The List (10 page)

She put the Vette through the paces, cornering fast, pushing 90

mph on straight-aways, weaving through traffic with a liberating sense of abandon.

When they arrived at work, Joan felt good. She loved her office
.

Joan DeVilliers Productions
began its life sharing space with an insurance agent in East Compton. Now, eight years and many movies later, she had a plush sixth floor spread on the Strip with a view and all the chrome and mirrors money could buy.

Marsha, her secretary, greeted her with a stack of messages and the Fed Ex from Paramount. Joan spent the next hour pouring over the contract, making little additions and deletions to various clauses, the horrors of the previous day lost in a stream of legalese.

That done, she had Marsha free up her schedule for the afternoon and got to work on reviewing some script changes for the Cruise film.

Rather than her usual lunch at
Brisbeee’s
, Joan ordered pizza and surprised herself by eating four slices. She was on her fifth when the intercom buzzed.

“Joan? The LAPD in on line two. Says it’s urgent.”

“Thanks, Marsha.”

Urgent. Had they caught the creep?

“This is Joan DeVilliers.”

“You broke my nose, bitch. You think it’s over? I’m going to shove a stake so far up your—”

Joan slammed down the receiver. When her hands stopped shaking, she called the police.

Albuquerque

“These aren’t eggs.” Bert poked at the airline food with his undersized plastic fork. “I think they’re some kind of polymer. I shouldn’t have paid extra for the meal.”

Tom didn’t care. He devoured them anyway, along with the stale bun, the dry sausage, and two cups of bland coffee. He also polished off Roy’s meal while his partner snored, zonked out from the painkillers.

“So we’re meeting with the doctor who created us?”

Tom frowned at the terminology. He didn’t like the idea of being created. But then, he wasn’t exactly born either. Or was he? The answers were less than an hour away.

“He’s picking us up at the airport.”

“I don’t see why
he
had to come.” Bert pointed his chin at Roy. He hadn’t shaved, and it was tough to spot his stitches.

“He’s my partner. We watch each other’s backs. You didn’t have to come either. You could have stayed in Chicago.”

“I have a right. I have questions, too.”

“You didn’t have to bring your lures.”

“They go where I go.” Bert reached up and switch off the blowing nozzle. “Recirculated air. I call these things
germ cannons
. You might as well be French kissing everyone on the plane.”

Tom wiped the pat of butter off the little white square of cardboard and onto his third bun. Bert stored his tray in the upright position and fished a magazine out of the pouch on the seat ahead of him.

“Oh boy. An issue of
Macramé Monthly
that I haven’t read yet.”

The flight attendant collected their plates, but not before Tom forked the last sausage into his mouth. The cut inside his cheek had healed some, but the salty meat still stung. If indeed it was meat—it tasted more like a member of the rubber family. He didn’t feel the wound on his head at all, and since his hair covered the stitches it wasn’t even noticeable. The thing that hurt like hell was his ribcage; sleeping on Roy’s soft leather couch had been a mistake. Every breath was like a fork in the chest.

Tom glanced to his left, over the lightly snoring Roy, out the window. Clouds obscured his view. To his right, Bert was absorbed in the magazine. It was strange to look at him, a face so recognizable that it was practically an archetype.

“So, Bert—since you found out about the Einstein thing, has there been any indication that you really are him?”

Bert set the magazine down.

“You mean have I ever had any brilliant thoughts or ideas?”

“Yeah.”

“Nope. Not one.”

“Have you ever taken an IQ test?”

“Like those Mensa puzzles? Figure out which number comes next in the series?”

“Yeah. Those.”

“No. Never could get through them. I got slightly above average on my SAT, though. After my third try.”

Tom noticed several strands of gray in Bert’s wavy hair. In ten or twenty years it would become the great white mop known the world over.

“How about you, Tom? Do you feel any different? Since finding out?”

Tom was about to answer no, but he realized that wasn’t the case.

Though he still felt like himself, he was experiencing something akin to performance anxiety. He’d been struggling with it since last night, after Harold had asked when he was going to go into politics.

There was a whole big world out there. Shouldn’t he be doing something more than just police work? Tom had always thought he was a good cop, good at his job, but now it didn’t seem like it was enough.

“I don’t feel like a different person, but I think I do feel a little inadequate.”

“That will pass. Soon you’ll feel completely worthless.”

Bert went back to his magazine. Tom opened the little nozzle over his head, bathing his face with the germ cannon’s cool, stale air. He smoothed out the wrinkles in the tan pants Roy had lent him. They were a little big in the waist, but otherwise fit fine. The loaned shirt was another story. Tom was swimming in it, and since putting it on he felt the urge to hit the gym and work on his pecs.

Bert hummed as he read. Something vaguely familiar. When Tom realized it was Britney Spears he shook his head. As far as nature vs.

nurture went, Bert was a damn fine argument for nurture.

“What’s 55 x 26?” Tom asked.

“Hell if I know.”

“I thought you were a stock market wizard.”

Bert looked up at him.

“How did... that doctor told you, didn’t he? You said he kept tabs on us.” Bert shrugged. “I did some trading. Made some fortunes. Lost some fortunes. That’s behind me now.”

“But you were good at it? Without dealing with numbers?”

“I didn’t deal in numbers. I dealt in shares and dollars.”

“Same thing.”

“Not for me.”

“Okay—if I had 85,552 dollars and wanted to buy some shares of stock that sold at 2 ¼, how many shares could I buy?”

Bert didn’t hesitate. “You could buy 38,023 shares and have 11

cents left over.” When the realization of what he just said hit him, he broke into a wide grin. “Hey! Do another one.”

Surprised, Tom continued. “A guy wants to buy 351 shares of a stock that’s at 6 7/8s.”

“He needs 2413 dollars and 12 and a half cents.” Bert beamed.

“Wow! I’m pretty amazing!”

“What’s 18 x 45?”

Bert’s smile faltered. “I don’t know.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Bert.”

“I know it doesn’t make sense. But I just don’t know.”

“Okay, what if I wanted to buy 45 shares of stock at 18 dollars a share?”

“Eight hundred and ten dollars. This is weird, Tom. How come I can do it if it’s a stock question but not when it’s just simple multiplication?”

Tom recalled an old story he’d heard about Albert Einstein.

“Do you care about multiplication?”

“Hell no.”

“Did you care about the stock market?”

“I lived and breathed to trade.”

“There’s your answer. Maybe you’re a genius at what you care about. Einstein failed math in school. He just had no interest in it.”

“You think that’s it?”

“Could be.”

Bert scrunched up his face. Tom could see he was puzzling it out.

“So now all I need to do is force myself to care about quantum mechanics.”

“That’s possible.”

“But I don’t care about quantum mechanics. It bores the crap out of me. Do you care about life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness?”

“As much as the next guy. I don’t dwell on it.”

“How are your writing skills? Essays and reports and things?”

“Well, I won that Pulitzer a few years back.”

“So, in other words, I probably have Einstein’s intellect locked up in my head somewhere. But you got buttkiss from Jefferson.”

Bert delved into the magazine again, leaving Tom to dwell on that.

The feeling was akin to being ten feet tall, but still unable to dunk a basketball.

As the plane emptied, Tom was reluctant to leave his seat. His self-esteem was at an all time low, and being told he was conceived in a lab under a microscope couldn’t possibly help.

“Are you guys coming?” Bert already had his carryon in hand and his sunglasses perched on the end of his long nose.

“We here?” Roy yawned and stretched. “Did I miss breakfast?”

“I wouldn’t phrase it like that.”

Roy attempted to stand up, forcing his partner to move out of his way. Tom gripped the armrests and pried himself out of his chair.

“Don’t forget your donut.” Bert pointed to the inflatable ring on Roy’s chair. The cop turned and picked it up, his face sour.

They were the last ones out of the plane; Tom and Roy had been required to fly with their guns locked up in the cockpit per FTA rules.

The moment Tom stepped onto the runway he had to squint against the glare. He’d never been to New Mexico before, but it was exactly like he’d anticipated. Hot, dry, sunny, with mountains in the distance. The authentic West. The trio walked to the terminal, which was minuscule by Chicago standards. A sign welcomed them to the ABQ Sunport, and the air conditioning embraced them like a close family when they entered.

Tom asked for directions to the front entrance, receiving them in a pronounced drawl from a steward. He didn’t have a cowboy hat to tip, but thanked the man just the same. The airport was quiet, serene, no large crowds or rushing people. It was unnatural. Perhaps there was some kind of sedative in the water.

“Hello!”

Dr. Harold Harper was stooped with age, tanned the color of mahogany, sporting faded jeans and a plaid shirt. He had a fringe of white hair encircling a bald dome speckled with liver spots. Tom knew his age to be seventy-two, but the doctor rushed to greet them like someone half that.

“Wonderful to see you! Let me look.” He grasped Tom’s shoulders and gave him the once-over. “My, it’s simply amazing. You could have just stepped off a two dollar bill. And Albert—” Bert got similar treatment. “The mustache and everything. Did you have the mustache before, or grow it once you found out? And who’s this?”

“This is Detective Roy Lewis. My partner.”

“Hello, Roy, nice to meet you.” He shook Roy’s hand. “Actually, I suppose this is our first official meeting as well.” He shook Bert’s hand, then Tom’s. “Harold Harper. Welcome to New Mexico. Do you have suitcases?”

“I do.” Bert raised his hand.

“The luggage return is this way.”

The elderly man took off at a quick clip, pointing out which airlines occupied which terminals, and where the restrooms and restaurants were, as if he were giving a tour of the Louvre. Bert’s bags were the first off the carousel, but he insisted on opening them and inspecting the contents before they could move ahead.

“How could anything get damaged in those things?” Roy was referring to Bert’s Samsonite suitcases. “Bet they’re heavy as hell.”

“These are classics. I don’t even know if they make them anymore with a hard shell like this. They’re waterproof, shockproof, and smashproof. Remember the commercial with the gorilla jumping on them?”

Outdoors again, the heat was like a hair dryer. Harold had parked close to the building, in a handicapped spot. He had a wheelchair sticker hanging from his rearview, but Tom couldn’t guess what his ailment might be. The man had more energy that a two-year-old on crack.

The good doctor drove an old Jeep Wrangler with no roof or doors, just a roll bar to protect them from the elements. It was what could charitably be called a four-seater, though the rear two seemed built for embryos. Tom attempted to climb in back but Harold stopped him.

“Please. Do me the honor of sitting up front with me, if you would.”

Roy shot him a look that would fry burgers, but Tom sat up front anyway. Bert played around with a bungee cord for several minutes, strapping in his luggage to the rear rack, while Roy placed his carryon between his feet and carefully positioned his donut. Harold took off before either had a chance to fully settle in. The doctor drove with the same sense of urgency he displayed while on foot. Traffic signals didn’t appear to be applicable to him, and twice he had to swerve to avoid collisions. Tom liked him immediately.

“The ranch is about ten miles out of Albuquerque. Used to be twenty miles out, but the town is growing pretty fast. It’ll reach three quarters of a million within the next few years, at the current rate.”

Tom noted that as America aged, it tended to homogenize.

Albuquerque could have been a suburb of Chicago—complete with strip malls, super markets, chain stores, and apartment buildings. The only difference was that every other vehicle was a 4 x 4. Tom checked the rearview, paranoid about being tailed. Rather than black sedans, he saw Bert sock Roy in the shoulder.

Bert grinned. “Slug bug green, no hit backs.”

“Why did you just hit me, fool?”

“Volkswagon bug, right there. Don’t you play the slug bug game?

Every time you see a VW Beetle, you hit the guy next to you and say the color.”

“You do that again, we play the physics game. I toss you out of the speeding Jeep and see how many times you bounce.”

Bert folded his arms, glaring. “What is your problem? Why can’t you have fun?”

“I have lots of fun.”

“You act like you have a saggy diaper that leaks.”

“Maybe you need to take your Shut-The-Hell-Up pill.”

“I dare you to stop being a grump ass.” Bert challenged.

“Fine—punch Bronco black.”

Roy slugged Bert in the shoulder. Bert’s eyes got wide. “What the hell was that?”

“I saw a black Ford Bronco, so I punched you.”

“That’s not the game. It’s Volkswagon bugs.”

“Now who’s the one that isn’t fun?”

Bert hit him back. “There. You didn’t call no hit-backs.”

“Fine.” Roy scanned for a car, then he smacked Bert in the back of the head.

“Head whack Cadillac yellow, no hit backs.