Christ Clone (27 page)

He left the prison, found the nearest motel, and checked in. The
Halfway Inns — or dissatisfied wives, as Barbara used to call them
— were a national chain. They were middle-of-the-road in terms of quality, price, and services. Malone didn't care either way. The motel was close, and that was almost all that mattered. He didn't have any bags, so once he'd been given his room key he made straight for the bar. The stale smell of spilt alcohol awakened his senses and his mind raced in anticipation of what was coming. He went up to the bar and seated himself on one of the stools near the far end. He ordered a cold
Heineken and a whiskey chaser; the drinks order rolled out of his mouth as naturally as saying hello. The barman placed the drinks on the bar and went back to slicing lemons. Both drinks sat in front of
Malone. Laurel and Hardy, he used to call them. The small fat glass of whiskey giving off its deep malt aroma made his mouth water, while the palate-cleansing lager in its slim green bottle stood tall beside it, beads of condensation rolling down its neck.

Malone's mind went through the confrontation he'd just had with his daughter's killer. Revenge was foremost in his mind. How could he get at Richins? He just wanted some time alone with him. Maybe he could do something illegal and get sent there. He shook this off, knowing that he'd have to do something equally as bad to get sent to that correctional facility. The only person I know — he told himself
— I could do something that bad to is Robert fucking Richins.

He thought about Mary and her abduction so many years ago.
Could I have prevented it? If only I'd taken more notice of her when she asked about the presents . . . maybe then she'd never have been taken by Robert Richins . . . maybe then Barbara wouldn't have been killed . . . maybe then I'd still be a priest . . . so many maybes. He rubbed his temples and looked at the drinks again.

My wife, my beautiful Barbara, is she up in heaven taking care of our daughter? It's a lovely thought, the two of them together, up there in heaven, up there with God. The image was quickly negated by anger.

To Malone, there was no God any more. How can there be a God, he asked himself, if this is what happens after all that I've given to him? The prayers and the devotion — my whole life given to religion.
To receive nothing but punishment, to have my wife and only child taken from me. If there is a God, he's an unjust God, an amoral God, a
God I want no part of. How can I believe in someone who took away everything I loved?

Angrily he grabbed his drink, ready to take a big slug. The brown liquid rushed around the glass and the ice clinked against its side; looking down at the ice he started to think about the sound it made, the clinking noise returning him to the prison and the sounds of steel doors and handcuffs.

'Is there something wrong?' the barman asked, interrupting his thoughts. He'd been watching Malone, watching the way he struggled to bring either of the drinks to his lips.

'No, everything's fine. It's just been a while since I've seen my friends.' Malone gestured at Laurel and Hardy.

Guessing Malone was a reformed alcoholic, the barman moved closer. 'I see my fair share of wagon jumpers here. The truth is pal, the ground is moving a lot faster than it seems. Probably fast enough to hurt when you hit it. Do you have a sponsor or a friend you'd like me to call?'

Malone smiled and put down his glass. 'I'm not an alcoholic . . .'
he started to say, but seeing the barman's knowing look, he stopped.
Pulling out the photo of his daughter, he placed it gently on the bar.
'I met her killer today.' He spoke so softly the barman could hardly hear. 'It's been over five years since I last saw her, and I've always hoped that maybe she'd turn up, maybe she just lost her way home, maybe the person who took her would let her go.' The maybes were filling his head again. 'But today, everything changed. Today I looked into the eyes of the man who killed her. And you know what?' He looked up at the barman with tears in his eyes. 'He is such a fucking lowlife that he wants to use the location of her body as some kind of bargaining chip, like she was nothing more than a baseball card to trade.' He blinked and cold drops of pain rolled down his cheeks.

The barman was dumbfounded. He looked at Malone and at the photo. 'She's a beautiful girl,' was all he could muster.

Malone picked up the photo and gazed at it. 'The funny thing is, I already thought I'd found the man who'd taken her, I was so sure . . .'

The barman just nodded with him.

Malone's tone changed. 'The prison guard said she'd lived for a reason, but she was taken so young what possible reason could her life have had?'

'I've heard about things like that,' the barman interjected. 'Sometimes it's not so obvious, sometimes it's not about the person, sometimes it's a direction that the person's life takes someone else. For instance, I heard of this guy who was a complete loser, you know, into drugs, had women on the streets, used to cap people who worked his patch, just a complete loser. Anyway, one day he'd just finished hustling down one of the side streets and bam! He's hit by this car.' The barman slapped his hands together loudly to emphasize the impact. 'The car came outta nowhere, screeching down the alley, hitting the guy full on. He didn't have a chance. The driver then loses control and hits a post; both men inside go through the wind-shield, killing them too. There was blood and mess everywhere.' The barman retold the story with gusto, waving his hands and making all kinds of crashing noises as he spoke.

'Turns out the two guys had just robbed a gas station and stolen the car to get away. The cops were all over 'em, but lost them about a block before they turned down the alley. In the back seat of the car was a little baby girl. Her mother had just filled the car with gas and was paying for it. She'd left the keys in the car.' The barman had become serious. 'The little girl was fine, and she was returned to her mother without a scratch — and all because of this lowlife in the alley. Who knows what would've happened to the girl if this guy hadn't been there? It seemed like his purpose in life was to save that girl.' The barman was proud of his story, but then it dawned on him that it probably wasn't completely appropriate.

'Listen, I'm not saying that . . .'

'That's fine,' Malone said. 'I get what you're saying — and thanks.'

Malone vacated the bar, leaving the untouched drinks and a big tip.
He had decided on a steak for dinner rather than a liquid meal.

Driving to the nearest steakhouse, he went over the day's events once again. His daughter was truly gone. The guessing was over, and he could now begin to mourn her passing. The two conversations he'd had — with the prison guard and with the barman — bounced around his head. They'd both made a point that refused to leave his mind.
Mary's life had a purpose, and it didn't necessarily need to be about her.

As he pulled into the restaurant parking lot, he slammed his brakes on. The purpose lit up his mind as brightly as the neon sign in front of him. Salinas' Steakhouse the sign read, boasting The Best Steak in the States!

But 'Salinas' was all Malone was seeing. It came flooding into his head like an epiphany. Travis didn't have
his
daughter — but he'd taken Mary Salinas!

It had been on his mind since the day Taylor called him on the boat, and today he was going to get a result. There had to be a mole in his corporation; Stemtex had simply been too quick to copy Travicom's technological breakthroughs for there not to be. So Travis had hired a private investigator recommended by Dale. He was an unassuming old guy but, according to Dale, he always got the job done.

At their meeting several weeks ago, the PI told Travis, 'If there's a mole, I'll find him.' The way he'd said it, softly but with such conviction.

Travis hired him on the spot. Sure enough, he'd called earlier that day saying he'd found the culprit and would bring the details. Travis checked his watch again. Almost time. He could hardly wait.

There was a knock at his office door and Taylor came in.

'There's a man at reception claiming to have an appointment with you; he won't give his name, and I've checked — you don't have any appointment booked.'

'Thanks darlin', Ah'll take it from here.' The man with the southern drawl brushed past her into Travis' office.

Taylor was about to protest when Travis piped up. 'That's fine,
Taylor. He's a friend of mine.' He turned to the man. 'Coffee?'

'No thanks, Ah'm just fine.'

Travis ushered Taylor out and closed the door behind her.

By the time Travis had turned back to him, the man had taken a seat on the couch, opened his case, and laid photos and documents out on the table.

'Like Ah said on the phone, Ah've found your mole. He works in your accounts department.'

Travis had taken a seat beside the man and picked up the photo of his senior accountant from the table. 'Craig Needham! Are you sure?
But why?'

'Sure as Ah'm sittin' here. Seems Mr Needham lives beyond his means. It's all there, bank details, phone records and, of course, photos.' He handed Travis another photo of Craig Needham and
Douglas Wainright III, the CEO of Stemtex, deep in conversation over dinner. 'There's plenty more of them,' he said pointing at the photo.
'As far as why goes, Ah guess you'll have to ask him yourself.'

Once again Travis stared at the photos. 'How did you get on to this?' he asked.

'It's what Ah get paid for,' the man said, tapping the side of his nose.

Travis pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket. 'I've added a small bonus for prompt service,' he said, handing him the package.

The man put it in his own case, and snapped the lock. 'Pleasure doin' business with y'all,' he said as he shook Travis' hand.

Alone again, Travis stared at the photographs. He was angry. He went to his desk and grabbed the phone, not knowing which one of the two men he wanted to deal with first. He looked at the photo of them eating dinner together — focusing in on Needham, wondering what Travicom secret he'd divulged that day.

'You filthy fucking mole,' he said as he dialled the Twins' number.
'Yeah, it's me, Travis. I've got a small education job, but it's urgent. It needs to be done today. Can you do it?' He paused for a reply, then continued, 'Great. One other thing. I want to be there.'

The Twin tried to argue, but Travis insisted. 'I don't care what you normally do — that's the deal!' He relayed the details on Needham and was told they'd call when they'd picked up the package.

He hung up and turned his attention to Wainright. You my friend, he thought, can wait till I find out how much you know.

Travis received the call in less than an hour; he was still in his office, trying to think of something to do while he was waiting. 'That was quick.'

'We aim to please.' The Twins were at the Pelican bar in Hollywood, and they had the package with them.

Travis took a cab straight there. The Twins were sitting at the bar when he arrived; they offered Travis a drink but he declined; his adrenaline had been building during the drive, and he was anxious to vent some aggression. 'Where's the package?' he asked, trying to keep his anger under control.

'In the car, out back.'

'In the car? Won't someone see . . . ?'

'Relax, he's out cold in the trunk. We're just grabbing some refreshment before school. Jack here has rented us his beer cellar for a few hours.' The Twin nodded at a heavily tattooed man at the far end of the bar. Not even lifting his head in acknowledgement, the man carried on reading his paper.

'Time to go to work, brother,' one Twin said to the other as he finished his drink and stood up.

'I'm right with you,' the other responded, a smile on his face.

With a quick look to ensure they were unobserved, one of the
Twins raised the trunk lid while the other lifted Needham. Travis was astonished at how effortlessly the man carried Needham's body under his arm, and how in tune with each other the two men were. Getting
Needham out of the trunk and into the cellar took a matter of seconds.

The doors were locked and Travis was handed a mask. He'd already decided he didn't want to wear one; he wanted to look into the face of his betrayer. Mickey Mouse's grinning face erased the last scraps of doubt about wearing a mask from his mind. 'I'm fine,' he said, handing it back.

Needham had been untied and was slouched on a chair in the centre of the room. His blindfold was removed, showing the full extent of the damage to his face.

'I told you to wait,' Travis said to the men.

'He was a bit of a fighter, unwilling to come with us peacefully . . . '

'. . . so we had to convince him,' the other brother finished the sentence.

'Okay, wake him up.'

Terry or Tony, Travis couldn't decide which, grabbed a Coors from a box, twisted off the top and took a swig — admiring the bottle as he swallowed — and then emptied the rest of the contents onto
Needham's head.

Needham sprang awake and tried to jump up. Terry, or Tony —
Travis thought they should wear name badges — pushed him back down.

'Good morning, Mr Needham, glad you could join us. Now we have a friend here who'd like to talk to you about some of your extracurricular activities.'

Travis leaned forward out of the dark. 'Hello, Craig. Seems like you've got yourself into a bit of trouble. Now this can go a couple of ways for you. Bad, or very, very bad. Which way are you going to choose?'

Through his blood-caked eyelashes, Craig struggled to see who was talking to him, but the voice was unmistakable. 'Mr Travis, is that you? What's going on, why have you . . . ooomph!'

Travis punched Needham in the stomach. 'Save it, Needham.
I know what you've been doing. What I want to know is, what have you told Wainright?'

'I don't know what you're talking about, I haven't told him anything.'

Travis punched him hard in the face. 'You're a fucking liar!' he shouted. 'Now tell me what you've told Wainright or, God help me,
I'll kill you right here.'

Needham tried to raise his hands to protect himself, but the Twins held them down. With blood pouring down his face and his head about to burst, he broke down. 'All right, all right, I'll tell you, just don't hit me again.'

Travis pulled up a chair as Needham told him about the projects he'd leaked to Wainright, the late night meetings, and the highly confidential information he'd managed to obtain and divulge.

Travis went over the projects in his mind while he asked questions.
With each answer he got a better feel for the projects Wainright was most interested in. 'So, from what you're telling me, aside from the
Steeplecap chip and the Methuselah anode, Wainright is only interested in the special projects I personally undertake?'

Needham thought for a moment. 'I hadn't thought about it like that, but I guess so, yes.'

Travis calmed himself for the next question. 'Does Wainright know about my current special project?'

Needham looked at the ground.

Travis grabbed him by the face. 'Look at me!'

Fear filled Needham's eyes. 'Yes,' he said, wincing.

'Shit!' Travis yelled. He paced around the room, thinking. 'Wait a minute! How did
you
find out about my project?'

Needham knew he had to tell all. 'Your personal accounts are like folklore in our department. Tales about you spending vast sums of money on special projects must have got to Wainright because he asked me to look into them. Several months ago I had to do some auditing for the research laboratory in Sorrento and as I was going through
Dr Androna's office I found some information on your current special project . . .'

'You stupid motherfucker!' Travis unleashed a barrage of punches, striking Needham's head and body. Each punch underscored a syllable.
'Don't — you — know — what — this — means? Stem — Tex — now
— has — all — the — da — ta — we — have!' He stopped again and grabbed Needham by the ears. 'So Wainright's had this information for months. Who knows what they'll do with all my cloning information.
They could jump ahead of us in the technology. He could go to the Cloning Federation and have us closed down overnight. He could blackmail me. We could all lose millions!' As Travis was speaking, the ramifications of Needham's treachery were dawning on them both.

As Travis thought about the real reason for the challenge and
Needham having potentially screwed up the whole thing, his rage shifted into even higher gear. Looking around the room, Travis spotted a monkey wrench and, without thinking, he grabbed it. Swinging it high above his head, he brought the tool down on Needham. The accountant's cry was silenced instantly as the heavy steel implement, narrowly missing one of the Twins, connected with Needham's head and shattered his skull.

All three men looked at the mess that had been Craig Needham.

'Guess we'll have to charge you a removal fee now!' Terry said. Or was it Tony?

Having cleaned up at the bar, Travis arrived back at his suite to change. He was still shaken up — from the adrenaline comedown, and by the 'what have I done?' factor. It wasn't the first time he'd killed someone, but guilt was kicking in all the same. He poured himself a large Scotch and went out onto the balcony. As he looked down at the city, he took a couple of big slugs of his drink — and thought about Needham.

He began with pity: Needham was just trying to make a buck and he took a stupid risk. Did he really deserve to die? But he moved quickly to justifiable homicide: the fucking weasel was stealing from me, he thought, after all I've done for him — but that's a minor point.
It was the fact that he was potentially screwing up this project. What did the bastard expect? A telling off?

This was the most important project of Travis' life, for personal more than business reasons. The amount of planning and preparation that had gone into this was immense. Travis had literally poured his soul into it, and to have it compromised by Needham was unbearable.
The more Travis thought about Needham's duplicity — and the potential for ruin — the happier he felt about his actions.

'Collateral damage — fuck him!' he said out loud.

He wondered if this was the way serial killers started out; the more you killed, the easier it became. He quickly dismissed this line of thinking as it exposed a nerve, an unrelenting ache that had tortured him through most of his adult life. Instead, he focused on his new predicament: what was he going to do about Stemtex, and in particular about Douglas Wainright?

Wainright was a man Travis had despised from the moment they first met at a communication awards dinner. Travis' company was quite new to the industry then, and although they'd been nominated for a small research award he hadn't expected to win, and sure enough they didn't. He'd been more interested in meeting his industry peers, and maybe exchanging some ideals or dreams. Looking back now, he couldn't believe how naïve he'd been. Of course, no one was going to talk openly about their visions for the future; visions turned into concepts, and concepts — however outlandish — drove Wall Street wild.

Stemtex took away most of the awards that year, everything from the most groundbreaking achievement to the ISO 9002 standard's most consistent performer. They even picked up the research award that Travis' company had been nominated for. After the awards,
Travis made a beeline for Stemtex's CEO. He wanted to congratulate him, and to see if some of Wainright's good fortune would rub off on him. He introduced himself as the founder of Travicom, an upcoming comms company.

Wainright looked at him as though he was a piece of dog shit on his shoe. With a huge cigar hanging from the side of his mouth, all he said was, 'Boy, in this industry, there's Stemtex and there's companies that wanna be Stemtex. If you're not with us, you're against us. My advice
— don't be against us!'

Wainright's words had stayed with Travis, giving him the drive he needed to research and develop long after other companies would have thrown in the towel.

Travis had done his homework on Wainright. He looked like an original fat cat, born and bred to the industry. But if you delved a bit deeper into his past, you found a trail of dodgy deals and ruined lives. Wainright had been clever though. While the damage was all around him, the links to him were tenuous. Just as cleverly, Travis had been following up on the little pieces of wreckage washed ashore, hoping one day to find the ship it was from and, ultimately, the treasure within.

If Wainright knew all about Travis' illegal cloning, it seemed to
Travis that Wainright held all the cards. With just one call to the World
Cloning Federation, Wainright could close him down — in fact, he was surprised his place wasn't crawling with officers already. Which meant that Wainright had other plans up his sleeve.

Travis knew he was cornered, but he also had an instinct as to how he would proceed. He sank the last of his drink and looked out at the city again, resolving to handle Wainright the same way he handled all his enemies — head on!