The List - A Thriller

by Konrath, J. A.

  “You have no idea what’s happening here. What they’re going to do. I’m going to be a very important, very powerful man.”

  Tom stopped walking forward and turned around slowly.

  “How did you find out you were a clone?”

  “Stang came to me. I was having some legal trouble. They said I took some money from my company. He helped me out, told me who I really was. He recognized my talent.”

  “Your talent?”

  “My writing talent. I’m Shakespeare! And I’m stuck doing crap ad copy! That’s like using a hurricane to blow out a match!”

  The gun shook against Joan’s head. She closed her eyes and willed it to stop.

  “So he kept you out of jail, and now you’re his little suck boy.”

  Bill took the gun off Joan and pointed it at Tom. The relief on Tom’s face told her that had been his intention.

  Brave bastard, that Tom. But was anyone in history braver than Joan of Arc? She found her voice, and when it came out it was strong and true.

  “Don’t blame him, Tom. Look at that hair. He couldn’t have had a lot of love in his life. Not without paying for it, anyway.”

  Bill jammed the gun back in Joan’s temple, hitting her so hard she saw stars.

  “You want to say that again?”

  “I’ll say it. You pay for sex, Bill, because your head looks like a Chia Pet.”

  The revolver went back to Tom, and then Bill began to laugh.

  “Good try, guys. Get me all upset. But I’m not the big loser in this room. You’re Thomas Jefferson. She’s Joan of Arc. You should be ruling this country. But instead you’re a dumb cop and this one here makes stupid movies. I for one plan on fulfilling my destiny.”

  “By killing us.”

  “You make an omelet, gotta break some eggs. Now move it, open that door.”

  Tom didn’t move. Joan could see he was getting ready to try something. She shifted slightly, so she could grab Bill’s arm and toss him over her hip.

  When the gun went off, she yelped in surprise.

  Tom had crouched down, hands protecting his head. The shot had gone into the ceiling.

  “Next one doesn’t miss. Open the damn cellar door.”

  Tom righted himself and complied.

  “Empty your pockets.”

  Tom removed his wallet, cell phone, and keys.

  “Toss them on the table, then go down the stairs.”

  The staircase was wooden, dark. Tom took three steps down and turned. “Have you ever killed a man, Bill? Had another person’s death on your hands?”

  “I get the reference, and I won’t have a problem washing the blood off.”

  He shoved Joan roughly through the doorway. She yelped, pitching head first down the stairs, but Tom caught her and held her steady.

  “Besides,” Bill said, “I’m not the hands-on type. I’ll give Attila and Vlad a call. They have a lot more fun with this type of thing.”

  Joan stared up at him. “You should send them after the guy who gave you those hair plugs.”

  Bill sneered. “Sticks and stones.” Then he slammed the door, engulfing them in darkness.

  Tom’s hand found her shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  She was shaking, but she managed to answer. “I’m okay. Check the door.”

  Joan heard creaking, a grunt. “Locked. Solid, too. The door is heavy. Stand back.” There was a loud thump. Then another. “I think I broke my heel.”

  “We have to get out of here. Do you have any matches? A lighter?”

  “No.”

  Joan led the way down the stairs, proceeding cautiously in the pitch black. It was cool and damp, and she got the impression of a small space rather than a big one. Her hands brushed something stringy and dry. A spider web. She wiped it off on her blouse.

  Reaching the floor, Joan inched forward, hands out in front of her, grouping blindly for a wall. She hit one almost immediately. Her fingers felt wood, old and dusty, half moon cuts.

  “It’s a wine cellar.”

  “Try to find windows.”

  She continued to feel her way around the small room. It was not only devoid of windows, but wine as well. Joan felt behind the wooden racks and touched cold concrete.

  “This is just the perfect way to end a perfect day.”

  “I’m sorry I brought you here.”

  “You’re kidding. This was my fault. I’m the one who found Shakespeare.”

  “You believe he’s really Shakespeare?”

  “At this point, why not? And you want to know something? I always hated Shakespeare.”

  “Me too.”

  His words echoes in the small enclosure, and then faded. Joan shivered. Fear mounted with every passing second, as if the darkness were suffocating her.

  Keep a clear head, she told herself. Stay focused. Find your center. If you’re going to go down, go down swinging.

  Joan broke the silence. “We should have rushed him.”

  “I saw the guy’s eyes. He would have shot us.”

  “Isn’t that a lot better than what’s going to happen when Attila and Vlad show up?”

  “You’re right. I could have done something.”

  “I could have done something too. I could have flipped him. It was a simple move any yellow belt could have executed.”

  “You had a gun to your head.”

  “And it scared me. Next time I won’t be scared.”

  “If this was one of your movies, how would we get out?”

  “I would have written the scene so one of us has a weapon, or a hairpin to pick the lock, or we find a closet and there’s a back hoe in it.”

  “Maybe we can pull down some of these old racks, make a weapon.”

  “It’s a start. What’s the chance of your friends somehow finding us?”

  “Nil. I spoke to Roy when his plane got in, but haven’t checked with him since. He doesn’t even know about Shakespeare. Maybe they can figure it out later and avenge our deaths.”

  “That would work cinematically. Doesn’t help us much, though.”

  Tom got up. Joan listened to him shake the wine rack.

  “Well built. But let’s give it a shot.”

  Joan stood next to him and they both grabbed a corner support. On three they tugged, Joan putting her back into it, straining and groaning. The support creaked and abruptly gave way, the two of them falling onto their bottoms.

  Joan weighed the little piece of wood in her hand. It was useless as a weapon. She sat with her back against the wall and hugged her knees, despair swallowing her up. We’re going to die, she thought. The feeling multiplied within her, getting bigger and bigger, until she found herself gasping.

  Tom bumped into her, touched her head, and then sat beside her. He put an arm around her shoulders, and then hugged her tighter when she began to tremble. The first really nice guy she met in California, and he wasn’t even from California. Joan thought about home. Not her house in Beverly Hills, but the small town she grew up in. Joan had left to get away from the wholesomeness, but now she missed it so much she ached.

  For some reason, Tom reminded her of home. She pressed against him, resting her head against his neck. After a minute or two, she was able to get her breathing under control.

  “I just had a pessimistic thought,” Tom said.

  “Share it. Brighten my spirits even more.”

  “Well, neither of us expected Shakespeare to be one of the bad guys, right?”

  “I was as shocked as the next girl.”

  “So, Roy and Bert are in Nebraska visiting Lincoln…”

  “I follow. But I really can’t picture Lincoln as a bad guy. He’s America’s poster boy for decency and honesty.”

  “He’s a used car salesman.”

  Joan shivered. “God help us all.”

  “Your vehicle is in the third space on the right. Thank you for using Hertz.”

  Bert picked up his bags and followed Roy out the door. When he saw their car he halte
d mid-step. Yellow. Round. Volkswagen.

  They’d rented a Beetle.

  “Slug bug yellow no hit backs!” Bert dropped his luggage in the parking lot and launched himself at Roy, his fist seeking out the sore spot on the larger man’s shoulder.

  Roy set his jaw and rubbed his arm. “Remind me to smack Tom upside the head for reserving this damn car.”

  “That’s why this place is called Hertz.”

  Bert went back for his bags. He shoved them in the rear seat and got into the car. Roy unlocked the fire box and put the revolver in his shoulder holster. Then he fussed with his donut.

  “Damn donut is leaking again.”

  “Is the nozzle pushed in?”

  “Don’t start with me. It’s a hole.”

  “I may have something in one of my bags.”

  Bert scooted around and unzipped the panel on his larger bag. He found the metal box and set it in his lap.

  “Camping emergency pack. Waterproof matches, candle, compass, flashlight, cable saw, tablets to purify water, fishing line, and a repair kit for patching tents. Gimme the donut.”

  Roy handed it over. Bert found the hole—a split in the seam—and dabbed on some rubber cement.

  “It’s gonna take some time to dry. Can you live without it for a while?”

  “I guess I have to.”

  Roy got in the driver’s seat, wincing as he sat down.

  “Maybe you should turn the other cheek.”

  “Funny. Where the hell are we going?”

  “Honest Abe’s Used Car Emporium. He’s on Route 2.”

  Roy turned the ignition and Bert consulted the complimentary map of Lincoln the rental company had provided. “When you get out of the lot you’re going to get on 80. We can take 80 to 180, and that turns into 2.”

  “How’s my donut?”

  “Drying.”

  Bert set the camping kit by his feet, rather than bother putting it back in the suitcase. He reclined his seat a few more degrees and opened the window. The breeze felt nice. Not as warm as LA, but the air was fresh and clean. The sun was looming over the western horizon. It would set in about an hour or so.

  Bert closed his eyes, thinking about the past week and the events leading up to it. He felt… alive. This went beyond finding out he was a clone of Einstein. This was an actual adventure. He was a part of something, something big and scary and exciting. Bert had no idea how this was all going to end up, but he wouldn’t have missed it for anything.

  They drove in companionable silence. Roy managed to find Route 2, and a few minutes later they were pulled up to a weather beaten billboard stamped with “Abe’s Pre-Driven Vehicles”.

  The Emporium wasn’t anything more than a gravel parking lot with a small brick building in the center. Multi-colored plastic flags, cracked and faded, were strung between two poles, and a sign proclaimed “Huge Sale This Week Only!” in peeling paint.

  Bert scratched his chin. “I think I expected more. How many cars do you count?”

  “Ten, if you include that rusty Buick up on blocks.”

  Before they could get out of the car, a tall man rushed out of the little building to greet them.

  “Welcome to Honest Abe’s!” His voice was booming, grandiose, and he spread his arms out dramatically. One look at his face and there was no doubt at all. This was Abraham Lincoln. The craggy features, the square beard, the big ears. He even had the black, stovepipe hat.

  Bert opened the car door and Abe shook his hand enthusiastically. There was a cigarette burning in the corner of his mouth, which seemed strangely anachronistic. The car dealer also wore jeans and a dirty T-shirt, neither of which matched that famous face.

  “I see you’re looking to trade up on this foreign hunk of crap. I have just the car for you. A 1989 Chrysler LeBaron. Made in the USA, built to last. Leather interior. Air. I might be persuaded to trade it for this Eurotrash vehicle, because I like how you carry yourself.”

  “This is a rental.”

  “Of course it is. Perhaps I should be speaking to the driver.” Abe looked at Roy, then back at Bert. “Does this Negro belong to you? Just kidding, of course. Welcome to Honest Abe’s Car Emporium, where all men are free… to drive home in a great deal!”

  He pumped Roy’s hand. The look on Roy’s face found him just as entranced by Abe’s appearance as Bert was. He must have been; anyone else talked like that to Roy would have been nursing a broken nose. But when Abe said it, it was humorous and good-natured.

  Bert likened it to meeting a celebrity. When he’d first met Tom, he knew his face from old portraits, but there was no spark of instant recognition. Lincoln was arguably one of the most recognizable individuals to ever walk the planet. This was real American history come to life. Being next to him made Bert’s heart race. Even though it was irrational, he wanted to get the man’s autograph and take some pictures.

  “I have just the thing for you.” Lincoln lead Roy into the lot. “A 1977 Cadillac Seville. Auto everything. Think of how the brothers in the hood will bug when they see you chillin’ in this ride, homey.”

  Bert shook himself out of the momentary daze and went after them.

  “Mr. Linc—er—Wilkens, we’re not here about a car. We need to talk to you.”

  Abe stopped in his tracks, removing his arm from Roy.

  “Mr. Wilkens? Oh, you must mean my boss. He’s out of town for the moment. I’d be happy to take a message.”

  “You aren’t Abe Wilkens, owner of this lot?”

  “Sorry, no. Good day, gentlemen.”

  Abe walked briskly back to the little building. Bert and Roy exchanged a look of amazement.

  “Are you as weirded out as I am?”

  “It’s freaky. He is Wilkens, right?”

  “Has to be. The resemblance was amazing.”

  “He tried to sell me a Caddy. Abraham Lincoln tried to sell me a Caddy.” Roy was beaming. It pleased Bert that he wasn’t the only one acting like a star struck idiot.

  “Why’d he take off?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  They walked up to the building and Roy knocked on the door. “Mr. Wilkens?”

  “What? Oh, he’s not here, I told you. Just leave your name and whatever company you’re from, and he’ll get back to you.”

  “Company? I’m a cop.”

  There was a pause, and then the door opened and Abe’s head poked out, sans top hat.

  “You’re not from any bank?”

  “No.”

  “Credit card company? Loan officer?”

  “Nope.”

  “Local organized crime?”

  “Chicago Police Department.”

  “Well then, let’s talk.” Abe waltzed out of the office and put an arm around Roy again. “I’m a big fan of law enforcement, and would be honored to give you my special police officer discount.”

  Roy had a little smile on his face and Bert could sense his head wasn’t in the game. He reached over and tugged Abe’s arm.

  “We’re not here to buy anything. We’re here about the tattoo.”

  Abe turned his attention to Bert. “You know about that?”

  “A blue number 1 on your heel. You were adopted, right?”

  Abe nodded, his pale eyes widening. “I was. Are you here to tell me it’s true? I’ve been waiting years for this. You found my real parents, and I’m actually a relative of Abraham Lincoln. Right?” He grinned and clapped his hands. “I’ve had a feeling, since I was a kid. Always hoped it wasn’t just a dumb coincidence. Is there an inheritance? Tell me there’s an inheritance.”

  “It’s actually, ah, more complicated than that. You aren’t a relative of Lincoln.”

  “Are you kidding? Look at me! I’m the spitting image! I look just like the dead bastard!”

  “Abe…”

  “Why do you think I moved to Nebraska? I grew the beard, I got the dumb hat—”

  “Abe, you aren’t one of Lincoln’s relatives. But you do have Lincoln’s genes in you.”


  “What the hell are you trying to say?”