Mindy was given very specific instructions before Susan made the monitored call to Snake. Everything from here on would be recorded and placed into evidence.

"Snake? It's Mindy."

Snake's voice, heard for the first time--Susan's mental impression of Snake altered, as it always did when an imaginary opponent began to become an actual one. Snakes voice, oddly contralto and thin--flat and unmelodious:

"So why didn't your number come up on the caller ID?"

"I musta had the number block on."

"You calling from your cell?"

"No. A landline. I know better than to call you on a cell."

"See that you keep yourself smart. I don't like people being stupid around me."

"Aw, you know better than that. What's wrong, honey? You sound a little tense."

"It's none of your damn business."

"You usin'? Sometimes that makes me tense if I'm in the wrong mood."

Susan scribbled on a notepad and showed it to Mindy. "MRA, dammit." Move Right Along.

"Oh--okay. Listen, Snake, I'd like to come over in an hour or so to pick up one."

"Just one?"

"Yeah. That okay?"

"I can probably do that."

"Listen," Mindy began to visibly sweat. She chewed her lip. "I want to bring a friend along who'd like to meet you."

"Friend? What made you think that would be all right?"

"Hey, honey--just askin', okay? If it's not all right, I won't, okay?"

"Why do you want to bring this friend?"

"She's a player, honey. She'd like to talk to you for a little while and see if you and her can do some business."

"How well do you know her?"

"Oh, I've known her since we were kids. She's in kind of a bind right now, and I want to help her out--she wants to make some money."

"What's she look like? Crow's here, and he wants to know. Crow doesn't like ugly women." Two voices audible at the other end now, laughing.

"She's not ugly. Be nice to her, please? She's my friend, and I don't want to get her feelings hurt."

"Yeah, we'll be as nice to her as she deserves--okay. Go ahead and bring her. But if she's wrong, she'll end up somewhere wet. You know what I mean? And so will you."

"Aw, don't say stuff like that, okay?"

"One hour. We'll be here, but I'm not guaranteeing anything longer than that. Crow and me have stuff to do."

Susan drove Mindy to the apartment in an innocuous UC vehicle, a two-year-old VW beetle, mint-green. Juba and Juan were in position around the corner, monitoring the wire that Susan was wearing--an altered cell phone; you could even call out on it and receive calls, but it was a transmitter as well. Better to have nothing on you but a cell phone. Everyone has a cell phone. But not everyone has a wire taped to her body. That wasn't something Susan wished to be caught with.

She was armed, as well--UC's never went in unarmed--a flat little .380 holstered in the small of her back. If things went south, and it wasn't a shooting war, Susan was pretty certain she could hold up her end if necessary for the thirty seconds it took Juba and Juan to charge in and start breaking heads. If not, she'd better work towards a fourth-degree black belt...

Susan and Mindy approached the apartment door, and Susan drew in a calming breath. First approaches were antsy. She shifted her stance to put her weight on the balls of her feet. Mindy rang the bell, a cheery "bing-bong".

"Snake, are you home?"

Susan let her breath out, slowly. Showtime.

"Sounds as if it's something we might use. What's your plan?" asked Ashe.

"Mindy's going to give us an in with Snake," said Susan, "but, at the same time, we need to get her away from him as soon as possible--so he won't associate anything that happens later with her. I'd like to use her to make a controlled buy of an ounce from Snake. She'll bring me along and introduce me, and we'll do a series of buys from him in larger and larger lots, until he's used to it. After a couple of months, we'll take him out behind a large buy and follow up with a search warrant. With luck, he'll be sitting on some weight when we do it."

"Sounds good. What's the situation with the twin brother?"

"Mindy says that Crow is dealing too. The brothers are partners. I think we'll have to sort it out when we get into it a little farther."

"I want you to partner up with Juba and Juan, "said Ashe. "You're the lead on this one--yeah, I think you're ready for it," he said, noting Susan's dubious expression. "You've been working with us for six months, and you've learned a lot about being a dope cop. I knew we weren't wrong when we recruited you from Kusata City patrol. You're ready to work the lead on an investigation."

"Then I'll do it."

"Good." Ashe arranged the papers on his desk. "You know, I haven't been here for all that long myself--only a couple of years. Juan's been here for a year, but Joel, Sasquatch and Juba have worked together for ten years or so."

"I think we make a pretty good team."

"Yeah. So do I."

Ashe inspected the parking lot outside the window.

"Listen--there's something else coming down the pike."

"Oh?"

"We'll need your help. I can't say much more about it right now, but I'll be setting up a time for you to meet with someone in a few days."

"Nothing more?"

"Not yet. We'll let you know. Just a heads up."

"Roger that."

Susan opened the door, and walked back into the main office.

"It's a go?" asked Juba. The rest of them had watched Susan's meeting with Mindy through the one-way glass in the interview room.

"It is. It'll be you and Juan with me. Ashe wants me to be the lead on it. Any problem?"

"None. It's about time. You're ready."

"Thanks."

"So which one is the evil twin?" asked Joel.

"They both are," observed Sasquatch. "Snake and Crow are identical?"

"That's the story."

"Might make for some fun times on surveillance if they really look alike."

"It might."

"Does this alleged axe murder sound familiar at all?"

"Not really.", said Juba. "There haven't been any bodies in rugs turn up in the river--which may or may not mean anything. And if we do find a body, which twin do we charge with it? I mean--supposing they really look alike."

"Did you know I had a twin?" asked Sasquatch. "There used to be two of us, but one of us drowned in the bathtub when we were a year old. To this day, I don't know whether the one that drowned was me or my brother."

Ashe heard this last remark when he came out of the office.

"Mark Twain. You stole that line from Mark Twain. He's good to steal from if you don't get caught."

"Prince and the Pauper?"

"No, I don't think so. I think it's from Life on the Mississippi."

"No, 'Prince and the Pauper'. I think that's what we should call this case."

"Done."

It was agreed. Prince and the Pauper would be the unofficial name of the investigation into the doings of the evil twins, Snake and Crow.

Next morning in the featureless and very white interview room at the Agency, Mindy Lake, nee' Mindy Watkins, nee' Mindy Shoemaker, fledged in jailhouse orange, perched strangely at the edge of her chair--an anxious bird wanting but unable to fly. Her fidgetting was possibly due to a night in lockup, possibly due to a craving for her absent nose candy. She'd been stopped by patrol for a busted headlight, but one thing led to another, and here was Mindy, facing a charge of possession with intent to deliver. Although she had nothing to deliver now that the three ounces of cocaine that had unaccountably turned up on her person disappeared into evidence, Mindy said she had something to trade. It was Susan's turn at developing a CI, so Mindy was hers to use or throw away.

Birdlike, Mindy twittered and cooed at Susan, her newest friend. Mindy's flirtatiousness may have worked well with the men she encountered casually, but it was unlikely to work with Susan, who decided that the way to play Mindy was to project flat unsympathy. After she'd exchanged a few unpleasantries, she sighed:

"Mindy, let's cut the crap. You're looking at some hard charges here. It's your third fall, and patrol busted you with some serious weight. You told our people inside that you had something for us. If you do, let's talk. If you don't, let's wrap this up and you can go on to whatever's going to happen to you, and I can get back to my coffee, my reports, and the rest of my life."

Mindy quickly deflated. She crossed her arms like a pouting child.

"Now or never, Mindy. Don't waste my time."

"It's good, what I've got to tell you. Before I tell you anything, I want something from you. What's it going to mean on my charges?"

"Mindy, you've been in the system often enough to know that's not the way it works. First of all, I can't promise you anything, except that I'll talk to the prosecutor about you and tell him that you're being cooperative--assuming that you will be. Second, I'm not going to talk to anyone until I hear what you have to say, and have a chance to make sure it's for real."

Mindy slid down in her chair, and began to cry. Crying probably worked as a fallback position for Mindy when flirtatiousness wasn't sufficient.

"If I give him up, he'll kill me. He's killed people before. I'm scared of him."

"How do you know he's killed people?"

"He told me about it. Told me he's killed people who went back on him."

"Did he give you any details, or did he just mention, in a general way, that he kills people?", Susan laughed.

"It's not funny. Here I am, sticking my neck way out like a chicken, and you think it's funny."

"Not funny. Just stupid and pathetic."

"Are you saying I'm stupid?"

"Nah. Most people go walking around with three ounces of coke in their pockets. You're Einstein."

"That's a mean thing to say."

"I'll live with it."

"I don't need this." Mindy shook her head, vehemently.

"Neither do I. Seeya, Mindy. We'll call patrol to come pick you up." Susan stood, preparing to leave.

"Okay, okay. I'm sorry, okay?"

"Last chance, Mindy."

The crying ceased, forgotten. A single pearly tear remained.

"He told me about one time, when he didn't get paid on a deal, he killed a guy with a framing hatchet. Hit him three times, but the guy didn't die, and went running out the door. He told me the guy ran to a neighbor's house, begging for his life, begging for someone inside to save him, or to call the cops. Nobody answered the door. He chased him off the neighbor's porch into the bushes and finished killing the guy. Then he wrapped him up in an old rug and threw him in the river."

"We'll look at it. Any other killings he told you about?"

"No."

"Just the one killing, then, eh?"

"That's all I know about."

"So who is this mystery killer? And why do you know him? Or am I going to have to drag that out of you too?"

"His name's Snake. Or that's what people call him, anyway. I don't know his real name."

"I don't suppose you know where he lives, or how to get ahold of him."

"He's my connect, okay? Yeah, I know where he lives."

"Your connect for what?"

"Coke. What do you think?"

"Is he dealing in anything else?"

"Just coke as far as I know. That's all I've bought from him."

"Who do you sell to?"

"I don't sell to anyone."

"Of course you do, Mindy. Nobody has three ounces of coke for personal use. That's enough to last a powderhound like you for six months. We'll get back to who you sell to later on--believe me. Nothing's going to work for you except full disclosure. For now, though, let's talk some more about Snake. What's the address?"

"I don't know the exact address, but I know where it is. I could show it to you."

"Where's it at, approximately?"

"Off Williston, near the Snow Valley Mall."

"Good enough for now. Describe Snake for me."

"He's around six foot, long brown hair, and a beard."

"Long beard? Short beard?"

"Short."

"Eye color?"

"I don't know, exactly. His eyes are dark, though."

"Weight?"

"Medium weight. Not fat, not skinny."

"How long have you been buying from him?"

"About three months."

"Have you seen dope in the house?"

"Apartment."

"Apartment, then. Have you seen dope in the apartment?"

"Yes."

"Lots of dope, or a little?"

"Oh, lots and lots. He was weighing some up on a scales once when I was there, and cutting it. There was a big bag, and what looked like a couple of kilos still in the wrapping."

"Why'd he let you see that?"

"Why?"

"Yes. Are you sleeping with him, Mindy?"

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes. How often do you sleep with him?"

"Sometimes, okay? And sometimes with Crow."

"Who's Crow?"

"His brother."

"You're sleeping with Snake's brother, too?"

"Well, it's not like it's much different, is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"Crow's his twin. His identical twin brother."

After Susan called patrol to pick Mindy up, Ashe motioned Susan to come into his office.

"Anything?"

"I think so," said Susan. She told him about it.

Juan left early, in a cab. He hadn't said much all evening, although he had drunk much--Juan was often worried by Castillian melancholy. But something unusually dogged was at him tonight, evidently. Possibly some family crisis--Juan had an operatic extended family, subject to midnight alarums and excursions.

Susan choreographed her own departure at the cusp of nine.

She lived alone with her commensals, Cauldron Linn and Portland Bill. Commensals--or familiars. Cats do not live in our company, but in our presence. She fed them, and they ate with no particular gratitude. Someone once said that we live with cats so that we might savor the pleasure of petting a tiger. If that is so, then these particular tigers were lords of no jungle but old furniture, and beasts with no lairs but rumpled rugs from which they glared in undiminished green-eyed mystery--a lair of rugs is still a lair, and all cats demand to be taken seriously.

Susan left Linn and Bill to their dreams of sudden murder. She put on sweats, cleared a space, and practiced her third-degree form, paying particular attention to those moves she found difficult or believed she could execute more precisely. The third-degree form describes a star, and each point and each transit is exquisitely designed to flow into the next, magnifying the power of the past move and the next move. Most of the moves would never be used in actual combat, but were intended to extend ones skills far beyond what is needed. When skills are great, defense is easy--it explodes from knowledge.

There are one hundred and twenty-two moves in the third-degree form, a dance of mayhem with an unseen opponent. If the form is done well, the opponent is nearly visible to the discerning eye. Susan did it to the edge of her ability, three times. Three, because that was the limit of her strength, the precipice beyond which her trembling muscles would begin to betray her, and render her vulnerable. She would not be betrayed.

Each move must be executed fifty times, her instructor had told her, before the muscles remember. When the muscles remember, the mind can begin to learn. Fifty times to err, before knowing begins. True of anything--anything at all, and Susan had never learned anything that contradicted it. It was a shame, she thought, that our time is so limited that circumstance will not allow fifty errors to occur before one truth emerges. If truth is coming home, and if we must err so many times before truth is shown, then we can never, ever come home again, and we never will.

She shook her sweat-dripping head. Strange days. Strange life.

Susan's particular melancholia for this evening is finished, thank you, and now to the showers and soon to bed.

Friday's debriefing was held at the piano bar at the Harleton Inn. It was best that way. If anyone became overly debriefed, there was always a room to sober up in for a few hours.

It seemed, to Susan anyway (drinking tactically, having discreetly switched after the first vodka and tonic to equally colorless but innocuous Perrier), that the five guys she now worked with--Juba, Juan, Sasquatch, Ashe and Joel--at the Agency were not so unlike the men she'd worked beside at the tiny Kusata City police department. Like all guys, they were only guys--guys who did weird things for a living, sure--pretending to be people they weren't, buying dope from very strange strangers--guys with better stories than most guys, but guys nonetheless.

Not that Susan had anything against guys--Susan loved guys--or that she was sick of guys, (although she could easily have gotten disgusted with guys a thousand times over) but guys--even these performing out at the edge of their gender--were so embarrassingly literal, so peculiarly linear. Even their secret selves were worn on the outside. Men, she considered, are like the werewolves the villagers stone to death because anyone can see that they're werewolves. But women--women are like the werewolves who are never captured, because they wear their hair on the inside. Men will attack a thing headlong, heedless of consequence. Women will approach a thing sideways, assess its strengths and weaknesses, then exploit its weaknesses--and use its strengths against it.

"I do not think," said Sasquatch, maudlin, "that I can go home again."

"You can't go home again," Ashe observed, wolfishly.

"Obliviously," said Sasquatch. "But what I mean--what I really, really mean, is that my poor old Georgia daddy would lock the door if he saw me coming. Plechpette, North Carolina. Peachpit, we called it. Damned if I can ever go back to Peachpit again."

"Why would anyone go back to Peachpit?"

"Just exactly. Why would anyone go back to Peachpit, least of all, me. I left Peachpit--oh--a long, long time ago now. Long, long time. Did I ever tell you I had a brother?"

"There are two of you?"

"No, just one. The other one is my brother. He's younger than me. Way smarter, but doesn't have the common sense that God gave a goose. He went to school up at MIT and majored in chemical engineering. Came home over Christmas break and got a girl named Pearl pregnant. Left school, married Pearl, and became a truck driver. Pearl divorced him, and her lawyer took everything he had--the house, the car, the kids. Left him flat. He mooned around over Pearl for two years, bought another house, bought a couple more cars, and got remarried to Pearl. She divorced him again, and her lawyer took everything he owned again."

"Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, is he?"

"That's what I'm saying. Not the sharpest knife. Dumb as a sackful of hammers is more like it. He got married again to a different woman, and he's now assistant pastor at the Baptist Church in Huininga."

"Hooningah?"

"Huininga," said Sasquatch, carefully. "My old daddy still lets my brother visit, but not me. He says I'm an abomination."

"What? You're a cop. That's not so bad."

"It's mostly my hair daddy doesn't like."

"You're losing your hair, so you ought to be able to go home again someday."

"Not my beard," said Sasquatch, petting his own head experimentally, "It's just fine, thank you."

"Thank you. But you could shave."

"Not on your life."

Juba, uncharacteristically silent, took the opportunity he perceived in the wake of Sasquatch's tale of woe to press his foot questioningly against Susan's. Had she felt the love? A deliberate flick of her foot high on Juba's outer thigh was her answer--the muscle in the thigh was called the common peronial, and a sharp blow could be incapacitating. A mild flick caused what kids used to call a "monkey bump". Exquisitely painful, but harmless. Juba's face whitened.

"Oops. Sorry," she said. "Didn't mean to do that, but you were tickling my foot. Must have been an accident." Susan had a third-degree black belt in Taekwondo.

Taekwondo had done more than save Susan's life--it had constructed it. There were hidden selves, other lives within that she would never tell, in liquor or otherwise. Unlike these doggish, bounding boys, she wore her hair on the inside.