The List - A Thriller

by Konrath, J. A.

  “I just watched your speech to the Oversight Subcommittee on National Affairs, International Affairs, and Criminal Justice. Taped it off of C-SPAN.”

  “And?”

  “You looked fat. What have I told you about keeping that body fit?”

  “My schedule has been killer, Dad. I haven’t had time to hit the gym.”

  “Bullshit.” The irritation in his father’s voice was pronounced. “Spare me the busy crap. Cut out the four course lunches and get into shape. We’re going to make the cover of Time Magazine. You’d have us look like a bullfrog.”

  Phil took a deep breath before answering. “Government has changed since you’ve been in office, Dad. It’s all about lunches.”

  “So eat a goddamn salad. This isn’t a game, Junior. This is my dream. Our dream. Almost forty years in the making.”

  “Why don’t you give me a little credit, here? I’ve worked my ass off as much as you have. I’m the youngest Speaker ever elected to the House—”

  “Don’t forget how that happened, dear Phillip. Millions of dollars. My dollars. Sixty percent of Congress financed their campaigns on my money.”

  “It was more than that, Dad. As Chairman of the Steering Committee on Bipartisan Relations, I’ve been able to unite Republicans and Democrats on key issues like tax reforms, education—”

  His father snorted. “Spare me. That simpering, middle of the road attitude is about to change. This country doesn’t need a social lubricant in office. It needs a strong, determined leader. One who stands by his ideals, without bowing to special interests. Or to voters, for that matter. The President spends so much time trying to be popular, he forgot how to run the country. Other nations laugh at us, Junior.”

  “I know, Dad.” He’d heard the speech, many times. Hopefully, he wouldn’t get started on the Chinese.

  “That’s the whole point. To make being an American a source of pride once again. We’re the protector of the free world. During the Cold War, we were feared. Now, every little camel jockey with an oil rig thinks they can flip us the bird without repercussion. Not to mention the biggest threat to humanity ever to exist, the Communist Chinese—”

  “Dad, you’re preaching to the converted, here.”

  “We can never lose sight of it, Junior. Even with an unlimited supply of kidneys, neither of us will live forever. But our legacy can.”

  “I said that. We cannot live forever, but our legacy as Americans—”

  “Kudos to your speech writer, Junior. Speaking of which, have you got the speech for Thursday?”

  “I have it right in front of me.” Phil picked up the packet and flipped back to the first page. “It is in the times of greatest tragedy that we ourselves must also be great…”

  “I’d prefer to hear it live.”

  “It’s a good speech. Nice mix of outrage and strength.”

  “For what we’ve paid, it should be.”

  “There’s even a spot in it where I get a little choked up.”

  “What? Cut that.”

  “Why? It’s a great line. I stand here humbled at our loss. But no matter the blows this country takes, we will not be reduced to a nation in mourning…”

  “You’re not going to be humbled. Cut the line.”

  “But the people love—”

  “This isn’t about the people. The popularity contest is over. We’re not out for approval ratings, Junior. Cut out any line that even hints at weakness. I also want you to lose the double chin in the next two days.”

  “That’s impossible. Even if I starved myself…”

  “Good idea.”

  Phil bit back his reply. He didn’t kowtow to the old man, but he knew to pick his battles.

  “Consider the double chin gone.”

  “Excellent. I’m tired now, but we’ll talk soon.”

  “Get some rest, Dad.”

  Phil hung up and hit the intercom button.

  “Trixie, who am I having dinner with tonight?”

  “Those execs from Phillip Morris.”

  “Send them a rain check. Then see if the commissary is still open and find me a chef’s salad. Chicken, no dressing.”

  “Yes, Mr. Speaker.”

  Phil picked up a pencil and began to go through the speech, trimming any signs of weakness.

  America had been asleep too long, he thought. It was about to get a serious wake-up call.

  “And then I followed you to your assistant’s place, and you know the rest.”

  Joan couldn’t get her mind completely around it. Tom had told the story in a truthful, straightforward manner. He obviously believed it, and it did sort of explain their current situation.

  But Thomas Jefferson and Joan of Arc?

  “This is a lot to swallow.”

  The evening had gotten cooler, so Joan rolled up her window. She cursed herself for not grabbing a jacket when they’d stopped at her house—she’d assumed jeans and a sweater were enough. Santa Monica was built on the coast, and the cool ocean breeze could get downright bitter.

  “I’m not doubting your sincerity, but the story is so out there. I was cloned from the jawbone of a woman born six hundred years ago?”

  “Well, technically, you’re an exact genetic copy rather than a clone.”

  “Oh. That makes it a lot easier to buy.”

  Tom sighed and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Joan could sense his frustration, but there wasn’t much she could do. Even after hearing the long explanation, she couldn’t fully believe she was Joan of Arc. Tom was sincere as pie, but all delusional people were sincere.

  “The writing thing did it for me—having my writing be identical to Jefferson’s. I read somewhere that even if you try to disguise your handwriting, such as write with your opposite hand, the experts can still tell it’s you. It’s a mental thing. I wish there was some way to prove it to you.”

  “Well, sometimes I do hear the voice of St. Michael.”

  Tom gave her a sideways glance, and then smiled.

  “That’s a start. Do you like the French?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “How do you like your steak? Burned?”

  “Ouch. A burned at the stake pun. You just lost points.”

  Tom raised his eyebrows. “Really? I had points?”

  It was creeping up on dusk, the road becoming harder to see. Tom flipped on the headlights, then passed the car ahead of him even though it was a no passing zone. He was even more aggressive behind the wheel than she was. Joan didn’t know if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

  “You know what’s funny? That Joan of Arc movie came out a few years ago, and I turned down the script. I didn’t like the character.”

  Tom laughed. “If it makes a difference, I like the character.”

  “The plucky Hollywood producer, drawn into a web of conspiracy that tops her own movies?”

  “I think I’d call you spunky rather than plucky.”

  “Great. I’ll pitch it to Reese Witherspoon. Go east on Wilshire. We’re looking for 12th Street.”

  Tom hung a left, and they were confronted by a stop light. The streets were filled with people—walking, biking, blading, jogging, touristing. The affluence of the surrounding shops and buildings was reflected by the populace in their clothing, their attitude. Tom and Joan stared at a mime on the street corner, dressed in a hip tuxedo.

  “Is that mime wearing Armani?”

  Joan snorted. “Last year’s.”

  The light changed and Tom hit the gas.

  “I’m beginning to think California is one big resort.”

  “People come to LA for two reasons—to be a part of it or to get away from it.”

  “Why did you come?”

  “To get away.”

  “From?”

  “Hiko, Nevada. I had a real apple pie upbringing. Nice neighborhood, caring parents, perfect childhood.”

  “It sounds terrible.”

  Joan laughed. “It was nice. But without cha
llenge. A little conflict can be a good thing. So I moved out of Mayberry and came to Hollywood.”

  “So you didn’t arrive with dreams of making it big?”

  “Hell no. I arrived with dreams of poverty, struggle, and heartache. I wanted to test myself, see if I could survive. I was twenty-one. Got a job waiting tables, had a roommate who sold pot, spent a year throwing up in trendy clubs.”

  “Living your dream.”

  “Exactly.”

  “When did you go from outsider to insider?”

  “No one in this town does what they want. The businessmen want to write, the strippers want to act, writers and actors want to direct, the shop owners want to produce and the waiters want to be Kevin Smith. I worked with a few of those waiters. They needed money to make an independent film, I was pretty good with people, so I was able to get the money together. That’s all a producer does, basically.”

  “The movie was a hit?”

  “Hell no. Garbage. Didn’t even get festival play. But it sold well on video, we made some money, brought in better talent. Next thing I knew, I was a hotshot producer, making big bank, hobnobbing with Tom Cruise.”

  “How is Tom Cruise in real life?”

  “Short. He comes up to here.” Joan put her hand next to her neck.

  Tom laughed. He had a good laugh, deep and genuine. Without doing it intentionally, Joan went through her dating rules. Tom wasn’t in the business, and though he was attractive in a rough sort of way, he certainly wasn’t a pretty boy. Fair skinned meant no back hair, and she could tell he wasn’t the Speedo type. Joan would bet her business he wore boxers, and the only tight fitting thing in his wardrobe were his socks.

  “Here’s 12th street. Which way?”

  “North, I think.”

  “These are some nice houses. The copy writing business must be paying well.”

  No kidding. Joan had priced the area before buying in Beverly Hills. Some parts of the neighborhood were out of her range.

  As they drove, the homes became less impressive, and soon enough they were in the half a million dollar area.

  “It should be the next one on this side.”

  Tom pulled into a short driveway and parked next to a small, freestanding garage. A gas lamp illuminated the front lawn, and a porch light was on.

  “Should I bring the gun?” Joan went to open the glove compartment.

  “I’ve got mine. That should be enough.”

  They got out of the car and rang the bell.

  The first thing that struck Joan about the man who answered the door was his hair. It had receded back to the crown of his head, a classic example of male pattern baldness. But sprouting out of his scalp, lined up like rows of black corn, were the worst hair plugs she’d ever seen. It looked like someone had punched yak hair into his forehead with a fork.

  The second thing she noticed was that he bore an uncanny resemblance to Shakespeare—too much to have been coincidence. All he needed was one of those silly puffy collars.

  “What?” The man had a squeaky voice, and his expression was a picture of extreme irritation.

  “Bill Masterton?”

  “It’s my house. Who did you expect?”

  “I’m Detective Tom Mankowski, this is Joan DeVilliers. We need to talk to you.”

  Bill’s eyes got big. “The police?”

  “May we come in?”

  “I’m calling my lawyer.”

  Bill tried to slam the door but was unsuccessful. Tom’s foot had gotten in the way. Joan looked down and saw that there was still a tag on the shoes. After stopping at her house they’d hit a K-Mart, as Tom didn’t have a second pair with him.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Bill shoved at the door.

  Tom glanced both ways in a casual manner, then pushed his way in.

  “We don’t have time to screw around here, Bill. You’re in some serious danger.”

  “I want you to go. Now.”

  “We will, after you’ve heard our story. Please. This is life or death.”

  Bill scrunched his eyebrows and chewed his lip. In the foyer light, Joan could tell that the plugs were slightly darker than the rest of his hair. Whoever did that to him should be sued, and sued hard.

  “Okay, but make it fast. I have some stuff to do.”

  “Can we sit down somewhere?”

  Bill led them to the living room, which was like stepping into a billboard. Everything had a corporate logo on it. Nike lamps and Coke clocks and Bud Light chairs and a Camel card table and a big white couch that had McDonalds on the seat cushions. Plastered over every wall were ads, posters, banners, mockups, and packaging from hundreds of different products. Joan felt as if she were at a flea market.

  Bill shrugged. “I get a lot of free stuff.”

  Joan and Tom took the sofa. It seemed to be made of some kind of plastic.

  “You’re in advertising, right?”

  “I’m a writer. Mostly catch-lines. You know, like You deserve a break today, at McDonalds.”

  “You wrote that?”

  “No. But I’m working on something for the Trojan people right now. Booming industry, condoms. Lots of new markets opening up. I’ve got a great new tag.” Bill held up his hands, as if the words were appearing in the air in front of him. “The way to a man’s heart… is through his fly. Trojans. Good, huh?”

  “Makes me want to run out and buy a pack.”

  “So, what’s this life and death thing?” Bill asked.

  Tom laid out the bare bones of the story in the same way he’d done in the car. Rather than be incredulous, or even interested, Bill spent most of the explanation fidgeting and looking at the clock.

  “Here.” Tom opened up his black binder and handed Bill a pad of paper and a pen. “Write a few sentences.”

  “Because it’s supposed to match Shakespeare’s writing?”

  “It will. It sounds crazy, but you’ll see.”

  “I think I’ll get some coffee first. Either of you for coffee?”

  “Uh, sure. I’ll take a cup.”

  Bill got off the chair and left the living room. Tom turned to Joan.

  “Was he following anything I said?”

  “It didn’t seem like it. To be honest, I don’t like him much.”

  “That’s because he’s a creep. But he sure looks like Shakespeare.”

  “Exactly. Except for those hair plugs.”

  “Is that what they are? I thought he stapled a porcupine to his forehead.”

  Joan put her hand over her mouth while she laughed. “Isn’t it bad? The color doesn’t even match.”

  “Maybe he did it himself. Do they sell kits?”

  Joan got an image of the unpleasant little man sitting in front of a mirror, stapling hair into his own head. She laughed so hard she snorted.

  “I assume you have a gun, Tom. Take it out and put it on the floor.”

  Joan’s laughter died in her throat. Bill had come back into the room. Instead of coffee, he was holding a nickel plated revolver. It was pointed in her face. She cast a frantic look at Tom, who seemed just as surprised as she did.

  “I said take it out.” Bill walked behind Joan and pressed the gun to her head. The experience was humbling. Her entire world became a small spot just above the nape of her neck, cold and hard. She could almost feel the direction the bullet would take, traveling up through her skull, exiting above her right ear.

  Tom reached into his jacket and took out his gun, holding it by the butt. He placed it on the floor.

  “You’re in on it.” Tom’s voice was even.

  “No shit. You sure you’re not the Einstein clone? Now stand up, slowly. We’re all going into the kitchen.”

  “What’s the reason?” Tom asked. “Money?”

  “You idiot. Of course it’s not the money. The money is awesome, sure, but it’s more than that. Now move.”

  Bill held Joan back while Tom walked a few steps ahead. His free hand was around her neck, cupped under her chin. The
fact that every thought in her head might be her last made her knees knock. It was worse than being attacked, worse than finding the bugs in her house, it was even worse than getting shot at.

  “Those people are horrible.” Joan tried to keep the quaver out of her voice. “Why would you want to be on their side?”