Spitting Image (16 page)

I WALKED INTO the office where Brad was tied to the chair. I sat in another chair opposite him and looked at him for a moment. He was trying to keep his expression blank, but I could see fear in his eyes. He had no reason to expect mercy from me.

“I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with you yet,” I said. Let it sink in. Dangle some hope, let him think how he could convince me to let him live. “There are two factions that probably won’t be all that happy with you. I could hand you over to one or the other, maybe as a peace offering. Back off and I hand them the traitor. Stranger things have worked.”

He blanched just a bit at the idea. I’d seen their version of mercy, seen the fear they had of crossing the family.

“Of course, I have a score to settle with you myself,” I said. “I’m trying to decide if letting you go is worth giving that up.”

“What I did wasn’t personal,” he said. “I was doing what I had to.”

I shook my head. “That didn’t work at Nuremberg, it’s not going to work here. We were both there in that room. I was the guy with the hood on, so don’t look for much sympathy from me.”

He swallowed, went a little whiter.

“Talk to me about the factions,” I said. “Help me decide what to do with you.”

He was silent for a while, but I could tell he was going to talk. His eyes flickered around the room, everywhere but at me, his lip trembled, he took a few shaky breaths and paused, like he wanted to talk, but also wanted to be resolute and silent.

Finally he spoke. “Leadership of the clan is hereditary. As in all the families. The problem with our clan is that it’s...more difficult to prove true parentage. Even among ourselves, our gifts can allow us to deceive one another. Amelia’s father is the current head of the family, but there are rumors that his line isn’t the purest. The truth is that Winston’s father should have been the patriarch, but the evidence is easy for those in power to deny. An outright accusation, with the implications of incest and deception, would likely start open warfare. The other great families would take sides, and our standing as a whole would suffer. It would be catastrophic.

“If, however, Amelia’s branch were weakened, damaged by you, and if the plot to use you were widely known, then it would be simple for the Caruthers branch to take the mantle of leadership, to right the wrongs and steady the ship. No blood would be on their hands, only on yours, and you would be seen as having just cause.”

“So Caruthers pointed me at Bennett so I could remove or disgrace his old nemesis?”

“Yes.”

“Whose idea was it to try to get my genes in the first place?”

“That came from the Bennett side. Someone had a contact in the Doors organization. We have agents working near most of the other families. It’s easy for us, and information keeps us a step ahead in the game of politics. We found out about you last year. I’m not sure if the idea to add your bloodline was Amelia’s, but she certainly decided to run with it. And it should have been easy. Low risk, high reward for the family. That could solidify her branch’s hold on the clan for generations.”

“And it was going so well until...”

“Amelia is my sister. Half sister. But it was never a happy relationship. She’s older, her blood is more pure. In theory. A theory that depends on believing lies.”

“Like most of your family’s plans,” I pointed out. That may have been a mistake. I saw him set his jaw. I thought he might clam up, but he was too irate at being marginalized by his sister to stop complaining now.

“I was treated as a servant. A retainer, not a true full member of the family. I knew the man you know as Winston Caruthers, I’d worked with him and he treated me like an equal. When I heard of Amelia’s plan, I knew it would be something he could use.”

“So how much coincidence is it that he got hired at the school where my girlfriend works?”

“None at all. The real Winston Caruthers is a poet. And a pretentious one. William Butler is the real name of the man you met. Butler just met Caruthers by auditing a class, and imitated him to deceive you. He actually staked out the library, expecting you to come by when you didn’t see your girlfriend for a few days. He was posing as a student there. When he saw you come in, he put on his poet act and fed you the information he wanted you to have.”

I remembered our first meeting. How he played it that he’d forgotten his office key. I’d believed the absent minded professor act, since it was such a trope.

“So he figured if he revealed Amelia’s plot to me, I’d charge in like a bull in a China shop, cause her side of the family embarrassment and maybe a few deaths, and he’d look good.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Amelia thought that Butler was working with her. But he wanted to undermine her efforts. That’s why he fed you information, and when you didn’t destroy her or expose her plot, he tried to provoke you again by trying to convince you Sarah was having an affair. He thought you’d blame everything on Amelia’s side, the Bennet side, and sooner or later you’d ruin them.”

I shook my head, not sure which of them was worse. Amelia was certainly taking liberties, and her plan was deceitful and heavy handed and not a little rapey, but she seemed to be trying to reduce actual bloodshed. Caruthers–or Butler, I guess, was perfectly happy, even eager, to see some people get hurt. Given that one of those people was me, and another was Sarah, I was upset by that. Even if the people who got hurt weren’t me, they were likely to be hurt by me. I didn’t like being used like that.

That didn’t explain the latest moves.

“So whom do I have to thank for drugging, kidnapping and waterboarding me?” I asked. “Besides you, I mean.”

No harm in dropping a subtle reminder that he might want to spread the blame for that one around a little. Give us somebody higher up the chain of command in the hopes of reducing his own sentence.

He chewed his lip. Looked at the floor for a moment. “It was Butler. He had several reasons. Having your DNA would be a big bargaining chip for any family, not just ours. And if you got free, and you assumed that Amelia was the one who kidnapped you, then you’d be pointed at her again. But most important, he had to cover himself. To see how much danger he might be in. He knew you’d spoken with Amelia, had her at gunpoint and let her live, so needed to find out if you had told her anything about him. If she knew he had pointed you at her. That’s why we interrogated you about how you knew she had impersonated your girlfriend. But you held up and didn’t give him up.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him he’s welcome.” I rubbed my chin. “You hang tight for a few. I need to think.”

I SAT BACK DOWN at the table and brought everyone up to speed.

“All of which begs the question, what do we do with this information?” said Sarah.

“True,” I said. “Anybody have any brilliant ideas?”

“Why not play them against one another?” asked John. “Call Amelia and spill Butler’s plan, hand Brad over for some assurance she’ll back off. Like how your people took this country. Pit the tribes against one another.”

That had a certain appeal. And John was right. It was the first page of the Empire Building Handbook. But I wasn’t sure it would work here. I wasn’t George III or Andrew Jackson, I had no army to send in after the natives had weakened themselves, just me and a few friends that I’d rather not get killed. The winner in any family feud might either want revenge or wouldn’t want to leave me as a witness.

Or both. I’m good at pissing my enemies off enough for that.

A thing worth doing is worth doing right, I always say.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t see how the survivors wouldn’t try to take it out on us.”

“Might soften them up to where you can beat them,” said Bob.

“Maybe. I just wish I could make them forget about me.”

“Maybe we can,” said Sarah.

I looked at her for a moment, wondering what she meant. Then, as the pieces fell into place, I felt my face split into a grin.

“They were going to let you free with your memory scrubbed.”

“Which means they know somebody who can do that.”

“And if our buddy Brad is the social director, he probably knows who that is.”

“Will he tell us?” she wondered.

“I think we can sell it. That’s the one way we could protect my identity and come to an arrangement where nobody has to die.”

“You think it could work?” she asked.

“Definitely worth a shot,” I said. I hopped up and walked back toward the office. “Let’s see if old Brad thinks helping us is worth avoiding a horrible death at the hands of any of the people who he’s pissed off.”

AT TEN O’CLOCK the next morning, Sarah and I were standing at the door of a brownstone in the Back Bay. I rang the bell and we waited.

Brad had given us a name. Johnathan Daniels. And this address. Mr Daniels apparently worked out of his home as a psychologist. I figured that made sense. If he could modify or erase memories, he could probably make good money as a shrink. Not unlike what I did, but he got to do it in a comfortable office and get paid enough that he could afford a brownstone in the Back Bay.

I had cleaned up as best I could. Put on my one suit, the one I owned in case I needed to attend a wedding or funeral. Odd how the dress code is the same for both of those. I had the pistol Bob had taken from my kidnappers under my arm. It was smaller and easier to hide under a jacket than my trusty .45. It was a lot more comfortable than the Colt as well, so maybe John had a point.

I doubted I’d have to use it. I’d called ahead and set up the meeting and I didn’t have any reason to suspect it would go sour. I looked around. Bob and John were supposed to have set up to watch, but I didn’t see them. Either that was a good sign, as nobody else was likely to spot them, or it was bad because they hadn’t been able to find a good spot to set up. I guessed I’d just have to hope.

“What do you think ‘G2G’ means?” asked Sarah, looking at her phone.

“‘Good to Go,’ maybe,” I answered. “Does that make sense?”

“That’s probably it.” She looked up at me. “Bob is G2G.”

“Good to know,” I said. So I moved from hoping to feeling like an idiot for not thinking of texting.

The door opened and a tall, thin man in a suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent looked at us with that careful measure of disdain that stopped just short of insubordinate. The look that only a really, really good butler or maitre d’ can pull off.

“May I help you?”

“Sean Danet to see Mr Daniels,” I said. “I believe he’s expecting me.”

“Yes sir,” said the man. “And the young lady?”

“My bodyguard,” I said.

That threw him for a moment. He clearly had orders to admit me, and he was deciding how big a breach of protocol my plus one was. Not enough, he apparently decided.

“Come this way,” he said. “Mr Daniels is expecting you.”

He led us through the house, which reeked of old money. Being that this was Boston, the old money was probably ill- gotten smuggling gains, which made me feel a little less intimidated. Nobody made a respectable fortune in this town before 1800.

We were brought to a library. A man stood with his back to us, silhouetted against a window that looked out into what was, for this part of Boston, an enormous back yard. You could probably have a chess match there and not have to worry about breaking the neighbors’ windows.

“Mr Danet and his assistant,” said the butler.

The man waited while we were introduced, his attention seemingly on a book in his hands. “Thank you, Edward. You may go.”

It was all theater. His position, the way he stood against the window so he was bathed in light, the book. All of it was calculated to show that he was more important than we were, as was whatever he was reading. Even the butler. Daniels was making sure we peasants knew our place.

Not quite peasants. Sarah was a professional, but from working class roots, and I...well, in theory I may count as an aristocrat, but I’ve been blue collar for so long I’ve forgotten how to look at other people like tools or furniture.

After a pause that he may have counted down, Daniels turned to face us. He was tall, silver haired, his face tanned and just lined enough. He was probably sixty, but a low-mileage sixty. He had the fitness of a man who regularly played tennis or went sailing or riding, but probably never had to dig a trench or unload cargo or work double shifts in terrible weather. Enough activity to stay fit, but not enough to give him the arthritis and twinges and leathery skin of a man who had built things for forty years.

“Good afternoon,” he said, his voice a practiced baritone. “Sit down, please. Would you care for coffee?”

“Please.” I looked at Sarah, who nodded. “Two.” I wanted to keep this meeting friendly. Refusing would be rude. Also, I was sure Daniels would have good coffee.

Edward returned with a tray and poured three cups. He handed us each one, added cream and sugar cubes as directed, then glided out. Daniels sat down in a large leather chair with his own cup. I inhaled and took a small sip. It was good.

“I must admit,” he said, “I was surprised to hear from you. Your existence was like a distant legend.”

“That’s me. The man, the myth, the legend.”

He allowed the ghost of a smile to cross his lips. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“I need to ask a favor,” I said. “You’re the one person who can help me.”

“And why do you think I would want to do that?”

“For one,” I said, pausing for a sip, “you owe me.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“You– well, not you, but one of your distant ancestors– erased any memory of my childhood, my parents. My history. I was thrown into exile with no knowledge of who I was, or even exactly what I was. Your family robbed me of my past.”

“In order to give you a future,” he answered. “Toren wanted your head. And had grounds to ask for it. Even if you weren’t executed, it would have been a blood feud that would have harmed us all. Exile was the best option, and exile with your memories intact simply wasn’t going to be acceptable to anyone. I am impressed that you managed to survive as long as you have. How did you come to find out who you are?”

“I crossed paths with one of Toren’s descendants. I took the liberty of fixing his broken ankle. Gave myself away.”

“I’m even more surprised you survived that.”

“We settled things. We’ve agreed to live and let live.”

“That sounds very unlike him.”

“I gave him his duel. A few generations late, but he could say he finally satisfied honor.”

“He left you alive?”

“I put a foot of steel in him. He had to accept that as a definitive end to the duel. Then I healed him so his heirs wouldn’t come after me with yet another grievance.”

Now he smiled a real smile. “Well done.” He saluted me with his cup. “I give you credit for being resourceful. But that begs the question, why do you need my help, and why should I give it?”

I told him my story. He listened, his face betraying no emotion. When I finished, he set down his cup.

“And your offer is...”

I drained my cup. “You know what I can do. I would be deeply in your debt. I’d consider myself on retainer for you and your family. Anybody gets hurt, catches a disease, I will repay your kindness.”

“Would you swear fealty to me?”

“No,” I said firmly. “I’ll heal anybody you want me to. But I won’t agree to follow orders I haven’t heard yet. I’ve never been very good at that.”

“If the stories are true, that’s what got you in trouble in the first place,” he said. “So your years in the wilderness haven’t taught you the value of obedience?”

“What can I say? I’m a rebel at heart.”

“And that has gotten you...where exactly?” His look took in my inexpensive suit, scuffed shoes, calloused hands, and if such a thing were possible, my working class accent.

“All the girls like a bad boy,” said Sarah.

He raised an eyebrow, looked at her. “Perhaps. I have not found that wealth or power exactly drives them away. What is your interest in these matters, if I may ask?”

“I have a stake in this. These people have attacked me too. My safety isn’t separate from Sean’s,” she said. “I wanted to come along and see what deal he had to cut.”

“And it was her idea to talk to you,” I said. “She’s the brains of the operation.”

He was silent for a moment. Then he nodded. “I think we can work together. It would be nice to have you in my debt. Do you have a plan?”

I shrugged. “I have the broad strokes. I tend to wing the details.”