The List (12 page)

“But I wasn’t grown from Einstein?”

“Exactly.”

“Who else was cloned?”

“I did ten of you, all born within a few days of each other. The first was Abraham Lincoln. Then Robert E. Lee, Joan of Arc, William Shakespeare, Thomas Jefferson, Albert Einstein, and Thomas Edison.

Those are the Lucky Seven.”

“Why these seven?”

“Phillip thought they represented the greatest figures in history.

He believed they would have the greatest potential to benefit mankind.

Or, more specifically, the US Government.”

“Phillip?”

“We’ll get to him shortly.”

“Wasn’t Joan of Arc burned at the stake?”

“The one place in the body that DNA never seems to dissipate, even after thousands of years, is in the teeth. From what I understand, Phillip had located her scorched jawbone, secreted away from the pyre by a zealot and locked up in some French monastery for years.”

“You said there were ten.”

“Ah yes. The others. Keep in mind, this was more than just a scientific breakthrough. It was a behavioral experiment as well. Just because we made a copy of Lincoln didn’t mean he’d actually grow up to be Lincoln, with all of the traits we imbue Lincoln with. What makes a person who they are is much more complicated than their genetics. There are many factors—parents, environment, chance, socioeconomic conditions, illness, accidents—influences that we could only imagine. But we didn’t know that, back then. And every good experiment needs some control subjects...”

“So you chose Jack the Ripper and Attila the Hun?”

“Jack was my fault. I’d always been a Ripperphile, and was convinced the killer was that fish porter, Joseph Barnett. So we got a DNA sample and cloned him. I believe I was proven right. At age eleven he stabbed his adoptive parents to death.”

Roy returned Tom’s
told you so
look with a blank stare.

Harold went on. “Phillip chose the other two. Ancient leaders, known for their cruelty. Attila and Vlad.”

“Vlad?”

“Vlad Tepes Dracula. Vlad the Impaler. Ruled Wallachia in the fifteenth century, tortured over a hundred thousand people to death.

He’d spear them on long stakes—horrible man. His clone seemed to inherit the same sadistic streak. Set the family dog on fire when he was only six.”

“Explain to us again why you’d clone the biggest psychos in world history and think it was a good idea?”

“The logic was sound at the time. If personality was inherited, then the Lucky Seven would grow up and be brilliant, and the Unholy Three would grow up as monsters. Of course, we only got it half right.”

“The monster half.” Tom frowned.

“Not to say that you didn’t turn out fine,” Harold quickly added.

“We’ve watched you for years. That none of you rose to the greatness of your parental genotypes doesn’t mean our experiment failed. But ultimately, our major success was with them. Perhaps the will to destroy is more easily transferable than the will to create. Monsters, all three of them.”

“So this was just one big social experiment?” Bert sounded disappointed. “We weren’t created to control the world or anything?”

“Phillip had planned to reveal you to the world, at some point. But after watching you progress, there didn’t seem to be any reason. Robert didn’t become a great General. Neither Abe nor Tom have attempted to hold office. Bert, neither you nor the clone of Edison have made any grand discoveries or inventions. It was decided to never tell you. But yet, you figured it out.”

“How could you have been at Rush-Presbyterian in Chicago if we were all born in Mexico?”

“I was a member of the staff, but have never actually been to the place. Phillip set it up, through his connections. It allowed us to fake all the birth certificates, make you US citizens. Phillip found suitable parents through his Army connections—the idea was to match the newborns up with fathers who were comparable to the clone.”

“You keep bringing up this Phillip as the guy who set this whole thing up.” Tom stared hard at the doctor. “Are you ready to tell us who he is?”

“He was, still is, one of the most powerful men in the world.

Phillip Stang.”

“Phillip Stang?
The
Phillip Stang?”

“Who’s Phillip Stang?” Bert asked.

“A Democratic congressman from Illinois. His picture was all over the media last year, when he became Speaker of the House.”

“I remember now!” Bert’s face twisted in fear. “When I met with Jessup a few days ago, he thought he was being followed. He told me it started the month before, right after talking to some politician.”

“It was Phillip Stang?”

“I didn’t get the name. But what if it was Stang? He’s one of the richest, most powerful men in the world. What if he’s the one that wants us dead?”

Tom winced. This wasn’t a pleasant development.

“I think this is a case of overreacting.” Harold had finished his coffee but brought the empty cup to his lips just the same. “I’ve known Phillip Stang for years. Besides, you’ve got the wrong one. The Phillip that started the project with me is retired. His son, same name, is Speaker. Fine lad, too. Now there’s someone with political aspirations.”

It wasn’t an intentional barb, but it stung just the same. Tom rose above it.

“We’ll need some addresses. Anything you have on any of the clones. They have to be warned.”

“Of course. But you have to be careful. You both seem to have adjusted well to the truth about your births, but it could be potentially traumatic to the psyche to suddenly find out you’re someone else.

No kidding,
Tom thought.

“We’d also like to talk with the elder Phillip Stang. Can you set that up?”

“Yes. Haven’t spoken to him in a while. Last I heard, his health was failing again. Chronic kidney problems. He’s got a home in Illinois, by Springfield.”

“How about the others?”

“Not a problem. I know Abe is in Nebraska. He sells used cars, I believe. Joan went to Hollywood and is a hot shot producer. I saw one of her movies a few years ago, something loud with aliens in it.

William is a writer. This thrilled us at first. He got great grades in college. Unfortunately, he wound up in advertising. I have their last names written down someplace, a few addresses.”

“How about the other three?”

“Oh dear. No idea. They managed to disappear. Jack was involved in the CIA for a while. His specialty was wet work, I believe they called it. He killed people for Uncle Sam. Vlad—we named him Victor—he escaped from police custody after murdering some young women in a particularly horrible way. Fled to South America. I’ve heard rumors that he worked as a freelance interrogator for various governments. And Arthur, Attila—in and out of prisons his whole life.

Probably killed his parents. No idea where he might be.”

“Do you know how they found out about everything?”

“The only thing I can think of is they must have been told. All three are above average intelligence, but I wouldn’t say they had the savvy to dig up their pasts. Of course, that doesn’t leave many people left. Even though I had a research team, none of my assistants knew exactly what we were doing. You were watched by various government employees while growing up, but they were never given details why. The only two people who knew everything about the experiments are myself and Phil, and even I didn’t know everything.”

“Did you tell them?”

“Tell them? My boy, if I saw any of them I’d run away as fast as my little old legs could carry me. I’m going for more coffee. Anyone care to join me?”

They declined. Harold plodded off into the kitchen.

“It’s got to be Stang.” Bert nodded smartly. “There’s no one else left.”

“All the high-tech listening devices point to a government operation.” Tom agreed. “But what would the motive be? Why would he devote his entire life to this project, and then want to wipe it out?”

“Could Jack and Attila be working on their own?”

“I hope so. Because if Phillip Stang is involved, I won’t be needing my donut anymore.”

“Why?”

Roy frowned. “Because if we’re being hunted by that cat, we can all kiss our asses good-bye.”

Albuquerque

“It tastes like beef.”

Roy wiped some ketchup off of his mustache and took another bite of the ostrich burger.

“Softer.” Bert smacked his lips. “Richer, too.”

Tom reached for another sandwich, his third. He piled on the condiments.

“Harold, I have to say, this is the tastiest burger I’ve ever had. And I’ve tried them all—turkey, buffalo, lamb, alligator...”

“I tried raising alligators, years ago. It was a big mistake. I was also breeding beagles at the same time. Inquisitive dogs, beagles. Well, hindsight is always 20/20, isn’t it?”

Roy pushed away his plate and poured himself another glass of lemonade, emptying the glass pitcher. Several ostriches had gathered around the picnic table, jockeying for scraps. A spectacular New Mexican sunset was dominating the western horizon, and the birds were darkening into silhouettes.

Bert tossed a piece of bun on the ground and the nearest ostrich pecked it up.

“There’s something I still don’t quite get.” He threw more bun, and another bird muscled its way over and snatched it, long neck striking like a snake. “Why clone us at all? It must have cost a fortune.

What did Phillip Stang actually get out of this?”

“Could be that Phillip was a bit of a philanthropist. Why did we go to the moon? Did it serve any real purpose? We did it to see if it could be done.”

“Then why not go public with the results?” This had been bugging Tom as well. “Why not reap the fame and rewards of the greatest scientific development since, well, ever?”

“I have no clue. I was just paid to do it. It’s the dream of every scientist; unlimited funds and no boundaries. I made some money, yes, but it isn’t about the money, or the fame. It’s about gaining knowledge, doing something no one else has done.”

“And Stang felt the same way?”

“He never told me. When his son got into politics about a decade ago, Phil retired. You’ll have to ask him yourself, after I set up a meeting.”

The calm night was pierced by a scream—shrill, abrupt.

“Was that an ostrich?”

Two more followed, louder and closer.

“Coyote?” Tom asked.

“The ranch is fenced off. The only time they scream like that is when…”

Tom finished the sentence for him. “…when they see a gun.” He stood up, taking out his Glock. “Let’s get inside. Now.”

They hurried into the house. Harold locked the doors while Tom and Roy killed all the lights. Ostriches were now stampeding in from the pasture, seeking the safety of the stable, climbing over each other to gain entrance. Their yelps had an eerie, surreal quality.

“Bert, Harold, in the kitchen. Call the police, then stay down below window level. Don’t move unless I tell you to. Got the back, Roy?”

“Got my end covered. How are you on ammo?”

“I brought two clips. You?”

“Same.”

Tom opened the porch window and squatted on his haunches. He stared out onto the plains, letting his eyes adjust to the dimming light.

The temperature had dropped, and a night breeze wafted in, cooling the sweat on Tom’s forehead. He moved his eyes back and forth over the grounds, watching for light or movement, listening for people-sounds.

“Police will be here in ten minutes.” Harold had crawled over.

“Shh. Go back into the kitchen. Do you own a gun?”

“No. I think guns are just a symbolic substitute for male genitalia, and I’m okay in that respect.”

“Fine. If they get in the house, you can whack them with your genitals. Kitchen, now.”

Harold scampered away. The cries of the ratites increased in volume. Something was spooking them badly. Tom looked hard at the barn, trying to spot anything man-shaped in the darkness.

A gunshot. Roy. Tom spun and ran for the rear entrance, keeping his head down.

“You see something?”

“How much you think these big birds cost?”

“Why?”

“I owe Harold for one.”

“You shot an ostrich?”

“I wasn’t sure what it was. Figured better safe than sorry.”

“And now the bad guys know we’re expecting them.”

“Maybe I scared them off.”

The gunfire seemed to erupt everywhere at once. Windows shattered and splinters flew and a sound like an exploding string of firecrackers echoed through the house. Automatic weapon fire.

Tom and Roy fell to their sides and curled up, protecting their heads. The destruction went on and on, lamps exploding and sparks flying and bullets chipping away at the stone fireplace and the couches hissing at them as the fabric shredded. Tom’s gut was a clenched fist and his ribs screamed at the uncomfortable position but he refused to move.

After a lifetime, the shooting finally stopped. Tom didn’t know if the ringing in his ears was a gun echo or his hammering heart.

“I’m going for the front.” He couldn’t hear his own voice and didn’t think Roy could either. But his partner nodded and stuck his gun out the window, firing in the direction the bullets had come from. Tom sprinted in a crouch to the front door, both hands glued to his pistol, and he braced his back against the wall and peered through the broken glass. He caught sight of someone running behind the barn.

“Fire!”

Bert and Harold rushed out of the kitchen. Tom could see the flickering orange they were fleeing from, with its accompanying smoke.

Roy met them by the sofas. “On my side too. They’re torching the place.”

“We have to get out of here!” Bert had his luggage in his hands and was heading for the front door. Tom grabbed his wrist.

“They want us to run outside so they can pick us off.”

“So we’re supposed to stay in here and roast?”

“Does this place have a basement? A cellar?”

Harold shook his head .“No.”

“Okay, they’re probably waiting for us on this side. So we have to go out the back way, through the fire.”

Tom led them back into the kitchen, amazed at how quickly it had gotten unbearable. The rear entrance was a growing wall of flame, licking its way across the ceiling. Black smoke hovered at eye level, slowly inching its way to the floor. It had to be a hundred and thirty in there. Tom tried to make out the knob through the fire, but couldn’t even see the door. He got to within three feet and the heat became so intense it was impossible to get any closer. The only window in the kitchen was the small one over the sink, and it too was surrounded by flames.