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He stood from the bar, and was about to leave, when he heard a voice behind him.

‘Timothy Van Bender?'

The voice was familiar – a raspy, sloppy-drunk voice – and Timothy turned around to see who it was. It took him a moment to place the face: the mop of blond-gray hair, in no particular style, the two-day stubble, the bags under the eyes, and the pasty skin of someone who spent too much time awake, in dark smoky bars like this one. ‘Timothy Van Bender? It
is
you.'

It was Mack Gladwell, former Exeter classmate and former blue-blood, but now simply a record-producer of dubious ability, and a coke-addict of great ability. The last time Timothy had seen Mack was in Palm Beach, three years ago, when Mack had taken Timothy for that night on the town ‘Gladwell Style.'

‘Hi, Mack,' Timothy said.

‘How's it hanging, big man?' Mack stuck a cigarette in his mouth and then slapped Timothy on the back. ‘I see you have your wallet tonight.' He pointed to the billfold Timothy was holding. ‘You're not going to leave it at some lady's house, are you?'

Mack laughed uproariously. His laugh started dry and raspy but turned quickly into a cough. He coughed cigarette smoke from his nostrils.

‘You remember that?' Mack asked. ‘Palm Beach? What was that? A few years ago?'

‘Three years.'

‘You were so fucked. Remember that? The girl called your wife. What are the fucking chances of that? You leave your wallet in some slut's house and she tracks you down and calls your wife!
That is the goddamn funniest thing I ever heard!' Mack laughed.

‘Yeah,' Timothy said, ‘that was pretty funny.'

‘But she was good going down, right?' He laughed again. The laugh turned into another cough. It took him a moment to recover. Then, suddenly: ‘So how've you been?'

‘Not bad. Yourself?'

‘Not bad. Still doing the music thing.' He waved his hands vaguely, either to describe his career or to brush cigarette smoke from his eyes.

‘Why are you in town?'

‘Oh, you know. Here's where the money is nowadays. Trying to raise a few bucks.'

Timothy tried to picture Mack in a room full of Sand Hill Road venture capitalists, pitching them an Internet record label. It seemed preposterous.

Timothy put a hand on Mack's shoulder. It felt hot and sweaty. He said, ‘I should get going, Mack. Good to see you.'

‘Yeah, you too.'

Timothy turned to leave.

‘Hey, Timothy?'

Timothy stopped. ‘Yes?'

‘How was your surprise party?'

Timothy shook his head. ‘Sorry?'

‘They use my bit? Where I told that story about the wallet? I didn't know if they would actually use it, because maybe it would bring back bad memories. But it was pretty funny, so I thought what the hell – I'll tell the story, and let the chips fall.'

Timothy squinted at Mack. ‘Mack, what are you talking about?'

‘Your surprise party. Didn't they throw you a party a few months back? For your forty-seventh?'

Timothy shook his head. ‘No. No party.'

‘How about that?' Mack said. ‘Son of a bitch. Well, some young girl came down to Florida to interview me. You know, the whole bit – video camera, microphone. She was from the company that was putting together a videotape for your party. They were going to make a funny tape, all your friends telling funny stories about
you. I guess she knew you and me went to school together. She asked me what were some of the most memorable stories we had together. You know which one I told her, right?'

‘The one where I left my wallet.'

‘Right,' Mack said, ‘in the slut's house. And she called your wife, who made you stay in a hotel! Now that's some funny shit!' He laughed again, and then started coughing.

‘What did she look like?'

‘Who?'

‘The girl that interviewed you. For the videotape.'

‘Oh, hell, she was hot. Good-looking girl.'

‘What did she look like?' Timothy asked again, insistent now.

‘Well she had dark hair, glasses …'

‘Blue eyes?'

‘Yeah, sure, I guess.'

‘What was her name?'

‘Hell if I remember,' Mack said. ‘I just want to fuck them, not listen to their life story.'

Timothy felt dizzy. He grabbed the bar to keep from falling. His knees went weak.

Tricia had interviewed Mack Gladwell months before. She didn't need Katherine's journals. She had researched his entire life, knew important details, had them ready.

‘Are you okay?' Mack Gladwell said. ‘You don't look so good.' Mack leaned closer.

Timothy shoved him away.

‘Hey man, relax!' Mack said.

Timothy stumbled out of the tavern into the warm night air that smelled like jasmine and rosemary.

Now he did a neat forty miles per hour on Sand Hill Road, back to Dr. Ho's. Let the cops follow, he thought. The headlights of the oncoming cars left streaks across his field of vision like jet contrails. What kind of drug had Ho given him? He tried to marshal together all the known facts, but each time he focused on one thing, the rest of the facts marched away from him. He couldn't concentrate. When had he met Tricia? She had applied for the
job six months ago. He tried to think back, to recall the story she had told him. UCLA graduate? Los Angeles native? He had checked no references, didn't even verify that she had graduated from college. Was it possible that Tricia Fountain was not a ditzy secretary, but was, rather, a cunning grifter? Had she planned this entire con from the beginning, since before they met?

No, it was the Kid. Of course, the Kid. He was the brains behind it. He had the analytical mind, could see all the angles. He was smarter than Timothy; Timothy always knew it. And it was the Kid that had introduced Tricia to Osiris. He claimed to have met her at the Stanford Coffee House one afternoon, and suggested she apply for the vacant position of secretary. Now the Kid was just days away from walking into Union Bank and claiming Timothy's four million dollars. A nice payday, for an acting job.

Timothy tried to think back. The initial yen bet – hadn't that been the Kid's idea? And he knew how Timothy would react to the first string of losses: with a gambler's bravado and a stupid person's confidence. What was the plan? To keep Timothy off-balance, to drive him further into desperation, to entice him with Tricia – who was always so available, too available, Timothy now realized. Why would a twenty-something-year-old girl want an old man like him? He had fooled himself all this time.

But he couldn't quite figure it out. He knew the broad strokes of the con now: Tricia was not Katherine – of course not. How could he be so stupid? Tricia was just Tricia. They had planned it all in meticulous detail, even flown across the country to interview Timothy's old acquaintances, to get the story right. She had been a convincing Katherine, but she was not Katherine.

Which made Dr. Ho what? Was he even a doctor? Of course not. He was in on the con, one more bit player, a little Asian man playing mad scientist.

They had come
this
close. They almost convinced him: that Tricia was Katherine, that his wife had been sick, and then was backed up into Tricia's body; that another version of Timothy had been restored into the Kid's body. It was ridiculous, of course. But he had believed it. They had known Timothy was a technophobe, that he would fall for the computer hocus pocus. They had come
this
close to convincing Timothy to go home and asphyxiate himself in his garage, so that Tricia and the Kid could take his money. This close.

Timothy pulled his car into the 3600 office complex on Sand Hill. He reached under his seat and popped the trunk. He threw open the door, ran to the back of the car, grabbed a tire iron from the trunk. He slammed it shut and headed for Ho's office. Now he would get some answers.

He ran up the three flights of stairs with his shoes scuffing concrete in mad rhythm. His knee spasmed. He ran faster, circling the staircase, one hand on the L-shaped tire iron, the other on the banister, hoisting his body upward in tight spirals.

He came to Suite 301. The door was closed. He was out of breath and dizzy, from either the Scotch or Ho's drug. He lifted his good leg and slammed his shoe into cheap plywood. The door burst open.

Timothy rushed inside. The room was dark, deserted. There were shadows against the wall, empty chairs that waited for patients that never came, never would come. Across the room, the reception desk sat empty.

‘Ho!' Timothy shouted. ‘Where are you?'

He did not wait for an answer, but slipped through the shadows, to the rear door that led to the hall. He grabbed the knob, wrenched it open.

‘Ho!'

The corridor lights were off – dimmed to a feeble glow, barely enough to let janitors vacuum.

Where was that little man? He couldn't have vacated the office already. Timothy had just left … how long had it been? He glanced at his watch. Less than an hour ago. No, Ho was still there, holed up in his office, perhaps cowering under his desk.

‘I know you're here, Ho!' Timothy yelled.

He limped down the hall, dragging the tire iron against the carpet, until he came to Ho's private office. He tried the knob. Locked.

‘Dr. Ho?' Timothy lowered his voice, trying to sound calm,
reasonable. ‘I know you're in there, Doctor. Please open the door. I really just want to talk to you. I think there's been a misunderstanding.' He knocked softly. ‘Doctor?'

He waited for an answer. There was none.

So much for being reasonable. He raised the tire iron over his head and swung it into the door. On the arc down, the tip cracked against the fluorescent light case on the ceiling, knocking the beveled plastic cover. The sharp edge of the cover spun down, nicked Timothy's cheek, landed at his feet. Blood dripped from the gash on his face. The tire iron landed in the flimsy door and tore a furrow down the entire length, as if a splintery zipper had opened in the wood.

‘Doctor?' Timothy said. His voice was still calm, despite the tire iron and the broken door and the blood dripping copiously from his cheek. He pulled the tire iron from the wood and kicked the door. His heel crashed through it, but the door stayed in its frame. Timothy stood ridiculously for a moment, one foot still in the hall, one foot in Ho's office, like a ghost stuck midway while passing through a wall.

‘Ho?' Timothy said. His mouth was pressed up against the intact wood of the door. He could smell his own hot breath, the strange stink of Scotch and spit and blood. He turned the tire iron around and used the grip side to smash the door, tearing open a larger hole. He peered through the split, tried to see Ho. But the office was dark.

Timothy reached through the hole and felt for the knob on the other side. He crooked his elbow, found the lock, turned it. He extricated himself from the door, entered, and flipped on the lights.

He looked around Ho's office. No doctor. The familiar furniture was still there: a steel desk occupying most of the tiny room, a bookshelf, cheap paneling on the walls. But the paper piles, which had previously covered every inch of floor space – in little stacks sorted in a way only Ho understood – were gone. No manila folders. No medical records. No trace of Katherine Van Bender's charts. No proof that she had ever seen a man named Dr. Ho.

Timothy glanced at the wall behind Ho's desk. The doctor's framed medical certificates, which had once reassured Timothy about the doctor's credentials, were now conspicuously missing. Two nails, barely visible, poked out from the walls, like little thorns in Timothy's heart.

He walked to Ho's desk. He knew it would be bare, but checked anyway, pulling open drawer after drawer, wrenching them from their tracks. Empty. No papers. No documents. Just dust and paperclips and a few forlorn pens.

‘You son of a bitch,' Timothy said quietly, to the empty room. He turned and left the office. He proceeded down the hall to Lab #1.

He stopped at the door and took a breath. There was an outside chance Ho was still there. Maybe the doctor had been cleaning his office – removing all traces of himself and his elaborate con – when he heard Timothy coming, and so he hid in the lab. Maybe he was there right now, just feet from where Timothy stood, behind this very door, hiding, his mind racing, trying to think of a way out, trying to string together another elaborate explanation, a series of reassuring words. And why not? Why should Ho not try? The man had fooled Timothy for this long. He had woven an elaborate, ridiculous story which Timothy had not only accepted, but had accepted eagerly. Why would Ho change plans now, in mid course? If Timothy rushed into the lab and found the doctor cowering, the little man would surely spin yet another yarn, one more story to convince Timothy he could have everything he wanted – everything – if he would just listen …

Now the anger bubbled up in Timothy. He wanted to kill Ho, or whatever the man's real name was. He had come
this
close to convincing Timothy to end his own life. Ho and the Kid and Tricia had planned a meticulous con, at the same time devilish and absurd. They had used Katherine, manipulated Timothy, prodded his every weakness, exploited his own personality flaws against him …

Timothy reached for the door. He was ready for more tire-iron remodeling work. He wanted to swing the iron with all his might into the wood. He wanted to feel the door crack beneath his fury.
He wanted splinters to fly, the door to give, one solid kick to send it erupting back into the room, terrifying Ho as Timothy burst forth like an avenging angel—

Timothy turned the door knob. He was disappointed when the laboratory door opened easily. He felt himself deflate, the anger seep from him.

‘Dr. Ho?' he said quietly.

The room was frigid, pumped full of chilled air. The sound of computer fans filled the space. The racks of machines blinked rows of lifeless lights, like a phalanx of automatons – mute, brainless, unaware. Just dumb lights. Just props.