“Not
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.
Matanzas Province, Cuba
November 22, 1963
Giancana’d provided four men with the boat, and Ivelitsch made them row the last mile to shore. The coastline was free of settlement as far as the eye could see, but Ivelitsch wasn’t taking any chances that someone might hear the motor.
Garza was waiting for them on the dock, his cane in his left hand, a shuttered lantern in his right.
“Comrade. It’s nice to meet you again.”
“Again?” Ivelitsch squinted in the moonlight. “It was you? In Camaguey? I take it the medicine worked.”
Garza smiled. “Sorry to send you on a wild-goose chase.”
“Water over the bridge, as the Americans say. Well, let’s do this. The sun will be up soon.”
“The fishing boats will be out before that.” Garza flashed his light behind him, illuminating an old pickup that seemed more rust than metal. “It’s in the back.”
Even with five men—Garza’s hip wasn’t strong enough to support that kind of weight—it was still almost an hour before the half-ton bomb was in the boat. Dawn glimmered on the horizon, and a bird had started to sing a loud, tuneless solo.
“I understand you have something for me,” Garza said when they were done.
