~Chapter One ~
                                                        (press F11  for optimal viewing)

   I CAME to woozily, staring into the puss of one of those white-sweater-tied-around-the-shoulders kind of guys. Fiftyish.  Stingy smile.  Silver-feathered mane.  Mirror-slave blue eyes.
   Winston Hamilton.  One of the world’s richest men.
   The two goons who’d drugged me were slouched against the wall, one on either side of me.  The tallest stroked a shiner under his left eye – a little memento I’d gifted him during our recent ‘get acquainted’ encounter.  The other picked his nose like it was some sort of performance art.
   I could see Hamilton clearly now.  I coughed, and he grinned, leaning towards me from the throne of a big black leather chair that loomed up from behind his desk.  A pink mole about the size of a raisin dangled from his jaw.  He pulled on it.  It was the same nervous tic I’d noticed on a recent TV interview he’d done “60 Minutes.”
   “Ah, Mr. Pierce,”  Hamilton said.  “How nice of you to join us.”
   The goons stiffened, both looking at me like they wished they’d used a real gun to take me down during our altercation earlier that day -- instead of one that fired tranquilizer.
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Unknown Entity   © Joseph Dysart

   I made a move to get to my feet, but got nowhere.  They’d lashed me to a chair while I was unconscious, and had done good work.  The ropes squeezed my shoulders like anacondas.
    “My apologies,” I said to Hamilton, grinning.  “Been meaning to drop by for awhile.”
   Hamilton snorted.  “Yes.  Well.  I really wish we could have met under more pleasant circumstances, Mr. Pierce.  But you must admit, you’ve been rather elusive lately.”
   A wave of pain rifled down my back, and my grin pinched to a wince.  The tall goon smirked.  He and his buddy had been very thorough during their version of “meet-and-greet” earlier that day.
   “Nothing personal,” I said.   “But the fact is, I misplaced my Blackberry.  Been hell trying to put my week back together.
   Hamilton cracked a faint smile and said nothing, pulling on his pink mole instead. He looked over at the tall goon. “Cut him loose.”
   The tall goon -- Goon Number One --  looked at Hamilton like he’d just been thwacked by a two-by-four. He and his booger-loving buddy had spent the past six months chasing my butt clear across the globe.  Cut me loose?  He’d rather shove rusty razor blades under his fingernails.
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   Still, Hamilton was the one signing the checks.  The goon’s eyes went vacant.  He drew a switchblade from a pocket, and
went to work on the ropes.  As the restraints popped loose, his blade kissed my skin in a way I thought was a bit too familiar.
   I was tempted to school him on the finer points of switchblade safety, but decided against it.
  
He finished up, and his switchblade went 'clink!' as it closed behind my ear. It was a 'clink!' that seemed to say I might be free of the restraints, but gosh darnit, he was still boss, and I’d better realize that.
   Ooo.
   “Much obliged,” I said to Goon One.
   “Screw you, pretty boy.”  He slouched against the wall again –  his arms crossed, his eyes down.  All things considered, he wouldn’t be my first choice for the neighborhood welcome wagon.
   His goon buddy, who’d only displayed marginal interest in the rope cutting, resumed his favorite diversion.  This time, he dug deep into his left nostril, and retrieved what apparently was a blue-ribbon winner.  He stared intently at his prize, thoroughly pleased with himself.
   I rubbed my chest where the ropes had bitten deepest, and
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kept an eye on Hamilton.  He’d gotten up from his desk, and had his back to me, his hands clasped at his butt.  He was gazing through some rather majestic, crystal-clear glass windows, which were about three stories high, and overlooked a sprawling compound.
   It was a stunning view – acres upon acres of finely manicured rolling hills.  It must have taken an army of laborers to maintain.  The grandeur of it all – the artfully sculpted shrubbery, the controlled explosion of pinks, violets and yellows emanating from more than a dozen varieties of flowers, the intricate maze of paths meticulously woven through the scene – reminded me of something you’d see outside the window of a French count’s castle.
   I took a closer look at the scene, and saw that the symphony of flora ending abruptly at a cliff overlooking a quiet ocean.  Off on the horizon, there was a boulder about the size of a small cottage perched precariously on the edge of the cliff.  I recognized the landmark immediately:  Mugu Rock.  We were on the Southern California Coast, just north of LA, somewhere up in the hills of Mailbu.
   “I have a driver outside,”  Hamilton said, his back still to me.  “You’re free to go.”
   Goon Number One exhaled fitfully.  He tried not to explode,
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and forced himself to stare at the floor.  Even so, he couldn’t help shooting what he apparently thought were daggers.
   I rubbed my chest some more and studied Hamilton’s shoulders.
   Neither of us said anything for a long time.
   He finally turned around to face me. “Look, Mr. Pierce.  We realize we’re not going to get anywhere without your cooperation.  You know it, and we know you know it.  So I’m going to ask you – very politely -- for your cooperation.”
   “Hmm.  Something tells me Miss Manners would dicker with your definition of ‘polite.’”
   Another faint smile from Hamilton.  “Well then, let me start again.  I'd like to be among the many that have already congratulated you on the way you handled the Leary murder case.”
   I snorted.  The Leary case.  Where all this nonsense had begun.   About a year ago, LAPD had hit a major wall in a dragnet for a gruesome serial killer, and had quietly begun making overtures to the local psychic community.
   After “sourcing” a few sensitives with no success, they’d shown up at my door, the Virtual Reality Lab at UCLA.  I found out later they’d been tipped off about me by someone at the U.S. Department of Defense – now my former employer. 

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“He’s not your run-of-the-mill psychic,” their informant had gushed.  “He can crawl into other people’s minds.  Slither in and out of dream-worlds.   Plod through someone else’s unconscious like it’s a walk in the park.  He’s absolutely amazing.
  
“Plus, he’s got some kind of computer graphics gizmos wired into his brain that enable him to broadcast his entire experience to a computer monitor.  So everything he sees and does inside someone else’s mind, you’re able to see – in real time.”
   Actually, those “gizmos” represented about two hundred million dollars -- and about a dozen years of groundbreaking research -- in virtual reality.  But I’m not one to quibble.
   The lead detective from LAPD who approached me for psychic help was extremely skeptical, and made it clear she didn’t put any stock in what I did.  Pin-eyed, short, and generally disgusted with life, she informed me that she was simply reaching out to satisfy, as she described it, “some hair-brained whim,” of another detective on the case.  “He’s had some luck with ‘your type’ before,” she told me.
   She went through the usual niceties, charming me into public service with a golden-throated, “Like I said, I don’t buy this crap for a minute. But go ahead and play around with this bloody blouse that we found at the crime scene.  You’ll make

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my partner happy.  Then we can all go home.”
  
It was an invitation that me, and my research partner, Elliot Jenkins – who I call the “Silicon Wizard" – simply couldn’t refuse.
   As I examined the blouse, the lead detective became even more squirmy as she learned more details about the nature of our research.  Essentially, we were attempting to use VR technology to connect with the inner mind.  By her standards, I’m sure that meant we were little more than Lords of Egghead City.
   I took a stab at trying to convince her that our VR research was, in fact, pretty heady stuff.  Anytime I made a psychic journey into someone else’s inner world, Elliot was able to track every move I made in 3D audio/video -- thanks to his silicon wunderstuff.  Occasionally, if all conditions were just right, Elliot could even project a holographic image of himself into the virtual environment, and make things even more interesting.
   Apparently, my explanation triggered the full depth of the good officer’s intellectual curiosity.  “Spare me the mumbo jumbo,” she said.  She stepped back and gave me the universal gesture for ‘It’s over my head.’ “Work your ‘magic.’  Spread your fairy dust.  Do whatever it is that you do.  If you come up

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with the killer, great.  If not, come five o’clock every day, there’s still a beer with my name on it.”
  
For the first few weeks, Officer Generally-Disgusted-With-Life downed her daily beers with grim satisfaction, noting at both appropriate and inappropriate moments that we’d done nothing to shake her world view.
   Then one morning, while Elliot and I were doing a standard check of some new VR equipment, the image of the killer that had eluded the LAPD for so long flashed across my mind.  He was at one of his crime scenes. I grabbed the bloody blouse, which I’d been keeping close, and the image of the scene intensified.
   Seconds later, the same image materialized on Elliot’s VR computer monitor, and we were able to email a photograph-quality image of the killer to LAPD within five minutes.
   As chance would have it, the fellas and gals in khaki were able to come up with a match in their picture library of ne’r do wells the same day. 
   Even better:  the lead detective was able to have her beer that day -- and go home a hero.  “Not bad, Pierce,” she’d said to me a few days after they’d caught the bastard.  “By the way -- you do birthday parties?”
  
News of the serial killer's capture stayed in the headlines for
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a week, and I’m sorry to say, I fanned the attention from the media for as long as possible.  Ordinarily, Jenkins and I keep our cooperation with the police absolutely confidential.  Who needs gawkers?
   But it just so happened that we’d been peering into the maw of a major research funding crunch when the bloody blouse case went down, and we decided a little publicity could only help our cause.
   Stoo.
   Pid.
   In the grand tradition of all media whores, I did a full-court press, never once turning down a request for an interview – not even one from an over-achieving high school student who simply showed up at my door one day, begging me if he could ask me some questions.
   The media blitz intensified, and as you might imagine, I started getting calls from all sorts of crazies.  People wanting to chat-up dead relatives.  People begging me to channel famous figures from history.  A woman who implored me to reconnect her psychically with some aliens who’d abducted her from the Mojave Desert.
   Apparently, the aliens had performed some rather memorable experiments on her, and she was anxious for them

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to complete their work.
  
All told, I was beginning to wish someone would abduct me from the Mojave Desert.
   Probably the most disturbing overtures came from the defense departments of a number of foreign governments, a few drug lords, and a handful of various and sundry other back alley types.  Their motives differed, but they all shared a common identifier:  mind-boggling amounts of money they wanted to throw at Elliot and me.  Apparently, there were a lot of people bouncing around who had use for a psychic who’d found a way to worm his way into the human mind, and then transmit audio and video of what he experienced back to a computer monitor.
   Hamilton yanked me from my thoughts.  I was back in his swank office again, back with the three story, crystalline windows, the finely manicured lawns, and the two goons who undoubtedly saw eighth grade as ‘post graduate’ work.
   “As I say:  we’ve been a little clumsy with our invitation today, Mr. Pierce, and I apologize. But the fact remains:  we’d like very much to have you on our team.  We’re looking take a journey deep inside a rather troubled human mind.  And we need you as our guide.”
   I didn’t say anything.
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   Hamilton responded with a patient stare.
   “Look,” I said after an uncomfortable silence.  “I realize you guys went to an awful lot of trouble to arrange our little soiree today.  But the fact that you were able to find me -- when the CIA and a dozen other intelligence agencies from around the world haven’t -- tells me you already know the deal.
  
“Just in case you haven’t heard:  I’m out of the psychic exploration business. There was that bothersome little detail about me nearly going insane the last time I visited someone else’s fantasy world, sans an invitation.
   “The experience left me in a vegetative state for nearly six months.  I’ve only recently learned how to eat Jell-O again.  And I hate Jell-O.
   “Really, I appreciate all the trouble you’ve gone through.  But if it’s all the same to you, I’m going to pass.”
   Another faint smile from Hamilton.  “Before you make any rush judgments, indulge me a moment longer.”
   I frowned.  Goon Number One stiffened to attention, ever the loyal rotweiler.  He'd been sniffing for an opportunity to show me one more time just who was boss, and could hardly contain himself.  I could have sworn I heard him panting.
   Hamilton waited.
   “Whatever,” I said finally.
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   Hamilton pushed an intercom button on his phone. “Bring her in.”
   There was a buzz at the door, and a nurse so old she could scare wrinkles off a prune shuffled in, pushing a young woman in a wheelchair.
   The younger woman was a heart-break to see. Stunningly beautiful – she was probably in her late twenties – she was completely oblivious to her surroundings.  It was so tragic.  Even the most casual look told you she’d checked out from the here-and-now long ago.  I could have been the faintest of spring breezes slithering by her ear;  I could have been a runaway freight train careening down at her from a mountain top.   It was all the same to her.
   I recognized her immediately.  “Jade,” I said a little too reverently, immediately regretting my tone.
   “You’ve heard of her?” Hamilton said.
   I snorted.  Jade was only the most wildly successful folk singer to come along in a generation. I didn’t say that I had every CD she’d ever made.  I didn’t say I’d cruised too many lonely mountain roads in the middle of the night, blaring her songs on my car’s CD player, her lyrics scraping against my soul.   I didn’t say I’d gladly donate a major organ just to have her smile at me just once.  
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I didn’t say any of those things.
   I just said, “Yeah, I’ve heard of her.”  I looked at the tragic change in her, not wanting to believe.  My guess was she must have been in some sort of horrific accident.
   “I don’t get it,” I said.  I was still trying to get over the fact I was in the same room with the woman whose voice -- at least according to The New York Times – regularly threw the angels into a jealous rage. “I saw her a few weeks ago at the Hollywood Bowl.  She looked fine.  Absolutely fine.”
   Goon One laughed.
   Hamilton shot him a hard look, and Goon One retreated behind one of those standard issue, tough-guy grimaces.  On the originality scale, this guy sucked wind somewhere behind a third-rate wedding band.
   “Actually, what you saw was something completely different,” Hamilton said.  He pressed the intercom button again.  “Melissa, would you come in a moment please?”
   The door buzzed again.  A stunningly beautiful woman who could have been Jade’s twin glided through the door.  She flashed me a hundred-watt smile.  “Melissa Cambridge,” she said, nodding ever-so-politely.  “Pleased.”
  
I looked back and forth between the two “Jades.”
   They were identical.
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   Hamilton allowed himself a small smile.  “Quite the resemblance – don’t you think?”
   I did.
   He flashed what he obviously thought was a winning grin, and clasped his hands in his lap.  “The first thing you need to know, Mr. Pierce, is that Jade is my stepdaughter.”
   “But – ”
   “Yes, I know.  The official story is Jade's a destitute orphan from Canada who clawed her way up to superstardom from the streets of Toronto.  Great news copy, for sure.  But it was also a fairy tale -- something Jade used to separate herself from her past, and build her own life.”
   I shook my head.  “So those stories about her living in a van for years, schlepping around from one gig to another, trying to get her first big break any way she could – those were all lies, too?”
   “No.  Everything else you’ve heard  – at least everything in the official biography -- is true. Jade really did struggle up from the streets like any other hungry poet.”  He shook his head.    “I still don’t understand what was the point of all that.  Driving all over creation in that van.   Performing on street corners for stray dollars.  Going hungry.  It didn’t make sense to me.  But as you know, my stepdaughter can be rather headstrong.
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   “Anyway, as you know, Jade had the last laugh.  Her first CD – back when people actually bought CDs -- killed, and she essentially became an international star overnight.  You’ve probably heard that Dylan called her the most talented songstress he’d ever worked with.  Pearl Jam begged her to do a record with them.  And as you know, her duets with Alisha Keys are considered new standards.”
    I stole another glance at the crash-test-dummy-of-a human-being who’d once captured the world’s imagination. “But somewhere along the way, there was a problem,” I said.
    Hamilton looked away with a grimace, gazing out at his finely manicured lawns and gardens.  “Yes.   Somewhere along the way, Jade encountered some – unpleasantness.”
   Something clicked in my brain.  “Let me guess. This ‘unpleasantness’ occurred during the summer of 2003?”
   Hamilton continued to stare out at his pretty lawns.
   “Yes.”
   Things began to fall into place.   CNN had run a story for weeks about a huge fire at Jade’s mansion in the summer of 2003.  Jade’s boyfriend had died in the flames; she’d been lucky to get out alive.
   After the tragedy, the official line from Jade’s publicist was that the world-popular folk singer was sequestered in a private
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burn center, where it would take her months to recover from her wounds, months to endure the endless skin grafts, and months to find every which way she could to nurse herself back to life.
   Ultimately, Jade re-emerged on the public stage to a homecoming that was, of course, over-the-top.  The inevitable “phoenix-rising-from-the-ashes” stories were run dutifully on MTV.  And every arbiter of cool proclaimed that folk’s sweetheart was “back with a vengeance.”
   But as the gushy artifice petered out, and Jade launched a new world tour to promote her latest CD, there were whispers.  There was something subtly different about Jade.  Something missing in her eyes.  Something different in her gait.
   And most disturbingly:  something altogether different about her music.
   Sure, she still, for the most part, killed live.  And sure, her old stuff was still making the winged beings from the Otherworld cry.  But something was wrong -- something was different -- about her new material.  It was just as brilliantly penned.  But when she performed it live, the music was only “pretty good.”
   There was no fire.
   There was no heart.
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   There was no -- Jade.
   I realized now how dead-on the critics had been.
  
“We were incredibly lucky to find Melissa here,” Hamilton said.  “Face-wise, body-wise, she was nearly a match.  There were a few inconsistencies we couldn’t camouflage. So we turned her over to the plastic surgeons.  By the time they were done with her, I couldn’t even tell the difference between the two.  And I’m her stepfather.”
   Hamilton laughed.  It was a laugh that was a little too gleeful for my taste.
   “But what about the new songs?” I said.  “The new material that’s come out since she got out of the burn center?  There’s no way Jade could have written that in her state.”
   “You’re right.  Fortunately, Jade had a lot of stuff lying around she’d never recorded.  She’s a lot like Neil Young in that way.  She just can’t stop writing.  So we took what she wrote -- but hadn’t recorded -- massaged it in the studio, and put Melissa behind the mike.”
    Melissa launched into a few verses of Jade’s latest hit, and giggled.  Her twisted mirth hit a strange chord inside me as well.  Why were these people being so cavalier about a situation that was so overwhelmingly devastating?
   “I don’t get it” I said.  “Why don’t you just come clean? 
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   Why don’t you just tell people what’s really happened?”
   Hamilton’s eyes narrowed to slits.  “I’m not going to let a silly fire destroy the legacy my stepdaughter fought so hard to create, Mr. Pierce.  Jade may be catatonic now.  But I promise you, we’re going to bring her back to her former glory.  All the way back.

  
Everything clicked.  The relentless search for me.  The months of unforgiving pursuit.  The apparent willingness to do virtually anything necessary to bring me on board. “So I’m the cavalry.  I ride fearlessly into Jade’s mind, flail around inside as best I can, and against all odds, bring her back in one piece, saving the day.”
   “Pretty much.”
   I took another look at the stunningly beautiful automaton occupying the wheelchair, and tried to imagine what it would be like to journey inside her mind.  To walk amidst her deepest, darkest secrets.  To poke around in her most intimate places.  To be one with her in a way that one else ever could -- or ever would.
   An image of a half-eaten dish of Jell-O intruded rudely into my thoughts.
   I swallowed uncomfortably.
   “Look, Mr. Hamilton.  Forgetting your rather frisky friends
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here for a moment, you seem like a decent guy.  But I have to be honest.  I’m not doing cartwheels over the idea of spending the rest of my life in a little rubber room when things blow up for me inside the mind of someone who is most likely insane.
   “Essentially:  I already know what it’s like to receive my mail ‘care of LaLa Land.’  And I’m not interested in going back.”
   Hamilton sighed deeply.   “Good enough.   But I think it’s only fair you should know:  It’s not me who’s asking for the help.”
  
My eyes crinkled into a squint.  “What do you mean?”
   He flipped open a large portfolio on his desk, pulling out a huge watercolor done up in stark, rich tones.  It was a vividly drawn picture of a bare-chested man, dripping with sweat, riding a winged unicorn.  A woman clung to his back.
   The man on the unicorn was me.
   The woman clinging to his back, Jade.
   I studied the image a long time.
   “I don't get it,” I said.
   “We found this a few months ago, in Jade’s bedroom.  You’re a fan.  You probably know: she’s quite an accomplished painter. She’s been doing it ever since she was a little girl.”
   “Yes, I’m familiar with her work.”  In fact, I had one of her
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 watercolors hanging in my living room.
   “Good then.  Go ahead.   Take a closer look at the brushstrokes.  Deconstruct the style.  Check out the light choices.  There’s no disputing it, Mr. Pierce.  This is Jade’s work, and she’s calling out for your help.   She’s never met you.  Yet she’s calling out to you.  How do you explain that?”
   I looked dumbly at Hamilton, then caught hold of myself. “I’m still not convinced this is real.  If you can create a twin of Jade from a body double, you can put together a knock-off one of her paintings without breaking a sweat.”
   Hamilton shook his head adamantly.  “I’ve already been very up front with you about what is real, and what is fantasy, Mr. Pierce.  Jade painted this nearly four months ago, in the middle of the night, when no one was around.  Whether or not she did it while she was still in a catatonic state – or if she’d escaped from her catatonia just long enough to render it – we’ll never know.
  
“But what we do know is that one of my staff recognized you the first time he saw the watercolor, and made the connection immediately. As you might imagine, we’ve been hunting for you ever since.”
   I took another look at the illustration.  If it was a knock-off, it’d been done by a consummate pro.
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   Another wave of pain rippled down my back.
    Forget this.  I struggled to my feet.  I didn’t care how many watercolors Hamilton had -- I didn’t want any part of this.   “I’d really like to help you.  But the fact is, even if I wanted to get inside your daughter’s mind, the question is academic.  If you’ve read anything about the experiments I conducted at UCLA, you know that I always worked with a partner, Elliot Jenkins.
    “Jenkins was the only one who was able to help me hold onto my sanity.  Jenkins was the one who put the dream monitoring computer infrastructure together.  And Jenkins was the one who could communicate with me once I was on the inside.   The plain fact is that Jenkins was – and is – the only one who can save my bacon if I get into a jam on the inside. 
    “I don’t go inside someone else’s mind – especially inside the mind of a catatonic – unless Jenkins is around.  And as you know, he disappeared along with me about six months ago.  No one’s seen him since.”
    Hamilton flashed another one of his stingy grins, and pushed another button on his phone.  This time, one of the walls in his office slowly disappeared into the ceiling. I jumped back as a giant lab filled with computers and monitors was revealed. 
    All that separated us from the lab beyond was a wall of

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clear Plexiglas.
  
A piece of equipment in the lab looked very familiar to me, and I took a step closer to get a closer look.  Impressive.  They’d somehow gotten a hold of my old VR chair.  It was a contraption Jenkins had invented, and helped his computers make a seamless, VR connection with my mind as I stomped around in other people’s inner worlds.
   Nearby, a tall lanky guy seated with his back to us fiddled with a computer.   He wore his sandy hair down to his butt in a straggly, terminally neglected ‘stick-it-to-the-man’ kind of way.
   I knew that look anywhere.
   Elliot Jenkins.
   The last of Hamilton’s office wall disappeared into the ceiling with a thud, and Jenkins turned towards us, startled by the sound.
   “Elliot?” I shouted through the Plexiglas.
   “Dylan!” he shouted back, breaking into a huge grin – although I couldn’t actually hear a thing he was saying through the Plexiglas.  He bolted towards me.
   I beat him to a nearby door that connected the two rooms, and bounded into the lab.  We hugged, then drew back from one another, exchanging a few obligatory rib and shoulder punches.
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   “What are you doing here?” I said.
   He gestured at Hamilton, who was still standing behind the Plexiglas in his fancy office.  The door between the two rooms had closed automatically.  “Hired hand.”
   My voice fell to a whisper, even though I doubted Hamilton could hear a word we were saying.  “I can’t believe they got you.  You must be getting a small fortune.”
   Jenkins grinned.  “I’ve had worse gigs.  But you have to remember, when you headed for the hills, there wasn’t a mad rush for VR techs with extensive psychic interface experience.”
   I looked back at Hamilton for a moment.  “Tell me.  Are these guys creepy enough for ya?”
  
He smiled. “More than enough.  But when it comes to money, they pay ridiculously well.  Plus, I get complete freedom to run down any crazy research idea that tickles me.”
   He stepped past me so his back was to Hamilton and his goons.  His face went hang-dog. “Listen Dylan:  I’m sorry about the way things went down the last time.  I tried to bring you back with everything I had.  But I couldn’t get inside with my computers, no matter what I did.”
   “Forget it. We both knew the risks going in.  And we both know that what happened had nothing to do with you.”
   “Even so.  I felt real lousy about it.”
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   “If you’d like, I can cast aspersions about your family’s lineage for awhile,” I said.
   “Maybe later.”  He stole a glance at Hamilton, and then looked back at me.  “So whaddya think?  You gonna go for it?”
    Another River Dance of pain did a number down my back. “These guys aren’t exactly up for the Miss Congeniality Award, Elliot.  Everything about this situation tells me absolutely, positively, no.”
   “And yet – ”
   I turned away, burying a grin.  As much as I hated to admit it, things were suddenly very different with Jenkins in the picture.  I was looking at a chance to continue on with our experiments.  This time, I could explore a new form of human intimacy with a woman who could send me over the moon with a single glance.
   Jenkins gave me one of his classic, bad-boy smiles. “I knew it.”  He gave my ribs another punch.  “You've still got the bug, don’t you?  You can get banged up more times than an NFL lineman, and you still can’t stay away.”
  
“Easy for you to say, Elliot. You’re the one on the outside, kickin’ back in front of your computers, munching your Cheetoos, while I’m flailing around on the inside, playing Evil
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Knievel with my sanity.”
   Jenkins gazed off into space, affecting probably the worst execution of feigned wistfulness I’d ever seen.  “What can I say?  A chosen few are destined to achieve greatness.  The rest of us merely get to witness it from afar.”
   “You've always packed the biggest shovel in the room, Elliot.”
   I felt a hand on my back.  It was Hamilton.
   “Gentleman.” He uttered the word with a cordiality he knew was forced, and with an attitude that said he could care less whether or not you realized it.  “What do you say, Mr. Pierce?  He gestured to the main VR chair. “Give her a whirl? See how she feels?”
   I didn’t say anything.
   “How about this,” he pressed.  “You give her a try.  You don’t like what you see, you don’t like what you feel, you get up, you walk away, we all part friends.”
   I stayed noncommittal.
   “Vinnie,” Hamilton over his shoulder.  Goon Number One, the veritable poster puppy of unflagging obedience, trotted over.  “Wire that two million into that account we set up for Mr. Pierce in the Caymans.”
   Goon Number One frowned and pulled a cell phone from his
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Unknown Entity  ~  Joseph Dysart

shirt pocket like it was a dead fish.  He started punching in some numbers.
   Hamilton flashed another blindingly white smile.  “Two million for a simple test run.  Another eight if you bring my stepdaughter back in one piece.”
   Good Boy hunched behind him, mumbling into his phone in hushed tones.  I heard him say,  “Yes.  That’s two million, to a Mr. Dylan Pierce.”
   Jenkins nudged me.  “He’s good for the sheckles.”
   My head swirled.  The drugs the goons had given me still hadn’t worn off, and I was having a tough time processing everything that had just happened: waking to find Hamilton’s puss staring down at me; the image of Jade being wheeled into Hamilton’s office; the appearance of her twin seconds later; my life-long VR partner Elliot suddenly materializing behind a Plexiglas wall; a new bank account with seven digits.
   I dropped into the luxurious leather of the VR chair, and leaned back, running my palms over the arms.  I looked up at Jenkins, trying not to betray what I was thinking and feeling.
   I was home.
   He looked down at me with the same, conspiratorial “‘screw-the-gods, we’ll-beat-‘em at-their-own-game-this-time-around” look he got any time we’d decided to take a new
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Unknown Entity  ~  Joseph Dysart
 
 journey into someone’s dream world.
   I gripped the arms of the VR chair -- which, as usual, felt like a barber shop chair on testosterone. 
   I felt the earth giving away beneath my feet.
   “Screw it,” I said. “Let’s see what this baby can do.”


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~ Chapter Two ~
(click here for Chapter Two)