Mr. Real

by Carolyn Crane

  “You have questions about Alix,” Sir Kendall added.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I can tell you, you’re not missing much.”

  Paul looked at him straight on. “I’m not asking you about Alix.” What he meant was, don’t talk about her.

  “Word to the wise, old chap,” Sir Kendall said lazily, “I find if you spin her around and take her from behind you can ignore what a desperate and ridiculous whore she is.”

  In a flash, Paul had Sir Kendall up against the bookcase by his collar.

  “Laughable, really, that you think you can understand me.” Sir Kendall spoke in a low voice. “You’ll continue to underestimate me and my resources at your own risk. I have you beaten in ways you can’t even begin to understand.”

  Paul tightened his grip on Sir Kendall’s collar. “You’ve got nothing.” This was all wrong, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  Sir Kendall’s laughter felt like a blade in Paul’s belly. “I daresay not.”

  “No, it’s true,” Paul continued. “You have no idea how nothing you have. How utterly nothing. In fact, your position is so completely that of having nothing that even if you were told the truth, you wouldn’t be able to comprehend it—your mind literally wouldn’t be able to grasp the level of nothingness that you are.”

  Sir Kendall laughed. “Or you could try a paper bag over her head while you fuck her. Makes her seem less the tart.”

  Paul tightened his grip.

  Sir Kendall’s eyes looked bright, as though he was bracing for a blow.

  Paul froze. He knew that look—he knew it from the inside out. He’d worn that look. The bright stare. A look that said, go ahead, you can’t hurt me. A look that lied.

  “She’ll let you do most anything,” Sir Kendall continued. “There is that.”

  Paul just stared, consumed with a new emotion—a flash of…what? Pity? Compassion? When he tried to catch it, it was gone.

  But he’d had the scent of something, and that was enough. Some kind of weird connection. He loosened his grip, straightened Sir Kendall’s collar. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “But you should keep those thoughts to yourself.”

  Sir Kendall watched him, amused.

  “What are you boys up to?” Alix beelined in with three bowls of ice cream.

  “Discussing your wares,” Sir Kendall said.

  “You have an awesome selection of movies.” Paul said as Sir Kendall settled himself gallantly back onto the couch.

  Something had happened, shifted. Paul didn’t understand it, didn’t even know if it related to the ‘getting inside’ business, but it meant something. He was sure of it.

  He could do this.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  At three-thirty a.m. Sir Kendall was still working feverishly to assemble the primitive radio from the parts he’d bought at various stores. He trusted none of the off-the-shelf technology here. Even the computer at the coffee shop—nothing had come of his entreaties. Phone calls, emails…it was as if he were trapped in a closed-communications biosphere. Almost as if he were on another planet.

  Or worse.

  Sir Kendall pondered what Paul had said: “Your position is so completely that of having nothing that even if you were told the truth, you wouldn’t be able to comprehend it—your mind literally wouldn’t be able to grasp that level of nothingness that you are.”

  Sir Kendall had laughed loudly at that, but the laugh hadn’t been real; his soul had simply needed to make some sort of loud sound.

  In truth, he felt more desperate than ever, especially in the face of Paul’s desire for connection. Lord, a connection with Paul was the last thing he needed. It was as if Paul’s very presence was sapping his strength—the pain, the dread…of what? And this strange sense that Paul was blameless. Paul made him weak. It’s why he had to kill him.

  He put down the needlenose pliers and rubbed his eyes.

  And then there was his increasing understanding of the ways in which he wasn’t like them—Paul, Alix, Karen. The sisters. He had no childhood memories, no stupid nonsense to embrace, no real relationships. He had relatives, but they seemed theoretical, at best. It made him feel curiously hollow.

  His gaze fell upon the magic book he’d taken from the box under Alix’s bed while she and Paul were out walking. Spells transmogrified to computer code. He’d spent time with the Sicilian cabal of witches, had run-ins with the Voodoun of Jacmel. He’d seen magic move through people—why not computer code? Had Hyko used the book to do something to him?

  He’d made some progress working out the magical mechanism of the code earlier tonight; it was only a matter of time until he worked it out completely. But if the book was as potentially powerful as it appeared to be, why hide it in such a foolish place?

  This radio would reach overseas to a ham operator in Mumbai. A man he could trust. He needed one point of reference, just one point of familiarity. Was it possible he wasn’t where he thought he was? Or who he thought he was?

  Could he be the clone?

  The thought had certainly crossed his mind. But no—he’d seen Hyko. He knew Hyko.

  Was that the play? To twist up his mind in so many knots that his enemy would be a comfort? Sir Kendall’s thoughts went back, as they so often did lately, to that night in the border jail on the Israeli-Jordanian border, eight-and-a-half years ago. The local authorities had arrested Hyko on a weapons charge, something like that, and it was by sheer luck of connections that Sir Kendall found out and was able to get to Hyko before Hyko’s own people could free him.

  Sir Kendall recalled bribing the guards to take him down to Hyko’s cell. Thanks to an attack by Hyko’s people, Sir Kendall himself had extensive injuries: broken ribs, severe burns on his left foot, his left eye just a slit due to swelling, but he’d gotten off lightly; many of Sir Kendall’s best people had been killed, and his rage blotted out the pain. He’d strolled up to the cage door and loomed over Hyko, who sat on a dirt floor next to a bedroll, blond hair cascading over his shoulders, a small barred window up top behind him. And the ubiquitous floppy leather hillbilly hat.

  Hyko had smiled up at him; he always made a point of appearing unflappable. “Sir Kendall,” Hyko had said. “Just in time. I’d like my burger extra well-done, with fries, and a side of mayo would be nice.”

  Instead of responding, Sir Kendall had simply motioned to the guards to let him in. Once the door had clinked behind him, he lunged at Hyko. They fought fiercely, bitterly. Hyko was powerful, but Sir Kendall pulled out a knife and quickly overcame him.

  Sir Kendall couldn’t remember his childhood or any happy times whatsoever, but he remembered Hyko, sprawled on the floor underneath him, floppy hat off, blond hair splayed out like a bloody and disheveled halo, his tanned, bruised skin, his proud glare.

  During the brawl, Sir Kendall had refused the guards’ offers of help, but afterwards, Sir Kendall had them pin Hyko’s arms and legs as Hyko jerked and struggled. He ordered one of the guards to stand with his heel on Hyko’s upturned palm. And then Sir Kendall knelt down and sawed off Hyko’s thumbs, an act of pure cruelty that shocked him now—shocked him to his core.

  He could still remember the way Hyko’s breath sounded, drawn in through clenched teeth. The way he had to yank the thumb to separate it from the last strings of skin and tendon. He recalled that Hyko had seemed impassive—placid, almost—as Sir Kendall moved to the man’s other thumb. Hyko never once cried out.

  When Sir Kendall had finished, he stood up and pushed both thumbs out the high barred window, so that Hyko would have to listen to the vermin devouring them. Or watch, if he was able to stand. Then he slid the still-bloody blade into its sheath at his calf, and instructed the horrified guards to attend to Hyko. They moved quickly, pressing rags to Hyko’s thumbless hands.

  “Kill any more of my friends, and it’ll be your heart I cut out,” Sir Kendall promised him.

  Hyko remained motionless on the floor, eyes shut as he spoke. “You understand, m
y dear Sir Kendall, that having opposable thumbs is what makes a man human.”

  Sir Kendall had simply listed off Hyko’s atrocities.

  Hyko took another breath through clenched teeth. Hyko wouldn’t want Sir Kendall to hear his pain, but Sir Kendall heard it all the same. “Know that my retaliation will be sure, but not swift,” Hyko said. He began to babble about mountains moving, gods shuddering.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Sir Kendall had interrupted wearily. “You’ll avenge yourself against me, and it will be terrible.” With that he’d left.

  Hyko’s promise of slow-coming retaliation had haunted him ever since.

  Maybe he should’ve killed Hyko. But the idea of killing him…it seemed too much like killing the last tiger on earth.

  So Sir Kendall waited, his dread of Hyko’s revenge becoming a persistent hum in his ears.

  Of course, that’s what Hyko wanted. There had been times in the past few years where Hyko had Sir Kendall at his mercy. The first occasion was the one on which Hyko had opened a bottle of wine and poured a glass for them both, using his thumbless hands gracefully. Sir Kendall had been well treated on that occasion. He preferred not to think about the second occasion. At any rate, Hyko hadn’t taken either opportunity to officially retaliate.

  Though Sir Kendall’s dread had grown over the years, he never felt remorse for what he’d done, not until the past few days. He had taken another man’s thumbs! Forced him to listen to the crows and vermin fight over them as he lay bleeding in a pit of a cell. What kind of monster did that?

  Ironic that the moment of his deepest regret would be the moment of Hyko’s revenge. Surely that’s what this was.

  He could leave this place, he supposed—get into his car and drive to an airport. Or could he? And what if Sir Kendall were killed here? Would anybody know? Would Henry? Would his parents?

  Sir Kendall ached to recall anything about his school days. He knew that he’d gone to Eton and later Oxford, but they were more facts than memories; when he tried to call up an image of either campus, he would just get ivy-covered arches. Yet his memory of his various dangerous exploits was stunningly comprehensive. Why not remember the innocent moments? Why not his childhood?

  He went back to his radio. Tomorrow he would take it to the hilltop two towns over. If he couldn’t get a signal from there, he’d come back and have a go at Alix and Paul. The danger was too near. Just this morning, Alix had thought he’d been taken off to be killed.

  Sir Kendall eyed the little pile of clothes on his bed—sweats and a T-shirt he’d taken from the clone’s room. He would wear them out to the bluff to test the radio, thereby getting them soiled, and then he would return to the house as Paul. He’d shoot Paul—he no longer trusted himself to torture Paul, but he knew he could shoot him if he made his mind remote. He would then impersonate Paul, and if he couldn’t get his information from Alix that way, he’d get it directly by slicing a small high vein—something in the arm—and let her watch herself bleed. The feel of one’s own blood tickling one’s own skin created the effect of a sand clock and tended to panic a person into cooperation.

  The idea of cutting into somebody’s skin—actually cutting—seemed so beyond the pale. He shut his eyes. It was this place, doing things to his mind. But it was too late to be anything other than what he was. He was a man who hurt and killed people to save the world—that’s what he was. He wasn’t nothingness. He couldn’t be.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The house was quiet when Alix awoke, and her first thought was of Paul. The kiss. And the way he’d looked at her when he told her she was beautiful and perfect. Even though they’d been standing in the dim forest, she’d felt the sun shining on her when he’d said that.

  And he’d been through so much hell, but he’d found it in himself to be good to her. Paul could never love a girl like her—she was under no illusions about that—but he made her feel happy all the same.

  She washed up and put on a white tank top and red flannel shirt with cutoff jeans, and found a twenty-dollar bill and a condom in the pocket. She used to always carry condoms in case some random guy threw her the smallest crumb of affection. Never thinking anything through. How had she been so pathetic for so long?

  And then she straightened. When had she started thinking of herself as less pathetic? It was like a crazy little surprise on the doorstep that she didn’t feel quite so pathetic, so inadequate. Like she’d edged the meter in a positive direction.

  She slapped a coat of red nail polish on her fingernails and toenails, then shoved on her stack of bracelets. Ready for the day.

  Paul’s bedroom door was closed. He might be sleeping, but it was more likely he was out back training.

  She heard a faint tapping coming from behind Sir Kendall’s door. A tiny hammer? Still tinkering away. On what? And what if he was super smart? Could he be making something dangerous? She went down to the kitchen thinking about Star Trek episodes where the crew went to primitive planets and were able to construct advanced devices with the crude materials there.

  The coffee was already brewed. Paul. She poured herself a mug and fed Lindy.

  She should ask him what he was building or at least get a look at it and describe it to Karen. Maybe it was lucky after all that Sir Kendall didn’t know he was something other than a regular man.

  She washed a few dishes and called Lindy out for her morning walk. It had been exactly a week and a day ago, now, that she’d gone on that original walk with Lindy and come home to discover the necklace.

  She’d looked all over for it last night—still nowhere in the house. How could it just disappear?

  They headed out the back; she wanted to check the progress on the carriage house renovation. And, mostly, she wanted to see Paul. She padded lightly across the gravel with Lindy at her side and slipped inside the far corner of the space, which looked stunningly like a real gym now.

  Tonio and Paul were rolling on the mats, faces red, sweat flying, both wearing skin-tight shorts that went almost down to their knees. And nothing else.

  She drew nearer and crouched, signaling Lindy to stick by her.

  When Tonio got on top of Paul, she figured the match was over, but they kept struggling. Tonio tried to subdue Paul, but he couldn’t seem to get Paul’s arms to go where he wanted them to. She wished Tonio would let Paul up.

  Suddenly Paul clamped his legs around Tonio’s waist, which alarmed Tonio, judging by the way he struggled. Paul seemed to be arranging his hold on Tonio.

  She watched Paul edge his hand little by little across Tonio’s back, while Tonio tried to twist this way and that.

  What struck her was that Paul looked so calm. Happy, even, his gaze clear and strong. He was so beautiful. In his element. That old man had rescued him and given him this thing to be passionate about.

  Paul twisted his body and moved his leg.

  “Damn!” Tonio writhed as Paul tightened some sort of lock on Tonio’s shoulder.

  Tonio moved explosively now, but Paul calmly contained each explosion, shifting his body on and on toward his goal. They rolled, and Alix got an even better view of Paul’s unblinking attention. She loved the way he moved, so sweaty and brutish and graceful all at once. And she loved the look of him. Happy. In control.

  And just…more. More than that angry, reactive guy, more than that story, that darkness, that shame.

  She thought about him and Sir Kendall. Yes, Sir Kendall had been used to terrorize him, in a sense, but his hatred of Sir Kendall didn’t add up. Something needed to shift.

  Paul swung a leg over Tonio’s back and seemed almost to turn their tangle inside out. Tonio yelled and slapped Paul on the arm.

  Paul released Tonio, who flopped down. Paul grabbed a towel and patted his face, muscles flexing and glistening. Then he patted his sweaty chest and tossed the towel aside. He grinned and stretched his hand down to Tonio, who grasped it, let Paul pull him up. They laughed about something.

  Tonio saw her then and waved.
She waved. Paul waved.

  She felt like she’d disturbed a magical spell. “Back in an hour,” she called, and she hurried off with Lindy, up into the woods.

  Alix was surprised to see Sir Kendall’s door slightly ajar when she returned. She’d cut her walk short—she couldn’t let this conversation with Sir Kendall wait, she’d decided.

  He sat at his computer with his back to her. He wore one of the bathrobes she kept in the guest bathroom, and his hair looked wet; apparently he’d just showered.

  She’d demand answers. She needed to handle this.

  “Knock knock!” she said. Sir Kendall spun around, surprised. Which was weird; usually you couldn’t sneak up on Sir Kendall.

  But she had only to look at him a second longer to realize this was not Sir Kendall.

  It was Paul.

  Searching Sir Kendall’s emails! In his stuff!

  “Alix—”

  She was across the room in three steps, wanting to throttle him.

  Wanting to kiss him.

  She put a finger over his lips. “I know you’re doing important work. Very important spy work,” she said.

  He tried to say something.

  She pressed three fingers to his lips, with a bit too much force. She felt angry. But it was nice to touch him. “No. It’s okay. Don’t let me disturb you.” She was so close to him now, and his body was so soft and warm, like it radiated heat. She got a wicked idea. It was wrong to mess with him, but he wasn’t supposed to be in here. Also, she wanted to kiss him. “But perhaps a little encouragement to help you go on, my brave spy.” And she removed her fingers from his lips, replacing them with a kiss. His lips were soft and sweet and faintly minty.

  He tried to pull away, but she clamped her hand to the back of his warm, wet hair and straddled him, kissing him.

  Paul.

  She felt it when he gave in, because he drew in a sharp breath and gripped her in a surge of feeling, like a wave breaking and crashing inside of him. He gripped her shoulders, clutching her to him, kissing her back now in earnest. If she hadn’t known it was Paul before, she sure the hell did now. Sir Kendall never kissed like this.