Christ Clone (19 page)

Viktor was startled into wakefulness by Aloysha's screams. The clone was sitting upright in bed with sweat pouring from him. His hands were cupped together, stretched out in front of his chest; he was staring at them in terror. Viktor rushed to his side and put his arm around him, trying to comfort him. 'It was just a nightmare — shhhhh,' he said, rocking the boy back and forth, trying to calm him by gentle persuasion.

'What's going on?' The tramp blundered into the room. 'I thought you were killing him,' he added.

'It's all right; everything is okay. It was just a nightmare.'

'What's wrong with his hands?' the tramp asked as he moved towards the boy.

Aloysha had put his hands against his chest, and the moonlight coming in through the window illuminated a large patch of blood on his shirt. Viktor pulled the hands away from the boy's chest to look at them; his palms were bleeding. Grabbing for the torch, he shone the light on the wounds. In the centre of both palms were deep lacerations, blood oozed from them, and Viktor looked at the tramp in bewilderment. The tramp raised his hands as if to say, I don't want to know, and backed out of the room.

Viktor focused his attention on Aloysha again. 'What happened?'
he asked, trying desperately to get a sense of reality back into the picture.

'I dreamed there were people screaming and yelling at me. They spat and threw things at me, sticks, fruit, stones, anything. The abuse was awful; I didn't know what I'd done. I didn't know any of them.
I, I . . .'

'Calm down, calm down.' Viktor rocked him again.

'Why did they hate me?'

'I don't know, I'm sure they didn't . . . don't.' Viktor shook his head, trying to clear it and refocus. 'Tell me what happened next,' he asked.

The clone drifted back into his dream . . .

'There's something heavy on my shoulder, cutting into it, I can feel it hard against the bone, I can feel the pain. But the crowd of people scares me, the adrenaline pumping around my body tries to blot out the pain and the jeers . . . now I'm on my back, the sun is beating down on me. The tears in my eyes mix with my sweat and it stings, it stings so badly that they start to close . . . I want to rub them but I can't move my arms. The more I try to move my arms, the more pressure I feel on them. I struggle to move, and then a knee slams onto my chest; through the dust and my tears I can see a man in uniform, he looks like a guard. I can hardly breathe, and I feel like my ribs are going to cave in. The aching in my arm muscles is really worse than the pain in my chest . . . I look to the left and see more guards on my arm, and they're tying a rope around it. Then it happens.'

Aloysha winced and tears began to flow.

'It's okay,' Viktor said as he pulled Aloysha's head into his shoulder and let him sob for a moment. His interest in the dream was overruled by his fatherly instinct to console the young man.

Aloysha pulled his head away and looked straight at Viktor. 'They hammered nails through my hands!' he yelled, and buried his head in
Viktor's shoulder again.

Viktor's mind was reeling, overwhelmed by the implications. How could Aloysha possibly know about this? Questions raced through his head. They pulled up short before one simple, stunning conclusion: I really do have the Son of God weeping on my shoulder!

Viktor was both terrified and elated. He wanted to scream with joy — and maybe bow in honour. But something else came over him, simple humanity maybe, and all he could think of was the frightened young man he had in front of him. There were so many questions, but
Aloysha had already been through too much. What he really needed now was rest. First of all though, Viktor felt he needed to pacify and comfort him. 'Would you like some hot chocolate?'

The young man's bloodshot eyes looked up at Viktor. 'Can I make it?' he asked in a nasal voice.

Viktor reached into his pocket for a hanky. 'Blow into this, and then we'll both go.'

Taking the cloth, Aloysha blew hard, making a noise like a trumpet.
The sound made them both laugh, and suddenly Aloysha's tears were happy ones.

'Well, now that you've alerted the whole neighbourhood to our existence, let's go and make that drink.' They chuckled together as they went down to the kitchen.

Donaldson, Rory, and Galbraith was a prestigious law firm located in the Los Angeles business district. Dale Galbraith worked with only one client, which didn't sound like a lot when he told people what he did, but this one client brought the partnership a considerable number of billable hours — particularly in patent filing — and had secured his place in the partnership. The client was Travicom, and specifically Mr
Simon Travis.

Dale was the perfect product of an Ivy League education. Coming from a reasonably well-to-do family, he'd coasted though Harvard
Law School finishing well above average thanks to his special gift — an almost photographic memory. Because of his background and excellent grades, Donaldson and Rory had targeted Dale to work at their firm, and from the moment he started with the practise he had worked diligently, confirming their choice. However, it was his serendipitous meeting with Simon Travis that really jump-started his career.

Dale often told the story. He'd been dressed in a tight-fitting, mustard-yellow top and a pair of black trousers. He was engrossed in a computer simulation game, and repeatedly hit the light-speed button to get more power.

It was Travis who had started the conversation with a fake Scottish accent. 'Ya cannae push it any faster, Jim.'

His concentration broken, Dale turned to see who had interrupted him and at the same time his ship hit an asteroid, ending the game.
Travis was wearing an outfit similar to Dale's, but with a red top.
Travis looked ridiculous, and this image, combined with the worst faux Scottish accent Dale had ever heard, changed Dale's irritation to laughter. He smiled and said, 'Then you'd better beam me up, Scotty.'

Travis apologized for distracting Dale, and introduced himself.

'Not
the
Simon Travis of Travicom fame? What are you doing here?' Dale asked.

'Just having a bit of fun,' Simon said.

Dale had exited from the simulator and they both moved on to the next exhibit.

The annual Trekkie exhibition had been huge that year. Thousands of people went through, and there were well over a hundred exhibitors.
They'd both looked at the life-sized exhibit of the teleportation unit, and then they started to discuss whether it could really be done.
Dale and Travis went from site to site debating the possibility of transporting people by defragmenting human atoms, but with only one of them speaking with any authority on the subject. Travis finally convinced
Dale that recent advances in technology meant it wouldn't be too long before it happened. Dale finally conceded after he realized he was debating the subject with an expert in the field. By the time they'd walked around the whole exhibition, not only had Dale become a believer in teleportation, he'd also picked up one of Los Angeles' most sought-after accounts.

***

Malone was up early pacing around the house. The information
Daniel uncovered had kept him tossing and turning most of the night.
As he poured himself another cup of coffee he decided he owed it to himself to at least explore the theory. He called Veronica at the
Missing Persons Office and told her that something had come up and he needed to take the day off. She thanked him for the call, and after asking if he was all right told him to take as long as he needed.

Malone took a cab to the building where Donaldson, Rory, and
Galbraith had their offices. After checking the directory, he took the elevator to the twenty-sixth floor. He had chosen lunchtime to call, hoping the receptionist would be on her break and luck was on his side; the reception area was empty.

A small sign read: Please ring bell if reception is unattended. Malone thought the bell looked like a small silver breast, its ringer poking through the top of the dome like a nipple. It chimed as he slapped his hand on it. While he waited for someone to respond, he picked up the company brochure and started to read.

A man dressed in a dark blue pinstriped suit came to the door of his office. 'Sorry, the receptionist must be at lunch. Can I help you?'

'I'm looking for a Mr Dale Galbraith.'

'That's me,' Dale announced smugly. 'What can I do for you?'

His cockiness faded after Malone introduced himself and stated his interest in the cloning challenge. 'You'd better step into my office,' he said nervously.

Folding the brochure and putting it in his pocket, Malone followed him into a small office made even more oppressive by the wall of burgundy and brown law books. Dale's desk looked tidy and professional.
The files on the desktop were aligned regimentally, and a green and gold desk lamp illuminated a laptop computer.

While Dale took a seat in a leather chair behind the desk. Malone remained standing. 'I'll ask again, what do you know about the clone challenge?'

Dale's face lost colour as his mind raced. What could this man possibly know about the challenge? 'I'm sorry. Please tell me again who you are.' He was stalling; this was his office, and he controlled meetings in here.

'My name is Michael Malone, and I guess I need your help.' Malone took a seat; making Dale Galbraith nervous wasn't going to help his cause. 'Five years ago, my daughter was abducted here in Los Angeles, and I know it sounds strange, but I think your website challenge is in some way connected.'

Dale's mind was racing. From the moment he'd agreed to be part of this project, thoughts of the clone's birth mother had bothered him.
He had settled on the fact that Travis had deep pockets and that some women — and men for that matter — would do anything for money.
And, he thought, the clones are in Russia and Germany. How or why would they use an American girl? Clinging to this notion, he managed to regain his composure. 'How does a student prank undertaken by five adolescents have anything to do with your daughter's disappearance,
Mr Malone?' Dale didn't look at Malone as he asked.

The words student prank bounced around in Malone's head.
Another wild-goose chase. 'A student prank? What do you mean?'

Dale watched Malone crumble. 'I'm not so sure I need to explain myself, Mr Malone. If you tell me exactly why you're here, I may be a little more forthcoming.'

Although deflated, Malone continued, 'Like I said, it sounds strange; in fact, in light of what you've just said, it sounds ridiculous.
Through a series of unusual links, I discovered that many of the relics associated with Christ's crucifixion have been stolen. This led me to the challenge to clone Jesus. All of the missing items are listed on your site.'

'I still don't follow.' Dale tried to look bewildered.

'You see, my daughter's name is Mary, and with all the religious connotations . . .' Malone trailed off.

'Ah, I get it,' Dale said, still not looking at Malone. 'You think someone has made use of your virgin daughter Mary, that she's given birth to the clone of Jesus.' Dale's tone was facetious, and as he spoke he watched Malone wince, as if he was biting into a lemon.

Dale knew he had the upper hand, and he went on. 'Well, Mr
Malone, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but a few of my college friends and I decided to see who could come up with the most outrageous website. And we wanted to see how many people would get suckered into believing that what we'd written was in fact, gospel. We were going to go to one of the TV networks to see if they'd sponsor some form of reality program . . . You know, the biggest internet sucker.
Truth is, my site was a bit too out there and it got very few hits
— and of those few, most came from Europe. Finally, those who did log on and enter into some form of correspondence quickly refused to believe any of it. So, until your arrival today, I'd forgotten all about it, but now that you've come along . . .' Dale stopped himself, realizing he may have gone too far.

Malone was quick to pick up the implication that he was the biggest sucker of all. He was angry. 'What sort of sick world do you live in, Galbraith?' His face had turned red and his hands had become fists.

'Please calm down, Mr Malone.' Dale was beginning to get scared.

'I've lost my daughter, and you think it's some kind of game?'
Malone pounded the desk.

'Sorry, Mr Malone. No, I didn't mean that at all. It was just an adolescent prank that wasn't supposed to offend anyone. I can see now how you could think it was in bad taste. But it was nothing more than a stupid challenge created by people who should have known better.'

Malone relaxed a little, his anger slowly subsiding. He took a deep breath. 'No, it's me that should be sorry, Mr Galbraith. Years of dead ends have got me chasing fantasies . . . and now pranks.' In an effort to ensure he wasn't thrown out as a complete madman, Malone felt he should explain himself further. 'Maybe my time as a priest has clouded my judgement, but it all seemed so logical.' Looking at
Galbraith's blank face, Malone decided to give up. 'I'm sorry I've wasted your time,' he said as he turned to leave.

Thoughts of other bereaved fathers in Russia and Germany flashed into Dale's head, quickly followed by a sense of shame at his lie about the website. 'That's fine, Mr Malone. Once again, I apologize. I'm sorry if my prank wasted your time. Good luck with your search for your daughter . . . for Mary. Rest assured we had no part in her disappearance.'
Dale sounded confident but once again he was unable to look Malone in the eye.

Malone sat in the cab feeling frustrated. He'd let his anger get the better of him. It had been a long time since he'd lost his temper, and he hated what he became when he did. He thought back to the days when he first started drinking. He was an angry man most of the time back then. If someone bumped into him in a bar, he'd start a fight.
If someone said the wrong thing, he'd start a fight. In fact, there was a stage when if he wasn't drinking and fighting he was either asleep or driving under the influence. To his credit, he'd been banned from more bars than he cared to remember; he'd even been banned from bars he couldn't remember being in.

His anger had helped him win fights he really shouldn't have, the adrenaline helping him to ignore the pain and go on to victory.
However, several years ago, on his usual drunken drive home, a fit of road rage overcame him. His lack of judgement caused him to lose control of his car and hit a bus stop, narrowly missing a mother and her young daughter. The six-month ban wasn't necessary to stop him driving, it was his overpowering fear of what might have happened that made him hang up his car keys. For some reason he couldn't explain, it quelled his bar rage too. His heavy drinking continued, but his friends always saw him go home in a cab.

As Malone went over the meeting with Galbraith, something didn't feel right. The lawyer hadn't been honest with him, Malone was sure of that. He went over the conversation again. Galbraith mentioned
Europe, and he'd said something about other people involved in the site, not just him.

What else did he say? What was the bit at the end about having no part in her disappearance? Malone turned the conversation over and over. The prank, the biggest sucker . . . Galbraith's voice filled
Malone's head. But in the end, the thing that really stood out wasn't what Galbraith had said; it was
how
he said it. 'No eye contact'
Malone said aloud. He wasn't a true believer in body language, but he did know that if a man can't look you in the eye when he's talking to you, he's hiding something. Galbraith is definitely part of this, I can feel it, he thought. But he also knew he was going to require Daniel's assistance to probe further.

Back at Headquarters, Daniel made Malone go through the conversation word for word. It wasn't much to go on, but from what he could glean, Daniel tried to match the similarities with what he'd found on the Web.

'He's an arrogant bastard . . . got a definite "my shit don't stink" air about him,' Malone said. He realized he was still a little wound up from the meeting.

'What does he look like?' Daniel asked.

'Stands about five-eight, slim build. Wait a minute, I've got a picture.' Malone fished the practise's corporate brochure out of his pocket. There were two pictures of Dale. The first was about the size of a passport photo. He was facing the camera and looked every bit the serious lawyer. His brown, almost black, hair was immaculately parted at the side, and he stared directly into the lens. The brochure introduced Dale Galbraith as a Harvard honour graduate, thirty-two years old. It said he was a gifted attorney who specialized in patent law, and also crossed over into intellectual property. He had a list of awards to his name. There was a slightly larger picture below, showing
Dale shaking hands with a taller man. Galbraith had a smile larger than life that seemed a perfect match for the saying the cat that got the cream.

The caption below the photo introduced Dale Galbraith with
Travicom's Simon Travis.

Daniel wondered if he would have been able to accomplish all that
Dale had, if he'd been given the same start in life. Then his admiration turned sour. 'Yeah, he does look like a pompous tosser,' he said, handing the brochure back to Malone.

Malone added up the things about Galbraith that didn't fit — in particular, his body language. 'He was really uncomfortable when I first asked him about the challenge. Most of the time he couldn't or didn't make eye contact. But the thing that's really got me thinking was the way he spoke about Mary. Surely he should have just said
"good luck with finding your daughter", not naming her specifically?
But it was the way he said "rest assured we've had no part in
her
disappearance".
It was just so peculiar.'

Daniel nodded, waiting for Malone to finish. 'I reckon it all sounds strange. I've done some digging around on Dale Galbraith too, while you were there. On the surface he seems pretty clean. Great education, good upbringing, went straight to work with Rory and Donaldson after Harvard. He made the headlines when he picked up the communication giant Travicom as a client. Nothing out of the ordinary, that's for sure. So I went back to the internet and rooted around some more.
I've been trying to hack into his website but I haven't got anywhere yet, it's really well-protected — much better than his law office one, which to me doesn't make sense. If it is just a hoax, then why protect it so well? If he's clever enough to have the knowledge to guard a website so well, then why not use it elsewhere? I think he's got some outside help with his site. Anyway, I have a hacking program running in the background and I'm sure it will crack it at some point.'