The Experiment (Book 2): Making Friends

by Micah B. Edwards

  After taking my leave of the doc, I head across the street to a small cafe called Jose’s. It’s basically just a sandwich shop, but the food’s cheaper than the hospital cafeteria and about a thousand times better. Plus it’s a nice, cheery setting, with big open windows instead of the industrial gloom of the hospital. It’s not like hanging out in a hospital is ever really going to be fun, but the cafeteria at Carnation really seems to go out of its way to be depressing.

  With a table secured and a sandwich ordered, I take out my phone and stare at it for a while. I start a few texts to Brian, delete them each in turn, and eventually send him, “Want to meet at Jose’s for lunch?”

  The thing is, I’ve got to ask him for a favor again. It’s a fairly minor one, and it benefits him, too, but still. I’m starting to feel like I take more out of this friendship than I give, and that’s not a comfortable feeling. On the other hand, I’m trying to take down the guy who beat him unconscious a couple of days ago, so I figure this is a favor he’s probably going to be willing to do.

  Still, buying him lunch first seems like a nice gesture.

  My phone buzzes as my sandwich arrives; it’s Brian, letting me know that he can be here in a little over an hour. I’ve timed things poorly.

  After a brief debate on whether I should eat this sandwich now, then another when he gets here, or whether it’s weird to invite someone out for lunch and just watch them eat, I push the sandwich to the side and order a basket of fries and a Coke to keep me occupied and still looking like a customer.

  I pass the time like any normal adult would — by ignoring the world around me and messing around on my phone. After browsing the internet for a little while, I pull up my texts and look at the last message before the one from Brian. It’s the unknown number that Vince texted me from, and after a moment, I pull up the conversation and send him a new message: “Do you check this number?”

  I follow it a few seconds later with “Loser,” on the theory that goading Vince is more likely to get him to reply. Also on the theory that insulting him is fun and makes me smile, and I don’t care if it is a pretty sad way to get my own back for the various beatings he’s given me. My ribs still hurt every time I breathe too deeply or slouch in my chair, so even if all I can do in return is make him grind his teeth, I’ll take it.

  Sadly, after a half an hour, there’s been no response, so I figure it’s probably a burner phone that he threw away after using to harass me. I’m not totally sure how those work, but I hear about them a lot in cop shows, and they sound like a pretty good way to keep the police from tracking you down by cell signal.

  Speaking of the police, the fact that I’m getting texts from a wanted criminal is probably information I should share with them. After all, there’s at least a chance that Vince just isn’t checking his phone right now, or that he’s exercising self-restraint and not writing back. I text Peterson the number, along with, “Got a text from Vince Amano from this number. Don’t know if that’s helpful.”

  I have no idea if you can track a cell phone by its number. The internet certainly tells me that you can, but it also tells me that the moon landing was faked and that there are four simultaneous days in every 24-hour day, so I’m taking this with a grain of salt. It seems reasonable, though. Cell phones talk to cell towers, which have fixed locations and limited reception, so at the very least you should be able to find out where a text was sent from.

  I’m still in the middle of logicking my way into an advanced telecommunications degree when Brian slides into the chair across from me.

  “Afternoon, dude!” he says cheerily. “Man, you look terrible.”

  “Says you, Rorschach!” I retort, pointing at the bruises purpling both sides of his face. “I don’t get any credit for an already-healed nose?”

  “Not with those panda eyes,” says Brian, his outstretched finger reaching for my face. I swat his hand away.

  “Don’t poke me! I said my nose was healed, not that it had joined a petting zoo. Keep your mitts off.” My nose is way more healed than it should be after only two days, thanks to a remnant of my super-healing, but it’s still sore. And as Brian has so politely pointed out, the black eyes I got as part of the package are still pretty intense. In a week or so, though, I should be able to mock his bruises without receiving in kind.

  Assuming I can go a week without getting new ones, anyway. Given that I’m preparing to go on the hunt for Vince, that doesn’t seem like the safest assumption.

  The waitress shows up before Brian’s taken a look at the menu, and I tell him, “Hurry up and figure out what you want before I decide to make you pay for it,” which is my way of telling him that lunch is on me.

  “Ooh, this is a date? If I’d known, I would have dressed up,” says Brian, which is his way of saying thank you.

  We chat for a bit until Brian’s sandwich arrives, and I finally get to eat mine. We’ve both gone through about half of our food before Brian says, “Okay, man, spill. What’s the deal?”

  “I need you to be my backup,” I say.

  He nods. “Yeah, okay. What’s the play?”

  “What, just like that? You don’t even know what for.”

  “Okay, first of all, yeah, I do. This is obviously about Vince, man. And second of all, so what? You need a hand, I’ve got you covered, you know? It’s how things work.”

  “Yeah, all right. I just — I mean — whatever. Thank you.”

  “It’s all good,” says Brian, chewing on his sandwich.

  “Okay, so yeah. Basically I just need you to be my safety. I’m going after Vince, and I need someone to know where I was if I don’t turn back up.”

  “You ever think about getting the police in on this?”

  “Yeah, I thought about it pretty hard, and I think it’s kind of a last resort. I’d have to convince them that there was a guy making clones of himself, that he was using the clones to rob stores, and that I wasn’t a total crackpot. And on top of that, Vince’ll hide from them, but he’ll clearly come after me. I’ve got a much better chance of catching him than the cops do.”

  Brian shrugs. “So what do you need from me?”

  “Look, the guy’s beaten me up a bunch of times. I think I’m going into this one prepared, but if I’m wrong, I’m gonna need help. That’s when it’s time to get the cops in. If I don’t check in, you call and tell them — I don’t know, that I’ve been kidnapped. Talk to Peterson, he’ll believe you.”

  Brian grins. “Haven’t you just spent the last few months trying to keep him from learning anything about you?”

  “Yeah, well, things changed. He’ll believe you. I’ll give you his number, in case.”

  “So you’re saying I’m not the only guy you’re seeing right now?”

  “Shut up or you can pay for your own sandwich.”

  We finish our lunches and Brian gets out his phone to check the time. “I probably oughta head over to work. Thanks for lunch, man! And I hope you don’t need me, but I’ve definitely got your back if you do.”

  “Yeah, absolutely. Thank you.” A thought strikes me. “Hey, Brian? Do you have my address stored in your phone?”

  “Dude, did you forget where you live?” he jokes, and then his face twists. “Aw, no. Did he show up at your house? I am so sorry, man.”

  “Hey, not your fault. I just hadn’t figured out where he’d gotten my address from. It makes sense now.”

  “No, man, I feel terrible.”

  “What, for getting kidnapped and having your phone stolen? This isn’t on you. Shut up and go save someone’s life.”

  I stand up to leave, and Brian follows suit. Abruptly, he reaches over and pulls me into a hug. My ribs scream, but I ignore it and return the hug.

  “Be careful, man,” he says as he lets go.

  “Yeah, I’m hearing that a lot,” I tell him. “Come on, you’ve got to get to work and I’ve got a bus coming in five minutes. Anyway, I don’t kiss on the first date.”

  “You’re missi
ng out, man. I’ve got soft lips.”

  “With all the CPR you do? I doubt it.”

  “Nah, we’ve got machines for that now. These are strictly for romance.”

  “Go to work, dude.”

  - Chapter Seventeen -

  After some errands, I’m back at home trying to psych myself up for the conversation I’ve been putting off until last: Peterson. I know I’ve got to talk to him; at the very least, he deserves a heads-up before I go vigilante on Vince. He might even have good information about where to find him, or people to ask to track him down. And if things end up as much on fire as I think they might, it’d probably be good to have someone in authority expecting it, and maybe prepared to help smooth things over.

  I mean, I doubt Peterson is in favor of arson. But if he understands my reasons for it before it happens, he might at least look the other way if he sees me fleeing the scene.

  These are all excellent reasons to give him a call. And yet, after spending half an hour screwing around online while pretending I’m just about to call, I give up the pretense and go downstairs to watch a movie. It’s currently just past 2 o’clock, so I give myself a hard limit of 4:30 to get in touch with Peterson. I figure I can relax for 90 minutes with Netflix, call Peterson up at around 3:30, and spend the rest of my day obligation-free and with the added bonus of knowing that I didn’t delay until the last minute.

  So naturally, it’s 4:40 when I reluctantly pause the second movie I’ve started and pick up my phone. I take a deep breath and pull up Peterson’s number in my contacts. As my phone dials, I run through what I want to tell him. No matter how I phrase it, it pretty much all boils down to, “I’m going in search of Vince Amano. Any tips for tracking down violent criminals?”

  First ring. This is stupid, I should hang up. I’m telling the police about a premeditated crime. Second ring. No, but Peterson seemed reasonable when I told him what was going on. He’ll appreciate the need to go outside of standard channels for something like this. Third ring. And if he doesn’t? All plausible deniability is gone, and I still have to do it. Vince isn’t going to stop.

  Fourth ring. Agh, why is this taking so long? I should hang up. Fifth ring. No, I’ve got to trust him. Peterson’s on my side. I have to believe that.

  “You’ve reached the desk of Sam Peterson.”

  Voicemail. After all that? I scowl at my phone as the recording continues, simultaneously irritated and relieved. Then there’s a beep, and I realize that I need to leave a message, but that I’m definitely not going to admit my impending vigilantism to the police message system. Also, that the machine is already recording, and I should really start talking.

  “Uh, hi, Officer Peterson. This is Dan. Um, Everton. I have, uh, information I’d like to discuss with you. It’s not urgent. But if you can call me back, that’d be great.”

  I hang up and press the smooth surface of the cell phone to my forehead in self-loathing. I could not sound like a bigger idiot.

  - - -

  After an uneventful night, I’m up relatively early the next morning to catch a ride out to the hospital and get that oxygen tank from Doc Simmons. I make an effort to make sure that I look more clean-cut than usual, so as to appear more like someone who can be trusted with fire and accelerants. I take extra time shaving and floss after breakfast to make sure I don’t have any specks of food in my teeth. I’m wearing brand-new pants and I’ve got on a button-down shirt instead of my work polo, just to sharpen up the image a little bit more.

  Despite this, as the doc hands over the backpack with the oxygen cylinder, the look she gives me is best described as “critical.”

  “Dan,” she says to me, looking seriously into my eyes, “do not burn yourself to death with this.”

  “I won’t,” I promise.

  “If you die because of something I’ve given you, I’ll never forgive myself. The scientific loss would be incalculable.”

  “And here I thought you were getting sentimental, Doc!”

  She scoffs. “Sentiment is all well and good, but I don’t understand these machines yet! I need you for samples!”

  I laugh, even though I’m only mostly sure she’s joking. I mean, obviously not entirely joking, because she does need me for samples, but I think she would miss me even without that. Probably.

  The doc shows me how to attach the tubing and how to regulate the airflow, while I try to figure out a way to ask if we’re actually friends or if I’m just her lab rat without sounding totally pathetic. I don’t come up with any solutions, so I just promise Doc Simmons again that I’ll be careful and head out to catch the bus to work.

  I sort of thought that by the time I was an adult, I’d be over the “Do you like me? Check yes or no” part of my life. Apparently that’s not ever going to happen, though.

  - - -

  At work, at least, I don’t have these issues. B-Rock is on shift with me again, and there’s absolutely no question about whether he likes me or not. I haven’t even clocked in yet before he’s making fun of me, this time for the oxygen backpack.

  “Whatcha got in there, Dan? Schoolbooks? Finally gonna get your GED?”

  “It’s an oxygen tank,” I tell him, refusing to rise to the bait.

  “Oh yeah? Is the strenuous work of button-pushing and burger-flipping you do around here wearing you out already?”

  “No, it just helps me deal with the stink around here.”

  Abruptly, B-Rock’s expression darkens. “Who’s in charge here?”

  “What?”

  “I said, who is in charge here?”

  “You are, but -”

  “And you think it’s appropriate to make fun of your manager?”

  “What? Dude, we work in a burger joint. It smells of old grease.”

  “Don’t ‘dude’ me. I want you to apologize right now.”

  “For what? I -”

  “If the next thing out of your mouth is not an apology, I’m going to write this incident up.”

  Okay, time to placate the crazy person. “I’m sorry you think I said you smell bad.”

  B-Rock glares at me. “Learn some respect.”

  He stalks off to the front of the restaurant, and I stow the backpack in a locker and change into my work polo. It’s clearly going to be a fun day here at Børger.

  - - -

  As the day wears on, it actually seems like accidentally mocking B-Rock was the best thing I could have done. He’s clearly still sulking about it, but that means that he’s largely avoiding me. This is an enormous improvement over his standard jeering conversation. I’ll take dirty looks over aggravating comments any day.

  Still, I know that he’s just waiting for me to screw up so he can get on my case, so I’m scrupulously observing all procedures. Every customer gets the corporate-approved greeting and upsell, every meal is aligned correctly on the trays, every i is dotted and every ø is slashed.

  This means, among other things, that when my phone buzzes with an incoming call, I don’t even consider trying to duck out to answer it. The only people who might be calling are Peterson or my parents, and neither conversation is one that I can have in two minutes, hunched and whispering in the break room. So I virtuously ignore the call, then forget about it until my break.

  It turns out that it was Peterson who was calling, and he’s left a voicemail. I pull it up and listen.

  “Mr. Everton, Sam Peterson. Thanks to your tip on the cell phone number, we have Mr. Amano and…associates in custody. Thank you for your assistance.”

  I stare straight ahead in horror, then frantically call Peterson back. He doesn’t know how Vince makes his clones! I only found out once Vince came to my house, and I haven’t talked to Peterson since then. If Peterson’s brought him into the police station, Vince could be wreaking havoc in there right now.

  My call to Peterson goes to voicemail, and I leave a garbled, panicked message: “Vince clones himself out of the walls! You can’t leave him unattended. He can walk through anything!�
��

  I hang up and start desperately searching for the phone number of the local police online, cursing my slow data plan. As I’m trying to will pages to load faster, B-Rock sticks his head into the room.

  “How long are you planning on being on break, then?”

  “B-Rock! Can I borrow your car? I need to get to the police station!”

  “What? No!”

  “Shoot, fine, I’ll Uber it.” I close the browser and pull up the Uber app to call for a car.

  “Not in the middle of your shift, you won’t.”

  I gawk at him. “This is life or death!”

  “If you leave now, you won’t be coming back here. I’ll make sure of it.”

  “Fine, man. Whatever floats your boat.”

  I storm out of the back door of Børger, letting it slam behind me. Then I immediately have to come back in to retrieve the oxygen canister, which I’ve left in its backpack in the locker. B-Rock sneers at me when I come back in, but I stare him down and leave again before he can think of anything to say.

  The police station’s only about ten minutes away, but I call Peterson twice more on the way, getting his voicemail each time. I spend the rest of the time trying to find the police department’s number, but it is remarkably hard to find their non-emergency number. I debate calling 911, but I don’t know that anything’s wrong, and I’m almost there.

  When I get to the station, I leap out and run inside. There, everything looks normal. An officer behind glass glances up as I dash in, and says with mild surprise, “Can I help you?”

  Yes, I think a man is cloning himself in your building. Yes, your walls are in danger of being turned into people. Yes, do you have any space in your cells? I’d like you to lock me up as a lunatic immediately.

  Obviously, I say none of those things. Instead, I ask, “Is Officer Peterson here? Sam Peterson. It’s extremely important.”

  After several interminable minutes, the door to the interior of the station opens. Peterson stands in the doorway, looking confused.