“What’s up, Christopher?” No. 4 asked.
“Nothing. Go back to sleep. Read a book or something.”
He’d forgotten the damn wine down there.
Nah, it’ll be okay.
He could go and get it now, on his way to dinner. Stéphane would still be clueless, so Christopher got dressed in a pair of worn-out combat pants and a clean T-shirt. “I’ll bring you back a tasty meal later,” he told No. 4 before closing the door behind him.
He turned down the hall and headed back to the kitchen.
“What took you so long?” Stéphane asked when he saw him.
“Spilled some of that nasty liquid on myself. Took a shower.”
“I mean down there. How many were there?”
“Fourteen total.”
Stéphane looked at the clock on the wall. “Still. Three hours? That was slow. Did you have problems with one of the pods?”
“A few tight connections, you know. Typical stuff.”
Christopher knew the computer recorded everything for each pod: pressure sensors on each of the supply and drain lines, timestamps on all of his actions. Stéphane could look it all up and figure something went amiss. He’d taken too long down there after the last pod was drained and cleared.
“Spent a while cleaning my gear,” Christopher added. “You know how bad and sticky that mess is. A couple of fetuses were almost ready to come out. Some of it got into my overalls. Bloody awful smell.”
Stéphane shook his head. “That’s a shame, losing them when they’re so close to being ready.”
“Yeah.”
“Where’s the wine?”
“Oh, I forgot.” Christopher stood up. “I’ll go get it now. You said Château Fond what?”
“Château Fond Cyprès.”
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
“Tell JJ dinner’s ready.”
“Will do.”
As Christopher walked out toward the elevator, he sensed Stéphane’s gaze on his back. Nah. His story held up. He had nothing to worry about.
He headed down the elevator, through the control room and the Incubator and back to where he was a few minutes earlier. Classical music was still playing in the background.
“JJ, dinner’s ready.”
“What?” The music stopped.
“Dinner’s ready. I forgot to grab the wine.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there,” she said.
Christopher walked into the cellar and immediately recognized the smell that lingered in the air.
He’d have to get rid of the odor before Stéphane came in here. He went over to the table and saw a wet spot where she’d sat after both of them came all over the place. Christopher hadn’t worried about getting her pregnant. She was in her fifties, after all. Their bodily fluids had mixed and leaked out onto the wooden table, leaving that unmistakable smell in the air.
He removed the blood-stained handkerchief he kept in his pocket, normally used to wipe off his blade. He dabbed all he could, then stuffed it back in his pants. He procured the bottle she’d picked earlier, looked for another one with the same label and walked back across the Incubator.
He checked his gear by the control room entrance; it was mostly dry. He set the bottles aside, hid his handkerchief into one of his boots, and brought his gear back into the room, next to two other sets of overalls, gloves, and boots.
With wine in hand and evidence of his crime tucked away, he returned to the kitchen.
“No more of that Château Fond Cyprès, but this should do,” Christopher said.
Stéphane looked at the bottles. “Ah oui. Très bon choix,” he said, complimenting his selection.
Christopher opened up the first of the two bottles and poured it into the decanter Stéphane had brought to the table. Stéphane had taken the time to set the table for three and had even placed fresh wildflowers in a vase.
“Looks good,” Christopher said.
“Thanks. We’ve got lots to celebrate tonight,” Stéphane said as he brought a bowl of tossed green salad to the middle of the table. “Turn on the TV, will you?” he asked.
Christopher did, then he sat down with the remote in hand. It was exactly 6:00 p.m., and the opening music ended as the camera zoomed onto the anchorwoman with the luscious lips.
“Another day, another murder. Zach Woodhams, former CEO of Mason Communications Inc., a Fortune 500 company, was found dead in his Boston apartment earlier today. Police declared the death suspicious but did not provide any other information. Viewers may recall a previous news story we aired on Mr. Woodhams four months ago when he had fired an employee due to his religious beliefs. Shortly after that, another dozen employees were let go for religious or ethnic reasons, and Mr. Woodhams was then forced to resign, with a hefty departure bonus.”
“And now, there’s a little less racism and religious discrimination in the world!” Stéphane said, bringing Christopher a flute of chilled Belgian beer. “Something to drink while the wine breathes. Who knows how long Juliet will take.”
“I told her dinner was ready.”
“Women. You know how they are. She may need another thirty minutes.”
Stéphane joined Christopher at the dinner table, waiting for their next minute of fame.
At 6:25 p.m., the news anchor interrupted the sports guy mid-sentence through a listing of baseball scores. The camera zoomed onto her as she brought a finger to her ear.
“And this just in. Another murder in Boston. This time, in the Public Garden. A body was found just minutes ago by an out-of-town tourist. We take you live to the scene, with Alice Hawkridge.”
On the screen, a brunette now stood in the park, microphone in hand.
“Alice, tell us what you know.”
“Well, Catherine, we don’t know the identity of the victim, but I have Mr. Hervé Comptois here with me. He’s the French-Canadian man who discovered the body.” She turned to him. “Mr. Comptois, how did you find the victim?” she asked, bringing the oversized microphone close to the bald man’s mouth.
“I was lost. I need directions, so I walk to the man I see on the bench. I say ‘Mister, Mister,’ and he doesn’t say anything. His eyes are closed.”
“What did you do next?”
“I tap him on his shoulder. I think maybe he’s sleeping?”
“And then?” the reported prompted.
“He falls on his side, on the bench, and then I see blood behind him on the bench, and under the bench, in the ground. I yell, ‘Police, police,’ and lots of people come. One man calls on his cellular phone, and then the police come.”
“Thank you, Mr. Comptois.” The reporter faced the camera again before summarizing the situation. “This is all we know at the moment, Catherine. As you can see behind me, the police have closed off an area of the park, and they’re running their investigation.”
“Did the police make an official statement?”
“No, not yet, but I’ll be here to report it when they do.”
“Thank you, Alice.”
“And here’s to two!” Christopher said, raising his nearly empty beer glass in the air before gulping down the last swallow.
He poured himself some wine.
“I can’t wait to hear how they’ll describe this tosser. Once they identify him, they’ll find lots of dirt...” Christopher shook his head and exhaled loudly as one of his childhood memories flashed in his mind. The emotional wound that his fat, pale-skinned, ginger-headed, perverted neighbor had inflicted decades ago hadn’t healed. Probably never would. “Who knows how many kids’ lives we’ve just changed today. I’ll gladly kill each and every child-abusing wanker on this planet with my own hands. If only I...” He filed his negative thoughts away. It was time to celebrate. “Wine?” he asked, looking at his French colleague.
Stéphane brought his glass closer to the decanter, then repeated with JJ’s glass just as she entered the dining room.
“What took you so long?” Stéphane asked.
She walked over
and kissed him.
“I took a nap, and it messed up my hair, so I showered. Had to blow-dry it and get pretty again, just for you, dear.”
She sat down and picked up her wine glass. “What did I miss?”
“Two down, three to go. Yours haven’t been announced yet,” Christopher said.
Stéphane had gotten up and was now behind the stove, taking the pot out of the oven. The delicious smell of sage, onion, and slow-cooked rabbit intensified. He dished out large servings of the stew and handed out slices of bread to everyone.
“As always, you outdid yourself, chéri,” JJ said.
“Hard to mess up fresh meat like this,” Stéphane replied. “Merci, Christopher.” He raised his glass toward him before taking another sip of wine.
The weather forecast was next, and Christopher turned his attention to the telly again. Plenty of sunny days ahead.
“I’ll get the trainees to butcher one of the cows tomorrow, so better get the freezer ready. We could all eat a good steak on the barbecue. Looks like the weather will work for us.”
“Who else are we waiting for tonight?” JJ asked, her attention still on the screen.
Christopher wasn’t sure if she was avoiding his gaze.
Probably. Hunky-dory.
He felt a little guilty, but below the surface stirred another emotion, which he didn’t want to identify just yet. He missed the start of Stéphane’s sentence, too absorbed in his thoughts.
“...the judge who granted corporations the right to patent DNA from food and genes, and the top lobbyist for oil exploration in the Arctic.”
“Aren’t these a little all over the place?” JJ asked.
“That’s the idea, sweetie. Isn’t it? We want all of them to rethink their actions. Not just those who disrespect the environment and give cancer to thousands of innocent people, like your Aunt Anne. We’ll start to get national coverage. It’s not like there’s only one group that’s messed up.”
Christopher chimed in, “I’m really proud of Gonzo, whatever his name is. That job with the pedophile cardinal yesterday was ace, and he didn’t get caught. We’ll have to give him another task before it’s too late.”
“How about the pretty girl with the senator?” JJ asked.
Christopher checked the date on his watch. “That’s tomorrow, right?” he asked, looking at Stéphane for confirmation.
“Yeah, the boat christening is tomorrow.”
“He’ll step up his security after tonight,” JJ said.
“Yeah, but he won’t be able to resist her fun bags and tight arse. Unless he’s interested in a dark three-way with one of his bodyguards, she’ll manage. Or maybe he’s got a female security detail? That would be something.” Christopher smiled, and Stéphane grinned right back.
Stéphane opened up the second bottle of wine, and they moved to the living room. “You want to bring her some rabbit stew?” he asked, his chin pointing up toward Christopher’s bedroom.
Christopher had forgotten about No. 4 for a moment. She was probably sleeping or watching porn, as she’d been programmed to do.
“Sure, I’ll take some up now.”
Stéphane poured a generous serving of stew and grabbed two buttered slices of bread. He also served a small glass of wine and placed everything on a tray before handing it to Christopher.
“Wine?” Christopher asked.
“She has to drink something, doesn’t she? Might as well taste good.”
Christopher went upstairs and placed the serving tray on the floor to free his hands so he could turn the doorknob. He could hear the television through the door. She was “studying.” He smiled.
When he opened the door, she was sitting in bed, butt naked, legs spread wide open toward the door. One hand squeezing her right breast, the other busy fingering herself.
“Looking good,” he said.
She took her hands off herself.
“No. Continue. Please,” he said, curtsying.
He went to the corner of his room and placed the tray on his “writing desk.” That’s a misnomer. It had been the dining room table for his cloned bitches and a solid sex prop with a suitable height. Maybe twice in ten years had it served its intended purpose.
He sat on the chair, unzipped his pants, and enjoyed seeing No. 4 finish herself off.
Chapter Forty-Three
August 5, 2015
Kate Murphy
Somewhere in East Boston, MA
It was Kate’s second day in the black Ford Taurus with Agents Palmer and Rodriguez. With yesterday’s record five murders, everyone—at both the BPD and FBI levels—desperately needed to catch a break with this case. The mayor was on their asses, the public was on edge, and the FBI agents who were sitting in front of Kate had already voiced their discontentment with surveilling a useless clone when they could be better used doing something else.
Anything else.
“Isn’t this the most exciting time of your life? This guy still isn’t doing anything,” Palmer said. He moved a box toward Kate in the slot between the two front seats. “Donut?”
“Sure,” she said, grabbing a honey-covered treat.
Robertson had been having coffee by himself in the café two hundred yards in front of them for ninety minutes now.
“This guy’s so freaking boring to watch,” Palmer continued.
“Hey,” Rodriguez interrupted, peering through binoculars. “He’s on the move. He’s going to the register... Taking out his wallet... Talking to the waitress... Heading out.” He put the binoculars down and started the car.
Kate could see Robertson clearly now: he was coming out of the coffee shop and heading down the sidewalk, away from them.
Is this Robert or Robbie? Probably Robert.
Their target was walking fast and about to disappear from their view. Rodriguez re-entered traffic and turned onto the street where Robertson had vanished.
“Here,” Palmer said, pointing to an empty spot reserved for deliveries.
Rodriguez pulled over and turned off his engine.
“Should we follow him on foot?” Kate asked.
“No, two days ago, he left in a vehicle, and we lost him for a little while. We’re staying in the car.”
“Don’t you want to see what he’s up to?”
“This is the same as yesterday morning before you joined us. Coffee, then bank,” Rodriguez said, pointing to the building Robertson was about to enter. “Don’t worry; we’ll be back to the coffee shop shortly.”
Kate had started to understand how the FBI agents felt.
“I followed him in there yesterday,” Palmer said, looking back at Kate. “He accessed a safety box.”
“What was in it?” she asked.
“Not sure. He left empty-handed. We got a warrant, but the box was empty when we checked.”
Palmer reached for his phone and hit a speed dial button.
“He’s back at the bank. We may want someone to surveil the bank 24/7. The deposit box could be a drop-off for money, instructions, weapons, something... Yeah.” Palmer hung up.
“Let’s just hope he’s not going to sit on a bench and feed birds for three hours again,” Rodriguez said, still looking through his binoculars.
Twenty minutes later, Robertson exited the bank. Nothing in hand. He headed down the same sidewalk, farther away from them, and continued for a full block before Rodriguez started the car and moved closer.
Robertson kept walking then brought a phone to his ear.
“Murphy! Maybe now’s our lucky break,” Rodriguez said, excited for the first time today.
Kate took out her phone, hoping it would ring any second now, but it stayed as silent as the latest murder victims. Robertson was calling someone else.
Shit.
Chapter Forty-Four
August 5, 2015
Juliet Jackson
Somewhere in Rural Massachusetts
After staring at static electricity warning stickers for a couple of minutes, Juliet retu
rned the fuel nozzle to the gas pump holder. Her phone rang in her purse, and she walked away. She didn’t believe cellphones posed real explosion risks but didn’t want to earn a Darwin Award finding out she was wrong either.
She answered on the fourth ring. “Hello?”
“Juliet?”
“Yes. Robbie?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“You found the new phone and my note?” she asked.
“Yes, of course,” Robbie said flatly. “How else would I have your number?”
“We know you were at a police station in Boston. Are you still there?”
“No.”
“Are they listening to you now?” Juliet asked.
“No. I found this phone and your number yesterday, in my safety deposit box. They can’t be tracking it.”
“Are you being followed?”
After a short pause, Robbie said, “No, I don’t think so.”
“Mr. C isn’t pleased with you at all. What happened?”
“I... I realized what I was about to do, and I didn’t want to. It felt wrong, so I stopped.”
Juliet shook her head, mostly annoyed but also understanding. “Are you still taking your meds?”
“No, I stopped. They were making me dizzy and sleepy.”
Juliet let out a sigh. “Robbie, you know you need to take those, or your mind goes a little woo-woo. You remember what Mr. S said? ‘There’s only one of you.’ These pills keep it that way.”
Juliet paused, but Robbie didn’t say anything. “Where are you now? I’ll bring you a refill.”
“I’m in East Boston,” he said.
“I’m about an hour away. Meet me at our regular coffee shop?”
“Yes,” he said breathlessly. “I miss you, Juliet. I can’t wait to see you.”
She hung up.
What did he get himself into this time?
She wasn’t even sure why Robbie was still alive. Normally, when clones failed their mission—or when they showed the slightest hint of weakness—that was the end of them. No ifs, ands, or buts. He should have become prey in a final exam or Stéphane should have triggered the self-destruct mechanism.
The Last Hope Page 31