“I know a guy on the New York Times,” he said. “Walt Thompson—a science editor. I know this guy—he’ll go public with it. He is convinced that corporate America is to blame for everything from global warming to peanut allergies. Believe me, he’ll jump at the chance. He fucking hates Meld.”

“Yeah, and how do you propose we get to this science editor of yours?” Brent asked as his phone rang yet again. “They’re looking for us. We can’t risk it. They have too much at stake here. Who knows how far they’ll go to bring you back.”

“We’ll mail it to him, then. Pack it up on ice, with a note explaining the whole thing. He’ll know what to do.”

“Yeah, he’ll know exactly what to do when some lunatic conspiracy nut cuts off his own finger and sends it to him in the goddamn US mail—because that’s what it’s going to look like, you know. He’s going to think it’s your finger. He’s going to think you’re crazy and that you’re stalking him. Then he’ll have you arrested. It won’t work.”

“Wait a minute,” Jeremiah said with a sinking feeling in his gut. “That’s it, Brent—that’s exactly what we have to do.”

“What?”

“I have to send him my own finger. We have to have both of them. Mine and the clone’s. Same finger from the same hand. We put them together, that’ll prove it. That’s what we need.”

“Are you insane? You’re not going to cut off your own finger! Besides, your friend won’t have any reason to think you didn’t just cut off a finger from each hand.”

“No, this will work,” Jeremiah told him. “If we cut off the same finger—he ought to be able to tell. The fingerprints will match up. As far as I know, the prints are the same for me and the clone. It will be two of the same finger. Last time I checked, it’s not very common for someone to have two left index fingers! This will work. It’s our best chance.”

“You’re crazy. I’m not going to sit here and watch you cut off your finger.”

“You’re not going to watch—you’re going to have to do it.”

“Absolutely not,” Brent said. “No fucking way I’m doing that!”

“Brent, I can’t do it myself. I won’t be able to do it. I know my limits.”

Brent’s phone rang again. “I have to take this,” he said. “It’s Mel.”

Jeremiah listened as Brent’s voice quickly became agitated. “What do you mean Charles Scott is coming to see you? At work? He’s coming to the museum?”

Jeremiah gestured for him to put the call on speaker.

“No, to my studio,” she said.

“Mel, where are you? Are you there now?”

“Yeah. Like I told you, I’ve been here all night, since I dropped that weird old guy off like you asked me to. And where the hell are you?” she asked. “Your boss, Dr. Scott, was asking all kinds of questions.”