The Mirror Man

by Jane Gilmartin

If they try anything I go public. They go to jail. Insurance.

  When?

  Has to be soon. Dr. Y wants to do Meld.

  How soon?

  A few days. We need a plan. Need to get to my house. How?

  I’ll get you there.

  You can’t. You’ll be stabbed, remember?

  Mel, then. I’ll get it done.

  No. Too risky. Don’t involve her.

  Only option. She won’t know more than she has to. Trust me!

  I do.

  Start shooting. Game too calm. Looks bad. Talk tomorrow. I will have more.

  For the next hour, they finished the bottle and battled. Jeremiah lost miserably, misfiring and screwing up his aim at every shot. He didn’t have it in him to shoot his friend at the moment—even in a virtual way.

  Chapter 33

  Days 164-165

  Two days later, at eleven in the morning, Brent and Jeremiah sat solemnly on the couch together and watched as the clone shook hands and awkwardly embraced a steady line of mourners at Diana’s wake. Jeremiah only caught a few brief glimpses of his son the whole day. Each time, Parker sat sullen and sunken in his dark gray suit and scuffed black shoes. He hardly looked at anyone and only spoke when absolutely necessary. Even then, he said as few words as possible. As far as Jeremiah could tell, Parker didn’t shed a single tear. It was hard to watch. He found himself wondering whether Parker had even spoken to the clone since the last time they’d watched them. Despite how it made him feel, he hoped he had. A kid shouldn’t have to go through this alone. No one should.

  The day after that, they viewed her funeral and Jeremiah wept openly in front of Brent. His sobs, though, were punctuated with the sting of determined anger, as he steeled himself for what he was about to do. It wasn’t going to end this way, he told himself. The anger was the only thing that kept him in one piece.

  In the kitchen afterward, Brent took two beers from the fridge and looked at Jeremiah with an unreadable expression on his face. Jeremiah thought he’d rattled him with the crying.

  “I’m fine, Brent. Don’t worry.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “What, then?”

  “I wish I’d listened to you sooner. About all of this, I mean.”

  Jeremiah got a few handfuls of ice from the freezer. He wanted to alleviate some of Brent’s guilt, but he had to do it under the din of the blender. This wasn’t for anyone else to hear.

  “I don’t know that it would have done any good. I got the note to the clone. It didn’t help. It’s not your fault, Brent.”

  “It’s not your fault, either,” he said. “You know that, right?”

  Jeremiah didn’t answer.

  “There was nothing you could have done,” Brent told him. “You couldn’t control what you were thinking under the Meld.”

  “I shouldn’t have been thinking about the dog,” he said. “I shouldn’t have tried to keep that a secret. It was pride, some ridiculous sense of power. It was stupid of me. And Diana paid the price for that. This is on me. This is all on me.”

  “You didn’t know,” he said. “There was no way you could have known.”

  “I did try.” Jeremiah was fighting back more tears. “I tried to warn her, I tried to tell the clone to protect her.”

  “I know you did.”

  “I wanted to save her. I thought I could. I thought I could do something.”

  “You’re doing something now,” Brent said. “Just get through this and it will be over. I’m going to help you. You’re not in this alone anymore.”

  Chapter 34

  Day 166

  They were scheduled to watch the clone at home on Sunday afternoon. Jeremiah didn’t want to see it. A day after he’d buried Diana, after all the planning and details and gatherings were behind him, the clone would be forced, finally, to deal with the reality he was left with. Jeremiah didn’t want to witness that.

  There is so much ritual involved after a death, he thought. People come together for the wake, stiff handshakes and teary hugs giving way, after a while, to more boisterous reminiscing and a few stifled bouts of uncomfortable laughter right in front of the casket. Then the funeral, all solemn, righteous and wooden, filled with quiet, pious reflection, until everyone goes off to have a few drinks afterward. All of it, of course, as a means to some sort of closure.

  But there’s never any closure. Not really. All the ritual is nothing more than a way to stave off the inevitable finality of the long goodbye. It’s easy to stand for hours at a wake, surrounded by people who’ve come to help ease the burden. You feel sheltered. Getting out of bed on the morning of a funeral isn’t hard, precisely because it’s necessary. What’s hard, Jeremiah understood, is the day after. And the next day, and the next, when there doesn’t seem to be any reason to get out of bed at all, and there isn’t anyone around anymore to tell you they’re “terribly sorry for your loss.”

  He didn’t want to have to watch and be made to feel all of that along with his double, along with his son. He didn’t want to get swallowed up in that kind of sorrow. He couldn’t risk losing the jagged edge of his anger if he wanted to carry out his plan. He had to stay angry. He had to stay sharp.

  So, when Brent arrived about an hour before they were set to watch, he told him to call Charles Scott and ask for a reprieve.

  “Tell him I need a few days,” he said. “Tell him whatever you want, but I don’t want to see it. It’s going to turn me all around. I can’t.”

  “I don’t know, Jeremiah. I doubt he’d go for it.”

  “He must have seen your report from yesterday, right? You must have put down that I cried. Just tell him you think it’ll do me some good. Tell him I just need some time. He’s got to understand that, doesn’t he? Just call him. This is important, Brent. I need to stay focused. Watching this isn’t going to help.”

  Brent shook his head and took out his cell phone. “I’ll try,” he said.

  Fifteen minutes later, Scott walked into the living room, a look of feigned concern on his face.

  “Mr. Adams,” he said, and he nodded his greeting to Brent. “Mr. Higgins tells me you don’t want to watch your scheduled viewing today. This is rather unorthodox.”

  Jeremiah tried to swallow his anger before he spoke.

  “Look, Dr. Scott, I just need a little time, a few days without watching. After yesterday, it’s just hard, is all. You gave me a day after my mother died. This is the same thing. I just need a little time.”

  Scott tightened his lips into a failed attempt at a smile and sat down on the edge of a chair across from Jeremiah.

  “The viewings of the wake and the funeral were not monitored,” he said. “That can be considered your time off in this case. You are required to watch for four hours every day, Mr. Adams. The continuity is crucial to this experiment. I can understand that you’re in mourning, and I’m sorry for that, but we can’t just take more time off because you don’t feel up to it. I’ve allowed you too much already with the shortened viewing we saw together the other day. I’ve made that concession. Now it’s time we get back to work.”

  Inwardly, Jeremiah was reveling in a fantasy that ended with Charles Scott in a bloody heap on the floor. It almost made him smile.

  “With all due respect, Dr. Scott, everyone is entitled to bereavement time. Isn’t that a law or something? ViMed is giving the clone time off, aren’t they? You don’t see him being called into the office. I’m only asking for the same thing. I mean, come on, he’s just going to be sitting around moping at home. I don’t see how my watching that will be of any benefit to the project. What difference does it make? I already know what he’s going to do. I can tell you right now that I would do exactly the same thing.”

  “Dr. Young feels the continuity is important for your own well-being,” he said.

  Jeremiah wanted to spit.
No one other than Brent gave two shits about his well-being.

  “I think I know something about that, too,” he told Scott, masking the venom in his tone, “and I’m telling you it’ll do me good to take some time for myself. Just a couple of days.”

  Scott pursed his lips and looked at Brent, who just shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe he’s right,” he said. “You read my report. It could help.”

  Scott said nothing and, in that moment, with Brent looking directly at him, Scott’s eyes became momentarily unfocused. For an instant his whole face looked unnatural, went slack in a way, as though he’d completely lost control of it. Jeremiah looked at Brent and saw a stunned surprise in his eyes. He’d seen it, too.

  Scott smoothed his hair in a useless effort to hide what had happened. He hesitated and then looked back to Jeremiah with mild exasperation in his eyes.

  “All right, Mr. Adams. A few days. That’s all. And I will have to insist that Mr. Higgins remain here during that time.”

  “I don’t need a babysitter,” Jeremiah said for good measure. Inwardly he saw the benefit of Brent having to stay.

  “You need to be monitored. I’m afraid that point is not open to debate.” He turned back to Brent. “Mr. Higgins, you will clear your schedule.”

  “Of course. I’ll just go home to pick up a few things and be back within the hour.”

  “One hour,” Scott told him. “No more.” He stood to leave and Jeremiah stood up, as well.

  “Thank you, Dr. Scott,” he said, the words almost sticking in his throat, and with considerable effort he put out his hand to the murderous worm of a man. “I appreciate this.”

  Scott shook his hand and took his leave without another word. Brent exhaled deeply and stared at Jeremiah.

  “He is sick,” he said.

  “I told you.”

  “And you are good,” Brent added. “You just got two days off and all the time we need to see this through.”

  Chapter 35

  In less than an hour, Brent returned with a suitcase, a bag of burgers and two more bottles of whiskey. Jeremiah tore at the food, realizing as soon as he smelled it that he was ravenous again, despite everything. He’d been pacing the apartment since Brent had gone, a nervous ball of energy. He’d logged more time on that treadmill in the past forty-eight hours than he’d typically done in a week. Something in his stomach, he thought, might help him calm down.

  “I don’t know about the whiskey,” he said. “We need our wits about us.”

  “I have a distinct feeling I am going to need it before this night is over. In case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Oh, yeah. Right.”

  “Besides,” Brent said, “we have ample time now. Might as well have one good bender while we can.”

  “I drink like a fish now, thanks to you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You’re a terrible influence on me. I’m too old for this.”

  “At least you’re not a stiff old asshole anymore, like your clone. I think I’ve been a very good influence on you. I’ve turned you into someone who’s actually cool.”

  “Just like My Fair Lady. In reverse.”

  “Well, my name is Higgins, after all.”

  “So it is.” Jeremiah smiled. “What do we do now, Mr. Higgins?”

  For the next few hours, they played IF at full volume on the wall monitor and got slowly but sufficiently sauced, going through an entire bottle in record time. Jeremiah hadn’t drunk like this since his college days and he began to regret doing it on top of the three greasy burgers he’d wolfed down earlier. It wasn’t long before he was leaning back on the couch alternating between a beer and bottled water, ruing the headache he was certain to have in the morning. He took off his headset and put down his controller, letting Brent tackle the battlefield on his own for a while. The game had started to make his head spin. He closed his eyes and listened to the muffled explosions coming from Brent’s headset. As usual, it was on too loud.

  He had to admit, though, it felt good to let loose. They hadn’t typed a single word in the in-game chat and had not—even for a minute—discussed the actual issue at hand. It was an understood, shared decision to avoid it entirely. Jeremiah welcomed the distraction, and, for his part, Brent obviously realized just how much a distraction was needed. He was a good friend, Jeremiah thought, and the irony of that gnawed at him. He hadn’t had a real friend in a long time. He hadn’t made the effort. But Brent had stepped up to help him when he should have refused and run away. Jeremiah wouldn’t have blamed him. He was a kid. He had a lot to lose if something went wrong. He had everything to lose. And there was plenty that could go wrong. It was a big risk. And in return? Jeremiah would be literally stabbing him in the back. In twenty-four hours, he’d have to take a knife to the man and very likely never see him again.

  “You know, Brent,” he said, loud enough to cut through the din of the game, “I have a lot to thank you for.”

  “Yeah. I am pretty amazing.”

  “I mean it. Most people wouldn’t do something like this.”

  “Most people don’t find themselves in this kind of situation. Special circumstances.”

  “You still think I’m doing the right thing?”

  Brent took his headset off and turned off the controller in his hand. The sudden silence in the room was almost startling. “Do we need to make another smoothie for this conversation?” he asked.

  “No,” Jeremiah said. “I just want to make sure I said thank you.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Don’t go all sappy on me.”

  “I’m not. I won’t.”

  “Everything’s going to work out, Jeremiah. Don’t worry. And now that we know the truth, I don’t see that we have much choice.”

  Jeremiah nodded. Brent was right. But as the moment got closer, and with the alcohol clouding his mind, he found his thoughts drifting in unexpected directions.

  “Do you think the clone has a soul?” he asked after a moment.

  “A soul? I think you’re asking the wrong guy. I don’t buy in to any of that stuff. But I guess he thinks he has a soul.”

  “Is that enough, do you suppose? Just to think you have a soul?”

  “I think it has to be enough,” Brent said. “For most people that’s all you get.”

  “But does that make us human?”

  “Maybe it does,” Brent said.

  “I don’t know,” Jeremiah said, leaning back and closing his eyes. “It can’t be that simple. That clone’s not actually human. Just thinking he is doesn’t make it true. He’s just a copy.”

  “Yes,” Brent said, “but he doesn’t know that. He thinks he’s you. So, whatever you feel, that’s what he feels, too. And all I’m saying is that, when you come right down to it, it’s the same thing. If he thinks he’s human, maybe he is.”

  “Well,” Jeremiah said after some reflection, “he can believe anything he likes. Doesn’t make it true.”

  “So,” Brent asked after a moment, “are you asking because you’re worried about your own immortal soul?”

  Jeremiah pondered this for a moment. He remembered a time when he was very young, six or seven at most, and his mother found him in the backyard running hose water into an anthill and laughing as he did it. He’d felt a certain giddiness in watching that hole flood and all the ants come scurrying out, most of them only to drown where they stood. His mother had never liked the ants in the yard, so, at first, he couldn’t understand why she’d been so angry with him. But she turned the water off, yanked him by the arm and dragged him back into the house. He remembered she’d had real tears in her eyes while she scolded him harshly for what he had done, spouting off about how those ants were only going about the business of being ants and didn’t deserve such cruel treatment.

  “You’re a good boy, Jeremiah,” she’d told him. It felt mo
re like a plea than a character assessment. “You’re a good boy.”

  He wondered now what kind of a mark it would leave on his soul once he killed the clone. What, exactly, was it he’d be killing? After all, he considered, wasn’t this thing just going about his business of being Jeremiah? He didn’t know he was a clone. It wasn’t his fault. In fact, he thought, the clone might be the only one completely blameless in all of this. He tried to push those ideas out of his mind. He couldn’t afford to get stuck. He had to stay focused.

  “No,” he said finally, but without conviction. “I have no concerns about my own immortal soul.”

  “Let’s drink to that,” Brent said.

  “I’m done. I’d like to be able to see straight. You drink like this out there?”

  “Nah, Mel’s not really much of a partyer. If I want a bender, I go out with the boys. You know how it is.”

  “No. I don’t know. I don’t have anything remotely resembling ‘the boys’ at home.”

  “No?”

  “Not for a long time, anyway. You ever see my clone going out with any boys after work?”

  “Well, you’re keeping up with me just fine, for an old fart.”

  “Yeah, well, I wasn’t always this way, you know. I logged some epic nights, back in the day.”

  He recounted for Brent a story from the summer he’d graduated high school.

  “A group of us had depleted our beers but we weren’t ready to call it a night,” he said. “We were all pretty obviously underage but there was one guy who sometimes had some luck with a fake ID. Unfortunately, he was, at the moment, completely passed out on the couch. Absolutely comatose.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “Well, the first thing we did was grab a green magic marker and we drew a handlebar mustache on his face,” Jeremiah said. “Then we woke him up and sent him to the package store to buy a six-pack.”

  Brent laughed so hard he nearly fell off the couch.

  “We watched the whole thing through the window,” Jeremiah said, laughing so hard at the memory he could barely get the words out. “And when he came out, he couldn’t understand why the clerk was so quick to tell him to fuck off. It was hilarious!”