Spitting Image

by Patrick LeClerc

  “At least you asked politely.”

  “I was very polite. I even politely offered to shoot him in the face with a twelve gauge if he’d rather not tell me what I wanted to know,” said Bob. “It’s all about choices.”

  “Maybe he’ll keep making smart ones,” I said.

  “We can hope,” he replied.

  The door opened and Sarah walked in with a bag of sandwiches and a tray of coffees.

  I felt a catch in my breathing when I saw her, the same desperate urge to take her in my arms. The fact that I couldn’t was like a knife in my chest. The fact that the look in her eyes behind the strained smile told me she wanted me to but couldn’t let me was a twist of the knife.

  “Hey, you,” she said.

  “Hey yourself.”

  “Are you alright?” she asked, putting the food down on the table. She wavered for a moment, as though she were torn between a desire to rush to me and hold me and a decision to keep her distance. Or maybe that was me projecting. Except for the distance thing.

  “Thanks to you and the gang,” I replied.

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Not bad. Just ragged from trying to answer their questions without answering them.”

  “Did they torture you?”

  “Not according to Dick Cheney,” I replied.

  “Oh my God. Sean. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Without your help, I’d still be there.”

  “OK,” Bob interrupted, opening the bag and handing me a sandwich and a coffee. “We’re all happy we’re alive, we’re all sorry it happened, now let’s hear the story and see what we can do to finish this.”

  I took a bite of sandwich and a long sip of coffee, then I told my story. As I got to the part where I’d tried to escape as they took me out of the car, something occurred to me.

  “John, when you disarmed the woman back at the house in Rowley when we went looking for info, you didn’t have any trouble tossing her on the couch and pulling her gun away. What do you think she weighed?”

  “What does that have to do with–” Sarah began.

  “One-ten, one-twenty,” answered John.

  “When I tried to break away after they kidnapped me, I tried a leg sweep on the woman who drugged me. She looked about the same, just over a hundred pounds, not very muscular. But my kick bounced off her legs and then she hit me like a sledgehammer.”

  “Maybe you’re just a weedy paleface,” he suggested.

  “You don’t think a woman could beat you?” asked Sarah.

  “If she fought like Jackie Chan, then I’d have believed it. But she fought like Muhammad Ali.”

  “Which means?”

  “Mass is mass,” I said. “We know they can change their appearance. But they don’t get heavier or lighter. They don’t add mass, they just rearrange it. I think this was a two hundred pound guy squashed into the shape of a small woman. So she was a very dense, heavy, woman-shaped creature. If it had gone the other way, if a hundred pound woman changed shape to a big bruiser, she’d look big, but she’d be a balloon.”

  “Fascinating. But what’s that tell us?”

  “The woman John disarmed was the one who tried to get my DNA the old fashioned way,” I said. “That seemed like a safe and reasonable thing to try, given the skills they have. But this woman, who showed up as Pete, and who drugged me, couldn’t have been the same one, and couldn’t have planned the same thing, since she wasn’t really a woman.”

  “But if he, or she, or whatever, changed–”

  “Growing ovaries is a lot more difficult that just shifting your body to look taller or fatter or whatever,” I said. “I mean, that makes sense, and from what Caruthers said...”

  “Do we trust him?” asked Bob.

  “No,” I replied. “But some of what he told me is true. He knew they were holding Sarah, he knew about the plan to go after my genes.”

  “But why would he tell you? What’s his angle?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  “It’s a family feud,” said Sarah.

  “What?”

  “Or, rather, a struggle between factions.” She looked at me. “He told you about the other faction’s plan, told you where to find me, but not out of the goodness of his heart. He’s trying to screw their plan for his own reasons. And after you went to that house in Rowley and talked to that woman, let them know you knew, somebody who wasn’t her, but you’d think was, kidnapped and tortured you.”

  I thought for a moment. It did all seem strange, but it looked like two sides fighting with me in the middle.

  “I don’t know” she continued. “Maybe Caruthers and his faction wanted your genes too. Maybe they were going to torture you until you agreed to give them a sample in a cup. Maybe he wanted to sell it or use it for somebody other than the relative who...slept with you. Maybe he wanted to make you so angry you’d go after her and her side once he let you go.”

  “Yeah,” I thought, scratching my chin. “That makes sense. We need more info.”

  “Maybe our guest can tell us something,” suggested John.

  “We didn’t drag him along to play cards,” Bob said.

  “So now you’re going to torture him?” asked Sarah.

  “No,” I said before anyone else could speak. “We’re not. We’ll talk to him. See what his angle is, see what he can tell us, check that against what we know. We’re not torturing anybody.”

  “So what if he lies? Or just plays dumb?” asked Bob.

  “We have a list of names from the phones and the gun and the building. We let him know we know some things, so he’ll be wary about lying. And he’s probably sure we will torture him. It would be payback, and it’s how they operate, so he probably fears it. I’m fine using that. We let him know he can pick the easy way or the hard way. But I’m not going to beat it out of him.”

  “We been shooting at each other for a while now,” said John. “And we can kidnap a guy. And it’s OK to scare him, but not hurt him a little?”

  “I’m not going to be a part of torture,” I repeated.

  “You already were a part of it.”

  “Oddly enough, that didn’t really change my mind,” I said.

  “So we can lie to him. What’s the cutoff, noogies?”

  “Indian burns, but only in a ticking bomb scenario,” offered Bob.

  “That’s racist,” John pointed out.

  “Sorry. First Nation Burns.”

  “Better.”

  “I don’t believe in torture,” I said.

  “That’s like Joan of Arc not believing in fire,” said John. “Your life, and your friends’ lives are at stake. You’re going to start drawing lines now?”

  “The difference between the good guys and the bad guys is where you draw your lines,” I said. “You take that away and you’re just playing hyper violent Shirt and Skins.”

  Bob shrugged. “You’re the boss. Anyway, it’s your funeral. They don’t know where I live.”

  That effectively ended the argument. I was unmoved. I didn’t believe in torture. I didn’t think it worked. After all, I managed to lie my way through it. And the things we do, regardless of why we do them, change us. Once you carve out an exception, a reason good enough to torture someone, you give up a piece of your humanity.

  You can say the same for almost any type of violence, but once you start expanding definitions you get into a rhetorical quagmire where up is down and we have to destroy a city to save it. I prefer to draw a few clear lines. The world might really be mostly shades of grey, but some grey is dark enough to call black.

  “We talk to him,” I said. “We see what he’ll tell us. If there is a dispute between factions, maybe we can play both sides against the middle.”

  “Worth a shot,” said Bob. He heaved himself out of his chair. “I’m gonna go introduce myself. Don’t worry. I won’t touch him. I’ll just be big and scary.”

  “Play to your strength,” I said.

  “I’ll tag along,�
�� said John. “Do my stoic, noble savage thing.”

  They walked away, leaving Sarah and me alone at the table.

  After an awkward silence, she leaned forward. “Are you alright? I mean, really?”

  I shrugged. “I’m good. No lasting damage.”

  “They tortured you?”

  “They kept asking questions and ducking my head under water until they got some answers,” I replied. “I lied.”

  “My God.”

  I didn’t want her to worry. She’d been through enough, most of it because of me. “It was bad, but I’ve been through worse.”

  “Who thinks of these things?”

  “One thing humans are good at is coming up with innovative ways to be horrible to one another.”

  “I’m still having a hard time with that,” she said.

  “Bob said you found where I was,” I said, trying to turn the conversation off the path it was on. Because I’ve been down that path before, and it’s dark and twisting and I’ve yet to see anyone find a good way back from it.

  She nodded. “When I called, and I asked your least favorite band, I knew it wasn’t you. Nickelback was too easy, and God knows, I never expect an easy answer from you. So I set up a fake meeting to buy time and tracked you down.”

  “How?”

  She sighed. “A few months ago I put a locator app on your phone,” she said. “Not because I was at all worried about you cheating on me with a bunch of slutty young EMTs. I did it because you should have one, but I know you’re a Luddite. And you have a dangerous past, and you do a dangerous job. And I worry about you. It was probably wrong to do it, without asking at least, but I do worry. Are you upset?”

  “Considering it saved my life, I think it was the sweetest invasion of privacy I’ve ever seen.” I wasn’t upset. I probably should have been, but I just didn’t care. I was safe. For now. With a chance to fight back, and she had saved me.

  I guess some lines you draw, and some you don’t.

  “So,” she went on, “after I found where you were, I ran the address through a record search for the deed, and checked the name against the list of names you got from that woman’s phone when you raided the house in Rowley. Plus the name you got from your friends at the police. About the registration for the gun.

  “I cross checked everything. Multiple names connected to the same numbers, addresses, bank accounts. It’s all on the net if you know how to find it. I can connect aliases to individuals. And phone records can help us tell who is working together.”

  “How?”

  “Well, people don’t call themselves, so calls between numbers indicate separate individuals. People who don’t like one another don’t talk for a long time. Just quick calls when they need to talk. Friends stay on the line for a long time. Single numbers that are connected to multiple names probably mean an alias. Somebody who carries one phone but goes by several names. Lets the calls go to voice mail, then figures out who they wanted and calls back. Or uses text so the voice isn’t a giveaway.”

  “And you got access to all that?” I was impressed. I’d been in recon and counter intelligence and knew how hard some records were to get at. How tough it could be to separate real intel from phony stuff.

  “I may not be a soldier, or a spy, but I’ve spent my life in academia,” she said. “Research is what I do. Studying ancient languages, you look for patterns. In spelling, usage, phonetics, even themes to see what developed from what. This is the same concept.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. I’d learned enough languages in my misspent past to know that patterns help. There are a lot of words that share roots or sounds, so that if you speak, say, French, you can probably fumble through Spanish or Italian. Or at least read it. After years of doing research, it did make sense that she was a good investigator.

  “I owe you another one,” I said.

  “You came for me when I needed you,” she replied. “I couldn’t let anything happen to you if I could help.”

  She stared into space for a long moment. Then shook her head. “God dammit, why do these things have to happen to us?”

  There wasn’t anything to say to that. I understood that kidnapping and death threats could be a deal breaker for a relationship, but the truly frustrating thing was that it was out of my control. I couldn’t just give up assassination attempts. There wasn’t a twelve step program for ancient vendettas. Baby, I can change. All that being targeted for my supernatural abilities is behind me.

  But you know how it is, one day at a time, one knife fight is one too many. I swear I’m gonna kick this thing. Tomorrow.

  The gallows humor helped. Well, maybe it didn’t but it’s what I had.

  “It’ll work out,” I said. “We’ll get through this.”

  She looked at me for a long moment. “Why do I believe that when you say it?”

  “I’ve gotten through a lot. I was at Culloden and Napoleon’s invasion of Russia and the Alamo. I’m still standing.”

  “You have made some lousy career choices, though.”

  Well there was no arguing that.

  I took a look at the list of names Sarah had tracked down. A number of the names were grouped, the ones she believed were aliases. Caruthers may have also gone by the name William Butler, John Malcolm and Joseph Chalmers. Very WASP-y.

  That made me wonder about the family’s origins. Doors’ clan had seemed very Eastern European, but I got a very Anglo Saxon feeling from this group. Which brought up more questions. Like did all these “gifted” clans originate in the same place and spread out, or did they crop up separately? And if they–we, I guess–all started in the same place, then why? Something in the water?

  It would really be nice if I could remember any of that.

  I stared at the list, willing patterns to form. Sarah had already drawn lines to indicate possible or likely alliances, and they did seem to be pretty clearly broken into two groups.

  Except...

  One name. Or rather, one number with a few names, that appeared on both lists.

  Something nagged at my brain. Could that be it? Could I actually have caught a break? Small details that showed up in multiple places, scraps of information, or phrases that seemed familiar, crossing the lines of a family feud.

  “Before I get excited,” I said to Sarah, “take a look at this name. Does anything seem special about that one?”

  She looked at the list for a while. “This person is the only one who seems to connect with members of both camps,” she agreed. “Peacemaker?”

  “Or double agent,” I said. I quickly copied the number. “Can I borrow your phone?”

  “You may.”

  I felt a smile coming on. You can take the girl out of the classroom...

  I put the phone in my pocket, grabbed a sandwich and walked into the interrogation room.

  Brad was still tied to the chair. He looked up when I entered and there was flicker of ... well maybe not fear, but at least some mild anxiety. I had good reason to dislike him, and he might expect me to be looking for payback.

  In a way I was.

  I put the sandwich on the table. “I’m going to cut your left hand free so you can eat. Don’t be stupid.”

  He nodded and after I cut the tie off his hand he picked up the sandwich and took a bite.

  “So I was doing some investigation,” I began. “It’s not as easy as when you can just change your face to look like the guy who’s supposed to work at the bank or the IRS or whatever, but it can be done by the rest of us.”

  He kept staring at me.

  “While I was looking into your little family, I noticed that you guys really don’t get along all that well. Thanksgiving dinner must be murder.”

  “In my experience, the murder usually starts a few years after Thanksgiving,” said John.

  Walked into that one, I guess.

  “But you know what I did see?” I went on. “There is one person, one phone number that anybody can call and pour their heart out for ho
urs. Now, that could mean that it belongs to the one easygoing guy who likes everybody, who hosts Christmas dinner, sends out the family newsletter. That’s a possibility.

  “But it also occurred to me that that guy could be playing both sides of a family dispute. Taking information gained in confidence from one side and feeding it to the other.”

  He did a pretty good job of keeping his expression neutral, I’ll give him that.

  “And then I wondered, how would this family, a family who are happy to kidnap and impersonate and waterboard people, how exactly would they feel if they found out that somebody was telling tales out of school. How do you think they’d react?”

  I turned to Bob. “You find a phone on this guy?”

  “Yeah but it’s locked. Oddly enough, he wouldn’t give us the code. It’s on the table.”

  “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say I think I know the number.” I pulled out Sarah’s phone and dialed. When the phone rang I let my face break into a slow, predatory grin. Brad kept his face pretty controlled, but I saw hope die in his eyes.

  It was even better than if I had shot him in the knees like I’d dreamed while he was torturing me.

  “I think it’s going to voice mail,” I said. “Yeah. Hi, Brad. This is the guy you tortured. Yeah, so I just realized I have you by the balls and I’m deciding how hard I want to squeeze. Have a nice day.” I ended the call.

  I sat in the unoccupied chair, threw a foot up on the desk and leaned back. “So, you’re going to tell me all about the little family feud, the plans for me, and who’s who in your little clan of Mystique wannabes, and I’ll see how that squares with what I already know. Then I’ll decide who I’m going to hand you over to. Oh, sorry. To whom I plan to hand you.”

  He took a deep breath. I could see him thinking, weighing the consequences of speaking versus those of remaining silent.

  Chapter 23

  I SWAGGERED OUT of the office with my notebook.

  “He talked?” Sarah asked.

  “He’s still wrestling with himself, but he’ll sing like a bird.”