“So he went back to your mother. She repeated her claims: That you were an evil child. That you hated your brother. That you’d intentionally put him in jeopardy as a way of getting rid of him.”
“If I was so evil,” she says, “why did she make me watch Phil? I mean, does that make sense, that you have your monster daughter babysit the brother she’s trying to kill?”
“Officer Friendly asked her about that. She said she didn’t have a choice—as a single mother working to support two children, she couldn’t afford a real babysitter…”
“Oh, that’s good. Why didn’t she just get a pit bull to watch Phil? I hear they’re great with kids.”
“She also said she’d been in denial about your true nature. She said of course you were no angel, she’d always known that, but it was only now she saw what a devil you were.”
“And Officer Friendly bought that?”
“No,” the doctor says. “He thought it was nonsense. He was about to concede that the social worker had been right after all. Then your mother said one more thing.
“She said she should have known that this was going to happen—she’d had a clear warning, and she’d never forgive herself for ignoring it. Officer Friendly asked what she was talking about, and she said that the day before your brother was abducted you’d all been at the post office together. Your mother left the two of you in the lobby while she went to stand in line, and when she came back, your brother was crying. It was obvious something had frightened him badly, but he wouldn’t say what, and neither would you. Then that night, he woke up screaming. She asked him again what was wrong, and he told her that the man who collected children for the gypsies was coming to get him. ‘Jane showed me his face,’ he said.
“It sounded like more paranoia, but when Officer Friendly went to the post office to have a look around, he found this tacked up on a bulletin board in the lobby. ‘Jane showed me his face…’”
She’s silent a long time before asking: “Did he tell my mother about this?”
“No,” says the doctor. “It’s possible she’d already seen it, but he saw no reason to upset her further if she hadn’t. It’s not as if it were evidence—at least, not the kind he could act on. But you can see why he kept this, even after the hunt for Doyle was abandoned. And you can understand why, when I called him a few days ago, he knew right away which Jane I was referring to…So what about it, Jane? How does this figure into the story you’ve been telling me? Or does it?”
“Of course it does.”
“Really? Because I was under the impression the story’s almost over. Shouldn’t this have come at the beginning?”
“Sure, if I was an honest person…I wanted to forget it all, you know? What happened to Phil, or even that I had a brother. Well, I couldn’t do that. I got good at lying about it, but that’s not the same as forgetting. But this…” She nods at the piece of paper on the table. “This I almost did manage to forget. I thought I was the only one who knew—other than Phil, I mean. But it turns out it’s not just Panopticon on the lookout for bad behavior.”
“You’re losing me again, Jane.”
“Just listen,” she says. “I’m getting to it.”
The Good Jane and the Bad Jane
WHEN LOVE FINALLY LET ME GO, I went down to the street and stood there taking deep breaths until I was sure, absolutely sure, that I was really outside, on the actual Vegas Strip, and not in some ant-farm extension of the Mudgett Suite. What ultimately convinced me wasn’t the air quality so much as the sheer number of tourists bumping past me on the sidewalk: even the organization, I figured, couldn’t afford to hire that many extras.
It was late afternoon. Which afternoon was harder to say, but that didn’t matter: I had a job to do. Panopticon had confirmed that John Doyle was in his suite at the Venetian. It was time to pay him a visit. I joined the flow of pedestrians headed north, past the Casino Royale to the fake Doge’s Palace.
The tourist crowd inside the Venetian was salted with Clowns, white-faced Italian mimes and harlequins. None of them made eye contact with me, but I knew they were watching—when I started to follow the hall of shops towards the Grand Canal, a passing mime caught me by the elbow, spun me around, and pushed me back in the direction of the escalator bank. I rode down to the lower level and found the hotel lobby, where a red-headed bellhop, his long hair combed in a Bozo flip, was waiting to slip me a keycard.
It wasn’t until I’d boarded the elevator that I really let myself think about who I was going to meet. I took out my NC gun and checked, twice, that the dial was on the narcolepsy setting. “Do not pick up any other weapons,” I reminded myself.
The elevator arrived on the penthouse floor. I located Doyle’s suite and used the keycard to open the door, stepping through into an entry hall that was larger than most hotel rooms. The walls and ceiling were mirrored and the floor was polished marble, so whichever way I looked I saw infinite Janes holding infinite NC guns that they didn’t dare fire.
I followed the hall to its end, to an enormous sitting room with still more reflective surfaces: another mirror wall; a line of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip; assorted glass-and marble-topped tables and cabinets. Here, though, my gaze was drawn to the body on the floor, the blood fanning out from it in all directions already beginning to dry to a dull finish.
John Doyle’s throat had been slit, and his face, palms, and chest all bore slashing cuts. His legs were curled under him, like he’d been on his knees and flopped over backwards. The thought that he’d died begging for mercy didn’t exactly break my heart, but this was obviously a problem as far as interrogating him was concerned.
As I dug in my pocket for my comm unit, I sensed movement in the room. I looked up and saw what seemed like an optical illusion reflected in the mirror walclass="underline" there I was, standing over Doyle’s corpse, while above and slightly behind me a second Jane extended upside-down from the ceiling. I turned and raised my head; sure enough, there was the bad Jane, standing on the ceiling with her hair and jacket dangling up, like gravity was reversed just for her. “Hello again,” she said, and while I was still trying to make sense of this, she reached down, grabbed my head with both hands, and gave it a sharp twist.
I woke up paralyzed in a chair, facing the mirror wall. Doyle’s body was at my feet, and my NC gun was on a table to my right, within easy reach, if only I could reach. The bad Jane was behind me, standing on the floor now like a normal person, only not normaclass="underline" as I watched her in the mirror, she kept shimmering, disappearing, and reappearing, just as she had in the diner parking lot.
“How’s the neck?” she said, solidifying long enough to lay a cool hand against my jugular. “I hope I didn’t overdo it. Phil would be pissed if I did any permanent damage.”
I couldn’t reach, but I could talk: “What the fuck are you?”
“What, you don’t recognize your evil twin? Or do you mean this?” She winked, and winked out. Her voice came from thin air: “It’s the drugs, Jane.”
“You drugged me?”
“Not you, genius. Me.” She was back, crouched behind me with her chin propped on my shoulder. “Altered-state theory, Jane. Remember?”
I remembered.
Altered-state theory, that was a Berkeley thing. She must have gone there too. Small world.
What is altered-state theory?
This stupid acidhead idea about the relationship between consciousness and reality. There was this crazy guy, right, leftover flower child, who used to hang out on campus. He had great dope, and he was willing to share, but it was like the Salvation Army, where before you get the free soup you have to listen to a sermon. So this guy would go on about this theory he had, that any time you altered your perception of reality, there was a corresponding alteration in the way reality perceived you, or something like that…