The List (31 page)

The third most powerful man in America rubbed his face on the carpet and whimpered.

Roy dragged Jerome out into the hall. He was also trussed up with duct tape, but Roy had taken the added precaution of wrapping his legs as well. It seemed kind of redundant—the guy was down for the count.

“Here’s why it hurt so bad.” Roy walked over and handed Tom a large semi-automatic. “He shot you with a .45.”

A forty-five caliber handgun was military issue, a real cannon. But it was preferable to a shotgun or M-16. Tom felt incredibly lucky. Joan poked her head out of the drawing room and stared at the group.

“Everything okay out here?”

“I got shot.” Tom held up two fingers. “Twice.”

“You’ve got a vest on.”

“But look how big the gun is.” Tom showed her the .45.

Joan disappeared back into the room.

Roy patted Tom’s shoulder. “Some ladies are hard to impress.”

Bert managed to get the blinded Phil to his feet and lead him down the hall. Tom and Roy dragged Jerome after him.

They gathered around Stang’s bed. The old man’s face was pure malice. With his bald head and wrinkles, he looked like a snapping turtle.

“You need to hire better help.” Roy pulled Jerome into a corner of the room. “I know nurses at County General who can shoot a lot better than this guy.”

Tom sat on the bed and held the gun in front of Stang’s face.

“Where are all the research papers?”

“In the basement. There’s a secret door on the first floor. Junior will show you.”

“Dad! I can’t see!”

Roy gave Jerome a light slap on the cheek. Jerome began to snore.

“This one’s in no shape to show us around neither.”

“That leaves you to guide the tour, Senator.”

“I’m recovering from a major operation.”

“Bert, I think Phil Jr. needs more bear juice.”

Bert aimed the canister at the younger man’s face. The Speaker of the House cringed. “Take them, Dad! Take them!”

Stang snarled. “There’s a wheelchair in the closet.”

Tom opened it up and found the latest electric model. Stang gave instructions on how to work it, and Bert drove it next to the bed. Roy and Bert lifted the old man and set him in the padded seat.

Joan looked at Tom. “How can a wheelchair go down the stairs?”

“Pretty damn quick.”

Stang glowered. “There’s an elevator.”

Tom instructed Roy and Bert to keep watch over the hostages, and held open the door. Joan went out first, followed by the whirring sound of Stang in the automatic wheelchair. So far everything had gone more or less according to plan. If their luck held, it would all be over very soon.
If
their luck held. Tom checked the clip in the .45. Six bullets left.

“The hard part is over, Tommy. From here on out, it’s cake.”

Bert nodded in agreement. “Let’s finish this up, get out of here.”

Tom gripped the gun tightly and walked out the door, hoping they were right.

Springfield

“The lift is on the other side of the hallway.”

Stang’s voice was tired. He pushed the little joystick on the armrest all the way forward, but his chair didn’t roll any faster than walking speed.

“There’s something I wanted to ask.” Tom rested the gun on Stang’s shoulder. “Why the hell did you create us, anyway?”

“I’m asking myself that same question right now. It was all about power.”

“Explain.”

The old man cleared his throat. “I couldn’t ever be President, being born in Germany. So, from birth, I’ve been grooming my son for the job. But winning an election has little to do with ability.

Sometimes it comes down to different hot issues, or party support, or running mates, or looks, or a hundred other ridiculous reasons. I decided to stack the deck.”

They reached the end of the hall. An old fashioned elevator, complete with metal folding gate, was waiting for them. Tom opened the door as Stang talked.

“So I cloned the greatest people in history, to align them with my son. It was a no lose situation. If greatness was genetic we’d have all the political savvy of Jefferson and Lincoln, all the brilliance of Einstein and Edison, Shakespeare to write the best speeches, the military strategy of Robert E. Lee.”

The Senator had become more energetic, gesturing with his free hand and raising his voice.

“And even if you turned out to be idiots, you still had the famous faces, the famous names. Tom, I’d planned for you to become Vice President. Name someone in America who wouldn’t vote for you?

Democrat, Republican; it wouldn’t matter. If my son had you as a running mate, and announced Lincoln as a future Secretary of State, Einstein as Secretary of Education, and so on, he’d be a sure thing.

Robert E. Lee would capture the southern vote, Joan of Arc would get the women, we’d be unstoppable.”

Tom shut the door to the elevator and Stang instructed him to pull the switch down. He did, and the lift began to descend.

“You think America would vote for clones?”

“Of course not. But I had papers made, all proving lineage to the people you’d been cloned from. Tom, you were Jefferson’s great great great grandson. All of you had the genealogy. America would have eaten it up.”

“Let me guess what happened. Edison figured out he was a clone.”

Stang sighed. He appeared to partially deflate. “It started before that. I’d managed to recruit some of the others—Vlad, Attila, Jack, and Bill. But when I tried to recruit Robert E. Lee, he refused. Threatened to go public. That wouldn’t do—the United States would vote for a descendant of Robert E. Lee, but mention the word clone and everyone starts crowing about religion and messing with the forces of nature.”

“So you killed him.”

“Of course. And then Jessup—Edison—figured it out by himself. I knew he did, because I’ve been keeping tabs on all of you since you were born. But when I offered him the chance to join he balked as well. By then Einstein knew, and you. Since none of you showed even a shred of political potential anyway...”

Tom followed the twisted train of thought. “You decided to cut your losses and get rid of us.”

The elevator stopped on the first floor, but Tom didn’t move to open the door.

“I created you. It’s my right to destroy you. If you play God, you’re allowed to play it to the hilt.”

Tom felt like throttling the guy. Everything, all the death, all the fighting. Just because of some megalomaniac’s ego.

“But I had no idea.” Joan looked down at Stang. “Why try to murder me? I would have lived out the rest of my life not knowing.”

Tom had one of those moments where everything suddenly became clear. He knew the reason, the real reason, why Stang had to kill them all.

“You were still a possible threat. Stang had to make sure no one ever knew that human cloning was possible. He said it himself, the United States would never elect a clone.” Tom stared at Stang.

“Especially a clone of a man who was born in Germany.”

Joan looked at Tom, confused. Then her eyes got big. “The Speaker of the House?”

Tom nodded. “Phil Jr. A chip off the old block. Stang couldn’t become President, so he cloned himself. If his clone became President, it was almost the same thing.”

Stang looked like he’d bitten into a lemon. “I had a right to hold that office. One stupid, archaic law kept me out.”

“So you created all of us to help your clone win the election, and when it turned out we would do more harm than good...”

Stang looked ready to spit venom. “I found another way to win the Oval Office. Without an election. Without a platform. Without a group of worthless freaks like you. I’ve watched you both, your whole lives.

Pathetic. A woman who once saved France, reduced to a pimp who makes bad movies. And a man who once created a new nation, now just another dumb pig.” His eyes were narrow, and flecks of spit dotted his lips and chin. “My son, he’s my blood, my genes. He’s me. You two are just some chemicals we cooked up in a lab. You aren’t even human.”

“I’m not sure you’re the right person to judge humanity, Stang.”

The old man slumped in his chair. Tom opened the folding gate and they went into the hallway.

“Where?”

“The next room. There’s a hidden door.”

It was a trophy room, deer heads and trout mounted on oak plaques and hanging on all four walls. A fireplace was in one corner, a matching sofa and chair arranged around it on the wooden floor. Tom checked the room out, top to bottom, and couldn’t find any evidence of a hidden door.

“That’s because it’s hidden,” Stang snapped. “Go to that bookcase and take out the volume of Moby Dick.”

Tom found the book and pulled on it, half-expecting a secret passage to open. None did. He flipped through the book and it appeared normal.

“What’s the deal?”

“Hold the book against the wall, just above the light switch. It’s a magnetic lock. Then flip the switch up.”

Tom did as instructed, and there was a clicking noise. Several wood panels in the center of the floor had risen up about an inch. Tom knelt down and realized it was a trap door, the seams hidden by the natural cut of the wood. He pulled open the hatch and flashed his penlight into the hole. A staircase.

“At the bottom there’s a keypad. The code is 61694. Punch it in and the door will open. There’s a short hallway, and at the end of the hall there’s another door with another lock, same code. That’s my safe.

The papers are in there.”

Tom sniffed the air. It was stale, and something else. Musky.

“Want me to go?”

Tom shook his head at Joan. “Stay here. If anything happens to me, tell my partner to snap Stang’s neck.”

He took the stairs slowly. When he reached the bottom he figured he was about twenty feet underground. A large aluminum door blocked his path. Tom found the keypad to his left and punched in the numbers.

There was a clang and a hiss, and the door clicked open.

Tom was hit by a wave of cool, damp air. The musky smell was stronger, more acrid. He pushed the door inward and aimed the penlight down the dark hall.

“There’s a light switch,” Stang called to him, “on the wall to the right.”

Tom located the switch. He flipped it up, bathing the narrow hallway with pale yellow light. Looking ahead about fifteen feet, he saw another metal door. This one appeared larger, stronger. It also had a big metal slat in the center, with a slide bar. Tom had seen a similar contraption on a door in the solitary confinement wing at Joliet State Penitentiary. It had been the food slot. Violent inmates could receive their meals without the risk of opening the door.

“Hey Stang, what’s this thing in the middle of the door?”

“I can put valuables into the safe without opening it up.”

Tom didn’t know if he bought that. His back hurt, his ribs hurt, and he now we felt a sharp stab of paranoia. He approached cautiously, gun in hand. Being careful, he pulled back the slat on the door and tried to peer inside. It was dark, and his penlight didn’t penetrate very far. An awful stench came through the slot—the smell of death. Tom thought it over. What if this wasn’t a safe at all? What if it was some kind of private graveyard?

Actually, that would be a good thing. If Stang was burying dead bodies under his house, they wouldn’t need all the cloning evidence to put him away. Local law enforcement would take care of him, and the media would take care of his son.

Tom punched in the code and the door unlocked. This one opened outward rather than inward. He peered inside the room, awash in the awful smell, trying to see in the darkness.

He called to Stang. “Is there a light?”

“On the far wall. It’s only a few feet inside.”

“What’s that awful smell?”

“A, uh, an animal burrowed under the house and died. We haven’t been able to find it.”

That sounded like a big grandaddy lie. Tom took a step into the room, trying to steel himself against any possible shock.

He didn’t see it, but he immediately sensed something directly in front of him. The hairs on his neck stood up, and he aimed his gun forward. By then there was movement on both sides of him as well.

Tom managed to fire twice before he got knocked off his feet. He landed on his back, hard. Something was on top of him, moaning and snarling. Tom felt rancid breath, hair, teeth. Mad dog?

No. Worse. Much worse.

He managed to push the attacker at arm’s length and got a look. It was a man, with wild eyes, long hair, and a ragged beard. Black and jagged teeth. On his forehead, beneath the grime, Tom could make out a long scar. Deep, and old. And if the shock couldn’t get any greater, Tom was stunned to recognize the face.

It was Stang.

The man tore at Tom with filthy fingernails. Another man stood over them both. He was also Stang, with a similar scar on his forehead.

But this one was cleaner looking. Tom saw that he was holding something at his side. A white bandage, stained with some blood.

Right in the spot where a kidney would be.

No wonder Stang was able to get so many organ transplants. He had his own personal supply, locked away down here. And always a perfect tissue match. Stang must have kept all of Harold’s early cloning experiments, and then raised them to be spare parts. The thought horrified Tom. Have they been locked up here their whole lives?

The clone on top of him continued to growl and attack, and Tom noted that three more scrambled out of the darkness of their cell and ran down the hall.

“Jo—” Tom tried to call out but a grimy hand forced its way into his mouth, cutting off his voice. His gun arm was pinned. Tom grunted, and with all of his effort managed to roll his attacker over and get on top of him. He brought up his gun and aimed at the clone’s chest, firing two shots.

Almost immediately he was hit from behind by another clone. His gun was knocked from his fist, skittering across the floor. The man on his back began to pound on him with both hands, each blow bringing stars to Tom’s eyes. Then he was suddenly dead weight on Tom, mashing him onto the corpse below him. The weight doubled as another clone tried to climb over them, and another, and another.