Dues of Mortality

by Jason Austin

  The warehouse was a one and a half level area with stacks of empty, bright yellow polyethylene salt bins pyramided halfway to the ceiling and over most of the floor space. Flecks of dust and salt residue swirled along powerful shafts of moonlight beaming through the dozen or so windows. A trio of ceiling lamps above the lower level was the only internal light source.

  Should the power even be on in here? Xavier almost asked out loud. He discovered he couldn’t open his mouth without tasting salt. Salt air takes control. How original. Lord Byron, this guy was not.

  “Anything?” Glenda asked. She had taken position next to the office door. Her head-and-shoulders silhouette projected onto its single pane of tempered glass.

  “Yes,” Xavier answered. “A hard headed woman who won't be happy until she gets herself killed. Get back inside.”

  Glenda completely ignored him and wandered further into the warehouse. Xavier reached out to grab her, but relented when he realized the ensuing argument would do just as much to give them away.

  Cloaked in the shadows of the rear upper level, a pair of black leather hiking shoes crept tacitly across the dust-covered floor. The midnight darkness along with stacks of old wooden pallets kept the stranger well hidden. Like a nocturnal animal, he deftly circled the newcomers to his lair before crouching down to scope them through the separations in the pallet stacks. When he was sure he could get a clean shot, he maneuvered closer to the edge, just short of the railing. He aimed the old service pistol through the pallets and down at his target. He’d remembered reading Mafioso stories mentioning that just behind the ear was always a good spot. His hands shook as he tried to better his aim. He could have used some form of MAG that would make targeting a trifle easier, but honestly, they scared him. Even if he shot someone by mistake, it was an error far more likely to be fatal. He trusted the Colt because he’d practiced with it on the firing range. Most days he actually hit the target. He would have to rely heavily on the laser sight upgrade.

  Xavier’s hand was slipping from the sweat around the gun’s handle. The quiet of the room was deafening. Part of him just wanted to shout for the bastard to come out so they could end this torture. When he heard the granules of salt cascade from the upper level, just behind him, he was grateful he’d kept his mouth shut. Xavier spun halfway before his eyes locked on the swirling green dot endeavoring to find him. A shot rang out and chipped the floor by his foot. Xavier then pivoted, scooped Glenda by the waist and dove as far into the corner shadows as possible. The two came to huddle behind a wall of salt bins.

  The stranger squatted behind his cover of pallets, cursing himself for being too impatient and prematurely activating the sight on his pistol. Shit. His inexperience in this sort of thing was going to get him killed. “Let her go!” he shouted.

  Xavier had a “fuck you” on the tip of his tongue, but he had no intention of giving away their position. He only hoped the idiot would say something else so he could get a bead on him.

  “Let the woman go and I’ll let you live,” the stranger said. His threat sounded pathetic even to him.

  Xavier craned his neck. He'd placed the shooter by his voice, but wouldn’t be able to hit him from their position.

  “It’s your only chance,” the shooter yelled. “If you hurt her, you’re dead; I swear it!”

  Xavier wagged his head. What did he say?

  Glenda looked askance at the darkened corners of the warehouse. She was overwhelmed with the possibility of having answers. But could she trust what she was hearing? That was the real question. She gazed up into the pitch black shadows from where the shot had come. He was aiming for Xavier, she thought. She'd gone ahead of him. She was first out of the office door. Either the shooter was a complete klutz or...

  Glenda sprang out of her spot next to Xavier and ran for the flaccid convergence of light between the stacks of bins and the upper level.

  As Xavier watched her, the visions of old headlines swept over him: COLONEL’S DAUGHTER SLAUGHTERED IN LOVER’S QUARREL. DAUGHTER OF WAR HERO VICIOUSLY MURDERED.

  Xavier jumped to his feet. He circled around the bins until he was in direct line behind Glenda. He was thankful she hadn't been shot and assumed a jammed gun or some other divine intervention. He aimed up into the pallets on the balcony and held his breath.

  Glenda edged into the illuminated area of the warehouse like a stage-frightened actress entering the spotlight. She gazed up expectantly in the direction from which the familiar voice had spoken.

  Yes, the stranger thought. Glenda's eyes shone like limpid studs of copper to him even under the anemic light if the room. Slowly but anxiously, he stepped from the shadows as if beckoned by their blaze.

  No! Xavier said to himself and fired two shots at what had to be a head moving through the slots of pallet stacks. Fragments of wooden shrapnel pattered the stranger’s face and he reeled backward. His gun hand hit the corner of the stack and fell over the balcony's railing to the floor of the lower level. The stranger was left clutching one side of his face and squealing on the floor like a certain farm animal.

  “No! Wait!” Glenda shouted.

  Xavier ran to her side. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, but...” She pointed to the balcony.

  “Stay here.”

  Xavier collected the stranger's gun and ran for the staircase that led to the upper level. When he reached the top of the stairs, he aimed his MAG at the center mass of a man in a flannel shirt and jeans hunched over in agony.

  “Don't move!” Xavier commanded.

  “Please don’t hurt her,” the man pleaded. “I’ll pay you more. Just don’t hurt her.”

  Xavier moved closer, keeping a tight grip and steady aim. Upon reaching the man, he stuck his foot into the stranger's ribcage and pushed. The stranger rolled onto his back and his hands fell away, allowing the moonlight to illuminate his face. It was the same face that was crashing the news-webs the day before Glenda’s. It was Peter Simonton.

  Chapter 50

  Xavier straddled the old wooden office chair, grinding his hands to blisters on the back support. They burned almost as hot as the glare he aimed at Simonton, who was laid across two chairs with his head nestled in Glenda’s lap like a wounded cub. She dabbed blood from his face with a monogrammed handkerchief that Simonton apparently never left home without. Xavier knew it was silly of him to be annoyed, but he couldn’t help it. This guy had to be the reason she was in this mess; why the hell was she babying his ass? And look at him, in his flannel lumberjack shirt, trying to pass for someone who actually worked for a living. Please. Simonton sported the manicure of a hand model and his pampered skin positively glowed with a fresh tropical tan. Wherever he'd been hiding all this time was likely big on nude beaches and small on extradition treaties.

  “I’m so sorry, Glen,” Simonton said. He gazed up at her longingly. He hadn’t shut up since he sat down. Xavier was sure he’d shoot the asshole if he apologized one more time. But who or what would he be shooting? Xavier asked himself.

  “What’s the last thing you remember?” Xavier asked Simonton.

  “Oh, he’s the genuine article, alright,” Glenda said. “He has a thirty-year-old raised scar on the back of his neck.” As if she had to check. Her reaction to Peter Simonton bordered on allergic and he still carried the scent of bipolar humility that was hard to believe could be stirred up in a cloning lab like a martini.

  “What do you mean?” Simonton asked. “Who have you been talking to?”

  Xavier shook his head. “Uh uh, you first. She’s the one who deserves the explanations.”

  Simonton sighed tortuously. “I’m so sorry, Glen. I just messed up so bad.”

  “You said that,” Xavier growled. “Now how about something you haven't told us. The web reports had your remains discovered and identified beyond a doubt. Yet here you are, alive and...well, alive. I dare you to try and convince us you're not the reason we've come so close to getting killed.”

  Simonton sneered a
t Xavier caustically. “Who the fuck are you? Why should I tell you anything? How do I know you’re not working for Wallace?” He pouted at Glenda. “Who is this guy, anyway, Glen? Is he the reason you left me? Ain’t that a bitch. You left me for a younger guy. Shit, my wife would have a field day with this one.”

  “Oh, will you shut up and stop trying to change the subject?” Glenda retorted. “I know you, Peter. Remember?”

  Simonton deflated. “I really messed up.”

  “You said that!” Xavier and Glenda shouted cooperatively.

  Simonton sat up and took Glenda’s soft, graceful hands in his own. He gazed into her eyes in typical puppy dog fashion. “I just wanted to be with you, Glen,” he sang.

  Glenda sighed, frustrated. “What are you talking about, Peter? What did you do? Why does everyone think you’re dead?”

  Simonton dropped his head. Either he was too ashamed to look at Glenda or feared she'd see right through him as he fished for lies. “It’s what they wanted. It’s what they all wanted.”

  Xavier laughed. “Okay, if you’re going to tell us that you’re a victim in this somehow, I think I’ll just shoot you now.”

  Simonton bared his teeth straight at him. “You know what, pal? You can go straight to...” He turned on Glenda. “Shit, Glen, who is this guy?”

  “He’s the one who’s been keeping me alive, Peter,” Glenda said straightforwardly. “But right now, I’m asking myself who you are! Because I’m starting to think I never knew!”

  Simonton shrank, feeling the squeeze of sitting between a gun-toting thug and the woman whose words could wound him worse than any bullet.

  “Peter, for the past week, I have been through more hell than any human being should ever have to go through in one lifetime,” Glenda said. “I’ve been assaulted, shot at, accused of murder and I’m practically a wanted fugitive! And, we know all of this has something to do with Millenitech and your relationship with Jerome Wallace!”

  Simonton stiffened. He was partially hoping Glenda had figured out the whole story by now and, aside from a little anger, was taking it rather well. But he guessed that would be a pipe-dream. Nobody would take well what Simonton had done. Nobody...especially Glenda. He pawed his face. Was there even anything left to gain by lying? he asked himself. Obviously, he wasn’t going to get anything more from the deal. Wallace had been snowing him from the beginning. Now Glenda—Simonton's only reason for living—was running for her life because of what Simonton had done. Shit! Why was the whole world suddenly against him? Why couldn’t he make anything go right anymore?

  Simonton stood up and put some distance between himself and his jury of two, keeping his back to them for his own sake. “I never thought this town would turn on me like this,” he said. “I spent my entire career giving this city back to itself...and the first chance it got...it sold me out to a gene broker.”

  Xavier was about to nudge Simonton, unfriendly-like, to get to the point. Glenda interpreted his intention and put up a hand to halt him. Painful as it was, Peter would spill everything if allowed his self-pitying druthers.

  “I kept it all afloat as long as I could,” Simonton yammered on, “but when the government started to pull up stakes, I had to take a few extra risks in the market. I suppose it took me a little too long to realize I couldn’t save it.” He paused, looking perplexed. “I can’t believe how everyone just turned on me. Everyone!” He drew up his palms, staring down at them like piles of sand were pouring through his fingers. “For years, I had them all: the mayor, the governor, the entire state legislature. Then out of nowhere, Jerome Wallace swoops in with all his white collar jobs and limitless investment capital and seduces them like a pornstar. After that, it was like they couldn't even remember my name. All my loans, development grants, and pension guarantees, all of them slashed and eventually erased, just so they could fold them over to the biotechs!”

  Simonton casually detached from the explanation how he had ignored the advice to be more mindful of the biotech bandwagon other cities were lining up to profit from. Ohio's business, academic and political leaders, were determined to make the “controversial science” of biotechnology the foundation of a new economy. Simonton had been warned of the potential erosion of manufacturing jobs and how high-performance steel would become easier and cheaper to produce. But becoming dyslexic when the writing was on the wall was just typical Peter Simonton.

  “It took Wallace less than ten years to ruin me,” he said. He turned to Glenda. “Marcia found out about you and went straight to an attorney. Lord knows she would’ve crucified me in a divorce. That, combined with federal charges, I’d have been destroyed.” He shrugged woefully. “You were the only thing left in my life that was worth all of it. As long as I had that, I wasn’t about to just let them throw me in jail so they didn’t have to feel guilty for betraying me.”

  Xavier guffawed. “Look who's talking.”

  Simonton threw him another dirty look and said, “Screw off.”

  Xavier balled a fist. “I'll screw off your head if you don't get to the point. Why is Wallace gunning for us? Did he know about you and her? Does she have something of yours that he needs? Just what the hell is this all about?”

  Simonton looked away from them both.

  “What did you do, Peter?” Glenda asked coldly. Peter always drew things out to the nth degree whenever he’d done something inexcusable. She felt the early onrush of outrage. Faking his death to avoid prosecution was, apparently, the least of it.

  Simonton drew in his lips and threw a hand over his eyes.

  He couldn't say it.

  He couldn't just blurt it out like that...Glenda would be abhorred. She’d detest him. Loving her was the only reason he'd done any of it and if he lost that now...Oh shit, shit! He wanted desperately to make something up, but energy and imagination had long since deserted him.

  “Wallace has been trying for years to get the federal government to ease the cloning laws so he could expand his research,” Simonton said finally. “And for all that time, a certain senator has been the driving force in keeping public opinion against such legislation. Wallace figured that if he could somehow discredit Shane Beaumont, he’d have a better chance of manipulating the senate.”

  Xavier squinted, curious. “So it does have something to do with that upcoming vote,” he said.

  “Yes. Wallace knew that Beaumont and I maintained a mutually beneficial relationship. I financially supported his candidacy and those who supported him. In return, he continued to lobby and speak out against the proliferation of the biotech’s power. But not even he was a match for Wallace...And there's not much room for failures in this world.” Simonton paused, looking askance at the shadows. “When I turned twenty-one, my father gave me an old service pistol from some relative who fought in some war back in I-don't-know-when. He knew I was scared of guns, didn't know shit about them, but he considered it an heirloom. I kept it in a safe in my study that not even my wife knew about.” Simonton stayed unnervingly quiet for a moment. The gun he so touchingly referenced, now sat unloaded on the broken-down desk on the other side of the room. “Somehow it just seemed the right way do it, you know.”

  Xavier flashed to just days ago in the old house, sitting alone and frightened. He really didn’t want to hear this part.

  “But just as I was about to pull the trigger, I looked in the safe and saw something else I’d hidden in there.” Simonton looked adoringly at Glenda. “It was that picture of you, the one in my pilot’s hat?”

  Glenda used a hand to shield her eyes. She didn't want Xavier easily deducing that the pilot’s hat was all she was wearing in the holograph.

  “Do you remember that, Glen?” Simonton asked coyly. He teasingly smiled at her, hoping she would return the sentiment.

  She did not.

  “It was the day we came here to see if these properties were worth anything,” he said. “I promised I'd give you the moon, like guys always do in those old romance stories...and then th
e salt air took control and made us both...”

  “Yes, Peter, I remember,” Glenda replied, cutting him off. And as she recalled the salt air had taken control of only one of them. Glenda wasn’t too keen on giving the spiders in this place a free peepshow. But that was Peter’s strength and her weakness—his spontaneity. Peter had a way of bringing out the wild child and prim little princess in Glenda at the same time. He could make her feel bad in the good way only a man could. She had been his queen and his whore, his blessing and his curse, his priceless jewel and his favorite toy.

  “Anyway, that’s when it hit me,” Simonton said. “That’s when I got the idea.”

  Xavier and Glenda fine-tuned their ears.

  “I’d heard all sorts of things from Beaumont about Wallace’s business, and about what he suspected was really going on there,” Simonton continued. “At first I had a hard time believing it. It sounded like a bunch of conspiracy paranoia. I asked him once if he could prove any of it and he said he could but not without compromising himself or his 'sources'. Not that helping to bring down Wallace would have gotten me off the hook with the Feds.” Simonton paused. “But as I was sitting there, dangling at the end of my rope, I thought, 'what if it was true? What if Wallace really was doing the things Beaumont accused him of doing?'”

  “You mean the cloning?” Xavier asked.

  Simonton gave him a noncommittal glance. “I knew no one would be satisfied if I just dropped off the planet. Besides, it’s too damn difficult to just vanish anymore. I would’ve spent the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. And with me being a skydiver, if there was no evidence of a body, it would’ve kept them guessing.” Simonton shook the mating of a thumb and forefinger in front of his own face. “There had to be indisputable evidence of my death, nothing left to question.” He paused again, squaring his chest. “So I went to my greatest enemy and...cut a deal. I would give him all the information he needed to completely destroy Beaumont...and in exchange...he would create an exact duplicate of me for the authorities to find in a burnt out crash site.”