into an actual case of—no fucking literature on the whole subject—no tests, no

  background, no data—”

  “You can write a wonderful paper on me some day,” Macy said bitterly.

  “Spare me the crap. You think I’m happy about this?” Indeed genuine agony was

  visible in Gomez’ fleshy features. “Okay, so she woke Hamlin. Meaning what? Give

  me the symptomology.”

  “He talks to me.”

  “Out loud?”

  “In my head. A silent voice, but it doesn’t seem silent. Twice now he’s tried to

  grab my speech centers. All he can say is gibberish, though, and I knock him

  away. He also took hold of the muscles of the right side of my face once. I made

  him let go. Two or three times he’s given me a physical shock, a jolt, knocked

  me down. Last Tuesday, when I set out to the Rehab Center, he staged a little

  heart attack for me, telling me that he’d give me a niftier one if I persisted

  in going to the Center. This is no goddam hallucination, Gomez. I’ve had

  conversations with him, long rational conversations. He’s got very ambitious

  ideas. He’s been inviting me to let him finish me off so he can have his body

  back.”

  “Obviously we can’t allow that.”

  “Obviously there isn’t a fucking thing you can do. If I let you make any hostile

  moves toward him at all, he’ll kill me. It’s like I’m carrying a bomb inside

  me.”

  “He’s bluffing.”

  “You’re very sure of that,” Macy said.

  “If your body dies, he’ll die with it. Whatever he is, he can’t survive the

  decay of your brain cells.”

  “He can’t survive another round in the Rehab Center, either. So he’d be willing

  to take any step to keep me from going there, right up to and including killing

  us both. If I go to you, he dies. Why shouldn’t he kill me anyway and take me

  along? Or at least threaten to, knowing it’ll stop me from going to the Center?”

  Gomez considered that. He didn’t seem to arrive at any immediate conclusions.

  Macy said, “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. One of two things. He’ll knock

  me out and take over the body, or I’ll find some way of chopping him up so he

  can’t hurt me.”

  “You’re playing dangerous games, Macy. Come to the Center. I know Hamlin better

  than you do: he won’t carry out his threat, he won’t do anything ultimately to

  harm you. Killing you would mean the decay and ruin of his own physical self,

  the last legitimate vestige of Nat Hamlin in the world. He wouldn’t do it. He’s

  always been body-proud.”

  “Balls. I’m no gambler. He said keep away from you and I’m going to keep away.”

  “We can’t let you remain at large with the ego of a condemned criminal in

  partial control of your brain,” Gomez said.

  “What will you do, then? Order my arrest? He’ll kill me. I believe him when he

  says that. Do you want to take the chance? It isn’t your life on the line,

  Gomez. You’ve been wrong in this case once already.”

  Twitchings of the mustache tips. The tongue moving restlessly between teeth and

  lips. Gomez in a pickle. Macy staring across the desk at him. He felt his heart

  hammering. Was it Hamlin, waking up? Or just the excitement, the adrenalin flow?

  Gomez said finally, “We’ll have to put you under surveillance, Macy. The legal

  problems, the presence of a potentially dangerous criminal in you. But we’ll

  keep our distance. We won’t jeopardize you.”

  “How will you know whether you’re jeopardizing me or not?”

  “A signal,” Gomez suggested. “Wait.” Frowning. “Let’s say that when Hamlin is

  threatening you, you clap your right hand to your left shoulder. So.”

  “So.” Clap.

  “That’ll tell us to back off, so we don’t provoke him. And when you want us to

  withdraw from the vicinity entirely, that is, when you feel that you’re in

  extreme danger, you also clap your left hand to your right shoulder. So.”

  “So.” Clap. Clap. Idiocy. “How about a secret password, too?”

  “I’m trying to help you, Macy. Don’t be clever.”

  “Is there anything else you want to tell me, or can I get back to my work now?”

  “One more signal, if you don’t mind.”

  “The one that I use in asking for permission to take a crap?”

  “The one to tell us that Hamlin is dormant and that it would be safe for us to

  seize you. Do you agree that it’s possible such a situation might arise? All

  right, then. That would be our opportunity to grab you and try to exorcise him

  completely, fast. But only when you give the signal.”

  “Which is?”

  Gomez thought a moment. Deep concentration. All this Boy Scout stuff must really

  strain his mind. Finally: “Hands locked together behind neck. Like so.”

  “So,” Macy said, imitating. “You won’t let your goons mix up the signals, will

  you?”

  “Just keep them straight in your own head and we’ll manage to look after

  ourselves,” Gomez said. He moved toward the door. Looking back, shaking his

  head. “A case of demonic possession, that’s what this is. Holy shit. The

  seventeenth century rides again! But we’ll get this corrected, Macy. We owe you

  an uncrapped-up life, a life without these complications.” Pausing by the exit.

  “If you want to know what’s good for you, by the way, I recommend you stop

  screwing around with Miss Moore. You’re living with her, aren’t you?”

  “More or less.”

  “You were strongly advised not to get into any entanglements linked to your

  body’s former identity. Specifically including picking up Nat Hamlin’s old

  mistresses, telepaths or not.”

  “Should I boot her out on her ass? She’s a human being. She’s got problems. She

  needs help.”

  “She’s the cause of all your problems, too. It’s about ten to one you wouldn’t

  be saddled with Hamlin in the first place if you hadn’t gotten involved with

  her.”

  “That’s easy to tell me now. But Ihave Hamlin, and I feel a responsibility

  toward her, too. She’s a wreck. She needs an anchor, Gomez, somebody to keep her

  from drifting away.”

  “What’s the matter with her?”

  “The ESP. It’s driving her out of her mind. She picks up voices—half the time

  she doesn’t know who she is—she has to hide from people, to shield herself—the

  telepathy comes and goes, random, not under her conscious control at all. It’s

  like a curse.”

  “And this you need?” Gomez asked. “You’re such a solidly established individual

  yourself that you can keep company with dynamite like this?”

  “It wasn’t my idea, believe me. But now that I’m involved with her, I’m not

  going to toss her out. I want to help her.”

  “How?”

  “Maybe there’s some way of disconnecting this ESP of hers. It’s burning out her

  mind. What do you say, Gomez? Could it be done?”

  “I don’t know item one about ESP. I’m a Rehab specialist.”

  “Who does know?”

  “I suppose I could find out if there are any hospitals in the metropolitan area

  with experience in this. Some neuropsychiatric division must be pissing around

  with ESP. If she hates it so much, why hasn’t she gone in to be examined?”

  “She’s afraid to let anyone fool with her mind. Afraid that she’ll end up losing

  her whole personality if they try to rip out the telepathy.”

  “Shit. You tell me you want to help her, and two seconds later you tell me she’s

  scared of being helped. This is crazy, man. The girl is poison. Get her into a

  hospital.”

  “Tell me where to send her,” Macy said. “I’ll see if I want to do it. And if she

  does.” He gave Gomez a sudden savage grin and clapped his right hand to his left

  shoulder. A moment afterward he put his left hand on his right shoulder. Gomez

  stared at him, blinking, not moving at all. “Well, dummy?” Macy asked. “You

  forgot your own signals? That’s the one for withdrawing from the vicinity.”

  “Has Hamlin begun to threaten you?”

  “Don’t stand there asking stupid questions. You got the signal. Go. Go. I have

  work to do. Let me be, Gomez.”

  “You poor schmuck,” Gomez said. “What a lousy thing this is. For all of us.” And

  went. Macy cradled his head in his hands. An ache behind each ear. An ache in

  his forehead, as though the front of his brain were swollen and pushing against

  the bone. Practice the signals. Right hand to left shoulder. Left hand to right

  shoulder. Lock hands behind back of neck. Surveillance. The friendly Rehab

  Center haunting me too. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. He thought he could hear Nat

  Hamlin’s ghostly laughter reverberating through the interstices of his frazzled

  mind. Hey, are you awake, Nat? Did you listen to what Gomez said? Listening now?

  They’re out to get you, Nat. Gomez is after you. To finish the job that he

  didn’t do right the first time. Scared, Nat? I don’t mind telling you I am.

  Because only one of us is going to come out of this whole, at the very best. At

  the very best only one of us.

  ELEVEN

  IF they really did have him under surveillance, he wasn’t aware of it. He went

  through his daily routines. Finished preparing the script for the charisma story

  on Monday. Taping on Tuesday. Everything smooth. Back and forth from apartment

  to the office without trouble. Hamlin, surfacing coherently early Tuesday

  evening for the first time since Thursday, had a pleasant little chat with him,

  saying nothing about his conference with Gomez or about the abortive takeover

  attempt of that stoned Thursday evening. Fair is fair, Macy thought. You try to

  finesse me, I try to sandbag you, but we don’t talk about such sordid things.

  Hamlin chose to turn on the charm, reminiscing a bit about his life and good

  times. Selected segments of his autobiography come dancing along the identity

  interface. With subtitles.

  THE ARTIST DISCOVERS HIS GIFT

  1984, Orwell’s year, the global situation quite thoroughly fucked up on

  schedule, although not quite as fucked up as the pessimistic old bastard had

  imagined, and in this small town is twelve-year-old Nat Hamlin, barely

  pubescent, full of ungrounded wattage and churning unfocused needs. Which small

  town, where? Mind your own business. The boy is slim and tall for his age. Long

  sensitive fingers. Father wants him to be a brain surgeon. It’s a good living,

  son, especially now, with all the psychosis flapping in the breeze. You open the

  skull, you see, and you stick your long sensitive fingers inside and you chop

  this and you splice that and you amputate this, three thousand dollars, please,

  and put your money in good growth stocks.

  The boy isn’t listening. In the attic he models little clay figurines. He has

  never been to a museum; he has no interest in art. But there is sensual pleasure

  in squeezing and twisting the clay. He feels a lusty tickle in his crotch and a

  delicious tension in his jaws when he works with it. Filling the attic with

  grotesque little images. You sure see the world a funny way, boy. You been

  looking at some Pee-cas-so, hey? Pee-cas-so, who he? He that old mother from

  France, he make a million bucks a year turning out this junk. No shit? Where can

  I see some? And going to the museum, two hours away. Pee-cas-so. That’s not how

  it’s spelled. He’s pretty good, yeah, yeah. But I’m just as good as he is. And

  I’m just starting out.

  SOLITARY PLEASURES

  The first major piece now adorns the attic. Three and a half feet high. Adapted

  from one of Picasso’s paintings: woman with two faces, body twisted weirdly on

  its perpendicular axis, a veritable bitch of a challenge for a fourteen-year-old

  boy no matter how good he is. The creator lies naked before it. Straggly

  mustache. Pimples on his ass. Act of homage to the muse. Seizes rising organ in

  left hand. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Oooh and ahhh. Sixty

  seconds: close to his record for speed. And accuracy of aim. He baptizes the

  masterpiece with jets of salty fluid. Ah. Ah. Ah.

  AN END TO SUBLIMATION

  She has long straight silken golden hair in the out-of-date style favored by

  girls of this town. Rimless glasses, fuzzy green cashmere sweater, short skirt.

  They are fifteen. He has lured her to the attic after telling her, shyly,

  anesthetized by pot, that he is a sculptor. She is a poet whose work appears

  regularly in the town newspaper. Appreciates the arts. This village of

  philistines; the two of us against them all. Look, this I took from Picasso, and

  these are my early works, and here’s what I’m doing now. How strange, Nat, what

  brilliant work. You mean nobody knows about this? Hardly anybody. Who would

  understand?I understand, Nat. I knew you would, Helene.

  You know what? Never worked from a live model. An important step forward in my

  career. Oh, no, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t. I mean, I’d be embarrassed to

  death! But why? God gave you the body. Look, all through history girls have been

  posing for famous artists. And I have to. How else will I grow as an artist? She

  hesitates. Well, maybe. Let’s smoke first. He brings out stash. She takes two

  puffs for every one of his. Giggling. He is deadly serious. Reminds her. Yes,

  yes, yes. You’re sure your mother won’t come upstairs? Not a chance, she doesn’t

  give a crap what I do up here.

  And then. The clothes coming off. Her incandescent body. He can barely look.

  Fifteen and he’s never seen it. Backward for his age, too much time spent alone

  in the attic. Sweater, bra. Her breasts are heavy; they don’t stick out straight

  when they’re bare, they dangle a little. The nipples very tiny, not much bigger

  than his. Dimples in her ass. The hair down there darker than on her head, and

  woolier. She looks so incomplete without a prick. His cheeks are blazing. Here,

  stand like this. Doesn’t dare to touch her. Poses her by waving his hands in

  air. Wishes she’d stand with her legs apart: he isn’t sure what it looks like,

  and he can’t see. But she doesn’t. She’s so stoned, though.

  He attacks the clay. Yes. Yes. Works furiously. Meanwhile this posing is turning

  her on. The artist ought to be naked too, she says. It’s only fair. He just

  laughs. An absurd idea. Couldn’t concentrate if. Half an hour. Sweat running

  down. Tired of posing, she says. Can I stop? They stop. She comes over to him.

  Leads him on. Put your hand here. And here. Oh. Oh. Oh. Unzipping him. His dong

  will explode. Quick, on top of me. Oh. Oh, God!

  THE BIG CITY

  A small apartment. Dozens of his favorite works crammed around everywhere. The

  famous art critic visiting him. Tall, serious, silver-haired. The artist is tall

  and serious too. Nineteen. Why should you go to art school, the critic asks? My

  boy, you are already a master! Paternal hand fondling Hamlin’s shoulder. What

  you need now is a dealer. With the right sponsorship you could go places. And

  how young you are. Cheeks still downy. So saying the famous art critic rubs the

  downy cheek. Staring intently into young artist’s eyes. You could make me the

  happiest man in the world tonight, says famous art critic in tender tones.

  AT THE GALLERY

  Little red circles pasted on every label. Sold. Sold. Sold. Sold. An auspicious

  debut. All the best people buying. The dealer, fat, glorying in flesh, slapping

  his back. Twenty-two years old. An instant success. Now scene follows scene

  helterskelter, one blurring into the next, sometimes two running at once,

  split-screen.

  THE ADVENT OF PSYCHOSCULPTURE

  UNREQUITED LOVE

  THE SEDUCTIONS OF WEALTH

  THE CELEBRATED ACTRESS

  ALONE ON THE PINNACLE

  THE TORMENTS OF FAME

  THE DAY THE MUSEUM BOUGHT EVERYTHING

  MEETING HELENE AGAIN, FIFTEEN YEARS LATER

  THE WORLD TRAVELER

  KICKING THE HABIT

  FOUR’S COMPANY, FIVE’S A CROWD

  MY NAME IS LISSA

  And the camera speeding up, running wild.

  THE ANTIGONE

  THE HEADACHE

  THE BREAKDOWN

  THE FIRST RAPE

  FREAKING OUT ON TERROR

  THE QUARREL WITH HIS WIFE

  FINISHING ANTIGONE

  KNOCKING LISSA DOWNSTAIRS

  OUT OF HIS MIND

  RAPE UPON RAPE

  CAUGHT

  CONVICTED

  OBLITERATED

  AWAKENED

  And the sequences jumbled.

  ALONE ON THE PINNACLE

  AN END TO SUBLIMATION

  THE BIG CITY

  KICKING THE HABIT

  OUT OF HIS MIND

  AT THE GALLERY

  SOLITARY PLEASURES

  THE ARTIST DISCOVERS HIS GIFT

  Faster and faster. Names, dates, events, aspirations, swirling in a thick soup

  of memory, everything merging, all detail lost. Perhaps none of it had ever