The List (15 page)

The only good thing that happened within the past 48 hours was avoiding arrest for smuggling the guns onto the plane. That little trick went off without a hitch, and Tom felt a lot safer with the Smith and Wesson in his shoulder holster.

“How much further?” Bert asked. He’d asked that no less than fifty times.

“How many times you gonna ask that?” That had been Roy’s answer for each of the fifty.

“About as many times as you complain about your ass hurting.”

“Springfield is coming up, next exit.”

Three hours in the car and Tom’s ribs were screaming at him, but that wasn’t nearly as bad as the mental anguish he’d suffered, driving with Bert and Roy.

Stang didn’t live in Springfield itself. His place was along Rt. 29, on the outskirts. They had to go through the town to reach it, and Tom was surprised to see how little it had changed in fifteen years.

Springfield was the resting place of Abe Lincoln, a status that led to its prosperity in the middle of nowhere and its being declared the state capitol. Like a mini Washington DC, the town was packed with monuments and historic sites, and a field trip staple for just about every Jr. High School in Illinois.

Tom remembered his trip fondly—not for the boring visits to Lincoln’s tomb or the State Capitol, but because he’d gotten to second base with Shirley Valezquez when they strayed away from the tour group.

He ran into Shirley a few years ago. Married, kids, successful.

Like so many of his peers. Tom could add a poor social life to his list of inadequacies. Perhaps after he went into politics he would find the right woman. He snickered, wondering which was the more realistic of the two.

Tom pulled the rental car into a fast food place. After filling their stomachs with grease, they climbed in the car again—Bert in front, having called shotgun—and headed for the Stang Estate, unannounced.

It looked like another Springfield monument, columns and carefully trimmed bushes and marble sculptures and fountains, visible from a mile away due to the flat terrain and lack of trees. As expected, there was a gate blocking the driveway. The small brick guardhouse wasn’t occupied. Tom blew the horn.

A groundskeeper, complete with pruning sheers, walked down the driveway and peered at them through the wrought iron.

“Yeah?”

“We’re here to see Mr. Stang.”

“He isn’t seeing anyone.”

“Tell him it’s Mankowski and Blumberg.”

“Mankoberg and...?”

“Just say Jefferson and Einstein.”

The man nodded and walked off. Minutes passed. Tom became increasingly uncomfortable. The mansion had two floors and a dozen windows facing the driveway. If Jack were waiting in one of those rooms with a rifle...

The gate made a clanging sound and began to roll backwards.

Tom recovered from the brief shock and drove up to the house, parking in front of a six car garage.

“Is anyone else a little intimidated?” Bert asked.

They didn’t answer. The front doors were cathedral style, double height, surrounded by ornate bay windows. They opened before Tom could knock.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” A man, young and big-shouldered, wearing trendy black suit. He had a broad, dark face, and a flat nose.

American Indian, Tom guessed. “I’m Mr. Stang’s assistant, Jerome.

He’s waiting for you in the drawing room. This way, please.”

Jerome trotted through the gigantic foyer, past a wall-sized aquarium, and up the grand spiral staircase that seemed to be a standard in every mansion. They followed, feet sinking inch-deep into expensive carpet, large, dramatic paintings of battle scenes facing them on the stairway wall. Tom could take or leave art, but he found these repellant. They depicted ancient war atrocities—French revolution beheadings, Indian massacres, feudal disemboweling. One particularly offensive wood cutting reveled in a landscape of impaled bodies, some long dead and some still struggling on the stake.

“All originals.” Jerome smiled mildly at Tom’s distaste. “That particular piece dates back to the fifteenth century.”

“It’s adorable.”

They strolled down a long hallway, coming to a halt at an intricately carved door. Jerome held it open for them.

Phillip Stang was in a king-sized bed, sitting up against a massive wooden headboard shaped like a setting sun. To his left were several large pieces of medical equipment, tubes extending to each of his arms. The machines chugged away with a faint, locomotive sound.

“Is there anything else, sir?”

“Thank you, Jerome.”

The door closed behind them.

“Welcome to the drawing room, gentlemen. I hope none of you are put off by the pun. I’d prefer to see you under normal circumstances, but my poor, overworked kidney needs a weekly dialysis boost. Come closer.”

Tom moved to the side of the bed, regarding the old man. He was like a white raisin—small, bald, wrinkled. Late seventies, Tom guessed. A gnarled hand picked up a remote control and turned off the big screen television playing across the room.

“Amazing.” Stang had small, blue eyes, and they darted over Tom’s whole body, taking everything in. “This is the first time I’ve seen you as an adult. You announced yourself as Jefferson, so you must know. What do you think? Pretty impressive work, I may say.”

“We just visited Harold. He told us a lot.”

“Harold? How is the old workhorse?”

Tom watched his face closely. “He’s dead.”

Stang smiled. “He lived a long life. These things happen.”

“You’re the one that killed him.” Bert pushed Tom aside and got in Stang’s face. So much for playing it subtle.

“Ah, Albert. I’ve followed your life with semi-interest. Shame about the stock market. What is it you’re doing now, selling old worms and such? A disappointment. But let’s try to be civil, shall we?”

“When did murder become civil?”

“You must be Detective Lewis. Oh, pardon me, you’re not currently a detective, are you? I believe you’ve been suspended. Tell me, is your mother still working at that grocery store on Clark? She walks home, right? Even after the late shift? Dangerous, at night.”

Tom had to hold Roy back. Stang’s thin mouth twisted into a small smile.

“Let’s come to an understanding here, gentlemen. You’ve apparently put two and two together, but I have no idea what you thought you’d accomplish visiting me. You two aren’t even cops anymore.”

Tom made sure Roy was calm before he approached Stang again.

“We wanted to know why.”

“Why, what? Why I did what I did, and am doing what I’m doing?

Let’s say that at one point in time you were necessary to me, and now you’ve become a liability.”

Roy made a fist. “Right now I’m liable to knock you upside your bald head.”

“I’d sue you for threatening me, but for some reason I don’t think you will be around for the trial.”

Bert’s face became angry. “Are you threatening us?”

Stang smiled again, his dull eyes twinkling. “Mr. Einstein gets a gold star. I was worried I hadn’t been obvious enough. Now is there anything else, gentlemen? I’m growing tired of you.”

Tom tried to collect himself. He hadn’t expected it to go like this.

Stang had openly admitted he was going to kill them, and there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it.

“Whatever your little plan is, we’re going to stop it.”

It sounded lame as it came out of Tom’s mouth.

“No, you won’t.”

“Sure we will.” Bert said. “You’re practically a corpse now. I got half a tube of toothpaste that’s gonna last longer than you.”

“Au contraire. I’ll be getting my eleventh kidney transplant tomorrow.”

Tom knew people who have been waiting their whole lives for one, and this ugly bastard has had almost a dozen?

“I suppose being rich gets you to the top of all those donor lists.”

“Something like that.” Another twisted smile.

“Why’d you stop at Senator, Stang? An ego your size shouldn’t have settled for less than President.”

“Unfortunately, I was born in Germany. The Constitution—which you had a hand in writing, Tom—states that a President must be born in America. I tried three times, during my years as Senator, to add an amendment changing that. Each time I was unsuccessful.”

“What a shame. I suppose there’s always hope for Phil Jr. I wonder if he’s involved in all of this? Maybe we should pay him a visit.”

Stang’s mood darkened. “Please do. I’ll instruct the Secret Service to shoot you on sight. It will save me the trouble.”

“Roy, do you get the feeling that daddy’s little angel is involved in this too?”

“I think so. Maybe if we go to the media, make a big enough stink, something will shake loose.”

Stang laughed, a short clipped sound like a dog bark.

“I’d like to see that. Go to the networks, tell them you’re Jefferson and Einstein, and see what they do. There’s no proof. No records.”

“There’s DNA testing.”

“That takes weeks.” Another wicked grin. “You don’t have weeks.

The remainder of your lives can be measured in hours. Jerome, would you mind escorting them out?”

Tom turned and saw Jerome in the doorway. He was holding a pistol casually at his side.

“Big deal.” Roy opened up his jacket. “I got one too.”

Tom patted Roy on the shoulder. This wasn’t the time or the place for a shoot out. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Jerome permitted them out the door, and followed them through the hall. Tom was angry. But even worse than that, he felt powerless.

“What the hell happened in there?” Roy shook his head.

Bert agreed. “I feel like a fly he just shooed away.”

They went down the stairs, Jerome trailing closely behind.

“It’s just round one, guys. We’ll regroup, do it differently next time. At least we know what we’re dealing with now.”

“A rich, powerful, psychotic egomaniac?” Bert pulled a face. “I was happier not knowing.”

Roy snorted. “Maybe we’ll be lucky, he’ll die during his operation.”

“He’s only part of the problem. We also have to deal with Vlad, Attila, and Jack. Plus this guy.”

Tom pointed to a large portrait hanging at the bottom of the staircase. In it was of an elderly Phillip Stang, sitting on a chair.

Standing behind him, resting a hand on Phil’s shoulder, was a young man who bore a striking resemblance.

“Phil junior. Mr. Speaker of the House. You think he’s in this too?”

“Does the apple fall far from the tree?”

Jerome stood patiently in the foyer while they let themselves out.

“So what next? Do we go after Mr. Speaker?”

Tom shook his head. “How? Even if we could get to him, what do we do? Tape some wires to our chests and trick him into revealing his plot for world domination?”

“I say we go to the media.”

“They’ll laugh at us unless we have evidence. We need DNA tests. But even then, we’d need original samples.”

“Well, we’re in Springfield. Want to buy some shovels, dig up Lincoln?”

Tom actually considered it for a moment—proof that he needed some sleep.

“How about the FBI?” Bert asked. “Or the CIA?”

“We don’t know how far Stang has influence. Between him and his son, I bet he could send the entire Army after us.”

“Then can’t we just kill them both? Pop some caps?”

“We’re not assassins, Bert.”

Bert climbed in back and passed Roy the donut. Tom sat in the driver’s seat and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, lost in thought.

“How about the Unholy Trio? Jack, Vlad, and Attila?”

“What about them?”

“Well, they’re involved in this, and they’re going to come after us, so we could set some kind of trap.”

“I hate sitting around, waiting for things to happen. Plus, we caught one already, and they just let him go.”

“And what about the other clones?” Bert asked. “They’re on the list, too.”

“Okay. Let me think.”

Tom rubbed his temples. The situation seemed pretty hopeless.

With the bad guy so high up in government, they couldn’t expect any help through the official channels. They could try to go over his head, but Tom didn’t have high hopes the President would take their calls.

“Stang said we’re a liability.”

“Yeah. What did he mean by that?”

“Obviously, us being alive is bad for him somehow. He wants us dead for a reason. And it can’t be because we know too much, because he wants the other clones dead as well, and they don’t know anything.”

“I get it. There must be more at stake here than just killing us off.

Maybe you were right about the world domination thing.”

“Look, we’re not cops now, right? So let’s say we grabbed Attila or Jack. We wouldn’t have to take him in. Maybe he’d tell us what’s going on.”

“He wouldn’t want to talk.”

Roy’s face got very serious. “I can be persuasive.”

Tom looked at Roy, then at Bert. “Do we all agree, then? We try to grab one of the bad guys?”

“What about saving the other clones?”

“We can do both.”

“I’m in.”

“Me too.”

“Okay, then.” Tom started the car and cranked up the heat. “We know Joan of Arc is in Hollywood, and Abe Lincoln is in Nebraska.”

“Always wanted to see Hollywood,” Bert mused.

“Me too.”

“Sounds good.” Tom cruised down the driveway and through the gate, leaving the Stang estate. “California here we come.”

Los Angeles

“Joan?” Marsha peeked in the door. “There are some men here to see you.”

Joan checked her desk calendar and didn’t see any scheduled meetings for that day.

“Are they anybody?” Anybody big in the business who wouldn’t need an appointment.

“They said they’re police officers.”

“Thanks, Marsha. Send them in.”

“Is everything... okay?”

“It’s fine. I was assaulted last night. I’ll tell you about it later.”

Marsha’s head disappeared, and a moment later three men came into her office. The first was black, big, cop written all over him. The second guy was smaller, a mustache, familiar in some way she couldn’t place. Bringing up the rear was a tall, wiry man, with sandy hair. He’s the one who spoke.