False Memory

office, which didn’t go through Jennifer. “Tell me whether or not you understand.”
    “I understand.”
    Ahriman conveyed the subject from the mind chapel up to full consciousness on the count of ten, whereupon he said, “Sorry, wrong number,” and hung up.
    Returning directly to his fourteenth-floor suite, the doctor was circumspect upon entering the reception lounge, lest the Keanuphobe be waiting there with a spike-heeled shoe in each hand.
    Jennifer looked up from her desk, beyond the reception window, and waved perkily.
    He waved but hurried to his office before she could launch into an enthusiastic harangue about the health benefits of eating five ounces of liquefied pine bark every day.
    At his desk once more, he slipped the Beretta out of his holster and put it within easy reach.
    He plucked a fresh bottle of black cherry soda from the office refrigerator and used it to wash down another cookie. He needed a blast of sugar.
    He was in action again. He had gotten through a rocky moment or two, but the crisis had only invigorated him. Ever the optimist, he knew that another spectacular win was only hours away, and he was excited.
    Now and then, people asked the doctor how he managed to keep his youthful looks, his youthful figure, and such a high energy level day after day, through a busy life. His answer was always the same:
    What kept him young was his sense of fun.
    When the phone rang, it was necessary to activate and access the subject once more: “Ed Mavole.”
    “I’m listening.”
    Following the haiku, Dr. Ahriman said, “You will go directly to a self-storage yard in Anaheim.” He provided the address of the facility, the number of the unit that he had rented with false ID, and the combination of the lock on the door. “Among other things in the storage unit, you will find two Glock 18 machine pistols and several spare thirty-three-round magazines. Take one of the pistols and four magazines ought to be enough.”
    Regrettably, with five rather than three people to subdue at the house in Malibu, and with only one person to subdue them instead of two, it would not be possible to take control of the residence quietly enough to be able, thereafter, to dismember all the victims and compose ironic tableaux according to the original game plan. So much gunfire would be required that police would arrive quickly and interrupt the work: Cops had a notoriously poor sense of both fun and irony.
    Perhaps, however, there would be enough time to transform Derek Lampton Sr. into the object of ridicule that he deserved to be.
    “Other than the pistol and the four magazines, the only items you’ll take from the storage unit are an autopsy saw and a cranial blade. No, better take two blades, in case one snaps.”
    Attention to detail.
    He described these tools to be sure no mistakes were made, and then he gave directions to Derek Lampton’s place in Malibu.
    “Kill everyone you find at the house.” He listed the people he expected to be present. “But if there are others—visiting neighbors, a meter reader, whoever—kill them, too. Enter forcefully, moving quickly from room to room, chasing them down if they flee, and waste no time. Then before the police arrive, you will remove the top of Dr. Derek Lampton’s skull with the cranial saw.” He described the technique by which this could be best accomplished. “Now tell me whether or not you understand.”
    “I understand.”
    “You will remove the brain and set it aside. Repeat, please.”
    “Remove the brain and set it aside.”
    The doctor gazed wistfully at the blue bag on his desk. There was no way, on a timely basis and beyond the eyes of witnesses, to rendezvous with this programmed killer and pass along Valet’s useful product. “There is something you must put in the empty skull. If the Lamptons have a dog, you might find what you need, but if not, you’ll have to produce it yourself.” He gave his final instructions, including a suicide directive.
    “I understand.”
    “I’ve given you very important work, and I’m convinced you will perform it impeccably.”
    “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    When he hung up the phone, Ahriman wished that he had been able to program the pustulant Lampton family themselves—the insufferable Derek, his slut of a wife, and their deranged son—and use them as puppets. Unfortunately, they were too aware of him and were sure to regard him with suspicion; he stood little or no chance of getting close enough to them to administer the requisite