“And has spent time in areas–”
“North of Javin township.”
The twins looked confident. They met her eye–unlike most geeks she’d ever met. Harley gave them her pirate glower.
“So, what’s north of Javin?” she asked.
“Farmland,” Jim said.
“Low population density areas,” Bob said.
“Full of quiet places for–”
“Gentleman farmers.”
Quiet places. Gentleman farmers. It spun around in her mind.
“The Reaper is obviously well educated,” Jim said.
“And has access to great resources,” Bob said.
“It’s our conclusion that he–”
“Is operating from an estate or a farm–”
“Or even both.”
“North of the city.”
Harley turned to Graves.
“We’re already mobilizing,” Graves said, “We have people combing through property records right now. Unfortunately there are a lot of wealthy people living north of the city. And many of them like to hide their assets behind shell companies. We’re rousting all our forensic accountants out of bed to have them start tracing things.”
“Don’t you need warrants?” Harley asked.
Graves averted his eyes. “We’ll take care of that later.”
Harley hid a smile. Graves was always one for making sure all the paperwork was in order before they made a bust. Makes things go smoother in court, he’d always say. She let him take care of that stuff. If it was up to her, she’d just go in and shoot the perps. One less for the courts to deal with. That was her line. Which he never seemed to find amusing.
But it was funny that Graves was willing to skirt the letter of the law. Or was that his boss, Parker, talking?
“Come on, Parker wants us back in his office,” Graves said.
“Screw that,” Harley said, “I’m going home to get some sleep.”
“Harley…” Graves said. The exasperation in his voice was so thick she could have spread it on toast.
She gave the Jim Bob twins another appreciative look. “You boys have numbers where I can reach you?” she asked, “You know, in case I have questions. Or something.”
She gave them a pirate grin. They gave her looks back that were just short of leering.
“Of course,” Jim said.
“Work number, and,” Bob said.
“Home. Just in case.”
“You need to speak to us.
“Off hours.”
“Or something.”
She got out her phone and they recited the numbers for her. They both had the same number for home. She raised her eyebrows. They wiggled their own eyebrows back. Her heart fluttered a bit. Damn they were cute.
“We share an apartment,” Jim said.
“For efficiency,” Bob said.
“And other things.”
“Yes, other things.”
She put her phone back in her pocket and tipped her hat to them. “See you around, then, boys.”
Graves took her out by the elbow and led her out of the room. She glanced back and gave them a wink. They waved. So adorable.
Out in the corridor, Graves dropped his hand. "They're gay you know."
“No they’re not,” she said.
“I’m sure they are,” he said.
“Why, did you ask them out?” she asked.
Their footsteps echoed up the empty corridor. Standard government gray-white tile and boring beige walls. Not even a picture of J. Edgar to break up the monotony.
“I’m not gay,” Graves said. She noticed his hands clenched at his sides. His cheeks were red, too.
“You keep saying that,” Harley said.
It gave her a nostalgic twinge. He was getting more like her old Walt all the time. Some of it was good, but honestly, she felt ready to move on. She was about to tell him when Parker appeared at the end of the corridor.
He motioned them into a nearby conference room. It was stuffy and windowless. It smelled like a place old FBI guys went to drink coffee and fart while they talked about the good old days when agents were real men, blah, blah, blah.
Parker closed the door and locked it. There was a panel next to the door and he flicked some switches. Several lights in a sequence turned green. When he turned back, his face was grim.
“This room is secure now,” he said, “Let’s sit and hash this thing out.”
She gave Graves a look.
“Some of these conferences rooms are shielded from electronics,” he said, “Cell phones won’t work and listening devices are jammed.”
“It’s a fancy Faraday Cage,” Parker said. He dropped down into a padded executives chair at the head of the table. “You know what that is, Ms. Harley?”
“Yeah, I’m not stupid, asshole,” Harley said. She took the seat at the opposite end. She calculated the distance. About seven feet. Her Taser could cover that, no problem. Though, if Parker had a pistol, she might have a problem.
“You say you’re not stupid, yet you keep saying things like that,” Parker said.
Graves sat between them, closer to Harley than Parker. He had his gun. Which one of them would he shoot if he had to make the choice?
It probably depended on who made the first move.
“And you keep acting like an asshole,” Harley said.
Parker rapped his knuckles on the table. Which sounded like real wood, not Formica topped pressboard.
“Nice guys don’t get to be deputy directors,” he said, “Nice guys don’t catch the criminals. You know that.”
It almost got a smile out of her. “So what important proclamation do you have that requires such a special room, your Deputy Directorness?”
He rocked back in his chair and contemplated her for a long moment. “No proclamation, Ms. Harley,” he said, “I need your informed opinion.”
She managed to keep from rolling her eyes, though just barely. “I really doubt my opinion matters,” she said, “The only reason I’m here is Walt convinced you I’d be useful.”
“Yes, the jury is still out on that, isn’t it?” he said, “But Agent Graves has told me there is no one who is more in the Reaper’s head than you.”
“Pardon me if I don’t take that as a compliment,” she said.
Parker continued to rock in the chair, watching her with slitted eyes. Graves sat, back stiff, hands on the table. He was clenching them so tight the knuckles were white. Did he know what Parker was going to ask? Did this have something to do with using her as bait? So far Parker hadn't done anything more than outfit her with enough surveillance devices to turn her into a cyborg. They had even put a tracking device in her prosthetic leg.
“We’re going to zero in on the Reaper’s location soon,” Parker said, “We have enough information now. It’s just a matter of doing the legwork.”
Harley shrugged. “Sure.”
“What I’m looking for your opinion on is…do we move in or wait?” Parker asked.
She knew what he was talking about. It wasn’t hard to figure out, but it was a choice they would have to make.
“You mean, move in and get some of the clones, and maybe him,” she said, “Or wait for him to call me and hand them all to us.”
“Yes,” Parker said. He had stopped rocking in the chair. The lines on his forehead were like furrows in a freshly plowed field.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
Parker brows shot up. “What? What do you mean?”
She sighed and looked up at the ceiling. She could just make out a fine metal mesh. Part of the vaunted shielding. She gave a mental shake of her head. They put their effort into the wrong things. But they’d never listen.
“The Reaper lies,” she said, “He wants you to do his dirty work for him, but he’ll do it in such a way that it won’t touch him. Even if you knew right this minute where his hideout is, and you had all your agents and the National Guard pour in there, you wouldn’t get him.”
“Please explain,” Parker said. His tone was annoyed, irritated. No doubt he thought he was a step ahead of the Reaper.
“He would have never called me unless his safe facility wasn’t already emptied of everything he valued,” she said, “There might be a token thing or two, mostly to misdirect you, but besides that, you’ll have nothing. So, like I said, it doesn’t matter if you go or wait.”
She fixed Parker with an icy stare.
“He’ll let us know when he’s ready for us.”
Fifty
Dr. DeVol had sobered up quite nicely. Of course, he didn’t have any choice. Carlson had taken his alcohol away. After the doctor had detoxed enough to hold a clear thought for more than a few moments, Carlson had explained the slow torture and eventual death that awaited if he didn’t cooperate.
“You’re going to kill me eventually,” DeVol had said.
“Perhaps,” Carlson said, “But if you are uncooperative I won’t kill you all at once.”
He then went on to describe in great detail what the doctor’s slow death would entail. DeVol got paler and paler. Then he vomited.
And Carlson continued describing how he would torture DeVol until DeVol was finally screaming at him to stop. He was on his knees, begging, tears streaming from his eyes, promising his utmost cooperation.
After that, Carlson didn’t have any problems with the man. Honestly, he should have done it two years ago. Maybe he would have gotten better results.
Carlson unlocked the sturdy steel door and entered the small lab. DeVol jerked up from the microscope he had been hunched over. The lab smelled of vinegar and other sharp, familiar chemical scents.
DeVol slid off the stool his narrow behind had been perched on. He was trembling, almost knocking his knees together as Carlson approached. It warmed Carlson’s heart to see it. It was the way things should be.
His damned clones should show such respect.
As always when he visited DeVol, Carlson wore his death work uniform. He believed it helped DeVol focus.
“How goes the project?” Carlson asked.
“Well, it goes well,” DeVol said. His voice shook. Carlson could only hope his work was up to par. The alcohol had left the man’s hands with permanent tremors.
“When will it be ready?” Carlson asked.
DeVol looked back at the single cloning tube in the corner of the room. A black cloth was draped over it. “Soon, another week.”
“Good,” Carlson said. He set down a bag containing granola bars and bottled water. He considered going over to the tube and pulling back the cloth. But no, all in good time. He trusted the doctor’s fear to keep him from trying to double cross him. “Are your supplies adequate?”
DeVol nodded. His flyaway gray hair was thin, almost patchy in places now. He had dark circles under his eyes. The doctor had a cot over in another corner of the dank basement lab, but apparently he wasn’t using it much.
Again, Carlson didn’t care, as long as the work was getting done properly.
“What will happen to me?” DeVol asked, “Once this project is complete? Am I to die then?”
“We shall see, doctor,” Carlson said, “It’s possible I might let you go.”
DeVol’s eyes went wide. “Let me go?”
Carlson shrugged. “As long as your work is perfect, than I shall have no more need of you.”
“You won’t kill me?”
Of course Carlson was going to kill him. He wasn’t going to leave any two legged pieces of evidence wandering around. Especially this one.
“If I am pleased with the work, then I might set you up with a fresh identity in another country,” Carlson said. “In exchange for your silence, of course.”
DeVol clasped his hands together. “Oh yes, I will never talk,” he said, “I will hide the rest of my days. Please, I will do anything.”
Carlson nodded toward the lab equipment. “Keep working then, doctor,” he said, “And you shall be rewarded.”
Carlson turned and left, clanging the metal door behind him. He made sure it was locked. DeVol would be rewarded. With a quick and painless death. If the work was adequate. If not, then it wouldn’t matter, would it?
Fifty-One
Carlson drove to the new facility for the clones. It was rather brilliant of him. A masterstroke of inspiration. Hiding in plain sight.
The apartment building had been empty anyway. Having the entire block empty was just a bonus. The clones had thought the idea brilliant, too. Several had claimed they had thought of it first. It actually led to a squabble where two of the clones were killed. Which was even better in Carlson’s opinion. Two less to deal with.
The clones had debated whether the murdering clone should be punished. After a short discussion, they decided the clone had actually done them a favor by weeding out what were obviously defective clones.
Carlson was a little disappointed by their level-headed practicality. He was hoping for a civil war that would wipe most of them out. It would have reduced his need to involve the authorities.
But, of course, they thought like him, so he supposed they couldn’t be blamed for being intelligent.
He parked his car–yet another bland, aged sedan–in his special garage a couple blocks from the formerly abandoned street. The wig made his scalp itch and the facial appliances were like little furnaces on his cheeks. Quite annoying, but a necessary precaution. He made his way through the alleys to the apartment building. It was quite funny that the clones' headquarters was now located in the very building the authorities had been guarding. They had stopped posting guards shortly after Detective Harley had–finally–discovered the clue. Case closed as far as they were concerned.
He stopped in front of the rear door and used his electronic key. The lock clicked open and the door swung open to reveal a black-clad clone standing guard with a long knife.
The clones still hadn’t warmed to firearms. A small edge he still had over them.
He had instructed the clones on how to wire the building for surveillance and security. Of course he held all the codes. When the time came, the building would be locked up tighter than a concrete encased coffin.
“The Council wants to speak with you, father,” the clone said.
Carlson pushed past him. “Of course they do.”
The clones had been more deferential of late. Apparently the scare of having one of their brothers captured had shaken them. Carlson didn’t have to tell them how much worse it would have been if the clone had still been alive when captured.
He ascended the stairs to the fifth floor of the building, where the council roosted like buzzards at the top of the building. All ego. The council of five clones had elevated themselves above the rest. Which didn’t sit well with the other clones. Carlson had had some quiet conversations with a few of the rank and file clones. He had asked them why they were allowing the five to tell them what to do. After all, they were exactly the same as the other clones. What made the council so special?
The clones had cleaned the building up somewhat. At least the place didn't smell like urine and feces anymore. Carlson caught a whiff of fresh paint and pine-scented cleaner. Doing a little manual labor. Good for them. They probably didn't like it–he certainly didn't, unless it was related to death work. But it wasn't like they could hire people to come in and do it for them. Or if they did, they wouldn't be able to let the cleaners leave the building alive.
It would have been nice if the building had a working elevator, though. At his age, Carlson appreciated such conveniences.
After reaching the fifth floor, Carlson paused for a minute or two to compose himself. He smoothed his clothes down and straightened up. Being the Alpha was all about attitude. Showing fear or weakness was a sure way to become the former Alpha. And probably a dead one, too. After all, he and his children were the ultimate predators, were they not?
A twinge of sadness went through him. It had been such a lovely idea. An army of himself, ridding the wo
rld of the pestilence of humanity. Too bad the clones were idiots.
He pushed open the door. The corridor was freshly carpeted and painted. The walls were blood red and the carpet was a deep burgundy. Even the ceiling had been painted red. It was like walking into a rectangular artery.
Was it meant to shock? It was certainly over the top. Where had these clones gotten their sense of taste from? His preference was for the understated. Quiet, stealthy.
Maybe it had something to do with their insecurities from being mere copies. Having to work together, none of them being the Alpha…it must gnaw at them. It was causing their minds to become dangerously unbalanced.
He sighed. It was a pity he hadn’t thought this idea through. He could have saved himself so much trouble.
A clone stood guard at the end of the corridor, leaning against the wall. He wore all black and had a scowl on his face. Carlson was sure the clone felt pulling guard duty was far beneath him. He would have. As Carlson approached, the clone straightened up and pulled a pair of short katana blades from behind him. The blades were of cheap manufacture. The type that had a hard time holding a fine edge. Junk that wasn’t worth using.
The clone no doubt knew it, but probably didn’t have access to the good stuff. He was probably pissed off about that too.
Carlson stopped a safe distance from the clone and his cheap katana blades. The clone held them ready in a fighting pose. Ridiculous. Carlson didn’t know any martial arts and neither did the clone. It was fake.
Just like the clone. Just like all the clones.
In a flash, it all became crystal clear to him. How could he have ever expected the clones to carry out his work? They were just copies. Pale imitations of the original. Fakes.
A meticulous copy of a famous painting was still just a copy. It did not have the master’s hand behind it. It wasn’t original.
There could be no one but him to carry out the Great Goal, but there was only one true Carlson Savoy. One true Grim Reaper.
The goal would become smaller, but perhaps more focused. It was something he’d have to think about.
Later though.
He eyed the cheap blades the clone held in his ridiculous pose. Carlson's gun was tucked safely in its holster under his arm. He felt confident of his ability to pull it out before the clone could reach him with the blades. The clone was younger, but nowhere near as clever as Carlson.
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