The Big Sheep (23 page)

She nodded glumly.

“Ritz-Carlton Priya,” Keane continued, “was considerably more agitated than you are at the possibility of some sort of conspiracy surrounding her. She was convinced somebody was trying to kill her.”

“So?” asked Priya.

“Fowler,” said Keane. “What is your assessment of the mental state of the Priya downstairs? Let's call her—”

“Palomar Priya,” I said. “She's been drugged, but I don't think she's doing well. She was on the verge of losing it at the hotel bar last night—assuming that was the same Priya—and she didn't show up for work today. I think they gave her a sedative because she was getting hysterical.”

“Does she think people are out to kill her?” Keane asked.

“Well, yes,” I said. I figured to err on the side of tact by not pointing out that people
were
trying to kill her.

Keane nodded. “What we're seeing is a progression,” he said. “Each clone has a different incept date. Ritz-Carlton Priya was born first, for lack of a better term. She also went nuts first. Palomar Priya is a little behind her on the crazy scale, but she's gaining fast. And then there's you, Peninsula Priya. You were brought in to replace Ritz, probably only yesterday.”

“What about the one I met in Griffith Park?” I asked. “Four Seasons Priya.”

“Not enough information to say,” said Keane. “Probably somewhere in the middle.”

Priya stared at him in horror. “So all my memories before today—”

“Somebody else's,” said Keane. “Well, your memories before your visit to the bad place are somebody else's. The ones after that are probably artificial implants. The fuzzy memories start at the point the original Priya's memories leave off. Priya Zero. Sorry, we don't have a hotel to name the original after.”

“Priya Zero,” Priya murmured. “But if that's true … what happened to her? Where is she?”

“No idea,” said Keane. “But she may be the one who sent that letter. The one from Noogus.”

“Letter?” asked Priya.

“Sorry,” said Keane. “I forgot you don't know. Ritz Carlton Priya showed us a letter warning about a threat on her life. That's when she told us about Noogus.”

“But, Keane,” I said. “The conspiracy is real. You can't blame her—them—for being paranoid.”

“Paranoia is a form of psychosis,” said Keane. “Whether or not it's borne out by the facts.”

I frowned. “You're saying the woman downstairs is crazy for thinking there are people out to get her, despite the fact that there actually are people out to get her.”

“The ability to correlate one's condition with external circumstances doesn't preclude the possibility of a pathological response,” Keane said. “It's perfectly natural to be paranoid if people are out to get you. It's also perfectly natural to hemorrhage internally when exposed to the Ebola virus. Neither condition, however, is optimal.”

“So the healthy response would be to remain ignorant, or delusional.”

“Depends how you define
healthy
. She'd certainly be happier.”

“Until she winds up dead.”

“That's true for everybody,” said Keane, with a shrug.

Priya listened to this exchange in silent horror. Finally she spoke: “You're saying I'm doomed to go insane.”

“There's a possibility that if we were to put a stop to Selah's plans and eliminate the other Priyas, you might live a relatively normal life,” Keane offered.

“What kind of possibility?” Priya asked.

“Fifty-fifty?” said Keane. “This isn't an exact science.”

Priya started to cry.

We got Peninsula Priya calmed down at about the time Palomar Priya woke up. Palomar seemed somewhat recovered from her ordeal and kept asking about the “woman who looked just like me.” We weren't going to be able to keep them apart for long inside our building, and there wasn't any other safe place where we could easily keep an eye on them, so we decided to bite the bullet and introduce them to each other. After the initial moment of shock, they both handled it pretty well.

“You know what the hardest part is?” said Peninsula to her double.

“Having somebody tell you that you're one in a billion,” replied Palomar. “Only to find out it's not true.”

“I'd give anything to go back to that life,” said Peninsula. “Just to be another face in the crowd, to forget all this.”

“A nobody,” said Palomar. “In a sea of nobodies.”

A sheep,
I thought, but I didn't say it.

An hour later they were watching TV together in the sitting room we had set up just behind the lobby. They had the same taste in shows, so that helped.

“Clones,” April murmured, watching the two of them sitting on the couch, eating popcorn together. “I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see it with my own eyes. And they each think they're the original?”

“They did until today,” I said. “Neither one of them knew about the existence of any of the others. They each have a complete set of Priya's memories. The death of her parents, being adopted, growing up in Arizona, coming to Los Angeles, auditioning for a bit part on one of Flagship's shows, becoming an international superstar. For all practical purposes, they are both Priya Mistry.”

“What are you going to do with them?” she asked.

“I haven't a clue,” I said. Keane had gone back upstairs to think, and we hadn't discussed our next steps. As far as we knew, neither of the women on our couch, watching bad sitcoms from the late twenties, was the one who had hired us, so technically we had no contractual obligation to either of them. Still, as much as I liked the idea of two identical, drop-dead gorgeous actresses lounging around the place indefinitely, eventually Selah's people were going to track them down. I couldn't even imagine what that showdown was going to look like, but I didn't see it ending well for anybody, except maybe Selah.

“I love this part,” said Palomar, enraptured by the program.

“Me too,” said Peninsula.

I shuddered. The whole thing was just too fucking weird.

On the TV, an actor spoke some inane pseudo-witticism, and the Priyas burst into laughter in time with the studio audience.

“Your girlfriends have terrible taste in shows,” muttered April.

“Shh!” I said. A chill ran down my spine as something registered in the back of my mind. “Rewind that part,” I said.

“Huh?” said the Priyas in unison.

“What that guy just said. Rewind it.”

Palomar shrugged and grabbed the remote, blipping thirty seconds back. I watched as a door opened, and the actor walked in. I didn't know his name; he was just some average-looking overweight comedian who had landed one big role on a short-lived sitcom and then was never heard from again. His claim to fame, such as it was, was a catchphrase that had briefly entered the national lexicon for a few months.
“Room for one more?”
he said. The audience went wild.

“Pause it!” I yelled. Palomar paused the program just as the show cut to a shot of three men sitting on a couch. “Jesus Christ,” I said. I had seen those guys before. “Keane,” I said into my comm. “Get down here. You need to see something.”

A few minutes later Keane irritably entered the room. Peninsula and Palomar weren't exactly pleased either. April was just plain confused. “What is it?” Keane demanded.

“Look at the screen,” I said. “Recognize anybody?”

He shrugged. “I think maybe that guy on the left has been in some muffler commercials. What do I win?”

“I guess you didn't get a good look at them,” I said. “We met those guys in a parking lot last night. The muffler guy shot Hugo Díaz. His name is Braden.”

“Oh yeah,” said the Priyas in unison. “Braden Warner.”

“And that guy next to him is Kevin … something,” said Palomar.

Peninsula nodded. “And I think the third guy's name is Corey.”

“No, Cody,” said Palomar.

Peninsula nodded. “That's right, Cody.”

“How do you know those guys?” asked Keane.

“I did a guest spot on this show,” said both of the Priyas. Then they stopped and stared at each other. “Three episodes,” they both added.

“When was this?” Keane asked.

“Four years ago or so,” said Peninsula.

“It was … before,” said Palomar. They shared a knowing glance. She meant she had been on the show back when she was still Bryn Jhaveri, before Selah made her into Priya Mistry.

“What clinched it was the catchphrase,” I said. I rewound the program so Keane could hear it.

“Room for one more?”
the guy said again. The audience burst into laughter once more.

“Hugo was making a joke,” Keane murmured. “He recognized them.”

“They didn't appreciate his sense of humor, apparently,” I said.

“Why the hell would Mag-Lev hire those guys to steal the sheep?”

“Beats me,” I said. “They probably work cheap.”

“What about the fourth guy?” Keane asked. “The one speaking the line?”

The Priyas shrugged.

“Don't know about him,” I said. “There were only three guys at the scene, besides Hugo.”

“All right,” said Keane. “Good work. See if you can find an address.”

April cleared her throat. “Are you guys going to tell me what's going on?”

“It's complicated,” I said. “But I think we just found our sheep thieves.”

“Good,” said April. “You can return the sheep to Esper and then focus on what to do about the Priya problem.”

Keane and I exchanged glances.

“What?” asked April. “What am I missing?”

“Keane sort of agreed to deliver the sheep to Selah Fiore,” I said.

“I thought you were supposed to return it to Esper,” said April.

“That too,” I said. “We've overbooked our sheep. So what'll it be, Keane? Who are we working for, Esper or Selah?”

Keane thought for a moment. “I don't particularly like being a pawn,” he said. “We're going to hold on to Mary until somebody levels with us about why everybody in Los Angeles seems to want this damn sheep.”

 

TWENTY

I found an address for the three actors; they were all living together in a small house in Culver City. Keane, Peninsula, and I headed over there in the aircar while April kept an eye on Palomar back at the office. I didn't want to leave April with both Priyas, so I called Roy and asked him to meet us down the street from the address. I still wasn't completely certain I could trust him, but we didn't have a lot of options. Peninsula seemed to know who Roy was, although it wasn't clear to me whether she had actually met him or had been brainwashed to think she had. It was all very confusing. I also called Pavel, mostly because he was the only person I knew who had a vehicle big enough to transport a three-hundred-pound sheep. What can I say? I'm an optimist.

The sitcom the three sheep thieves had starred in was called, imaginatively,
Room for One More
. It had aired for a single season six years ago, and seemed to be the death knell of the careers for everyone involved in it—with one exception: Bryn Jhaveri, aka Priya Mistry.

Room for One More
was one of the first shows produced by Selah Fiore's fledgling company, Flagship Media, and it was Bryn's first regular acting gig. She played the girlfriend of Braden's character, the best friend of the fourth guy, who found at least one opportunity every week to speak the show's insipid catchphrase. The fourth guy's name was Giles Marbury, and he seemed to have fallen off the face of the Earth after
Room for One More
went off the air. He didn't live with the other three actors and hadn't done any more acting gigs—at least not under the name Giles Marbury. Priya—that is, Peninsula Priya, and presumably the others—had no idea what had become of him. I got the impression from her that Giles had had a bit of a crush on her, but she didn't share his feelings. I supposed that characterized most of Priya's relationships with men though, even before she was made into a goddess.

“Are we really going to get a sheep?” asked Peninsula on the way to Culver City.

“That's the plan,” I said.

“Sometimes I dream about sheep,” she said.

“Me too,” I said. Keane raised an eyebrow at me, but I just shrugged. What the hell? It wasn't like I was telling her about the dreams I used to have about Sister Olivia at St. Stephen's.

“In the dreams, I'm the sheep,” said Peninsula.

“That sounds … disturbing,” I said.

“No,” she said quietly. “It's comforting. Nobody expects anything of a sheep. There's no running from one set to another, no autographs, no smiling when you don't feel like smiling, no strange hotels. It feels like … home.”

I didn't know what to say to that. Being a TV star must really not be what it's cracked up to be if the life of a sheep seems preferable.

It was dark by the time we got to the house. Pavel was waiting in his Suburban when Keane, Peninsula, and I arrived. Roy showed up a few minutes later, while I was peering through the window of the garage. I saw Mary the sheep inside, contentedly munching on straw. I didn't dare get too close to the house, but I saw some movement inside, so presumably the sheep thieves were home. The Nifty truck was parked on the street in front. I ran back to Pavel's Suburban, where everyone else was waiting.

When I got there, Roy was hugging Peninsula and weeping. Peninsula was bearing the giant man's affection with good grace. “I still can't believe it,” Roy was saying. “I had given up hope. I was sure you were dead.”

Priya smiled weakly at him. Roy didn't seem to notice she was a little foggy on who he was.

“Hey, Roy,” I said, slapping him on the arm.