She raised her arm, struck him in the face with the butt of her automatic. Thomas toppled to the floor.

She was taping his ankles together before he'd recovered his wits. 'Ordinarily I'd just pop you in the head and call it a day,' she was saying. 'But I figure I owe you one for yesterday afternoon.'

Thomas could only stare in horror. To know someone was to know what to expect. People were as much trajectories as they were face, form, or voice. And here was Sam, impossibly, moving at right angles to who she was. It seemed she should be bleeding from the impact.

'You're wondering how it's possible,' Sam said, grinning like a tomboy. 'I admit, I didn't think I could pull it off, what with you being a psychologist and all. I just assumed you would see right through me. But after sizing you up in Washington, Mackenzie insisted it would work. "Just be who you were before joining the program," he said. "All the old circuits are still there," he said. And wouldn't you know, the old perv was right: it felt more like… more like reliving than performing! Good thing I used to be such a twit…'

Thomas blinked at the blood and tears, stared at her in numb incomprehension, at the trim manikin nose, the commercial-break smile, the cheek curved to no palm in particular. It was a beautiful face, he realized. It was ti beautiful face and it could do anything it wanted. Anything.

She's going to kill us.

He started struggling against the plastic cuffs and the tape. Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck…

Testing her handiwork, Sam winked. She lifted and dropped his taped feet, then turned to Neil, saying, 'And you have a few beans to spill, Doc. That was naughty, spiking the database the way you did. Mackenzie nearly had a stroke. He's a heavy smoker, you know.'

Neil spit blood and laughed.

Holstering her Glock, Sam slapped her hands together and surveyed her handiwork. 'All this domination has made me hot,' she said with a heavy breath.

She shed her blazer and began unbuttoning her blouse. Blood pulsed across Thomas's face, wet strings that became more and more tangled in his eyes. No matter how much he blinked he could see nothing more than shapes and insinuations. She was standing over Neil now, a smear of white skin holding the blot of her handgun.

'How about it, doctor?' she asked coyly. 'How much have you unplugged?'

'Enough.'