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  “What kind of insanity is that? You can’t put things together. Who told you this nonsense about the scrambled mind?”

  “Well, shortly before she died, Lorna introduced me to her father. He said that to me.”

  Lukas frowned. “As I should have surmised. That man is never at a loss for imbecilic bullshit. You should have tuned him out. He is an abject fraud.”

  “I’m surprised to hear you say that. He spoke favorably of you. He claimed the two of you were good friends.”

  “Ha! False diplomacy knows no bounds. Place no credence in that scoundrel. He’s been trying to discredit me for years. Fortunately, I am impervious to his libel. You didn’t read any of his books, did you?”

  I hesitated. “Well, uh, Lorna gave me Extracurricular Explorations.”

  “How disconcerting. I read that one myself and found it even more frazzled than his customary filler. You see, that man sings the praises of the scrambled mind because his own mind was irreversibly scrambled a long time ago. That’s why he publishes so many ridiculous books. And that name he uses – Randolph Doppelganger – it’s a testament to his schizophrenic lunacy. He gets off on fucking with people’s heads. The scrambled mind loves company.”

  “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t care for Extracurricular Explorations either.”

  “You never should’ve read it in the first place. I blame Lorna. It is incredible that a woman like that could come from such bad stock.” Lukas looked at his watch. “You’ve got to get the hell out of here this instant.”

  I did not try to dissuade Lukas from kicking me out, though his disdain for Lorna’s father confounded me. I had only met Randolph Doppelganger once. He had seemed genial, disinclined to attracting enemies. Was that impression erroneous?

  Riding back to my apartment, I pictured Lorna sitting beside me. Due to my vision of her earlier that day, she was exceptionally vivid. I could see her clothing and her face. I sensed her eyes burrowing deep within me. With quiet passion I hoped that she and I would meet again.

  ****

  Cranston Gage castigated me for transacting with Rev Coomer. “How could you be so damned careless?”

  I said, “I’m trying to find some things out for the sake of inner peace.”

  “Fuck inner peace! Staying out of trouble far outweighs all else. Besides, what the hell do you need to find out? You already know the Regime killed your father.”

  “I’ve never confirmed that. There are still a lot of unanswered questions.”

  “You’re digging your own grave,” said Cranston. “Just like Lorna. No. What you’re doing is actually worse. She arguably put herself in jeopardy for a worthy cause. Your risk serves no legitimate purpose.”

  His protestations fell on deaf ears. Had I acted recklessly? Probably no more so than Cranston often did himself. I shrugged him off.

  Two days prior to the Grand Premier election, I met again with Rev Coomer of the Office of Misinformation, in the same vacant parking lot of our first meeting. It was another bright and crisp afternoon. Rev carried an ominous manila envelope.

  He said, “Where’s my goddamn money?”

  “Right here,” I said, pulling the cash from my pocket.

  “Wow. I’m impressed a renegade like you can produce coin like that. A lot of you punks flake out when it comes time to pay.”

  “Believe it or not, some of us are fairly reliable.”

  “Yeah right,” he said, taking my money. “You’re still a bunch of loons.”

  “Hey, from what I hear, you make a damn fortune dealing with people in the underground. You should be grateful.”

  “You fellows aren’t paying me for nothing. I provide excellent service to screwballs too far gone to appreciate my excellence. They should be grateful.”

  Rev handed me the envelope. I opened it and pulled out the top sheet.

  “Damn it, Flemming. Are you suicidal? Check that stuff out at home.”

  “What if this shit is worthless? I have to check it out right here. Don’t worry. Nobody else is around.”

  “Think again,” he said, pointing. “That Mason chick is over there watching us.”

  I looked over my shoulder and saw Victoria hiding by the side of the same building as my first meeting with Rev. This time she did not notice me noticing her.

  I said, “You know, I’ve been trying to avoid her for too long. Enough’s enough. I’m going to run over there and force her to explain herself.”

  “Try a more tender approach. Maybe you can nail her here in the parking lot.”

  “You’re such a gentleman, Rev. Thanks for the file.”

  “Don’t give that little whore my name.” He walked away. I would never see him again.

  I sprinted toward Victoria. She took off down an alley next to the building. She was fast; I was faster. I caught up to her about a dozen steps before she reached the front of the building. Grabbing her, I dropped my envelope to the ground. She tried in vain to escape my grasp.

  “Get the fuck off me, you neanderthal,” she shouted.

  I put my right hand over her mouth. She bit into my palm with razor teeth.

  Ignoring the pain, I said, “Stop acting like a wild animal. I don’t want to hurt you, Victoria. I just want to talk.”

  She bit into my hand a second time.

  I swung her around and pushed her against the wall of a building, keeping my hand over her mouth. “I’ll knock you right out if you bite me again. I mean it. Can you calm down so that we can have a rational discussion?”

  She nodded in agreement. I removed my hand from her mouth. A small piece of flesh was missing from my palm (had she swallowed it?). I continued holding her in a tight embrace.

  “Well, this is awkward, isn’t it?” said Victoria.

  I laughed. “Yeah. Thanks to your hawk-like behavior. What the hell is going on?”

  “What? Everything’s cool.”

  “It’s not cool. We’re finished. Why won’t you leave me alone?”

  “Hey, you’re practically squeezing the air out of me. Can you please let go? I promise I won’t run.”

  I withdrew my arms from her. She took a few steps away.

  “What’s with the envelope?” she said, peering at the ground.

  I picked the file up. “It’s nothing.”

  “Who was that guy you were with? I saw you giving him money. Were you paying him for that envelope?”

  “Damn you’re nosy. Forget about what you saw here. Then again, that guy I was with won’t forget you anytime soon. He’s seen you around a lot. Why is that?”

  “Coincidence probably.”

  “Doubtful. I suspect I’m not the only one you’re stalking. You’re courting danger. Keep trailing people like me and you could land in a heap of trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  I hesitated. “The kind you don’t want to find out about. For your own wellbeing, maintain some distance. Is that so hard?”

  “It shouldn’t be. I just feel bad about what happened between us. I miss you. Don’t you feel the same? Wouldn’t you like to fuck me again?”

  “I’ve got enough problems as it is. It just wasn’t meant to be, Victoria. Accept that and move on. Can you please do that?”

  There was a pause. “I guess.”

  “You should never guess unless you fully understand the question.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “I wish you no harm. Just leave me alone and we’ll be fine.”

  “Okay. Sorry I let it get it out of hand. I’ll stay away from now on.”

  “Thanks. No hard feelings. Best of luck.”

  “Same to you,” she said. “I hope you find whatever you’ve been looking for.” Victoria left. Her parting remark bothered me.

  I returned to my apartment, tearing into Rev’s envelope and emptying its contents onto my kitchen table. I pounded some coffee while sifting through the numerous pages.

  The information covered twenty-eight years of Sebastia
n R. Flemming the Second’s activities. Early in his career, my father qualified as a Triple-P – “potentially problematic person.” That designation stuck. “Petulant” and “unrelenting” appeared throughout the dossier that the Regime had compiled on him. The packet included a list of all his clients and the results of every legal proceeding in which he participated. Also enclosed were photos of his immediate family. A brief note on my brother Hagen: “Alcoholic miscreant. History of turbulent behavior and failure to properly assimilate. Recovered from substance abuse and joined underground movement. Eventual circumstances detailed in personal chart [unattached].” A photo of me at about twenty years old contained a shorter notation: “Wannabe filmmaker. Government employee. Not a concern.” The thoroughness of the material was impressive. No wonder people rated Rev’s services so highly despite his surliness.

  I came to a snapshot of someone I recalled from previous reading: R. Smith Manchester. He sported a long gray beard and eyes of steely blue. His red captain’s hat bore the famous black “PR” insignia. His brooding countenance matched his description in A Man of the Regime. Gabriel Manchester had depicted his father as a soulless (yet dedicated) architect of the police state. According to Rev’s info, one of the elder Manchester’s final professional deeds was hunting down the recalcitrant attorney, Sebastian R. Flemming the Second. R. Smith supplied a lengthy commentary about the case, the final sentences of which read: “This arrest is among the pinnacles of my working life. Flemming is an irredeemable enemy of the Regime and its people. Putting him away is necessary and affirms my confidence in our system.”

  These discoveries were more than satisfactory. I returned the material to the envelope and placed it in a desk drawer that I locked. An expanded awareness jolted me; I now had two deaths to avenge.

  ****

  A day after I received my father’s dossier, Gregorian psychedelia torpedoed me:

  I awoke in a cage, alone on a cold concrete floor. The place stunk of urine. Shirtless and shoeless, I wore tattered pants. Steel bars gleamed in front of me.

  A tall man entered the area just beyond my cell. I shuddered. The gray beard, bloodcurdling blue eyes, and “PR” cap confirmed the man’s identity: R. Smith Manchester.

  He came to the bars of my chamber and glared at me. “Stand up.”

  I did as told. A fiendish grin formed on his face. I turned away.

  “Look at me, Mr. Flemming,” said R. Smith. “Nabbing your father was a personal highlight. Unfortunately, I never had the chance to pursue your equally treasonous brother. Now there’s you, the aptly named Sebastian R. Flemming the Third, a warped individual who has learned nothing from the past. Did you honestly believe you could repeat the crimes of your other family members and escape the same result? Who the fuck are you?”

  He exited the room. The terror of the atmosphere swelled. Minutes later R. Smith returned, pulling a small cauldron of fire with one hand, holding a long poker stick in the other. He dipped the stick into the burning pot.

  He scowled at me. “Come directly before me and place each hand on a bar of this cell.”

  He handcuffed me to the two bars. He took the poker stick from the flames and pointed it at me. A smoldering “PR” emblazoned the end of the stick. I winced as he stuck the poker against my bare chest for fifteen seconds of hell. He removed the stick.

  “This is merely the beginning, Mr. Flemming. Many hours of torment are ..”

  A glowing bubble containing Lorna materialized behind R. Smith. With a voice that shook the walls, Lorna said, “This is a poor reality to choose for yourself. Be gone!”

  She raised her arms to the sky. R. Smith Manchester zapped out of existence. Lorna pressed her hands against the bubble, creating a hole. She exited through the hole and the bubble disappeared. She came to my cell, reaching through the bars and placing a finger on the “PR” insignia etched into my chest. My pain melted away.

  “This evil symbol you now don,” she said, “is a reminder of your father’s brave sacrifices. He is always with you.”

  I said, “What about you? Are you always with me?”

  “Sebastian, I never left you.”

  “During my most recent session with the parallel universalist, he asked me to point to where you were in the room. I couldn’t do it. Were you there?”

  “You should have pointed at yourself; I am within you. The separateness of our realities is an illusion. Visit Lukas Lambert again so that those realities can further merge.”

  Lorna vanished. A green light flooded my cell, absorbing my sight. Lorna’s father, author Randolph Doppelganger, addressed me: “Embrace the scrambled mind. Lukas claimed that he and I are adversaries. That was strategic distraction. He employs justifiable deception to bring you into my domain. Lukas is a gatekeeper.”

  I lost consciousness.

  I awoke shirtless in my living room. I dashed to the closest mirror. The “PR” insignia remained on my chest. Delight washed over me.

  A knock came to my door. As I figured, it was the driver of the unregistered cab in which I had thrice travelled. Exchanging few words, we headed toward Lukas Lambert’s.

  My third trip there outdid the first two. A brand-new roof adorned the barn. The structure had been repainted and contained none of its former cracks. The front yard was perfectly trimmed and free of garbage. The stone walkway leading to the door was repaved. The door still lacked a knob, a blemish that now seemed nostalgic.

  There was no response when I knocked on the door. I knocked again.

  “Hello,” I called out. “It’s Lorna’s friend, Sebastian. I’m here for another session.”

  Lukas emerged from a corner of the barn. He wore a collared blue shirt and finely ironed white pants. His brown hair was combed handsomely. Gone were his bent glasses, replaced by sunglasses. He flashed a smile of refurbished teeth.

  “What do you think?” said Lukas.

  I shook my head. “Who are you? Have we met?”

  He laughed. “You told me, ‘The clothes do not make the man.’ That’s a pleasant thought, but this world of superficialities disagrees. I’ve adjusted accordingly.”

  “You certainly have. You look great. This place looks incredible too.”

  “Thank you. I take it you had another vision.”

  “Yes. This latest one had to be real. Look.” I lifted up my shirt and showed him the “PR” on my chest.

  “Damn. That’s repulsive. How did you get that?”

  “It happened in my vision. I was in jail. A police officer branded me with these letters. Then Lorna arrived and made the officer disappear. She took all my pain away.”

  Lukas was quiet for several seconds. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing. Lorna left and the vision ended.”

  “Something else happened.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It wasn’t important.”

  “Wasn’t Lorna’s father there as well?”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I was there. I keep track of that reptile.”

  “I don’t understand your hostility for the man. I think he just wants to help.”

  “Wrong,” said Lukas. “He told you my antipathy for him was ‘strategic distraction.’ Yet, he is the master of strategic distraction. He’ll drive a wedge between you and Lorna.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s part of his game. He called me a ‘gatekeeper.’ I am not a gatekeeper; I am the gate. Randolph Doppelganger wishes to block that gate. He aims to divert you into a realm of fabrication, one that he creates and controls.”

  “I’m aghast. I don’t know whom to trust.”

  “Come to my office and let me earn your trust.”

  I tentatively sided with the parallel universalist.

  The door of Lukas’s office no longer featured the shiny nameplate. The hourglass with the blue circle on its lower half remained, tipped over and leaking sand.

  He swung the door wide. The office was more cluttered and
disgusting than my first visit. The disheveled papers, clothing, and half-eaten plates of food were scattered throughout. Ants and roaches crawled through the mess. The dead-animal odor possessed renewed strength.

  “What the hell happened?” I said. “All the shit you got rid of is back.”

  “This junk never actually went away. Last time you were here, I employed an optical illusion to make you think the room had changed. Today I shifted that illusion to the outer appearance of this place. Remarkable, huh?”

  “Not quite. A minute ago I wasn’t sure whether to trust you or Lorna’s father. Now I’m more unsure. How can you accuse Doppelganger of deceiving me when you do so yourself?”

  Lukas said, “Cut me some slack, man. It’s a harmless prank.”

  “Maybe so, but it only gives me reason to doubt you. I don’t like getting fooled.”

  Ignoring my displeasure, he sauntered into the room, kicking away trash to clear a path to his desk. He created an open space in front of the desk where he rolled two chairs.

  He pointed at one of the chairs. “Have a seat please.”

  I sat down where he indicated. He went to the file cabinet behind the desk, pulled out his SRF-3, and seated himself in the chair across from me. He dimmed the lights with a remote control. Sliding the SRF-3 over his head, he turned toward me. His red lenses rotated.

  “No music?” I said.

  “Shh. Don’t interrupt this process.”

  The lenses emitted tiny blue laser beams that disabled my vision. The blue faded and I found myself lying on my side in a motionless elevator.

  Lukas’s voice carried from afar: “Tell me, Sebastian: Do you remember this very moment, the one in which I am addressing you, right here and right now? Have you heard these words before? Is this but a flashback?”

  As usual, I spoke without control of my words: “Everything is flashback. Everything is now. Everything is flashforward. As is written on the paper and read by the reader, this moment has already occurred. It is a flashback within a flashforward.”