Maybe her boys had made an exception and protected him because they knew how much she cared for him?
But the police haven’t found our operation. At least not yet. Robbie didn’t tell them that much, right? Or is it just a matter of time?
Phone back in her purse, she entered the station, and then paid cash for her gas, as usual.
She saw Sheriff Mullinger pulling in as she headed back to her Jeep. He parked his patrol car by the pump, behind her vehicle.
Is this it? Is he going to arrest me?
They made eye contact. Juliet nodded, the sheriff nodded back. He was a nice man; he kept to himself and didn’t ask questions. They’d met many times over the past decade. He’d even asked her out once, but she’d turned him down, gently. Toying with the local law enforcement’s heart would have been a bad move on her part.
She looked into her rearview mirror as she drove off, making sure nothing had changed. The sheriff didn’t pursue her. He was standing by his car, filling up his tank.
Even cops need gas, no way around it.
Robbie hasn’t spilled the beans on our identities, at least not yet.
The road bent, and she lost visuals. Worries that Robbie had already said too much evaporated.
She glanced at the clock on her dash. Stéphane and Christopher would wonder what was taking her so long.
Whatever.
They’d chosen to lock themselves onto that acreage and had elected her the sole errand-runner.
Their decision.
But she knew she had to do what needed to be done.
Robbie was like a son to her, but he was also their biggest liability. For the plan to work, and for the greater good, she had to do what needed to be done, even if it would break her heart.
She’d hopefully find out what Robbie had leaked to the cops before taking care of him, for good.
Chapter Forty-Five
August 5, 2015
Christopher Kirk
The Colony
It was lunchtime, and Christopher was hungry. He’d looked left, right, and center, but Stéphane was nowhere to be found. There was no food in the fridge, either. At least nothing Christopher wanted to eat.
Where the fuck is he?
Stéphane normally cooked them lunch at 11:30 a.m., but Christopher hadn’t seen him for hours, which was a little odd. However, he could be busy with medical duties. That’d happened before.
It wouldn’t hurt to at least go downstairs to check up on things and see how many amber lights were flashing. He could drain a few dead fetuses before they contaminated the system.
Maybe that’s where Stéphane is.
He headed down. When the elevator doors opened, he was greeted by silence. No music. JJ wasn’t around either. The board was flashing, indicating that eleven pods needed to be drained.
Bollocks. Might as well do it now.
Christopher snatched the set of men’s overalls and wellies closest to him. Both he and Stéphane wore the same size, and they cleaned it each time, so it didn’t matter which gear he wore.
He was dressed and ready to go in the Incubator, wrench in hand, when he remembered the handkerchief he’d left in his boots the evening before. He really should bring it back to his room before Stéphane found it. He backtracked to the shoe rack, then dug down the first of the men’s boot. Nothing.
The other. Nothing.
Weird.
Had he placed it in JJ’s smaller wellies instead?
He checked those as well. Empty.
He took off his wellies, pretty sure he’d have felt a lump if the handkerchief was in one of the boots he was wearing, but he needed to double-check.
Holy fucking wanker. It’s gone.
His primal instincts were telling him that something was wrong. Something was very wrong. And his intuition had never misled him. In his army days, it’d pulled him out of explosion range before unknown grenades had blown; it’d made him zigzag for no reason when hidden mines had to be avoided.
And where was JJ right now? He hadn’t seen her either since this morning.
Fuck, Stéphane found out.
He’d found the handkerchief, then confronted her, and she spilled the beans.
Fuck. Fuck. Holy fucking wanker.
Stéphane wasn’t a blood-thirsty, cold-blooded trained killer like Christopher was, but the Frenchman was surely mad in his own way. Stéphane was in a league of his own when it came to intricate, delicate assassination strategies.
Christopher had stepped over a line he shouldn’t have crossed. JJ was more than just pussy to Stéphane. And there was a history there. Had this repeat notch in Christopher’s belt been the straw that broke the Frenchman’s back?
Stéphane was the cook here; he was also their doctor. Without wasting time planning anything as complicated as he’d seen him conjure up before, he could easily poison both him and JJ. And they wouldn’t know it until it was too fucking late.
Did he kill JJ already? Is he out there right now, disposing of her body?
He stood motionless for a minute, trying to make sense of it.
No, that can’t be. He loves her. He probably won’t forgive her, definitely won’t forgive me, but he won’t kill her...
But what if...
Christopher ran across the Incubator, reaching the Supervisor’s Control Room in record time. A startled C35 greeted him as he stormed into the room.
C34 must be off sleeping.
“Have you seen Mr. S?”
“Today?”
“Yeah, to-fucking-day. When was the last time you saw him?”
“Around eight or nine hours ago, Mr. C. There was an injury at the playground. Then he left. Do you need the exact time?” he asked, taking the logbook in front of him, ready to flip to that entry.
“No.”
Christopher moved his attention to the security cameras, hoping to see Stéphane in one of them. He paid particular attention to the fenced-off area.
He could be in there, disposing of her body.
But no. Nothing.
“Is everything all right, Mr. C?” C35 asked.
“Yeah, call me if you see him or JJ.”
“Will do, Mr. C.”
Christopher ran across the Incubator, took off his cleaning gear and put his combat boots back on. He then walked through the kitchen and up to his bedroom.
“No. 4, wake up,” he said, approaching the bed.
No reaction.
He placed his hand on her shoulder, about to shake her awake when the temperature of her skin stopped him. He rolled her over. No. 4’s eyes were wide open.
Christopher knew better than to check for a pulse. The only thing he didn’t know was if she’d died of natural causes or if Stéphane had tested out his poison—meant for him and JJ—on his sex clone.
Fuck!
Christopher picked up his gun and his favorite knife then opened the drawer where he kept his fake passports. He hadn’t used them in ages. After checking the expiration dates to find one that was still valid, he grabbed it, along with the stash of money he’d hidden in the back of his writing desk and a little black book filled with usernames and passwords.
I’m not sticking around here to find out. Fuck you, Stéphane.
He ran out the patio door, toward the garage. The Jeep was gone, but the old F-150 they used for driving lessons was still there, keys in the ignition.
Is JJ just out running errands? Am I just imagining things?
His gut was broadcasting an alarm signal that he couldn’t ignore. Christopher was no longer certain that Stéphane would murder them both, but like an animal sensing the arrival of a hurricane, he knew danger was at his doorstep, and he had to get away. Now.
He put the pedal to the metal and headed the fuck out of the Colony.
Chapter Forty-Six
August 5, 2015
Kate Murphy
Somewhere in East Boston, MA
Kate saw Robert hang up and return the phone to his pocket, feeling
useless in the backseat of the FBI’s surveillance car.
A few minutes later, the radio screeched.
“...All units. Got a report from a nearby sheriff, JJ’s been spotted near Southbridge; she’s heading East on Highway 90, driving a silver Jeep. May be headed toward Boston. Two unmarked vehicles have been dispatched to surveil and pursue. Do not attempt arrest. If seen, report her location. We want to follow her back to the Colony. I repeat, do not attempt arrest.”
Palmer took out his cellphone and dialed a number. “She may be heading out to meet Robertson. He was on the phone with someone just a few minutes before the dispatch… Sure… We’ll keep an eye on him.”
After Palmer hung up, Kate returned her attention to Robertson, who sat on a park bench, looking toward a small wooded area away from the street.
“Here you go... feeding fucking squirrels again,” Rodriguez said.
After giving food to the local wildlife for forty minutes, Robertson returned to the coffee shop.
That’s when Rodriguez spoke up and reported having spotted her. Hard to miss. She wore large sunglasses, but her strawberry-blonde hair and long legs were dead giveaways. She’d parked along the street, a few spots down, and was now heading to the coffee shop where Robertson sat.
Palmer got on the phone. “We have a visual on JJ; she’s meeting Robertson as we speak... What about the plate on the Jeep?… Will do.” He then turned to Rodriguez and said, “Plate’s registered to a man from Chicopee. They’re paying him a visit as we speak.”
Rodriguez pulled out his binoculars again. “They’re in line... Approaching counter... Ordering... He’s looking for a table... She’s picking up two coffees, heading to the sugar and cream station... Whoa! She’s got a small vial... Pouring it into a cup—”
“Alcohol?” Palmer asked.
“No. Powder I think.”
Palmer squinted, trying to see without binoculars. “Both cups?” he asked Rodriguez.
“Just one... Stirring, adding milk, sugar... Walking... Sitting down... He gets the spiked coffee.”
Palmer took out his phone. “Palmer again. Listen, she sat down with him and looks like she’s spiked his coffee. Do we intervene? … Sure? … Okay.”
He hung up and faced Rodriguez. “We stay put.”
Robertson and JJ talked, talked, then talked some more. She finally stood up, hugged him, and then left the coffee shop. He followed her outside, a few steps behind. Kate could only assume that she’d requested it to be that way. She couldn’t see his facial expression from afar, but his slumped posture compared to how he’d usually held himself while they’d surveilled him spoke volumes.
JJ returned to her vehicle, and he stood still, staring at the street in front of him, looking right then left. He finally headed back the way he’d arrived, toward the park.
“Are we following him or her?” Rodriguez asked.
Palmer took out his phone yet again. “They’re going their separate ways. Which are we following? ... Okay.” He hung up and turned to face Kate. “Murphy, get out. Follow Robertson on foot. We’ll follow her.”
“You got it,” Kate said.
She stepped out, closed the door, and then they drove off. The Jeep was already in traffic when Rodriguez slid their car behind JJ’s, a dozen vehicles between them.
Kate took a second to stretch her legs, which felt good after spending so many hours crammed in the back seat. She saw Robertson ahead of her by about two blocks. She joined the pedestrian traffic and headed in the same direction. The streetlight changed, and Kate caught up to him while he stood at a corner, waiting for another light to change.
Standing just a short distance behind Robert on the sidewalk, Kate pondered what to do. Should she slow down and walk at an awkward pace? Or should she stop and pretend to look at a store’s window to increase the space between them?
Before she could pick an option, Robertson collapsed, so she ran to him and knelt by his side.
“Robbie, can you hear me?”
He’s grunting. No, he’s trying to breathe, convulsing.
She moved his body onto its side, in case he was going to puke. “Breathe, okay? Concentrate on your breathing. I’ll get some help,” Kate said.
She picked up her phone and dialed 911 for an ambulance. As she finished giving her location, Robert’s eyes met hers.
No, not Robert.
It was Robbie’s soft blue eyes that were staring at her.
He squeezed Kate’s hand and said, “Help me, JJ...”
The pressure from his fingers dissipated seconds later, his eyes loosely locked onto the far distant sky. He exhaled one last time. Kate placed two fingers on his neck, checking for a pulse, but found nothing.
He was gone.
A light breeze made his hair twitch, but his chest was no longer rising and dropping, his muscles no longer responding. An autopsy would likely confirm he’d been poisoned. Was there a point in attempting resuscitation? Kate didn’t base his right to live on whether he was a clone or an original. She’d learned to care about Robbie, and wanted to help him, but she’d seen how fast the poison had acted. Giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation would endanger her. That poison had acted fast as hell. Whatever amount was still on his lips from the coffee could kill her in minutes.
His eyes staring at the sky reminded her of her parents’ eyes decades ago, when she’d found them in the bloody kitchen. Painful memories flooded over her. She looked at him one last time. He appeared more peaceful now; the world’s worries no longer weighing on his shoulders. Her hand reached toward his face, and she lowered his eyelids.
A small crowd had gathered around the two of them on the sidewalk, but she didn’t care. The FBI agents had witnessed the crime being committed at the coffee shop minutes earlier. Trying to rush over there to retrieve a fingerprint from a tiny container in a garbage can no longer felt important. There were three reliable eyewitnesses and the autopsy would determine the chemical composition of the poison JJ had used.
The ambulance arrived, along with a police cruiser. Kate made her statement and then hitched a ride back to the station.
Unable to stop herself, she wiped away a single tear.
Kate returned to the second floor, ready to report to Agent Lack. She found him in conference room three. He and Fuller were staring at the maps she’d seen earlier. Very little was left unmarked. They’d made great progress narrowing down the Colony’s location.
“So, Robertson’s dead?” Lack asked, even though he already knew the answer.
“Yeah. Are they still on JJ’s tail?” Kate asked.
“Heading west on Highway 90. Who knows how far she’ll drive. We should be able to pinpoint the Colony’s location in an hour or two, assuming she doesn’t see us trailing her. But I’m not worried. My guys aren’t wet behind the ears. They know how to do their job.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Kate asked Fuller, knowing he was technically the one she should be reporting to.
He sneered at her. “There’s always paperwork to be done. You can start with these reports.” He handed Kate a thick pile of forms.
“Actually, no,” Lack said, taking the papers back from her hands. “If you don’t mind, Detective, I think it’d be better if she helped us with something else.”
Fuller raised his shoulders, and Lack gave her a different pile.
“Those are Robertson’s interview transcripts,” Lack started. “The contractor flagged a few inaudible parts. You were there for most of it. Listen to the recording again, and fill in the blanks, if you would?”
Kate scanned the conference room, trying to find a spot to sit down.
“Best if you find a quieter room. You won’t be able to work in here,” Lack said.
“You’re right.”
Kate left the room with her new assignment. It was going to take hours. Long, boring hours. But she took solace in the fact that she was doing her small part in a federal case that could finally help free her uncle... hopefully.<
br />
She went to the lunchroom to grab a coffee, and walked around the floor for a little while, hunting for a quiet spot. FBI agents had taken over the entire floor, except for one of the interview rooms. She let herself into the observation booth. Empty, small, and cozy. Perfect for the task at hand.
Kate started at the beginning of the recording, but then realized she didn’t have to listen to the whole thing, just the flagged bits where the transcriber hadn’t been able to understand the words. Her additions wouldn’t make it into official transcripts but could be handy in court. She flipped through the sheets until she reached the first flag, and then fast-forwarded the recording to reach the appropriate section. She played it once, then again, and again.
After the fourth attempt, she rewound it to get more context, and once she heard it another time, she managed to fill in the first blank. She repeated the process about a dozen times more, until she took care of the last blank.
She collected her things, reordered the pages and stared into the empty interrogation room in front of her, reliving the past few days in her head.
Robbie hadn’t been a bad person. Many of the murder victims the Colony had targeted had been much worse human beings. Maybe the Colony had somehow incarnated karma? These pedophiles and corrupt politicians had it coming. However, innocent people like Kenny, Samuel Forrester, and the other wrongly accused had suffered and had seen their reputation destroyed for something they didn’t do, and that, Kate could not forgive.
These three mad scientists had granted themselves the power to create life, and to end it, totally disregarding the innocent people they framed in the process.
“Hey, Wallflower. Murphy,” a voice took her out of her increasingly angry ponderation.
Kate turned toward the door and saw Rosebud’s brown eyes locked on her behind his thick black-framed glasses.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Still helping the Feds?” he asked.
“I guess, but I think I’m done.”
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