Then I flicked open the blade and stepped towards him.

white room (viii)

“SO YOU KILLED DIXON TO PROTECT your brother.”

“No, I killed Dixon because I didn’t protect my brother…and because I finally realized I couldn’t save him.”

The doctor shakes his head. “I don’t understand. If you thought Phil couldn’t be saved—”

“I didn’t say that. I said I couldn’t save him. The bad Jane was right about that much: I’d missed my one chance, and all I could do now was get him killed…But Phil could still save himself.” She looks the doctor in the eye. “I don’t care what the Troop did to him, what they made him do, I have to believe there’s some part of him that’s not irredeemable. He was a good kid, you know? He deserved better than me for a sister…But I was what he got, and if I wasn’t strong enough to bring him home, I could at least buy him some more time to find his own way back.

“So that’s my story.” She shrugs and sinks back in the chair. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure what you want me to say, Jane.”

“That bad, huh?”

“I could point out some more holes in the narrative, if you like,” the doctor says. “I could tell you that there have been no reports of bodies found at the Venetian: no butchered guests up in the penthouse, no mimes with their throats slit beside the Grand Canal. I could tell you that the security guards at the Luxor are quite certain there was only one Jane, not two, running amok in the casino that night, and none of them witnessed any laws of physics being broken—just a lot of punching and kicking. I could tell you that, but then you’ll tell me that Catering covered up what really happened, and if that explanation still leaves a few loose ends, well, it’s a Nod problem.”

“Good to see you finally catching on,” she says. “So what about Dixon? What did they make him out to be? Another security guard? A hotel employee who got in my way?”

“He was a social worker,” the doctor tells her.

“Dixon, a social worker?” She laughs. “That’s rich! Let me guess: he worked with street people, right? Deranged street people?”

“Homeless addicts.”

“Sure, of course. And that night—don’t tell me—that night, he just happened to be passing through the Luxor and heard one of his new clients had gone berserk. So he decided to help track me down and ended up getting stabbed for his troubles.”

“The police don’t know how Dixon came to be in that room with you. But that scenario sounds plausible.”

“Yeah, except for one thing: I’m not deranged. I mean, my story’s crazy, I know that, but I’m lucid.”

“You’re lucid now,” the doctor says. “But that night?”

“Yeah, well…Those X-drugs really were something. Too bad I won’t be getting any more.”

“Jane—”

“I talked to Phil again, you know,” she says. “I mean, not really…But after I killed Dixon, when I was sitting at the top of the stairs waiting to see if the cops or the Clowns would come for me first, I pretended Phil was there with me. I told him I was sorry. I’d never done that, you know, in all the conversations we’d had, but this was like the last time, so I apologized for being such a lousy sister, for leaving him that day…I told him that no matter what bad things he’d done for the Troop, it wasn’t his fault, it was all on me. I said I hoped he’d find a way to get free of them—that he could, I knew he could, if he really wanted to.”

“And what did Phil say?”

“He didn’t say anything. He just listened.” She looks the doctor in the eye again. “I hope he listened.”

Before the doctor can respond, his pager goes off.

“Time to go?” She sounds disappointed.

“I have to step out for a moment,” the doctor says. “But I would like to talk some more. If you don’t mind waiting…?”

“No, I don’t mind.” She shows him her bracelets again. “It’s not like I’ve got anywhere to be.”

He stands up and reaches for the tape recorder, then hesitates. “Did she say anything else?”

“Who?”

“The bad Jane. Before you dropped her—did she say anything else about Phil, or the Troop?”

“No. I mean, it’s not like she was super-articulate with my fist in her chest. It was all she could do to scream out a few words…Why?”

“Just curious,” the doctor says. He presses the STOP button on the recorder. “I’ll be back shortly…”

He goes to the door and tries to open it, but it’s been locked from the outside. “Guard?” he calls. “I’m ready to come out now…Guard?” He raises a fist, knocks. “Guard!”

Behind him, there is a thunk of handcuffs hitting the table. He looks over his shoulder. She is leaning forward, aiming a bright orange pistol at him. “What on earth…?” he says. “Where did you…?” Then he sees it: the black tile in the floor has been flipped up to reveal a compartment underneath.

“Phil,” she says.

He blinks. “Is this some kind of joke? Did…Did Dr. Chiang put you up to this?”

“It’s no joke, Phil. I wish it was.”

He stares at her for a moment, glances at the tape recorder, and then he is hammering on the door. “Guard!..GUARD!”

“There’s no one out there to help you, Phil. This isn’t the county jail. You’re in an ant farm in the desert.”

He stops pounding. He turns around slowly, a new expression on his face.

“Yeah,” she says. “Sorry. I lied to you about Dixon: I probably would have killed him, but he was smart enough not to give me a reason. By the time he showed himself on the catwalk, the strike team was already on its way, and he sent them in with strict orders to take you alive—not because he’s a nice guy, you understand, but because even he didn’t dare break the deal Love made with me…Love said the Clowns had a way to trick your memory, make you think you’d come to me on your own, to pump me for intel, which would give me a chance to try to reach you. Dixon said it would never work, that you had no conscience left for me to reach, but I told Love I was sure I could pull it off…” She sighs. “But I was wrong about that, wasn’t I, Phil?”

She picks up the tape recorder and slams it down hard. The case splinters, revealing the flat disc of the Mandrill bomb inside. There’s a nervous pause as they both wait for the timer to finish counting down, but when it reaches zero, there’s no explosion, just a short buzz. A word appears in the digital readout:

SHIBBOLETH

Then the lead h flickers and goes out:

SHIBBOLETH

“Jane,” he says. “I can explain…”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you can,” she says. “But there’s not much to explain, is there? It was a simple test. You didn’t have to confess, or break down crying, or anything dramatic like that. All you had to do was walk out of this room without trying to kill me.”

“Jane…Jane, please.”

“I’m sorry, little brother. I tried. I gave you every chance I could. But this is my half of the deal…”

“Jane!”

“Bad monkey,” she says.

She pulls the trigger.

The NC gun makes no sound.

He convulses. One hand grabs the knob of the door behind him; the other flies up to his chest. A strangling noise issues from his throat; his face reddens and his eyes bulge. Her eyes widen, as she leans farther forward, taking it all in. His knees start to buckle.

And then, right at the point where he should fall dead of a heart attack, he catches himself. He stops gasping for breath. His legs straighten and his arms return to his sides.

She pulls the trigger again. Once again the NC gun is silent, but it’s a different kind of silence—the kind that signifies impotence. This time he doesn’t react to the shot. He stands tall, his face returning to its normal color. She switches the gun’s dial from MI to CI, aims straight at his head, and tries once more.