Dvorak slips on a pair of surgical gloves before giving Zandra a shrewd look and slipping past a curtain blocking the view of an adjacent room. She's thankfully spared making awkward conversation with the stoners by his quick return. He holds something familiar in his hands.

"Amanda," Zandra says in a panic, calling out in the direction of the room. "It's Zandra. Are you in there? Are you alright?"

By the looks of the severed tube of flesh in Dvorak's hands, she's not. Down another finger.

"Your alarm pleases me greatly, although I'm not surprised. My work is the best in the world," Dvorak says. He scolds Zandra with a wag of the severed finger. "No shouting down here. We like to keep things quiet."

Zandra gets a better look at the finger. It's similar to the other two she received in the mail, down to the purple nail polish.

"I suppose next you'll tell me these are my daughter's fingers," Zandra says, not forgetting the photos of the woman.

"Not quite, but I'm enjoying the perplexed look on your face," Dvorak says, his tone growing more and more condescending with every syllable. "Those photos, they were just to fuck with you, cut through the static to get your attention. And now that I have it completely, I'd say it worked."

"Congratulations," Zandra says.

"Thank you. Tell me, have you heard of 3D printing before?" Dvorak says.

Ever the Luddite, Zandra admits she hasn't, so Dvorak fills her in. It's the process by which three-dimensional objects are created by layering materials, typically plastic, into place using a machine called a "3D printer." The technology is evolving rapidly, with everything from screws and toys to gun parts and medical devices available at the push of a button.

"But here's the kicker. To date, no one has pulled off a 3D printed body part indistinguishable from the original. Until now," Dvorak says. He points the finger at his chest and smiles. "You're looking at the future, Zandra. Imagine a future where you could conjure any body part you need using 3D printing technology."

Zandra glances at the medical alert bracelet on Dvorak's wrist. He's a kidney transplant recipient.

That's one way to fix the organ shortage.

"So you're doing what, asking me to invest?" Zandra says.

"I'll get to that. Hear me out first," Dvorak says, the pace of his words quickening. "The technology I've built right here in this basement will change the trajectory of the human race forever. The ability to regenerate our bodies on command is the key to immortality. Imagine how different the world would be if we knew no one could die. We'd be living gods, all working toward building a utopia here on earth. No more of the ridiculous follies of mankind. Political borders, gone. All of those awful -isms, gone. Superstitions about the supernatural, gone.  Our technology would be the supernatural."

He may be smoking his own product after all. I can think of plenty of reasons why people need an expiration date.

"The police couldn't tell those fingers you sent me were fakes, I'll give you that," Zandra says.

"But they weren't fakes, that's the thing. Amanda gave me a sample of her blood and allowed me to scan her hands. A few keystrokes later and I had a whole batch as genuine as the day she was born," Dvorak says.

Zandra still isn't convinced, but it's not worth getting into right now. As a kidney transplant recipient, Dvorak should know that swapping in a new body part isn't as easy as changing a tire. The body's immune system will attack the new real estate, which is why Dvorak will have to take immunosuppressants the rest of his life. Without those, his new kidney would die. That's on top of the hundreds of biological criteria that go into successfully matching a donor organ to a recipient. The same would apply for any other body part.

Dvorak's idea is decent but far from complete. For now, he's a biotech savant with one too many contact highs.

Cocky as hell, too.

"Technology like this is far too sensitive to go the traditional route with lawyers, investors and patents. It's like holding the cure for cancer in your hands. I'm more likely to wind up dead in a ditch than wealthy," Dvorak says. "That's where you come in."

"Do tell," Zandra says.

"With pleasure. I'm going to destroy you, Zandra," Dvorak says. He threads the finger onto the ridge of her ear. "Not in a physical way. That would be too easy. I want to use you as a symbol of the old ways, what I call BM: Before Me. You and the bullshit con you've pulled on this country not once, but twice, is exactly the flag I need to burn, welcoming the world to the new era.

"There isn't a trick you can pull that I can't do better with my technology. Fortune telling is a matter building predictions mined from enormous amounts of data. Talking to ghosts is as simple as customizing an algorithm into a Siri-type program. Psychic surgery is a doctor on one side of the world with an Internet connection remotely running a surgical robot somewhere else. Astrology, aura reading, energy healing, those were all bullshit to begin with, but I'm sure there's an app for that.

"If we were to go head to head in a showdown of who can out-psychic the other, I'd win every time. The absolute best you could do is in your files, and I have them."

Zandra's pulse picks up.

He's right.

"I hate to break it to you, but you're better off finding a way to blackmail Gene Carey than me if you want to go global with all this," Zandra says, although she could think of a way in two seconds.

"My little threat to your producer was just that. I wanted to get your ass in gear, get you to come to me. No, I have something much larger in mind," Dvorak says. "You're going to turn your cameras to exactly that showdown. We'll call it, 'Armageddon: Science versus Superstition,' or something like that. We'll rent out an auditorium here in town, invite the public and the world's media, and I'll demonstrate once and for all that the future promises far more than any of humanity's wildest fantasies and self-delusions could possibly offer. I'll be a trillionaire-in-waiting before I walk off the stage."

You're underestimating how much people crave self-deceit. It's part of the human experience, integral to a functioning society. The world is a product of the fiction we've created for it, and they'll fight hard to keep their illusions.

"And if I refuse?" Zandra says.

"Then I ruin you with those files," Dvorak says.

"They only contain notes. There's nothing in there that says I'm not a psychic."

"That's true. But imagine the fallout of your clients knowing their worst secrets are still out there. All they have to do is pay you to get them back. Now that I've read about the horrible acts your clientele is capable of, you'll be dead or wishing you were in no time," Dvorak says. "I'm not a wicked person, Zandra, so I don't wish that on you. I'm giving you a chance to bow out respectably. Your reputation and livelihood will be ruined, but at least you'll live to see another day."

You little shit.

"You're not giving me much of a choice," Zandra says.

"That's the point," Dvorak says. "For a psychic, you should've seen this coming. The lies you built your life on are collapsing under themselves. You're a fraud. In your heart, you know you don't deserve an atom of the success and attention you've received."

Zandra sneers, thinking of David and Soma Falls. "You have no idea what it took to get me to this point."

"Oh, I think I do. You're recycling the same mysticism that's kept humanity in the dark since the dawn of time," Dvorak says.

Zandra grits her teeth until she hears her jaw pop.

Herman, if you're going to make an entrance, you'd better do it now.

As if the intensity of the thought manifests itself into reality, she hears loud shuffling from upstairs. It's followed by a pronounced thud.

Herman coming through a window?

Zandra looks to the door at the top of the stairs. A hand whips it open.

More like Herman falling down the stairs.

Herman's violent descent traces Zandra's path to the basement. He's followed by a few more of Dvorak's stoner buddies, although they take a more traditional route down the steps.

Zandra's chair stops Herman's roll. She can't tell whether he busted his lip open before or after the fall.

"Caught this one looking in the windows," one of the stoners says. "Fuckin' bum looking for free weed. You want us to fuck him up?"

Dvorak looks at Herman's pitiful attempts to stand up. "You know this guy at all?" he says to Zandra.

"He's my ride," Zandra says, the look on her face still burning holes in Dvorak.

"I hope it isn't piggyback," Dvorak says. He plucks the finger from Zandra's ear. "You try anything stupid and I release the files. Simple as that. You do what I say."

"And what are you saying now?"

"That you're free to go for now. I'll be in touch."

"Can I have my knife back?" Zandra says.

"Of course not," Dvorak says.

"You best keep it nice and sharp then."

"Really? Why's that?"

"Because once I get it back, I'll be slitting your throat with it," Zandra says with no hint of insincerity.

"We'll see about that," Dvorak says, the threat rusting away the self-satisfied smirk on his face.

He believes I'll do it. Good.

"You can count on it," Zandra says.

Once free from the duct tape, Zandra helps Herman to his feet. He's in rougher shape than she is, one of his ankles being too tender to put much weight on it, and it takes a few minutes for them to scale the stairs.

Hobbling back into the truck, they collapse against the shredded seats, resting their aching bodies and catching their breaths.

"So, uh, how did it go?" Herman says finally.

Zandra laughs long and hard. Feels right despite the situation. Boils off some of the heat in her gut.

"It was plenty terrible all on its own without you going and getting yourself hurt," Zandra says. "Now get this thing running and get us the hell out of here."

Herman cranks the ignition through a few false starts before the truck comes back to life. "Where to?"

"To somewhere we can figure a way out of this mess," Zandra says.