The List (14 page)

“I’ll do fine by myself.”

Tom grabbed his arm. Bert dropped the suitcases and spun around, holding out his fists.

“You want some of this? I won’t put up with being bullied anymore.”

“I’m not bullying—”

“Bull! If it isn’t you, it’s him, or Jack the Ripper, or my father—”

“Bert, please. We need you.”

Bert blinked, some of the fire leaving his eyes. “You
need
me?”

“Roy and I were just suspended. Attila was taken by the FBI. For all we know he’s back on the street already. If someone doesn’t warn the other clones, they’re going to be killed.”

Bert’s face went from angry, to thoughtful, to angry again. “I want him to apologize.”

Tom beckoned his partner over. “Roy, come here and say you’re sorry.”

Roy folded his arms and pressed his lips together.

“Roy!”

Tom was bestowed with an evil glare, then Roy walked over to them, making it obvious he was in no hurry.

“I’m sorry, Bert.”

“Say I can use your toilet.”

“You can use my toilet.”

“And your towels.”

“And my damn towels.”

“Now tell me one thing that you like about me.”

“You’ve got to be yanking my—”

“Just kidding.” Bert smiled. “Apology accepted. I’m sorry too.

About the foot and the jaw thing. Self-defense course. It was just automatic. You okay?”

Roy’s features softened a notch.

“I’m fine. But I swear, it gets out that Einstein busted my lip...”

Bert held out his hand. Roy gave it a halfhearted shake.

“Okay, team—what do we do first?”

Tom winced at Bert’s enthusiasm, but the man was too excited to notice. “First, we locate that tracer in your suitcases and disable it.

After that, I’m not sure. We have to find the others, and we have to talk with Phillip Stang.”

“You think Stang was the one pulling the strings that got us suspended?” Roy asked.

Bert made a face. “Well, duh.”

“Then I’d like to go pay the man a visit.”

“He lives on a big estate in Springfield. Possibly guarded. He may not agree to see us, and we don’t have our badges.”

Bert frowned. “Stang can wait. If they’re planning on killing the others, we have to stop it. Or at least warn them.”

“How, Bert? Just call them up and say
, By the way, you’re a clone
of William Shakespeare and you’re being stalked by Jack the Ripper
?”

“So the others are just burgers at a fat farm?”

Tom had to think about that one.

“No, they’re not. We don’t even know who they are or where they live, yet. That’ll take some time. We can do it on the way to Stang’s place.”

“Harold’s records all burned up. How we gonna find them? Just call Directory Assistance, say we’re looking for Joan of Arc?”

Roy had a point. They didn’t even have their last names.

“Their Birth Certificates!” Bert snapped his fingers. “That’s how Jessup found me and you. We just get the birth numbers that came before us, and we’ll have their names.”

Tom nodded. “I’ll need an Internet connection. Do you think this town has an all night department store?”

They hailed a cab. Tom made Bert sit in front to avoid any more slugging. Their first move was to have the taxi driver circle the block three times. When it was obvious they weren’t being followed, they hit the nearest bank with a drive-thru ATM. The logic was sound—

whoever had the power to get them suspended could just as easily have their bank accounts and credit cards frozen. Tom and Roy each took out a few grand. When it was Bert’s turn, he waffled.

“Come on, man. You’re part of this. You have to contribute.”

“I’m okay.”

“You gonna pay for your plane ticket with a Luny Frog?”

“I have some cash. It’ll be fine.”

They didn’t push it.

The cab stopped at a 24 hour department store, and Tom went in and bought a portable laptop, extra batteries, and a Wifi card. He also got a fireproof lock box, and a replacement inflatable donut for Roy.

As they drove to the airport, Tom used a credit card to activate a new wireless Internet account. A few moments later, he was surfing the Cook County database.

“Dammit. I don’t have my birth certificate on me. I need the birth number.”

“Got mine.” Bert reached into his pocket and took out a blue piece of paper. Tom clicked on SEARCH and typed in 112-72-0040705.

Bert’s info came onscreen. Since Bert was number 6, and Jessup was 5, Tom typed in the same number minus two-- 112-72-0040703.

“William Masterton. I’m guessing this is Shakespeare.”

“Who’s next?”

Tom checked out number 3. “Joan DeVilliers. Joan of Arc.”

The person right before her was Robert Mitchell—Robert E. Lee, the cop who was impaled last year in Nashville. A damn shame. They sure could have used him right now.

“Who’s number 1?”

“Abraham Wilkens. Lincoln. Okay, those are the good guys. Let’s see about the enemy.”

Tom used the same trick, counting up instead of down, and found out Vlad the Impaler was number 8 and really named Victor Pignosky.

Arthur Kilpatrick came next, and then Jack Smythe, the Ripper.

All of the players now had names. It was just a question of finding them.

Roy frowned. “I think my donut has a hole in it.”

“Duh. Every donut has a hole in it.”

“Ha ha, Einstein. I mean I’m leaking air.”

“You probably don’t have the nozzle in right. Let me see it.”

Roy passed it to Bert, and Tom went back to the lap top. He started with Joan. Harold had mentioned she was a Hollywood producer. Tom tried the online Yellow Pages for LA and found over thirty listings for
DeVilliers.

Switching tactics, he got on an engine that searched magazines, limiting his field to
ENTERTAINMENT
. He discovered an article in Variety that mentioned Joan DeVilliers and her company, JDP. Back to the Yellow Pages, and he had a phone number. Tom saved the page.

Next up was Abe. Harold had said he was a used car salesman in Nebraska. Tom tried a meta-search engine this time, using the words
USED+CARS+ABE+NEBRASKA
.

The first hit was
Honest Abe’s Used Autos
. It was located in Lincoln, of all places. There was a large, captioned picture of Abe Wilkens, complete with beard and stovepipe hat, standing in the middle of a car lot. Did the guy know, or was he just playing up the obvious resemblance? Tom saved the info.

Shakespeare was problematic. Tom knew that he wrote ad copy, and that he got good grades in college, but that was it. Without a state or town, it would require some thinking to track him down.

“You have to push the nozzle all the way in, so it’s flush.”

Bert handed the donut back and Roy took a minute to adjust it to the proper position.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

How about that? Tom grinned. Actual civility.

“Next time push the nozzle in.”

“I pushed the damn nozzle in.”

“All the way.”

“Maybe I should push your fat head into your neck, all the way.”

“Don’t get mad at me because you’re too dumb to blow up a stupid tube. The instructions must have been killer: step one—blow it up, step two—push the nozzle in.”

The cabbie was all too happy to spit them out at the ABQ Sunport.

Tom tipped the driver exceptionally well. The group spent a good twenty minutes checking various terminals before finding a flight back to O’Hare. Before boarding, they commandeered a nice quiet table at a deserted cafe and tore into Bert’s luggage.

“Easy! Please!”

Bert played the frantic mother hen, gingerly putting the bubble wrap around each lure as fast as Roy and Tom could open them up.

“Hey, Bert.” Roy tossed him a feathered lure with the colorings of a mallard. “Duck!”

“Can we be mature about this, please? This all represents a rather large investment on my part.”

“Okay, let’s talk street value. How much is all this crap worth?”

“Current price guides put the collection at slightly over five hundred.”

“Not how many—how much?”

“That is how much.”

“Five hundred dollars?”

“Five hundred thousand dollars.”

Roy and Tom looked at each other, then back at Bert.

“You got a half a million in these two suitcases?” Roy’s voice was loud and squeaky.

Bert continued to wrap. “Yes. So please be gentle with them.”

“Hold on. Time out.” Roy made a T with his hands. “You got to tell us how you wound up with half a mil in old hooks.”

Bert sighed, looking annoyed. “When I got out of college, my dad gave me a check for fifty grand. I made some investments. In a few years, I was worth somewhere in the area of eight million dollars.”

Roy whistled. “That’s a nice area.”

“I had a big place, some cars. But all of my money was tied up in the market. It’s not like I had eight million in a bank account someplace. Turns out, that’s what I should have done. On October 27th, 1997, the market dropped 554.26 points. A 7.2% drop.”

“That’s not too bad. Seven percent.”

“That’s not quite how it works, Roy. It was the biggest crash in history. I lost everything.”

“Everything? How?”

“Most traders diversify—they put money in a little bit of everything to hedge their bets. If gold drops, corn will protect them.

But I didn’t do that. I wasn’t an investor. I was a niche trader. At that time, I had everything in technologies. They took the first hit, and dropped like crazy. I refused to sell, believing I could weather it. But there’s a stampede effect. One person gets scared, the rest jump on the bandwagon. In a few hours, every one of my stocks became practically worthless. By the time they shut the market down, I had about fifty grand to my name. The next day I lost that, along with the house and the cars.”

“Ouch.”

“I had to borrow money from my father. I think it delighted him.

Ever since I was a kid, he was trying to force me to be a scientist like him. When I decided to become a trader rather than a physics professor, it royally cheesed him off. It cheesed him off even more that I was so successful. I borrowed the money from him on the condition that I enroll in the graduate physics program at NYU. Instead, I took it and ran.”

“And the lures?”

“I wound up in Wisconsin. After finding an apartment and getting a cheap car, I only had about twenty grand left. I didn’t want to go back to the Market, so I did a little antique buying and selling to make ends meet. The biggest profits I made were on lures. You could find a Creek Chub Injured Minnow, new in the box, at an old bait shop for five bucks, then sell it for forty on the internet. As I made money, I bought more expensive lures. And now here I am, in a New Mexican airport, winding bubble wrap around my net worth while you two make fun of me.”

“And your dad?” Tom asked.

“I repaid the loan, but haven’t talked to him in two years.”

They finished sorting though the first bag and began on the second. Tom had no idea what a tracer looked like or how big it was.

While Roy continued to unwrap lures, Tom went through Bert’s toiletry bag. He found a toothbrush, a soap case, toothpaste, deodorant, another deodorant...

“Sweating problem?”

“Hmm? That one’s not mine.”

Tom popped the cap. A green stick stared up at him, smelling of pine. He tried to turn the dial on the bottom, but it didn’t budge. Using his fingernails, Tom pulled out the sliver of green and peered underneath, finding an electronic gizmo.

“Unless antiperspirants have become very high-tech, I think we found our tracer.”

He shook the contents onto his palm. It was a small bundle of wires attached to a circuit board.

“So that little thing can be tracked by satellite?”

“It’s like a mini cell phone. Probably transmits its location every couple of minutes.”

“Why didn’t the Foxhound pick it up?”

“The Foxhound scans from fifty megahertz up. Cell phones transmit below fifty megahertz. I thought everyone knew that.”

“Smart ass. So now what? Want to slip it in the pocket of some tourist going to Germany?”

Tom pulled the lead terminal from the lithium battery, effectively shutting the device off.

“I think I’ll save it. You never know.”

Tom and Roy helped Bert close up his suitcases. They took one more quick tour around the airport to make sure they hadn’t been followed, and then went into the men’s room. In the last stall, Tom wrapped his and Roy’s revolvers in toilet paper and locked them in the fire box he’d bought at the department store. He wasn’t sure if it was X-ray proof or not, anymore than he was sure if luggage was X-rayed at all. He figured he had a 50/50 chance of it getting on the plane. The only other choice was ditching the guns, and after the last few days Tom didn’t want to be unarmed for any longer than necessary.

They went to the front desk and checked Bert’s luggage and the box without incident. The steward announced their flight was boarding, and when Tom finally got in his seat he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

“Hey, Tom.”

He peeked at Bert with his left eye. “What?”

“What do you think will happen to all of those ostriches, now that Harold’s gone?”

“I have no idea. The state will do something with them. A zoo.

Sell them. Have a cookout. I don’t know.”

“Poor things.”

Tom closed his eyes again. Funny that Bert should be worried about the birds. Especially when there were so many other things he ought to be worried about.

Springfield

Tom cracked open a window, even though the weather was too cold for it. They’d cleaned up as best they could when they arrived at O’Hare, but they had no change of clothing and the last time any of them showered was Roy’s place two days ago. Even with a liberal application of Bert’s deodorant, Tom was feeling a bit rank.

They were on I-55, headed for Springfield and former Senator Phillip Stang. The trip was long and boring—there was nothing in the way of scenery but flat, featureless cornfields, and the radio was off limits because of an earlier Roy and Bert power struggle for control.