False Memory

Blue day, Silver Cloud. Conveyance of kings, of queens. And blue bag of poop.

The doctor was in fine form, and his bubbly mood resulted in another playful verse only two blocks from his office:

Silver Cloud, blacktop. Blind man in crosswalk, cane taps. Compassion or fun?

He chose compassion and allowed the blind man to cross without incident. Besides, the Silver Cloud was pristine, and the doctor shuddered at the thought of the magnificent motorcar sustaining even minor body damage.

Coming fast down to California at a precipitous angle, Dusty suspected that he and Martie had a long descent ahead of them even after the wheels of the airliner were safely on the tarmac. Past this sunny day lay dark places yet unvisited.

Weaponless but armed with knowledge, he believed they had no choice but to confront Ahriman. He suffered under no illusions that the psychiatrist would confess or even explain himself. The best they could hope for was that Mark Ahriman would inadvertently reveal something that would give them a slight edge or at least deepen their understanding of him and of the institute in New Mexico.

“Besides, I don’t think Ahriman has ever faced much in the way of adversity. He’s had a smooth ride through life. Judging by what I’ve read of his stupid book, he’s every bit the classic narcissist Dr. Closterman accused him of being.”

“And damn smug,” Martie added, because Dusty had read her some passages from Learn to Love Yourself.

“He’s powerful, he’s connected, he’s smart, but at the core he might be soft. If we can rattle him, intimidate him, get in his face and shake him up, he probably won’t come apart significantly, but he might do something stupid, reveal something he shouldn’t. And right now, we need every tiny advantage we can get.”

After they ransomed the Saturn from the airport parking garage, they drove to Fashion Island in Newport Beach, to the high-rise where Ahriman had his office. The Tower of Cirith Ungol, Martie called it, which was a place of evil in The Lord of the Rings.

On the elevator ride to the fourteenth floor, Dusty experienced a sinking sensation in his chest and stomach, as though the cab were descending rather than ascending. He almost decided not to get off the elevator, to ride it back downstairs again. Then. an idea.

The doctor was seated at his desk, taking a cookie break, when his computer — which was always running — issued a soft bing, and the screen filled with a security-camera view of the reception lounge, which happened every time someone entered from the public corridor. If he had been working on the computer, the camera shot would have appeared as a picture-in-picture, and he wouldn’t have had such a clear view of Martie and Dusty Rhodes.

He checked his Rolex and saw that they were only six minutes late for their appointment.

Evidently, something had gone badly wrong in New Mexico.

Various security-system icons had appeared along the bottom of the screen. The doctor used his mouse to click on an image of a gun.

A highly refined metal detector indicated that both subjects were carrying small amounts of metal on their persons — coins, keys, and the like — but that neither of them was concealing a metal mass of sufficient size to be a firearm.

To another icon: a miniature skeleton. Click.

As the pair stood at the reception window, talking to Jennifer, they were aligned with roentgen tubes concealed between the louvers in an air-return grille in the wall to their left. Fluoroscopic images were relayed to Ahriman’s screen.

They had good skeletons, these two. Solid bone structure, well-articulated joints, excellent posture. If they possessed the talent to match their physical gifts, they would be fine ballroom dancers.

As though floating in zero gravity, other objects were revealed by fluoroscopy, suspended around the well-poised bones. Coins, keys, buttons, metal zippers, but no knives in arm or leg sheaths, nothing lethal.

A jumble of small items in Martie’s purse couldn’t be easily identified. Among them might be a folded switchblade. Impossible to be sure.

The third icon was a drawing of a nose. As the doctor finished his cookie, he clicked the nose.

This activated a trace-scent analyzer that sampled air drawn from the reception lounge. The device, programmed to recognize the chemical profiles of thirty-two different explosive compounds, was sensitive enough to detect as few as three signature molecules per cubic centimeter of air. Negative. Neither of his visitors was carrying a bomb.

He had not really expected Dusty or Martie to have either the expertise with explosives or the sheer gumption to come calling with bombs strapped to their bodies. This extraordinary level of security had been installed because from time to time the doctor dealt with patients who were far less stable than these two.