. With Everton and Jarrell out of the picture, Caspar's the only person who could ID me, and he'll be gone soon enough."

"Gone?"

"Giancana's going to call in a favor."

"You think he'll do that after he finds out you double-crossed him in Cuba?"

"He has to. There are enough bread crumbs between him and Caspar that he'll face indictment as an accomplice if he doesn't shut Caspar up."

"Melchior." Song's voice softened, but only slightly. "It's Caspar." Caspar."

He shook his head. "There's no Caspar. There never was. There was just Lee, and there's not much of him left anymore. I'll be doing him a favor."

Song took this in. Then, hardening again: "What about the Wiz?"

"Scheider took care of him for us. His brain is fried. He doesn't know himself anymore, let alone anyone else. Trust me, he's not long for this world."

Again Song paused, studying Melchior. There was something different about him. Something she couldn't put her finger on, but she didn't like it.