The Gemini Experiment

by Brian Pinkerton

  Louis turned to see a saggy middle-aged woman in a baggy dress with her hair up in a bun.

  “Mr. Nolan, if you need money for medical treatment, this is not the way to do it.”

  Louis shrugged. “Health costs are a bitch.”

  The bun woman continued to nag, so on his way out, Louis shot her in the toe. Then he waved at the security cameras, showing his face and laughing to himself: This is an even better disguise than ol’ Charlie.

  Driving away from the convenience store, Louis passed a rush of flashing cop cars headed in the opposite direction, reporting to the scene of his first crime. He almost wanted to wave at them.

  Louis felt giddy.

  He had a new gun, several thousand dollars’ worth of jewelry, and a pleasant stash of cash – enough to handle his immediate needs as he trekked out of Chicagoland and cut across the country for new surroundings.

  After eighteen solid hours of driving, most of it in the dark of night on long stretches of Tennessee and Georgia highway, Louis was now approaching a Florida town called – no fooling – Kissimmee. While he wasn’t feeling hungry, the beef jerky he had consumed back in Chicago tasted good, and he was interested in pleasuring his new taste buds even if they were fake. His legs probably needed to stretch, too, although they felt fine.

  He found a small diner with a fading sign and mostly empty parking spaces. It promised pizza, hamburgers and a low-key vibe, good enough for him.

  Inside, he ordered a basic cheeseburger and fries. A simple meal for most, but he knew it would be miles better than any of the swill he had consumed in jail. The guards had openly laughed about the presence of dead insects and mouse droppings in the prison dinners.

  He grew irate just thinking about it.

  After completing his meal, feeling neither stuffed nor hungry, Louis reported to the elderly woman at the cash register to inform her how the check would be handled.

  “Today is backwards day,” he said. “I don’t pay you. You pay me. Everything you got.”

  He produced his gun to show her he was serious. He needed gas money, motel money, and every little stack of green helped.

  The woman looked at him blankly, and he told her to be quick or risk getting a bullet. She bent down for a moment, and that should have been a signal, as the money was on the counter, not below, but he let her age lower his guard, a bad move, because these days everybody had a gun, even grandma types in aprons with big glasses, jowls and penciled eyebrows.

  A shot rang out, and it wasn’t Louis’s gun. She had a pretty quick aim and release, this old woman, and placed a neat little hole in his chest.

  Louis felt like he had been jabbed with a stick for a moment and then the feeling went away.

  He stared at her.

  She stared at him. Her eyes grew big, really big with the magnification of her thick glasses. Her mouth quivered.

  “You don’t bleed,” she said in hushed astonishment, almost a whisper to herself.

  “No. But you do.”

  He shot her above the chest, took the money, and then fired a bullet in the direction of a jumpy waiter who seemed uncertain of whether to sprint toward the commotion or away. He wisely chose ‘away’ when the bullet chipped the floor near his feet.

  Louis hopped in his car and drove off. He returned to the highway and figured he’d continue a few more hours before hunkering down in a cheap hotel and plotting his new identity. He needed a new name, now that ‘Tom Nolan’ was soiled. And he would have to reach into his bag of tricks for a Social Security number and phony driver’s license.

  Louis thought back to the beginning of this journey: his departure from Chicago and the encounters with Bill at the sporting goods store and the woman with the now-missing toe at the convenience store. Poor Tom Nolan would have a lot to answer for. Tom’s neighbors would go on television and express their shock. “He was such a nice man. He went to church. He was a good neighbor. A loving husband and father. I can’t believe he would do such a thing.”

  And it would sound like every other news story where a seemingly ordinary man goes on a rampage.

  Ah well, thought Louis. Not my problem.

  Chapter Nine

  Tom stared at his wife’s text message in confusion. From his window on the train he could see police cars with flashing lights multiplying around the station.

  He was beginning to poke out a reply when the cell phone rang.

  Giamatti.

  Tom answered. He didn’t have time to ask questions. Giamatti immediately began talking.

  “Cooper just notified me the police showed up at your house looking for you. Your wife told them you went to work. She didn’t know…but now she does…you’re accused of two robberies and a shooting.”

  “Wait – what?” Tom said. “That’s impossible!” Then he realized the likely culprit. His replica was running amok.

  “It’s the other you. Listen, don’t let them catch you. If you’re caught, I can’t help you. This experiment cannot be revealed to the public for very important, highly classified reasons. I’ll tell you more later. For now – go into hiding. Do not contact your wife. Turn off your cell phone until you’re safe. Do you hear me?”

  Tom’s attention was split between Giamatti shouting in his ear and watching the police enter the train. The passengers around him continued to grumble and speculate about the delay. Tom seized the moment to satisfy their curiosity. He turned off his phone.

  “The train’s on fire!” he yelled, rising immediately in his seat. “Everybody evacuate!”

  There was an instant eruption of chaos. Everybody wanted off. Tom snatched his briefcase and pushed into the aisle. He surrounded himself in the swarm of commuters rushing off the train.

  The sudden wave of frantic commuters overwhelmed the police trying to make their way onboard. Tom grabbed a Wall Street Journal someone had abandoned and kept it close to his face as he exited the train. He spilled out on the platform and nearly brushed against a police officer who was too caught up in the pandemonium to notice him.

  Tom moved with the flow of the crowd across the platform toward a set of stairs that descended to the parking lot. He stopped abruptly when he caught sight of several police officers advancing in his direction. He spun around. The path behind him wasn’t much better. A growing number of police had slowed down the crush of commuters.

  There was only one way left to go. Across the tracks. It required him to lower himself and crawl under a passenger walkway that bridged two train cars. He pulled his briefcase with him, hoping the surrounding chaos would shield him. If the wheels of the train suddenly began to move, he was mincemeat.

  Tom made it to the open set of tracks on the other side. He quickly stood up, brushed the dirt from his sports jacket and—

  —a loud horn blasted him.

  Tom turned to see a train roaring at him from the other direction. He had exactly two seconds to react. He leapt off the tracks and dove onto the platform on the other side. His briefcase left his grasp and exploded against the front of the train, sending a swirl of legal documents into the air.

  He entered a small group of commuters waiting for the northbound train from the city. “You’re an idiot,” said a businessman with slick hair and a stern look. “Never cross the tracks like that. You could have been killed.”

  “I have a very important meeting with a client,” Tom told him. “I can’t be late.”

  Another man, chubby in a rumpled suit with sad eyes, offered, “I know how it is, buddy. Been there.”

  Tom nodded in sympathy. As the train came to a full stop, he positioned himself in front of the doors to enter as swiftly as possible. It would only be a matter of minutes, maybe seconds, before the police expanded their search to this side of the tracks.

  The train stood still. The doors would not open.

  “Come on, come on,” Tom
said under his breath.

  Nothing.

  Then the train station’s intercom sputtered and an announcement sounded over the speakers.

  “Your attention, please. The seven fifty-five train to Kenosha will not be admitting passengers due to an active investigation. Please step away from the train. We hope to have you on the next train in approximately fifteen minutes. We apologize for the delay.”

  Tom gasped in despair. Now what?

  He saw two police officers step onto the platform for the northbound trains. The two became four.

  That’s what.

  The northbound train lurched forward. It chugged into motion, leaving for the next station without adding any commuters.

  The group of people standing with Tom groaned and swore in aggravation.

  “Fifteen minutes!” exclaimed a young, exasperated businesswoman in a black skirt and severe eyeshadow.

  The train began to pick up speed as it left the station.

  Tom knew he didn’t have fifteen minutes.

  From the look of things – more police stepping onto the platform, additional sirens approaching from the distance – he didn’t even have fifteen seconds.

  In his younger days, he was an athlete – basketball and track, mostly, which made the symptoms of his disease all the more cruel. He loved being active.

  Tom prayed he had one good jump left in his game.

  He was shaky, stiff and had bouts of clumsy coordination, but if there was ever a time for everything to go right, this was it.

  As the rear of the train approached, still chugging along on the gradual climb to regular speed, Tom prepared himself. He knew timing was everything.

  From the corner of his eye, he saw a policeman pick up a stray document from the platform – one of Tom’s legal briefs.

  Tom ran.

  Please don’t stumble, he prayed to himself.

  As the last car roared by, Tom hopped off the platform. He landed in the gravel alongside the tracks, kept his balance and began a mad dash.

  Please don’t fall.

  Tom ran as fast as he could. He followed the rear of the train, getting closer. He reached out with both hands, and then he jumped.…

  Please don’t miss.

  Tom grabbed a bar rail on the back of the train and pulled himself up. He wedged his feet on a small ledge. He hugged the rail with both arms as tight as he could and held on for dear life as the train picked up speed, whipping him with wind.

  He did not look back. He simply wanted to get to the next station – Kenilworth – before the police caught up with him.

  The train howled like a beast in his ears. His arms and hands ached with tension. He clenched his teeth and fought the pain. The train’s vibrations threatened to throw him but he held on. If he fell, he would be dead or, at best, badly broken. He thought about Sofi and Emily. It gave him the extra strength he needed.

  Rising out of the train engine’s roar, Tom heard a police siren. He turned to see a squad car racing alongside the commuter train on a parallel road. His getaway plot had been discovered.

  Tom didn’t swear often. But at this moment, he indulged.

  For a half minute, the train and police car ran at equal speed.

  Tom remembered Sofi asking him, “Daddy, what’s faster, a car or a train?” from the backseat several weeks ago as they waited at a train crossing.

  “Train,” he had told her.

  Unfortunately, at this moment, the car was faster. The police sped forward on a clear path as the rest of the traffic obediently pulled over.

  “Train,” said Tom aloud now, as if willing it to be true.

  He watched the flashing police car keep pace with the train. Then a beautiful thing happened.

  A red light. A congested intersection. A couple of large trucks. People in a crosswalk.

  The train pulled ahead of the police car and kept on going.

  Tom’s arms felt like numb sponges, but he continued to squeeze the rail and keep his feet firm on the skinny ledge that was not meant to accommodate exterior passengers.

  The train began to slow down as it approached the next station. When it was almost at a complete stop – but not quite – he jumped off.

  He hit the ground hard, shook off the dizzy sparks that danced in his vision, and quickly staggered to his feet. Still finding his balance, he stumbled toward the Kenilworth train station, where the waiting crowd had not seen his unorthodox arrival.

  Tom’s skin prickled as the nagging police siren grew louder and closer.

  No – not siren. Sirens. Plural.

  Now what?

  An SUV pulled up to the curb about twenty feet from where Tom was limping and grimacing.

  Tom stopped and watched a pretty young woman with red hair and sunglasses drop off her husband. He wore a suit jacket and carried a laptop bag.

  “Thanks, hon!” he shouted, eyes ahead, hurrying toward the train.

  “Have a good day,” she called out after him with good cheer.

  It was a sweet, domestic moment.

  It could have been Tom and Emily.

  As the police drew near, Tom weighed his options. His ability to outrun the cops on foot was less than nil. And hiding aboard this particular train probably wouldn’t fool anybody.

  Quite frankly, he needed a car.

  “Ma’am!” Tom shouted to the red-haired woman as she put her car into gear, preparing to leave the station.

  She turned and looked at him.

  “Your husband dropped his wallet!” Tom pointed in a random direction. “Is that his wallet? Or somebody else’s?”

  “Oh no,” she said. She worked the gear again. She placed the car into park.

  “I’ll see if I can catch him,” Tom said, pointing ahead to the train platform.

  “Thank you,” said the woman. “Thank you so much.” She climbed out of the car, eyes searching for the wallet. She didn’t see it and took several steps away from the car.

  As she scanned the ground, crouched low, Tom circled back and hopped into the driver’s seat. The engine was still running, ready to roll.

  “I’m sorry!” Tom called out, slamming the door. He felt guilty, but there was no time to find an Uber.

  She turned and shouted, “Hey! Stop!”

  As the woman ran toward her car in a panic, Tom pulled away from the curb with squealing tires. He roared past the screaming woman and made a sharp turn onto a main road leading away from the station.

  Inside a minute, Tom was ten blocks away, emitting a big sigh of relief. Everything was better. He had wheels. It was a clean getaway.

  “Bwaaboo,” said a voice in the back seat.

  Tom turned to see a happy, gurgling baby boy squirming in a car seat.

  Tom let out a yell of despair.

  The baby laughed.

  Great, thought Tom. Add kidnapper to my list of crimes.

  The shrill sirens persisted. Tom looked in his rearview mirror and could see little red and blue lights, many blocks away but determined to grow bigger in his wake.

  Tom’s mind swam. There were numerous unhappy scenarios that could play out in this predicament. Racing away from the police at top speed and then crashing violently with a baby in the backseat was probably the worst.

  He needed to get rid of the baby. He couldn’t toss it out. But where could he safely deliver it?

  Tom realized he was near St. Michael’s, his longtime church. He remembered hearing stories of unwed mothers abandoning newborns inside churches, knowing they would be rescued and cared for. This wasn’t exactly a newborn, and Tom was hardly an unwed mother, but he figured the storyline could still play out.

  Tom pulled up in front of St. Michael’s. He left the engine running, hopped out and quickly unlatched the baby from the car seat. Holding him delicately,
he walked swiftly up the broad steps that led inside the church.

  The church was empty. Tom’s footsteps echoed and bounced off the high rafters. Bright sunlight streamed in through stained-glass windows, illuminating the pews with a golden glow. He quickly moved up the aisle, aiming to deposit the baby someplace safe and visible. Near the altar, a large collection basket caught his eye – it was just about the perfect size.

  As Tom stepped toward it, a gentleman in a black clergy shirt with white collar emerged from a side room and recognized him with a look of surprise.

  “Tom?”

  “Father Riedel.”

  Tom walked over to the priest and handed him the baby. Father Riedel accepted the child with a look of understandable bewilderment.

  “I found a baby,” said Tom. “I can’t – can you – it’s a long story – I have to go.”

  The pesky police sirens were back.

  “Whose baby is this?” Father Riedel asked as the child squirmed in his arms.

  “I don’t know. The mom has red hair.”

  Tom quickly turned and headed back up the aisle to return to the stolen SUV. Once he reached the doorway, he froze. Two police cars, lights flashing, sandwiched the SUV from either side. Several officers were already stepping out. One had a hand above the gun in his holster.

  Tom immediately changed direction. He ran back up the aisle.

  Father Riedel remained standing in the same spot, frozen as he held and studied the baby. “But who is the child’s father?”

  Tom offered no response. He simply shrugged and looked heavenward.

  Father Riedel’s mouth fell open.

  Tom rushed through a side passage. He entered the shadowy back corridors of the church. He moved quickly, but not as fast as in his younger days, legs really stiffening now, muscles aching. He found a back exit and pushed through, entering the rear parking lot.

  The lot was big and mostly empty. A lawn maintenance truck sat off to one side. Two Hispanic workers climbed into the front seat, talking to one another in Spanish. They did not see him.

  The back of the truck was filled with lawnmowers, garden supplies, and a big pile of plastic bags stuffed with lawn debris.