Payback

by Gordon Korman

  She’s got no answer for that.

  Two pointless, wasted hours later, we give up and leave the library.

  I slam my fist into a mailbox. “I didn’t spend two days on a train to not find my guy!”

  Amber sighs. “If his address isn’t in that library, it’s nowhere. The only people who know where Gus Alabaster is are his neighbors, poor unfortunate souls. I’ll bet it was a nasty shock to them to look out the window and see the psychopath next door moving back in.”

  I stop in my tracks. “You know, that’s not exactly true. Somebody else knows where he is—somebody who should be pretty easy to find.”

  “Who?”

  “The cops. He has to inform the police of his whereabouts at all times—it said that in the newspaper.”

  She stares at me. “You’ve got to be joking! We can’t go to the police. For all we know, Project Osiris has put out a bulletin about us across the whole country!”

  “It’s still a risk we have to take,” I argue. “Yeah, Osiris might have reported us—but that was over a thousand miles away. We’re no more likely to show up in Chicago than we are in Seattle, or Miami, or Bangor, Maine. We’ll use fake names, and if any cop gets too nosy, we’ll get out of there.”

  She’s not convinced. “But why would the Chicago Police Department give out confidential information to two random kids just because they ask for it?”

  “Because we’re not random,” I explain. “I’m Gus’s long-lost son, and I’ve come to say an emotional good-bye to my dying father before he bites it.”

  “But Gus Alabaster doesn’t have a son,” she points out.

  “That’s the long-lost part. And everybody has to believe me because of the family resemblance. I must look like him. I am him.” I add, “You don’t have to come with me.”

  “Oh, I’m coming with you, all right,” she says quickly. “Someone has to keep you out of trouble.”

  We’ve been to a police station before—in Denver, soon after we escaped from Happy Valley. We were so clueless back then. We’re wiser now, but it’s still scary to see all those squad cars parked outside and all those uniforms coming and going. We’re still not sure where we stand in the outside world. Human cloning is illegal, but does that mean it’s against the law to be a clone? We can’t even be positive that we count as 100 percent human.

  It’s the busiest place I’ve ever seen in my life, noisier even than the train station, with an underlying thrumming caused by hundreds of fingers on computer keyboards. We sit in the waiting room next to some guy who has an arrow through his forearm—I kid you not. There are people in expensive suits and people in rags. One older man is wrapped in what looks like a kind of homemade diaper. A girl about college age is swatting at imaginary flies. Everybody’s sweating. It doesn’t smell so great in here. Then again, Laska and I are probably pretty rancid ourselves after two days on a train. We’re still wearing the same clothes we washed down the river in, and wind-dried on top of a speeding camper.

  When I finally get called, I give my name as Bryan Jackson—Bryan after the Purple People Eater who is married to our old water polo coach, and Jackson after Jackson Hole, Wyoming, where Tamara Dunleavy lives. I’m trying to give my story to a desk sergeant who is about as interested as a hibernating bear. The only time his ears perk up is when I drop the name Gus Alabaster.

  “You mean the gangster?”

  “He’s my father,” I resume the telling, “even though we’ve never met. He doesn’t even know I exist. Mom only told me I was his son when she read that he hasn’t got long to live.”

  The desk sergeant stops making notes and looks up at me. “What exactly is the nature of your complaint?”

  “I’m not complaining about anything. I just need Gus Alabaster’s address so I can go over there and meet him before he dies.”

  “So no actual crime has been committed,” he concludes.

  I shake my head. “No crime. I just need the address.”

  “We don’t do that here. Sorry, kid. Next!”

  Diaper Man gets up and heads for the desk. What can I do? I turn to walk away, utterly defeated. But before I can take a step, Laska rushes over and pushes me back into the chair.

  “Aren’t you going to help him?” she shrills at the desk sergeant, her face flaming bright red. “Don’t you even care?”

  The cop leans back in his chair. “And you are?”

  “All he wants to do is have a moment with his dying father!” Tears—real tears—are streaming down her cheeks. “And there’s a time limit for that, you know!”

  The desk sergeant’s half-closed eyes pop wide open. He’s probably seen it all working this job, but a crying girl turns out to be the one thing he doesn’t know what to do with. And I’ve got to hand it to Laska. As soon as she sees she’s spooking the guy, she switches on the full waterworks.

  He hustles to his feet. “Uh—follow me.”

  And we’re led into an interview room.

  “Listen,” I whisper when we’re alone. “When the next guy comes, let me do all the talking, okay?”

  She’s insulted. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d be out on the street now!”

  “And you were awesome,” I agree. “But from here on in it’s my show.”

  “Fine,” she concedes.

  I can’t help noticing that after all that sobbing, her eyes are completely dry.

  Eventually, a plainclothes officer with a bushy mustache comes in and sits down opposite us. “I’m Detective Rollins, OCU—that’s Organized Crime Unit. Now what’s all this about you wanting to see Gus Alabaster?”

  “He’s my dad,” I tell him. “I just found out. And if I don’t see him soon, I’ll never get a chance.” Remembering Amber’s success, I act as emotional as I can. I even try to squeeze out a tear or two, but it doesn’t happen. It’s my Alabaster DNA working against me.

  The cop folds his arms and peers at me. “Does your mother know you’re here?”

  The question catches me off guard. My mother—the scientist who pretended to be my mother. She loved me. I know it. She did a lousy thing with Project Osiris, but I’m positive she came to love the poor little clone they gave her to raise.

  Detective Rollins pops a tissue out of a box and hands it to me. I’m bewildered for a moment. Then I realize that I’m crying, just like Amber did before. Only with me, it’s the real thing.

  “Want me to call her for you?” the cop persists.

  I shake my head, dabbing at my eyes.

  Rollins nods. “I get it. Your mom hits you with this bombshell, but she won’t take you to him. So you and your little friend here set out to go find him on your own. Is that about right?”

  I have myself back under control, because I’ve got to be ready for what comes next. This guy Rollins is no dope, and if he asks for my mother’s name, address, or telephone number, I’ve got to be careful what I say.

  Instead, he says, “I can’t tell you what you want to know.”

  Amber speaks up for the first time. “Why not?”

  Rollins stays focused on me. “Look, kid, for what it’s worth, I believe you. I’ve pulled some of the old mug shots on Alabaster, and you could be the guy’s twin. But it’s department policy. We can’t pass out confidential information.”

  “Not even to immediate family?” Amber wheedles.

  He’s still talking just to me. “Listen, you really want to meet Gus Alabaster? Talk to your mom. She’ll contact his people. If he wants to see you, he’ll set up a meeting.” He pauses. “But if you really want to do yourself a favor, forget you ever found out he’s your father. He’s a bad guy.”

  We walk out of there, dragging our feet. Laska feels so bad for me that she slips her hand into mine. I drop it like a hot potato. I don’t need consolation; I need an address. Otherwise we came all the way to Chicago for nothing.

  We’re just outside the precinct house when the original desk sergeant comes waddling through the double doors, his handcuffs clinking at his b
elt. He hands me a folded scrap of paper.

  When I regard him questioningly, he mumbles, “My old man passed when I was about your age.”

  I look at the paper. There are two words on it: RAMSEY ROAD.

  “Alabaster’s address!” Laska whispers, her voice tense with excitement.

  “But what number?” I call.

  “Don’t worry.” He tosses the answer over his shoulder without turning around. “You’ll know.”

  The desk sergeant is right. The minute the taxi makes the turn onto Ramsey Road, we do know.

  Ramsey is a short street in northwest Chicago, lined with small, neat, wood-frame homes. Midway down the block, on what must be four regular lots, someone has built the Taj Mahal. Well, not really, but it’s a gigantic stone mansion that overshadows everything else around it.

  “It’s that house over there,” I direct the driver. “The big one.”

  “Kind of stands out in the neighborhood,” the guy observes.

  “Yeah.” I’m strangely proud of the place, almost like I built it myself.

  “Tasteless” is Laska’s opinion.

  “Are you crazy? It must be worth a fortune!”

  “No one needs a house that big,” she says disapprovingly. “And it’s even worse to put it on a modest little street to rub it in people’s faces how much richer he is than everybody else.”

  “That’s the whole point of being rich,” I explain patiently. “What good is it if nobody’s jealous?”

  We pay for the taxi, noting that we don’t have enough money left for a return ride downtown. If Alabaster kicks us out, we’re going to have to find a bus or something. It’s kind of pointless to worry about transportation when you’ve got nowhere to go anyway. This out-of-place palace—and the sick gangster inside it—is our only lead.

  The sun is setting, so we’re in the shadow of the house as we start up the front walk. It’s also the tallest home around, not just the biggest. There are two slightly overdressed men in their twenties sitting at a table on the porch, playing cards. Spying us, they interrupt their game and stand.

  Beside me, Laska intones, “These guys don’t seem the type who’ll believe us when we tell them about Project Osiris.”

  “Good point,” I agree. “I’m going to stick with the long-lost-son story until we get to see Alabaster himself.”

  When we reach the steps between two huge stone lions, the men get up and block our way. “Private property, kids,” says the taller one.

  There’s something about the way he says it—flat, disinterested, yet there’s no question that it’s a threat. Like it makes no difference to him whether or not he has to drag me, kicking and screaming, back to the sidewalk. For some reason, it doesn’t scare me, not even when I notice the bulge in his sports jacket that’s probably a holstered gun.

  “We’re here to see Mr. Alabaster,” Amber announces.

  “That’s not going to happen,” the shorter guard deadpans.

  “It’s important,” I say. “Tell him it’s his son.”

  The two look at each other. “Nice try. The boss has got no kids.”

  “He has me. He just doesn’t know it yet. I only found out myself a few days ago.” I add, “How do you think Mr. Alabaster will feel if he finds out you sent away his only son?”

  They withdraw a few steps and hold a whispered conversation.

  “Wait here,” the taller one orders, and disappears into the house.

  He returns a few minutes later with an older man, a bald guy in shirtsleeves, who sees me, and halts in his tracks. “Holy—” He catches himself. “Excuse my French. You look just like him.”

  The guards stare at him in amazement, and he snaps, “Idiots! You think the boss was always old and sick? This kid’s the spitting image! What’s your name, son?”

  “Bryan Jackson,” I say, going back to the story I used at the police station. “And this is Amber, my—friend.”

  “She stays here,” the bald guy decides. “Tommy, get her a lemonade or something. Bryan, follow me.”

  And I’m on my way to meet the notorious gangster whose DNA was the blueprint for me.

  The house has fifteen-foot ceilings and was decorated by somebody who really liked gold. There are huge gold-framed mirrors and a spiral staircase with a gold banister, topped by a chandelier of shiny crystal and gold. It’s super-fancy, but even I can tell that it’s over the top.

  Baldy escorts me into a gigantic sitting room with— guess what—gold wallpaper and gold drapery on the windows. At the far end there’s an old man in a wheelchair surrounded by medical equipment—tubes, wires, and a heart monitor flashing graphs and numbers. A uniformed nurse stands at a discreet distance.

  My first thought is: No way this is Gus Alabaster! He’s nothing like the pictures from the newspaper files! The man looks a hundred years old, feeble, and so skinny that his head is just a skin-wrapped skull. Then it occurs to me—they don’t let healthy people out of jail on compassionate grounds. This person is at death’s door. I don’t doubt he’s a bad guy like the cop said. But I can’t help feeling sorry for him.

  We come closer and Baldy performs the introduction. “Boss—this is the kid. This is Bryan.”

  The old man looks me up and down. To my shock, I recognize his eyes, even though they’re red-rimmed and bloodshot. They’re my eyes.

  In a papery voice, he asks, “Who’s your mother?”

  It’s the one question I’m not prepared for. My mind is whirling with plans on how I’m going to get to the subject of DNA and clones and Project Osiris. It never occurred to me that I’d have to back up the lie that originally got me in the door. But if I hit him with all that clone stuff now, he’ll think I’m a crackpot and have me thrown out. Or worse.

  No. The only way to make this work is to stick with the long-lost-son story until I’m comfortable enough with him to give the old guy the truth.

  Fighting panic, I channel Tori, the best natural liar I know. She always said in order to sound natural, you use as much of the truth as you can. “Ellen Jackson,” I manage, using the first name of my Serenity mother.

  “Got a picture?”

  “Not with me.”

  He frowns. “I don’t remember her.”

  A loud bark makes me jump. A large German shepherd lopes into the room, galloping straight for me. I’m thinking I’m dead—that Alabaster gets rid of all his fake children by feeding them to this monster. The dog leaps and I put up my hands in a futile attempt to protect myself.

  The shepherd lands with a huge paw on each of my shoulders and proceeds to lick my face, his grizzled muzzle tickling my chin, his tail wagging.

  A weak cackle comes from the wheelchair. “You’re family, all right. Counselor hates everybody.”

  As if to prove this point, the dog stops licking me for a moment to throw a contemptuous bark at Baldy.

  “He was just a pup when I got him,” Alabaster goes on. “He’s an old man now, with one foot in the grave—not that I’m anyone to talk. But he remembered me, even after fourteen years in the can. Half licked my face off. Almost took out all these tubes and wires and contraptions.”

  The dog is sliming me big-time, and he doesn’t smell so great either. I’m afraid to twist away though, because the old gangster seems to think this is proof we’re related. Right now, I might be the only person in the world who knows that a dog can’t tell the difference between you and your clone. So, in your face, Project Osiris. You may be the scientists, but I scooped you on this.

  Nobody had any pets in Happy Valley, except for the occasional lizard or scorpion in a bottle. That never struck me as weird until this minute. Maybe Osiris felt that animals would interfere with their precious experiment, like being slobbered on by some mutt might bring out the criminal mastermind in your personality.

  Baldy finally comes to my rescue, grabbing the dog by the back of the collar and pulling him off me. Counselor nearly bites his head off. “You’d think he’d be a little more grateful by
now. I’ve only been feeding him for fourteen years.”

  “Loyalty,” Alabaster approves.

  “More like fear.” The words are out before I have a chance to think about what I’m saying.

  They stare at me.

  “You know—” I backpedal. The damage is already done, so I’ve got no choice but to finish the thought and hope for the best. “Because it’s no good for your health to be the guy who got rid of the boss’s dog.”

  Baldy is regarding me in genuine horror, and I’m thinking I’ve really blown it. I’ve insulted Chicago’s toughest mobster in his own home. Best-case scenario, I’ll be thrown out, and so much for any chance of learning about the early days of Project Osiris. And that’s if I’m lucky. If I’m unlucky—my mind returns to that cop from the Organized Crime Unit: He’s a bad guy. A bad guy who knows he’s dying, which means he’s got nothing to lose.

  All at once, Alabaster brays a raspy laugh that finishes in spasm of coughs. “I love this kid, Lenny! Where’d you find him?”

  Baldy—Lenny—manages a slight shrug while struggling to restrain the dog. “He and his girlfriend just walked in off the street.”

  “Girlfriend?” Alabaster grins, stretching his pale skin even tighter across the bones of his face. “You’re even more like me than me! A regular chip off the old block!”

  I cringe. He can’t know how close that is to the truth. A chip off the old block—as in they took a chip off him to make me. Aloud, I tell him, “She’s not my girlfriend.”

  He doesn’t believe me. “That’s exactly what I would have said. Don’t snow me, Bryan. You’re talking to the master. How old are you?”

  “Fifteen,” I lie. I’m actually thirteen, but it has to make sense that he could have fathered me before going in to prison.

  “Where are you from?”

  “New Mexico,” I reply, sticking to Tori’s maximum truth rule. “I never knew who my real father was until my mom heard on TV that you were—about your medical situation.”

  “That I’m about to croak,” the old gangster amends. “Pointless to sugarcoat it.”

  “I wanted to meet you, and she said no,” I go on. “So I took off.”