False Memory Part 73

"Hey, Fig," Dusty said.

He turned. "Hey."

"Are you okay?" Martie worried.

Fig rucked up his s.h.i.+rt to show them his chest and belly, which were neither as pale nor as slim as Skeet's, and which were darkened by a different but equally ugly pattern of bruises from the impact of four slugs that had been stopped by Kevlar body armor.

"This is a very trying morning," said Claudette, grimacing with distaste.

"I'm okay," Fig a.s.sured her, missing the point.

"You saved our lives," Martie told him.

"Fire truck?"

"Yes."

"And he saved mine, too," Skeet said.

Fig shook his head. "Kevlar."

The boy was sitting at his father's desk, before the computer.

Lampton stood behind Junior, watching over his shoulder. "Here we go."

Dusty and Martie crowded close and saw that Junior was composing a scathing and well-written mini-review of Learn to Love Yourself. Learn to Love Yourself.

"Where we're going with this," Lampton said, "is the reader's review page on the Amazon.com site. We've written and posted over a hundred and fifty denunciations of Learn to Love Yourself, Learn to Love Yourself, using different names and E-mail addresses." using different names and E-mail addresses."

Appalled, Dusty flashed to the memory of the inhuman viciousness in Ahriman's face and eyes when they had confronted him in his office a short while ago. "Whose names and E-mail addresses?" he asked, wondering what vengeance the psychiatrist might have extracted from these unsuspecting and innocent people. names and E-mail addresses?" he asked, wondering what vengeance the psychiatrist might have extracted from these unsuspecting and innocent people.

"Don't worry," Lampton said, "when we use real names, we choose brain-dead types who don't read much. They aren't likely to visit Amazon and see any of this."

"Anyway," Junior said, "most of the time we just make up names and E-mail addresses, which is even better."

"You can do that?" Martie wondered.

"The Net is liquid," Junior said.

Trying to puzzle out the full meaning of that statement, Dusty said, "It's difficult to separate fiction from reality."

"It's better than that. Fiction and reality don't matter. It's all the same, one river."

"Then how do you find the truth about anything?"

Junior shrugged. "Who cares? What matters isn't what's true...it's what works."

"I'm sure on Amazon's site, half the rave reviews of Ahriman's idiotic book were written by Ahriman himself," Lampton said. "I know some novelists who do more of this stuff than spend time writing. All we're trying to achieve here is to redress the imbalance."

"Did you post your own raves about Dare to Be Your Own Best Friend Dare to Be Your Own Best Friend?" Martie asked.

"Me? No, no," Lampton a.s.sured her. "If the book is solid, the book takes care of itself."

Yeah, right. For hours, for days, those clever mink paws had no doubt pounded out self-praise at such a blistering pace that the keyboard had locked up repeatedly.

"After this," Junior promised, "we'll show you what we can do with various Ahriman-related sites on the Web."

"Derek is enormously clever with the computer," boasted Derek the Elder. "We go all over the Web after Ahriman, all over. No security wall, no program architecture is too much for him."

Turning away from the computer, Dusty said, "I think we've seen enough."

Gripping Dusty's right arm with both hands, Martie pulled him aside. Her expression, as ghastly as it was, could be no more horrified than his own face. She said, "When Susan was representing Ahriman's house, before it was was Ahriman's house, she was the agent for the original owner, and she wanted me to see the place. Spectacular house, but very imposing, like a stage set for Ahriman's house, she was the agent for the original owner, and she wanted me to see the place. Spectacular house, but very imposing, like a stage set for Gotterdammerung. Gotterdammerung. Had to see it, she said. So I met her there. It was the day she first showed it to Ahriman, the day she met him. I arrived when she was finis.h.i.+ng the tour with him. I met him that day, too. The three of us...talked a little." Had to see it, she said. So I met her there. It was the day she first showed it to Ahriman, the day she met him. I arrived when she was finis.h.i.+ng the tour with him. I met him that day, too. The three of us...talked a little."

"Oh, Jesus. Can you remember?..."

"I'm trying. But, I don't know. Maybe the subject of his book came up. Seventy-eight weeks on the best-seller list now. So back then it would have been fairly new. Eighteen months ago. And if I realized what kind of book it was...maybe I mentioned Derek."

Trying to pad the sharp points of the piercing conclusion toward which Martie was hurtling, Dusty said, "Miss M., stop right now. Stop what you're thinking. Ahriman would've gone after Susan anyway. As beautiful as she was, he had her in his sights before you came into the picture."

"Maybe."

"Definitely."

Lampton had turned away from the computer to listen. "You've actually met this pop-psych putz?"

Confronting Derek senior, fixing him with a glare that would have turned him to ice if there had been blood in his veins, Martie said, "We're all dead because of you."

Waiting to hear the punch line of what he a.s.sumed must be a joke, Lampton skinned his lips back from his nippy little teeth.

Martie said, "Dead because of your childish compet.i.tiveness."

Like a radiant Valkyrie flying to the a.s.sistance of her wounded warrior, Claudette came to Lampton's side. "There is nothing in the least childish about it. You don't understand the academic world, Martine. You don't understand intellectuals."

"Don't I?" Martie bristled.

Dusty heard so much loathing in Don't I? Don't I? that he was glad Martie was no longer in possession of the .45 Colt. that he was glad Martie was no longer in possession of the .45 Colt.

"Compet.i.tion among men like Derek," said Claudette, "isn't about egos or self-interest. It's about ideas. ideas. Ideas that shape society, the world, the future. For those ideas to be tested and tempered and readied for implementation, they have to survive challenges, debate of all types, in all arenas." Ideas that shape society, the world, the future. For those ideas to be tested and tempered and readied for implementation, they have to survive challenges, debate of all types, in all arenas."

"Like Amazon.com reader reviews," Martie said scathingly.

Claudette was undaunted. "The battle of ideas is a very real war, not a childish compet.i.tion, as you're trying to paint it."

Valet backed out of the room and stood watching from the hall.

Joining Dusty and Martie, though careful to stand behind them, Skeet found the courage to say, "Martie's right."

"When you're off your medications," Lampton told him, "your judgment isn't good enough to make you a welcome ally, Holden."

"I welcome him," Dusty disagreed.

With her teeth into this issue, Claudette was more emotional than Dusty had ever seen her. "You think life is video games and movies and fas.h.i.+on and football and gardening, and whatever the h.e.l.l else fills your days, but life is about ideas. ideas. People like Derek, people with ideas, shape the world. They shape government, religion, society, every tiniest aspect of our culture. Most people are drones by choice, spending their days in trivialities, absorbed with piffle, living their lives without ever realizing that Derek, people like Derek, have People like Derek, people with ideas, shape the world. They shape government, religion, society, every tiniest aspect of our culture. Most people are drones by choice, spending their days in trivialities, absorbed with piffle, living their lives without ever realizing that Derek, people like Derek, have made made this society and this society and rule rule them by the power of ideas." them by the power of ideas."

Here, in this ugly confrontation with Claudette, which for Dusty and surely for Skeet, as well, was rapidly growing into a showdown of mythic proportions, Martie was their paladin, lance raised and eye to eye with the dragon. Skeet had moved directly behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders, and Dusty was half tempted to move behind Skeet for additional protection.

"Daring to be your own best friend," Martie said, "and learning to love yourself-these are ideas that shape shape?"

"There's no comparison between my book and Ahriman's," Lampton objected, but after his wife's vigorous defense, he sounded as though he were pouting.

Moving half in front of Lampton, as if to physically defend her beleaguered man, but also to press her b.u.t.t against him, Claudette insisted: "Derek writes vivid, solid, psychologically profound work. Rigorously composed ideas. Ahriman spews out pop-psych vomit."

Dusty had never before seen his mother cast off her icy veil and reveal her s.e.xual nature, and he hoped that he would never never see anything like this again. What aroused her was not ideas themselves, but the idea that ideas were power. see anything like this again. What aroused her was not ideas themselves, but the idea that ideas were power. Power Power was her true aphrodisiac; not the naked power of generals and politicians and prize-fighters, or even the raw power of serial killers, but the power of those who shaped the minds of generals, politicians, ministers, teachers, lawyers, filmmakers. The power of manipulation. In her flared nostrils and glittering eyes, he saw now an eroticism as cold as that of the trapdoor spider and the whip-tailed skink. was her true aphrodisiac; not the naked power of generals and politicians and prize-fighters, or even the raw power of serial killers, but the power of those who shaped the minds of generals, politicians, ministers, teachers, lawyers, filmmakers. The power of manipulation. In her flared nostrils and glittering eyes, he saw now an eroticism as cold as that of the trapdoor spider and the whip-tailed skink.

"You still don't get it," Martie seethed. "In defense of Dare to Be Your Own Best Friend, Dare to Be Your Own Best Friend, you burned down our house. It might as well have been you, you directly. In defense of you burned down our house. It might as well have been you, you directly. In defense of Dare to Be Your Own Best Friend, Dare to Be Your Own Best Friend, you shot Skeet and Fig. You think what they say happened last night is a dissociative fantasy, but it's real, Claudette. Those bruises are real, the bullets were real. Your stupid, stupid, stupid idea of what const.i.tutes you shot Skeet and Fig. You think what they say happened last night is a dissociative fantasy, but it's real, Claudette. Those bruises are real, the bullets were real. Your stupid, stupid, stupid idea of what const.i.tutes debate, debate, your your idea idea that hara.s.sment is the same as reasoned discussion-that's what influenced the finger that pulled the trigger. How's that hara.s.sment is the same as reasoned discussion-that's what influenced the finger that pulled the trigger. How's that that for shaping society, huh? Maybe you're ready to die for Derek's vivid, solid, rigorously composed, psychologically profound narcissistic bulls.h.i.+t, for shaping society, huh? Maybe you're ready to die for Derek's vivid, solid, rigorously composed, psychologically profound narcissistic bulls.h.i.+t, but I'm not but I'm not!"

From his post at the window, Fig said, "Lexus."

Claudette hadn't breathed fire yet, though she was full of it. "How easy it evidently is to make ignorant, specious arguments when you've never had a college course in logic. If Ahriman burns down houses and shoots people, then he's a maniac, a psychopath, and Derek is right right to go after him any way he can. Indeed, if what you say is true, it's to go after him any way he can. Indeed, if what you say is true, it's courageous courageous to go after him." to go after him."

Daring to be his own best friend, Lampton said, "I always sensed a sociopathic worldview in his writing. I always suspected there was risk in opposing him, but one takes risks if one cares."

"Oh, yes," Martie said, "let's call the Pentagon at once and have them get a Medal of Honor ready for you. For valor on the field of academic battle, bravery at the computer keyboard with courageous use of false names and invalid E-mail addresses."

"You are not welcome in my house," said Claudette.

"Lexus in the driveway," Fig said.

"So what if there's a hundred f.u.c.king Lexuses in the driveway?" Claudette demanded, never taking her eyes off Martie. "Every idiot in this pretentious neighborhood has a Lexus or a Mercedes."

"Parking," said Fig.

Martie and Dusty joined Fig at the window.

The driver's door of the Lexus opened, and a tall, handsome, dark-haired man got out of the car. Eric Jagger.

"Oh, G.o.d," Martie said.

Through Susan, Ahriman had gotten at Martie. With or without the benefit of a college course in logic, Dusty was able to add this particular two-plus-two.

Eric reached back into the car to get something that he had left on the seat.

Through Susan, Ahriman had also gotten at Eric, programming him and instructing him to separate from his wife, thereby leaving Susan alone and more vulnerable, more accessible any time the psychiatrist was in the mood to have her. And now there was something else Ahriman wanted from Eric, something a little more strenuous than moving out of his wife's house.

"Hacksaw," Fig said.

"Autopsy saw," Dusty corrected.

"With cranial blades," Martie added.

"Gun," said Fig.

And here came Eric.

74.

Death was as stylish as anyone now: gone, the black carriage drawn by black horses, traded in on a silver Lexus. Gone, the black robe with the melodramatic hood: instead, ta.s.seled loafers, black slacks, a Jhane Barnes sweater.

The Kevlar body armor was in the pickup, and the pickup was in the garage, so Skeet and Fig were as unprotected as everyone else, and this time the gunman would be taking head shots, anyway.

"Gun?" Lampton said when Martie asked. "You mean here?"

"No, of course not, don't be ridiculous," Claudette said, as if spoiling for another argument even now, "we don't have a gun."

"Then too bad you don't have a really lethal idea," idea," Martie said. Martie said.

Dusty grabbed Lampton by the arm. "The back-porch roof. You can get onto it through Junior's room or the master bedroom."

Blinking in confusion, nose twitching as if trying to catch a scent that would explain the precise nature of the danger, the mink man said, "But why-"

"Hurry!" Dusty said. "All of you. Go, go. Onto the porch roof, down to the lawn, down to the beach, and hide out at one of the neighbors' houses."

Junior was the first through the study doorway, out and gone in a sprint, apparently not in fact prepared to immerse himself in anything more than the idea idea of death. of death.

Dusty followed the boy, pulling the wheeled office chair away from Lampton's desk and then pus.h.i.+ng it ahead of him, racing down the hall to the top of the stairs, while the rest of them hurried off in the opposite direction.

No, not all of them. Here was Skeet, sweet but useless. "What can I do?"

"d.a.m.n it, kid, just get out!"

"Help me with this," Martie said.

She hadn't fled, either. She was at a six-foot-long Sheraton sideboard that stood along the wide hallway, opposite the head of the stairs. With a sweep of her arm, she cleared off a vase and an arrangement of silver candlesticks, which shattered and rattled to the floor. Evidently, she had figured out what Dusty intended to do with the office chair, but she was of the opinion that higher-caliber ammunition was needed.

Together, after moving the chair aside, the three of them dragged the sideboard away from the wall and stood it on one end at the head of the stairs.

"Now make him go, go," Dusty urged her. His voice was hoa.r.s.e with terror, worse now than it had been when they had finished the slo-mo roll in the rental car outside Santa Fe, because at least then he'd had the comfort of knowing, as the gunmen descended the slope after them, that Martie had the Colt Commander, whereas now he had nothing but a d.a.m.n sideboard.

Martie grabbed Skeet by the arm, and he tried to resist, but she was the stronger of the two.

Downstairs, a tattoo of automatic gunfire shattered the leaded gla.s.s in the front door, cracked off pieces of wood, too, and chopped into the walls of the foyer.

Dusty dropped onto the hall floor, behind the upended sideboard, looking past it down the long single flight of stairs.