thing is impossible. I told you that Leslie died of cancer. Why would my cousins tell you different? You’re lying.”
“Ted, do you remember what I told you about the blind spot?”
“Just now? Of course.”
“And what happened when you did it?”
“I saw something. I don’t remember.”
“Try it again.” I maneuver myself behind Ted, who is still bound to his chair, and point his gaze at the mirror next to Leslie. “Focus on the mirror. Do you see the circle on your forehead?”
“Of course,” Ted says. “You drew it there.”
“Who’s in the chair?”
“I can’t tell.”
It takes longer with Ted, but after a couple of minutes, he sees it too. The brothers are now aware of each other, but I’ve still only got one conscious at a time. When one is active, the other seems to shut down. They must be independent when they’re apart, so I figure that’s the solution. I have one of my guys help me bring Leslie into the other room.
Leslie perks up as soon as I get him out of sight of his brother.
“You guys aren’t going to be able to be together for a while, I think.”
“Why?” Leslie asks.
“Only one of you is active at a time. The other just zonks out.”
“This is so weird,” Leslie says.
“Here,” I say. I dial my phone and hand it to him.
“Is that Leslie?” he asks.
“You’re Leslie,” I say. “As far as I know. The guy on the other end is Ted.”
“So weird,” Leslie says again, but he takes the phone from me and holds it to his ear.
After a few seconds of just listening to each other breathe, Leslie and Ted begin to talk. They talk logistics at first. They decide who will use the house and the car until they can find a way to separate their lives. They both seem to want a little independence, which I guess is a natural reaction.
In my years working cases, this was definitely the most interesting. I’ve dealt with plenty of people who believed their stories, but none who had a story quite as fascinating as Ted and Leslie. You see split personalities in the movies and on TV all the time, although it’s really quite rare. I think sharing a personality has to be the most rare disorder in history.
11 HARVEST FESTIVAL
T HE BRIGHT LIGHT OF afternoon stabbed Constantine’s eyes as he ran from the Midwife’s shack. He hunched over, loping on hands and feet because running upright required too much balance and caused too much pain. For several minutes he simply moved away, not choosing any particular direction. When he reached a big colony of ostrich ferns, the boy collapsed under the bright green foliage. Here, the air was moist and soothing. The ferns protected him from the evil sunlight.
Constantine draped an arm across his eyes and winced at the pain from his temple. He wondered, not for the first time, if fleas could get caught in a spider web. From his hours watching spiders spin their webs and eat their prey, he’d never seen one catch a flea. And as far as he could tell, placing a flea onto a spider web by hand was impossible. When he was smaller, even smaller than he felt under those ferns, he used to climb to the top of the big oak at the top of the hill. He’d stay there until night so he could look at the stars. Those little white dots looked like so many fleas caught in spider webs up in the sky. The same white dots swam before his closed eyes as he drifted back to sleep under the ferns.
When the wind changed direction, it brought sounds from the festival to wake him. Constantine pushed himself to his feet and found he could stand with only minimal swaying and a bearable pulsing throb in his head. He put one naked foot in front of the other and wound his way through the woods. The sun was making its way towards the horizon, and long shafts of light cut slow angles through the forest. Constantine wound towards the outcrop of rock. In the cave under the stone, on a dry ledge, he’d hidden several of his suits. He had also stashed another sharp
“Ted, do you remember what I told you about the blind spot?”
“Just now? Of course.”
“And what happened when you did it?”
“I saw something. I don’t remember.”
“Try it again.” I maneuver myself behind Ted, who is still bound to his chair, and point his gaze at the mirror next to Leslie. “Focus on the mirror. Do you see the circle on your forehead?”
“Of course,” Ted says. “You drew it there.”
“Who’s in the chair?”
“I can’t tell.”
It takes longer with Ted, but after a couple of minutes, he sees it too. The brothers are now aware of each other, but I’ve still only got one conscious at a time. When one is active, the other seems to shut down. They must be independent when they’re apart, so I figure that’s the solution. I have one of my guys help me bring Leslie into the other room.
Leslie perks up as soon as I get him out of sight of his brother.
“You guys aren’t going to be able to be together for a while, I think.”
“Why?” Leslie asks.
“Only one of you is active at a time. The other just zonks out.”
“This is so weird,” Leslie says.
“Here,” I say. I dial my phone and hand it to him.
“Is that Leslie?” he asks.
“You’re Leslie,” I say. “As far as I know. The guy on the other end is Ted.”
“So weird,” Leslie says again, but he takes the phone from me and holds it to his ear.
After a few seconds of just listening to each other breathe, Leslie and Ted begin to talk. They talk logistics at first. They decide who will use the house and the car until they can find a way to separate their lives. They both seem to want a little independence, which I guess is a natural reaction.
In my years working cases, this was definitely the most interesting. I’ve dealt with plenty of people who believed their stories, but none who had a story quite as fascinating as Ted and Leslie. You see split personalities in the movies and on TV all the time, although it’s really quite rare. I think sharing a personality has to be the most rare disorder in history.
11 HARVEST FESTIVAL
T HE BRIGHT LIGHT OF afternoon stabbed Constantine’s eyes as he ran from the Midwife’s shack. He hunched over, loping on hands and feet because running upright required too much balance and caused too much pain. For several minutes he simply moved away, not choosing any particular direction. When he reached a big colony of ostrich ferns, the boy collapsed under the bright green foliage. Here, the air was moist and soothing. The ferns protected him from the evil sunlight.
Constantine draped an arm across his eyes and winced at the pain from his temple. He wondered, not for the first time, if fleas could get caught in a spider web. From his hours watching spiders spin their webs and eat their prey, he’d never seen one catch a flea. And as far as he could tell, placing a flea onto a spider web by hand was impossible. When he was smaller, even smaller than he felt under those ferns, he used to climb to the top of the big oak at the top of the hill. He’d stay there until night so he could look at the stars. Those little white dots looked like so many fleas caught in spider webs up in the sky. The same white dots swam before his closed eyes as he drifted back to sleep under the ferns.
When the wind changed direction, it brought sounds from the festival to wake him. Constantine pushed himself to his feet and found he could stand with only minimal swaying and a bearable pulsing throb in his head. He put one naked foot in front of the other and wound his way through the woods. The sun was making its way towards the horizon, and long shafts of light cut slow angles through the forest. Constantine wound towards the outcrop of rock. In the cave under the stone, on a dry ledge, he’d hidden several of his suits. He had also stashed another sharp
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