“Wait!” Agent Graves shouted. Again. “How do we reach you?”
Carlson almost laughed. What a ridiculous notion. Did they really think he was so stupid?
He paused before entered the cool embrace of darkness. “I’ll be in touch,” he said.
Forty-Two
The morgue was icy. So cold that Harley could see her breath. The place smelled like her ninth grade biology lab. Like dead, pickled frogs under knife held by a shaky hand. The lab technician walking in front of them gave her a suspicious look. She refrained from flipping him off. The tech turned the look to Graves, along with an eyebrow raise. The little chubby dude in the white coat was looking to get his balls kicked up to his tonsils if he kept up the attitude.
Graves didn't say anything, he just put a hand on Harley's arm, like he knew what she was thinking. Maybe the tech sensed it too. He turned his eyeballs back up front and hurried over to the big, stainless steel refrigerator.
“This is highly irregular,” the tech said, “The full report is available, why do you–”
“Just pull him out,” Graves said.
The dude’s chubby cheeks flushed and he went over to the drawer on the far right of the corpse fridge. Casting one last surly look back at them, he took hold of the handle. The latch clicked and the drawer slid smoothly out.
Graves had tried to argue with her about this. He’d given up after a couple minutes. There was no way she was not going to look at that fucker’s face. It was only Graves restraining her that kept her from pulling the mask of the dead body in Bennie’s Garage. Sure, she’d seen the pictures, but that wasn’t enough. She had to see him face to face.
She stepped up to the drawer, her heart thrumming like a lawnmower engine. The corpse was zipped up in a plastic bag. Try new body bags with Flavor Seal!
The lab tech unzipped the bag and folded the plastic flaps back. Harley gave the tech a hot glare that made him take a couple steps back. She moved over to the corpse.
Thick brown hair. Slightly rounded features. An ordinary nose. Ordinary mouth. No discerning marks of any kind. Not even a mole. The guy was the definition of nondescript. Eyes would pass right over him in a crowd.
“You took all the appliances off him?” she asked.
“Of course,” the tech said with a huff. She turned her glare back on him. He met her eye for an instant, then his gaze slid away.
That’s right, asshole, look away. I’m not an idiot, I know my way around this shit.
She’d seen the before and after photos. The body had a number of facial prosthetics on that changed the shape of the face and skull. Under the mask.
That’s what really got her. That the Reaper–or his clone–would go to the effort to disguise himself. When he was already disguised.
Layers and layers.
The Reaper was even deeper than she thought. She knew he was cunning, smart beyond measure. How else could he have kept from being caught all these years?
“We got the lab results back on the appliances,” Graves said, “Looks like they were homemade. The latex is common, available from a lot of sources. We’re trying to get records from all the vendors, but even with court orders it’s taking forever to work through it.”
“Of course,” she said.
“Same with the clothing,” Graves said, “Common. Available at all kinds of department stores across the country. No way to tie it back to lots or anything. The only thing that’s really unusual is the body stocking that he wore under his clothes. Kind of brilliant, actually. That’s what kept us from ever getting any kind of DNA evidence.”
The cold of the morgue was starting to seep through her coat. Already her fingertips were icy. The stump of her leg ached. It wanted her to sit down and scratch it. She couldn’t take her eye of the corpse, though. This was a copy of the man who killed her father and damned near killed her. And he looked so damned ordinary.
She didn’t know what she was expecting. Devil horns, maybe. Something. Somehow she thought the evil inside him would show on his face. It wasn’t fair that the man looked normal. There was something deeply wrong inside him. It should have been reflected on the outside. It should have been there to warn people. They should have been able to look at his face and recognize the evil within him.
“Can you trace the body stocking?” she asked.
“They’re working on it,” Graves said, “They’re combing the internet trying to find a source for it.”
Harley’s eye moved from the man’s face, down his almost hairless chest. His hands were still hidden by the bag. She unzipped the bag some more. The lab tech started to protest, but she silenced him with a glare. She pulled the plastic back to look at his hands. The nails were neatly trimmed. No scars, tattoos or other marks. Long, strong looking fingers. The clone probably hadn’t matched the original’s body count, but she was sure those hands had done terrible things.
She looked up at the tech. “Get me some gloves,” she said.
The chubby guy’s eyebrows shot up. “Pardon?”
“Gloves. Now.”
He puffed himself up. “You’re not allowed to touch the body,” he said, “This is still evidence and–”
“Get the damned gloves,” Graves said, “Special Agent Harley has all the authorization she needs.”
The chubby lab tech pouted, but he went off to find some gloves.
Special Agent. It still sounded weird. One part of her was filled with a strange pride at being an official law officer again. Another part was ready to crack up at the ridiculousness of her being a special FBI agent. All it was was an expedient way to loop her in officially. As soon as this was over, she’d get her ass booted. She was a street cop. No one was ever going to catch her dressing in a suit and tie and polished Wingtips. She’d always be out there where the lowlifes lives. The grit would stay in the folds of her skin, the grime under her nails.
She’d stay there because someone had to do the job. Someone had to hold back the tide of lawlessness that threatened to overrun civilization every time those in charge let their guard down.
The tech brought her a pair of sterile nitrile gloves. She pulled them on and turned the corpse’s hand over. The palm was smooth, but the fingertips were calloused, as was the flat of the hand. She checked the other hand and found the same thing. She made the tech pull the drawer the rest of the way out and unzipped the body bag down to the feet.
She glanced at the flaccid penis, resting in its nest of brown, curly hair. Neither large nor small. Ordinary. Of course.
But she wasn’t interested in the prick’s dick. She went down to his feet. The toenails were trimmed, like the fingernails. The bottoms of the feet had callouses, too. So did the outside edge of the foot.
Harley stepped back and stripped the gloves off. She tossed them on the corpse. The lab tech jumped forward and snatched them off. He gave her a glare. It didn’t matter, she had what she wanted. She turned and walked away. Graves hurried to catch up with her.
“What’d you see?” he asked.
“I saw that we’re looking for a rich guy with a lot of time on his hands,” she said, “He’s got a nice gym and he knows martial arts. Oh, and he’s invisible, too.”
Forty-Three
They were calling themselves The Council now. Which was very amusing. Carlson scanned the faces of the five clones. The sat around an immensely heavy stone table in one of the old chambers off of the lab. The air was cool, with a certain stoney dampness that left a metallic taste on his tongue. The vinegar scent of the clone vats was still present, of course. It was a slight buzz at the back of his senses. An ever-present reminder of the ongoing operation.
An ever-present reminder of his lapse in judgment. Of his overreach.
Well, perhaps he could start correcting that.
The clones were all dressed in identical black, long sleeve shirts. They had also taken to wearing black slacks. And black shoes. Carlson let out a small sigh. Was this their uniform now? A bad choice if they let themselves be seen publi
cly. Or maybe a good choice, depending on the desired outcome. His desired outcome.
In any matter, they were becoming much too comfortable. Much too affected in their habits. They had his mind and his memories. Didn’t they understand that to be invisible was to be a chameleon? Standing out was for rockstars.
“Father, no doubt you are wondering why we have requested this meeting with you,” one of the clones said. It was the one sitting at the head of the table. Was this one the Alpha Clone? The Senior Junior, perhaps?
Carlson stood behind the heavy, high-backed oak chair at the other end of the table. The ridiculous table and chair set were an artifact from the old winery operation here. The clones seem to have appropriated it as their Council Chambers.
Which was equally ridiculous.
Where had they gotten these affections? These delusions of grandeur?
“I assume it is to keep me abreast of your plan for world domination,” Carlson said.
The clones exchanged nervous looks. Carlson's chest tightened. Was this it? The long awaited execution of the father? He slowly moved his hand down the front of his coat. In his spare time, he had some of his clothes tailored to hide a holstered firearm. The weight of the gun, snugged in its holster against his ribs, was an annoyance. But it was better to take precautions with the current company.
“No, father,” the head clone said, “Well, sort of. There has been an incident.”
Carlson raised his brows in mock surprise. “An incident?” he asked. This wasn’t an execution after all. The clones all shifted in their seat, all but the head clone staring at their hands folded in front of them.
“Yes, one of our number was killed,” the head clone said.
“Killed?” Carlson said.
“And the body was captured by the authorities,” the head clone said.
“Captured?” Carlson said.
The head clone was staring at his own hands now. Like a shamefaced little boy forced to admit he broke a window playing ball. Carlson somehow managed to keep the smile off his face. Instead he forced a stern look.
“Yes father,” the clone said.
“How was this allowed to happen?” Carlson asked, “And which authorities have the body?”
The head clone cleared his throat and forced himself, with obvious effort, to look up at Carlson. “Our brother was on a mission to protect our operation, and he was met with unexpected force.”
Carlson tapped his foot on the stone floor. The sound echoed in the rocky chamber.
"Would you like to translate that into English?" Carlson said.
The head clone looked to the clone to his right. A lieutenant? Did the clones recognize certain clones as more equal than others? If so, why hadn’t they listened to him?
The Lt. clone cleared his throat–an identical gesture to the other clone’s. “While on a mission to Florida, our brother discovered that the authorities were going to interview our mechanic.”
Our mechanic? How cheeky of the clones. Had they found and nurtured the relationship with the very useful Bennie the Mechanic? No, but they were perfectly willing to take advantage of that hard work.
“You are speaking of Bennie, I presume?” Carlson asked.
The Lt. clone’s cheeks reddened. “Yes, father,” he said. How respectful they all were now.
“And which authorities were going to be conducting this interview?” Carlson asked.
All of the clone’s faces reddened. They clenched their fists on the table in front of them. They looked to one another. Little boys in trouble trying to elect a spokesperson. It would have been funny if…well, actually it was funny. But Carlson refrained from showing his amusement. It would have been highly inappropriate to the situation. And perhaps deadly if they learned the true nature of the encounter at Bennie’s Garage.
One by one, the clones eyes fixed on the clone at the head of the table. A surly expression flickered across his features before he regained his composure.
“It was, the FBI,” the clone said.
Carlson paused. He tapped his finger on his chin while giving the head clone a long stare.
“I feel there is something you are not telling me,” he said, “Was this more than just the FBI?”
The clone avoided his eyes. “Yes, father,” he said, “There was, in fact, a person who was not officially affiliated with the FBI present at Bennie’s Garage.”
Carlson heaved a dramatic sigh. “Oh for heaven’s sakes, quit beating around the bush and tell me what happened.”
The red on the clone’s face deepened, but he pulled himself up straighter. “Detective Harley,” he said, “And her former partner, Agent Graves, went to Bennie’s garage. They had received information from Graves’ father that Bennie might have information about the Reaper. Our brother decided to take care of the potential leak. And to remove Harley and Graves from the equation. Permanently.”
Carlson gave the clone a frown. “You know my cautions on Detective Harley,” he said.
He was greatly enjoying the clone’s discomfort. Though really it would amount to nothing in the end.
“Yes, father, we are aware of that,” the clone said, “And we would have repeated those cautions to our brother, but he left without consulting us. Though he did leave a report detailing his information.”
“A report?”
Good god, were the fools actually writing things down now?
“Yes. He detailed what he learned and his destination,” the head clone said, “He left the information where one of us would eventually find it.”
Carlson rubbed his face. Idiots. These clones were his retarded children. More dangerous than helpful.
“Let me see if I understand you correctly,” Carlson said, “This particular clone actually wrote these things down?”
“Yes, father,” the head clone said.
“You do realize how foolish it was for him to do that, don’t you?” Carlson said.
The clones shifted in the seats, exchanging glances again. It took a supreme effort for Carlson to not pull his pistol out and shoot them all.
"Father, we feel keeping records is important for our long-term success," the head clone said, "Though we are aware of the short-term dangers."
“Oh, I doubt that,” Carlson said, “But we’ll save that conversation for later. Pray tell, what happened to your brother?”
“He was killed, presumably by Detective Harley or Agent Graves,” the clone said, “We have so far been unable to get the official FBI report.”
Carlson’s stomach did a flip flop. The report. Of course the FBI would have a detailed report on the incident. Which would no doubt include Detective Harley’s and Graves’ statements. If the clones obtained those statements…well, it would make for a very awkward conversation with his clone children. Assuming they didn’t just kill him.
“I assume you’re trying to place your brothers within the FBI,” Carlson said.
The head clone nodded. “As in your original plan, we have started placing brothers in positions of authority. The FBI is proving difficult to enter, as they have more stringent identity requirements. But our document forgery is improving.”
Of course it was. Which meant Carlson’s time was running out. Once they clones got their identical fingers on that report, the game was going to be up. Carlson’s preparations were nearly ready, but he still needed more time. Perhaps it was time to start feeding some tidbits to Detective Harley. Shake up the clones’ complacency.
“Excellent,” Carlson said, “But in the meantime, the FBI has your brother’s corpse and are no doubt working very hard to extract useful information from it. Already they will be spreading photos of our face far and wide.”
The clones seated around the great stone table stared at their hands. “Yes father,” the head clone said, “We are aware of that. And we already have seen such postings at the typical areas.”
Carlson raised his eyebrows. “You mean our face is on Wanted Posters?” he asked.
; The clone nodded.
“We are compromised,” Carlson said, “For decades my face has remained a mystery to authorities. Now it is known. They are looking for us, my children. I am very, very disappointed.”
But not too disappointed.
“What is your guidance, father?” the head clone asked.
“Guidance? You’re actually asking for my opinion of how to extricate your sorry selves from this mess?”
"Yes, father."
“You know what must be done,” Carlson said, “This facility must be abandoned. It is only a matter of time before it is compromised. My primary identity is now on life support. When was this clone captured?”
The clone averted his eyes again. There was a scent of fear in the room now. It was rather intoxicating.
“Five days ago, father,” the clone said.
“Five days! Why wasn’t I told immediately!” Carlson thundered.
“We only found our brother’s report yesterday,” the clone said, “It took until today for us to confirm that our brother had indeed been killed and his body captured.”
Carlson shook his head. Slowly. Sadly. “This is what comes from not listening to me,” he said.
“We are ready to listen now, father,” the clone said. The other clones murmured their assent. The clones had pained looks on their faces. Petulant little children who had gotten stuck out on a limb and now wanted daddy to rescue them.
There would be a rescue coming. But not for them.
Carlson clapped his hands together. “Very well. First of all we must find a new safe facility,” he said, “I have some ideas. In the meantime, compile for me a list of your brother’s locations and current positions. We shall see if we can leverage them for damage control.”
“Father,” the head clone said, “We will have to suspend the cloning operation if we move.”
"Temporarily," Carlson said, "Though if you feel secure here, then by all means stay. I myself will move on to someplace less likely to have a target on it."
The clones exchanged their looks again. Were they communicating telepathically? Probably not. They likely just thought all alike. Which was part of the problem. The bigger problem were the ones who didn’t think alike enough.
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