Christ Clone

by McLeod, David

  Frustration, and profound anger, at the fact that a man like Robert Richins could take his daughter away from him and yet still live and breathe. He pictured some do-gooder lawyer getting Richins off the death penalty. He'd give Logan a call later that day and find out when and where the trial was going to be and who Richins' lawyer was. There was no way he was going to share the planet with that man.

  Then there was his frustration over Taylor. Why wouldn't she believe him? Why was she protective of her bastard boss? As he paced, he started to wonder if maybe she was part of the whole thing — a kind of undercover agent, sent by Travis to meet him at Starbucks.

  Malone shook his head. No, that wasn't it. He felt sure there was a connection between them, he felt sure there was a spark. Why else had he told her so much about his wife and daughter? With lunchtime looming, and feeling like he was going out of his mind, Malone picked up his jacket and went out.

  Sitting in the window of the small café that overlooked the main entrance to the Travicom building, Malone sipped his coffee and peered over the top of a magazine. Not knowing where or what time she took her lunch break, or even if she took one at all, Malone realized he might have to wait until she finished work. But it still felt better to be doing something. Twenty minutes later, he spotted her leaving the building, dressed in a chocolate brown business suit with a skirt just below the knee. She was alone.

  Knowing she'd be unconvinced by an apparent chance meeting, he stepped outside and waited on the sidewalk till she was closer. 'Taylor,' he called. She turned her head, but he couldn't read the expression in her eyes when she located him. 'Look I'm sorry about this, but I needed to talk to you again.'

  'Mr Malone, What are you doing here?' Taylor looked flustered.

  'I hadn't heard from you, and . . . is there somewhere we can go?'

  'I told you I'd call you if I discovered anything . . . Not that I'm sure what you want me to find out.'

  'There's a lot I need to tell you. Can I please buy you lunch, please?' Malone's tone was almost pleading.

  Taylor paused for a moment before responding. 'Okay . . . there's a sushi bar around the block.'

  They walked in silence as far as the small restaurant claiming the best sushi train in Los Angeles.

  Malone followed Taylor inside where they were directed to chairs at the far end of the room.

  'I've never eaten at a sushi train restaurant before. What happens?'

  'Pick whatever you want off the carriages. The plates are colour coded and they count up the plates at the end.' Malone smiled at the simplicity of it, and Taylor smiled at Malone.

  The waitress arrived and Taylor ordered green tea for them both. When the teas arrived, they took a couple of plates off the train. Malone wasn't sure what he'd picked but decided it was better not to know.

  'Thanks for giving me your time,' Malone began, 'I know I probably come across as some form of weirdo. I wish I could tell you I'm not normally like this, but I'm not so sure any more. I do owe you an explanation; it's the least I can do.'

  Taylor took a mouthful of salmon and settled back in her seat.

  'As I've told you, I was sure your boss was involved in the abduction of my daughter. Everything was pointing towards it. Sure, there were lots of coincidences and you had to stretch your imagination at some points, but I was convinced. Anyway, I got a call from a detective friend of mine who gave me the bad news; they'd found my daughter's murderer — a guy called Robert Richins. To cut a long story short, I went to see Ritchins in jail. And it's all true. He killed my Mary.' Malone looked down at the table.

  Taylor looked as if she wanted to say something, but Malone took a breath and went on. 'The bastard won't tell me where he buried her, not without some kind of trade-off. I'm not even sure he'd tell me if I could stop his execution . . .' Malone gulped a mouthful of tea.' There's no way I'm going to give him that option!' Taylor looked surprised at how adamant Malone was.

  'But like I said, I was so sure about Travis. And then it came to me: Travis is involved with the missing Mary Salinas!'

  Taylor's blue eyes widened. 'What is it about Simon Travis that you don't like? What has he done to you?'

  'It's not that, Taylor. He really is up to his neck in all of this, I'm sure of it. I need you to believe me.'

  Taylor was shaking her head. 'I don't know. It sounds more unbelievable than it did before. I understand you feeling that way about your own daughter, however incredible the story, but when it comes to someone you don't even know . . .'

  'That's what makes me even more certain, the fact that I'm not personally involved. I mean, sure I've met her parents and . . .' Malone looked at Taylor. He could tell he was losing credibility.

  'Could you please just look into it? That's all I ask.' He went silent. Watching the train go round, he spotted some chicken wings — finally, something he recognized.

  'I'll see what I can do,' Taylor said as Malone reached for them.

  'Thanks, you're a good person.' There was a brief silence, an introspective moment. Then Malone broke the mood. 'I've got to ask — how did someone like you come to end up working for someone like Travis?'

  'Why Mr Malone, are you asking for my life story?'

  Malone reddened. 'Well you've heard most of mine.'

  Taylor smiled. 'I don't think it's as pure and saintly as yours.' It was her turn to blush. 'Okay, you asked for it. I'm Los Angeles born and bred, but I have spent a lot of my life travelling. My father was high up in the corporate world, and I mean the big corporates. We moved from city to city, according to his different assignments. I was always trying to fit into new schools, making new friends and losing them. Settling in and then uprooting became a way of life. I think that's why I fitted so easily into a career as a flight attendant. You know — the constant travelling, the superficial friendships and of course the romances and brief relationships. Some people think it's just glorified waitressing, but there was much more to it than that. We had the power to make people's journeys fun, or absolutely miserable. Particularly on the international long hauls. Never upset a flight attendant.' She smiled as she spoke.

  'But at some point you get involved with someone who blows you away, someone that wants you to take care of them, someone that wants you to be their personal waitress and ultimately wants you to give up what you love doing and settle down with them.' She gave Malone a sad smile. 'So I did, and we had some good times but, eventually, mainly bad times. He was away all the time and I guess temptation got the better of him. I'm sure you've heard the stories often enough . . . That was a few years ago. It seems like a lifetime ago now. We never had kids and the divorce was amicable enough. I couldn't bring myself to go back to flying, so I retrained as a PA and my first assignment was Simon Travis. So now I have a cat called Charlie who loves me when he wants to and a nice apartment on the outskirts of the city. Didn't quite work out as planned, but what you gonna do?' She sighed as she finished.

  'What you gonna do indeed,' Malone agreed.

  Taylor cleared her throat. 'I'll keep my eyes and ears open around the office and see what I can find out. I'm not promising anything, but I will keep you posted.' She totalled up her plates and pulled out some notes. Malone began to stand up with her.

  'It's probably best if I walk back alone,' she said. 'Goodbye Mr Malone.' He sat down again and watched her leave. Taylor turned and gave him a smile as she walked out the door.

  44

  SORRENTO, CALIFORNIA

  After a long and exhausting day of quizzing, interrogating, examining, and relentless pestering of Probandi, Dr Androna had finally had enough. After saying goodnight, he left his office for home. For the first time, Travis and Probandi were alone. Probandi looked tired, so Travis went to the drinks cabinet and poured them each a large tumbler of Scotch. They clinked glasses and drank together. After Probandi had taken his first sip, he put down the glass and looked at Travis. 'If I can ask you one question, Simon — why are you doing this?'

  It
was a simple question that could have been answered just as simply. The answer could have been summed up in one word, a word Travis had sought since his late teens. But the word needed an explanation and it needed validation.

  Travis took a big gulp of Scotch for courage and decided that since Probandi had once been a priest, now might be a good time for confession.

  'As far back as I can remember I've been well-off. My father came from a wealthy family, but my mother was working class, so I guess you could say my mother married into money.' Travis smiled affectionately when he spoke of his mother, and then he became very serious. 'I was only eight when my mother died. She was a beautiful woman with a wonderful heart. We had a great family Christmas, and then in March, she was gone.' He spoke matter-of-factly.

  'All through that Christmas she was riddled with cancer and she didn't know; but looking back, I'm sure she was aware that something was wrong. In January, she went to the doctor for something minor — a cold or a heavy cough — I don't quite remember, but she came home with cancer. To this day, I can still remember the look on her face when she came into the house. It was a look of total disbelief.' Travis lingered a moment on this image and then continued. 'There was nothing anyone could do but watch her die. She was tough, though; she cut the doctor's visits down to the bare minimum, saying she wanted to spend her remaining days with her family, and not a bunch of quacks. Sometimes the pain looked like it was too much for her to bear. You could see it in her face, but she would grit her teeth and force a smile . . .' Travis shook his head. 'I was there beside her when she died quietly in her sleep; she just slipped away. It actually looked quite peaceful.' Travis held on to the image for a moment, and then sighed heavily.

  'Anyway, not long after that, my father sent me to boarding school. Although he was devastated by my mother's death, it wasn't long before he started to see a woman almost twenty years younger. I was convinced she just wanted him for his money, but he wouldn't listen to a ten-year-old. I didn't talk to him for years. He continued to pay for my education, and I majored in physics and math. I got involved in communication projects through Cal State, and in my early twenties we started to be a bit of a family again, although I still didn't accept his bimbo as my new mother. I remained convinced she was only after the family's assets and my father couldn't see it.' Travis stopped, shook his head, and sighed again. He took a sip of Scotch and thought about what he was going to say next.

  'After graduation, a group of us explored a certain sector of satellite communications, primarily to use them as global base stations — but for cellphones. The result of our experiments was virtually the complete eradication of transmitted radiation. The concept was big, in fact it was huge, but we needed a financial backer to turn the theory into reality. I went to my father for support, and he turned me down. It was the only time I'd ever asked him for anything — and he turned me down.' Travis' tone had changed. He was struggling for justification.

  Probandi had looked baffled when Travis was talking about satellite communications and global base stations, but urged him to continue.

  'I killed him. In fact, I killed them both,' Travis blurted. 'I staged a burglary. I broke into my father's house in the early hours of one morning. I started in the east wing and worked through the house, targeting the most expensive items: the coin collection, the Picasso, the Ming items — even the necklace he'd given my mother for Christmas. I was swift and ruthless, leaving the mid-value items.' He was almost proud of his work. 'My father, who normally slept soundly, must've heard a noise, because he came downstairs and interrupted me. I tried to hide; he was never supposed to come down, he should've stayed in bed.' Travis rubbed his face. 'Anyway, I turned to see him coming into the room; I didn't know what to do. I was wearing a balaclava and I knew I wouldn't be recognized, so I pulled a gun on him — his own gun that I knew was in his top drawer. I just wanted to frighten him.' His eyes were starting to fill.

  'It did more than just scare him. As I pulled it out of the drawer it caught on the desk. I fumbled with it, and it went off. The noise was deafening. He clutched his chest and fell to the ground. I heard his wife — my stepmother — calling and coming down the stairs. I didn't know what to do. I couldn't even tell her to call an ambulance because she might have recognized my voice. So I dropped the gun, grabbed the treasures, and ran. I left him dying, and I did nothing to help. I should've called an ambulance, or . . . or — instead, I ran away and let him die.' Travis had his face in his hands, trying to dam the tears.

  Probandi put his hand on Travis' shoulder. 'You poor man.'

  'It doesn't stop there.' Travis' voice betrayed a hint of aggression, but it was aimed at himself. Once he'd composed himself, he went on. 'His wife, Susie — God knows why — felt compelled to pick up the gun. Before trying to help my father, before even calling the ambulance or the police. Stupid, stupid woman!' Travis was shaking his head.

  'Anyway, after their supposedly thorough investigation, the police concluded it was an inside job. They didn't buy her story, not just because of the fingerprints on the gun, but due to the items that were taken. They been so precisely selected. They thought she'd staged the theft after shooting my father, for the insurance.'

  Probandi was stone-faced as he listened to Travis.

  'Even at my father's funeral I couldn't offer her any consolation; I had to keep up the act. She pleaded for me to believe she'd had nothing to do with it, but I just shunned her. I've never seen anyone cry as much as Susie did at my father's funeral. I guess she really did love him . . . Months later, I stood there in the court and watched an innocent woman be convicted of the murder of her own husband.' Travis trailed off. Then, clearing his throat, he continued. 'A month later, in the prison canteen, she took a knife and cut her own wrists. She cut both of them, holding the knife out, threatening to kill anyone who tried to save her. Apparently she died yelling, 'I didn't do it!'

  Probandi was stunned, disbelieving. 'I don't know what to say. I'm so sorry, Simon.'

  Travis stared out the window into the night. He pursed his lips and gave a small laugh. 'The final irony is that the money from the estate was used to set up Travicom. It turned out to be a good investment after all.'

  Travis downed the last of his Scotch, opened the bottle and refilled his glass. 'I've prayed, been to confession, soul-searched, given countless donations to charities; shit, I've even sought out clairvoyants in an effort to speak to them beyond the grave. But whatever I do, I haven't been able to clear my conscience.'

  He took another gulp of Scotch and sat next to Probandi again. He looked into the young man's eyes and said, 'So you ask me why I'm doing all of this. I guess the answer is simple. It's my quest for forgiveness. Jesus is the only one who can truly forgive all my sins.'

  45

  LOS ANGELES

  Taylor was becoming increasingly uneasy around her boss. He'd become even more secretive since the dinner on the boat, his behaviour more baffling than ever. He breezed in and out of the office, late for his own appointments, and despite his self-proclaimed love for his family of employees he seemed remarkably unfazed by the disappearance of Needham from Accounts.

  Added to this was the strange meeting she had had with Michael Malone about Simon and another missing Mary. The truth was, she found Malone interesting, more interesting than she'd found anyone for a long time, but she had begun to wonder if he was slightly unhinged. She wanted to believe him and his theories, but there was no proof, and it was all just circumstantial. He'd asked her to meet with him again, but she'd repeated what she told him when they met — she had his number and would think about it. It was all very confusing.

  Douglas Wainright called again, asking for Travis. Taylor told him he wasn't in. He could try him on his cell, or she'd be happy to take a message. Wainright responded with a few expletives and a comment about Travis' lack of professionalism, and then hung up.

  Taylor looked at Wainright's name on her notepad; the head of Stemtex and sworn enemy of Si
mon and Travicom, this was the eighth time he'd called in the past two days. It didn't seem right. Coupled with the photos of Needham and Wainright together — and his subsequent disappearance — a triangle of suspicion had formed in Taylor's head. Although she was still nervous after last time, she knew she had to go through Simon's office again.

  ***

  The drugs had worn off and the interviewing had started. Travis was enjoying this part because it was already more of a conversation with a friend than an interrogation. Weeks ago, Probandi, Dr Androna, and Travis had had an open and frank discussion about what was going on. All the drugging and dual interrogation tactics had become tiresome for Travis, so he'd decided to change his approach and come clean. Since then, Probandi's visions of the past had flowed more easily. In addition to this, Dr Androna said that since the DNA used to clone him had come directly from source, not only had it sped up his physical growth but had also intensified the clone's recall and simplified the PLR process.

  The life story as told by Probandi was a tale of great wealth and manipulation — which Travis could readily relate to — but best of all were all the little details. Travis wanted to know all about life in the past; for him it was like time travel.

  As Travis began to bring him up to speed with what had happened in the intervening two thousand years, Probandi also realized he had a lot to gain, especially the sweetener Travis was offering to clinch the deal.

  Probandi recounted as much of his life's story as the recall techniques had revealed to him, and — at Travis' request — in plenty of detail.

  'I was one of the high priests at the temple. We had a system in place that brought us great wealth. Pilgrims travelled from miles around to be forgiven for their sins, and they paid for the privilege. To gain forgiveness they had to offer only the purest of sacrifices; we, as the priesthood, had just such offerings available — pure white doves. The pilgrims needed first to exchange their impure money for our pure currency and only then could they purchase the offerings we sold. Money poured in. Only those whose sins were already upon them could not be saved or forgiven.'