Spitting Image

by Patrick LeClerc

  We arrived at the pharmacy shortly.

  “OK, what the fuck’s that all about?” he asked as we pulled into the parking lot. We couldn’t see the entrance very clearly because of parked cars, just the top half of the doors. The automatic doors were opening wide, then closing halfway, then opening again.

  “Got me,” I said. “Maybe the emergency was for the door guy.”

  The mystery was solved when we got our bags out of the truck and walked to the building to find a man sprawled in the entryway. The automatic doors kept trying to close and bumping open on his prostrate form.

  “Hey, look,” I said. “It’s Ronnie.”

  “Either that, or Kenny Rogers has let himself go,” said Pete.

  Ronnie Bartlett was a drunk, which was not generally a big deal, but he also had a seizure disorder. That didn’t make him a bad person, either, but when he drank, he didn’t take his seizure meds, and that made our lives difficult.

  “Ronnie.” Pete prodded the man with his foot.

  “He’s out,” I said. I squatted down and looked in his mouth, then checked his pulse. He wasn’t choking on blood or vomit, he was breathing slow and deep and his pulse was strong and steady. “Grab the cot. I’ll throw a line in him in case he seizes again and we’ll drive him up to the General.”

  We got him out into the truck, I checked him over. Nothing more than the usual results of his many poor life choices. So I started an IV and sat back and enjoyed the ride, breathing in the alcoholic fumes coming off him.

  Really dedicated alcoholics smell like that all the time. It’s not as simple as booze on the breath. It oozes from their pores. It’s not even all that unpleasant, when placed on the spectrum of smells encountered in the back of an ambulance.

  We dropped Ronnie off at the ER, to the delight of the staff, I’m sure. I sat at the EMS desk to write the report and Pete headed through the waiting room, heading for the bathroom.

  “That’s for patient use only,” said one of the secretaries.

  “Sweetheart, you have no idea how patiently I’m gonna use it,” he replied, snagging a magazine off a table on his way.

  I stared at my report. I was happy in a way that it had been a routine call. I could treat drunks like Ronnie in my sleep. Good thing, since my brain was too busy torturing me with images of Sarah with somebody else.

  I was sure it wasn’t real. Mostly sure. She was safely in hiding someplace, avoiding the college Wasn’t she?

  It was like watching a stage magician. You know he didn’t really make the volunteer from the audience disappear. But part of you wondered. Looked in vain for any sign of a trick.

  But it was so convincing. Even knowing they could do that, it was hard to totally discount what I’d seen.

  And, assuming it was staged, why? Were they trying to goad me into doing something stupid? Just firing a shot across the bow, letting me know they could mess with me any time they wanted? Or, even worse, were they going to sabotage Sarah’s reputation or career, and wanted me to see them do it? Just to show me they meant business, and to hammer home just how easily they could hurt me, and hurt the people I cared about?

  First things first, I decided. The fact that I was dealing with shapeshifters meant I couldn’t trust what I’d seen. I’d have to verify, double check before I went off half cocked.

  That was a good rule of thumb anyway. How many of Shakespeare’s tragedies could have been resolved happily if the protagonists had made certain before believing a rumor. Or just learned to check a pulse. But old Bill had known the human impulse for knee jerk reactions. Probably why his work still spoke to people after four centuries.

  I sighed and pulled out my phone. I hesitated a moment, Sarah wanted time to think, without me bothering her, but this was important. This could be a real threat, if they were messing with me again.

  I scrolled down to her number and pushed the button.

  She waited three rings to pick up, which was a long time for her.

  “What’s up?” she asked, her voice flat, terse.

  “Where are you right now?” I asked.

  “Sean, this really isn’t going to work like that.”

  “No, wait. I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t important. I’m looking into things, making sure you’re not in danger, and I need to know.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “This seems a little stalker-y.”

  “You’ve been with me in tough spots before. And I got us through. I need you to trust me. I know when to be paranoid. Actually, just tell me if you’re at the college.”

  I heard a heavy sigh. “Fine. I’m not at school. I’m safe. Far away.”

  “So you’re not at the school? And you weren’t there earlier today?”

  “No. This is my day off. You know that.”

  I didn’t hear any hesitation, any subtle attempt to fake a casual answer. She sounded genuinely surprised that I’d ask that.

  “We got a call at the school,” I said. “An anonymous, third party call for an emergency that wasn’t there. When we got there I saw you. Or somebody who wanted to look like you. I think it’s possible that the call was a fake to get me out there so I could see you and do something stupid.”

  “Really?”

  “You were walking into the library,” I said. “Call somebody who works in that building and check if they saw you. Who knows what else they wanted people to see you doing?”

  “Jesus,” she said. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll have to do something tomorrow. I’m stuck here for twenty-four. But this can’t go on. They’re just messing with me now. But there’s nothing to stop them walking into a bank with my face on, robbing the place and smiling at the security camera on the way out.”

  “Sean,” her voice softened. “I’m sorry. Please be careful. Do what you have to. Call me if you need my help.”

  “Thanks,” I said, the tightness in my chest easing a bit.

  “And take care of yourself.”

  “You too,” I replied, ending the call.

  I was still holding the phone, staring into space, when Pete returned from the bathroom.

  “You aren’t done writing up that run yet?” he asked. “Christ’s sake, it’s Ronnie. Just cut and paste the info from the last six times we took him this month.”

  “Sorry. Just preoccupied.”

  “No problem,” he said. “I got you. Let’s get out of here and try to grab some coffee before the city throws up on itself again.”

  Chapter 11

  THE ALARM ON MY PHONE startled me awake. Quitting time. After lying down at 6:30, I’d fallen into a deep sleep, bone tired, mentally ragged and physically used up. I came up scrabbling to turn off the alarm, confused as to where I was, barely able to speak English.

  I sat up and looked blearily around. Pete was rolling up his sleeping bag. “You may want to get your wits about you before you go into the garage.”

  “Hrmmgh?” I inquired.

  “The Minute Man is here,” he smirked. “At six- fifty- nine on the dot, like the one way piece of shit he is. And he’s bitching about the state of the truck. I walked away because it was that or slap him.”

  I processed this, swung my feet over the side of the couch and waited a moment for the fog to clear. I didn’t want to talk to Adam Armstrong with anything less than a clear head. He had the kind of voice that made everything he said sound like “please punch me in the face,” and he was a Minute Man. Any EMT or medic who consistently punched in at the last minute. It’s considered disrespectful and basically a dick move. We’re an emergency truck. We can’t go home until we’re relieved, and if a call comes in at six-fifty-five, at the end of a twenty four hour shift in this busy, brutal, idealism grinding hole of a city, unless our relief is here we own it, and we get out late. Part of being a decent member of the band of misfits is showing up fifteen minutes to half an hour early so your comrades don’t get screwed. Armstrong never learned that.

  “What’s his issue?�
� I asked.

  Pete shrugged. “He was bitching about some mess in the truck. I wasn’t really listening. It was ready to do calls. I restocked it after that last run an hour ago. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna sweep the floor after the day we had.”

  “You tell him that?”

  “More or less. I unzipped my pants and told him to state his complaints clearly into the microphone.”

  “So long as you kept it classy,” I groaned as I stood. Half an hour’s sleep hadn’t made much of a dent in the fatigue of the day. The numb, cold feeling in my chest reasserted itself as my mind cleared. I had more important things to worry about than Armstrong.

  I pulled on my boots and clomped out to the garage. I saw Big Juan and gave him a smile and a handshake. He pulled me in for a one armed hug. “How’s it going, Homes?”

  “You know,” I said, “if the city is gonna screw us, you’d think it would buy us dinner and give us a kiss first.”

  “Rough night, ‘mano?”

  “Four calls after midnight.”

  He whistled. “Go home and get some sleep.”

  “On my list. Here,” I unclipped the narcotics keys from my belt loop and held them out to him.

  “I got Pete’s already,” he said.

  I sighed. I had really hoped to avoid his partner.

  I walked to the truck and stuck my head in the open side door. “Narc keys.”

  Adam took the keys, then started his carefully rehearsed rant. “I already yelled at your partner,” he said. “Now I’m gonna yell at you.”

  I sighed and braced myself.

  “This truck is disgusting.”

  “We did seventeen calls yesterday,” I said as calmly as I could. “Four after midnight. We got back at six thirty. We replaced the equipment. You’re operational.”

  “It’s a disgrace.”

  “You’re a disgrace,” I pointed out. “At least the truck has an excuse.”

  I heard laughter from the back of the ambulance. Looking around Armstrong’s suety form, I saw Samantha, the same new EMT who had been riding with Nique and me. Great. Squabbling in front of the rookie. Way to set an example.

  “There are electrode backings all over the floor, the trash barrel needs to be emptied, and the whole thing needs to be washed.”

  Really? He was worried about the peel-off backing from the electrodes? “Dude. We got raped all shift. I’m not sweeping a truck at six in the morning. This is Philips Mills. This truck gets hammered. Especially at night. It was trashed yesterday when I came in, and the crew was unconscious.”

  “So do your job and check the truck and clean it,” he said.

  I saw red creeping into the edges of my vision.

  “Do my job? Do you know what I did yesterday? First of all, I got here early, because I give a shit about the exhausted crew I’m relieving. Then, since I was coming in fresh, I cleaned and stocked the ambulance. And I ran around all day doing calls, more than you’ve ever done in a day because I clear from the fucking hospital when I drop off a patient and don’t sit all day milking my report and leave the other trucks to take up my slack.”

  I realized I was getting heated, and that never changes things for the better, just gets me in trouble. I tried to force down my anger. In many times and many places, smacking him for pushing my buttons would have been accepted, tacitly if not explicitly, but in this day and age it would mean at least a suspension, maybe loss of my job, maybe even charges. I swallowed and tried to focus, to be reasonable.

  “I’ll even hang out for half and hour and help you wash this beast. We fueled it. We restocked the supplies. If it had been bloody I’d have mopped it out. But there’s no way on God’s green Earth I’m going to sweep up the backings from the EKG stickies after twenty-three hours of getting my ass handed to me.”

  “Well, then you better get used to being written up every week,” he said.

  Something broke inside me. A red mist filled my vision. Armstrong was stupid and lazy and full of himself and no medic with less than five years on the streets has any business barking at me like that, and it was the worst type of spoiled brat cowardice to threaten to run to management with a write up for something that petty. So he deserved some of my anger.

  But he didn’t really deserve all of it.

  I grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him back against the side of the ambulance. Every ounce of worry about Caruthers’ clan and loss of Sarah and fatigue of the long, thankless shift and every itch on every square inch of skin from twenty-four hours in a sweaty uniform boiled over.

  I saw his eyes widen as I leaned in close, forcing my words through clenched teeth. Only an act of will kept me from trying to beat his nose out the back of his head.

  “Listen to me, you one-way, seven- oh- one piece of shit. I was working bloody trauma before you learned not to piss your own pants, and I showed vast restraint by not choking you out five minutes ago, but if you ever,” I shook him, just so he didn’t miss my point, “ever go and cry to mommy about me I will fucking end you.”

  I released him with a shove, spun on my heel and walked out.

  The whole thing had been cathartic. I felt cleansed. Whole. Satisfied.

  I was almost certainly screwed.

  Chapter 12

  I WALKED INTO THE APARTMENT like a zombie. I was numb. Emotionally paralyzed. I was at a total loss as to what to do.

  You’ve been through worse, part of me said. But that was different. The worst times, I was just trying to survive. Trying to escape. To talk or sneak or shoot my way out of a mess. And while it was terrifying, and not something I wanted to do again any time soon, it never lasted very long, and was nothing that quick reflexes, and a quicker tongue, paired with a well honed nose for danger couldn’t get me through.

  This was bad. I probably wasn’t going to get shot or hanged, but there wasn’t going to be a quick escape. I wasn’t looking for the opening, trying to get clear of the catastrophe, I was trying to solve a problem and resolve issues for Sarah. I didn’t know if I ever could. I didn’t even know what other dangers were lurking in the shadows.

  I suppose nobody really knows, but most people have to contend with things like infidelity or alcoholism or somebody getting religion, or chronically fired. Sarah had been beaten up once and kidnapped once. And, maybe kinda had been cheated on, but that wasn’t my fault.

  It occurred to me that while I would have to be cautious of everyone, make sure they were who I thought they were, my friends hadn’t gotten the warning. One of these people could pass as me and ask a favor, find out information or lead them into an ambush. Or even just do something awful and blacken my name.

  I called Pete.

  “Sean!” he answered. “You ok, man?”

  “I’ll live. I’m going to be away for a few days. I just wanted to give you a heads up.”

  “You’re not gonna threaten me, are you?”

  I ignored the jab. “I just wanted to warn you, somebody might try to talk to you, saying it’s me. Or maybe posing as somebody else you know.” Damn. This was complicated. The more I thought, the more possibilities for bad things seemed to open up. “I guess...you should ...we should maybe...”

  “Why don’t I come over,” he said. “You can beat around the bush and stare into the middle distance and agonize while I drink beer and watch your struggle. That loses so much over the phone.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll call Nique. She should hear this too.”

  I called Nique and she agreed to come over as well. Soon they were both sitting in my living room.

  “So what’s going on?” asked Pete. “I mean, apart from you losing your shit on Armstrong. Is it that dickhead we saw yesterday at the college with your girlfriend?”

  “It’s more than that,” I said. “You remember the trouble last winter?”

  “You mean the drug dealing supervillains who tried to kill us all?” he said. “No, I’d totally forgotten, because shit like that happens all the time.”

&nb
sp; “Be nice,” said Nique.

  “Easy for you to say. Nobody cut your throat.”

  “I’m sure there are plenty of reasons people would cut your throat that have nothing to do with Sean.”

  “There are some more old friends after me.” Both Pete and Nique had been with me last year when Doors and his gang of teleporting drug dealers had tried to settle a centuries-old vendetta. They knew what I could do, so they weren’t going to just dismiss the idea of strange powers.

  “Terrific,” said Pete. “What can these guys do?”

  “They can look like anybody. Imitate anybody. So if I ask you for something, be sure it’s really me.”

  “You’re not trying to tell me it was your evil twin who threatened Armstrong, are you?” asked Nique.

  “Oh no,” I assured her. “That was all me.”

  “I thought so,” she replied. “It can’t be easy to fake that level of boneheaded disregard for your career and financial well-being.”

  “Love you too, partner.”

  “What did you do to piss these guys off?” asked Pete.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be? You didn’t try to hand them a dirty truck, did you?”

  “One of them wants my genes. My longevity and healing ability for the family. So she posed as Sarah and tried to get me to...inseminate her.”

  “So far, so good,” said Pete. “You have a bullet proof defense. ‘I thought it was you, babe.’ That’s a win-win. How’d you screw that up?”

  “They put Sarah in danger, and I don’t like to be manipulated. I think I may have escalated things.”

  I heard him sigh. “Man, I wish I had your problems. So this chick looked like Sarah?”

  “I don’t think her mother would have spotted the difference.”

  “And she could look like anybody?”

  “Yes.”

  “Damn. That’s the jackpot. This is better than a girl who’ll dress up like a cheerleader or a cop. She could be the whole Victoria’s Secret Catalogue. Not just the lingerie even, but the models! You could actually say ‘for my birthday, could you be Raquel Welch circa 1975?’ She could be a different smoking hot woman every night.” He was silent for a moment. “She doesn’t want some sperm from a better looking medic, does she?”