False Memory

more than six seconds passed between exchanges in their enabling haiku, they would revert to full consciousness. Therefore, he would have to switch back and forth between them, like a juggler spinning plates on top of sticks.
    To Martie, he said, “Blown from the west—” “You are the west and the western wind.”
    To Dusty, he said, “Lightning gleams—”
    “You are the lightning.”
    Now to Martie: “—fallen leaves gather—”
    “The leaves are your instructions.”
    And back to Dusty: “—and a night heron’s shriek—”
    “The shrieks are your instructions.”
    Ahriman finished with Martie: “—in the east.”
    “I am the east.”
    Finally to Dusty: “—travels into darkness.”
    “I am the darkness.”
    Martie sat with her head tipped slightly forward, her eyes on her hands, which were clutching her purse.
    Beautiful bowed head. If told to blow out her brains... obeys her master.
    Admittedly, this was not first-rate haiku, but the doctor found the sentiment charming.
    Still turned toward his wife, head half cocked in an attitude of puzzlement, Dusty appeared to be focused on her.
    Of course, she was not actually interested in her purse, and her husband was not truly aware of her, because both of them were waiting for one thing: instructions.
    Perfect.
    Astonished and delighted, Ahriman leaned back in his chair and marveled at how abruptly his fortunes had improved. The game, which he’d been restructuring this morning, could now be played out with much of his original strategy. All his problems were solved.
    Well, except for the Keanuphobe. But now with the universe seeming to be considerate of the doctor’s every need, he expected that the issue of the hemi-billionaire bubblehead basket case would be resolved to his advantage before the day was out.
    He was curious to know how this unlikely pair, the housepainter and the video-game designer, had survived New Mexico. Indeed, he had five hundred questions if he had one; he could have spent the entire day quizzing them about how they had puzzled out so much about him even with the few wild cards that had fallen in their favor.
    As important as attention to detail was, however, one must also remember to keep one’s eye on the prize. The prize in this case was the successful completion of the most important game of the doctor’s career. Although originally he had intended to play with Martie for a while before using her and Dusty in Malibu, he was no longer willing to wait months, weeks, or even an extra hour for his final satisfaction.
    Ultimately, in spite of their cleverness, Martie and Dusty were nothing but two plebs, two common little people desperately striving to rise above their social class, which is what all the plebs wanted even if they would never admit it, two earnest scrabblers with dreams far bigger than their ability to fulfill them. No doubt some of the details of their pathetic sleuthing would be amusing, but in the end, their escapades would be only slightly less witless than the doings of Detective Skeet and his nameless pal. They were interesting not for who they were but solely for how they could be controlled.
    Before the Keanuphobe called or showed up to complicate matters, Ahriman needed to instruct Dusty and Martie, wind them up and send them off on the killing spree that would be the final inning of this game.
    “Martie, Dusty, I am addressing both of you now. I will instruct you simultaneously to save time. Is this understood?”
    “Is it understood?” Martie asked, even as Dusty asked, “Is it?”
    “Tell me whether or not you understand what I’ve told you.”
    “I understand,” they said simultaneously.
    Leaning forward in his chair, savoring this moment, downright giddy with delight, not even regretting that now he would not have the chance to boff Martie a few times, the doctor said, “Later today you are going to take a drive out to Malibu—”
    “Malibu...“ Martie murmured.
    “Yes, that’s right. Malibu. You know the address. The two of you are going out to visit Dusty’s mother, Claudette, and her husband— that greedy, grasping, self-aggrandizing little shit, Dr. Derek Lampton.”
    “I understand,” Dusty said.
    “Yes, I’m sure you do,” Ahriman said, amused, “since you had to live under the same roof with the reeking little pisspot. Now, when you get to Malibu, if either Claudette or Dickhead Derek is out somewhere on an errand, you must wait until both are home.”
    The doctor realized that by heaping this ridicule on Lampton, he was