Spitting Image

by Patrick LeClerc

  “I’ll be sure to tell him he’s welcome.” I rubbed my chin. “You hang tight for a few. I need to think.”

  Chapter 25

  I SAT BACK DOWN at the table and brought everyone up to speed.

  “All of which begs the question, what do we do with this information?” said Sarah.

  “True,” I said. “Anybody have any brilliant ideas?”

  “Why not play them against one another?” asked John. “Call Amelia and spill Butler’s plan, hand Brad over for some assurance she’ll back off. Like how your people took this country. Pit the tribes against one another.”

  That had a certain appeal. And John was right. It was the first page of the Empire Building Handbook. But I wasn’t sure it would work here. I wasn’t George III or Andrew Jackson, I had no army to send in after the natives had weakened themselves, just me and a few friends that I’d rather not get killed. The winner in any family feud might either want revenge or wouldn’t want to leave me as a witness.

  Or both. I’m good at pissing my enemies off enough for that.

  A thing worth doing is worth doing right, I always say.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t see how the survivors wouldn’t try to take it out on us.”

  “Might soften them up to where you can beat them,” said Bob.

  “Maybe. I just wish I could make them forget about me.”

  “Maybe we can,” said Sarah.

  I looked at her for a moment, wondering what she meant. Then, as the pieces fell into place, I felt my face split into a grin.

  “They were going to let you free with your memory scrubbed.”

  “Which means they know somebody who can do that.”

  “And if our buddy Brad is the social director, he probably knows who that is.”

  “Will he tell us?” she wondered.

  “I think we can sell it. That’s the one way we could protect my identity and come to an arrangement where nobody has to die.”

  “You think it could work?” she asked.

  “Definitely worth a shot,” I said. I hopped up and walked back toward the office. “Let’s see if old Brad thinks helping us is worth avoiding a horrible death at the hands of any of the people who he’s pissed off.”

  Chapter 26

  AT TEN O’CLOCK the next morning, Sarah and I were standing at the door of a brownstone in the Back Bay. I rang the bell and we waited.

  Brad had given us a name. Johnathan Daniels. And this address. Mr Daniels apparently worked out of his home as a psychologist. I figured that made sense. If he could modify or erase memories, he could probably make good money as a shrink. Not unlike what I did, but he got to do it in a comfortable office and get paid enough that he could afford a brownstone in the Back Bay.

  I had cleaned up as best I could. Put on my one suit, the one I owned in case I needed to attend a wedding or funeral. Odd how the dress code is the same for both of those. I had the pistol Bob had taken from my kidnappers under my arm. It was smaller and easier to hide under a jacket than my trusty .45. It was a lot more comfortable than the Colt as well, so maybe John had a point.

  I doubted I’d have to use it. I’d called ahead and set up the meeting and I didn’t have any reason to suspect it would go sour. I looked around. Bob and John were supposed to have set up to watch, but I didn’t see them. Either that was a good sign, as nobody else was likely to spot them, or it was bad because they hadn’t been able to find a good spot to set up. I guessed I’d just have to hope.

  “What do you think ‘G2G’ means?” asked Sarah, looking at her phone.

  “‘Good to Go,’ maybe,” I answered. “Does that make sense?”

  “That’s probably it.” She looked up at me. “Bob is G2G.”

  “Good to know,” I said. So I moved from hoping to feeling like an idiot for not thinking of texting.

  The door opened and a tall, thin man in a suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent looked at us with that careful measure of disdain that stopped just short of insubordinate. The look that only a really, really good butler or maitre d’ can pull off.

  “May I help you?”

  “Sean Danet to see Mr Daniels,” I said. “I believe he’s expecting me.”

  “Yes sir,” said the man. “And the young lady?”

  “My bodyguard,” I said.

  That threw him for a moment. He clearly had orders to admit me, and he was deciding how big a breach of protocol my plus one was. Not enough, he apparently decided.

  “Come this way,” he said. “Mr Daniels is expecting you.”

  He led us through the house, which reeked of old money. Being that this was Boston, the old money was probably ill- gotten smuggling gains, which made me feel a little less intimidated. Nobody made a respectable fortune in this town before 1800.

  We were brought to a library. A man stood with his back to us, silhouetted against a window that looked out into what was, for this part of Boston, an enormous back yard. You could probably have a chess match there and not have to worry about breaking the neighbors’ windows.

  “Mr Danet and his assistant,” said the butler.

  The man waited while we were introduced, his attention seemingly on a book in his hands. “Thank you, Edward. You may go.”

  It was all theater. His position, the way he stood against the window so he was bathed in light, the book. All of it was calculated to show that he was more important than we were, as was whatever he was reading. Even the butler. Daniels was making sure we peasants knew our place.

  Not quite peasants. Sarah was a professional, but from working class roots, and I...well, in theory I may count as an aristocrat, but I’ve been blue collar for so long I’ve forgotten how to look at other people like tools or furniture.

  After a pause that he may have counted down, Daniels turned to face us. He was tall, silver haired, his face tanned and just lined enough. He was probably sixty, but a low-mileage sixty. He had the fitness of a man who regularly played tennis or went sailing or riding, but probably never had to dig a trench or unload cargo or work double shifts in terrible weather. Enough activity to stay fit, but not enough to give him the arthritis and twinges and leathery skin of a man who had built things for forty years.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, his voice a practiced baritone. “Sit down, please. Would you care for coffee?”

  “Please.” I looked at Sarah, who nodded. “Two.” I wanted to keep this meeting friendly. Refusing would be rude. Also, I was sure Daniels would have good coffee.

  Edward returned with a tray and poured three cups. He handed us each one, added cream and sugar cubes as directed, then glided out. Daniels sat down in a large leather chair with his own cup. I inhaled and took a small sip. It was good.

  “I must admit,” he said, “I was surprised to hear from you. Your existence was like a distant legend.”

  “That’s me. The man, the myth, the legend.”

  He allowed the ghost of a smile to cross his lips. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  “I need to ask a favor,” I said. “You’re the one person who can help me.”

  “And why do you think I would want to do that?”

  “For one,” I said, pausing for a sip, “you owe me.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

  “You– well, not you, but one of your distant ancestors– erased any memory of my childhood, my parents. My history. I was thrown into exile with no knowledge of who I was, or even exactly what I was. Your family robbed me of my past.”

  “In order to give you a future,” he answered. “Toren wanted your head. And had grounds to ask for it. Even if you weren’t executed, it would have been a blood feud that would have harmed us all. Exile was the best option, and exile with your memories intact simply wasn’t going to be acceptable to anyone. I am impressed that you managed to survive as long as you have. How did you come to find out who you are?”

  “I crossed paths with one of Toren’s descend
ants. I took the liberty of fixing his broken ankle. Gave myself away.”

  “I’m even more surprised you survived that.”

  “We settled things. We’ve agreed to live and let live.”

  “That sounds very unlike him.”

  “I gave him his duel. A few generations late, but he could say he finally satisfied honor.”

  “He left you alive?”

  “I put a foot of steel in him. He had to accept that as a definitive end to the duel. Then I healed him so his heirs wouldn’t come after me with yet another grievance.”

  Now he smiled a real smile. “Well done.” He saluted me with his cup. “I give you credit for being resourceful. But that begs the question, why do you need my help, and why should I give it?”

  I told him my story. He listened, his face betraying no emotion. When I finished, he set down his cup.

  “And your offer is...”

  I drained my cup. “You know what I can do. I would be deeply in your debt. I’d consider myself on retainer for you and your family. Anybody gets hurt, catches a disease, I will repay your kindness.”

  “Would you swear fealty to me?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “I’ll heal anybody you want me to. But I won’t agree to follow orders I haven’t heard yet. I’ve never been very good at that.”

  “If the stories are true, that’s what got you in trouble in the first place,” he said. “So your years in the wilderness haven’t taught you the value of obedience?”

  “What can I say? I’m a rebel at heart.”

  “And that has gotten you...where exactly?” His look took in my inexpensive suit, scuffed shoes, calloused hands, and if such a thing were possible, my working class accent.

  “All the girls like a bad boy,” said Sarah.

  He raised an eyebrow, looked at her. “Perhaps. I have not found that wealth or power exactly drives them away. What is your interest in these matters, if I may ask?”

  “I have a stake in this. These people have attacked me too. My safety isn’t separate from Sean’s,” she said. “I wanted to come along and see what deal he had to cut.”

  “And it was her idea to talk to you,” I said. “She’s the brains of the operation.”

  He was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. “I think we can work together. It would be nice to have you in my debt. Do you have a plan?”

  I shrugged. “I have the broad strokes. I tend to wing the details.”

  Chapter 27

  WE WERE OUTSIDE the house and halfway down Marlborough Street before I let out a long breath.

  “That went as well as it could have,” I said.

  “Why do I like every one of these people less than the last?” asked Sarah.

  “Power corrupts,” I said. “Or at least it runs the risk of turning you into a douchebag.”

  “I’ve been talked down to before,” she said. “I’m a woman. My roots are working class, and I still drop my ‘r’s when I get worked up, and I work with tenured professors and the offspring of the wealthy. But this guy made me feel...like a thing.”

  “Because that’s how he thinks of you. Of anyone who isn’t ‘gifted.’ I know it’s been a while, but if you had been around a century and a half ago, you’d have heard the same tone from slave owners. Once you start thinking certain people are a different species, anything you do to them can be justified.”

  She walked beside me for a moment in silence. “Is he a different species?” she asked in a hoarse whisper. “Are you?”

  I pulled in a deep breath. “There’s a bar up on the left,” I said. “If we’re going down that road, we need some booze.”

  We went in, found a table in the back, and ordered two whiskies. Another thing I liked about Sarah was that she appreciated good alcohol. I took a sip, let it roll around my mouth and burn its way down to my stomach before speaking.

  “I don’t really know what makes us different. I know people fear what they don’t understand, so I’ve never gone to a doctor to have him test me to see if I’m an alien. But I’m reasonably sure we’re human. I can’t believe another species would be so identical to humans. The biology is too similar. My guess is that these ‘gifts’ are mutations. Helpful ones, ones that would be passed down, and ones that people would select for once they figured it out. That makes a lot more sense than a whole different species walking around undetected for millennia. Now, could some ancient aliens have landed on Earth and bred with humans, or done experiments on some humans and these traits are a legacy of that? Sure.

  “But even if– and this is a huge if– I found out I was an alien or some offshoot of the evolutionary tree, like my people went one way and Homo Sapiens went another, I am human because I choose to be. Because I don’t think people who can’t do what I do are subhuman. Lots of people don’t have my charm or good looks or roguish smile either. But I stand with people, and work with people and value the companionship of people. I tried to explain it to Doors last winter, when he was sure I’d ‘gone native.’

  “That’s what the Brits and Americans used to say if you started to sympathize with whoever they were exploiting. Human on human violence and degradation for you. No speciesism required.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just don’t know how to react to this. I hate these people.” She tossed her drink back and signaled the waitress to bring another. “Except for you, every ‘gifted’ person I’ve met has been an asshole.”

  Only in Boston could I meet a beautiful, educated woman who could belt single malt and curse with such casual skill. Warmed my heart.

  “I know this sounds horrible, but I kinda want you to lure them into this trap, then you and Bob and John could just shoot all of them.”

  “The idea has a certain appeal,” I agreed.

  “I don’t really, intellectually want you to kill anyone,” she said. “I just viscerally hate these people. They kidnapped me, and I can’t believe what they did to you. And you managed to keep your cool with the man who actually did the torturing. Don’t you just want to choke him?”

  “More than you can imagine,” I said. “But the goal isn’t the nice warm feeling I’d get from strangling my old buddy Brad. It’s ending the threat. To me, and my friends. And you.”

  I finished my drink. “I can forego the pleasure of revenge to guarantee that.”

  “There you go, getting all picky about results,” she said. “Considering the consequences. That’s not like you. Maybe I should ask you the password.”

  “I may have acted rashly in the heat of the moment a time or two,” I conceded. “And when attacked, the goal is to survive, and if that involves some undirected violence, so be it. But an attack or a trap should be planned with an end in mind. It’s not enough to go do some damage. If you don’t think further ahead, you just wind up in a quagmire. No point taking out one enemy if that just earns you two more.”

  “So you think this plan can fix the whole problem?”

  “I think it’s the best chance we have,” I said. “If I just go to war with the family, they have a lot more resources than we do. If this works, then they won’t have any interest in coming after me.”

  “And if it goes to hell?”

  “Then we always have undirected violence to fall back on.”

  She laughed at that, shaking her head. She smiled at me as she brought her second whisky to her lips, and I felt a flutter in my chest.

  Here we were again, facing stupid, dangerous odds and she was able to keep her cool, and even laugh in the face of them. I wanted to kiss her. Hell, I wanted to tear her clothes off and make love to her on the table, but things were just too strained.

  And the bar might never let us come back.

  I felt myself start to say something. “We make a good team,” or “I miss this.” Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but I was sure I could see the thought in her eyes as well. I kept my mouth shut, though. I didn’t want to spoil the moment by calling attention to it.

  “How can you be s
ure you didn’t already pass on your genes?” asked Sarah. “I mean, you did ... you were with her, so theoretically...”

  “No,” I said. “There’s no chance.”

  “But,” she looked around, lowered her voice. “I’m on birth control, so if she wasn’t, and you didn’t use...”

  I took a breath. “It’s...complicated. I can nudge a person’s physical reactions. That’s how I can heal. I nudge the cells to do what they want to do only better and faster. So when I’m intimate with a woman, I kinda nudge the hormone levels so she won’t get pregnant.”

  “Hmm,” she pondered for a moment.

  “That and I faked all my orgasms.”

  That got a laugh. A real one. The kind that started as a short giggle and then bubbled and spilled out into uncontrollable shaking, and finally full throated laughter, head thrown back, hands braced on the table. I’m sure it was a release of tension, an emotional safety valve for all the pressure of the past few days.

  It was contagious. I tried to hold it in, but soon I was helpless in its grip, rocking in my chair as the laughter took me.

  There’s a reason we use “hysterical” to refer to both things that are funny and for people caught in the grip of madness.

  After a long time it passed. Subsiding like an ebbing wave, leaving us gasping like shipwrecked sailors washed on a beach.

  “Oh,” she said between breaths. “I needed that. But. Back on topic. You prevent conception? Always?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve always known I probably wouldn’t be around for long, and I didn’t want to leave a trail of women saddled with my poor offspring. I need companionship, but I didn’t want to leave a bunch of single mothers and fatherless kids behind me. I think that would be a bit unfair to everyone.”

  “They say something like a quarter of the world is related to Genghis Khan. I guess if you didn’t take precautions, you’d be in the running.”