by Walker, Rysa
When I returned to the Peabody Hotel after the Klan meeting in Collierville last night, Rich and Katherine both agreed that Lendell Phelps’s presence in the area, and his plan to be at the Beatles concert, seems a bit too coincidental not to be connected to the time shift. Something I did or said in my interactions with the South Carolina Klan must have convinced Phelps to change his plans and travel to Memphis. And maybe having Uncle Lenny there to egg him on is the reason that Billy Meeks and the others will decide that they need to do more than simply put a scare into Lennon. Scoggin not being with Phelps in Collierville seems odd, given that they’re both in the news photo, but maybe Scoggin comes in the next day, just in time for the concert.
With the Memphis area Klan’s involvement in killing Lennon now seeming highly probable, we followed Angelo’s direction and one of us—me—reported back to HQ. Katherine and Richard are still at the hotel in Memphis, and Katherine, at least, is going to be pissed at me for talking Angelo into letting me go solo on this jump. I’m to report back once I know the identity of the shooter and the location he’s firing from.
I wasn’t being sexist, even though I’m sure she will argue the point. It was the combination of listening to Glen’s report about Buster Wilson’s obsession with getting back at his ex-wife and the pictures of the three women who were targeted by the sniper that worried me. It’s entirely possible that the sniper wasn’t aiming at a specific target when he hit Mary Travers and James Baldwin. But Travers was a blond woman in the company of a black man. The fact that all three women targeted by the sniper at the concert were blondes just doesn’t seem like a coincidence to me, given that whites were a fairly small fraction of the people in attendance. Maybe lighter hair just showed up better under the lights, and the gunman took the easiest targets. Or maybe he’s seeking a twisted, indirect sort of revenge against some blond woman in his life. Maybe, like Buster Wilson, he’s got a grudge he’s looking to settle.
Either way, I don’t think it’s a safe jump for Katherine. To be honest, though, it’s not just her hair. I’m also a little worried about her screwing something up. I fully recognize the irony of that, when we’re almost certainly in this mess because of something I did, and I know that Katherine is a damn good historian. I’ve read reports from her various jumps. She spent several months undercover with abolition and suffrage groups, and also their opposition, during the nineteenth century. And she does learn fast. But she’s only made a few jumps to the twentieth century. As quick as she is on her feet, she doesn’t know the lingo of this era. This is simply not her time period. That was pretty clear at the Jesus rally in Memphis. Katherine looked the part, and she seemed to fit in at first, but she was out of her element. And in South Carolina, the Klan women weren’t even willing to give her a chance until I introduced her—again, not her fault, but simply the reality of being a fish out of water. If we were in 1865 rather than 1965, I’d happily take the bench and follow Katherine’s lead. But we’re not, and a lot is on the line here.
The same is true, to a lesser extent, of Richard. He’s got as much experience in the mid-1960s as I do. Maybe more. But for him, it’s all about the music, and he’s only dealt with segregation as it pertains to entertainers. The Beatles bonfire was tame. No violence, just a lot of trash talk.
What I said to Katherine the other day at the OC is true—we all have historical tunnel vision. Simply put, our task here is much more within the realm of my training than theirs. I may be the junior partner in this trio, but I’m the only one with relevant experience.
I think Angelo knows that, too, and that’s why he was so willing to bench the two of them. All I had to do was mention the unexpectedly high proportion of blond women among the deceased, and Angelo picked up on my point instantly. He suggested that Richard should stay behind as well, but I suspect it was just as cover to keep Katherine from being too annoyed. And while Rich might be a little pissed off, all I’ll have to do is point out that my goal was keeping Katherine safe, and all will be forgiven.
Angelo also didn’t get much time to think things through before our first meeting. Maybe he’s realized that giving me two partners who are armed only with stun guns disguised as watches could make them as much liabilities as assets. Because even though I hate to admit it, my gut instinct tells me I’m going to come away from this with blood on my hands.
“You happy with the table, hon?” the waitress asks as she lays down a paper coaster and puts my bourbon on top. “’Cause we can move you to another one if you ain’t. Place don’t usually fill up for another half hour or so.”
She’s right on that point. The main reason I’m here this early is because the restaurant is more likely to be empty, despite the discounted early bird special. My goal is to set up a few observation points and drop some of the listening devices without being noticed, but I seem to have landed an unusually alert waitress. And I definitely don’t want to move. This is the one table in the room that affords me a clear view of the front door, the lobby, and the bar, where I dropped a couple of recorders and set a stable point before I came over to the restaurant.
I give her my best smile and slip into my Troy Rayburn drawl. “The table’s perfect, ma’am. I’ve just been driving all day, and when you spend that much time behind the wheel, it feels mighty good to get up and stretch the legs a bit. Know what I mean?”
She smiles back at me. “I sure do. We drove straight through to Nashville last summer, and it took me a week to get the kinks out of my back. You decided what you want to eat, hon, or you need a minute?”
“Well, I’m starting with the French onion soup, but I need to look at the rest of the menu. Last time I ate was breakfast, and that was before dawn, so I’m gonna be keepin’ you busy for the next hour.”
“Yessir. You take your time.”
I do take my time, working my way slowly through the soup, a lackluster salad, a steak more notable for quantity than quality, and a damn good slice of strawberry shortcake, along with a few more drinks and several cups of coffee. Eating alone always makes me feel conspicuous, so I picked up an Ian Fleming novel at the drugstore on the walk over from the stable point near the state capitol. I keep one eye on the book and one on the door. As the waitress predicted, the restaurant does indeed fill up, but none of the faces are ones I recognize. Families, mostly, along with some singles like me, probably passing through on business.
I’m not sure that any outside Klansmen will be in town tonight, since it’s a weekday and a lot of them will have to work. The average member in 1965 doesn’t have money to blow on hotels. Leaders do, though, since they tend to consider the Klan treasury their own personal slush fund. Plus, like other organized-crime bosses, they aren’t above taking kickbacks from local businesses in exchange for so-called protection.
Rank-and-file members, however, are the ones most likely to be on the other end of a sniper rifle. I doubt they’ll stay in town at all after the shooting, if it’s the same group that killed Viola Liuzzo in the original timeline. They only live about a hundred miles away, and no matter how inclined the local police might be to turn a blind eye toward a wrecking crew attacking several thousand civil rights activists, you don’t tempt fate by staying in the area. The police might feel the need to make an example for once.
And if any Klan members are in town, they’ll be here at the Exchange. Aside from a bellhop and the young man who bussed my table, I haven’t seen a single face that wasn’t white. Technically, hotels and restaurants are supposed to be integrated in 1965, but the Civil Rights Act isn’t even a year old, and most establishments in the South are dragging their feet when it comes to compliance. If this had been a year ago, I couldn’t have ruled out the possibility that any Klan members in town for the march might have stayed at the Jefferson Davis Hotel, which was, after all, named for the Confederate States’ president. But the chain that owns that hotel has received a couple of bomb threats over the past year, since they received a personal request to desegregate from Attor
ney General Robert Kennedy and decided not to fight the new law.
The Exchange has its own Civil War history. Jefferson Davis gave a speech in the old Exchange building, on this same site. And it’s widely known that even though official votes are taken at the capitol, the real decision-making happens here, over whiskey and cigars.
A little after seven, when it’s clear I can’t drag out my stay at the table any longer without incurring the wrath of my waitress, I pay the check and carry my half-finished drink over to the bar on the other side of the lobby. The place reminds me a bit of Campbell’s Redwing Room at the OC, all dark wood and burgundy leather. It’s a lot smokier than any room at the OC, however, where any toxic fumes are enclosed in ventilation bubbles and whisked up to the ceiling. The smell in this room is a bit like an ashtray filled with whiskey.
As I enter, I realize that I must have gotten a little too involved in You Only Live Twice, or else there’s a back door I didn’t know about. Three men are sitting together at a table at the other end of the bar. I recognize two of them. The first is Robert Chambliss, sometimes called “Dynamite Bob.” I suspect he started the nickname. He’s as nasty a snake as I’ve encountered, and not half as smart as he thinks he is. He’s one of the guys who bombed the Sixteenth Street Church in Birmingham, killing four girls, in 1963. Chambliss won’t be convicted until he’s an old man. The testimony at the trial indicated that he’d designed the bomb to go off when the church was empty, not during services, but I’m not sure I believe that.
Officially a member of the Eastview Klavern 13, one of the most vicious in KKK history, Dynamite Bob is also the leader of a rather informal group called the Cahaba Boys. They’re sort of a permanent wrecking crew, although I think the more common term around here is “action squad.” Most of them are still members of Klavern 13, even though they generally think the KKK has gone soft.
I’m a little surprised to see Chambliss here. He wasn’t one of the four men indicted for killing Viola Liuzzo, and nothing I read indicated he was even in Montgomery for the end of the Selma march. I’ve only met Chambliss once, and we didn’t speak directly, so I doubt he’ll recognize me. Still, I take a seat at a booth on the other side of the room where the light is dim. Once I’m settled, I tap the disk behind my ear.
When the display pops up, I select the closest of the seven listening devices I’ve scattered around the building. The only thing I hear is ambient noise and the occasional crunch, because there’s a lull in the conversation right now. They’re drinking and munching on bar peanuts. Waiting on someone or something, from the looks of it.
Collie Wilkins, one of the men who will be charged with killing Viola Liuzzo, sits on Chambliss’s right. Wilkins is a baby-faced guy in his early twenties. His hair is puffed up just a bit in front and slicked down on the sides and back, and a cigarette hangs from his lips. He doesn’t really look much like Elvis, but I suspect that’s the image he’s going for.
The other guy’s back is to me, so I can’t see his face. When he shifts slightly to the left, however, I see something in the breast pocket of his jacket that nearly causes me to drop the glass I’m holding. Vivid purple light seeps through the holes in the fabric.
I reflexively clutch the CHRONOS key in my own pocket, making sure it’s securely inside the pouch the guy from costuming gave me. Then I slide over a bit more into the shadows and set a stable point from this angle. I’m definitely going to want the others to see this when I get back.
The three men are talking about an upcoming boxing match. Wilkins says he’s not going to watch it. That Clay, or Muhammad Ali, or whatever you want to call him isn’t the heavyweight champion anymore, so it’s a pointless fight. Chambliss snorts and says he’s damn sure going to watch, assuming they don’t cancel, because no matter who wins, he’ll get to see an uppity monkey with a big ego hit the ground. He says he hopes it’s Ali. Says he’s got five bucks on Liston to smack Ali’s smart-ass mouth right off his face this time.
The guy with the CHRONOS key asks if they’re sure theaters in Birmingham are carrying the fight on closed-circuit. Chambliss says it will probably be downtown at The Alabama, but Wilkins seems convinced it’s at a drive-in theater. They’re debating whether it’s possibly at both when Bob Shelton, Imperial Wizard of United Klans of America, walks past my booth. He claps the mystery guy on the shoulder and motions for him to slide over.
Shelton tells the men he can only stay a few minutes. Then he congratulates the guy next to him for his idea about the Ex-Lax and ipecac combo in the rations. “I think a few of them overindulged,” he says, “but it beats the hell out of an Article 15 or worse. Three-quarters of the state guard volunteered for your version of the stomach flu, so we’re down to mostly feds. I still think that’s too many to plan a major action, unless you guys come up with some ideas tonight. Just let me know through normal channels. But nothin’ too blatant, or we’ll be callin’ you Crazy Tommy.”
All three of the other men chuckle at that.
There were at least two men called Tommy that some historical accounts connect to Klavern 13 or the Cahaba Boys. But to the best of my knowledge, the only one Shelton ever called Crazy Tommy was Gary Thomas “Tommy” Rowe, who was eventually revealed to be an FBI informant. Glen was with the Birmingham area Klans for several years, and he claims that Rowe never managed to make it into the inner circle. That he found out about a lot of events after the fact. Rowe did inform the FBI that some members of Klavern 13 were heading to Montgomery to greet the marchers from Selma, but that was the last they heard from him before he was arrested with the three other men for shooting Liuzzo.
From the way Shelton emphasized the word you, however, I don’t think this guy is actually Rowe. I shift to try to get a better look, but I can only see his profile. He’s about the same build as the images I remember seeing of Rowe, but the face is wrong. I hate using my retinal screen on jumps, because anyone looking at you can see your eyes jerking around, but I risk it this once. And sure enough, the man next to Shelton isn’t Tommy Rowe. But then I was sure he was an imposter of some sort as soon as I saw the light from the medallion in his breast pocket.
What’s bugging me is that he still looks familiar. I scroll through all of the faces in my files for Klavern 13, and none of them match. I’m almost convinced that he just has one of those generic faces when he picks up the cigar resting on the ashtray and taps it against the edge. It’s something about the movement, the way he flicks the tip of the cigar with his thumbnail. And then I see a ruby signet ring on his other hand. I can’t get a good look, but I’d be willing to wager that the initials on the side are OC.
This man is about seventy pounds thinner and at least twenty-five years younger than the version holding court at the Objectivist Club in 2304. But it’s him. I’m certain. The hair is a good bit shorter than the portrait of him hanging in the Redwing Room at the OC, but otherwise it’s a perfect likeness.
After all these years of wishing he could time travel, Morgen Campbell has somehow gotten hold of a CHRONOS key. And even more baffling, he’s also acquired the genetic enhancement that allows him to use it.
FROM THE PHYSICS OF MANY PATHS BY STANFORD FULLER (2032)
I am not a scientist. Anyone who picks up this book probably knows that already. The nature of my gift has, however, made me curious about those fields of science that might explain why I see the things I do. So while my understanding of the theories discussed in this chapter is that of a layperson, not a physicist, it is a subject that I have endeavored to understand as best I can.
I’m not certain if there is a scientific explanation for my seeing The Paths. If so, I fear that it is a very inexact science. The ability has never been something that I can summon at will, and that is why I discourage people who come to me for guidance from raising their hopes too high. The fact that someone is standing before me does not mean that I will see his or her personal crossroads, the alternate paths that might be taken, or the result of those choices. It simpl
y means that there’s a chance I’ll pick something up. A chance that I might be able to guide that individual toward The Path that will result in their best personal outcome. That’s also why I accept no payment, only donations after the fact if someone finds my advice was useful.
The Many-Worlds hypothesis claims that there is an infinite—or at least incredibly large—number of universes branching off from our actions. Every possible option that you could take spins off new possibilities, new realities.
While this concept of multiple universes is a bit overwhelming to imagine, it corresponds very closely with what I have come to call The Paths. For some reason, I’ve been gifted with the ability to catch tiny glimpses of these alternate realities. Some people call these visions, and I suppose they are, in a sense. But I see them as physical paths, much like computer projection models for hurricanes and other unpredictable phenomena. The most likely outcomes cluster into a few thicker branches, but there are also offshoots that fan out in every direction.
When the paths first appear, they are blurry, almost too blurry for me to make out details. Each possible outcome is a separate layer, and with so many layers it’s hard to see anything clearly. Sometimes the paths seem to be on the same plane. Other times they intersect at odd angles. Occasionally paths will loop, intersecting at an earlier juncture in time. Those paths are very unstable, and I’m always glad when they finally resolve and I stop seeing them.
∞22∞
MADI
BETHESDA, MARYLAND
NOVEMBER 13, 2136
I tiptoe down the stairs and into the kitchen, not bothering with the light, and key in the code for pasta Alfredo with broccoli. It usually comes out half-decent and only takes a few minutes. I’m pouring myself a glass of wine, with just three minutes left on the timer, when a shadow falls over the kitchen counter. I know without even turning around that it’s Jack.