The Second Son

by Martin Jay Weiss

  Just then, a dark shadow emerged from behind the giant armoire in the living room, and a thickly accented Englishman spoke: “I am Clinton Godeaux. And you are trespassing.” With that introduction and his affected highbrow British idioms, he sounded just like a James Bond villain. “I have the right to keep and bear arms and defend myself and my home…”

  The engorged full moon shedding through the high windows above formed a giant gun shape on the wall as Clinton raised his arm and stepped into view.

  “God bless this beautiful country.”

  And he gripped the trigger.

  CHAPTER 39

  Don’t shoot!” Sean begged. “We’re not trespassing. We’re hurt. See? He’s bleeding.”

  Ethan watched through the hinge crack, waiting for Clinton to turn away so he could jump and disarm him.

  “We need to call an ambulance,” Sean continued. “We just want to use your phone, and then we’ll leave—”

  “You have a phone,” Clinton said, pointing his gun at Jack.

  Sean looked down. Jack was gripping Ethan’s iPhone.

  “It’s out of juice,” Sean lied.

  “Let me see.” Clinton started toward them, which made Ethan’s surprise attack especially difficult since the gun was aimed at and getting closer to Jack.

  “I know why you’re doing this,” Jack blurted. “I know why you’re looking for your sister. I’m a twin, too. I know what it’s like.”

  Clinton froze. The moonlight coming through the window streaked across his face. And Ethan couldn’t believe his own eyes. He could see Clinton’s face now, and it was the spitting image of Brooke—a larger male version, of course—but an uncanny resemblance. And being the first time Ethan learned that Brooke was a twin, it took everything in his power not to react.

  How could she have hidden that from me?

  He stared at Clinton in the same way people so often stared at him and Jack, stunned by the sameness, the reason he had always sported a beard. The only distinguishing differences he could see were that Clinton wore short-cropped hair and he had a cleft chin, an apparent dimple that Brooke didn’t have.

  Otherwise identical.

  “The twin dilemma is more complex than regular siblings,” Jack went on. “People assume you’re the same, but you’re not, you’re not alike at all, even opposites in many ways. We defy nature versus nurture studies, when twins who are separated at birth and are raised in different environments turn out the same, or when twins who are born and bred analogously turn out yin and yang. Because the answer to the nature versus nurture argument is always both. We don’t realize how people can be so alike and yet so different—”

  “My sister sent a Freudian, did she?” Clinton laughed.

  Jack continued, “It’s a connection like no other. Two people, the same, but different. We wonder if we’re born equal or not. If we’re bred the same or not. If we’re liked as much or not. We grow up under a scope. People have expectations. Your twin puts that pressure on you—”

  “That’s right, they do,” Clinton agreed, mockingly. “All references made on a presumption. It often made me feel inferior, less than. Now where is she, my better half?”

  No one answered.

  No one knew.

  Jack said, “You and your sister have a discrepancy about your inheritance, but it’s nothing that can’t be worked out, or shared.”

  “Inheritance can be a knotty affair amongst siblings,” Clinton said as he moved toward the stairs, certain his sister was already in the house somewhere—watching, waiting, listening. He added, “But nothing compares to the complexities that arise when twins are beneficiaries, especially when greed divides kindred souls…”

  Clinton’s jeering jabber gave Ethan an opportunity to sneak into the foyer and tuck behind a grandfather clock where he had a better view.

  “Did you know that you can’t actually own land in England?” Clinton projected loudly so that his sister would hear if she were in one of the rooms upstairs. “Land tenure only means that you hold land, and our father didn’t like that rule. He always wanted to find a place that he could build and own for himself, and for future generations.”

  “So he bought this mansion?” Jack prodded.

  “He bought this mansion and built the entire community around here—the church, school, equestrian center, performing arts building, vineyard… Over the years, his immense success allowed him to acquire over forty-five acres in prime Napa, and he called it Highpoint. We spent every summer here.”

  “That’s what you named your shell company,” Jack said. “You financed Stalker through Highpoint Corporation—”

  “Yes. I funded Stalker to find my sister. It took longer than I expected, but it will be worth it.”

  “Because you think this place should be your birthright?” Jack pressed.

  “It is my birthright,” Clinton shot back.

  “And your sister’s,” Jack said. “Twins have to split if there’s no firstborn.”

  “One would think! Most families with twins would treat them equally. But not mine.“ Clinton’s face tensed and he spoke in an angry murmur, “Because my father claimed that she was born seconds before me.”

  Ethan peered out, realizing the weight of this. Jack saw his brother and made eye contact. Ethan rolled his finger to signal that Jack keep talking.

  Jack spoke louder, more assured. “If your sister is the eldest child, this is all rightfully hers. Your father was just abiding by English primogeniture laws—”

  “Twins are twins!” Clinton seethed. “Even Mum always told us that there were complications in the delivery room and no one was certain who was born first. I’m sure one of my father’s lavish lawyers came up with some horseshit contract that stated a false birth order so he could change his will, and screw me out of what is rightfully mine.”

  “Why?” Jack asked, already knowing the answer. “Why would he go to all that trouble to make sure your sister got everything and you nothing?”

  “Because he hated me.”

  “Why?”

  “Must have been second-child syndrome, Freud,” Clinton said assiduously. “Sometimes, they praise the obedience of the first child and wonder what went wrong with the second one. Or maybe it was twin syndrome, if there is such a thing. Maybe he expected my sister and me to be the same because we looked alike, and when he realized that we couldn’t be more different, he was disappointed. Or maybe it was post-traumatic God syndrome because my father saw himself as a supreme being—”

  Jack cut him off, “Or maybe it could have been because you threw your father’s firstborn son off the roof when you were a kid because you didn’t like the idea of being the second son, and because your father knew it was no accident. Arthur The Second was poised to benefit much more from the family name than you were. Killing him put you in first position, or so you thought. Your father made sure that you never murdered your way into inheriting his fortune. Nobody could ever prove that it wasn’t an accident, but your father knew—”

  Clinton’s face contorted and he boiled, “He can’t control this from the grave!”

  Clinton fired the gun. The shot rang out in a deafening,

  echoing ring.

  Jack and Sean scurried on their hands and knees back into the living room and tucked behind a sofa.

  It went quiet again.

  Ethan was about to make his move, but Clinton started up the stairs, out of his view again.

  Jack shouted from behind the couch, “What do you want from your sister?”

  “This all sits in probate until I turn her in,” Clinton said, ascending the stairs slowly. “I’m coming for you, Stella…I know you’re here…I saw that you’ve replaced the family portrait with that garish rabbit statue on the mantel, but no matter what you do, you can’t erase us!”

  Ethan moved across the foyer. />
  “I get it,” Jack continued. “You want to turn your sister in so she could be tried for the murder of your father. If they convict her, then the property goes to the next child in line. You.”

  Clinton nodded ardently. “You can’t take possession if you’re a murderer.”

  “But she didn’t kill him, did she?” Jack pressed. “They were close. Your father taught her the family business. She had no reason to kill him.”

  “No one cares why she did it!” Clinton snapped, “There’s a security video from the hospital that shows her sneaking into my father’s hospital room and giving him a dose of cyanide. Case closed!”

  “But she didn’t do it,” Jack tried again.

  “My sister and I play very clever games.”

  Clinton turned onto the first landing on the stairs and out of Ethan’s view again. If Brooke was hiding upstairs, Ethan couldn’t allow Clinton to get to her. So he stepped out into the light of the anteroom and announced: “Mummy and Daddy loved her more. Deal with it!”

  Clinton looked over the banister and grinned. “Am I seeing double?”

  “That joke never gets old,” Ethan said as he slowly moved toward the stairs, hoping to engage Clinton until he would be close enough to make a move.

  “I know only too well,” Clinton said.

  “Framing your sister might allow you to take possession of Highpoint,” Ethan continued, “but it certainly won’t make anyone love you.”

  Ethan’s verbal attack seemed to be working. Clinton started back down the stairs. “You just brought a big mouth to a gun fight, did you? At least your twin brought some Freudian clichés and his fey lover to back him up. But unarmed witnesses are easy to deal with. Let me show you.” Clinton turned and pointed his gun at the sofa Jack and Sean were hiding behind.

  Ethan screamed, “No!”

  Clinton fired two shots.

  Jack grabbed his leg and keeled over, reeling in pain. As Ethan started to go to his brother, Clinton turned the gun on him and said, “Do not take another step.”

  Ethan stopped.

  “Twins,” Clinton spewed like it was a curse, pointing the gun back and forth, from Ethan to Jack, as if deciding who to shoot next. “Most can’t live without the other. I wasn’t one of those—”

  “What a tragedy for your sister,” Ethan said.

  Clinton laughed. “Did you hear the one about the twins who were born and given up for adoption? One of them went to a family in Egypt and was named Amal. The other went to a family in Spain, and they named him Juan. Years later, Juan sent a picture of himself to his mum. Upon receiving the picture, she told her husband that she wished that she also had a picture of Amal. Her husband threw his hands up and said, ‘They’re twins. If you’ve seen Juan, you’ve seen Amal.’” Clinton let out a guttural laugh and drew closer. “Your brother was right about one thing: twins feel each other’s pain, don’t we?” He aimed his gun at Ethan and said, “Let’s see if your brother feels this—”

  A scream came from up the second floor. “Stop!”

  It was Brooke.

  “If you don’t shoot him,” she said. “I’ll come down.”

  Clinton revealed an arrhythmic smile. “I told you that she and I play clever games.”

  CHAPTER 40

  She appeared on the second-floor landing, in a dark shadow. “Let them go and I’ll come with you. You can turn me in and have all of this. Everything.”

  “Game over,” Clinton said with a grin. “Only you’re in no position to negotiate.”

  “Don’t take another step!” she shouted. “I also have a gun.”

  “You won’t use it,” Clinton said. “You didn’t get that gene.”

  “He’s not going to let you confess to anything,” Ethan said. “He doesn’t want to bring you back to London to be tried. It’s easier to kill you. If you’re dead, the property goes to him and there’s no chance anyone will ever learn the truth.”

  Clinton agreed. “Justice served.”

  “I’m begging you,” she pleaded. “For once, do the right thing. Let’s end all of this now.”

  “Good idea,” Clinton said as he fired a shot in the direction of her voice.

  The bullet splintered the banister, she screamed, and Ethan bolted toward the stairs. Clinton turned the gun at him and fired. The bullet ricocheted off the marble floor.

  Ethan charged up the stairs to wipe the grin off his face. Clinton got a shot off. Ethan heard the bullet skim just over his head and penetrate one of the front windows, making a crackling sound. Ethan slammed into Clinton, a full-throttle football tackle. Their combined weight slammed into the bannister and they both tumbled down the stairs. Clinton’s gun flew out of his hand and slid across the marble foyer floor.

  Ethan rolled on top and slugged Clinton in the head repeatedly. The Brit knew how to take a punch, one after the other, blood oozing, and he had a taunting grin that wouldn’t go away, as if he were drawing strength from each and every hit.

  His knee went into Ethan’s groin. As Ethan keeled, Clinton ducked out of his grasp and spit in his face.

  They wrestled and traded blows, both trying to get the upper hand. Clinton went for Ethan’s jugular and squeezed, with a malefic smile. Ethan gasped for air and saw Jack behind the couch on the floor, his leg twitching. His brother was in tremendous pain. And so was Sean. He was holding the side of his stomach, and Ethan knew that one of the bullets must have hit him too.

  Clinton’s hand was a thick, tenacious vise Ethan couldn’t escape. Ethan lashed from side to side, trying to break free, when he saw Brooke coming down the stairs, the vision he longed for. Their eyes met, an assured look that told them both that they would do whatever it took to get out of this situation so they could be together again.

  Whatever it took.

  She was holding a gun, shaking, frightened. When she winced, Ethan knew that he must have been purple from Clinton’s grasp.

  “Is this the twin you loved?” Clinton asked her, preparing to snap Ethan’s neck.

  “I will shoot you!” she shouted at Clinton.

  Ethan flailed and thrashed, fighting for his life. Clinton struggled to hold his grip and grunted, “I don’t think you will—”

  Ethan slammed Clinton’s chin with an upper thrust, forcing him to fall back and release his grip. As Ethan gasped for air, Clinton dove for the gun. Ethan jumped on him and tried to wrestle the weapon arm down. Clinton headbutted him. Ethan went back. Clinton gripped the gun and—

  Ethan’s next move was pure instinct, and brilliant. He rolled away, pushed off his hands, and released a snap kick.

  He knew he made contact with Clinton’s face, and he saw the gun sliding across the marble floor. Clinton crawled after it, but Ethan lunged at him. They wrestled until Ethan finally overtook him, punching him senseless, until he heard Brooke’s voice: “Stop!”

  Ethan stopped. He climbed off Clinton, caught his breath, and wiped blood off his fists. Clinton was glaring up past him, a crooked smirk as if he had another surprise. “Go ahead…shoot me,” he gushed at his sister. “Finish this.”

  “Like you said,” she lowered her gun, “I can’t.”

  “Too bad.” Blood oozed from his mouth and he stared at her, raw puissance, pure hate. “I win. I’ve thought this through better than you.” He started to get up, but fell back, and then tried again.

  “You’re sick,” she cried. “Watching you self-destruct is like dying myself, and a part of me certainly has. I could have removed you like a cancerous limb long ago, but I always loved you. I always had hope for you.”

  “You’ll never turn this around. There’s evidence that proves that you killed Father—”

  “I didn’t do it!” she shrieked.

  “But I made it look like you did.” Clinton finally got to his feet and smiled. “And I’ll never confess.”

/>   “You just did,” she told him. “Everyone’s cell phone here records audio—”

  “No one will leave here with their cell phones.” He wiped more blood away. “No one will leave here alive.”

  Brooke shook her head. “That thing I replaced our family portrait with, on the mantel, which you called a ‘garish rabbit statue,’ also videotaped everything.”

  Clinton limped over to the mantel, grabbed the statue, and slammed it on the ground. The porcelain rabbit shattered into pieces. “Not anymore!”

  “That won’t make a difference. The digital tape goes through an app on my phone. It’s set to nine-one-one Mode, which means it’s already gone out.”

  No one had to ask where 911 Mode sent the video.

  “This wasn’t a game I ever wanted to play,” Brooke told Clinton. “But I win.”

  There was a car driving up the driveway, the headlights glimpsing through the still-open front door, certain to illuminate the fallen bodies on the lawn.

  “That’s the FBI,” Jack said, looking out the window, still gripping Ethan’s iPhone. “They must’ve tracked us here.”

  “They did,” Brooke explained. “I was able to hear their conversation because they have Bailey’s phone connected to…” She paused, knowing that her technology saved her life, but wishing she didn’t have to use it. “It’s all over,” she told Clinton. “There’s no way out now.”

  Clinton seethed with unbound rage.

  They heard car doors shut outside and turned. Clinton didn’t hesitate. He scrambled through the kitchen, and the back door shut behind him.

  Ethan went after him just as the FBI charged inside the house.

  “Freeze!” Agent Shu told Ethan, pointing a gun.

  “He’s getting away!” Ethan shouted back.

  “I told you to freeze—” Shu reiterated.

  Jack crawled out from behind the sofa and yelled, “We’ve both been shot! We need an ambulance!”