The Mirror Man

by Jane Gilmartin

  While he waited to be escorted to her office for their scheduled session the next morning, he took a few deep breaths and practiced a calm, unreadable expression.

  “I know you’re hurting,” Dr. Young said before he’d even settled onto the couch. “You’ve had some time alone with it now. How are you coping, Jeremiah?”

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll be all right. I’m more concerned about Parker right now.”

  “And you didn’t want to watch when the clone broke the news.”

  “I didn’t think I could stand it,” he told her. “I didn’t want to see.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I wouldn’t have been able to say anything. I should be the one to tell him his mother died. I don’t want to listen to someone else do it. Don’t you see that, Natalie? I’m his father. It’s my job. They took that away from me.”

  “Okay,” she said thoughtfully. “I suppose I can understand that. Have you thought about how you would have handled that conversation? What you would say to Parker if you were there?”

  “Why should I?” he asked, his voice rising slightly. “What good would it do? I’m not there and, evidently, no one is going to let me out.”

  “We can’t let you out. You know that.”

  “That’s funny.” He smirked. “They didn’t have a problem letting me out when it suited their own interests.”

  “That was different, Jeremiah. But you signed an agreement, remember.”

  “Yeah, I signed a fucking contract. I know. The almighty contract.”

  “You’re halfway through this, Jeremiah. You need to see it out to the end. I know it isn’t easy for you, with what’s happened, but quitting now isn’t going to change any of it. And these next months can give you some time. Some perspective.”

  “I don’t need perspective,” he said. “I need to go home and be with my son.”

  “These next six months here might be useful to you,” she said. “It may help to prepare you for the life you’ll be going back to. Things will be different now. You’ll be raising your son on your own. You might take some cues from the clone. Watching how he handles things might make it easier for you.”

  “How he handles things? Really? You think that’s what I’m worried about? I know how to handle things. I want to get out of here and handle them. I want to get back to my son. He needs me. He needs his father.”

  “This project needs you. There are billions of dollars in government funding at stake here, Jeremiah. Surely you can understand that this is worth a few more months of your time. It is worth finishing. And I’m here to help you. And you have Brent, too. You’re not alone, you know.”

  Jeremiah cringed and balled his fists on his lap.

  “You think I care about this experiment? I don’t give a fuck about the money or the science.” He stopped himself before he gave anything away out of anger. He took a deep breath and looked at the wall.

  “Jeremiah,” she said after a moment, “I think you and I should take the Meld again. I need a closer look.”

  He tried to conceal his alarm. Meld was the last thing he wanted right now. He couldn’t hide anything from her under the Meld.

  “I don’t know,” he tried, “I don’t like that idea. I don’t think I want to go through that right now. Besides, we just took it.” He looked her square in the eyes. “Surely you can see that it’s dangerous, Natalie.”

  She said nothing at first. But she didn’t deny it. She couldn’t.

  “I know it can be frightening to face your own feelings,” she said finally, “but it’s important. I need a comparative baseline here. I think it’s warranted, under the circumstances. You’ve been through a lot. We need to really see how you’re doing, Jeremiah. This is all part of the program, and I believe it will help.”

  “Well, when would we take it exactly?” he floundered.

  “Now.”

  He scrambled for a way out of it. There was absolutely no way he was taking that drug now. He couldn’t risk her catching a glimpse of what he knew, of what he was planning.

  “If it’s all the same to you,” he said in as calm a tone as he could muster, “I’d rather hold off on it for a while. I want to think about things privately for a few days, maybe a week. I need a chance to think about what’s going on in my life, sort my thoughts out in my own head before I have to share them.”

  She was silent, but his request didn’t seem to set off any noticeable alarms in her.

  “No,” she said at last. “We need to do this now. Let me just go and get the injections. I’ll be right back.”

  She left him alone in her office. He knew from experience that it would take her only a few minutes to return with the necessary supplies. Before panic could fully set in and paralyze him, Jeremiah did something he’d never done in his life. He stuck a finger in his throat, as far back as he could manage, until his eyes watered and he gagged and he finally vomited all over the carpet, narrowly missing his own feet.

  “Oh, my God,” she muttered when she returned. She stopped in midstep and stared down at the mess on the floor, syringes in hand and a look of confusion and mild disgust in her eyes. “Are you ill, Jeremiah?”

  “Maybe. With everything that’s happened, I think it might just be nerves,” he said. “God, I hope I don’t have something contagious.”

  She looked at him coldly for a moment and then pursed her lips and shook her head.

  “Perhaps it might be best if we waited, then. We’ll do this at our next session in a few days. Maybe you should go lie down while I find someone who can clean up this mess.”

  He mopped at the sweat on his face and tried not to look as though he’d just dodged a bullet.

  “Yeah, I think I will,” he said.

  Chapter 32

  Back in the apartment, Jeremiah paced the floors. He’d bought himself a few days, maybe, but he no longer had the luxury of meticulous plotting. He had to settle on a plan and make a move. It was time to act.

  He’d pretty much decided on stabbing. It was quick, quiet and completely controllable. He’d seriously considered poisoning at first. A lot of murder mysteries he’d read used this as the least traceable method of killing someone, but he didn’t need to worry about that. If he did it right, there wouldn’t be any indication of a murder at all and there wouldn’t be anything to trace. The clone would be gone, and he would take its place. Besides, poison was too unpredictable, and it might take too long. The idea of shooting the clone appealed to him on some level, too. It was violent, explosive, and the idea of blowing the thing away like that gave him a surge of satisfaction. He liked to imagine Charles Scott’s reaction to that kind of violence against his creation. But gunshots would attract too much attention on his suburban street. Besides, Jeremiah had never used a gun in his life, never even held a gun, and how would he even get his hands on one? Stabbing was the way to go, he decided. A knife was a simple, instinctual weapon, and something about the proximity involved in stabbing was enticing to him. He liked the idea of using his own hands to do this. It seemed poetically appropriate.

  His kitchen was equipped with all manner of knives to choose from. Evidently, he mused, no one had ever considered the possibility that the lab rat might think to arm himself. All he needed was a sure way out of here.

  Brent was due for a viewing early that evening. Jeremiah was dreading what they’d have to watch. His heart sank at the thought of seeing Parker’s face, of watching the clone fumble to comfort him. He wasn’t sure he could have done a better job, but he wished more than anything else that he could have the chance to try. Parker certainly knew about his mother’s death by now. The news had been broken to him and the first sting of shock subsided enough for it to feel real to him. Jeremiah imagined he was out of school for a few days while arrangements for the funeral were being made and details were taken care of. His double would be busy wi
th that. He’d have that needed distraction. But Parker would have nothing but long stretches of time to wallow and grapple with the untamed emotions of an adolescent boy. The idea of it broke his heart.

  When Brent walked in before 5:00 p.m. he carried two white-handled shopping bags that he placed on the counter in the kitchen.

  “Dinner,” he told Jeremiah. “I figured you haven’t been eating. I smuggled in Chinese, and plenty of it. Screw the goddamn diet.”

  He emptied one bag of several steaming cartons, which, Jeremiah admitted, smelled good. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. From the other bag, Brent took a good-size bottle of whiskey.

  “And dessert,” he said.

  “I’ll have dessert first, in that case.”

  Brent nodded and got two small glasses from a cupboard, filled them each halfway and handed one to Jeremiah, who downed it and held his glass out for a refill.

  They ate in relative silence in the living room, in front of the empty viewing wall. Soon enough it switched on automatically, and Jeremiah saw an image of his own kitchen table where, ironically, his clone and his son were eating directly from white Chinese food cartons. For a while, there was no discussion between them, either.

  “When do I go back to school?” Parker asked at last.

  The clone looked up from his food in surprise. “The wake is Friday, day after tomorrow,” he said. “And then the funeral is Saturday. Maybe Monday if you want. You can take a few more days, though. I’ve spoken to the school. It won’t be a problem.”

  Jeremiah winced. He understood at once his son’s desire to get back to a routine, to trick the mind into thinking everything was normal again. Parker didn’t understand that it wouldn’t work that way. How could he?

  “No. I’d rather go back,” Parker told the clone. “And you didn’t need to call the school. I’m not in kindergarten, you know.”

  “I thought it might help if you didn’t have to worry about that,” the clone said. “And besides, I didn’t call the school. They called me. Someone there must have heard about the accident. It’s been on the news.”

  “Who called from the school?”

  “Your counselor. He seems to think you might need some help dealing with all of this. With your mother, I mean.”

  Parker stared at the clone without expression. Jeremiah couldn’t tell if he was about to hit him or start crying.

  “I don’t need any help,” he said finally. “Especially not from that idiot counselor. He’s always on my back about my ‘emotional landscape.’ Every time someone gets a paper cut, he thinks it’s a ‘plea for help.’ I’m not talking to that whack head about Mom. I hate him.”

  “Actually,” the clone said, “he thinks it might be a good idea for you to see someone outside of school. You know Meld, right? That’s the medicine my company makes. He thinks it could help for you to take that with a doctor, just to make sure you’re handling everything. I think it might be a good idea. I told him I’d talk to you about it.”

  “What?” Jeremiah jumped up from his seat.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s a great idea,” Parker said sarcastically. “That’s the stuff everybody takes and then kills themselves. I don’t think so. You might have fooled everyone else about that stuff when you took it on TV, but I don’t want anyone giving it to me.”

  Jeremiah could have jumped through the wall and high-fived Parker. At least someone was thinking clearly. The clone didn’t see it in exactly the same way.

  “Well, those people weren’t using it properly,” he said. “It’s perfectly safe when you take it with a doctor. And it really can help. Let’s see how you feel in a few days. You have your suit all set for the wake?”

  “You already asked me that. I already told you, I do.”

  “And your shoes? What shape are they in?”

  “It’s not a problem, Dad. My shoes are fine.”

  “We don’t want any last-minute surprises. We’ve got to be on time, and we’ve got to look good.”

  “I don’t see why it matters what I’m wearing.”

  “It’s out of respect, Parker. It’s customary. Wouldn’t you want to make your mother proud?”

  “It’s not like she’s going to care. She’s dead. Remember?”

  “Parker...” The clone looked at the boy with a mix of pity and shock. “Don’t talk like that.”

  “Well, she is dead, Dad. She’s gone. She’s not going to give a single fuck what I’m wearing. She’s not going to be proud of me. Ever again.”

  Jeremiah cringed and looked away from the screen. The kid was reaching out for some sort of comfort in the only way he knew how. If his clone saw that, too, he didn’t act on it.

  “Parker, watch your mouth,” he said angrily. “There’s no reason for that. How do you think your mother would react to that kind of language? Pull yourself together.”

  Parker pushed his food away and got up from his seat noisily.

  “I’m gonna take Louie for his walk,” he said. “Someone around here needs to keep things going.”

  The clone said nothing. Jeremiah wanted to reach right into the wall and pull Parker out of there, give him a hug, swear right along with him, tell him he understood exactly what he was feeling. Let him know it was okay to be angry, and it wouldn’t always hurt like this.

  Instead, he could only watch helplessly as his son leashed the dog and stormed out into the evening alone. His double sat motionless for a few minutes at the table and finally got up, leaving the cartons where they were, and poured himself a hefty measure of Jeremiah’s good bourbon. He sat down, turned on the TV and stared into thin air until Parker came back an hour later. He stood and started to say something, but Parker didn’t even stop to look at him. He just went upstairs and both Jeremiah and his clone heard his bedroom door slam closed. Soon afterward, the clone went upstairs himself. He hesitated outside Parker’s door for a moment, and then went to his own bed, where Brent and Jeremiah watched him toss until the wall monitor switched off two hours later.

  “There is no way my son is taking Meld,” Jeremiah said when the wall went blank. “Absolutely no way in hell. I can’t believe the clone is even thinking about it! He’s not giving it to Parker.”

  “He probably doesn’t know what else to do, Jeremiah. I mean, what would you have done?”

  “Not that!” he said. “Maybe he could, oh, I don’t know, actually talk to him or something? And you can put that down in your goddamn notes for tonight. I would absolutely not have acted the same way as that moron of a clone just did. I actually have a brain in my head.”

  Brent looked at Jeremiah with a warning in his eyes. Jeremiah didn’t care. But what he had to say next, what he finally had to tell Brent, couldn’t be said out loud. “Let’s play the game, Brent,” he said. “I feel like blowing shit up.”

  As soon as the battlefield flickered into view, Jeremiah began typing in the in-game chat.

  I need to get out. I need to get to Parker.

  How? You can’t go back. There can’t be two of you.

  There won’t be.

  ??

  I’m going to take his place.

  What?

  I’m going to kill him. I will take his place.

  !!

  No other option. I have to get out.

  How?

  You can help.

  Too risky.

  You just get me out. I’ll do the rest myself.

  No.

  You said you would help me. Parker is alone!

  This is murder.

  Diana was murdered. My mother. This is something else.

  I can’t help.

  Why?

  The project is still important.

  The project is a lie.

  ??

  You’ve been lied to. All of you.

  ??

&n
bsp; Charles Scott is sick. He wants to clone himself. This? Practice run. I’m a guinea pig.

  Sick?

  ALS. Something. He’s dying.

  Brent took his headgear off and turned to look at Jeremiah with an expression of utter confusion.

  “How do you know?” he asked aloud. “Are you sure about that?”

  “I’m sure, Brent. The signs are subtle, but they are there.” He nodded at Brent to put his headgear back on and then resumed their conversation in the game.

  Pike is giving him stem cells. You know what that means.

  The coffee cup, Brent typed, looking at Jeremiah with widened eyes.

  You understand?

  Brent paused for a long moment before typing his reply, as though the realization of it all needed time to sink in.

  He’s desperate.

  So am I. I have to get out of here. You have to help me. I have to get out. Help me.

  They’ll kill me. They’ll kill Mel. I can’t help.

  They won’t know.

  ??

  We fight. You let me win. I get out. No blame.

  They’ll know. No.

  I’ll knock you out. Steal your key card.

  Won’t work. You’d have to kill me.

  Okay...?

  Really?

  No. Help me. How can we do it?

  Or almost kill me. Stab me.

  ??

  Not fatally. Enough to get me taken out of here.

  I can’t!

  Only way it will work. I know how to make it safe but look real. You stab me. Steal my key card and, in the confusion, you’ll have time.

  No.

  Trust me.

  I can’t. No!

  You want out? You will. Trust me!

  Okay.

  Okay. How will you kill clone?

  Stab him, too.

  Too much blood?

  MY blood. No one will question.

  The body?

  I bury it. Need it for insurance against Scott.

  ??