False Memory

to have been reduced, with so many potential enemies dead, but these were dangerous times.
    Although the Taurus PT-111 Millennium was not registered— having been provided to him, as were all his weapons, by the good folks at the institute—he couldn’t use it again. Now that it could be linked to the murders of two men, it was a hot piece; it would have to be broken down and disposed of with maximum discretion.
    From his gun safe, concealed behind bookshelves in the mastersuite sitting room, he selected a .380 Beretta model 85F, an elegant twenty-two-ounce pistol with an eight-round magazine. This, too, was an unregistered handgun with no traceable history.
    He packed a compartmentalized, hand-tooled Mark Cross briefcase with the blue bag, the Green Acres bag, and the tape recorder that he used for dictation. While he waited for the Keanuphobe to call, he would do some game planning and compose a chapter of Fear Not for l Am with You.
    In his study, he checked his E-mail and was surprised to find that he had still not received a confirmation of the double hit in New Mexico. Puzzled but not worried, he composed a short encrypted query and shot it off to the institute.
    He drove his antique Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud.
    The car inspired several haiku during the short trip to the office.
    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