The List - A Thriller

by Konrath, J. A.

  “You’re actually Abraham Lincoln.”

  Watching Lincoln do a double take ranked among the greatest moments in Bert’s life.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re a clone of Abraham Lincoln.”

  “Are you trying to bullshit a bullshitter?”

  “No.”

  “You can actually prove this?”

  “Yes.”

  Abe began to laugh. He grabbed Bert and hugged him. “This is great! I’ll be rich! Come on, you have to buy me lunch and tell me all about it. We’ll take my car.”

  Roy and Bert followed Abe to his vehicle. It was, naturally, a Lincoln Continental. Older model, when they still made them big. Bert smiled. Lincoln, driving a Lincoln, in Lincoln. Rarely does reality offer up treats like that. He called shotgun and sat in front.

  “Don’t you need to lock up?”

  “Hell no. The place is insured.”

  Roy had to move a large plastic garbage bag before he could get in the back.

  “Don’t you have garbage pick-up out here?”

  “Those are aluminum cans. Top dollar at the recycling center.”

  “They’re leaking.”

  “It’s only water. I fill them all up a little bit before I take them in. Bumps their weight up.”

  Abe turned onto the street and hung another cigarette in his mouth. As he lit it, he gave Bert a once over.

  “You know, you look sort of familiar. Harry’s Pool Hall? Did we ever play poker together?”

  “I’m a clone of Einstein.”

  Abe hooted and blew his horn. “I knew it! I knew it would finally happen for me. We’ll go on tour. You play an instrument, right? I play bass. The Lincoln/Einstein World Tour! I’ll sing The Politics of Dancing. You can sing He Blinded Me With Science. What do you play?”

  “I played viola in high school.”

  “We’d have to work on that. Are there any more famous clones running around? Mozart? John Lennon?” Abe turned to Roy. “Tell me you’re Jimi Hendrix.”

  “I’m Jimi Hendrix.” Roy deadpanned. “Let me stand next to your fire.”

  Abe narrowed his eyes. “The voice is wrong. Plus you’re too goddamn big. But, maybe… lose some weight, grow a beach ball afro. Do you play guitar? Here we are, Dinah’s. Only place in five miles worth eating at.”

  Abe pulled into the lot. It had all the trappings of a roadside diner; the big sign that said Family Restaurant, the glass carousel of rotating pies and puddings, the permanent round stools at the counter. Bert wondered if the waitress was named Flo.

  Abe parked himself on a stool and beckoned Roy and Bert to join him on either side. Bert could sense Roy’s wariness about the seating choice, especially without his donut.

  “Can’t we sit in a booth?”

  “I hate booths.” Abe winked. “Especially John Wilkes.”

  There was laughter and much rib elbowing from the car dealer.

  “Actually, my legs are too long. I get gum on my knees. Sit, stay a while.”

  Bert sat next to Abe and picked up a menu. There was a small stack next to a pyramid of mini cereal boxes.

  “Everything is good, except the turkey. It’s a loaf. Good evening, Meg.”

  The waitress was older, tired, and her pink lipstick matched her uniform. “Hi, Abe. Usual?”

  “With extra bacon. And some coffee too, hon. This guy here is Einstein, and this large black man is Roy. Do you think he looks like Jimi Hendrix?”

  “They’re like twins.” Meg hadn’t lifted her eyes to look. “You guys know what you want?”

  Roy didn’t bother with a menu. “Burger and fries.”

  “How about you?”

  Bert wasn’t sure what he was in the mood for. They’d had chicken on the plane, or at least something purporting to be chicken. He decided to be adventurous. “Give me what Abe is having.”

  “Coffee too?”

  Roy and Bert agreed to coffee. She brought over three stained cups and filled them. Lincoln added five packets of sugar, drained his cup without stirring, and then motioned for a refill.

  “Now tell me. Everything. How can you prove I’m Lincoln?”

  Bert gave him the abbreviated explanation, beginning with how he was contacted by Jessup. He glossed over the meeting with Harold, not really understanding the science behind it himself, and then talked about their disastrous confrontation with Stang. The grand finale was the writing test, comparing a sample of Abe’s script with a Xerox of one of Lincoln’s original letters.

  “This is fantastic.” Abe looked back and forth between the two papers. “I’m actually Abraham Lincoln.”

  “Didn’t you hear the rest of it? Someone is trying to kill you.”

  “Every silver lining has a cloud.”

  “Has anyone threatened you lately? Attacked you?”

  “No more than usual. Great, here’s the grub.”

  Meg brought over three plates. Bert eyed his dinner dubiously. It looked quasi-pornographic.

  “Francheesie,” Abe explained. “They split open a quarter pound hot-dog, stuff it with cheese, then wrap it up in bacon and deep fry it.”

  Abe picked his up and took a large bite, grease dripping down his chin. Bert frowned. “I think I can hear your arteries harden.”

  “The secret is the lard. Some places use vegetable oil, and it just isn’t the same.”

  Bert went to work on his fries.

  “So what’s the next step? Do we hit the newspapers, or go straight to Letterman and Leno?”

  “We have to stop the people who want to end our lives.”

  “Yeah yeah, after that. Do you have any of this scientific evidence stuff?”

  “Nope.”

  Roy’s mouth was occupied by a burger that looked a lot better than Bert’s choice. Maybe he’d trade.

  “Hey Roy, half your burger for my francheezie?”

  “Hell no. Looks like a fried donkey dick.”

  “What about that dead science guy? Didn’t he take notes?”

  “Stang has it all, and he’s not going to hand it over.”

  Abe polished off his dog and licked his fingers. “Way I see it, we could do it three ways. Go through official channels and try to get the media behind us, then let them prove the truth. Or break into the Senator’s place and get the proof ourselves. You gonna eat your donkey dick?”

  “Help yourself. What’s the third way?”

  “We rob some graves. We can start with Lincoln and Jefferson. Where’s your brain at?”

  Roy grinned. “I ask him that all the time.”

  “Some guy has it at Princeton. Abe, you don’t seem to understand how serious this is.”

  “You’re right. We should probably get agents. Someone to negotiate all the offers when they start pouring in. I know a guy at William Morris. Bernie something. He’s a big shot, represents Mr. T.”

  They had pie, and more coffee. Bert soon gave up trying to convince Abe that his life was in danger. The guy was on their side, and if they stuck together it would hopefully be enough.

  “Where are you guys staying?”

  “We haven’t decided yet.”

  “There are a few hotels near the airport. Some pretty good bars, too. We’re going out to celebrate, right?”

  Bert didn’t know if that was the smartest move.

  “I’m up for a beer. You, Bert?”

  “Well, Tom is—”

  Roy nudged Bert with an elbow. “Tom is in LA with a hottie. We don’t need to check in with him for another two hours. A drink or two can’t hurt.”

  “Come on, Bert! Live a little!”

  Peer pressure won, and they agreed to go to a bar named the Porter House, on Pine Lake Rd.

  “Only a few miles away, walking distance to the Ramada Inn. I’ll point out the road when we pass it.”

  The sun had gone down, and the cold wind made Bert consider a jacket. They all piled back into the Lincoln, Abe verbally debating between rock stardom and a career in politics.

/>   “I could be President, right? Wouldn’t you vote for Lincoln?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Bert, you want to be VP? And how about you, Roy? Secretary of Defense? Then Jefferson can be Secretary of State.”

  “How about Joan of Arc?”

  “She could cook for us. Keep the White House tidy. How could we lose with a ticket like that?” Abe pulled into his car lot and killed the engine. “I have to do some quick work here, roll up windows, move some cars. I’ll meet you at the Porter House. Think you can find the place okay?”

  “No problem.”

  “See you there, kids.”

  Abe waved and walked back into the little building.

  “He’s a pretty good guy.” Roy shook his head, smiling. “It’s like we hanging out with the Pope, or Michael Jackson.”

  “The guy has presence. But I wouldn’t buy a car from him to save my life.”

  “Check to see if my donut is done. That stool gave me an awful ache.”

  They hopped into the Beetle and got on their way. Bert checked the patch. Dry. He blew up the donut and listened for leaks.

  “Seems okay.”

  Roy adjusted the donut under him and sighed. “Thanks.”

  A sharp horn split the night just as they were passed by another vehicle. A tow truck, flatbed, going at least twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. Bert watched the truck speed into the distance until its tail lights disappeared.

  “You think we should call Tom, let him know how the meeting with Abe went?”

  Roy reached into his jacket pocket and took out his cell.

  “You do it. He’s on speed dial. Scroll down to his first name, it’s alphabetical.”

  Bert found Tom’s name and hit the send button. It rang. And rang.

  “There’s no answer.”

  “You got the number right?”

  “I think so.”

  “Lemme try.” Roy took the phone and hit some buttons. “He’s not answering.”

  “Maybe the phone’s not on him.”

  “Then he’d set it from vibrate to ring, and still pick it up.”

  Bert saw it before Roy did. The tow truck that had passed them moments earlier. It was in their lane, no headlights, coming right at them.

  Roy barely had a chance to hit the breaks before the collision.

  Bert didn’t hear the crash. He felt it.

  Impact. Spinning. Darkness.

  When Bert opened his eyes, all he saw was white. He couldn’t remember where he was. He could sense movement, a breeze. He looked to his right.

  A shattered window. Lights, in the distance, moving by slowly.

  He looked left. More white. He lifted a hand, pushed.

  Behind the airbag. Roy. Blood all over.

  A small stutter, then a stop. Someone opened his door.

  A dwarf. Only a foot tall. Bert stared at the top of his head.

  “Still alive? Good. We can have some fun.”

  The dwarf had a knife. He poked the airbag, deflating it, and reached over to unlock Bert’s seat belt. Bert was yanked from his seat and he fell, fell, hit the street. His head was pounding. There was something, some kind of humming, in his ears. He looked up.

  Not a dwarf at all. It was Jack. Up on the flatbed of the tow truck was a wrecked car. Roy, slumped over behind the wheel.

  Slug bug yellow.

  “Say good-bye to your friend.”

  Jack pulled a lever on the side control panel. The bed began to lift. The car began to tilt.

  “Those old Volkswagens, they used to be able to float. Let’s see how the new models do.”

  When the angle was steep enough, Jack pulled another lever. The Beetle rolled down the flatbed, over the railing of the bridge. Bert tried to move his head, to see. There was a splash.

  “Need some help?”

  Jack grabbed Bert’s hair and dragged him over to the edge. Below, in the river. The bug. Bobbing. Then it began to sink.

  “Roy…” Bert’s throat was hoarse, painful.

  “Roy. Well, now we know. The new bugs don’t float after all.”

  Bert watched as the car went down below the surface of the water, leaving only bubbles in its wake.

  “Roy…”

  “Roy.” Jack dropped Bert’s head. “Be happy for him. His pain is over. Yours is just beginning. In a few hours, you’ll be begging to join your friend at the bottom of that river.”

  Bert felt a hand on his collar, and then everything went black.

  The cold shocked Roy awake. His feet felt like they were stuck in ice. It quickly moved up to his legs, and then to his waist. The reality of his predicament came to him in a rush.

  He was in the car. Roy could remember the truck coming right at them. Trying to collide. Hitting the brakes too late.

  He reached to his right, feeling in the dark for Bert.

  Not there.

  Roy pushed aside the airbag, hands groping the dash. He found the switch for the interior dome light.

  Flipping it on revealed that the situation was worse than he thought. The water was above the windshield, streaming in through a hundred different cracks. It was now up to his chest, freezing.

  Roy attempted to open the door. Jammed. The button for the window didn’t work. He tried to scoot over to the passenger side, but his seat belt held him in place.

  Without warning the car lurched forward, like the first drop on a roller coaster. Roy’s head fell into the airbag, and he was immediately surrounded by cold, rushing water. He tore at the bag, trying to get it out of his face. It pulled free, but the water was now over his head. Frantic, his hand sought the seat belt button.

  The car jolted, hitting the bottom of the river nose first. For a moment it stayed like that, as if unable to make up its mind where to fall. Then, slowly, it rolled to the right, coming to a rest on its side.

  Roy released the seat belt and strained his neck up to find oxygen. There was a small air pocket near the rear window. One of Bert’s Samsonite suitcases floated by his head. He batted it away and managed to get one last breath before the water completely filled the interior. Then he turned towards the passenger door.

  But that’s what the car was resting on.

  Don’t panic, he thought, and then almost laughed. He was trapped in a flooded car at the bottom of a river. Why the hell shouldn’t he panic?

  The doors were blocked, but he could still get out through a window. Roy pushed at the front windshield with both hands, giving it all he had.

  It refused to budge.

  His gun. He could shoot through the glass. His hand went into his shoulder holster.

  Empty.

  The water that had filled the car was cloudy, dark. He tried to peer through the murk, searching for his revolver.

  The dome light chose that moment to go out. Everything went pitch black.

  Now it was panic time.

  Roy groped the floor blindly, lungs burning, becoming frantic. His hands touched something metal. Not his gun. It was square.

  Bert’s emergency camping pack.

  He unsnapped the case and felt around inside. Something long and round. A flashlight. He flicked it on.

  The beam was thin but powerful, cutting through the haze. Spots appeared in Roy’s vision, and he wasn’t sure if they were floating debris or if he was about to black out. His brain screamed for oxygen. The light played across the floor, the back seat. No gun.

  Roy aimed it up, looking for another air pocket. There were none. But floating over his head was the inflatable donut.

  He grabbed it, seeking the nozzle, pulling it out. Roy exhaled, clamped his mouth around the opening, and squeezed it while he took a deep breath.

  The air was stale, weak, not enough oxygen content. But it was enough to keep him in the game a little longer.

  Giving up on the gun, Roy half crawled, half swam to the rear window. He gripped the handle of Bert’s larger suitcase. Hard plastic shell. The one that the gorilla used to jump on in t
he old TV commercials. He brought it back and shoved with all his might at the windshield.