Skillful Death

by Ike Hamill

I’ve had more than one lecture from my boss on how I spend his money. My office is funded by interest from the escrow account. I run a tight ship, and regularly leave money on the table at the end of the year. I still get questioned about my expenses. I would think that coming in perpetually under budget would earn me a certain amount of freedom from scrutiny, but I would be wrong. A person doesn’t get to my boss’s financial stratum without having a nose for the monetary details.

  With that in mind, I contract a team to follow Ted. As far as Ted knows, the team is on the watch for paranormal activity. They’re really looking for Leslie, Ted’s brother. I call up my lead guy, Ethan, and ask him to put together a watch-and-bag team. They’re more expensive than a watch team, but worth it in this case. Evidence alone isn’t going to convince Ted and Leslie. I have to get them in the same room until they recognize each other. That will mean muscle. The paper I got Ted to sign can’t give me carte blanche to kidnap the man. At least it will make him think twice before he tries to sue me or the foundation.

  I’m not sure what Ted thinks my team will be doing. He accepted a bunch of jargon and hand waving about electromagnetic this and Gaussian that. He agreed that he would email me from his dream and we would track down the poltergeist activity as it was taking place. His acceptance of this crazy proposal is more evidence that he’s ready to reconcile himself with reality.

  I get a call later that evening. It comes before any of the surveillance is even supposed to take place, at least as far as Ted knows. My team is bringing in Ted and Leslie after discovering the two linking up at Ted’s house. Per my request, they bring the brothers in separately. They put them in our interrogation space and seat them back-to-back, about three feet apart. If I’m right, only one of them will have the Ted identity at a time. I don’t want to disrupt that delusion all at once.

  “Hi, Ted,” I say. The two men are strapped lightly to comfortable chairs.

  “What the hell are you doing?” the one on the left says. He’s my Ted for the moment.

  “My team picked you up, per our agreement.”

  “Our agreement stated that you would help me track down the paranormal activity coincident with my sleep.”

  “Not strictly. We talked about paranormal, but it’s not stated explicitly in the contract. We picked you up because of other reasons. I think you’ll find that I’m within my rights.”

  “You can’t hold me here.”

  “Given the current circumstances, I believe it would be deemed irresponsible for me to not hold you here.” That’s a stretch. Hopefully, by the time he figures that out, I’ll be in the clear.

  “I can’t imagine those circumstances.”

  “Your name is Ted, correct?”

  “Yes. You know that.”

  “And you first came to me on the tenth?”

  “Yes.”

  “You participated in a monitored sleep study in my office?”

  I can’t say that I’m shocked, but I’m definitely startled when Leslie—the other brother—answers.

  “Yes,” he says.

  I’m watching Ted’s face when Leslie, the one on the right, answers. Ted’s face doesn’t register surprise to hear his voice come from another mouth, and he didn’t even begin to answer the question asked. When it came time for the other half of Ted to answer, the first half simply kept his mouth shut.

  I wave to two of the guys on my watch-and-bag team and they wheel over the mirrors. Ted and Leslie are now looking at themselves in a full-length mirror. Neither seems to notice the other man bound directly behind them.

  I walk up to Ted and reach forward with a marker. He turns his head to the side, but I draw a lopsided black circle on his forehead.

  “What the hell?”

  “You dreamed that you burned down a house the other night?”

  “Yes,” Leslie says. Ted keeps his eyes locked on mine.

  “And I assume that you dreamed this after getting up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom?”

  “I don’t know,” Leslie says.

  “But you get up a lot in the middle of the night?”

  “Yes,” Leslie says.

  Their chairs are on rollers, and I start to move the chairs. One turns clockwise and the other counter-clockwise as the men move the mirrors, keeping them in front of Ted and Leslie.

  “That’s when you communicate, primarily. You catch each other up in the bathroom. I hate to tell you this, but there was a follow-up to the story about the arson of your childhood home. The woman who lived there had two cats. Only one of them got out. They found the other cat a couple of days later in the attic. Asphyxiated.”

  “Nonsense,” Ted says.

  “And my friends over at the police department tell me that they’ve collected footage from a security camera up the street. They have a man matching your description fleeing the scene just minutes before the fire was spotted by a neighbor.”

  “It wasn’t me,” Leslie says. “I was asleep.”

  “I believe you,” I say. We’ve got the chairs nearly turned around now, and I position myself behind Leslie so I can wheel him the rest of the way. I’m looking over his shoulder when the chairs finally face each other. We’re looking at Ted with the circle on his forehead, sitting next to the mirror that reflects back Leslie’s unmarked face next to mine.

  “I was talking to him,” I say in Leslie’s ear, pointing to Ted.

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” Leslie says.

  “Have you ever tried to read something by starlight?” I ask Leslie. “It’s really difficult because the center part of your retina, the fovea, is terrible at low-light vision. You have to turn your gaze about twelve degrees to get around your blind spot. You have a blind spot for your brother. Try looking in that mirror.”

  I see his gaze shift over to the mirror and settle there for several seconds. He’s not seeing it.

  “I drew a circle on your brother’s head.”

  After a few more seconds, I see Leslie’s eyes start to bounce back and forth, and in the mirror I watch Leslie’s lips part as his jaw slackens. When he looks at the mirror, his peripheral vision finally sees what his brain blocks out—the image of his twin brother.

  “Who are you?”

  Leslie can see him now, but Ted still doesn’t understand what’s happening. As far as Ted is concerned, the question came from his own lips.

  “Hey,” Leslie struggles against the straps holding him to the chair. “Let me out of these straps. Hey!”

  I reach down and peel back the velcro from one of the straps. Leslie uses his freed hand to finish the job and he’s up and out of the chair. My men gather close, just in case.

  “Hey! Look at me,” Leslie says. He grips his brother by his shoulders.

  Ted looks forward at nothing. His personality is on hold, since his brother is in action.

  “Hey!” Leslie says. His hand flies out and strikes Ted twice before I can grab his arms. “Who are you?”

  “That’s Ted,” I say.

  “I’m Ted. Me.”

  “You’re Leslie.”

  “Leslie died. I’m Ted.”

  “You guys made up that story about Leslie dying. You’ve been sharing the Ted persona ever since.”

  “That’s impossible,” Leslie says. “He died eleven years ago.”

  “Leslie never had cancer,” I say. “I asked your cousins in Shippensburg. They had nothing but nice things to say about you both, but I could hear the concern in their voices.”

  “Impossible,” Leslie repeats. He slumps backwards and his hands help land him back in the chair.

  I watch as the animus—the Ted personality—shifts from Leslie back over to Ted.

  “Impossible,” Ted says. Leslie has gone limp and the grief slides from Leslie’s face over to Ted’s as he picks up the rant. “This whole thing is impossible. I told you that Leslie died of cancer. Why would my cousins tell you different? You’re lying.”

  “Ted, do you remember what I told
you about the blind spot?”

  “Just now? Of course.”

  “And what happened when you did it?”

  “I saw something. I don’t remember.”

  “Try it again.” I maneuver myself behind Ted, who is still bound to his chair, and point his gaze at the mirror next to Leslie. “Focus on the mirror. Do you see the circle on your forehead?”

  “Of course,” Ted says. “You drew it there.”

  “Who’s in the chair?”

  “I can’t tell.”

  It takes longer with Ted, but after a couple of minutes, he sees it too. The brothers are now aware of each other, but I’ve still only got one conscious at a time. When one is active, the other seems to shut down. They must be independent when they’re apart, so I figure that’s the solution. I have one of my guys help me bring Leslie into the other room.

  Leslie perks up as soon as I get him out of sight of his brother.

  “You guys aren’t going to be able to be together for a while, I think.”

  “Why?” Leslie asks.

  “Only one of you is active at a time. The other just zonks out.”

  “This is so weird,” Leslie says.

  “Here,” I say. I dial my phone and hand it to him.

  “Is that Leslie?” he asks.

  “You’re Leslie,” I say. “As far as I know. The guy on the other end is Ted.”

  “So weird,” Leslie says again, but he takes the phone from me and holds it to his ear.

  After a few seconds of just listening to each other breathe, Leslie and Ted begin to talk. They talk logistics at first. They decide who will use the house and the car until they can find a way to separate their lives. They both seem to want a little independence, which I guess is a natural reaction.

  In my years working cases, this was definitely the most interesting. I’ve dealt with plenty of people who believed their stories, but none who had a story quite as fascinating as Ted and Leslie. You see split personalities in the movies and on TV all the time, although it’s really quite rare. I think sharing a personality has to be the most rare disorder in history.

  11 HARVEST FESTIVAL

  THE BRIGHT LIGHT OF afternoon stabbed Constantine’s eyes as he ran from the Midwife’s shack. He hunched over, loping on hands and feet because running upright required too much balance and caused too much pain. For several minutes he simply moved away, not choosing any particular direction. When he reached a big colony of ostrich ferns, the boy collapsed under the bright green foliage. Here, the air was moist and soothing. The ferns protected him from the evil sunlight.

  Constantine draped an arm across his eyes and winced at the pain from his temple. He wondered, not for the first time, if fleas could get caught in a spider web. From his hours watching spiders spin their webs and eat their prey, he’d never seen one catch a flea. And as far as he could tell, placing a flea onto a spider web by hand was impossible. When he was smaller, even smaller than he felt under those ferns, he used to climb to the top of the big oak at the top of the hill. He’d stay there until night so he could look at the stars. Those little white dots looked like so many fleas caught in spider webs up in the sky. The same white dots swam before his closed eyes as he drifted back to sleep under the ferns.

  When the wind changed direction, it brought sounds from the festival to wake him. Constantine pushed himself to his feet and found he could stand with only minimal swaying and a bearable pulsing throb in his head. He put one naked foot in front of the other and wound his way through the woods. The sun was making its way towards the horizon, and long shafts of light cut slow angles through the forest. Constantine wound towards the outcrop of rock. In the cave under the stone, on a dry ledge, he’d hidden several of his suits. He had also stashed another sharp piece of flint. It wasn’t as hard or long as the one the blond boy had taken from him, but it was better than nothing. He picked through his suits until he found the one he wanted.

  Today, he dressed in the finest. The back and arms came from a summer wolf’s fur—silver and brown. The chest was the dappled skin of a fawn. His leggings were marked by the dorsal stripes of donkey hide. Constantine pulled on his suit and donned the wolf’s fur hood, walking towards the Harvest Festival.

  When the general din of the voices resolved into individual words, Constantine turned north and walked until he was amongst the bamboo. The sharp leaves and splintered stalks of bamboo bordered the town on all sides. Everyone knew not to venture too deep into the thick green weeds. At least once a year, they lost someone to the bamboo. The men said that the roots of the bamboo gave off a smell that would make you lose your sense of direction. The women claimed that ghosts roamed through the stalks; ghosts who would drive you mad. Everyone agreed that those lost in the bamboo would eventually be eaten by rats.

  Constantine only penetrated a few paces into the bamboo. Moving silently, he stayed hidden by the bamboo leaves as he paralleled the festival. He was close enough to the edge so that he could see the running forms of children enjoying the activities. The adults grouped in the shade of the walnut trees, exchanging wares for guarantees of service.

  When he got close enough to the playing children to make out their faces, Constantine paused and crouched. Most of the children were less than twenty paces away. Constantine pulled his second-best flint blade from his pocket and passed it from hand to hand as he watched. He looked for the blond-haired boy.

  The town held their Harvest Festival on the side of a hill near at the outskirts of their population. People talked about moving the festival to the center of town so people wouldn’t need to haul their goods so far. Inertia proved stronger than the complaints. Besides, the hillside was very pretty. At the top, sturdy walnut trees capped the hill. This was another source of contention amongst those who hated the location of the festival. The bed of walnut leaves beneath the trees was poisonous for the horses. They said that if a horse was led through those leaves, it would simply walk out of its hooves. Down the side of the hill, pretty maples spread out—big ones near the top, and smaller ones down near the bamboo—casting everything in a beautiful green glow. These trees ran with sap all year round. During the festival, the adolescents would cart bucket after bucket of maple sap to the top of the hill. There, it was boiled and reduced until thick enough to make candy.

  This day, a sweet breeze blew through the maple leaves. It made the light sparkle on the children’s faces.

  Most of the young boys ran in a tight clump, kicking a ball in between the trunks of the scrawny maples. They kicked up tiny clouds of dry maple leaves with their dirty summer shoes. The older boys hung from branches of the walnut trees. Some picked the sticky green husks, but most tried to eavesdrop of the conversations of their parents. The girls were scattered in groups of two or three, and busied themselves with activities. Some girls worked on crafts, some played games, and others sang songs and braided hair. Constantine had never been this close to such a large group of people. His breathing slowed and his shoulders hunched as he watched.

  When he finally saw the blond boy it was like suddenly spotting a snake you almost stepped on. He’d been there the whole time, kicking the ball with the other boys. Constantine didn’t recognize his own suit from a distance. The plump blond boy, covered from head to toe in tight fur, looked like a big friendly dog romping with the kids as they played. Then, with a spin, he suddenly looked mean and fierce. Constantine admired his own suit as he watched the boy move.

  He readied himself. As soon as the boy got close enough, Constantine planned to burst from the bamboo with his second-best flint blade raised. The group of boys weaved and turned, like an earthbound flock of birds. Constantine grew impatient and the lump on his head throbbed every time the children screamed with delight.

  He rose to his feet and inched towards the edge of the bamboo. A group of girls, way up near the walnut grove, screamed and pointed in Constantine’s direction. He knew the boys would soon look his way as well, ruining his surprise attack. He stepped f
ast towards the maples where the boys played.

  As Constantine cleared the bamboo, a flash of amber to his left drew his eye. His jaw dropped open as he saw the speed with which the creature to his left moved. It was as thick as a horse, but not as tall. It had the body and face of a cat, but framing its face was a huge mane of auburn hair.

  Constantine sprinted after the cat, which sprinted towards the pack of boys.

  As the girls continued to scream, the rest of the crowd all seemed to spot the cat at the same time. The boys stopped running, frozen in their tracks as the cat closed the distance. Up on the hill, some men grabbed whatever could serve as a weapon and came fast. Other men and women boosted the young and old up into low branches so they could climb to safety. The majority of people just stood, stunned.

  The blond boy, wearing the suit of a predator, moved to the front of his group and raised his arms like a bear. Constantine accelerated as the big cat slowed. The cat slowed to a stalk and hunched its shoulders, preparing to leap at the blond boy.

  The boy stood his ground. The men running down the hill meant to scare the cat away. Constantine didn’t even consider the safety of the group, or self-preservation. He meant to kill that cat simply because he wanted its skin.

  The enormous cat seemed to make up its mind and wiggled as it gathered its legs underneath itself. Constantine transferred the flint to his left hand and jumped over the tufted tail. His feet landed on the cat’s haunches and he meant to throw himself forward, plunge his flint into all that hair, and find its neck.

  Constantine sprung forward. He raised his flint-hand high, ready to strike. His other hand reached forward to grab the mane. But the cat flipped. It moved in a way Constantine couldn’t fathom. It moved so fast that Constantine’s sharp eyes couldn’t track it. In defiance of inertia and gravity, the cat flipped over. Instead of landing on its back, Constantine found himself falling towards its snarling jaws. The cat flipped so fast it seemed to turn inside out instead of spinning. Its giant paws, as big as the feet of draft horse, opened wide. Its yellow claws, so sharp at the ends that they were translucent, twinkled in the dappled sunlight filtering through the maple canopy.