The Mirror Man

by Jane Gilmartin

  “...and you’re certain this was the same doctor who saved that kid in the coma?”

  “...and they’re sure it was suicide?”

  The clone hung up the phone and ran a hand through his hair. The look on his face mirrored Jeremiah’s own alarm.

  “Holy crap,” he said to Brent.

  “What’s he talking about?”

  “Just watch. I have a feeling this won’t be pretty.”

  On the screen, his clone picked up the phone again and dialed.

  “We have a problem,” he said. Jeremiah could only assume he was speaking to his department director. “That doctor who was singing Meld’s praises all over the news, you know the one with the comatose kid? Yeah, well, he killed himself this morning. And he left a note. He mentioned Meld.”

  For the next two and a half hours, Jeremiah and Brent watched as the clone and everyone in ViMed’s Communications department rallied to build a wall against a media onslaught. Judging from the newsfeed in the background, it wasn’t helping. The news was reporting that the doctor, after his stint as a medical superstar, had abandoned his hospital post for a private practice focusing entirely on Meld-induced treatment of brain injury. He’d made quite a success of it, but there were indications he might have taken the drug too many times. A talking head read a critical passage from the good doctor’s suicide note.

  “Meld showed me a monster. How can we look at ourselves through someone else’s eyes and not be fundamentally changed? I cannot defend what I’ve seen. I cannot live with the monster. I cannot escape him. We are not meant to see this. We’re not equipped. It isn’t right. My only solace is that at least I can take him with me.”

  The clone had gathered a small group of writers and PR reps in his office. “This is the first suicide in a clinical setting. This is where we need to focus. We need to turn it around. Maybe we can spin the idea that this guy was abusing Meld outside of his practice, using it wrong, maybe even addicted to it. There’s got to be someone out there—some disgruntled patient, a jealous rival, a jilted lover—who will talk if we plant that idea in the right ears. You need to find those ears. Now.”

  Brent whistled through his teeth. “Wow,” he said. “Clone’s gone all cutthroat. No mercy there.”

  “Seems a bit aggressive to me,” Jeremiah said. “I mean, this doctor has a reputation. A family. He just killed himself, for Christ’s sake. I think a little mercy is in order.”

  More to the point, Jeremiah thought to himself, Meld was still killing people, and the clone was still trying to push it on the public. And, for all anyone knew, that clone was Jeremiah. Those were his own hands bloodied in every one of those deaths.

  It had to end. He had to end it. Somehow. But Brent was right about one thing: if anyone realized he was no longer a willing player in all of this, if he showed his hand at all here, he’d be even more stuck than he already was. They’d make sure of that.

  He had to play this cool.

  Brent typed something into his laptop.

  “Come on,” Jeremiah said, agitated by the idea that everything he said was being used against him. “Don’t you think this is overkill? I mean, you don’t need to ruin a man’s name to save the company’s image.”

  “That’s his job, though,” Brent said. “That’s your job. Isn’t that what you’re paid to do?”

  “I’m just saying, there’s no need to be so cavalier about it after a man has just died.”

  On the wall, the clone wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and chewed on a pencil as he listened to the writers shoot off a series of ideas that wouldn’t work.

  “Maybe he just has it in for ViMed,” someone said. “Maybe looking for a lawsuit.”

  “Maybe the suicide note was a fake,” someone said. “A forgery.”

  “What are we supposed to do?” the clone asked. “Prove it was murder? That won’t fly. We’re not detectives. No, we need to put the focus back on the idea that Meld is safe. That’s the key here. We need to keep the focus on safety—drive that point home.”

  “I doubt the FDA is going to be much help there,” another writer said. “I don’t think they want to keep talking about how safe Meld is right now. And honestly, I don’t think people want to hear it.”

  “Then we find another way to prove it’s safe,” the clone said thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s time we stop talking about it and start showing it.”

  “How are we supposed to do that?” someone asked. “Take it ourselves?”

  “Not you,” the clone said, looking up at the group with renewed energy. “Me. I can take it. I’ll take it on national TV, with a doctor. It’ll be all on the up-and-up. Supervised, monitored, everything. And I’ll let someone else select the doctor, someone independent. Christ, we’ll invite the FDA to oversee it themselves.”

  “Could work,” someone said. “But wouldn’t it be better for some bigwig to take it? Someone higher up? Or maybe a scientist?”

  “I don’t think so,” the clone said. “I think it says more if it’s just some regular joe who isn’t afraid to take the Meld. If I do it, I think it’ll go a lot farther to prove there’s nothing dangerous about it.”

  “Is he out of his goddamn mind?” Jeremiah was stunned. After everything, the clone still believed in the Meld, believed the company was in the right. He was still toeing the line.

  “I think it sounds like a pretty good stunt.” Brent laughed.

  “I think it sounds like he’s an idiot!” Jeremiah stood up and turned away from the monitor. He paced back and forth in agitation. “After all these suicides and he wants to take the Meld? He’s crazy! He has a family to think of. My family! What if something goes wrong?”

  “Obviously, he doesn’t think anything will go wrong, Jeremiah.” Brent looked genuinely confused. “Now you don’t trust the Meld, either?”

  “I think it’s a mistake,” he said. “It might be good marketing, but this is a bad idea. For the clone.”

  “Since when are you so concerned about the clone?” Brent asked.

  “Think about it, Brent. If something happens to him, what happens to me? How can I go home again?”

  Brent said nothing, but a change of expression showed he understood.

  On the monitor, the clone was just hanging up his office phone.

  “It’s a go,” he said to the writers. “We need to set this up as soon as possible. I’ll call CNN right away. Someone get on the phone with the FDA and get one of them on board with this. I want this to happen in prime time. Tomorrow. And I want it well advertised. Saturate social media. Call every one of the affiliates.”

  The group dispersed quickly and the clone, a self-satisfied grin spreading over his face, sat down and picked up the phone. The wall went dark before he finished dialing and, a moment later, Charles Scott entered Jeremiah’s living room without knocking.

  “It would appear we have a situation,” he said. He stood in front of them with an expression that appeared perfectly calm, but Jeremiah could sense a trace of uneasiness in his demeanor.

  “Damn right we have a situation,” Jeremiah told him. “That clone is making a mistake. He shouldn’t be taking the Meld.”

  “I agree, Mr. Adams,” Scott said, moving farther into the room now. He stood in front of a chair without sitting down. Jeremiah shot a quick I-told-you-so glance at Brent. “We have no definitive data on how the drug might affect the clone. This is untested territory. There is a real possibility that, under Meld, your double may become privy to information he must not have. Whoever takes the Meld with him might see something, as well. The risk is simply too high.”

  “Don’t you think,” Jeremiah asked, “that maybe it’s time you considered taking Meld off the market?”

  “That is not an option,” Scott said firmly. “Meld and the money it generates are crucial to this project. That must be preserved. At any cost.”r />
  It wasn’t lost on Jeremiah that Scott had not directly dismissed the implication that Meld was dangerous and had been released too soon.

  “So, what do we do about it?” Jeremiah asked. “How do we stop this?”

  “We don’t,” Scott said thoughtfully. “We can’t. The wheels are already in motion, I’m afraid. But we can ensure that it won’t be the clone who is taking the Meld.”

  “How’s that?” Jeremiah asked.

  “You will need a shave and a haircut, Mr. Adams,” Scott said with a slight gleam in his eye. “You’re taking a trip.”

  Chapter 26

  Less than an hour later, Jeremiah found himself sitting on the cold, metal table in Dr. Pike’s office, trying to calm his own heartbeat. He couldn’t believe his luck. He was getting out, if only temporarily, and that impossible opportunity wasn’t lost on him. He had a chance to save Diana. He had a little, slim, tenuous piece of hope. He wasn’t going to squander it.

  Pike was to perform a full medical examination to ensure that Jeremiah and the clone were as physically indistinguishable as possible when he went to the other side. While he waited, Jeremiah considered his options. They weren’t many. He was certain Scott would be with him out there, or watching him, at least. They weren’t going to just let him wander. But if he could evade them long enough for a phone call, or if he could somehow slip a message to someone who would relay it to his clone or Diana, he might have a chance. There wouldn’t be time enough to plan anything elaborate beforehand, he decided. He’d just have to keep his eyes open and take any opportunity he could find.

  Pike entered the room staring at a computer tablet in his hand. He didn’t even look at Jeremiah as he mumbled a distracted greeting.

  “I assume you’ll want to get me on the scale,” Jeremiah said. “I think I’ve lost enough weight on the Dr. Pike diet.”

  “Yes, yes,” Pike said, looking up at Jeremiah now and assessing him with a quick glance. “The weight. That is an issue. I think we’ll be able to hide the discrepancy with your clothing. You won’t be there long. We have a more pressing matter right now, I’m afraid.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re going to need a tooth pulled. The clone had a right molar extracted a few weeks ago and we’ll need to take the same tooth from you. I was going to wait on this, but circumstances have changed. It needs to be done today. Right away.”

  “What?” Jeremiah asked. “There’s nothing wrong with my teeth!”

  “I understand that,” Pike told him. “But this is unavoidable.”

  “If I can hide my weight, I certainly ought to be able to hide a tooth,” Jeremiah suggested. “I don’t want a tooth pulled. Can’t I just keep my mouth closed or something?”

  “You’re going to be on national TV,” Pike said. “All over social media. And you’ll be scrutinized. We can’t risk it. We can get away with the assumption that the camera adds five pounds. Last I checked, though, it does not add extra teeth.”

  “Nice to see all the trouble you people can suddenly handle to get me out of here.”

  “We can’t be too careful, Mr. Adams.”

  “Right, not when it suits your own agenda, I suppose. Different story, isn’t it, when I want to get out to bury my mother?” Jeremiah stared hard at Pike, who looked momentarily uncomfortable, averting his eyes and shifting his weight from one foot to another.

  “This is different, Mr. Adams,” Pike said quietly. “You know that.”

  “For you, maybe. Not so much for me.”

  “These decisions aren’t up to me,” Pike told him. “If you’ll hold out your left arm, I need a sample of your blood.”

  “Sure,” Jeremiah said, holding his arm outstretched. “Take my teeth, my blood. Is there anything else? You want a kidney?”

  Pike carried out the rest of the examination in silence, checking and rechecking vital signs and scanning for viral infections with a handheld device that Jeremiah surmised worked something like a Geiger counter. When he stepped on the scale, Jeremiah was pleased to see he’d lost a little more than six pounds, which had him still about four pounds heavier than his double, but one step closer to cheese.

  Finally, once Pike was satisfied with the readings, he ushered Jeremiah into an adjacent office that had been outfitted as a dental suite. Jeremiah had been here once before for a routine cleaning.

  “Please have a seat, Mr. Adams. I will administer a sedative to put you under, if you like.”

  “No,” Jeremiah told him flatly. “Just numb me up. I want to be awake so I can see your face when you yank a perfectly healthy tooth out of my mouth.”

  Pike sighed. Fifteen minutes later, Jeremiah stood wobbling to his feet, a blood-soaked cotton ball clenched between his gums and one hand cradling his numb jaw.

  “Now that that’s over with,” Pike said, “I believe you’ve earned those three food choices.”

  “Sure,” Jeremiah mumbled through the cotton. “Now that you’ve seen to it I won’t be able to eat anything for three days. Just get me some decent beer.”

  When Pike returned Jeremiah to his rooms, he found Charles Scott waiting for him with a dark-haired, impossibly thin woman he’d never seen before. They were standing in the middle of the living room. The woman had an oversize tote bag slung over one bony shoulder and was nearly dwarfed by its girth.

  “It’s time for your haircut, Mr. Adams,” Scott told him. “Miss Phillips here will do the honors.” He handed the woman a photograph of the clone. “This is what we’re looking for,” Scott told her. “He needs to look precisely like this. Make it as exact as possible. No deviation.”

  “Sure,” the woman told him, a substantial Boston accent making the word come out more like “Shoo-wah.”

  “Can’t we do this another time?” Jeremiah mumbled through the soggy cotton in his mouth. “I need to lie down.”

  “Now, Mr. Adams,” Scott said. “You can lie down afterward.”

  “Pike just pulled a tooth out,” he said. “I’m in no mood for a shave.”

  “Don’t worry,” the bony woman said. “I’ll be very gentle. You just sit yourself down and we’ll have you done in no time.” She patted the back of one of the kitchen stools, dragged in to serve as a barber chair, and Jeremiah reluctantly sat down.

  “Accuracy is more important here than speed,” Scott told her, a hint of warning in his tone. “Precision is crucial. He needs to look exactly as he does in the photograph.”

  She shrugged. “It’s a guy’s regular and a clean shave,” she said. “It’s not rocket science.” She took a plastic cape out of her tote bag and draped it around Jeremiah’s shoulders, fastening it behind his neck.

  “Just make sure you’re meticulous,” Scott said. “That’s what you’re being paid for.” He shot a quick, stern look at Miss Phillips.

  When Scott retreated into the kitchen, dialing his phone as he went, Jeremiah toyed with the idea of writing a note for Diana, slipping it to this woman and imploring her to get it into the right hands. But he couldn’t risk it. Not with Scott in the next room, and not with someone as chatty as this girl. It would take him too long, he decided, to make her understand.

  “Jeepers,” she said, rolling her eyes toward the kitchen. “He’s a real a worrywart. Good thing he pays so well. I don’t usually do house calls, you know, but Dr. Scott there is paying me more for this one haircut than I’d make all day at the salon. And that includes tips! You must be someone pretty important. You famous or something, Mr. Adams?”

  “No.”

  “You live here?”

  “For the time being.” Every time he spoke, Jeremiah had to suck in on the cotton and swallow a nauseating mix of saliva and blood.

  “It’s pretty fancy for a basement apartment. Me, though? I couldn’t stand living without windows. I like to let the sun in, you know? It’s been proven that a lack
of sunshine can make you depressed. You ever get depressed here?”

  He wanted to tell her yes. Yes, he got depressed all the time. This wasn’t a basement apartment. He was a prisoner here. But he said nothing and just shook his head.

  He was surprised Scott had let in a total outsider for something as simple as a shave. Everyone else involved in the project so far had been painstakingly vetted and probably made to sign an airtight nondisclosure agreement. But the urgency of the situation likely had left Scott little choice. He had to look completely like his double when he walked into ViMed. Scott needed a pro for this job. There was no way around it. In a way, he thought, it was nice to talk with someone who was unconnected to the whole thing, who didn’t know him as the guinea pig. Under different circumstances, he might have even enjoyed it.

  She took her supplies out of the tote and laid them meticulously on the coffee table.

  “I’m going to warm this up for you in the kitchen,” she said, grabbing one of the towels. “We’ll start with the shave before that mouth of yours swells up anymore.”

  The steaming towel felt good on his aching jaw. Miss Phillips stopped talking and set right to work. As promised, she was very careful with the shave, lifting and angling his chin with a gentle touch and paying particular attention to his swollen right side. After a few minutes, Jeremiah began to relax.

  She went on to the haircut, starting with wild chopping and then more precise snipping and, finally, tight shaping behind the neck and ears, the last of it with a razor. It was easily the most time he’d spent with a barber in decades. He had almost forgotten how long he’d gone without a haircut. When she was finished, and held a mirror up for his approval, Jeremiah was shocked to see the clone staring back at him. That’s what it felt like at first glance—like he was seeing someone else’s reflection. He hadn’t realized, until that moment, how successful he’d been at distinguishing himself from his double. It had been a conscious decision at the start, to grow a beard, but then it had become as much laziness as anything else. He’d gotten used to the scruff. Here he was now, clean shaven and cropped, and he looked like the man he’d been watching on the wall every day. He turned his face back and forth and quickly decided he didn’t like it. He looked older, and much more dignified than he felt he had a right to be.