Christ Clone

by McLeod, David

  Malone took a cab to the building where Donaldson, Rory, and Galbraith had their offices. After checking the directory, he took the elevator to the twenty-sixth floor. He had chosen lunchtime to call, hoping the receptionist would be on her break and luck was on his side; the reception area was empty.

  A small sign read: Please ring bell if reception is unattended. Malone thought the bell looked like a small silver breast, its ringer poking through the top of the dome like a nipple. It chimed as he slapped his hand on it. While he waited for someone to respond, he picked up the company brochure and started to read.

  A man dressed in a dark blue pinstriped suit came to the door of his office. 'Sorry, the receptionist must be at lunch. Can I help you?'

  'I'm looking for a Mr Dale Galbraith.'

  'That's me,' Dale announced smugly. 'What can I do for you?'

  His cockiness faded after Malone introduced himself and stated his interest in the cloning challenge. 'You'd better step into my office,' he said nervously.

  Folding the brochure and putting it in his pocket, Malone followed him into a small office made even more oppressive by the wall of burgundy and brown law books. Dale's desk looked tidy and professional. The files on the desktop were aligned regimentally, and a green and gold desk lamp illuminated a laptop computer.

  While Dale took a seat in a leather chair behind the desk. Malone remained standing. 'I'll ask again, what do you know about the clone challenge?'

  Dale's face lost colour as his mind raced. What could this man possibly know about the challenge? 'I'm sorry. Please tell me again who you are.' He was stalling; this was his office, and he controlled meetings in here.

  'My name is Michael Malone, and I guess I need your help.' Malone took a seat; making Dale Galbraith nervous wasn't going to help his cause. 'Five years ago, my daughter was abducted here in Los Angeles, and I know it sounds strange, but I think your website challenge is in some way connected.'

  Dale's mind was racing. From the moment he'd agreed to be part of this project, thoughts of the clone's birth mother had bothered him. He had settled on the fact that Travis had deep pockets and that some women — and men for that matter — would do anything for money. And, he thought, the clones are in Russia and Germany. How or why would they use an American girl? Clinging to this notion, he managed to regain his composure. 'How does a student prank undertaken by five adolescents have anything to do with your daughter's disappearance, Mr Malone?' Dale didn't look at Malone as he asked.

  The words student prank bounced around in Malone's head. Another wild-goose chase. 'A student prank? What do you mean?'

  Dale watched Malone crumble. 'I'm not so sure I need to explain myself, Mr Malone. If you tell me exactly why you're here, I may be a little more forthcoming.'

  Although deflated, Malone continued, 'Like I said, it sounds strange; in fact, in light of what you've just said, it sounds ridiculous. Through a series of unusual links, I discovered that many of the relics associated with Christ's crucifixion have been stolen. This led me to the challenge to clone Jesus. All of the missing items are listed on your site.'

  'I still don't follow.' Dale tried to look bewildered.

  'You see, my daughter's name is Mary, and with all the religious connotations . . .' Malone trailed off.

  'Ah, I get it,' Dale said, still not looking at Malone. 'You think someone has made use of your virgin daughter Mary, that she's given birth to the clone of Jesus.' Dale's tone was facetious, and as he spoke he watched Malone wince, as if he was biting into a lemon.

  Dale knew he had the upper hand, and he went on. 'Well, Mr Malone, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but a few of my college friends and I decided to see who could come up with the most outrageous website. And we wanted to see how many people would get suckered into believing that what we'd written was in fact, gospel. We were going to go to one of the TV networks to see if they'd sponsor some form of reality program . . . You know, the biggest internet sucker. Truth is, my site was a bit too out there and it got very few hits — and of those few, most came from Europe. Finally, those who did log on and enter into some form of correspondence quickly refused to believe any of it. So, until your arrival today, I'd forgotten all about it, but now that you've come along . . .' Dale stopped himself, realizing he may have gone too far.

  Malone was quick to pick up the implication that he was the biggest sucker of all. He was angry. 'What sort of sick world do you live in, Galbraith?' His face had turned red and his hands had become fists.

  'Please calm down, Mr Malone.' Dale was beginning to get scared.

  'I've lost my daughter, and you think it's some kind of game?' Malone pounded the desk.

  'Sorry, Mr Malone. No, I didn't mean that at all. It was just an adolescent prank that wasn't supposed to offend anyone. I can see now how you could think it was in bad taste. But it was nothing more than a stupid challenge created by people who should have known better.'

  Malone relaxed a little, his anger slowly subsiding. He took a deep breath. 'No, it's me that should be sorry, Mr Galbraith. Years of dead ends have got me chasing fantasies . . . and now pranks.' In an effort to ensure he wasn't thrown out as a complete madman, Malone felt he should explain himself further. 'Maybe my time as a priest has clouded my judgement, but it all seemed so logical.' Looking at Galbraith's blank face, Malone decided to give up. 'I'm sorry I've wasted your time,' he said as he turned to leave.

  Thoughts of other bereaved fathers in Russia and Germany flashed into Dale's head, quickly followed by a sense of shame at his lie about the website. 'That's fine, Mr Malone. Once again, I apologize. I'm sorry if my prank wasted your time. Good luck with your search for your daughter . . . for Mary. Rest assured we had no part in her disappearance.' Dale sounded confident but once again he was unable to look Malone in the eye.

  Malone sat in the cab feeling frustrated. He'd let his anger get the better of him. It had been a long time since he'd lost his temper, and he hated what he became when he did. He thought back to the days when he first started drinking. He was an angry man most of the time back then. If someone bumped into him in a bar, he'd start a fight. If someone said the wrong thing, he'd start a fight. In fact, there was a stage when if he wasn't drinking and fighting he was either asleep or driving under the influence. To his credit, he'd been banned from more bars than he cared to remember; he'd even been banned from bars he couldn't remember being in.

  His anger had helped him win fights he really shouldn't have, the adrenaline helping him to ignore the pain and go on to victory. However, several years ago, on his usual drunken drive home, a fit of road rage overcame him. His lack of judgement caused him to lose control of his car and hit a bus stop, narrowly missing a mother and her young daughter. The six-month ban wasn't necessary to stop him driving, it was his overpowering fear of what might have happened that made him hang up his car keys. For some reason he couldn't explain, it quelled his bar rage too. His heavy drinking continued, but his friends always saw him go home in a cab.

  As Malone went over the meeting with Galbraith, something didn't feel right. The lawyer hadn't been honest with him, Malone was sure of that. He went over the conversation again. Galbraith mentioned Europe, and he'd said something about other people involved in the site, not just him.

  What else did he say? What was the bit at the end about having no part in her disappearance? Malone turned the conversation over and over. The prank, the biggest sucker . . . Galbraith's voice filled Malone's head. But in the end, the thing that really stood out wasn't what Galbraith had said; it was how he said it. 'No eye contact' Malone said aloud. He wasn't a true believer in body language, but he did know that if a man can't look you in the eye when he's talking to you, he's hiding something. Galbraith is definitely part of this, I can feel it, he thought. But he also knew he was going to require Daniel's assistance to probe further.

  Back at Headquarters, Daniel made Malone go through the conversation word for word. It wasn't much to go on, but from what he could g
lean, Daniel tried to match the similarities with what he'd found on the Web.

  'He's an arrogant bastard . . . got a definite "my shit don't stink" air about him,' Malone said. He realized he was still a little wound up from the meeting.

  'What does he look like?' Daniel asked.

  'Stands about five-eight, slim build. Wait a minute, I've got a picture.' Malone fished the practise's corporate brochure out of his pocket. There were two pictures of Dale. The first was about the size of a passport photo. He was facing the camera and looked every bit the serious lawyer. His brown, almost black, hair was immaculately parted at the side, and he stared directly into the lens. The brochure introduced Dale Galbraith as a Harvard honour graduate, thirty-two years old. It said he was a gifted attorney who specialized in patent law, and also crossed over into intellectual property. He had a list of awards to his name. There was a slightly larger picture below, showing Dale shaking hands with a taller man. Galbraith had a smile larger than life that seemed a perfect match for the saying the cat that got the cream.

  The caption below the photo introduced Dale Galbraith with Travicom's Simon Travis.

  Daniel wondered if he would have been able to accomplish all that Dale had, if he'd been given the same start in life. Then his admiration turned sour. 'Yeah, he does look like a pompous tosser,' he said, handing the brochure back to Malone.

  Malone added up the things about Galbraith that didn't fit — in particular, his body language. 'He was really uncomfortable when I first asked him about the challenge. Most of the time he couldn't or didn't make eye contact. But the thing that's really got me thinking was the way he spoke about Mary. Surely he should have just said "good luck with finding your daughter", not naming her specifically? But it was the way he said "rest assured we've had no part in her disappearance". It was just so peculiar.'

  Daniel nodded, waiting for Malone to finish. 'I reckon it all sounds strange. I've done some digging around on Dale Galbraith too, while you were there. On the surface he seems pretty clean. Great education, good upbringing, went straight to work with Rory and Donaldson after Harvard. He made the headlines when he picked up the communication giant Travicom as a client. Nothing out of the ordinary, that's for sure. So I went back to the internet and rooted around some more. I've been trying to hack into his website but I haven't got anywhere yet, it's really well-protected — much better than his law office one, which to me doesn't make sense. If it is just a hoax, then why protect it so well? If he's clever enough to have the knowledge to guard a website so well, then why not use it elsewhere? I think he's got some outside help with his site. Anyway, I have a hacking program running in the background and I'm sure it will crack it at some point.'

  Malone was amazed at Daniel's knowledge.

  'On another subject, I had a look at the news clippings in Russia and China around the same time as Mary Salinas' disappearance, and came up with another hit in Moscow. There was a girl who was abducted in a similar way. The strange thing about the Russian girl is that the news item was dropped. There was quite a big piece when she first went missing, but then nothing. It was like the story was a mistake or something. Anyway, I also tried to see if the reporter had gone on to bigger and better stories, but once again nothing. He seems to have stopped writing for the paper. There's definitely something going on, I'm sure of it. Nothing in China as yet. I also tried around the same time as your daughter Mary's disappearance five years ago, both in Russia and Germany, and so far nothing. I'm sorry.'

  Malone waved it away. 'What do we have so far?' he asked rhetorically as he walked to the whiteboard, cleaned it and picked up a marker. 'We've got missing relics.' He wrote this at the top of the board. 'Missing girls in Russia, Germany, and here in Los Angeles.' He added these to the list. 'We have a cloning experiment website and cloning houses in Germany, Russia, and LA.' He added the cloning houses directly under the girls, and drew small connecting lines between them. 'Then we've got a suspect, Mr Dale Galbraith, who at first glance seems pretty clean, but so far he's our only suspect.' He wrote Dale's name in the centre of the board. 'Well, it seems all roads lead to our friend Mr Galbraith,' Malone said.

  'Like I said, he seems to be clean, but everyone has a dark side to them. Maybe he's into devil worship.' Daniel was smiling as he said it, but they both considered it a possibility.

  'We need to keep digging,' Malone said.

  'I think we need to find out who his friends are. How do you feel about following someone?' Daniel asked.

  27

  RUSSIA

  For a few days Aloysha, Viktor and the tramp lived quite happily together. The house had a few basic supplies — tinned meat, and vegetables — and the woodshed was well stocked. Aloysha, however, was still in dire need of his special processed nutrition, containing essential substances that Viktor couldn't hope to provide under these circumstances.

  There were impromptu counselling sessions. Whenever the boy wanted to talk about his dreams, or anything else, they stopped what they were doing and moved to the living room couch. Viktor was keen to draw more information from him, but only if he wanted to talk. He desperately wanted to know who or what the young man was; every time he looked at him, he heard the question echoing still in his mind: is he the Son of God? He felt frustrated by the lack of equipment, and angry that he'd been made to flee the laboratory for the sake of Aloysha's health.

  'I had another dream about those people, Viktor.' Aloysha's tone was almost apologetic.

  'Okay, let's talk about it. What happened?' They took their positions, Viktor in the armchair, and the boy stretched out on the couch — crude, but effective.

  'I'm in a dark place. I can't move my hands or feet, they feel tied down, or just really heavy. Every time I move there's a clinking sound, like chains. My eyes are struggling with the light, and I can feel things scurrying around on the floor by my feet. But the worst thing is the smell, it's putrid. It's the smell of . . . . I'm not sure what the smell is. No wait, it's a mixture of smells: faeces and urine, sweat and vomit — it's unbearable.'

  Aloysha popped out of his dream and back into reality. They discussed what the dream seemed to represent and decided he was in some form of jail.

  'But what does it mean? Why was I there? I haven't done anything wrong.'

  Viktor had thought very hard over the past twenty-four hours. Should he tell the boy about his genetic heritage? He wondered if it would help or hinder his mental or physical health. He finally decided it was still too soon. 'It could just mean that you felt trapped in the old facility, and now that you're out, your past seems dark and dirty.' This answer seemed feasible to both of them, and they concluded the session there.

  The sessions were full of tiny snippets of information, situational and general rather than specific. Aloysha spoke of the land and seeing goats and mud-brick buildings, rivers and hillsides in his dreams. A few times the tramp, who told them his name was Oleg, joined in their therapy sessions, and he shared some of his own life experiences, things the boy would not have seen on TV, including experiences that raised even Viktor's eyebrows. Eating out of garbage cans and sleeping on park benches was as far as his knowledge of the homeless took him, and as the stories unfolded one in particular of the tramp's tales stuck in his mind.

  'There was this day, about six months ago. It started off pretty well. I was begging outside a coffee shop in Moscow, picking up the usual small change. A man came past who looked like a tourist. He seemed to take particular interest in me — you know, stood around a while; I'm sure he was trying to figure out why I was there. Anyway, he returned from the coffee shop with a piping hot coffee for me. It was such a kind gesture that I was stunned. All I could say was, "sugar?" '

  Oleg smiled at his own stupidity.

  'Anyway, he went back in to get me some sugar, and that's when it happened . . . A guy wearing a ski mask and carrying a shotgun rushed past me and into the coffee shop. I just couldn't believe it. I turned around to look through the window; people
were screaming and running all over the place, terrified. The robber must have banged into a woman as he pushed through the customers because she started to fall. My guy reached out to catch her. The robber must have thought he was going for the gun, and he blasted him. Even outside the noise was deafening, and the mess . . .' Oleg was silent for a moment. 'The robber grabbed the money from the till and ran. No one else in the cafe got even a graze, only my guy. He was just a man trying to help someone out, doing a good deed. I came to a couple of conclusions there and then, one of which was to get out of Moscow; the other was that if you help someone out, chances are, you're going to get hurt. It's not worth it.'

  Viktor and Aloysha looked at Oleg, and then at each other. It was a hell of a story, and a hell of a crappy moral to take from it.

  It had only been a few days, but the lack of decent and substantial food had started to take its toll; the boy was beginning to get sick. His face was ashen and his eyes were ringed with dark circles. The bounce had left his step, and Viktor knew he had to get him to a hospital soon.

  He decided that dusk would be the best time to leave — just light enough to see, and dark enough to hide. After packing the Lada with what little they had, Viktor and Aloysha said goodbye to Oleg.

  It had started to snow again, and the flakes were settling on the boy's hair and eyelashes; as they melted, it must have looked to Oleg as if he was crying. 'All right, all right. If you're going to be like that, I'll come with you.' He laughed.

  Viktor looked at him. 'You know we are . . .'

  'In trouble and on the run, of course I do. How stupid do you think I am? Maybe you shouldn't answer that.'

  The three of them hugged each other and they all got into the car.

  Although sluggish, the engine turned over and grumbled into life. Grinding the gears, Viktor got them moving and they set off along the country road. Oleg told them he knew of a small town not far away that had a nursing home. 'It's hobo friendly', he said. He'd been given soup there a few times, and he was sure they'd be discreet.