The Big Sheep

by Robert Kroese

  “I haven’t a clue,” I said. Keane had gone back upstairs to think, and we hadn’t discussed our next steps. As far as we knew, neither of the women on our couch, watching bad sitcoms from the late twenties, was the one who had hired us, so technically we had no contractual obligation to either of them. Still, as much as I liked the idea of two identical, drop-dead gorgeous actresses lounging around the place indefinitely, eventually Selah’s people were going to track them down. I couldn’t even imagine what that showdown was going to look like, but I didn’t see it ending well for anybody, except maybe Selah.

  “I love this part,” said Palomar, enraptured by the program.

  “Me too,” said Peninsula.

  I shuddered. The whole thing was just too fucking weird.

  On the TV, an actor spoke some inane pseudo-witticism, and the Priyas burst into laughter in time with the studio audience.

  “Your girlfriends have terrible taste in shows,” muttered April.

  “Shh!” I said. A chill ran down my spine as something registered in the back of my mind. “Rewind that part,” I said.

  “Huh?” said the Priyas in unison.

  “What that guy just said. Rewind it.”

  Palomar shrugged and grabbed the remote, blipping thirty seconds back. I watched as a door opened, and the actor walked in. I didn’t know his name; he was just some average-looking overweight comedian who had landed one big role on a short-lived sitcom and then was never heard from again. His claim to fame, such as it was, was a catchphrase that had briefly entered the national lexicon for a few months. “Room for one more?” he said. The audience went wild.

  “Pause it!” I yelled. Palomar paused the program just as the show cut to a shot of three men sitting on a couch. “Jesus Christ,” I said. I had seen those guys before. “Keane,” I said into my comm. “Get down here. You need to see something.”

  A few minutes later Keane irritably entered the room. Peninsula and Palomar weren’t exactly pleased either. April was just plain confused. “What is it?” Keane demanded.

  “Look at the screen,” I said. “Recognize anybody?”

  He shrugged. “I think maybe that guy on the left has been in some muffler commercials. What do I win?”

  “I guess you didn’t get a good look at them,” I said. “We met those guys in a parking lot last night. The muffler guy shot Hugo Díaz. His name is Braden.”

  “Oh yeah,” said the Priyas in unison. “Braden Warner.”

  “And that guy next to him is Kevin … something,” said Palomar.

  Peninsula nodded. “And I think the third guy’s name is Corey.”

  “No, Cody,” said Palomar.

  Peninsula nodded. “That’s right, Cody.”

  “How do you know those guys?” asked Keane.

  “I did a guest spot on this show,” said both of the Priyas. Then they stopped and stared at each other. “Three episodes,” they both added.

  “When was this?” Keane asked.

  “Four years ago or so,” said Peninsula.

  “It was … before,” said Palomar. They shared a knowing glance. She meant she had been on the show back when she was still Bryn Jhaveri, before Selah made her into Priya Mistry.

  “What clinched it was the catchphrase,” I said. I rewound the program so Keane could hear it.

  “Room for one more?” the guy said again. The audience burst into laughter once more.

  “Hugo was making a joke,” Keane murmured. “He recognized them.”

  “They didn’t appreciate his sense of humor, apparently,” I said.

  “Why the hell would Mag-Lev hire those guys to steal the sheep?”

  “Beats me,” I said. “They probably work cheap.”

  “What about the fourth guy?” Keane asked. “The one speaking the line?”

  The Priyas shrugged.

  “Don’t know about him,” I said. “There were only three guys at the scene, besides Hugo.”

  “All right,” said Keane. “Good work. See if you can find an address.”

  April cleared her throat. “Are you guys going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “It’s complicated,” I said. “But I think we just found our sheep thieves.”

  “Good,” said April. “You can return the sheep to Esper and then focus on what to do about the Priya problem.”

  Keane and I exchanged glances.

  “What?” asked April. “What am I missing?”

  “Keane sort of agreed to deliver the sheep to Selah Fiore,” I said.

  “I thought you were supposed to return it to Esper,” said April.

  “That too,” I said. “We’ve overbooked our sheep. So what’ll it be, Keane? Who are we working for, Esper or Selah?”

  Keane thought for a moment. “I don’t particularly like being a pawn,” he said. “We’re going to hold on to Mary until somebody levels with us about why everybody in Los Angeles seems to want this damn sheep.”

  TWENTY

  I found an address for the three actors; they were all living together in a small house in Culver City. Keane, Peninsula, and I headed over there in the aircar while April kept an eye on Palomar back at the office. I didn’t want to leave April with both Priyas, so I called Roy and asked him to meet us down the street from the address. I still wasn’t completely certain I could trust him, but we didn’t have a lot of options. Peninsula seemed to know who Roy was, although it wasn’t clear to me whether she had actually met him or had been brainwashed to think she had. It was all very confusing. I also called Pavel, mostly because he was the only person I knew who had a vehicle big enough to transport a three-hundred-pound sheep. What can I say? I’m an optimist.

  The sitcom the three sheep thieves had starred in was called, imaginatively, Room for One More. It had aired for a single season six years ago, and seemed to be the death knell of the careers for everyone involved in it—with one exception: Bryn Jhaveri, aka Priya Mistry.

  Room for One More was one of the first shows produced by Selah Fiore’s fledgling company, Flagship Media, and it was Bryn’s first regular acting gig. She played the girlfriend of Braden’s character, the best friend of the fourth guy, who found at least one opportunity every week to speak the show’s insipid catchphrase. The fourth guy’s name was Giles Marbury, and he seemed to have fallen off the face of the Earth after Room for One More went off the air. He didn’t live with the other three actors and hadn’t done any more acting gigs—at least not under the name Giles Marbury. Priya—that is, Peninsula Priya, and presumably the others—had no idea what had become of him. I got the impression from her that Giles had had a bit of a crush on her, but she didn’t share his feelings. I supposed that characterized most of Priya’s relationships with men though, even before she was made into a goddess.

  “Are we really going to get a sheep?” asked Peninsula on the way to Culver City.

  “That’s the plan,” I said.

  “Sometimes I dream about sheep,” she said.

  “Me too,” I said. Keane raised an eyebrow at me, but I just shrugged. What the hell? It wasn’t like I was telling her about the dreams I used to have about Sister Olivia at St. Stephen’s.

  “In the dreams, I’m the sheep,” said Peninsula.

  “That sounds … disturbing,” I said.

  “No,” she said quietly. “It’s comforting. Nobody expects anything of a sheep. There’s no running from one set to another, no autographs, no smiling when you don’t feel like smiling, no strange hotels. It feels like … home.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. Being a TV star must really not be what it’s cracked up to be if the life of a sheep seems preferable.

  It was dark by the time we got to the house. Pavel was waiting in his Suburban when Keane, Peninsula, and I arrived. Roy showed up a few minutes later, while I was peering through the window of the garage. I saw Mary the sheep inside, contentedly munching on straw. I didn’t dare get too close to the house, but I saw some movement inside, so presumably the sheep
thieves were home. The Nifty truck was parked on the street in front. I ran back to Pavel’s Suburban, where everyone else was waiting.

  When I got there, Roy was hugging Peninsula and weeping. Peninsula was bearing the giant man’s affection with good grace. “I still can’t believe it,” Roy was saying. “I had given up hope. I was sure you were dead.”

  Priya smiled weakly at him. Roy didn’t seem to notice she was a little foggy on who he was.

  “Hey, Roy,” I said, slapping him on the arm.

  Roy reluctantly released Peninsula and turned to face me. “What’s going on?” he asked, suddenly all business again. “What are we doing here?”

  “Nothing you need to worry about,” I said. “You just get Peninsula somewhere safe.”

  “Peninsula?” he asked.

  “Sorry,” I said, glancing at her. “I meant Priya. Long story.”

  “Whose house is that?” asked Roy.

  “Just some guys Keane and I need to deal with. They stole something we need to get back.”

  Roy looked from me to Keane, who was busily inspecting the bark of a nearby sycamore tree.

  “How many guys?” asked Roy.

  “Three that we know of.”

  “Armed?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Is he going to help?” Roy asked, indicating Pavel, who was tapping the steering wheel of the Suburban and singing along to the Pet Shop Boys’ “West End Girls.”

  I shook my head. “Pavel doesn’t do guns.”

  “So it’s just you and Keane? Against at least three armed guys?”

  “Looks that way.”

  “What did they steal?”

  “Believe it or not,” I said, “a sheep.”

  “They have a sheep in their house?”

  “It’s in the garage.”

  “This must be a pretty valuable sheep,” Roy said.

  “Extremely.”

  “Can you just take the sheep and leave?”

  “It’s a really big sheep,” I said. “And we can’t risk her getting hurt. We’re going to have to neutralize the threat in the house first.”

  Roy nodded. “All right,” he said. “I’ll take the front door. You and Keane go around back.” He looked at Keane, who seemed to be chewing on a piece of bark. “In fact, leave Keane here.”

  “You don’t need to do that, Roy,” I said. “I really just called you here to get Priya to safety.”

  “She’ll be fine for a few minutes. Keane can watch her.”

  “Hey?” said Keane.

  I sighed. Roy was right: Keane wasn’t going to be much help under the circumstances. I didn’t like it, but I needed Roy’s help. “Sheep’s in the garage,” I said. “Roy is going to help me get her. You stay here with Pen—Priya.” I handed him the backup gun. “Keep her safe.”

  “Sure,” said Keane. “No problem.”

  “Good luck,” said Peninsula.

  I turned to Roy. “You think you can kick that front door in?”

  He shot me a pained look.

  “Yeah, okay,” I said. Dumb question. “I’ll message you when I’m in position. Wait ten seconds and then go in.”

  Roy nodded, and I went around the back of the Suburban and crossed the street. Then I made my way around to the back of the house. When I was safely ensconced behind a post in view of the back door, I messaged Roy. I counted to seven and then ran to the door and tried the latch. It was unlocked. I opened the door and stepped inside, my gun drawn. As I did, I heard a loud crash from the front of the house.

  “On the floor!” I heard Roy yell. There was some more yelling and scuffling as I went through a small pantry and the kitchen. I threw open the door to the living room to find three men lying on the floor, Roy standing over them. The house was a mess, fast-food containers, beer cans, and other trash scattered over every flat surface. In the center of the room was a coffee table that had been cleared off to make room for several stacks of cash and a large ziplock bag filled with what looked like orange pills. So that’s how our out-of-work actors supported themselves when they weren’t stealing sheep.

  “I’ll watch these guys while you get the sheep,” said Roy.

  “Give me a minute to check the rest of the house,” I said. Once I knew the house was clear, I’d call Pavel and have him back his Suburban up to the garage door.

  “Roger that,” said Roy. “These guys aren’t going anywhere.”

  But before I could even start down the hall to the bedrooms, another man, in black jeans and a black T-shirt, came through the front door behind Roy. He had a gun.

  “Roy!” I shouted, training my gun on the newcomer. But then I felt cold steel on the back of my neck. The gunman wasn’t alone. Our situation had taken a sudden, and seemingly inexplicable, turn for the worse. Who the hell were these guys?

  “We’ll take it from here,” said the man behind me, with a slight Russian accent. And there was something else: the smell of licorice.

  “We were managing okay,” I said. I noticed one of the guys on the floor—the guy called Braden—was taking advantage of this new complication by pulling himself across the floor toward an end table on which was resting a .357 revolver. I hadn’t noticed it before because it was partly hidden by all the garbage. Sloppy.

  “Hey, Muffler Guy!” I snapped, pointing my gun at him. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  “Put down your guns,” said the man behind me.

  “I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” I said to Licorice. “We both work for the same person. You’re just making our job more complicated.”

  Licorice laughed. “There’s been no misunderstanding,” he said. “Selah has decided to cut out the middleman. All of the middlemen.”

  I had a bad feeling about that last part. It was a little too easy to imagine a news report about a drug deal gone bad and resulting in the deaths of five men in a small house in Culver City. Whether Roy and I got out of there alive depended on how concerned Selah was with tying up loose ends, and she struck me as rather thorough.

  Braden crept closer to the end table. “Hey!” I yelled. “I realize you’re an actor, not a writer, so let me help you out here, Braden. There is no variation of this story in which you grab that gun and get out of here alive. Leave the gunplay to the adults, all right?”

  “Last chance,” said Licorice. “Put down your guns.” The barrel ground into the hollow of my neck.

  “Fine,” I said. “But in case you didn’t notice, Muffler Guy over there is itching to play hero, so I highly recommend either putting a bullet in his head or letting me move that gun to a shelf he can’t reach.”

  “Muffler Guy?” asked Licorice.

  “Are you dragging in the morning?” said Braden, suddenly falling into character. “Come see the Muffler Guy!”

  Licorice was quiet for a moment. “Go,” he said, nudging me in the back of the head with the barrel.

  I began walking toward the end table, my gun still trained on Braden.

  “Slowly!” said Licorice from behind me. “Pick up the gun by the barrel and then walk backward toward me.”

  I was two paces from the gun when I heard another man’s voice behind me. “Are you guys just about done in here?” he asked. I groaned as I recognized the voice. Risking a glance behind me, I saw Keane, standing, unarmed, in the middle of the room. He had simply strolled in through the front door, past Roy and the other man, and was just standing there expectantly, like someone waiting for a train. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Had to see a man about a sheep.”

  Licorice and the other man didn’t seem to know what to do. Keane clearly wasn’t a threat, but he’d upset the equilibrium of the situation. I wasn’t terribly happy about his appearance either, because now I had to worry about his safety on top of everything else.

  “Keane,” I growled, “what the hell are you doing?”

  “Oh, you know,” he said. “Passing time, creating a diversion, that sort of thing.”

  Sensing something in t
he mood of the room had changed, I moved to the edge, where I could see what was going on while keeping my gun trained on Braden. Standing behind Licorice, with a gun pointed at his head, was Priya Mistry.

  I took a deep breath. The odds had shifted—slightly—in our favor, but there was an ungodly number of variables to account for: me with my gun on Braden; Roy with his gun on the other two actors; the Man in Black with his gun on Roy; Licorice with his gun on me; Peninsula Priya with a gun on Licorice; and Keane, the ultimate X factor, standing in the middle of the room like a man with a death wish.

  “Priya,” said Licorice, with a smile. He looked over his shoulder at her.

  It took a few seconds for it to hit her. “You,” she said, and gasped.

  “You remember?” said Licorice.

  “You … did something to me,” Priya said, the gun quavering in her hand.

  “I … tried to help you,” said Licorice.

  “No,” Priya said, shaking her head. “You hurt me.”

  “Never,” said Licorice. “I would never hurt you, Priya. You’re special.”

  “No,” Priya said. “I’m a copy. A clone.”

  Licorice turned his head to face me again and looked me in the eye. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Who told you that?” he asked. “Erasmus Keane? He’s a liar, Priya. Why, he and his partner are double-crossing Selah Fiore right now.”

  Priya glanced at me and then at Keane, who was listening with apparent interest.

  “He’s playing with your head, Priya,” I said. “Don’t listen to him. You saw the other Priya. You know what Keane told you is the truth.”

  “The truth,” said Licorice, “is that there are several clones of Priya Mistry. But you’re not a clone, Priya. You’re the original. You are the real Priya.”

  Priya looked searchingly at me. I could see the pain in her eyes. She didn’t know where to turn, whom to trust.

  “I feel like me,” she said. “I feel like Priya. But how can I know?” There was desperation in her voice. “How can I know I’m the real one?”

  “Surely, you can feel it,” said Licorice. “Your memories are real. We couldn’t fake something like that. The others, they went crazy because they could feel that their memories were false. But you … you know they are real.”