Betsy looked at him, her lips set in a grim line, her eyes moist.
“How long have you known me, Bets?”
“About a year, John.”
“So, my memories?”
“Not yours.”
His whole body was shaking now. “You gave me fake memories.” He looked up at Betsy, and she shook her head.
“Not fake, John. Well, not all of them. Most of them just…belong to someone else.”
“And my memories from before, what did you do with those? Who was I before you made me…this?” His mouth was dry, gritty, his words choked.
“Nobody, John. Nobody. You didn’t exist before we gave you memories.”
John shook his head, trying to clear away the confusion. How could he be nobody? Everyone was somebody. “A clone.” The word pushed its way out of his mouth, and he looked up at her for verification.
She didn’t say anything, but the muscles around Betsy’s eyes and mouth tightened. Enough of an answer.
John tried to hug his body, but his hands were cuffed to the table. He pushed his elbows into his chest, improvising. His mom and dad, his sister, school, the years walking a beat. All a lie. He rocked back and forth, a small moan escaping his lips.
Betsy leaned across the table and put her hands on top of his. “John, I wish there was some way I could tell you how sorry I am about all this.”
John looked up, and a short laugh burst from his mouth. “Sorry. Yeah, me too. Tell me, doctor, who the hell did you clone to create your pet psychopath? Who am I?”
Betsy pulled her hands back and sighed, her shoulders dropping. “Does it really matter, John?”
“Yeah, it kinda does.”
“We pulled your DNA from evidence from a series of killings from Toronto in the early part of the twenty-first. The killer was caught and died in prison, so plenty of DNA to work with.”
John leaned his head back, staring straight up at the fluorescents, and started laughing, giggling in huge, uncontrollable bursts. It took a few minutes, but when it wound down, he looked at Betsy again.
“You cloned a freakin’ serial killer? Really? And that seemed like a good idea at the time?”
Another giggling jag erupted and took a few moments to play itself out. By the end, John was left panting, exhausted, eyes glazed as he stared at the institutional gray walls of the interrogation room. The silence stretched for seconds, then minutes, John staring at the wall, Betsy’s gaze locked on her lap.
“So, what happens now, Doctor?”
Betsy jumped as his voice broke the almost religious silence of the room. She reached under the table and pulled out a metal box, sliding it onto the metal tabletop, the two objects making a grating sound as they pushed against each other. She opened the box, looked blankly at the contents for a moment, then pulled out a syringe and laid it on the table.
Jack nodded. Of course. What else could it be?
Betsy leaned across the table, and John raised his hands, as far as the cuffs would allow, in a blocking motion, as if to ward off the inevitable just long enough to squeeze a few more seconds from his life.
“You know, Bets, I really liked this life. I don’t think I really even care that it was a lie.”
“I really am sorry, John.” Tears coursed freely down her cheeks as she slipped the syringe into one of John’s veins, pressing the plunger.
His body shook, a sob escaped his lips, but still he offered her a small conciliatory smile. “Hey, Bets, no worries. It’s what we do, right? We catch ki—”
And he was gone.
Doctor Betsy Campbell knocked on a nondescript door in a nondescript apartment building. A moment later, the door opened and Mr. Trudeau motioned her into his home.
“I was beginning to think I wouldn’t hear back from you.”
“It just took some time. There were some things to clear up at the precinct before I left.”
Trudeau’s hands fluttered in the air, waiving off the excuse. “No problem, no problem. I trust I played the part to your satisfaction?”
Betsy nodded. “You were perfect, Mr. Trudeau.”
“Ah, excellent. Then there’s only the matter of payment left.”
“Of course.” Betsy reached into her bag and pulled out a credit disc. “As you requested, untraceable credits.”
As Trudeau turned to a table, reaching for a scanner to read the disc, Betsy reached back into her bag, pulling out an old, well used, but very sharp steel knife.
“You know, you really should consider going away for a while. I’m leaving, myself.”
Trudeau waved his hand over the back of his head. “I couldn’t possibly do that. You know, the business, and all.”
Betsy smiled. “Yes, I understand.” She reached around his neck with one arm and slipped the knife into one of his kidneys with the other. “I understand.”
It was too bad she couldn’t take her time with this one, but, then, it wouldn’t be very convincing if John started killing people again the day after he died.
Back to TOC
Law of Negation
A Merlin Bloodstone Story
Michael A. Stackpole
“My wife believes I’m dead.”
“Indeed.” Merlin Bloodstone’s violet eyes narrowed. “Your presence here, Mr. Hempstead, would seem to belie the veracity of her belief.”
Don Hempstead, Bloodstone’s new client, hugged his arms tight around himself. “I’m sorry. I’m usually more precise, but this has me rattled. She knows I’m not dead, but she believes I am under a curse that will kill me.”
“I see.” Bloodstone pointed me to my desk in the office corner. “Take notes. Mr. Hempstead, continue, as you will.”
Don lowered himself into the chair facing Bloodstone’s titanic desk. “I’m a forensic accountant. I’m really good, detail oriented. I travel a lot and I make good money. In my personal life, I’m not always paying attention. If Connor hadn’t stressed that punctuality was important to you; and if I’d not checked the directions here a half-dozen times; I would have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just the way I am. Kind of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—for an accountant, that is.”
Bloodstone sat in his wing-back chair, which made him look like a child in a barber chair for his first haircut. “You may be burying the lede, sir.”
“Right. Monday I got back from Singapore. I’d agreed to go for coffee with my best friend, Hank Doren, at Starbucks…so while I’m on the way Hank texts me he’s going to be late, but I didn’t get it because my phone blocks texts when I’m driving. So I get my coffee, get his message, and text him I’m there and at the table in the back. I wait and start reading a book on my phone. He doesn’t show after forty-five minutes, and I head home.
“When I get there, my wife is in the kitchen, sees me, drops her coffee mug and she starts screaming ‘You’re dead! You’re dead!’”
“Connor, context?”
Bloodstone has long since decided that newspapers haven’t been reliable since they stopped setting hot type, as such it falls to me to remain current on all news, local and otherwise.
“Monday, at the Starbucks at Camelback and 24th Street, a man with a sawed-off shotgun murdered another man sitting at the table in the back.”
Don shivered. “That shop is virtually identical to the one I was at. Same table, same seat…”
I nodded. “The shooter fired through the back window, blew the back of his head off.”
“What do the police say?”
“The vic was a minor-league drug dealer who liked to fool around with other men’s wives. They recovered a coat and the shotgun from a nearby dumpster. Maybe they’ll get a DNA match from hairs on the coat, but too soon to know. In the meantime, they have ‘several people of interest’ they’re looking at.”
Don leaned forward. “My wife heard about the shooting on the radio. She called Hank, he said the cops were there; I guess he thought I was the dead guy—I mean, it was my table and everything.”
&nbs
p; Bloodstone steepled his fingers. “And she was happy to see you were unharmed.”
“Yeah, I mean, she hugged me so tight, and she was trembling, and scared, but I convinced her I was okay. I took her out for a really great dinner. I thought she was over it but then she went to see her long-time spiritual advisor. She told my wife that I was under a curse and that we needed to perform a ritual that would cost twenty thousand dollars.”
“To remove it?” Bloodstone traced an invisible sigil on his blotter. “And your wife is prepared to pay?”
“My wife’s already given her two thousand.” Don shook his head. “Look, I love being married. I love my wife. I travel a lot, and I don’t mind indulging her in some extravagances, but twenty K? The advisor says its there, can’t tell who cast it or why—I don’t believe it exists, don’t believe in curses at all. My wife, though, she’s all in. ‘Why do you want me to be a widow, Don?’ she asks, and cries herself to sleep.”
Bloodstone sat back. “And who, may I enquire, is this spiritual advisor?”
“Madame Theosophe. She’s over on Fifth…”
“Fifth Avenue, yes, near Goldwater, in Old Town.” Bloodstone allowed the ghost of a smile to haunt his face. “I see now, Connor, why you insisted on my meeting Mr. Hempstead urgently.” Bloodstone closed his eyes. “Mr. Hempstead, did your wife share with you Madame Theosophe’s reasoning behind the ritual she wishes to perform?”
Don shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. “She said that there are laws of Magic, like the Law of Sympathy and the Law of Contagion—you know, like attracts like; and things that are together have an attachment. She said there were other laws, like Perversity, Affirmation and Negation. When I dug into this stuff on the net, Wikipedia quoted from one of your books. That’s how I found you. But, Negation, that’s the one she said the ritual deals with.”
“Negation, Mr. Hempstead, as in the curse was intended to negate you, or the ritual would negate a past bad act; thereby eliminating the root cause of the curse?”
“You’re the occultist, I just run numbers.” Don held up open hands. “Honestly, I don’t have a clue. But I think she said it was more the latter, there was almost nothing on the internet .”
“As if she made it up out of thin air?” Bloodstone sat back.
“Yeah. That plus the money, I figure it’s a scam. That’s why I came to you, so you could explain that to my wife. I mean, it is a scam, isn’t it?”
Bloodstone pressed his hands together in an attitude of prayer. “It certainly could be. Were you to apply Occam’s Razor to the situation, that would be the logical conclusion.”
Hempstead nodded. “The easiest answer that fits the evidence is the truth. I use that all the time. You see the signs of fraud, someone is cooking the books.”
“Quite so. Thus you could assume that Madame Theosophe used the coincidental timing of the murder to convince your wife you are under a curse and then to defraud her to remove that curse. Unfortunately, not all problems are meant to be cut by a knife. For example, Occam’s Razor would have told us, a century ago, that a man who stops breathing is dead; and that there simply is no such creature as a gorilla.” Bloodstone leaned forward. “In my studies I have encountered things which appear to defy the laws of science or nature, at least as we have defined them so far. What I find intriguing here is that Madame Theosophe, whose talents are not unknown to me, may have discovered a truth through her ability to detect the sort of curse she discovered in your case. Have you met her?”
“No, never, but Madame Theosophe says she’s met me metaphysical way.” He shook his head. “My wife gave her some old hairs off my brush or something. I told her that was silly, but she told me Madame Theosophe said it was vital to break the curse and save our marriage.”
“Saving a marriage is a great deal to expect from a stray hair or two. Still, it would be irresponsible to be cavalier under the circumstances.” My boss glanced in my direction. “Tweezers, a glassine envelope. Please harvest a stray hair or two off Mr. Hempstead’s shirt.”
I had no idea what Bloodstone was up to. That’s nothing new, and through the years I’ve learned that going along without asking questions is the best way to go. Not that he would have answered them anyway; but when he acts like this, it generally turns out for the best in very odd ways. “Yes, sir, Doctor Bloodstone. Just his hairs?”
“Two envelopes, in case you discern others. His wife’s perhaps, thank you, Connor.”
“You really think you can save my marriage, Doctor Bloodstone?”
“This alleged curse appears to be at the heart of your marital issues, so I will do what I can to alleviate your concerns as pertains to it.” Bloodstone pressed his hands flat to the desk. “If, in doing that, I can save your marriage, I shall be pleased to have done so.”
I collected the hairs, only finding Don’s, as nearly as I could make out. I got one which had the root attached, which would have been great for DNA analysis. Not that my boss would order such a thing. In his mind, because DNA analysis predated “the Revolution”—by which Bloodstone usually meant the American Revolution—it had yet to be proven reliable.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
Bloodstone accepted the envelope from me, studied the hairs for a moment, then set them down on his desk. “When is it that you travel next?”
Don frowned. “I leave tomorrow night for D.C., I’m there until late Friday, so won’t be back here really until…Saturday?”
“Connor, Tuesday after next, clear my morning. Is 10 a.m. good for you, Mr. Hempstead? Specifically, 10:13 a.m.? You, your wife, your friend, Hank, and Madame Theosophe? I can have Connor communicate with her on your behalf, extend the invitation.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Don held his hands up. “This is…I came because the curse is a scam and I wanted you to explain that to my wife, make her see sense. But now it sounds like you are saying the curse exists. And, frankly, I’m half expecting you to offer to remove it instead, cutting Madame Theosophe out of the money.”
“He has a point, boss.”
“Yes, of course, in my enthusiasm, I looked past your immediate issue toward the larger implications. You see, Mr. Hempstead, what you have done is present me with an interesting case. Had you just come and said you were under a curse, my reaction would have been skeptical. But a practitioner with the skills of Madame Theosophe has diagnosed your situation. This adds a level veracity to your situation. And I must apologize because you came here so I could save your marriage, and I allow myself to think only of my research.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, sir, it is not.” Bloodstone pointed me back toward my desk. “Connor, I wish to have a proposition memorialized. Your wife has paid ten percent of the money asked. I will, of my own funds, pay Madame Theosophe eight thousand dollars, in cash, just for attending the meeting. Furthermore, I will pay her an additional twenty thousand dollars if the ritual is sufficient to lift the curse. Is that acceptable, Mr. Hempstead?”
“It doesn’t make any sense, Doctor Bloodstone. You’d be out twenty-eight thousand dollars and I’ll still be out two grand. I don’t understand what you’re getting out of this…or for that matter, what I am.”
“Given your trade, Mr. Hempstead, what would you pay to have met the person who created zero? Or Bernie Madoff? Or to get a look at the books Enron kept or the accounting that keeps the Trump empire afloat?” Bloodstone opened his hands. “For me to finally watch Madame Theosophe work on something this momentous is worth the expense.”
“And, if it doesn’t work? If she can’t lift the curse?”
“I give you my personal guarantee that you will be subject to no curse once the meeting has ended, regardless of what Madame Theosophe is able to do or not.”
“Then I’ll owe you. Twenty-eight thousand dollars is a big stake.”
“And saving your marriage is a big task. When I have saved your marriage, you will pay me.” Bloodstone’s eyes twinkled. “But fear not. I am inclined to take it
out in trade. I am certain Connor is stealing me blind.”
“Every penny I can get. House in Tashkent needs a new roof.” I pulled two copies of the agreement from the printer, then handed one to Bloodstone and the other to Don. He signed, then he and Bloodstone exchanged copies and countersigned them.
“Splendid.” Bloodstone stood. “Please tell your wife that you take her concerns seriously, you’ve gotten a second opinion, and ask her to let Madame Theosophe know I shall communicate with her at the earliest convenience.”
Don stood, rolled the agreement up and stuffed it into his back pocket. “This didn’t go the way I expected. I’m not sure I feel better about things, but…”
“But you have a sense that things are under control?”
“I guess…” Don nodded. “In two weeks, then.”
Having escorted Don to the door, I returned to the office as Bloodstone tossed the envelope and hairs into the trash.
I breathed a loud sigh of relief. “So you don’t think it’s a curse after all.”
“I have yet to rule it out entirely.” Bloodstone frowned. “On the other hand, our Mr. Hempstead seems to be cursed.”
“But didn’t you just say…”
“Metaphorically cursed, Connor.” Bloodstone sat, drew another sheet of paper from his drawer, and began writing. “I would submit that Mr. Hempstead already knows his marriage is doomed. While he said he didn’t mind indulging his wife in her eccentricities, twenty thousand dollars was too costly an indulgence. He has, though he has not admitted it to himself, already put a price on his marriage. Thought he may be unaware of it, he came to me for authority to draw a line with his wife. As a numbers person he knows it is finished.”
A shiver ran down my spine. “That’s just cold.”
“Nonetheless true.” He glanced up. “It is important to remember, however, there is a larger benefit to be reaped here. We will put an end to Madame Theosophe.”
Mystery! Page 13
