Slivers

Author's Disclaimer

This story takes place in an alternate universe. The people, places, and events in their world may bear a striking resemblance to ours, but they are not us. We are us, and we should know the difference. It is the 60s on their world, however, and we should also be able to recognize the 60s when we see it. Even if it isn't our 60s.

It is a happening, then, that never happened. An un-happening, if you will.

So – This is a work of fiction. None of these people are who they seem to be, and none of this ever went down. At least not on this world. At least not to the best of my knowledge. I just thought that it would be interesting to see what it might say about us if it had. This is a work of fiction and any resemblance between the characters and persons living or dead is purely iconic reference for the purposes of parody and satire, and not representative of fact.

Chapter 1

At first it was just Bennie and me, hauling ass along US 87 in the brand new '65 Ford Galaxie 500 convertible I'd stolen back in Denver. We'd had the top down all morning, and the high plains wind was whipping us like dogs. Bennie was having a hard time keeping his hat on, and the sight of him clamping that stupid out-dated fedora to the top of his head gave me a sudden fit of the giggles. I banged on the horn a few times to punctuate my amusement, swerving dangerously.

"Where the hell do you think that hat's going to go, you mangy reptile?"

Bennie flicked his elegant tongue lazily in my direction and gave me the evil eye.

I howled.

Due to the nature of my disease, it's impossible to be absolutely certain of anything; but I believe that I have met The Devil and lived to tell about it; and I believe that if you meet him, he'll as soon wear your own face as another.

By 1965, I'd already been clinically diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic. Now this news may come as a surprise to fans of my music career (if not to my critics), but truth is, not all hallucinations are bad, or completely debilitating, at any rate. Reality, subjective as it is, sometimes benefits from a bit of augmentation.

Think about it: If you hallucinate evil clowns and demon toasters whispering incessantly that blood really is wine, or that the Mennonites are trying to kill you, well then I think it's reasonable to expect the occasional antisocial outburst. But what if, on the other hand, the voices in your head merely disapprove of your taste in music? Or nag you to brush after every meal and send out those damn Thank You cards, already? What if you simply see orange where there ought to be blue? What if you honestly believe that six inches equals twelve?

Now I'm not claiming that my own ghosts are quite so benign as all that, but the point is still a valid one: Man's ability to cope and relate is directly proportional to the quality of his delusions – and to the stock he puts in them.

As for the paranoia… How does that old saw go? "Just because you're paranoid…"

III

"That doesn't mean they're not out to get you."

In those days I was known as "Johnny D." This was a few years before my first album, back when the war was just heating up and I was working as a sniper for army intelligence. Don't believe me? It's the ultimate irony, I suppose. My public persona is quite goofy and gentle. Yet, in light of the revelation of my psychosis, I should make it clear up front that the sharpshooter was the "real" me – the me of my time, at any rate. By which I mean that I was not yet truly delusional when I first undertook my government "career" (beyond a certain unquestioning belief in duty). I can, therefore, offer no excuses, to whomever they may be due.

Nevertheless, by the time this story takes place, in the summer of 1965, I had been experiencing "visitations" for some time. But I had also long since made a reputation for myself among my superiors. To these men, my essential skills made my diagnosis practically irrelevant. So long as I took my meds, so long as I could keep it together well enough to do the job – so long as the army shrinks were willing to clear me for assignment – I was just suitably eccentric. And if I screwed up and was caught? Well, who would believe me?

In the normal world, a madman may appear dangerously… well – dangerous. But in my line of work, a man ought to be dangerous. And a truly dangerous man really needs a touch of madness.

The slivers. The scraps.

At first glance, the assignment was a simple one: penetrate deep into enemy territory and shoot a man dead. Nothing new. No problem. Far out.

I was to depart from Colorado on September 3rd and drive straight through to Las Vegas, the heart of the Ho Chi Minh cartel. Once there, I was to acquire my target in his compound somewhere on the outskirts of town and take him out with extreme prejudice.

The target was where things got weird: he was one of ours. An inside man who had changed sides so many times he could only truly be working for himself. But he was a legend in the intelligence community, and had set himself up as a serious player within The Cartel. Gone native. He would be well fortified. And he would be on his guard, too: apparently, I wasn't the first to offer him the early retirement program.

Plus, he might just have gone mad.

I could relate.

Bennie was riding shotgun, as always – a giant monitor lizard with a chain smoker's taste for Pall Malls and a penchant for extravagant headwear. Then, one-by-one, the others showed, too: The Poorly Drawn, Child's Rendering of Napoleon (two-dimensional crayon, one eighth actual size); The French Milkmaid (beautiful, but aloof); The Centipede Made out of Tongues. And so many more. So many more. By Albuquerque, we were a regular rolling menagerie, a veritable arc of misfits and freaks.

In the beginning, while I was first trying to learn how to distinguish between mental projections and reality (back when I still believed such distinctions could be made), they would all compete for my attention, especially the more ludicrous species, like the Swarm of 'B's, and Samuel Clemmons' Disembodied Moustache. But lately, they had taken to interacting amongst themselves with no direct input from me, as if they somehow had separate lives, now, and no longer really needed me anymore. This was a development that I found not only disconcerting, but also damned discourteous.

"Hey! You guys want to keep it down a bit? I'm trying to drive, here!"

It was getting crowded and chaotic and I was having a hard time focusing.

There's a difference between hallucination and delusion. Put simply, hallucination is experiencing with your senses what isn't really there, while delusion is believing what isn't really true. Sometimes, it's possible to hallucinate without believing in the experience. This is roughly equivalent to controlled tripping, or lucid dreaming. It's equally possible to be completely delusional without hallucinating at all.

But it's a really bad trip when the two mix and match. It's hard enough to function when you can't think clearly, when your conclusions are totally skewed. But when the input is messed up to begin with, delusional thinking can be real trouble.

Napoleon and the Milkmaid were speaking French, which always disturbed me. Their conversations sounded quite authentic, and Damn-it! – I don't speak French! Plus, I was vaguely suspicious that they switched to French mainly to talk about me. The Milkmaid looked my way, and laughed. I could feel myself blush.

"She says you're so inept, even your fantasies have to fake it."

So much for vague suspicions.

"Screw you, Napoleon!"

In the rearview mirror, Samuel Clemmons' Disembodied Moustache wagged in approval.

"When angry count four; when very angry, swear."

I moaned in frustration.

"Under certain circumstances, profanity provides a relief denied even to prayer."

I pulled over. It was nearing midnight, and the road ahead stretched tenuous and semi-transparent in the high beams. The road behind had disappeared completely in a cloud of red dust.

"Help me, Bennie! It's coming apart. It's coming apart… Too many pieces."

I climbed in the back.

"You drive for a while. I have to sleep. Sleep..."

Bennie blinked and took a long drag on his cigarette.

"Can't do it, boss. But you rest. You rest, and we'll try again tomorrow."

But I was already asleep.

Chapter 2

Can hallucinations dream?

We picked up the hitcher on Route 66 about ten miles east of Winslow. Bennie thought it was a bad idea, but the crew was acting up, and I was hoping the company would do me good.

"So what's your representation?"

"Come again?"

"Your label, man! What do they call you?"

Bennie wanted to know who "they" were. I panicked, forgetting my cover.

"Uhhh… Bennie. They call me Bennie."

Bennie snorted.

"You're not fooling anyone."

I held my breath and snuck a peek to see what our guest had heard. I'm a bit like a ventriloquist that way; only it's never really clear to me whether I'm speaking out loud. Or maybe that makes me the dummy? But if I'm the dummy, then who's doing the…?

Hell, stow that shit! That's the kind of thinking drives a man crazy.

"I'm Ken. Ken Kesey," he offered. "The writer? For The New Republic? Well, I'm a journalist, really. Been called a poet, too. And a traitor."

He paused to laugh at his own joke, if that's what it was.

"I'm covering the drug wars out of Vegas-"

"In Winslow?"

"Hell yes, in Winslow! Especially in Winslow. This here's the front line, man. Route Six-Six. The 'Trail of the Century.' This is where the real story's at. Talking to people like you."

Talking to people like me? That was the problem with people like Kesey: too damn busy talking to listen.

But that was good for me – it meant he wasn't going to pick up on any weirdness. Kesey was fundamentally oblivious.

Bennie put words in my mouth:

"Been taking the story personally, have we?"

Kesey missed the sarcasm.

"Oh, it is personal. Absolutely.

"Leary says you have to be the point. Isn't that beautiful, man? Absolutely beau-tiful! Blew my mind… right… the fuck… out of my head!

"And yes you do, of course, have to be the subject matter expert – if that's what you mean."

Kesey grinned mischievously.

Okay – maybe he hadn't missed the sarcasm. I'd have to be careful, then. Not quite as clueless as he seemed.

"Leary?" I prompted.

"Leary… Oh, man – you said a mouthful, there. If I'm the point, then he's the horizon. The whole… fuckin'… ho-rizon, baby! Do you understand what I'm tellin' you?

"This shit out here – the outposts, the trade routes, the godforsaken soldiers in the godforsaken fields… you, me – it's all just background material, man.

"Leary. He's the story."

III

"But what about you? What's your story?"

"What do you mean?"

I was stalling. I knew perfectly well what he meant. What's a nice guy like me doing in a place like this?

"You never told me where you're headed. I don't figure you for a delivery boy… What are you doing alone out here in the middle of the fuckin' desert, man?" I laughed, in spite of myself. "I'm on my way to kill your story."

Oh, shit! Did I say that out loud?

Timothy Leary.

I wondered how much Kesey really knew about his idol. Did he know that Leary helped develop LSD as a chemical weapon for the CIA?

Probably not. But it was a fact.

Or that Leary had close, personal and family ties to the FBI?

I somehow doubted that had come to Kesey's attention, either.

Another fact that I rather doubted Kesey had turned up was that his entire drugged up counter-culture began as a top-secret, government-sponsored, mind-control experiment. With willing, even eager test subjects.

It had seemed like such a brilliant idea at the time: Get the rats to test themselves. And gain control of them, in the bargain.

Hell, all you had to do was tell a rebellious, disaffected youth not to do something, and you could barely keep up with the demand.

"Oh, no! Don't throw me in the briar patch, Br'er Bear!"

It was a raging success.

The "new revolutionaries" self-medicated to a point where any real revolution was impossible. And they did our R&D work for us, too, spending what few brain cells they had left developing ever more potent drugs to enslave themselves with.

"Turn on and tune out," Leary told them. And that's exactly what they did.

Of course it all blew up in our faces. As these things tend to do.

VII

It was sometime after Kesey dropped acid that things got weird. The whole sun-blasted crater that is Arizona seemed to be rippling in the midday heat, and I couldn't shake the feeling that we were the mirage.

Then the madness took hold, our visions noticed each other, and the strangest conversation of my life began.

Chapter 3

Torrid heat. My eyes felt like blisters and I couldn't shake the sensation that we were moving backwards in time. My body had grown heavy and sluggish, and I'd been fighting a nosebleed for the past half hour, which left an odd metallic taste in my mouth. It was as if I were swimming in mercury.

And then there was the cat. An arrogant, agile Siamese, arrived of an instant.

It was new.

There hadn't been anyone new for almost a year, so I considered this a disturbing development. The current assignment was stressful, granted, but no more so than usual. Or so I told myself.

What could it mean?

I shot a glance over at Kesey, slouched in the seat next to mine, long, greasy hair flopping up and over the headrest like a raggedy cartoon pirate's flag. His eyes were screwed shut in concentration and he seemed to be humming monotonously to himself.

He was gone, gone, gone. I decided I could risk it.

I leaned in slightly to the cat grooming himself on the dash.

"And just who are you supposed to be?"

"That's Neal," Kesey offered, never opening his eyes. "Neal Cassady. He's my… familiar. My own private muse… amusingly. Not a Tabby, but a tab, if you will – a tab of pure inspiration, and not a little insinuation, if you catch my drift.

"He's not your typical cat, though. Dig? Not your typical cat at all… He's sleek and hungry; quick as a gasp; reckless and randy as heat lightning… "

"Just tell him I'm beautiful, baby, and let it go at that. You talk like you're kissing your sister!"

A talking cat? And not one of mine?

"This is your cat?" I started, but Neal was not amused.

"A cat belongs to no one but himself, daddy-o," Neal hissed. "A lone wolf only wishes he were his own man, and a bird in the hand is worth a fish on land, but a Siamese is a whole damn kingdom in one delicious dish. 'Purr' stands for 'Perrr-fect,' baby, and I'll be your host for the evening. Got anything to eat?"

III

"Interesting thing, though," Kesey mused, "is no one's ever noticed him before. As such."

"Noticed who?" I asked, thinking quickly. But that just made Kesey giggle.

The cat looked at me quizzically.

"What about this lot, then? They with you, sweetheart?"

He nodded dismissively toward the back seat.

I almost lost control of the car.

"You're stoned, Kesey! You're babbling and crazy and I have no idea what you're on about."

"Look who's talking."

That was Bennie. The traitor.

But in his defense, I'd pretty much been ignoring the whole crew since Kesey got on board, and it was a long, hot ride with nothing much to look at but each other.

"Who are you talking to, then?" Asked the cat.

"Nobody! No one! You're the one doing all the talking!"

But I'd slipped up again, speaking to the cat instead of Kesey. He was getting to me. Breaking me down.

"One of the most striking differences between a cat and a lie is that a cat has only nine lives." A Clemmons bon mot, from the back seat. Now the others were getting into the act.

I was surrounded.

"One should never deny his friends, my darling, especially if they reside only in his head," Neal purred. "For what if they were to leave you? Do you imagine you have the strength to stand alone in the world? Now, that would be crazy, man!"

"Things are getting a little too crazy around here, you ask me."

"Don't fret, friend! Relax. Don't sweat what you can't be-get. A man's first duty is to chaos." Neal.

"Oui, monsieur – spécialement if the 'man' happens to be an alley cat." Poorly Drawn Napoleon.

Neal's fey eyes narrowed to slits.

"I can count among my ancestors the consorts of Pharaohs, mon frère. But in the morning, you'll still be French!"

"But does the truth really require a pedigree?" Baudrillard.

"Certainly not. But I do think, perhaps, that the truth for a cat may not equal the truth for a man." Newton's Hat.

"All things being equal, I don't see the difference." Poincaré as a Boy.

"Well, no. I suppose there would be none, all things being equal.

"Which of course, they are not." Newton's Hat.

"Not, not, not!" said Neal. "All cats are individualists! To be equal is to be the same, dig? And nothing could be more odious to a cat than to be like another cat. Except possibly to be like a dog. Or French."

"Yes, you cats are quite the anarchists – except when you are hungry." Poorly Drawn Napoleon.

"One cannot be an anarchist. To belong to a set, one must first define it. And to define a thing, is to formalize it. But to formalize anarchy is antithetical. Anarchy is against form, against order." Baudrillard.

"Nihilists, then?"

"I do not believe in Nihilism." Kierkegaard Bubblegum Card.

"Nobody can!"

"It is an elegant system, though, is it not? The proof is its own refutation."

"Certainly saves the nay Sayers a lot of work, I should say."

"It would, if the nay Sayers were not, themselves, Nihilists."

"You don't say?!"

"I do not believe in Nihilism."

"Nobody can!"

"You say a man's first duty is to chaos. Is not man's first duty to God? Or do you mean to imply that God is chaos?" Kierkegaard Bubblegum Card.

"It is my pleasure to serve, for I serve only Pleasure. Yes. If an "ist" I must be, then a sensualist be me, my sweets. Lust… is merely the natural extension of God's continuing creation in the world. We who strive for chaos trust that God's plan will be revealed in the aftermath of our… devotions.

"For Pleasure is not a jealous God. No! But rather you might say She is thrilled by the competition."

"If it please, Your Honors, I would like a word…"

Uh, oh. This was going to be trouble.

It was Tomás de Torquemada's Dog.

Things had gone from bad to worse. My hallucinations were completely out of control, threatening who knew what mischief on Kesey's cat.

I pulled over.

On some level I still knew that Kesey and I must be arguing through our visions, demented and ranting in the wasteland. But as the desert boiled our lunatic brains, our tempers were heating, as well.

There was no telling where this might lead.

VI

Torquemada's Dog.

"Neal Cassady: Anarchist. Sensualist. Cat. You stand accused of heresy and blasphemy. How do you plead?"

"Generally from my knees. Which would be a better joke, if cats could kneel. But at least I can Neal. Which is no mean feat, in itself.

"And just what is the difference between heresy and blasphemy, anyway?"

"It is the difference between breaking man's law concerning God, or breaking God's law concerning man."

"So the plaintiff must be either a God who fancies himself a man, or a man who fancies himself a God…

"…and which then are you, Señor Lobo?"

"Neither, to be sure, Señor Loco. I am but a humble servant representing God's will."

"My Lord's will and testament? So this is the Divine Probate Court – and you the Divine Attorney?"

"Jest, if you will. But it is a much more comfortable seat than Attorney for the Damned."

"I am a scoundrel and a liar, admittedly. But no, sir, I am no lawyer!"

Laughter all around.

"Amazing, isn't it? How much the word 'lawyer' sounds like 'liar?' Especially here in the South." Clemmons' Moustache.

Merriment.

"Indeed."

"Here, here!"

"Gentlemen – might we proceed?"

"But how can we proceed? I'm afraid the defendant has no competent representation." Newton's Hat.

"If competence is a prerequisite, then I fear the entire gallery must recuse itself-" Clemmons' Moustache.

"-excluding Your Honor, naturally." The moustache twitched as if to bow to Torquemada's Dog.

"Yes. Naturally." Neal.

The gallery erupted in fits of mirth.

"Order. ORDER! Gentlemen. Please. Might we continue?"

"I will speak for the defense, if I may." Baudrillard.

"You, sir?"

"I do believe I understand the argument:

"Ahem...

"If all of creation is of God, then creativity itself must be holy, and serves God's will by definition.

"But all creativity is also subversive. To make something new is to demonstrate that the universe was incomplete in its absence. Which is impossible, of course, assuming a perfect God, unless the new creation was always a part of God's plan. All acts of creation, then, are merely reflections of God's original creation, and subversion, itself, merely a play at reproducing the canvas of chaos on which God first painted the world.

"Subversion, then, must also be holy, and heresy and blasphemy forms of piety equal only to sexual congress in sanctity."

"Outrageous! Do you truly intend to argue that wanton fornication and lawlessness are forms of worship?"

"'Wanton fornication,' as you call it, is God's chosen method for creating life, is it not?"

"You damn your client – and your-self – with every word!"

"Would you take the word of a priest over that of a poet in matters of the heart?" Neal.

"The heart? I thought we were discussing divine creation…"

"Indeed – and who better to explain the creation of all mankind than a man who can't describe firsthand the creation of even one?" Clemmons' Moustache.

Laughter.

"Enough! The facts are clear. The accused hasn't even mounted a defense…"

"Probably the only thing he hasn't mounted, from the sounds of it." Poorly Drawn Napoleon. More laughter.

"You make my case for me! The prosecution… rests."

"I object!" Neal.

"On what grounds?"

"The Prosecution's chief witness is a liar."

"But he has offered no testimony but your own." Newton's Hat.

"And a less trustworthy braggart, I cannot imagine." Neal.

The gallery erupted.

"This is a farce, Your Honors. This entire trial has been nothing but a fishing expedition!"

"A farce! A farce!"

"Yup!"

"Sustained!"

"A farce!"

"A sustained farce!"

"Yup, yup, yup, yup!"

"A fishing expedition!"

"And I sure do enjoy a good fish!"

"Yup, Yup!"

"Yup!"

"A fish."

"Yup!"

VII

I strained to lift my throbbing head. Bulging eyes and gawping maws flopped all about. I struggled for understanding, then realized, with the last quivering vestiges of sanity, that God's Attorney and the entire gallery of Gentleman Philosophers had turned suddenly into a school of carp.

Neal leaped.

Hungry as he was, he bit Torquemada's Dog(fish) head clean off, and then proceeded to devour the entire philosophers' court.

Blood and viscera rained down.

VIII

"The Gods are as the fishes of the sea," yawned the bloated, happy cat, when he had finished.

"Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. But teach a man to fish… and somewhere, you've just created a fisherman's widow. Ha!"

The cat began to purr, immensely pleased with himself.

Suddenly, glancing up, Neal happened to spot himself in the rearview mirror, catching the reflection of his reflection in his own eyes.

And in the last of the day's fading light he shimmered, flickered, and croaked out one final punch line:

"Derrida was a fishwife."

Then the schizophrenic's hallucination of an acid dream of Neal Cassady as a cat collapsed under the weight of his own infinite recursion.

Chapter 4

"Did that really just happen?" Kesey gasped.

"If you mean, did you really just freak out and force us off the road in the middle of the freakin' desert, then yeah – that really just happened."

Kesey gave me a long, measuring look.

"Damn near killed us, actually. And cost us half a day."

My disgust was real, though I didn't really blame Kesey. But things were about to come to a head, and it could only help to keep him off his guard and questioning his own sanity. I kind of liked Kesey.

It would be a shame to have to kill him.

Kesey opened the car door as if in slow motion, slumped almost to his knees on the floor mat, and began to vomit weakly on the side of the road. When the last of the dry heaves had finally wracked his body, he sagged against the doorframe, swallowing convulsively, tears staining his dirty cheeks.

"What's wrong with me?" he groaned. "My skull is splitting!"

"Sunstroke," I replied. "We've been sitting out here for hours."

I watched him shivering in a puddle on the floor, and realized that, though his shirt was soaked through, he was no longer sweating. This really had been a close call. Still was, maybe.

My skull felt like it was splitting, too. I was, at best, seriously dehydrated. Then my stomach gave a hitch, and I knew that I was close to joining Kesey on the floor.

I put a hand to my face, faux-casually. Checked forehead and cheeks. Dry as dust.

"Get your ass up, ol' boy. We gotta get you to a doctor."

Assuming I could get us that far.

III

I dropped Kesey off in front of Memorial Hospital in Flagstaff. I felt bad for abandoning him, but I didn't dare check him in, either. Flagstaff was well within The Cartel's sphere of influence, and I couldn't afford to linger. There were certain questions I just wasn't prepared to answer.

Like, who was I? And what was I doing with a trunk full of weapons?

I had the usual tools of the trade with me: Ghillie suit; sniper rifle; ammunition. Extra guns. Assorted cutting instruments. Explosives. I'd be ditching most of the ordinance shortly, but for the moment, I was one-traffic-stop-away from a firing squad.

Of course, the main reason I didn't get out to help was that I was really in no better shape than Kesey.

That was going to be a problem, too. In fact, it changed everything.

In my current condition, there was no way I could survive another day of prolonged desert exposure. Which meant the usual cautious approach was out. In fact, I didn't even have the strength for a quick, nighttime raid, assuming I wanted to risk one. Which I didn't.

I tossed the entire arsenal into a back alley dumpster on my way out of town. When the time came, I would simply have to improvise. Weapons could only serve to compromise me, now.

I was going in the front door.

A motley gang of saguaros stands crucified by the fading twilight. Nearby, a coyote sits, head bowed low, as if to receive their final confessions.

I am alone.

For the first time in a long time, there are no voices, no visions, no niggling conspiracies. And I wonder if this is what death is like. Not the bright light and the gathering together, but a slow dissolve into night.

In the silence, my thoughts are sharp and focused as never before, despite my exhaustion. Yet I am achingly empty.

Cassady had it right. When you have lived every day with the fantastical, to be stripped of that mystery is profoundly disturbing.

It is like being forgotten by God.

Without so much as a glance at the mile markers, I knew that I had arrived.

I could smell the water.

I couldn't see the crops in the moonless desert night, but I knew they were there.

Just as I knew what must be around the corner.

The two bums manning the roadblock were clearly on scut detail. They didn't have the brains between them to be menacing, let alone dangerous, but at least they knew it. They radioed their watch commander before the Ford even came to a stop, and never bothered to lift their weapons. I got out, nodded, stretched. Then we stood around and waited while they smoked and coughed and fidgeted.

And trembled. From the look of them, they were users, and obviously in need of a fix.

A powerful engine belched to life somewhere out in the darkness, then a faint glow appeared on the horizon.

Shortly, a battered jeep cleared a slight rise ahead and to the right of the highway. The jeep rumbled across the hidden track and into the road, spraying a wall of sand and gravel in its wake.

There were two occupants.

The driver was a hard man. Solid and steady. Maybe forty. His eyes never left mine as he skidded up to the roadblock and hopped out, leaving the jeep running. He didn't appear to be armed.

The passenger was younger – twenty-five, maybe. No older than thirty. Small and thin, but wired, like a terrier. He wore his long hair in a ponytail, and he carried a large machine gun cradled in his arms like an infant.

"Look at these two!" he screeched, stalking over to the guards. "I told you we shouldn't have the addicts pulling guard duty. They're not equipped for this kind of responsibility!"

But he didn't look angry. He didn't look angry at all. He looked excited.

I recognized the type immediately. He was a junkie, too. A cause junkie. Addicted to the rush of self-righteous indignation. Didn't even matter what the cause was, 'cause he didn't really care. Just so long as he could claim the moral high ground.

But because it was all really just about him, he never fully understood what was going on, and could never really be satisfied, even when he got his way.

This was the type of shit-bird who'd bring a Molotov cocktail to a peace rally, then complain bitterly if the cops hassled anybody. The type who became genuinely offended when caught in a lie, because you hadn't trusted him. The type who'd lecture you as you lay dying.

And he would never, ever see the irony.

And you could tell he absolutely loved that gun. The power it gave him. The fact that he really, really wanted to use it was palpable.

But he wasn't the one I was worried about. I was worried about the driver. I was worried about the guy who hadn't bothered to bring a gun.

VII

The Driver armed himself pretty quickly, though, snatching a semi-automatic pistol from one of the guards, without a word. Completely ignoring the guards – and his companion – he strode up to me and put the gun to my head in one slow, fluid motion, as if showing off a new dance step. Here's how you do the bullet boogie. Now you try.

He had a sensuous, disapproving mouth, with just a ghost of an old, youthful sneer. Like he'd bit into something nasty about five years back, and never quite got over it. I knew instantly that if anything bad were to happen to me here, he would be the one to do it. He was cautious, precise, and utterly, utterly blank inside.

He bent his head down to look me in the eye.

"Have I got your attention? Mister…?"

"Denver," I offered, remembering my alias this time. "Johnny Denver."

"Johnny Denver," he repeated. "Are we clear on the gravity of the situation, Mister Denver?" "We are."

"Good."

He took a step back and leveled the gun at my chest. I could feel the skin pucker on my forehead where he had pressed the gun barrel into the flesh.

"Because if it were up to me, I'd just shoot you. But Doctor Leary is the curious type, so we're going to take a little drive, all peaceful-like, down to the compound, and he's going to listen to your story. Then, I'll probably shoot you, anyway."

VIII

Leary looked more like a college professor than a spy or a revolutionary; but then that was appropriate, too, because that's how he got his start. Hey, we all have to start somewhere.

"How good to see you again, Johnny… Denver, is it, this time?"

Again? This time?

"We've been expecting you."

I felt a chill. Ponytail smirked. The Driver didn't.

"I'm sorry – I don't know what you mean. I just came to bring news about a friend of yours? Ken Kesey? The Reporter? He's been hospitalized."

"Yes, we heard. Over in Flagstaff. He called."

"He did? Good. How's he doing?"

"Fine, fine. Well… he was a little concerned about you, to tell the truth. He said you were on your way out here to kill me."

Chapter 5

The compound consisted of an old factory, several warehouses, and a few odd outbuildings. It was impossible to tell anymore what had originally been manufactured here; the factory had been converted to an office-slash-barracks. One could easily imagine what was in the warehouses.

The room they brought me to would once have been the main floor of the plant, but now served double-duty as an auditorium and mess hall. I had arrived in the middle of the dinner hour, and the rows of metal cafeteria tables were full of hungry comrades eating chicken-fried steak with mashed potatoes-and-gravy from heavy, plastic trays.

Apparently, business was good. The food smelled delicious, and there was plenty of it. The men were relaxed and boisterous.

But they were all armed.

At the far end of the room, an old loading platform had been turned into a stage of sorts. Leary sat there, taking his supper with his generals. And though they dressed in the same olive-drab garb, sat at the same ascetic metal tables, and ate from the same plastic trays, there was no mistaking these men for common laborers. They sat raised above their men like a king and his court upon a dais.

Knowing Leary, the psychological effect was hardly accidental. I am one of you, he was saying. We are brothers.

Just don't make the mistake of believing it.

"How is Bennie?" Leary asked.

I gaped.

"You don't remember me, do you? But no – I don't suppose you would. I am your Geppetto. I never bedded your mother, but I surely made you who you are today."

Laughter.

"Unfortunately."

More laughter.

I couldn't speak.

"Or – think of me as a gem cutter, if you'd prefer…"

Leary was on a roll, now. Speaking as much for the men as for us.

"A diamond cutter, in your case. Certainly you were always a diamond- But a tap here… a tap there… and suddenly, the hardest substance known to man becomes a glittering star to dangle from a pretty neck – or to sharpen a blade with."

"I don't understand..."

"Of course you don't. I'm saying that no matter how hard the raw materials are, if you know how to identify the lines of fracture, how to apply the precise amount of pressure… Well, then you can make a man believe anything."

"You're crazy-" I started. But then Ponytail cracked me on the back of the skull with the butt of his gun. I sank to my knees.

"Show some respect!"

Leary just laughed.

"An ironic statement, Johnny, really – considering the source."

"Is he here to kill you, or not?" The Driver chambered a bullet and set his pistol to the back of my now throbbing head.

My vision doubled, swam. The room slowly reassembled itself. I could feel blood running down my neck, soaking into my shirt.

"Put the gun away, Bill. You too, Terry. It really isn't necessary. Doubtless our young friend believes he is here to kill me, but I can assure you that he's no threat."

He paused.

The gun stayed where it was.

"Johnny's an old patient of mine. An escaped mental patient, actually. Paranoid schizophrenic. Bright enough, but completely delusional."

"So he's not an assassin?"

Terry (AKA "Ponytail") seemed doubtful. Or maybe just a little disappointed.

Leary laughed again.

"Look at him – The top of his head barely clears your belt-buckle!"

A few of the men chuckled. Bill (AKA "The Driver") did not. Terry just looked confused. "Well, he is on his knees…"

Leary ignored his unfortunate minion.

"He's a mouse of a man! Yet he's absolutely convinced that he's some kind of secret agent. That we're all part of a vast government conspiracy. It's ludicrous."

"With all due respect, I don't see the difference," Bill said. "Maybe he's not a pro – but he's crazy and he wants you dead. How is that not a threat?"

"He'd never follow through."

"He got this far. He found you."

"Even the mangiest dog can find his owner across great distances.

"Listen – we're not going to do this, Bill. First of all, we don't execute the mentally ill, here. It's not what we're about. Especially not men I have so much invested in.

"Secondly, he can't kill me for the same reason he can't remember me:

"Because he's programmed not to."

III

"You can understand their confusion, Dr. Leary. Perhaps they're not aware of your huge body of research into mind control techniques?"

It had occurred to me suddenly that I was on trial, here. On trial for my life. I really could have used Baudrillard's insight on my side right about then – or even Cassady's wit. Or his teeth and claws, at any rate.

I half expected another rap on the head for speaking up, but both Terry and Bill seemed interested in the exchange.

"Nice try, Johnny. Not the way I would have put it; but indeed, my research into the effects of psychotropic drugs on incipient schizophrenia is hardly classified. In fact, it's how I first came to recognize the limitless potential for LSD to expand the mind and redefine our destiny.

"We're jump-starting the next phase of human evolution here, Johnny! And we owe it all to unfortunate souls like yourself. Our compassion for whom com-pels us to draw back the veil of superstitious ignorance at last, and peer with unwavering objectivity and unapologetic awe at the miracle that is the mind."

"Conveniently funded by the Department of Defense."

"It is an irony that the establishment should initiate the research leading to its own obsolescence-"

"At what point would you say your association with the government ended, Dr. Leary? Isn't all of… this – just an extension of your previous work?"

"Your ravings are beginning to grow tiresome, Johnny, really. You're obviously long overdue for your medication."

"Yes. Aren't we all?

"Aren't we all just inmates in your personal asylum, now?"

"So why kill him, then?"

Terry was escorting me to my new holding cell. Leary might not be ready to publicly execute me, yet, but I had clearly worn out my welcome.

"Don't you know any better than to challenge a lunatic's delusions?"

I was too exhausted to keep the bitterness out of my voice.

Terry ignored my comment so he wouldn't have to explain why he cared – to admit that he had his doubts.

"Seriously. If you're both working for the government, why kill him?"

"I don't know, Terry. I just work here. All I know is, according to Leary's file, he's been playing both sides against the middle for years. I don't know why they decided to pull the plug all-of-a-sudden. Maybe he was too successful.

"Or maybe he knew too much. I doubt it has anything to do with the product, at any rate, so I'm sure your job's safe. They'll still need someone out here to run the distribution center; to anesthetize the masses for fun and profit.

"Probably some bureaucrat back in Washington didn't get his pay-off on time, is all. It's just business."

"Now I know you're crazy! We're not running a business, here. This is a goddamn revolution!" I laughed loud enough to startle myself. The laugh began as a ploy to head Terry off from slipping back into his normal cognitive fugue state; but then I discovered that I really meant it. For some reason, Terry's mercenary brand of idealism struck me funny, right then.

Maybe it was the imprint of his gun stock embossed in blood on the back of my skull.

"Yes, of course it is! That's why you live in a broken down factory in the middle of the desert! That's why the warehouses are triple-locked, the workers carry Uzis, and all the roads in and out of this dump are under constant armed guard. You may not be allowed any personal, private possessions, but somebody's sure as Hell worried about protecting their investment!"

"Protecting ourselves from murderers and thieves like you, maybe."

Despite the strong words, Terry's statement came out almost as a question.

We arrived at the small, windowless storeroom that was to serve as my makeshift holding cell.

"This seems like as good a time as any to point out that I wasn't armed when your goons stopped me."

"You must have figured Kesey could get you in, get you close. A trained assassin could make due, I'm sure, given the right opportunity. Hell – You already admitted that you came here to kill him!"

That was the closest thing to an insight that I'd witnessed from Terry. Maybe there was hope for him, yet.

"So you believe me, all-of-a-sudden?"

Terry scowled, but didn't bite.

He ushered me into the room, following close behind.

The old storeroom had been converted to a break room of sorts. It sported a small card table, one folding metal chair, and a musty, stained canvas cot. The room was lit with a single, dull bulb.

"Of course, if I'm telling the truth, then that means Dr. Leary is lying. And if Dr. Leary is lying, then you're up to the Devil's work out here, aren't you?"

"I don't know what to believe, anymore," Terry admitted, to my surprise. "But if you'd ever really listened to the man speak-"

"Yes, I'm sure. But then, all the best entrepreneurs are evangelists."

"Is that what I am now, Johnny? An entrepreneur? You say that like it's a bad thing."

Leary stood framed in the doorway behind us.

Terry started visibly. How long had Leary been there?

"Collect his belt and shoelaces, would you Terry? We wouldn't want our guest to hurt himself before we've even had a chance to extend our hospitality."

Terry looked dubious. There was nothing in the room to hang myself from.

I passed him my belt, and unlaced my shoes.

Leary surveyed the room, then shook a handkerchief from his breast pocket. He waved it vaguely at the ceiling, then handed it to Terry.

"The light bulb, too."

Terry actually hesitated this time, then took the handkerchief and reached up to unscrew the light bulb.

Leary stepped forward as if to help, then suddenly punched Terry twice quickly under the armpit.

Terry grunted like an old man in the throws of constipation, then convulsed, crushing the light bulb in his hand.

The knife that had been concealed in Leary's hand glinted burgundy in the last flash of light as Leary slipped the blade from Terry's heart and the burst bulb sparked out.

In the remaining half-light from the hallway, I watched Terry wither to the ground like a spent balloon.

Leary squatted down and wiped the blade clean on Terry's shirt.

"Never trust a man of conviction, Johnny," Leary sighed.

"Do you even realize how lucky you are?"

Leary stood slowly, cautiously. The knife disappeared back wherever it had come from.

I stood immobilized.

"No one is ever really on your side, Johnny, with the possible exception of your Mother. And even she's not a lock.

"But I've gone one further, here. I've surrounded myself with saps and soldiers of fortune. So I suppose my days are ultimately numbered.

"But you – You'll always have Bennie to look out for you."

There it was again.

"How do you know about Bennie?" I whispered.

Leary chuckled dryly.

"Let's just say I introduced the two of you, and leave it at that, for now."

"Introduced-?"

"This is a conversation best left for another time, I think," Leary said.

"I do have a message from Bennie, though. He says to relax. None of this is your concern. Bennie says you need to lie down and rest for awhile."

I didn't see Bennie, or hear him. Hadn't heard from him in a while, in fact. Not since the trial in the desert. He was dead, for all I knew. Catgut ragout. A casualty of another man's hallucination.

But it sounded like Bennie. Like something he might say.

I lay down.

I slept.

I dreamed the sleep of the newly dead, warm and dark and silent, my body suffused with the quiet buzz of a billion billion cells seceding their unions.

Chapter 6

When I awoke, the sense of vibration remained. As if the very air had become magnetized, and all the surfaces of the world were now lightly charged. I breathed deeply, reenergized.

I knew this sensation. It was the feeling that usually accompanies one of my "episodes."

Leary had been right about one thing, anyway. I was overdue for my medication.

I sat up.

The storage room door was ajar, and a puddle of pale fluorescent green had sicked up from the hall. I noticed that the blood was gone from the floor.

If it had ever really been there at all.

The door swung slowly open.

Bill studied me for a moment from the hallway, then stepped carefully into the room. He was no longer brandishing a firearm, but I had no doubt that he was armed.

"Get up."

I swung my legs over the edge of the cot. My shoes were lined up next to me on the floor. They had been re-laced. I slipped them on.

"How long was I out?"

"Twenty-four hours. Almost exactly."

I rubbed my eyes.

"Feels about right.

"So what's happening, then? Did you finally get permission to kill me?"

"Are you dead, yet?"

I smiled, despite myself.

"Leary's throwing a party, and you're the guest of honor."

"Not sure how I should take that."

"Take everything I say at face value."

"Yes… I do believe I can do that, Bill.

"Can I call you 'Bill?'"

"No."

"Well, what should I--?"

"'Lieutenant.' You need to address me, you address me as Lieutenant.

"But don't address me. Just get moving."

"Yes, sir. Wouldn't want to be late for my own party – Lieutenant."

Lieutenant Bill sighed and responded, despite himself.

"Leary throws an… eventful party. A couple hundred overworked crusaders lit to-the-tits on the good doctor's electric Kool-Aid. And Leary, himself, sermonizing until all the oxygen is sucked from the room. Then, inevitably, some poor bastard unloads a clip into his dead father's ghost spying down on him from somewhere around the ceiling.

"You'll fit right in."

"Hallucinogens and firearms are a potent cocktail. Definitely not for amateurs."

"Like I said – you'll fit right in."

"I don't do drugs."

"Sure you do. Just not the ones you think."

What?

Lieutenant Bill rolled his eyes at my obvious confusion. Apparently, he had little patience with ignorance, either.

"You still don't get it, do you? I thought you were supposed to be bright.

"Back in the 50's. Leary wasn't treating schizophrenics – he was creating them. His 'patients' – hundreds of young, dumb enlisted men, like yourself… incipient schizophrenics; or with genetic predispositions to mental illness; or just plain weak – you were all slipped massive doses of hallucinogens, then hospitalized when you went mad. Under Leary's personal care, of course."

My God!

"But… Why?"

"What do you mean, 'Why?' You said it yourself: Mind control experiments. Leary figured if he could control the initial conditions of your early episodes, he could literally rewire your brains. Make you believe anything he wanted. Do anything he wanted."

"Did it work?"

"You tell me."

III

We walked on down the hall.

Only to me, it was more like tunneling through a cloud of mirrors. And every reflection was a little bit off.

The walls bled a honeydew nectar of raw time, infinite moments glistening like star fields in the flickering light.

And the air welled thick with portent, as if laden with some miraculous dry humidity. Our futures clung to us like stains. I watched the ripples of our progress announcing us as we waded through all of the possible pathways spilling into the hall.

"You don't actually work for Leary, do you?"

"Never mind who I work for."

"Well, you're obviously not a party flack. You don't seem to believe in anything. So I guess that makes you the local syndicate rep."

"You think that would be a good thing for you?"

"I'm just trying to understand why you put up with Leary's shenanigans. He's obviously a huge risk to the operation, whether you're convinced that he's still working for the government, or not."

"Our association with Leary has been very profitable over the years. The second that changes, we'll renegotiate his contract.

"You, on the other hand, have been nothing but trouble—"

Lieutenant Bill stopped.

I looked back, and simultaneously saw:

Lieutenant Bill pulled a gun from inside his jacket and almost casually shot me—

Lieutenant Bill patted a bulge in his jacket, said, "—so don't make me tell you to shut up twice."—

Lieutenant Bill patted a bulge in his jacket, shot me an unmistakable warning glance, then walked on…

The diverging futures hit me square in the chest, then broke like waves as Lieutenant Bill started up again without drawing his weapon. The shock immobilized me for a moment as Lieutenant Bill approached, then I jerked into motion again, silent and sick with adrenaline.

We walked on down the hall.

Somewhere behind me, I lay dying on the dingy, gray linoleum, watching myself walk away.

"Coward."

We arrived at the cafeteria, and the scene was pretty much as Lieutenant Bill had described it. Only the party was just getting started and I was seeing double. To say the least.

Somewhere, Jagger was singing "Time Is On My Side." Maybe in my head.

The men were loose, but not yet stoned. Two carts of small paper cups were wheeled around the room. Or was there just one cart? Every man took a cup, but no one drank, yet.

Time is on my side (yes it is). Time is on my side (yes it is).

Lieutenant Bill led me up to the stage and sat me down at one of the long tables there, but not with Leary, as I'd expected.

"Wait here."

Lieutenant Bill made his way back down to the floor, collected a cup of Leary's special 'electric Kool-Aid,' and brought it back to the table for me.

"Wait for the toast."

He left me there to take his seat at the head table next to Leary.

So much for a party in my honor. Leary tipped a nod in my direction, but that was it. Apparently, Lieutenant Bill wasn't above a joke at my expense, after all.

I couldn't drink the Kool-Aid, of course. I was already sick and half-mad and dancing blindly around the edges of the fiery pit. I would need whatever meager wits I had left to keep myself from leaping right in. Or being pushed.

Plus, I never could stand Kool-Aid.

But I didn't get the impression that I could safely refuse, either. This whole event smacked of dark and ancient ritual.

And then it came to me: the men were taking communion. Take. Eat. Leary's poison blood will set you free.

VII

Leary stood.

I looked around, panicked. There was an overflowing ashtray on the end of the table to my immediate right. Just within reach. It would have to do.

"Gentlemen!"

The room slowly quieted.

"Gentlemen.

"Before we drink, I would like to take this occasion to welcome an old friend, in whose honor we are gathered here, tonight.

"Johnny?"

Leary gestured for me to rise.

"This is Johnny. He has traveled long and far to be with us, here. A short trip down the road, I suppose – but a long, dark journey through the years. It is my sincerest hope that with a proper welcome, he might be persuaded to join us on a more permanent basis. Johnny? Welcome!"

You'll come running back; you'll come running back; you'll come running back – to mee-ee-ee…

There was a smattering of polite applause.

So this was my party. And I'll cry if I want to. Apparently, Lieutenant Bill had no sense of humor, after all. My sense of order in the world was restored by a tick.

"Well, then… Shall we toast?"

That brought a cheer.

The men stood and raised their cups.

In the flurry of activity, I quickly tipped the contents of my paper cup into the ashtray next to me, then raised the empty cup with the others.

I risked a glance around the table. No one seemed to have noticed.

At the head table, I saw that Lieutenant Bill was staring my way, intently. Had he seen?

"Peace."

"PEACE!!!"

I shivered.

Rising in unison from the parched throats of a couple hundred well-armed men, the word had a decidedly martial ring to it.

The men tossed back their drinks, then crumpled and discarded their cups with a flourish. I pretended to do the same.

We cheered.

We sat.

Leary caught my eye and smiled.

"Now, then—Let's talk a little about Peace…"

The sermon had begun.

VIII

"The road to peace must sometimes pass through sorrow. Where all involved truly desire peace, the peacemakers are irrelevant. But how rarely that is the case! We are not by our natures a peaceful species, so it is those with the most to lose who determine the character of any given conflict.

"And remember that peace is not an object; it is not an achievable goal. It is a state – a delicate balance between conflicting needs and desires. And that balance is never fixed, never steady, but requires constant vigilance and care. And most especially, it requires the continuing dedication of all that might see it fall. Peace is an act of will in defiance of self-interest. For the case can always be made for violence, while the only case for peace is peace, itself.

"But those who would eschew violence in all its forms, under any circumstances, would do well to remember that they continue to survive only at the suffrage of those who do not. And it is not enough to hide cowardice behind a willingness to die for the cause of peace. If life is so cheap as to throw it away without a fight, then how are the lives of those who would fight for survival not equally worth offering? Unless you will also risk your soul, then you risk nothing of consequence. A martyr is nothing but a loser scavenged by the living to beat the drums of cause. Better a single victor than an army of martyrs.

"No. Those who believe that violence only begets violence have been mislead by those without the stomach for the cost of staking a claim among the living. Energy is never created, only stolen. Violence may often spiral into self-perpetuating disease, but it needs no carrier, no root cause. Because violence is the natural state; it is the wind, the waves, the tides, the movements of the earth, the jostling for space and food and shelter. To live in peace is to take up temporary residence in the eye of the storm, for peace is but a fleeting imposition of stillness on the chaos of an ever-changing world.

"All change is violence, and change is as inevitable as the passage of time. There are billions of men, women, and children on this planet, and every single one of them will die, if not by the violence of man, then by the violence of God or nature. Death, then, is neither to be feared nor avoided, but it is only the quality of the life that matters, only the legacy of the death.

"This is not an argument, however, for the indiscriminate use of force. Quite the contrary. If life is violence, and violence is the natural order, then how great the effort must be to dam the floodwaters; to turn shelter into home; to find a quiet moment or two for making love; to live a small life!

"It is the burden of civilized man to know justice from vengeance, to know mercy from pity, to know duty from slavery, and then to do what is necessary.

"And sadly, today, it is necessary for you to die."

The first body hit the ground at "All change is violence." Within seconds, nearly everyone was struggling for air, slumping over tables or dropping to the floor. I slipped quietly beneath my table, and began collecting guns and ammunition from the fallen.

The music stopped. My visions faded. I was left once again with a clarity so severe that I ached with it.

The silence greeting Leary's speech was deafening. The word "die" seemed to echo endlessly through the hall.

I was in a state of shock, I suppose. I had seen many things, but the casual murder of hundreds of men was beyond me. But it was a strange sort of shock. In a sense I was more aware, more grounded in the moment than at any other time in my life.

And it was all about time, wasn't it? Each second stretched on endlessly, and I felt as though I could have run a mile in the space of a heartbeat.

Maybe Jagger was right. Maybe time really was on my side.

By the time Leary was finished, there were only three of us left: Leary, Lieutenant Bill, and myself.

And all of us armed.

Leary broke the silence with a forced, hollow laugh.

"You never did like taking your medication, Johnny."

"You were right, Bill. I should have just let you kill him. But my curiosity got the better of me. It was hubris, I suppose. Or pride in craftsmanship, really…

"I wanted to see how you'd turned out, Johnny. What kind of a man you'd become. I thought I could control the situation for a while longer. Maybe even bring you in. But you managed to plant a seed of doubt in the men. Poison the well, so to speak…

"Oh, don't worry, Johnny. None of this is really your fault. You just hastened the inevitable. True believers make excellent cheap labor, but sooner or later, even the most pie-eyed innocent grows a little cynical. And there's nothing more dangerous than a disillusioned idealist.

"But they make pretty good fertilizer, eh, Bill?"

"So does bullshit!

"Funny you didn't bother to warn me this time that you'd decided to spike the refreshments, again."

That was when I realized that neither man was pointing his gun directly at me. We were standing roughly in a triangular formation, and both men were fudging their aim a little, allowing themselves a shot at multiple targets.

There was obviously a lot of love in the room.

"You never drink with the men, Bill. It was a last minute decision. It didn't seem like a risk."

"Sounds like maybe the good doctor decided to renegotiate your contract, Lieutenant."

"Shut up."

"That's right! Don't listen to the lunatic, Bill. Think: Why would I want you dead, with government assassins on my tail? I need my syndicate and cartel friends to protect me. Hurting you would be suicide!"

"Your lies are catching up with you, Doctor. You said he wasn't an assassin."

Lieutenant Bill may not have been an intellectual, but he clearly had a genius for survival. And for once, Leary was left speechless.

I took my shot.

"If you shoot him, Lieutenant, I'll hold my fire. I don't care about you."

"Unfortunately, I can't take that chance. If you are who you say you are – and I'm beginning to get the idea that's the case – then you've already calculated the risks and determined that I'm the bigger threat. You might be able to take us both out, but only if you shoot me first. And of course, I've got to shoot you first, too."

"I'm flattered. But it's worse than that, Lieutenant. Odds are that the Doc figures he can still control me, or at least that I'm the safer bet. So when the shooting starts, we'll both be gunning for you."

"You have an alternative?"

"I do:

"Leave. Just go. Keep your gun, cover yourself; but back away. Take a jeep. Go home. Let our little drama play itself out.

"Tomorrow you come back with a small army and a handful of new recruits, and it's business as usual.

"You find my body when you get back, or you find Leary's. Doesn't matter. Either way, you live; Leary's a marked man, or dead; and the operation doesn't lose a day."

Being a man of action, Lieutenant Bill weighed his options quickly, then picked a slow retreat through the corpses in the hall.

He left without another word. He never did have much use for either one of us.

When we heard the jeep start up and drive away, Leary and I turned to face each other.

XII

"Listen, Johnny—"

"Shut it! You're the father, all right – the Father of Lies. So you stay out of my head, maybe you'll get to keep yours. But one more word earns you a bullet in the brain.

"Nod once if you understand."

He nodded.

"Okay. If you want to have any chance at living through this, put the gun down – very slowly – on the ground."

He did.

"Good. Now kick it away."

He did.

"Good.

"Now then. You see the Zippo on the table over there? With the Camels? Pick it up and come with me. No, leave the smokes. We're going to have us a little barbeque."

XIII

We razed the whole operation to the ground.

I mean we burned it all: the factory, the warehouses, the outbuildings, the trucks. The bodies. We even torched the fields. We filled the sky with black smoke, and night came early to the Mojave.

XIV

"You think he'll come back? When he sees the smoke? That was a pretty dirty trick, Johnny – destroying everything. Poor Bill's going to have a lot to answer for."

It was the first time Leary had dared to speak since I told him not to. But it was time. We'd done our work, and there was nothing left before us but to settle things once and for all. We both new it. It was time.

"No. He won't be back. Not even for revenge. Not the Lieutenant. There's no percentage in it."

Leary laughed dryly, then made his play.

"You can't kill me, you know. Bennie won't let you."

"I wouldn't pin all my hopes on Bennie, if I were you." I gestured with the gun for effect. "I fragged the lizard back in Arizona."

Leary looked surprised, but continued.

"He'll be back. Don't worry. Bennie's a survivor.

"But it's okay, Johnny. Really. It wouldn't fulfill you, anyway. Life's not about the soul-killing goals that society sets for us… It's about the journey—"

"No. No, it isn't," I replied. "It isn't about the journey, at all, Doc. It's about the pieces. The slivers and the scraps."

I had the gun, so Leary let me talk.

"I've seen it. Seen how the bits overlap. How they fold together to create the illusion of a man. But every morning, we're reborn again. Every moment…"

"Every moment is a new creation, Doc, a new choice. A new chance at redemption. And we're responsible for each of those moments, each of those choices. As if they were the only ones we'll ever get…

"Because they are! Today will never come 'round again. Never. And the whole of existence is holding its breath to see what we will do."

But Leary wasn't listening. Didn't understand. He was just looking for a way out.

"Johnny—"

"I'm not going to kill you, Doc— unless you force me to."

Leary exhaled.

"But I'm not sparing you for Bennie, either, or for you. Not even for myself, really; though that would have been enough.

"I'm not going to kill you simply because I don't have to, now. Your operation is destroyed and your identity compromised. You have no more influence, anymore; no power…

"And probably very little time, actually. Because if I don't kill you, one of your former business partners surely will. Assuming you make it out of the desert."

"You're right, Johnny. You're absolutely right. Just because you can't bring yourself to kill me, that doesn't mean you've failed your mission. For a man like me, to be revealed is death. For a man like me…"

Leary paused. He had been babbling in agreement to keep himself alive, but suddenly he got what we were saying, and understood that it was real.

I watched him sag in resignation as the enormity of his certain future finally hit home. And all of the masks were finally stripped away—the enlightened civility, the arrogant benevolence, the intellectual shaman revolutionary angst, all gone. And hiding under all the pretense was the simple, dull hatred of a broken man.

"For a man like me…"

The loss of reputation. The ignobility. Forced to witness his own slow slide into obscurity…

"Can there be a fate worse than irrelevance?"

Irrelevance. It was the final lie. The lie of a desperately egocentric man witnessing the demise of his own myth. But ultimately, it was a lie I could live with. Because I knew that Leary believed it, himself. Believed it to his bones.

"What a pair we are, Johnny! You can trust no one. Nothing. Not even your own senses! And me: My entire life has been a lie! Now I have nothing left to believe in, either."

He laughed bitterly.

"But I do have one advantage, Johnny, don't I? I have this. I have now.

"Because by tomorrow, you won't even be sure if any of this ever happened.

"But I'll always have today to cling to. Precious memories! The endless, stinking certainty of this one merciless day.

"It's a Pyrrhic victory, I know, Johnny; but it's mine, and it suits me. And it's more than you'll ever have, so I can take some comfort in it."

And with that, he turned his back. Dismissing me forever.

I walked away, leaving him the shabby comfort of the last word.

By the time I reached the highway, Bennie had rejoined me.

"Hey! Good to see you, old boy!" I grinned. "You're looking dapper! Where the hell have you been? Nasty ol' cat got your tongue?"

Bennie was wearing a French Foreign Legion outfit and wrap-around shades. He bobbed his head, waggled his Pall Mall.

"We've been right here, Boss. Right here. Same as always."

Right here. Same as always. I laughed, delighted.

"Question is, Boss – where have you been?"

XVI

Where have you been?

I thought about it, and wondered. But not too hard. Not too long.

Because though I had been willing to accept Leary's last lie without argument, I did at least recognize the truth behind it: That Leary still had one final thing he truly believed in. That back there, somewhere behind me—a lone shadow in the desert, fading into the horizon like a mirage of his own design—in the end, Leary believed utterly and completely in the inevitable failure of the human spirit.

And that knowledge made me smile faintly, and pity him a little. But I was grateful, too. Because that last, perfect despair was finally the very watermark that I had been searching for—a single point of truth against which all fictions could be measured.

For though I can never know for certain whether Leary ever really existed at all, I do know that he was wrong.