The Last Hope

by C. C. Jameson

  “Perfect, see you soon,” she said before hanging up.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  August 2, 2015

  Kate Murphy

  George Hudson’s House, Boston

  Wearing pink slip-on sandals and a light linen dress imprinted with Japanese cherry blossoms, Kate parked in the driveway next to the old home. She grabbed her purse and the small bouquet she’d picked up for her dinner hosts before locking up her car.

  George’s house was small, with burnt-orange bricks covering its sides and freshly painted white doors and window trims. Kate swung open the white wooden gate and followed the concrete pathway leading to the front porch. Bushes peppered with yellow flowers lined the path on both sides. By the time she reached the top of the stairs, George Hudson was already outside, greeting her.

  “Kate!” he said before hugging her. “Nice to see you. Come in. I’ll introduce you to Marilou.”

  Kate stepped into his home. It was cozy and decorated in bright colors and patterns. Just like his office walls, his living room was covered with pictures of people: mostly families, small and large, white, black, and every color in between. The furniture was modest but practical. She saw a larger picture of an older woman in a frame above the fireplace.

  “That’s my mother, Bertha. A wonderful woman.”

  “She’s beautiful.”

  “And here are my kids, Sean and Julie,” he said, pointing to a picture showing two bright-eyed young adults in graduation gowns.

  “Twins? Are they here?”

  “No, they’re attending a friend’s birthday party. They’re wonderful. They were eighteen in this picture. Now they’re twenty-one years old. Really blessed to have such fantastic kids.”

  “Ah, there you are,” a female voice said behind her.

  “Kate, this is my wife, Marilou.”

  Kate extended her hand toward the petite woman in the red apron. She wore an orange bandana over her hair, and an enormous smile decorated her face. Marilou pushed Kate’s hand down. “No handshakes in this home. We hug. It’s lovely to meet you, Kate.”

  The generosity and friendliness of George and his wife kept surprising Kate. She hugged Marilou back.

  “Oh, and these are for you,” Kate said, handing the small bouquet to Marilou.

  “They are lovely. You didn’t have to, but I love them. I’ll go and put them in a vase right away.”

  “Your home is beautiful,” Kate said.

  “Thank you,” George said. “Why don’t we go and sit in the backyard? It’s breezier and cooler in the shade.”

  They walked through the open patio doors and took their respective seats on white rattan chairs. A small glass table stood between them and on it sat a large pitcher of ice-cold pink lemonade, condensation beading off its side. George poured the drink into two of the three tall, empty glasses that were stacked next to the pitcher.

  “Here you go, this will cool us down,” he said, handing a glass to Kate. “Hard to believe it can be this hot. But let’s enjoy it while it lasts. Winter will be around in no time.”

  “You know it,” said Kate, clinking her glass against his. “Cheers, and thank you again for the dinner invitation.”

  They sipped their drinks in silence for a few seconds. Marilou’s lemonade was as sweet and delicious as he’d promised it would be.

  Kate wondered how different the world as they knew it would be by the time winter started.

  “With everything that’s going on,” she began, “you know, cloning and such, do you think the legal system will re-open closed cases? Could previous evidence be deemed invalid?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about this, and I won’t lie to you. It’s kept me up all night. What if? What if? My mind has been spinning, reviewing one case after the other. Wyatt, Lucas, Leopold, Marcia... and of course, Kenny. So many people may stand a chance. Another chance to restore their freedom.”

  A moment passed. Kate sat quietly, waiting to hear the rest of his thoughts.

  “However, the legal system will have to deal with it differently. We can’t risk having the whole system crumble. Cloning could have an impact on so many cases. First, we’ll have to know for sure what evidence will be affected. Is the DNA identical, I mean, not just 99.999%, but one hundred percent identical? What about fingerprints? Would they also be identical?”

  “Fingerprints are different,” Kate said.

  “How do you know?”

  She turned to face him. “This has to stay between the two of us.” George nodded, and Kate continued. “We know that for a fact, and DNA is near identical, but not 100%.”

  “What do you mean? How?”

  “The way I understand it, clones are almost like identical twins, with different fingerprints, but same DNA. However, at the end of the chromosomes, the clones’ telomeres are shorter. Samples could be compared to determine if the telomere length matches, but the length keeps changing with time, so...”

  “So cases with solid fingerprint evidence couldn’t be re-opened, just those with DNA evidence,” George said.

  Kate nodded. “I guess so. And I’m not sure about really old cases as well. Let’s be realistic. I don’t think they had the technology to grow clones twenty years ago. At least I hope not.”

  His eyes grew wide. “When do you think they started cloning people? And who are they?”

  “I can’t talk about them. Don’t know much and I’ve got absolutely no idea when they would have started, but it couldn’t have been before Dolly the Sheep, right? That was 1996.”

  Kate thought of Robbie, who looked to be in his thirties. How had he aged so fast? He said he’d been through six years of training. And he’d left the Colony a year or two ago? Eight years ago? But he couldn’t have just appeared out of thin air, he had to have been created, and that probably took time, probably nine months, right?

  He was cloned at least nine years ago.

  But was he part of the original group?

  Were there others before him?

  She sipped the rest of her drink and allowed her questions to bounce around in her head, unanswered for now.

  George offered her more lemonade and continued speculating aloud. “Sounds like your uncle could be affected, though. It’s recent, and only DNA evidence. I wonder if the telomere length would match.”

  “If it doesn’t match, do you think it would be enough to prove his innocence?” she asked.

  “If I were on the jury, it would convince me, but our legal system is not ready for all of this to unravel. We could see decades of backlog, re-opening cases...”

  Silence filled the air before Kate spoke again.

  “The thing I still don’t get is the overall motive,” she said. “Do the clones have a blacklist of victims or do they just kill at random?”

  “You’re thinking about the faint political theme you found earlier?” he asked.

  “Yeah, as well as Ferguson and the cardinal. No proof yet, but it sure sounds like it could be the work of clones, right? Both men were authority figures, both abused kids. However, McAlester didn’t appear to have been a pedophile. Do you think he was?”

  George thought for a moment. “People sometimes take awful secrets to their grave.”

  Kate tried to remember who the victims had been for the two cloned men who were wrongly rotting in jail in California and Texas, but couldn’t remember right this second and George stopped her pondering when he snapped his fingers.

  “That’s it!” he said. “If someone had some sort of records, an official list of identities that had been cloned. That would work for the courts. It wouldn’t burden the system. That would force specific cases to be re-opened. That’s what you need to get.”

  “The FBI is trying to track their location down. Maybe they’ll find a list once they do.”

  Marilou opened the patio door and peeked her head to announce that dinner would be ready in about five minutes. Then she added, “Darling, could you help me set the table? I think we should e
at outside. It’s so hot in the house.”

  “Sure thing, Marilou.” He turned to Kate and said, “If you’ll excuse me.”

  Kate stood up. “Let me help.”

  A few back-and-forth trips to the kitchen later, they had a feast in front of them: Marilou’s famous fried chicken, coleslaw, cornbread, green beans, and homemade pecan pie.

  Kate helped herself to however much she wanted, as gently ordered by Marilou.

  Fork in hand, she was ready to dig in when Marilou spoke again, “Dear Lord...”

  Kate put down her silverware, glanced at Marilou, and then mimicked her posture: head down, hands together.

  “... thank you for the food in front of us. Bless the men and women who worked hard to make it happen. I’m grateful for the farmers who seeded it, cared for it, and harvested these delicious and nutritious ingredients. I’m grateful for the chicken that gave its life so we’d have something to eat. I’m grateful for our country, our hard-working people that transported this food and made it available to us, for the electricity that allowed it to be cooked, and, most importantly, for the people who sit here now, ready to enjoy this food together. Without people, we are nothing. Thank you, God.”

  “Amen,” George said, and Kate repeated it.

  “Well, let’s dig in,” Marilou ordered.

  “Smells and looks wonderful,” Kate said.

  Marilou smiled at Kate’s compliment. “Let’s hope it tastes as good.”

  George stole a kiss from his wife sitting next to him. “Oh, Marilou. It always does.”

  Kate wasn’t sure of the proper way to eat her fried chicken. She wanted to use her hands instead of the knife and fork that were provided to her but waited to see what her hosts would do. Instead, she started with the beans. Garlic-infused with a bit of a kick.

  “Delicious,” she couldn’t help but say out loud.

  “Wait until you try the chicken,” George said, holding the drumstick with his left hand, ready to bite.

  Kate followed suit, and the moist flesh exploded in a symphony of flavors in her mouth.

  How can chicken be this good?

  “I gotta have your recipe,” Kate exclaimed.

  “Sorry, dear. It’s a secret, but you’re welcome to come over anytime to enjoy it with us,” Marilou said.

  Kate laughed. Every bite of this meal was out of this world.

  Marilou kept the conversation going. “So, George tells me your uncle is in prison?”

  Kate nodded as she chewed, then said, “Yeah, I went to visit him yesterday.”

  “How was he?” George asked.

  “Fine, I guess. Morale is pretty high, but he seems weaker, maybe a little sick or something.”

  George looked at her with inquisitive eyes. “Do you know about...” He stopped the words in their tracks.

  Kate stared at him, wide-eyed. “About what?”

  He looked down, then up. He pushed his tongue against the side of his mouth. Maybe he was thinking... or removing some food stuck between his teeth. “Nah... nothing.”

  Kate set her fork down. “No, you were going to say something about my uncle?”

  He glanced at her again, this time, he tilted his head. “I wonder if Kenny, if all of them, have heard the news about cloning. I would imagine this would cause quite a riot in the prisons right now.”

  “Yeah,” Kate said. “I didn’t even think about that. They have TVs, so they must have heard about it.”

  “We’ll see. I’m sure they’ll talk about it again on the evening news. It seems to be the only thing they talk about.”

  Kate wondered what the FBI had discovered over the weekend. She hoped it was much more than what the news would cover tonight. She couldn’t wait until tomorrow to find out.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  August 2, 2015

  Kate Murphy

  Kate’s Apartment, Boston

  Kate’s stomach and hopes were still full by the time she returned home from George’s house.

  She had confirmed that her best course of action would be to follow the FBI’s goals, to track down the cloning operation, and hope like hell they would find some records that would once and for all tell the world that her uncle was innocent. She hadn’t liked seeing him so frail in prison. He may have put on a show to make her feel better, but he didn’t look healthy. He didn’t seem fine at all.

  She changed into her pajamas, made herself a cup of peppermint tea, and sat in front of the TV, remote in hand.

  “Lab-Made Humans on the Loose,” was the caption at the bottom of her screen.

  “How can people know for sure if they are an original or a clone?” the anchorman asked the guest, Dr. Lewisa Maple. According to the caption, she had a Ph.D. in biology and psychology and was associated with one of the Ivy League universities.

  “If I understand your question correctly, you’re asking if we can sense or somehow tell if we are a clone?”

  “Yes. Is it possible to tell?” the anchorman pressed.

  “Needless to say, no studies have ever been done on this subject,” Dr. Maple said to the audience. “The original and the clone share the same DNA, so they’d look identical, but I don’t think they’d share identical thoughts. Without opening up the ‘Nature vs. Nurture’ debate, I think it would be fair to assume that, if two identical people were placed on different spots on this earth, grew up in different areas, had different interactions with different people, they’d turn out to have different personalities. Studies have already proven that identical twins who’ve been separated at birth and brought up in different environments have values that vary. They may look alike, plus or minus a few scars or injuries—lost an arm or an eye in an accident, or something like that—but I’d assume they’d have the same eye color, same hair color, etc.”

  She paused for a moment, her index finger in the air. Dr. Maple took a sip from her glass of water before continuing. “Getting back to your original question, unless someone told them they were clones, they wouldn’t know. If you’re not sure if you’re an original or a clone, ask your parents. That’s the only advice I can offer. If your mother remembers giving birth to you, you’re an original.”

  The anchorman let out a light laugh. “Good one, Doctor. Interesting that you bring up identical twins. Some twins say they sense something about the other. They claim they can tell if the other person is in danger or worried. Do you think it would be similar between an original and a clone?”

  Dr. Maple appeared to think carefully before voicing her opinion. “Once again, we’re stepping outside my area of expertise. I don’t know. What you describe is ESP, and I can’t say I’m a believer. Twins who supposedly connect with their sibling know about the existence of the other. In the case of cloned people, the originals don’t know, and the clones may not know either.”

  “Let’s look at the only case that’s been divulged to the media. The clone is dead, but the original is alive and well. Mr. Montague refused to be our guest tonight, but from his past comments, he didn’t know he had been cloned and had no idea when his DNA would have been harvested—”

  “Fuck!” Kate yelled toward the TV. “The sheriff’s the leak!” Kate missed the rest of the anchor’s questions.

  “The DNA could have been harvested anytime,” Dr. Maple answered. “Off the top of my head, let’s make a list. At birth stem cells are abundant in the umbilical cord. But would someone have done that thirty years ago? Probably not. Nowadays, many people are willing to pay to have their DNA frozen and kept in a safe place, just in case. Donor clinics: from sperm banks to blood banks, many people’s DNA is readily available, stored in secured, temperature-controlled environments. But really, your DNA, my DNA, everyone’s DNA is all around us. On our hairbrushes, used Band-Aids, nail clippings, you name it.”

  The anchor seemed pensive for a moment and then said, “So, there is no way to know if and when our DNA could have been harvested?”

  “Correct.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Maple
.” The anchorman turned toward the camera. “We’ll be back in a few minutes with Mr. Edward Fitzgerald, editor at the Boston Globe, with an update on the latest letter he’s received from SJC. Stay tuned.”

  Her phone buzzed. Caller ID read “Luke.”

  “Are you watching the news?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Caught it a few minutes ago.”

  “Did you hear the mayor?”

  “No, what did he say?” Kate asked.

  “Not much, typical speech. The main message was not to panic and that we were not likely to meet a copy of ourselves out on the street.”

  “Not my biggest concern.”

  Luke let out a sigh. “I know. How was your day?”

  “Good. Had dinner with my uncle’s lawyer—Oh, it’s starting again,” she said, returning her attention to the screen but keeping the phone next to her ear.

  “Last week, SJC wrote about crooked politicians and the Lord’s servants watching us,” the anchorman reminded viewers. “It left many of us worried. And this week, another letter will be published in tomorrow’s paper. We have the editor here with us tonight. Good evening, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

  “Good evening.”

  “Before we divulge the contents of the latest letter, can you tell us if the SJC signature makes any more sense this time?”

  “No, we still don’t have an identity. Because of the religious tone of the letter, many have speculated. The ‘S’ could stand for ‘Shepherds,’ ‘Sacred,’ ‘Saint,’ or ‘Savior.’ ‘J’ and ‘C’ could be ‘Jesus Christ,’ but we don’t know. These letters could mean anything.”

  The interviewer pressed, “Can you tell us how this letter was delivered to you?”

  “It was handwritten and mailed in an envelope with a stamp, the traditional way. It was addressed to me, personally, and this time, it was sent to my home address, which is unlisted. SJC has gone out of its way to get this information to me.”

  “And what did the letter say?”