Why don’t you give her a bottle of Zing energy drink?
In his mind’s eye Peter saw Ugo jamming a syringe down through the neck of a plastic Zing bottle. So the bottle wouldn’t leak, so Peter wouldn’t notice the tiny hole when he pulled the bottle from his refrigerator …
He inhaled sharply, held his breath. Who had easier access to the Peterson-Jantz prion than Ugo? He leaned over the rail, shouted, “You did this to me.”
Ugo stopped, halfway down the staircase, looked up at Peter, and smiled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Peter grabbed a steak knife from the table and launched himself down the staircase after Ugo.
“Peter.”
Peter could hear Melissa chasing him down the iron stairs. That’s why Ugo hadn’t called the police that night in the lab. If Peter was in prison, Ugo couldn’t get to him.
“You murdered me,” Peter shouted. “I was only trying to help her, and you murdered me for it.”
“Peter!”
Ugo was only a few steps below, waiting, when he saw Peter had a knife. He took off down the remaining steps with Peter right behind, and Melissa screaming at Peter to stop.
When Ugo reached the patio the big man sprinted for the gate. Rage fueling his steps, Peter chased, but when he had his chance, when Ugo had to slow to open the gate, Peter couldn’t bring himself to use the knife. Instead he slashed at the air a few inches from Ugo’s shoulder.
Melissa grabbed him from behind and yanked him around. “What are you doing? What’s the matter with you?”
“Didn’t you hear what he said? He infected me with Peterson-Jantz.”
Behind Melissa, the fountain pattered like a heavy downpour. She pressed her hands to her face, dragged them, tugging her skin, exposing the bloodred rings under her eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Ugo’s Porsche roared to life, backed down the driveway.
Was she talking about Izabella, or Peter’s duplication? Had she even caught on yet, that he was not the original Peter? She must have. Everything was spinning out of control.
Melissa was waiting for an answer.
“I was ashamed, and afraid. Ugo offered me an out, because he didn’t want anyone to know how Izabella died. At least that’s what he said.”
“Did a duplicate of Izabella come out?”
“Yes. She was dead as well.” He knew what question was coming next, and he dreaded it.
“What happened to her body?”
Peter put his hands on his head, turned away from Melissa. “I hid it. In the factory.” He saw no point in bringing Harry into this.
“You dumped my sister’s body in a factory?” Melissa sounded horrified. Disgusted. Just as Peter had imagined, every time he thought of telling her.
He turned to face her. “It wasn’t her body. It had never been alive.”
“So you hid it.” Her eyes were brimming with tears; she reached up, brushed a strand of hair aside with badly trembling fingers.
“Yes.”
Melissa waited. When Peter didn’t say anything more, she said, “Go on.”
“I started getting sick. Headaches, trembling. Susanna Otero diagnosed me with Peterson-Jantz. I thought I caught it from Izabella. Now I know the truth.” He glanced toward the driveway, although Ugo was long gone. “I needed to finish the singularity project; too many lives are at stake for me not to. So I duplicated myself.”
It seemed to take time for the words to register. When they did, Melissa broke down. She sank to the pavement, clutching her stomach. When Peter sank to one knee, tried to console her, she shoved him away.
“You’re not Peter? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Of course I’m Peter. I remember the first time I set eyes on you, coming out of your trailer on the way to the bus stop in fifth grade. The first time we kissed, outside Regal Cinema, after we saw that Tom Cruise movie—”
“You’re the duplicate, though—that’s what you’re saying.”
Reluctantly, Peter nodded.
Melissa stood. “Where is Peter?”
“I’m Peter.” He poked viciously at his chest as he stood to face her. “The only way I could save my life was to create a second me. It was the only way. I knew if I involved you, you’d try to stop me—”
“Where is my Peter?”
“It was the only way. I duplicated myself, and then I killed myself—my dying self—”
Melissa cried out, clapped her hand over her mouth.
“—so there’d be no question that I was me.”
He reached out with both hands, held her shoulders. She shook him off as if she’d been touched by snakes. “Don’t touch me. I’m not married to you. I’m a widow.” Her eyes opened wide for an instant, then she laughed harshly. “You’re not even the Peter who killed my sister and hid the body. You didn’t even exist when that happened.”
“Technically that’s true. But you’re wrong. I did do it. I still have nightmares about it.”
She looked just as she had at Izabella’s funeral—shell-shocked. Gut-punched. “I fell in love with Peter because he was so sweet, so honest.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “Now I’m standing in my backyard, hearing about bodies stuffed in basements.” She held her stomach. “God, my stomach hurts. Is this a nightmare? Please let this be a nightmare.”
For a second time, Peter reached out, grasped her shoulder, trying to steady her. Again, Melissa pushed him away. “Leave. Leave or I’ll call the police and tell them what you’ve done.”
“Melissa, it’s me. It’s still me. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. Please, can we figure this out together?”
Melissa held up a hand in warning, fresh tears wetting her face. “Go.”
He went through the gate, to his car, and sat in the driveway, shaking. He’d done everything wrong, made the wrong choice at every turn. The thought of spending even one night away from Melissa right now was intolerable. With everything that was happening, all the stress and fear, Melissa was what kept him sane.
The only place he could think to go was Harry’s apartment.
31
FALLER WATCHED Storm, her white shirt flickering in the wind. He wanted to believe she was the woman in the picture, but as she’d said, it was silly to pretend there was no chance it was poor Emily or Susanna. And who knew? There could be more Storms.
As the hours passed his concern drifted outside of him, until it became something he could put on or take off at will, or turn over in his hands and examine.
None of them spoke much. It was like being back in Snakebite’s repair shop, only instead of “Pass me that hammer,” it was “Do you want some berries?” Faller was glad. Talking broke the spell, dragged him back from that blissful place where he was standing motionless, his thoughts slowing to a stop.
He enjoyed watching Storm fall, her hair in a ponytail, snapping in the ceaseless wind. He wondered if she was still angry at him for pulling her off her world.
It struck him that he’d never really said he was sorry for making that decision for her. He’d explained himself, defended himself, but never apologized, and in all fairness it should have been her decision to make, even if staying meant dying.
Faller drifted closer to Storm.
“I’m so sorry,” he shouted. “I don’t know why I tried to defend what I did. All I can say is—” The temptation to add that he’d only done it because he cared about her was strong, but that would just be more excuse-making. “All I can say is, I’m sorry.”
Storm’s expression told him he’d just gone a ways toward redeeming himself in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, too.”
Faller frowned. “What did you do?”
She reached out with one hand. Faller took it, and they drew together until their faces were close enough that they didn’t quite have to shout. “I let you think I was dead.”
Faller shook his head. “Only for a moment.”
“That was o
nly because you figured it out. I was going to tell you it was me, as soon as I could get you alone.”
Faller nodded. “And I swear to you, what I did wasn’t calculated. I did it without thinking. I’m impulsive sometimes. It gets me into trouble.”
“Like falling off your world? That kind of trouble?”
“Like that, yes.”
They fell past an enormous cloud, taller than it was wide and drenched in pink and peach from the setting sun.
“Do you miss Moonlark?” Faller asked.
Storm smiled wanly. “I do. He wasn’t my idea of the perfect man, but he’d been a part of my life almost from the beginning. It’s strange, to think I’ll never see him again.”
Chances were, no one would ever see him again, but Faller kept that thought to himself.
32
THEY FELL side by side, but didn’t speak much. He was happy just to fall with Storm, to let the wind air out his head, to sweep away the sight of Emily lying dead in Storm’s arms, and all the corpses that looked like him.
Faller hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep until Storm’s voice woke him.
He moved closer to her. “I didn’t hear you.”
“I keep wondering about the photo, about Emily and Susanna.”
“Forget about the photo.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re the woman in the picture. I know it.”
“But you don’t.”
And they never would. That doubt would always hang over them.
“I don’t care what we meant to each other in the past. I care about now.” He pulled himself closer, and kissed her. The kiss missed because of the turbulence, catching part of her lip and a nostril.
Storm’s expression was unreadable. “Remember how that impulsiveness always gets you in trouble?” Storm grabbed his nose between her thumb and forefinger and twisted until he yelped in pain. Then she let go of his hand and drifted away.
XVII
THE BEEPING of the moving van backing into the driveway pulled Peter out of the imaginary conversation he was having with Melissa. He rose from the bench by the thirteenth hole, went around front.
Melissa was just stepping out of her van wearing sunglasses, her hair pulled back tightly. When she saw him, she looked away. “You promised you’d stay away until I was finished.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I realized it might be the last time I ever see you.” The rims of his eyes were burning, from crying earlier.
“I don’t even know what to call you,” Melissa said.
Peter looked toward the heavens. “I’m Peter. It’s me, it’s just me.”
One of the movers joined them. “Miss Deveraux, if you’ll walk through the house with me, show me what goes.”
“Sure.”
Peter watched her go. She was wearing black pants, a black silk scarf, as if she were in mourning.
He had a terrible thought: what if she held a funeral for him? Surely she wouldn’t do that. He was just caught in a spiral of terrible thoughts.
He went back to the bench, watched for glimpses of Melissa as the moving men carried furniture out of their house. He tried to watch the clouds, a low ceiling of cumulus and stratocumulus, the tufts tinged in plum purple, but it didn’t calm him. Every box, every piece of furniture the moving men carried out burned in the pit of his stomach, but he couldn’t stop watching.
The French doors opened and Melissa came out. As she walked toward him he felt a fresh surge of irrational hope that she was coming to forgive him.
The look on her face dashed those hopes.
“Do you really believe we’re not married, or are you planning to file for divorce? Last time I checked, I was still legally Peter Sandoval.”
Melissa pulled her hair back with both hands, lifted her face to the sky. “I don’t even want to think about that now. I want to go home to New York and spend time with friends, but I can’t even do that.”
No, that was for sure. Parts of New York were under enemy control. Parts of the city were rubble.
“Where are you going to go?”
“I’m staying with Kathleen in D.C.” From the way she was standing, arms folded, shifting from foot to foot, Peter knew she wouldn’t be here much longer. If he was going to give the little speech he’d been rehearsing night after night while he wasn’t sleeping, now was the time. Not that it would do any good.
“Whatever you think of me, of the things I did, I want you to know: I meant well. I only meant to help Izabella. It was the only thing in my heart when I said yes to her.” He took a breath, expecting her to argue, to tell him to shut up, but she only went on staring into the pool. “When Ugo tried to kill me, all I could think was: I can stop this damned war. If I had more time, I could keep millions of people from dying.
“You said you married me because I was kind. I still am. I’m a good person. I could have used the singularity to become the richest person on Earth; instead I’m risking my life to give it away. Don’t you dare try to paint me as some sort of psychopath.”
Still staring into the water, Melissa unfolded her arms. “Okay.”
As she started back toward the house, two women wearing black suits and dark sunglasses passed through the gate, heading toward Peter. Melissa paused.
When they reached Peter, one of the women held up a badge: FBI. “Mr. Sandoval, my name is Special Agent Shannon Mitzner, and this is Special Agent Patricia Cortez. We’d like you to come with us.”
“Why?” Peter said.
“We’re investigating two suspected murders: Peter Sandoval and Izabella Deveraux-Woolcoff.”
Ugo.
“I’m Peter Sandoval.”
Agent Mitzner nodded. “It’s a complicated matter. Please come with us and we can discuss it.”
“Why would federal agents be investigating murders?” Peter asked.
“There are national security implications to the murder of Peter Sandoval.”
“Do I have a choice? Am I under arrest?”
“Yes, I’m afraid you are,” Agent Mitzner said.
Peter looked to Melissa, for help, for compassion—he didn’t know what he wanted from her. She turned and headed for the driveway, sobbing.
33
AFTER TWO days of falling, Faller was just beginning to worry when he spotted another world. Their stores were just about depleted, partly because they’d only counted on there being two of them. He and Storm moved over to join Snakebite.
Snakebite stared right through him, at something a thousand miles away. Faller tapped his shoulder. Slowly, Snakebite’s eyes regained focus.
Faller pointed at the world. Snakebite nodded.
Moving quickly, he and Storm strapped themselves into the harness together, and deployed their single chute.
It was small, a U-shaped sliver, nothing but wreckage and rubble. Melted vehicles, piles of bricks and concrete, twisted steel beams. It reminded Faller of the bombed-out part of his own world.
Faller and Storm came down hard in a pile of bricks; the falling chute drifted past them and crumpled. Faller watched as Snakebite kept drifting …
“Shit.” Faller shrugged out of the harness and ran after Snakebite, who was heading toward the edge. “Look out,” he cried, as if he couldn’t see he was in trouble.
Snakebite reached out and hooked his arm around a steel beam, part of the blackened skeleton of a high-rise, thirty feet above the ground. The velocity almost tore away his grip, but Snakebite clung tight, the muscles in his arm tensing as the parachute collapsed, fluttering and dropping limply.
Faller and Storm waited at the bottom as Snakebite shimmied down.
“Can you tell me what I did wrong, so I’ll know not to do it again?” Snakebite asked as he examined abrasions on his arms.
Faller thought about it. “Aim for the middle.”
Snakebite grunted.
They found a handful of bodies, all but one wrapped in blankets and set in a neat row in the lobby of a mostly intact hotel. The last bo
dy was propped against a concrete traffic divider, right by the edge. They were little more than skeletons in clothes. There were buckets, plastic tarps, bathtubs set out all around the hotel, and no obvious source of water, so not much mystery about how they died. They found a few empty cans, one a can of peaches that reminded Faller of Daisy.
“I guess it’s safe to assume this isn’t the world we’re looking for,” Storm said.
“Why don’t we head toward the edge?” Faller was eager to find the X on his map; they could sleep in shifts while they fell.
Faller caught his ankle on the steel post of a bent-over sign still fixed in the broken concrete. As he pulled his foot free, he noticed the image on the sign: it was a tower, twice as tall as those around it, its surface formed so it looked as if it had been twisted. It was wider at the bottom, tapered at the top, crowned with a long metal pole resembling a spear. There was an arrow on the sign, pointing to the left. When the sign was standing upright it would be pointing right off the edge.
Faller bent, gripped the sign in both hands, then brushed dirt caked over the top of the tower. He knew that building like he knew his own face.
“How did I miss it before?” he said aloud.
Storm bent beside him, looked at the sign. “What is it?”
“It’s the Tower—the skyscraper I jumped from. This sign is pointing to a building on my world.”
“How could—” she began, then gasped as realization dawned.
He could picture exactly where this little sliver of world would fit up against his, over a divot that jutted out over the edge, in the bombed-out section of his world.
“Someone or something tore the world apart. It caused all this suffering. The hunger. The purges. I want to know who or what did this.” Faller pulled out his map, unfolded it. “That’s what the X is for—to show us where to find the answer.”
XVIII
PETER WENT to his filing cabinet, rummaged around until he found the bottle of tequila they’d presented to him at the surprise birthday party the lab had thrown for him last year. He was tempted to drink straight from the bottle, but there were still dozens of people moving around the lab at two A.M., so he opted for a mug commemorating the Eighty-seventh International Conference on Theoretical Physics. That had been a good conference. He took a swig of the tequila, felt it burn as it trailed down his esophagus.
Faller Page 20
