Spitting Image (12 page)

And, most importantly, I didn’t know what I could do about Sarah. I could survive the whole accidental infidelity thing. That was easy to defend, and I could make my case well enough. But the deeper issue was the fact that I drew danger to her like a magnet. I was trying to neutralize this threat, but even if I did, and the jury was still out on that one, I couldn’t guarantee there wouldn’t be another threat behind it.

How many more relatives did I have? How many knew about me? And were there any who just wanted to borrow my car or crash on my couch or ask me to help them move, like normal relatives?

I could move on. I supposed I’d have to, eventually, if I couldn’t make this work. I hated the idea. Just the waitress’ innocent flirting tonight let me look through a crack at the future, and I was surprisingly depressed by it.

I could find somebody. Hell, I probably could have gone home with the waitress, and probably had a good time. I knew the act. But it would have just been acting. Going through the motions. And I was tired of acting.

With Sarah, I’d actually let her see me. Know my secrets. I didn’t want to go back to hiding, even for a night.

I was well into the maudlin stage when I saw Pete walk into the pub. Despite the warm weather, he had a sweatshirt on. I thought that was strange until I saw he also was wearing his uniform pants. Since we can’t be seen going to bars in uniform, it was common practice to keep a “drinking sweatshirt” in our cars, in case we needed to stop and sand the edges off a shift before we could get home and change.

He must have spotted me at the same time I saw him, because he made a beeline toward me. We exchanged the sign and countersign. He rolled his eyes a little at having to play spy games in a bar in Philips’ Mills.

“Hey man,” he said. “You alright?”

“Not really,” I replied. “But I will be. You need to get going?”

“I can hang and talk for one drink,” he said. “But I’m not waiting for the waitress to notice me. Be right back.”

He went to the bar and returned with a beer and another whisky for me. Excellent timing, as I’d just finished the one I was working on.

“Here you go,” he said. “How many is this?”

I shrugged. “A few. Not enough to be legless, but enough to start to feel warm and ease the pain.”

“My God, you’re a wuss.” He smirked and shook his head. “You trying to drown your sorrows or just get your ex-boyfriend’s taste out of your mouth?”

“Wow,” I said. “Even for you, that’s harsh.”

“Sorry,” he replied. “Just making sure you knew it was me. Finish that one and we’ll go.”

I pushed my empty glass aside, took a sip of the new one. “Hey,” I said. “How’d you know what I was drinking?”

“What? Oh, the bartender remembered. I was surprised. Figured you for an Appletini.”

I shrugged. Finished my drink.

I stood to make my way to the door, but stumbled.

Jesus. I hadn’t had that much to drink, had I?

“Whoa,” said Pete, slipping an arm around my waist. “I guess I’d better get you home.” Except now he sounded like a woman. I looked at him. He looked like a woman. A swimmy, unfocused one, but a woman just the same.

“How did you find me?” I tried to say, but it came out as gibberish.

Two men materialized and offered to help, throwing one of my arms over each of their shoulders. I couldn’t be that legless from a few whiskies and one beer.

Damn! He must have put something in my drink. Or rather, she must have. I could hear Amelia’s voice thanking the men, directing them to help get me into a car.

This, my brain told me. This is why I shouldn’t have been drinking and wallowing in self pity. That whole dangerous, shape shifting enemies thing.

But I’d called Pete. And he was here, acting like himself. That brash, offensive asshole with the soft, gooey, helpful center.

Acting
like himself.

I’d felt something was off. She was playing Pete. A somewhat exaggerated Pete, even.

Damn it. It’s not easy to force yourself to be suspicious when the person you’re talking to looks and sounds exactly like the person you’re supposed to be talking to. You let little things slide. Anybody can be off his game. You can’t suspect every tic.

Probably be a good idea to start, though.

I found myself in the back seat of a car. Somebody patted me down, took my phone, keys, wallet and the Walther John had wanted me to take. The two men got into the front. Pete, now back in the form of Amelia– probably Amelia– at least it was a name to use for now, whom I last saw at the house in Rowley, slipped into the back beside me.

“You know, Sean,” she said, no humor in her voice now, just business, with maybe a touch of irritation. “I’ve never had to work so hard just to get a guy to fuck me.”

I didn’t seem to have an answer for that one, so I just let it go. I could have pointed out that the Pete impression didn’t help, but that was too long a sentence to string together.

“It’s not like I was trying to steal state secrets, or Swiss bank account numbers, or make you betray your country or anything.”

I wondered just how many of those things she had done. How many other people she had tricked into betraying that which they held dearest.

“No,” she continued, “I just wanted your sperm. You men are usually trying to give that away. I tried everything. A little strange from the new co-worker, even boring old committed relationship sex with your girlfriend.”

I shook my head, trying to clear it. I was stunned how completely she had morphed from Amelia to Pete and now back. The sweatshirt hung loose on her now. She reached down and rolled the cuffs of her uniform pants.
Where had she gotten those?

Then I remembered. If she’d been Samantha, she would have had a uniform, would have known Pete well enough to imitate him. Who knew how many other people we’d run into had been shapeshifted enemies gathering information?

“And if you had just rolled with it, it would have been no trouble. It could have been fun. You know, it could have been anything you wanted. I could have been Princess Leia in the gold bikini or the girl from the Whitesnake video or anything you asked. But no, you had to fight it. What was that? Never mind, you won’t make any sense until that drug wears off. We can talk conditions then.”

I had actually been trying to give her Pete’s phone number, but my tongue was thick and not following orders at the moment, so I let it go.

“I did
research
,” she went on, her voice dripping acid. “I watched and planned and tried to come up with something you’d like. And what do I get? Nothing.”

I considered pointing out that tricking somebody into non-consensual sex is more like a felony than it is like picking out the perfect Christmas present, but speech was still too much like work. I wondered just what she had slipped me.

“Oh, and the next time you call for a ride,” she said, “you may want to pick a smarter designated driver. At least tell your idiot friend to make sure he’s out of earshot of anybody when you remind him about the sign and counter over the phone. And him repeating it? That was priceless.”

Yeah, that probably wasn’t very smart. So, did that mean she had just left early and gotten here ahead of Pete, or had she done something to him? Probably just got here early, I hoped. Why risk a fight or leaving a body when you can just do a nice low risk imitation, and shift and escape if things go badly?

“I mean, you knew I was working on the truck under cover, and still you messed that up.”

My head started to clear a little. I didn’t let on, but I felt better. Part of healing faster than a normal man is that my body clears out toxins faster. I didn’t see any reason to let her know that, and she seemed to be enjoying her monologue, so I just let her run with it.

After a short time, the car stopped. A garage door slid up, we drove inside, and the door came back down. The front doors of the car opened and the two men climbed out. The door beside me opened and one of them dragged me out of my seat. I let my body go limp.

The first man wrapped his arms under my armpits, around my chest and dragged me backwards. If he’d been an EMT he’d have known to cross my hands and grab my wrists, but nobody’s perfect. I got a look at the garage door and saw a smaller door beside it, presumably leading to the outside and freedom.

“Brad,” said the first man. “Give me a hand. He’s dead weight.”

Brad came around in front of me and stooped to grab my knees.

This was the best chance I was likely to get. The two men had their guards down, their hands occupied, and the woman was already walking away around the car. She probably had a gun, but it would be tucked in her purse, and it would take a few seconds to get it out. Enough time to get through the door, probably, then I’d be out on the street, and gunning a man down on the sidewalk would cause talk.

I planted my feet and snapped my head back into the first man’s face. I felt a satisfying crack as I broke his nose with the back of my head. Since the other man was bending down in front of me, I brought a knee up into his jaw, then as he staggered back, I drove my heel into his knee as hard as I could. He yelled and dropped as his leg collapsed under him. I twisted out of the first man’s grip, threw a quick jab at his bloody nose, then kicked him in the balls when he covered up.

I made for the door, but Amelia stepped into my way, her hand fishing in her purse. I’d expected that, and I was on her before she could get a weapon out. I grabbed her wrist and slashed my foot at her ankles, sweeping her legs out from under her.

That was the plan, at least. It went pretty well up until my foot hit her leg and just stopped. She yanked her hand out of my grasp.

I’ve met women who could take me in a fight. But they were usually big and strong women, or they were fast and highly skilled. This was a small, pretty, hundred and ten pound woman, and she didn’t do anything to stop my leg sweep except ignore it. Then she twisted and drove a fist into my ribs, harder than she had any right to do.

I gasped and got my hands up in time to stop the next punch she threw at me, wondering just who the hell I was facing.

Mass is mass, I remembered.

It only
looked
like I was fighting a hundred and ten pound woman. I was really facing two hundred pounds of muscle condensed into the shape of a bikini model.

Ok,
I told myself.
You’ve done this before. Just a quick feint, a nice solid hit to slow her down and out the door. Don’t give her time to get the gun out.
I shifted my weight...

And then I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my back that ran all through my body, as my muscles convulsed and stopped obeying my commands. I twitched and fell over.

A taser. Of course one of the guys I’d hit had a taser. And neither of them was happy with me.

A thing about tasers. While they rob you of muscle control and overload your nervous system, they don’t do anything to prevent you from feeling the kicks to the ribcage that your opponents feel justified in giving you.

So, at least I learned something new. I’d hate to think the whole experience was a waste.

I CAME AROUND tied to a chair. My hands were zip-tied to the arms of the chair, my ankles to the legs. A belt around my chest held me to the back of it. It was a heavy, strong wooden chair. Nobody had thought to supply a cushion.

I took a deep breath and flexed my hands and feet, taking inventory. My ribs hurt, worse when I breathed, but not horribly. More likely bruised than broken. All my limbs worked nicely. My head throbbed, whether from the drug or the taser or bouncing off the floor or the noses of thugs I didn’t know.

Amelia was sitting in a much more comfortable looking chair behind a big wooden desk, looking at me. There was a laptop computer on the desk, the screen toward her, away from me, and a phone near it. In front of her, the contents of my wallet were spread out. Licenses, certifications, receipts, my ATM card, some cash. Not much cash. I am employed as a paramedic. I had a feeling somebody was behind me.

I didn’t say anything. I waited. I’d been a prisoner a few times before, and the less you say, the better. Anything I did say would give them more information. Since I really had no idea what they already knew, I couldn’t be sure not to tell them anything they didn’t.

Beyond a quick flex to check the tightness of my bonds, I didn’t struggle. I’d already made one attempt to escape, which meant they weren’t likely to underestimate me again. I’d have to wait and watch for my chance, and remember not to underestimate anybody just because they looked like somebody I could beat.

“I’m running out of patience with you,” she said. “I’m wondering if this stubborn streak is genetic, and if it is, whether this plan is more trouble than it’s worth.”

“You sound like the HR department at FlatLine,” I said.

“You’re not as funny as you think,” she continued. I was starting to think this friendship wasn’t going to work out. “You’re not as smart either. You’re dangerous in a fight, but you’re not the fastest or strongest or even the best trained man I’ve met. What you have going for you is just a stubborn, scrappy, unpredictable rebelliousness. It’s not a very admirable quality.”

“Part of my bad-boy appeal,” I said. “And you forgot about my winning smile.”

“I’m finished trying to seduce you, and I’m not really even interested in bargaining with you at this point. I’m just going to let you know what we can do if you don’t give us what we want.”

She leaned forward aggressively. “While we have you held here, you can be on camera robbing a liquor sore. I’m sure you figured that out, but you can also be seen doing things that won’t put you in jail, but will destroy the confidence of your friends in you. Of your employer. And speaking of friends, think what I could do to them. Your girlfriend is a teacher. What if she were seen publicly drunk? Or buying drugs? Or having an inappropriate relationship with an underage student? What if your partner Monique was seen exchanging medication at the hospital and the security camera caught her slipping a vial of morphine into her pocket?

“I can destroy their careers. Their relationships. I won’t need to take lives when I can ruin them.”

She sat back. “And all this could have been avoided. Could have even been pleasant. Now, you have one more chance. You help me cover our tracks, and you give me your sperm. In a cup this time. No more seduction attempts.”

“Has the magic really gone out of this thing we have?” I asked.

She stopped and just looked at me for a moment. “I could just have the boys come in and beat you for a while, you know. There are plenty of ways to hurt you and leave you useful And you heal fast, so even if they do get enthusiastic, it won’t be the end of the world.”

I decided I really didn’t like her. I wasn’t going to give her what she wanted, partly out of plain old spite and party because I wouldn’t have any part of conceiving a person who would be raised by this family of psychopaths.

My phone rang. I knew it was my phone because it played “London Calling” by the Clash, and nobody else has musical taste quite so well developed.

She picked it up from the desk and smiled like a shark.

“Watch him,” she said.

Whoever was standing behind me put a blade against my cheek. “Call out and I’ll cut out your tongue,” he said.

Amelia treated me to another second of her evil grin and pressed the screen of my phone. “Hello,” she said in my voice.

Damn, I hated that they could do that.

“Hi Sean,” Sarah’s voice came from the phone.

“Hi Sweetie,” the doppelganger said, smiling at me. “What’s up?”

I seethed. I strained against the ties on my wrists, but they weren’t going anywhere. I got a hold on my anger, saved it for later, promised it I’d pay it with interest.

“I have some more information,” said Sarah. “But first, remind me. What’s the worst band of all time.”

Amelia looked at me. I mouthed “Nickelback.” She rolled her eyes and spoke into the phone. “Nickelback, of course.”

“Good to know it’s you,” said Sarah. “I’d rather give you all this in person. Say tomorrow. I get out of class at six. Let’s meet at the place you took me after the place we were just at.”

The woman at the desk raised an eyebrow. I nodded. “Sounds great,” she said. “I’ll count the minutes.”

That wasn’t anything like me.

She ended the call. The man behind me took away the knife and stepped away.

Amelia put my phone down and looked at me. “You need a better challenge question. Half the people in the world would guess Nickelback. But, if you didn’t think they were the world’s worst band, then maybe your genes wouldn’t be desirable. So where is this romantic little spot?”

“The Taphouse in Riverdale,” I replied.

She smiled. “Good. We’ll go see what your lady friend has found. Be nice and maybe nothing bad will happen to her at the meeting. I’ll be in touch.”

She closed the laptop, swept my things into a bag, stood and walked out, followed by probably Brad, if I remembered right, leaving me zip-tied to a hard wooden chair.

I took stock. Sarah had found something, which was good. She also caught my warning, with the wrong answer, so she knew something was wrong, or that my phone was in enemy hands. She’d been tipped off and would seek refuge, probably with Bob, so that was good.

And best of all, my captor was going to go to the Taphouse wearing my face. Or send somebody there, at least.

While it wasn’t a place I’d taken Sarah, it was a place where I’d be recognized. About six months before I’d met Sarah, I’d had a brief, explosive affair with a waitress who worked there. It was the kind of relationship where the good, fun crazy eventually gets outweighed by the bad, possessive, scary crazy. And I discovered that part of the reason she found me attractive was my keen ability to make her ex boyfriend insanely jealous. He was big and quick tempered and also worked at the Taphouse, as a bartender.

So, I was willing to bet that whoever showed up wearing my likeness was in for an exciting reception. While that was all good fun, I figured it was only a matter of time before my captors decided to make me pay, or make my friends pay, so I had to get myself out of this place soon.

That was a lot easier said than done, zip-tied to a chair. I tried shifting my weight, testing my bonds, but it was no good. Plastic ties aren’t like rope; there are no knots to pick at, you can’t stretch them by working at them, and they cut into you if you move too much. Good luck breaking them or cutting them by rubbing them against a splinter on the back of the chair, like every hero of film or literature.

After a few minutes I gave it up. They wanted me alive and more or less intact. I figured this was the stick to the dubious carrot of siring the next generation of a family of psychopaths. They’d let me stew to show that they could make my life unpleasant, then they’d come back to deal.

Knowing that didn’t make me any less uncomfortable. It only took a few minutes for me to develop an itch on the side of my nose. My ribs hurt where they had kicked me, and the belt across my chest made them worse, kept me from taking a deep breath. Then my hands and feet started to throb where the plastic ties cut the circulation, and then I started feeling sore where my body was pressed against the chair. After that I got thirsty. Soon my bladder started to complain. I wondered why my body couldn’t jut redistribute fluids, rather than simultaneously complaining of a burning parched throat and desperate need to empty a painfully swollen bladder.

I’d been a prisoner a few times before, so this wasn’t really new, and I had been treated worse. From what I know of history, I think I got lucky that the Japanese hadn’t tried to take me prisoner when they overran my position at Guadalcanal, just stabbed me a lot. I got over that, not sure I’d have enjoyed three years in a prison camp.

I wondered how long I’d been tied up. There was no clock in my limited field of vision, and no windows. Which I guess makes sense if you don’t want your neighbors looking over the fence into your interrogation room. With nothing but my thoughts to distract me, I couldn’t be sure if it had been hours or minutes.

I tried to think of pleasant things, remembering good times, laughs, friends, lovers, to keep from worrying about what my captors would do next. Sarah was probably safe from direct physical danger for now, since I’d warned her, but there was nothing to stop them from blackening her reputation or damaging her career. Mine either, but my reputation was a bit dusky to begin with, and my career had an uncertain future even without their help.

At length, the door opened and two heavies walked in. It was a relief from the monotony, but I wasn’t sure if they were going to beat me up again. They put a bucket on the floor and a paper takeout bag on the table. One of them stood back near the door and pulled out a knife. The second moved around behind me.

“I’m sure you remember the taser,” he hissed in my ear. “Will’s going to cut your bonds so you can eat. If you try anything stupid, I get to tase you again, and then we tie you up and we eat your dinner. Understand?”

“I do,” I croaked. I thought about a smart remark, but talking hurt, and I did really want a chance to get out of my bonds.

Will came forward and sliced the plastic ties. Pain blossomed in my hands as the blood returned. I flexed my fingers, looked at them. They felt stiff and hurt like hell, but they moved and they looked the right color. He cut my ankles free as well, then unfastened the belt across my chest. I let him back away.

I decided not to try to fight my way out for several reasons. I was out numbered, the guy behind me had a taser, and my hands and feet felt useless. If they were smart, they had locked the door and didn’t bring the key, relying on somebody outside to let them out. That way, even if I did overpower them, I’d still be locked in.

“Go ahead,” said the voice behind me. “Stand up.”

I made the slow and careful climb to standing. My feet felt like fiery balloons.

“Good,” said the voice. “Use the bucket and eat.”

The men walked out of the room and closed the door. I looked around and saw what was probably a camera on a high shelf. That meant digging a tunnel with the plastic takeout spoon was probably out.

I lurched to the bucket first, struggling to undo my zipper with numb and shaky mitts. As I let my bladder drain, I thought how they would rather empty a bucket of piss than let me out of this room to get to the bathroom. They must be under very strict orders to keep me confined.

That done, I made my way to the table and opened the bag. They hadn’t decided I was worth dirtying a pan, so somebody had made a run to the local Burger King. That was smart, at least. There were a million Burger Kings in the world, no way to narrow my location by the choice of restaurant. I looked in the bag for the receipt, just in the event they had gotten sloppy and left it. It would have had the store location. They hadn’t.

The food was cold, but that didn’t mean much. It could have come from far away, or they could have just waited to give it to me. It looked like they had ordered off the Value Menu, so they weren’t trying to spoil me. There was a double cheeseburger, a small order of French fries and a bottle of water.

I started with some water, slowly, to let my dry mouth and throat recover before starting on the food. It was fast food. And cheap, cold fast food, but I’d had worse. I’d eaten c-rations and horsemeat a time or two, and lived on a handful of captured rice a day on the Canal after the Navy ran off and left us.

I wasn’t too worried about drugged food. Sure, they could have drugged it, but there was nothing I could do about it anyway, and there really isn’t a good reason to starve yourself. If a chance to escape came up, I wanted my strength.

While I ate, I thought about escape. It’s pretty much a prisoner’s job to try to escape, but you need to be smart about it. Every failed attempt makes them tighten up security. It might get you beaten up as well, and there’s no good reason to take a beating you don’t have to. If I made them too upset, they might cripple me. I didn’t think they’d kill me, since the point was to get me to give them a sperm sample, and I don’t think I could do that dead, but with some broken bones, or even blinded I’d still be of use to them. I didn’t know how far they’d go, but it didn’t seem like they flinched from inflicting pain. Torture can be tricky, and they wouldn’t want me to die, but you can suffer a lot without dying, and I healed well enough to increase the margin of error. While I didn’t want to give in, I have no illusions. I’m not unbreakable. I’d reach a point where I’d give them what they wanted to make the pain stop.