Clone: A Contemporary Young Adult SciFi/Fantasy (Swann Series Book 3)

by Schow, Ryan

  “What’s that?”

  “I want to drive Monarch Enterprises into the ground.”

  “Won’t happen,” Atticus said, matter-of-fact.

  He felt his temper flare. “They tried to kill me tonight! And I think they killed Jamison!”

  “Monarch Enterprises is a necessary evil.”

  In a softer, more poignant tone geared for impact, he said, “Atticus, Warwick used them to try killing your daughter.”

  “Certain members were scared of her,” Atticus said, just as soft. “They were scared of me. We just left everything behind and disappeared.”

  “They’re still scared, I think. I mean, they have to be. They have to be more scared than ever to try to pull this shit, right?”

  “Again, a necessary evil, Tate. We will tolerate them because we’ll need them. They’ll need us, too, they just don’t realize it yet.”

  “You don’t have to do this, Atticus. Revive the corporation, I mean.”

  “Retirement is a freaking snooze,” he said. “Seriously. And all the ideas I have, well, I need a team of researchers to see them through. I need Gerhard. And someone like you, someone trustworthy. Someone halfway sane. But mostly, I’ll need human test subjects and that’s the most difficult thing in the world to attain. Which is why we’ll need Monarch. Besides, we won’t call ourselves the Virginia Corporation and they won’t know we’re who we are. We’ll be new to them. Fresh clients.”

  After a long pause, he said, “I’ve got to get this handled. I’ll be in touch by summer’s end.”

  “Oh, and Tate?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t Google ‘How to get rid of dead bodies.’ They track everything, you know. Every word search. Every keystroke. Everything.”

  Tate spit out a fingernail he didn’t remember biting off. For as smart as he was, he felt awfully stupid in this situation. Like a downy at a software convention. Plus, he knew none of it had really hit home yet. The murdered girls. The attempt on his life. The killing of the Monarch assassin. His entire life having to be erased. His face and body, his very existence…all scrubbed clean.

  How am I expected to do this? Tate thought. One step at a time, he reminded himself. Just let it all go. “Okay,” he finally said, relenting.

  Okay.

  The Rectangular Hole

  1

  I sleep the entire next day. And I cry. I cry so much the skin around my eyes gets dry and starts to crack. Even my eyeballs are spent. I know for certain they’re bloodshot, but even worse, they feel grainy, like they’ve been rolled in sand and pushed back into my head.

  So I sleep some more.

  Around seven o’clock that night, Blake calls. Maggie’s rotten step-sister. She’s half talking, half sobbing.

  She just found out.

  Deep down I resent Blake. Everything she stands for makes me sick to my stomach. I grew to hate her last year for varying reasons, but mostly, my hostility towards her stemmed from her cruelty to Maggie. When she played the unpolished, pitchy demo version of Maggie’s new song over the intercom the first day of school for everyone to laugh at, it did something to Maggie she never recovered from. Maggie being dead now, and Blake looking for answers on the phone, I can’t help but want to return that cruelty in spades.

  Instead I talk about Maggie’s last days, her mood swings, the depression she couldn’t shake. Out of respect for Maggie, however, I avoid talking about the rape spearheading her singing career, and the impact this horrific injustice had on her.

  Throughout the entire conversation, I’m wondering why I’m even talking to Blake, but I realize I’m only talking to her because I need to talk about Maggie, and right now she’s the one listening. For me, talking about things sometimes helps me figure them out. Then, to my surprise, she levels me with the question: “It was the songs I played in the cafeteria, wasn’t it? This was my fault.”

  When I tazed Blake last semester and she was laid out on the ground frothing at the mouth, stiff as a board, there were malicious parts of me overflowing with joy. I took great pride in my vengeance. It almost scared me how much I enjoyed it. Now parts of me feel sorry for the girl.

  “Be honest,” she says.

  I close my eyes and lay back in bed. When it comes to why a person kills themselves, there are no easy answers. It’s usually one traumatic event that pushes them over the edge, but it’s never just one thing. It’s many things stacked together over time that add up to entirely too much pressure or pain for a person to handle, so me telling Blake it was her fault just wouldn’t be fair.

  “There’s more to it than that, Blake.”

  “But that was part of it, wasn’t it?” she says. Her voice is all wobbly. She’s almost crying again, half waiting to bawl. The part of me that attacked her last semester wants to tear her in half for what she did. I want to make her to suffer. To accept the blame. To jam this lesson down her tender little throat.

  So I don’t deny these parts of me.

  “Yes,” I say unflinchingly. “What you did to her, it contributed massively to her killing herself.”

  The sobbing comes on fast. I stay on the line. I savor her every tear, and then she says, “You’re a bitch,” and I still stay on the line. Because right now, maybe I’m just wrecked enough inside for her to be right.

  More and more, I’m becoming something I don’t want to be. Yet it feels good, right. Perhaps a bit liberating. All my life I have been small and insignificant, timid to a fault. Not now, I decide. Not anymore.

  “There is more to it than that, though,” I say, trying to let her off the hook a little. I may be inflicting unnecessary cruelty, but when it comes to me being a shitty person, the truth is, I can’t really sustain. “When Maggie was young, her mother folded her clothes by the bathtub, stepped into the water, then slit her wrist and bled out. Maggie found her that way. And that’s how we found Maggie. In a tub of her own blood with her clothes neatly folded on the floor. This is not all because of you.”

  In an almost embarrassed tone, her voice still unsteady and teeming with pain, Blake says, “I didn’t know…about her mother.”

  “Her mother was a singer, too. Did you know that?”

  “Her father said she put out a few albums.”

  “Her only connection to her mother was through singing. So she sang. Maggie said when she sang, she could hear her mother’s voice in her own, and it made her feel close. Her voice held the last good memories she had of her mother and you made fun of her in front of all of her peers. You took something you shouldn’t have taken, something sacred—her life line—and you turned it against her.”

  She starts crying again, and I take grim satisfaction in her suffering. I realize I want her to hurt like this, that sometimes it feels good kicking the dog. After all, someone should bear responsibility for Maggie’s pain.

  “I don’t know why I did it,” she says. “She was never mean to me, she was just…better than me. Nicer.”

  Hearing her say this, knowing Maggie never did anything to her and Blake hurt her anyway, flips some switch in my mind. Instantly, my mood darkens. I’m so mad, it’s like my tampon’s in sideways.

  “You did it because you’re the bitch, Blake. You’re a selfish, spoiled twat who hurts others and doesn’t know why. Her death is your cross to bear and I hope it breaks your fucking back.”

  Naturally, I’m not on my best behavior. The thought of censoring myself, right now, honestly, it just seems so pointless.

  She starts to say something crass, but my heart aches too much and my ears won’t take it. I hang up the phone. When it rings again and I see from the caller ID that it’s her, I shut it off.

  I power down completely.

  I lay in bed for awhile, then I get up, storm into the living room where my father is watching television and say, “How did Blake get my phone number?”

  Startled, he looks up and says, “When I called to tell Blake’s father about Maggie, he said you and Blake were friends. He asked if
it would be okay for Blake to call. So I gave him your number.”

  “Blake and I are not friends and I don’t appreciate you giving out my number to strangers.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says, taken aback. “I didn’t know.”

  “Well now you do.”

  2

  Two days after her death and three days before the funeral, I discover why Maggie really killed herself. I slept in her bedroom the previous night because I was desperate to be near her. To smell her smells. To somehow stay connected to her.

  Even now I don’t want to leave because leaving the reminders of her make me feel like I will forget her altogether, and I can’t bring myself to do that.

  Around nine-thirty, her cell phone starts vibrating. It won’t stop. Rolling over, groggy and still swimming in a fog of grief, I check the number. It’s the studio. Up until this point I ignored the phones, especially hers, which vibrated quite a few times.

  Turning away from the bright morning sun penetrating the window and igniting parts of this otherwise dark room, I answer the phone. A very masculine voice on the other end of the line says, “Who is this?” and I tell him I’m a friend of Maggie’s. It kills me to even speak her name right now. I can barely do it without breaking down.

  “Where is she?” the man asks, business-like, clearly annoyed.

  “First off,” I say, “you’re being very rude. Second, I don’t even know who you are so why should I tell you anything?”

  “I’m Joel. The recording studio’s manager.”

  What is it with these people in the music industry anyway? “So?” At this point, my anger has me fully awake and bristling.

  “So Maggie is supposed to be here.”

  “She won’t be in.”

  He heaves a sigh and says, “Demetrius was a real prick to her, but I suppose you already know that. Still, she’s under contract and he’s blowing up my phone, so tell her to put on her big girl panties and get her ass in here. She has an album to record.”

  “Demetrius?” I question. Ah yes, the high-powered rapist from Santa Monica. The f*ck-face music executive. “He was there?”

  “The other day.” Now his tone is softening. I think he just needed to reach someone, to get through. Some people hate it when their calls go unanswered. It makes them crazy. Margaret is like that.

  “He was at the studio,” I say, making a statement, demanding confirmation.

  “Apparently he’s big on surprise visits.”

  “I couldn’t understand why she was so upset,” I say, barely hanging on. “Now it makes sense.” Tears shrink wrap my eyes. I feel a powerful trembling building deep inside me. It’s working its way up through my body the same way earthquakes make their way up through the earth’s crust and destroy everything on the surface.

  “He ridiculed her singing, called her nasally. He said with singing like hers the label would be out of business in no time flat.”

  “Why would he say such a thing?” I ask, now barely able to keep the emotion from my voice. But I know the answer already. He’s a bully who takes whatever he wants and brutalizes whomever he needs to in the process.

  “I think the label is hurting for money or something because he’s been on me every day to make sure she’s recording. They’re still a start-up, you know.”

  “What was the last thing he said to her?”

  “Where is she? Is everything okay?” he asks, sparks of concern replacing the more aggressive pitch in his voice.

  “What exactly did he say? And please don’t paraphrase. I need to know.”

  “You really want to know?” he asks.

  “I do.”

  “He said he fucked up by signing her. That she’d be lucky if he didn’t personally end her career sounding the way she did. He was really rough on her. Too rough.”

  “Did she really sound that bad?” I ask.

  “She sounded amazing up until the moment he arrived. I even told him so, but he turned on me, too. The guy isn’t human.”

  Joel sounds like a good guy, so I level with him. “The reason she’s not coming in,” I say, the tremors now finding their way into my voice, “is because she killed herself two days ago.” My tears finally boil over, and I can’t keep the hurt a secret any longer.

  “No,” he says, the word falling out like a whisper.

  “The funeral is in three days.”

  “Please tell me you’re kidding,” he says.

  The tremors inside me hit the surface. My soul is so full of fire and grief right now I feel like spewing hatred all over everyone, even innocents like Joel.

  “No I’m not kidding!”

  “Jesus freaking Christ,” he says, his tone tempered with sadness. He almost ignores my tantrum, and subconsciously I’m grateful.

  “You be sure to let Demetrius know I’m making good on my word.”

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  “Just tell him I’m the bitch who texted him with Maggie’s phone. You make sure you tell him I’m coming for him.” The fight in me, it’s roaring back. This fight in me, my male DNA, it’s like the worst emotional roller coaster ever.

  “Uh, okay.”

  He’s about to say something when I hang up. I’m getting good at ending phone calls rudely for maximum effect. I’ll call later with the time and directions to the funeral. As for now, all this hostility bottled up inside of me, it has to go somewhere.

  I crawl out of bed, pull my crazy hair into a ponytail and head to the pool house where Brayden is in bed. He’s wide awake and looking much better. I sit on the edge of the mattress, beside him, and I take his hand into mine. The swelling around his eyes and nose has diminished significantly. The blood drain-off under each eye looks like the world’s nastiest bruising. This, the doctor told us, is a good sign.

  “I need something from you,” I say.

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  He shifts position, sitting up. He lets go of my hand to balance himself. Where his hair was once buzzed pretty tight, it’s now growing back. He looks hard, but in a sexy sort of bad-boy way. His nose and chin are perfect. The way these minor adjustments have changed his face, making him hot in his own special way, I find myself drawn to him. Even though he’s smiling, he winces at the slightest movement.

  “Head still hurt?” I say.

  “My nose is stuffed, and yeah, my head feels split in two. So what exactly do you need?”

  “A gun.”

  “Again?”

  “Yes. Not a sissy’s gun like the last one—”

  “I seem to recall the last one saving your life,” he says. He’s right, it did save my life. He starts rubbing his temples. The smile is gone.

  “This one needs to inflict maximum damage. But it needs to be quiet, too.”

  “You need a .45,” he says. “And a sound suppressor if you want it quiet, although it might effect your aim because of the extra weight.”

  I have a feeling he knows who the gun is for, and the fact that he’s not warning me off makes me wonder if he’s thinking the exact same thing.

  When he learned about Maggie’s rape, he said he felt sick to his stomach. He said people like that shouldn’t be allowed to live. Maggie’s death hit him hard, too. Maybe as hard as me, although he’s good at keeping everything inside. I’m not.

  “How soon until you can get a hold of one?”

  “Give me the phone and some privacy, and I might be able to get you one today, or tomorrow at the latest. How much cash have you got on you?”

  “A couple of thousand, if needed.”

  “You’ll need it.”

  “Oh, and if you’re up to it, and—sorry to sound so demanding—I will need you to run down the billing address used for this cell number.” I hand him Maggie’s cell phone with the text message thread sent to her by Demetrius. I point to Demetrius’s number. “Can you do that?”

  “Is that his number?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you going to do?�
� he finally says.

  “You know what I’m going to do.” This is the point where I expect him to talk me off the ledge, to suggest alternative methods of serving justice. Like taking the video and all the text message threats to the authorities. Or the press.

  Instead, he says, “There are twenty-five possible mistakes everyone makes when committing a capital crime. If you’re going to murder this prick, you’d best figure out how to make as few of these mistakes as possible.”

  “Okay,” I say, stretching out the word because I didn’t expect this kind of a response.

  “Oh, and when you go, I’m driving.”

  “No. I’ll do this alone. I don’t want you at risk.”

  “You don’t seem to understand, Abby, this is non-negotiable.”

  3

  Dressing up for a funeral is every bit as depressing as it sounds. I would rather be in car accidents. Or swallowed up by a tornado. Brayden asks me to put cover-up over his bruises and without a moment’s consideration, I turn and start on the dark circles under his eyes. After a few minutes I tell him I’m done, then I get back to work on my own tired face.

  I don’t bother with breakfast. Don’t bother with pleasantries. We’re going in a couple of cars and Margaret’s joining us, so all in all, I’m basically ignoring everyone as a front to keep from losing it all over the place.

  The minute Margaret shows up in her Bentley, she and my father get all cordial and supportive and it makes me sick. In moments like this, I wish Netty could have come with me. She would have offered, but I haven’t told her yet because I can’t. Right now I’m harboring all this pain for myself.

  “Let’s go,” I finally blurt out. I breeze past Margaret, out the front door, then get in my S5 and put on some music. Metallica for my inner guy. Then later Avril Lavigne because she makes me feel like it’s okay to be a bitch.

  Sacramento, here we come, I think to myself.