He parked his car with his need for answers rising from the pit of his stomach like vomit.

His car was a hardtop ’65 Chrysler coupe, black, with whitewall tires. He needed to know if the benefit of many could be leveraged on his own anonymous redemption. If betraying the principles of the saved could make up for saving them in the first place.

The car parked behind him was a white Ford Mustang coupe. He frowned at it once.

Shutting off the motor, he wiped his broad, square face with a towel. His sweat running in trickles through his eyebrows and the electric puff of his white beard. The burnt brown of his otherwise-milk skin contrasting with his suit, making him look like a farmer in town on a business trip.

His ID stated his name as Guy de la Roy. Given his reasons for being here, he supposed that someone in the Travel Agency had a sense of humor to appreciate his mission without compromising him. Even now, far away from the blood-drinking of his youth, he felt, in this circumstance, that he carried a better identification under his left arm: A faded and scarred tattoo. From when Roy came, such a thing could be removed in seconds. He kept it. His tattoo showed an odal rune with the word RAHOWA encircling it. Its position matched the style of the blood group tattoos employed by the ancient Waffen-SS organization.

He picked up a canvas case from the passenger side before exiting and slamming the door shut behind him. As he pocketed his keys, his blunt fingers touched the surface of the cold metal tube that also lay in his pocket. He shivered and pressed an actuator, feeling a hiss as the tip of the splinter extended. He remembered his lessons from the instructors at the Travel Agency barracks in the former Maryland. The splinter would be gray-white, ceramic in appearance, the exposed tip more blunt than the sharp end still concealed.

He walked upstairs to reap.

Ms. Brewer, the landlady of the rooming house in which he now stood, said that, yes, Mr. John Willard was indeed in room 5B. Roy, claiming himself to be a friend, left his ID with her, and said he would be back to pick it up later.

He walked to room 5B, knocked twice, then stood back. His fingers fully drawing out the splinter and holding it in the open, below the range of the door’s peephole.

The door opened, and there he stood. Black hair and eyes, thin nose, a slash for a mouth. All Roy’s questions stilled before the coming terminal action.

Roy asked, “Mr. James Ray, correct?”

A flash of surprise, yanked away by suspicion.

Roy gave him no chance to ask. The splinter arcing through the air in a lazy whirl at the flick of his wrist. It passed into Ray and closed its entry wound behind itself before so much as a droplet of blood could spurt out. Roy dropping his case, stepping forward, hard hands bearing down on Ray’s mouth and throat, shoving him backwards, shifting to grip his upper arms and gently lay him on the room’s bed. Ray soundless, dying in a storm of nanotechnology and targeted cellular collapse.

Roy saw Ray’s light go out. He closed Ray’s eyes and covered him up. Then, after retrieving his case, he walked over to a green bundle sitting on the room’s table. Pulling out the rifle inside, Roy disassembled it and placed the gun and its box of ammunition inside his own case.

Leaving the room, Roy walked back to the landlady and explained that his friend Mr. Willard had, in light of feeling unwell, decided to take a nap. Roy told her that he would be back in a day. She simply handed him back his ID and wished him a pleasant afternoon.

Back in his car, Roy took a breath like he had not breathed in forever. No sweat on his face.

Divergence established. The answers would come now. If he lived long enough.



6:02 p.m. of April 4, 1968. Heavenly shades of night falling.

The black Chrysler purring down Mulberry Street. Looking through the passenger window, for the only time in Roy’s life, seeing [i][b]him[/b][/i], in person, dark suit and brown skin and brown eyes, standing on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel. Alive.

Roy looked away before their eyes might possibly meet.

He turned the wheel, left Mulberry Street, began driving south.