The List (20 page)

“What the hell are you doing?” Bill shoved at the door.

Tom glanced both ways in a casual manner, then pushed his way in.

“We don’t have time to screw around here, Bill. You’re in some serious danger.”

“I want you to go. Now.”

“We will, after you’ve heard our story. Please. This is life or death.”

Bill scrunched his eyebrows and chewed his lip. In the foyer light, Joan could tell that the plugs were slightly darker than the rest of his hair. Whoever did that to him should be sued, and sued hard.

“Okay, but make it fast. I have some stuff to do.”

“Can we sit down somewhere?”

Bill led them to the living room, which was like stepping into a billboard. Everything had a corporate logo on it. Nike lamps and Coke clocks and Bud Light chairs and a Camel card table and a big white couch that had McDonalds on the seat cushions. Plastered over every wall were ads, posters, banners, mockups, and packaging from hundreds of different products. Joan felt as if she were at a flea market.

Bill shrugged. “I get a lot of free stuff.”

Joan and Tom took the sofa. It seemed to be made of some kind of plastic.

“You’re in advertising, right?”

“I’m a writer. Mostly catch-lines. You know, like
You deserve a
break today, at McDonalds
.”

“You wrote that?”

“No. But I’m working on something for the Trojan people right now. Booming industry, condoms. Lots of new markets opening up.

I’ve got a great new tag.” Bill held up his hands, as if the words were appearing in the air in front of him. “
The way to a man’s heart... is
through his fly. Trojans
. Good, huh?”

“Makes me want to run out and buy a pack.”

“So, what’s this life and death thing?” Bill asked.

Tom laid out the bare bones of the story in the same way he’d done in the car. Rather than be incredulous, or even interested, Bill spent most of the explanation fidgeting and looking at the clock.

“Here.” Tom opened up his black binder and handed Bill a pad of paper and a pen. “Write a few sentences.”

“Because it’s supposed to match Shakespeare’s writing?”

“It will. It sounds crazy, but you’ll see.”

“I think I’ll get some coffee first. Either of you for coffee?”

“Uh, sure. I’ll take a cup.”

Bill got off the chair and left the living room. Tom turned to Joan.

“Was he following anything I said?”

“It didn’t seem like it. To be honest, I don’t like him much.”

“That’s because he’s a creep. But he sure looks like Shakespeare.”

“Exactly. Except for those hair plugs.”

“Is that what they are? I thought he stapled a porcupine to his forehead.”

Joan put her hand over her mouth while she laughed. “Isn’t it bad?

The color doesn’t even match.”

“Maybe he did it himself. Do they sell kits?”

Joan got an image of the unpleasant little man sitting in front of a mirror, stapling hair into his own head. She laughed so hard she snorted.

“I assume you have a gun, Tom. Take it out and put it on the floor.”

Joan’s laughter died in her throat. Bill had come back into the room. Instead of coffee, he was holding a nickel plated revolver. It was pointed in her face. She cast a frantic look at Tom, who seemed just as surprised as she did.

“I said take it out.” Bill walked behind Joan and pressed the gun to her head. The experience was humbling. Her entire world became a small spot just above the nape of her neck, cold and hard. She could almost
feel
the direction the bullet would take, traveling up through her skull, exiting above her right ear.

Tom reached into his jacket and took out his gun, holding it by the butt. He placed it on the floor.

“You’re in on it.” Tom’s voice was even.

“No shit. You sure you’re not the Einstein clone? Now stand up, slowly. We’re all going into the kitchen.”

“What’s the reason?” Tom asked. “Money?”

“You idiot. Of course it’s not the money. The money is awesome, sure, but it’s more than that. Now move.”

Bill held Joan back while Tom walked a few steps ahead. His free hand was around her neck, cupped under her chin. The fact that every thought in her head might be her last made her knees knock. It was worse than being attacked, worse than finding the bugs in her house, it was even worse than getting shot at.

“Those people are horrible.” Joan tried to keep the quaver out of her voice. “Why would you want to be on their side?”

“You have no idea what’s happening here. What they’re going to do. I’m going to be a very important, very powerful man.”

Tom stopped walking forward and turned around slowly.

“How did you find out you were a clone?”

“Stang came to me. I was having some legal trouble. They said I took some money from my company. He helped me out, told me who I really was. He recognized my talent.”

“Your talent?”

“My writing talent. I’m Shakespeare! And I’m stuck doing crap ad copy! That’s like using a hurricane to blow out a match!”

The gun shook against Joan’s head. She closed her eyes and willed it to stop.

“So he kept you out of jail, and now you’re his little suck boy.”

Bill took the gun off Joan and pointed it at Tom. The relief on Tom’s face told her that had been his intention.

Brave bastard, that Tom. But was anyone in history braver than Joan of Arc? She found her voice, and when it came out it was strong and true.

“Don’t blame him, Tom. Look at that hair. He couldn’t have had a lot of love in his life. Not without paying for it, anyway.”

Bill jammed the gun back in Joan’s temple, hitting her so hard she saw stars.

“You want to say that again?”

“I’ll say it. You pay for sex, Bill, because your head looks like a Chia Pet.”

The revolver went back to Tom, and then Bill began to laugh.

“Good try, guys. Get me all upset. But I’m not the big loser in this room. You’re Thomas Jefferson. She’s Joan of Arc. You should be ruling this country. But instead you’re a dumb cop and this one here makes stupid movies. I for one plan on fulfilling my destiny.”

“By killing us.”

“You make an omelet, gotta break some eggs. Now move it, open that door.”

Tom didn’t move. Joan could see he was getting ready to try something. She shifted slightly, so she could grab Bill’s arm and toss him over her hip.

When the gun went off, she yelped in surprise.

Tom had crouched down, hands protecting his head. The shot had gone into the ceiling.

“Next one doesn’t miss. Open the damn cellar door.”

Tom righted himself and complied.

“Empty your pockets.”

Tom removed his wallet, cell phone, and keys.

“Toss them on the table, then go down the stairs.”

The staircase was wooden, dark. Tom took three steps down and turned. “Have you ever killed a man, Bill? Had another person’s death on your hands?”

“I get the reference, and I won’t have a problem washing the blood off.”

He shoved Joan roughly through the doorway. She yelped, pitching head first down the stairs, but Tom caught her and held her steady.

“Besides,” Bill said, “I’m not the hands-on type. I’ll give Attila and Vlad a call. They have a lot more fun with this type of thing.”

Joan stared up at him. “You should send them after the guy who gave you those hair plugs.”

Bill sneered. “Sticks and stones.” Then he slammed the door, engulfing them in darkness.

Tom’s hand found her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

She was shaking, but she managed to answer. “I’m okay. Check the door.”

Joan heard creaking, a grunt. “Locked. Solid, too. The door is heavy. Stand back.” There was a loud thump. Then another. “I think I broke my heel.”

“We have to get out of here. Do you have any matches? A lighter?”

“No.”

Joan led the way down the stairs, proceeding cautiously in the pitch black. It was cool and damp, and she got the impression of a small space rather than a big one. Her hands brushed something stringy and dry. A spider web. She wiped it off on her blouse.

Reaching the floor, Joan inched forward, hands out in front of her, grouping blindly for a wall. She hit one almost immediately. He fingers felt wood, old and dusty, half moon cuts.

“It’s a wine cellar.”

“Try to find windows.”

She continued to feel her way around the small room. In was not only devoid of windows, but wine as well. Joan felt behind the wooden racks and touched cold concrete.

“This is just the perfect way to end a perfect day.”

“I’m sorry I brought you here.”

“You’re kidding. This was my fault. I’m the one who found Shakespeare.”

“You believe he’s really Shakespeare?”

“At this point, why not? And you want to know something? I always hated Shakespeare.”

“Me too.”

His words echoes in the small enclosure, and then faded. Joan shivered. Fear mounted with every passing second, as if the darkness were suffocating her.

Keep a clear head,
she told herself.
Stay focused. Find your
center. If you’re going to go down, go down swinging.

Joan broke the silence. “We should have rushed him.”

“I saw the guy’s eyes. He would have shot us.”

“Isn’t that a lot better than what’s going to happen when Attila and Vlad show up?”

“You’re right. I could have done something.”

“I could have done something too. I could have flipped him. It was a simple move any yellow belt could have executed.”

“You had a gun to your head.”

“And it scared me. Next time I won’t be scared.”

“If this was one of your movies, how would we get out?”

“I would have written the scene so one of us has a weapon, or a hairpin to pick the lock, or we find a closet and there’s a back hoe in it.”

“Maybe we can pull down some of these old racks, make a weapon.”

“It’s a start. What’s the chance of your friends somehow finding us?”

“Nil. I spoke to Roy when his plane got in, but haven’t checked with him since. He doesn’t even know about Shakespeare. Maybe they can figure it out later and avenge our deaths.”

“That would work cinematically. Doesn’t help us much, though.”

Tom got up. Joan listened to him shake the wine rack.

“Well built. But let’s give it a shot.”

Joan stood next to him and they both grabbed a corner support. On three they tugged, Joan putting her back into it, straining and groaning.

The support creaked and abruptly gave way, the two of them falling onto their bottoms.

Joan weighed the little piece of wood in her hand. It was useless as a weapon. She sat with her back against the wall and hugged her knees, despair swallowing her up.
We’re going to die,
she thought. The feeling multiplied within her, getting bigger and bigger, until she found herself gasping.

Tom bumped into her, touched her head, and then sat beside her.

He put an arm around her shoulders, and then hugged her tighter when she began to tremble. The first really nice guy she met in California, and he wasn’t even from California. Joan thought about home. Not her house in Beverly Hills, but the small town she grew up in. Joan had left to get away from the wholesomeness, but now she missed it so much she ached.

For some reason, Tom reminded her of home. She pressed against him, resting her head against his neck. After a minute or two, she was able to get her breathing under control.

“I just had a pessimistic thought,” Tom said.

“Share it. Brighten my spirits even more.”

“Well, neither of us expected Shakespeare to be one of the bad guys, right?”

“I was as shocked as the next girl.”

“So, Roy and Bert are in Nebraska visiting Lincoln...”

“I follow. But I really can’t picture Lincoln as a bad guy. He’s America’s poster boy for decency and honesty.”

“He’s a used care salesman.”

Joan shivered. “God help us all.”

Lincoln

“Your vehicle is in the third space on the right. Thank you for using Hertz.”

Bert picked up his bags and followed Roy out the door. When he saw their car he halted mid-step. Yellow. Round. Volkswagon.

They’d rented a Beetle.

“Slug bug yellow no hit backs!” Bert dropped his luggage in the parking lot and launched himself at Roy, his fist seeking out the sore spot on the larger man’s shoulder.

Roy set his jaw and rubbed his arm. “Remind me to smack Tom upside the head for reserving this damn car.”

“That’s why this place is called Hertz.”

Bert went back for his bags. He shoved them in the rear seat and got into the car. Roy unlocked the fire box and put the revolver in his shoulder holster. Then he fussed with his donut.

“Damn donut is leaking again.”

“Is the nozzle pushed in?”

“Don’t start with me. It’s a hole.”

“I may have something in one of my bags.”

Bert scooted around and unzipped the panel on his larger bag. He found the metal box and set it in his lap.

“Camping emergency pack. Waterproof matches, candle, compass, flashlight, cable saw, tablets to purify water, fishing line, and a repair kit for patching tents. Gimme the donut.”

Roy handed it over. Bert found the hole—a split in the seam—and dabbed on some rubber cement.

“It’s gonna take some time to dry. Can you live without it for a while?”

“I guess I have to.”

Roy got in the driver’s seat, wincing as he sat down.

“Maybe you should turn the other cheek.”

“Funny. Where the hell are we going?”

“
Honest Abe’s Used Car Emporium
. He’s on Route 2.”

Roy turned the ignition and Bert consulted the complimentary map of Lincoln the rental company had provided. “When you get out of the lot you’re going to get on 80. We can take 80 to 180, and that turns into 2.”

“How’s my donut?”

“Drying.”

Bert set the camping kit by his feet, rather than bother putting it back in the suitcase. He reclined his seat a few more degrees and opened the window. The breeze felt nice. Not as warm as LA, but the air was fresh and clean. The sun was looming over the western horizon. It would set in about an hour or so.