The Devil's Army

by Jeremy Michelson

  “What about aging the clones past their youthful rebellious stage?” Carlson asked.

  DeVol gave a small shrug. “As my grandmother liked to say, there are too many chefs and not enough cooks,” he said, “You are a man used to giving commands, not receiving them. The clones feel the same. For your clones to be like you–to have your special qualities–they have to be…like you. In all ways. It is possible to trim away parts of their personalities. But to do so would make them less…you.”

  Carlson released DeVol’s neck and stood. His knees crackled. He was suddenly very aware of his age. He wasn’t old, but then he wasn’t a testosterone fueled twenty year old, either. And he was just one Carlson among many.

  “Perhaps I have not properly thought this through,” he said in a low voice.

  He turned. The young clone was still leaning against the door jamb. Still grinning. But the grin didn’t touch his eyes. His eyes were as cold as the wind off a glacier. Predator’s eyes.

  Carlson was glad for the mask that concealed his features. What would the clone do if he saw his fear?

  He walked past the clone, maintaining a dignified pace. He tensed as the clone turned.

  “You really do look ridiculous in that outfit,” the clone said.

  Carlson walked on. He listened for the sound of footsteps echoing on the concrete. They didn’t come, but he could feel the clone’s eyes on his back. He could almost feel the clone’s thoughts, sizing him up, thinking of the best way to kill him and dispose of his body.

  After all, that’s what he would have been thinking.

  He really should have brought the gun with him.

  Twenty-Four

  Harley lifted the corner of the bread on her turkey sandwich. A lone, paper thin slice of turkey lay there, gray and dry looking. Limp threads of shredded lettuce were scattered over it. She dropped the bread. Her stomach growled, but she wasn’t going to insult it with such lousy crap.

  Behind her people buzzed by in the airport concourse. A solid wall of humanity pressing close to the plastic quick serve restaurant. Plastic seats, plastic tables. Plastic food served by dead-eyed people with plastic smiles plastered on their plastic faces.

  A riot of odors competed for her attention. Dozens of different perfumes and colognes rolled together into a musky sweet aroma underlay by sweat and fear. And anger. She could almost feel the anger simmering in the air. Airports weren’t happy places. They were just a speed bump on the way to somewhere else.

  One with lousy food.

  “Thought you were hungry,” Graves said.

  He sat across from her, his bony elbows on the plastic table. His face was tense, lines of strain etched on his brow.

  “Thought you were going to get me some food,” she said.

  He gave her his narrow-eyed look, complete with the slow exhale from his nostrils. It was probably a good thing she never tried to start anything with him. One of them would have ended up in prison for murder.

  “Not to your liking, your majesty?” he asked.

  She shrugged and pushed the styrofoam plate away. “Food is one of the few pleasures in life. Why spoil it with the crappy stuff.”

  “Food is fuel,” he said.

  She managed to suppress the smile that tried to hitch a ride on her lips. Almost like old times.

  Almost.

  She took a sip of the Pepsi Graves had put in front of her along with the sandwich. Flat. Just as bad as the sandwich. She pushed it away. Grave's lips pressed to a thin line, but he didn't make a crack about it.

  “So, your boss is pretty pissed,” she said.

  Like it had it had been their fault the Reaper got to the witness before they did.

  Graves shrugged. He took a bite of his sandwich and made a face. He dropped it on the styrofoam plate and took a sip from his drink–7up, if she recalled. He pushed them both away like she did.

  “You’re right,” he said, “As usual.”

  “About your boss, or the food?” she said.

  “Both,” he said. He looked over her shoulder. No doubt watching the tired zombie hordes shuffle by, dragging luggage and sobbing children. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  She gave him a couple raised eyebrows. “Is that in the plan?” she asked, “Isn’t there an itinerary to follow? I get flown back to town and you get your ass reamed some more by Mr. Parker Sunshine?”

  “No. The plan is to leave you stranded here and then fly coach back to D.C.,” Graves said.

  “Seriously? What about the lovely private jet we came in on?” Harley asked.

  That Parker was willing to strand her in humid misery in Florida surprised her not at all. The man was a walking rectum. Graves didn’t deserve punishment, though. He was trying to get things done. Which was a messy process that Parker apparently didn’t appreciate.

  “Sorry,” Graves said, “The private jet is only for winners. Our current status is not golden.”

  “Well, doesn’t matter much to me, I’ve been under a bad smell for years,” she said, “But he shouldn’t take it out on you. I tried to tell him this could help us.”

  Walt grimaced.

  Okay, so maybe she hadn’t told Parker in the politest of terms. Perhaps words had been used to describe Parker’s thought processes and ancestry that, in retrospect, shouldn’t have been used.

  But that’s what it was like living in the moment.

  “I’m a big boy,” Walt said, “I can take it. I’m thinking of a career change anyway.”

  Now she was surprised. She watched his face. He stared down at the cruddy sandwich. How many crappy ass sandwiches had he choked down over the years? All in the name of duty. Graves was always one for sacrifice. Had something changed?

  “Thought it was your dream to be a fibby?” she asked.

  “Yeah, careful what you wish for, right?”

  His forearms rested on the table, his fists clenched. If he stared any harder at the stupid sandwich, it was going to burst into flames.

  “So what do you want to do?” she asked.

  He raised his head. She could almost feel the heat coming from his peepers.

  “I want to catch that mother fucker,” he said.

  Twenty-Five

  Carlson Junior watched Detective Harley and Agent Graves leave the disgusting little airport restaurant. Finally. The rancid meat odors emanating from it were making him nauseous. He noted they left their sad little sandwiches on the table. Perhaps they had better taste than he thought.

  Not that it mattered. They were going to be dead soon.

  Senior would be upset. He didn’t want them targeting law enforcement just yet. Not until there were more Carlsons strategically placed. But from the conversation he just overheard, Agent Graves was going to soon be Civilian Graves. And technically, Detective Harley had been a civilian for years.

  Why hadn’t Senior just taken care of her? Paid her a visit in some back alley when she was still a drunk. It would have only taken a moment. And no one would have cared. Harley would be a footnote by now instead of a potential problem.

  Well, Carlson had no use for Senior's phobias and foibles. Action was needed.

  Carlson got up from the disgusting plastic table, leaving the meal he'd ordered untouched. He wore a long-sleeved shirt that hid the flesh colored latex gloves he wore. There would be no fingerprints. Maybe he wasn't as fussy as Senior, but he wasn't stupid. He wore a disguise as senior always did. His cheeks were stuffed with cotton and a false nose and cheekbones altered the outline of his face. He wore oversized clothes with concealed padding, making him look a little on the pudgy side. A sandy colored wig and mustache further distracted the eye. Colored contacts and gold-rimmed glasses completed the look.

  He was a man of mystery, his face known only to a few. In the floppy blue duffel bag he slung over his shoulder was one of Senior’s Death Work uniforms. It looked ridiculous when Senior wore it around the lab. But in the proper circumstances, it made him feel like he was death himself.
/>   Which, of course, he was.

  He followed Harley and Graves at a discrete distance. They seemed to be wandering in the direction of the car rental area. Strange. Were they thinking of driving back to the city? It was over a thousand miles. What would possess them?

  It was almost too good to be true. Senior had insisted Carlson drive to Florida. A break in period, Senior called it. A pain in the ass was more like it. Though, it did have some entertaining moments. There was a late night diner in South Carolina that suspiciously burned down with nearly a dozen people in it. That the people were already dead before the fire started was a matter for the local coroner to determine. If they bothered. There were also assorted hitchhikers and rude motel clerks, as well as a van full of marijuana peddlers.

  Not what he’d call a productive trip, but the diversions here and there helped pass the time.

  Maybe on the return trip he could take a little more time. Cut a swath through the countryside like General Sherman’s march through hell.

  He stopped. Harley and Graves had disappeared. They had been there just a moment ago. The concourse was still thick with the cattle of humanity. Thin and fat, young and old–their disgusting cloud of odors fouling his air.

  But no Harley and Graves.

  He moved over to the wall. Every sense was heightened. Sounds thundered through him. The stench threatened to split his head open. Colors became brighter, his skin tingled.

  Memories from Carlson Senior bubbled up. Close calls and encounters with the authorities. The time he had almost been caught. This felt exactly like those times.

  He dropped down to one knee and fiddled with a shoe lace. Idiot. He should have kept walking. If Harley and Graves thought they were being followed, then they would be sure of it now.

  He raised his head and stood, pretending to fiddle with the duffle bag hanging from his shoulder. He scanned the concourse. Clusters of travelers passed by dragging bags. Some of their faces were red and angry. Others were pale with weariness.

  “Help you with something, sir?”

  Carlson started. On his left, Agent Graves stood. His legs were slightly apart, his hand in his coat. Grave’s eyes were like hot lances piercing Carlson’s soul. For a searing moment Carlson felt exposed, all his secrets open for the world to see. There would be a trial and all those knuckle draggers would see his real face. They’d point and laugh and think themselves superior to him. All because he was…

  Caught.

  No. ? wasn't going to be caught so easily. Suspicions were not proof, and men such as Graves played by the rules.

  Carlson clutched his stomach. “Didn’t I see you at that horrible little restaurant?” he asked.

  Graves blinked. A flicker of uncertainty.

  It was all Carlson needed.

  “I think whatever I ate there is going to come right back up,” Carlson said, “Where is the restroom? Seriously, I feel I’m going to vomit at any moment.”

  He started making retching sounds. Graves backed away. “There’s a restroom just down the way a bit.” He pointed in the direction of the rental desk.

  “Thanks,” Carlson said. He moaned and held his hand over his mouth, then scurried past Graves. He rounded the corner and brushed past Detective Harley. He didn’t look at her face.

  She didn’t try to stop him.

  He slammed the door open and made his way to an empty stall. He locked it and leaned against the wall. Idiot. Now what was he going to do? Would Graves and Harley wait outside for him? Did their cop instincts smell him the way he smelled fear?

  They wouldn’t catch him today.

  He zipped open the duffel bag. Along with the Death Worker uniform he had an emergency disguise that Senior had designed. He had to hand it to Senior, the old boy had thought this stuff out pretty well. He had thought it out pretty well, since he was Carlson Savoy in body and mind, if not completely in spirit.

  The bag itself was actually two bags. He stripped off the floppy blue duffle bag to reveal a gray and black backpack. He stuffed the duffel in the backpack, then pulled off the baggy clothes and stuffed them in as well. Under the baggy clothes he had Bermuda shorts and a white polo shirt. He took off the sandy colored wig and mustache. From the bag, he took a black wig with a ponytail. He settled it on his head, then stripped the cotton from his inside his cheeks. He left the outer cheek prosthetics, but took off the fake nose. Out went the contacts. They and the glasses when in the bag. The flesh colored latex gloves he left on, but he put sweatbands on his wrists so the lines wouldn't be noticeable. He took off his shoes and put on a pair of sandals from the pack. For a final touch he put on a pair of tinted hipster shades.

  The change took less than a minute. He shouldered the backpack and flushed the toilet. He left the stall and ran his fingers under the water for a moment. He dried them under the blower and he left the restroom. He took a dead cell phone from his pocket and pretended to be checking his messages on it.

  He passed by Graves without looking at him, ignoring him completely. Two minutes later he exited the terminal and hailed a taxi. Another five minutes and he was watching the airport falling away from the rear window.

  Today was not going to be the day they caught him.

  Twenty-Six

  Graves came out of the airport restroom and shook his head. Harley bit back the scream of frustration that tried to claw its way out of her throat.

  “God damnit,” she said, “He didn’t just disappear.”

  Graves raised his hands and shoulders. A steady stream of men had been going in and out of the restroom. One of them had to be the guy.

  Graves took her by the elbow and led her away from the restroom. She pulled her arm away. “We should be looking for him,” she said.

  “We are looking for him, but this one’s gotten away for now,” he said.

  She clenched her fists so hard her nails sent throbs of pain up her arms. The stump of her missing leg ached. Had it actually been him? She turned in a slow circle. People of every size and color wandered the concourse. Was he still here, watching them even now? Laughing at them?

  “Harley, let’s get out of here,” Graves said.

  “And go where?”

  “I need to call in a favor,” he said.

  “You know someone in the Air Force? Maybe we could call in a nuclear strike on this place. That would take care of him.”

  Graves rolled his eyes and tugged at her coat. “Don’t say stuff like that too loud here,” he said, “They’ll lock us up. And he’s probably long gone–if it was him.”

  “Who the fuck else would it have been?” she asked.

  He pulled her in the general direction of the exit. “We don’t have anything, Harley. We need to move on.”

  She cast one last hateful look at the throngs of people. Then she let him lead her away.

  Disappeared, like a wisp of smoke. The bastard.

  Twenty-Seven

  Graves got a nifty black SUV from the local FBI motor pool. Apparently he wasn’t putting in his resignation just yet. After stopping at a local burger shack for some real food, they set off north for Atlanta.

  “What’s in Atlanta?” she asked.

  The mid-afternoon sun baked the Florida highway white. Waves of heat shimmered in the distance. The SUV's air conditioning blasted out icy air. A welcome relief from the earthy humidity outside. Graves sat stiff behind the wheel, black sunglasses covering his eyes. Sunglasses didn't appeal to her much anymore. Maybe she could find a tinted monocle online somewhere.

  “An expert,” Graves said.

  “You want to expand on that? Or should I just jump out right now?” she asked.

  His fingers twitched on the wheel. “We’re going seventy-five right now,” he said, “If you feel good about your odds, go ahead.”

  “I’ve survived worse,” she said.

  The engine droned on. The passed a cluster of motor homes. What would it be like to retire and live a life of leisure? Did any of those people ever have serial k
illers after them? Kill a beloved family member?

  She’d dealt with a lot of grieving families over the years. She never had patience for the tears. She’d just press on with the hard questions no one wanted to answer. Most of the time, the person crying the most was the one who pulled the trigger. Or used the knife. Or his fists. Pretty much any blunt object imaginable was fair game in the sport of murder. One highly determined woman had murdered her cheating boyfriend with fluffy teddy bear. Harley still felt a little bad about bursting out in laughter when she saw the vic with that stupid grinning bear head sticking out of his dead mouth.

  But in her job–her old job–you had to take your laughs where you could get them.

  “There’s an agent in the Atlanta office,” Graves said, “He’s worked a lot of serial killer cases. Including the Reaper.”

  Harley’s eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? I knew the Feds had some interest in our boy, but I didn’t know they assigned anyone special to it.”

  “They tend to let the locals handle these things, but they have a lot of interest in them,” he said, “It’s really not our jurisdiction unless it crosses state lines.”

  “But that’s never stopped the Feds from sticking their nose into stuff.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” he said with a sigh.

  She glanced over at him. He looked weary. And angry. Had his dream job turned out to be less than what he hoped for? It served him right for leaving her to fend for herself. It wasn’t easy picking herself up after he refused to keep getting her off every bar floor. Mr. Tough Love.

  “So what does this guy know about the Reaper?” she asked.

  “Not very damn much,” he said, “Probably nothing more than what we already have.”

  “Then why the hell are we driving five hours to see the guy?” she asked, “Can’t you just phone him?”

  “It’s not that simple,” Graves said.