False Memory

Assuming that they were high on a combination of drugs and that neither of them was likely to make any sense, Ahriman shot Skeet’s pal twice in the gut. The man was flung backward, instantly dead or dying, dropping the microphone and the headset as he fell.

The doctor turned to the astonished Skeet and shot him twice in the gut, too, and Skeet dropped like a biology-lab skeleton clipped loose from its suspension rack.

Stars, moon, and gunshots. Two deaths here where life began. The sea and the surf.

Quickness counts. No time for poetry. Two more rounds in the chest for the downed Skeet — wham, wham — finishing him for sure.

“Your mother’s a whore, your father’s a fraud, your stepfather’s got pig shit for brains,” Ahriman gloated.

Swivel, aim. Wham, wham. Two more in the chest for Skeet’s idiot buddy, just for good measure. Regrettably, the doctor knew nothing about this man’s family, so he couldn’t flavor the moment with any colorful insults.

The pungent stink of gunfire was satisfying, but unfortunately the inconstant moonlight wasn’t the ideal illumination in which to enjoy the blood and the ravages of the shattered flesh.

Perhaps he could spare a minute with his penknife to take some mementos.

He felt so young. Rejuvenated. Death was definitely what life was all about.

Two shots left.

The mild-mannered retriever was whining, yelping, even daring to bark. The dog had backed off toward the surf and was not going to attack. Nevertheless, the doctor decided to save both the ninth and tenth rounds for Valet.

As the eighth shot was still ringing in his ears, he swung the gun toward the dog — and almost squeezed the trigger before realizing that Valet didn’t appear to be barking at him but at something on the low bluff behind him.

When Ahriman turned, he saw a strange figure standing atop the embankment, gazing down at him. For an instant he had the crazy idea that this was one of the aliens with which Skeet and his pal had been trying to make contact.

Then he recognized the off-white St. John suit, luminous in the moonlight, and the blond hair, and the arrogant posture of the nouveau riche.

In the office, earlier in the day, in a spasm of paranoia, she had accused him of having a patient conflict, of possible unethical conduct. You don’t know K-K-Keanu, do you, Doctor?

At the time, he thought he had charmed her out of her absurd suspicion, but evidently not.

The doctor, of all people, should have known better. This was one of his psychiatric specialties, and also the subject of his next best-selling book, Fear Not for I Am with You. Severe obsessives and severe phobics, of which she was both, were highly unpredictable and, in the worst cases, capable of extremely irrational behavior. She was trouble in six-hundred-dollar shoes.

In fact, she was holding those shoes, one in each hand, standing in her stocking feet. He felt stupid for having ruined his Italian wing tips.

He hadn’t known what vehicle she drove, but now he did. A white Rolls-Royce.

While he’(l been having so much fun following the deadhead dicks, this delusional woman had followed him, expecting to catch him in a conspiratorial meeting with Keanu Reeves. His shortsightedness mortified him.

All these startling realizations flew through the doctor’s mind in perhaps two seconds. In the third, he raised the pistol and fired one of the rounds that he’d been saving for the dog.

Maybe he was foiled by the wind or the distance, or the angle, or the shock that shook him at the sight of her, but whatever the cause, he missed.

She ran. Away from the low bluff. Out of sight.

Regretting the necessity to leave without killing the dog and without harvesting souvenirs from the two men, the doctor raced after his Keanuphobic patient. He was eager to administer a complete and final cure for her condition.

Raced proved not to be an apt description of his pace once he reached the foot of the embankment. The sandy incline, carved by erosion, had no shore grass to bind it. Ascending it was trickier than his descent had been. The sand shifted treacherously under his feet. He sank in as deep as his ankles, and by the time he reached the top, he was almost reduced to crawling.

His suit was a mess.

The Keanuphobe was far ahead of Ahriman, as fleet as a gazelle, but at least she had no weapons except one high-heeled pump in each hand. If he could catch her, he would make good use of the one round left in the Millennium, and if somehow he missed even at point-blank range, he could rely on his greater size and strength to pummel her into submission and then choke the life out of her.

The problem was catching her. When she reached the hard surface of the parking lot, she picked up speed, while Dr. Ahriman was still slogging forward through sucking sand. The gap between them began to widen, and he regretted eating the third and fourth chocolate-coconut cookies.