The List (7 page)

“I can’t remember them all. I think there was a Jane, and maybe a Will.”

Tom stopped at a red light and rubbed his eyes. Were they even his eyes? Or were they the eyes of a man who died two centuries ago?

“If—
if—
I buy into this cloning thing, and I’m Jefferson and you’re Einstein, we still have a big problem. Jessup is dead, that cop who is supposedly Robert E. Lee was killed last year, and both of us are next on the list. So who the hell is doing this?”

Bert frowned. “Tom, that guy who tried to kill me. You said he was Jack the Ripper?”

Tom nodded. “He called himself Saucy Jack. The Ripper called himself that in a letter to the police. He also mentioned he was a hundred year old mystery revealed. But the clincher was the echolalia.”

Bert raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“It’s a speech impediment, when you repeat back what was just said to you. A famous Ripper suspect by the name of Joseph Barnett had this disorder. He was a fish porter who dated the last woman the Ripper killed. Most enthusiasts think Dr. Francis Tumblety was the Whitechapel killer, but I think there are too many holes in that theory.”

Roy shook his head. “It was Tumblety. The guy kept jars of female uteri in his closet.”

“Tumblety was fifty-five years old. How many serial killers over fifty have you heard of?”

“I don’t mean to interrupt here, but you two know so much about the Ripper because...?”

“Police Academy. Mandatory course on suspect elimination. We had to study the Ripper case files and write reports about who we think did it.”

“And you think that guy was Jack the Ripper?”

“If all this cloning stuff is for real, it’s a possibility.”

“Could be.” Roy shrugged. “But if it was, it was Tumblety, not that fish porter cat.”

“So who was that other guy with all the tattoos?”

“His name is Arthur Kilpatrick. He has a number 9 on his heel.”

Bert leaned back and folded his arms. “Arthur... Arthur... what famous historical figured were named Arthur?”

They all thought about it for a moment.

“King Arthur,” Roy said. “He had a sword too.”

“Arthur Conan Doyle. The creator of Sherlock Holmes.”

“Arthur Treacher. The fish and chip mogul.”

Roy pulled a face. “Good one, Einstein. They clone Jefferson, Lincoln, and Arthur Treacher.”

“It’s better than King Arthur. He wasn’t even real.”

“Sure he was. Didn’t you see
Camelot
?”

Bert rolled his eyes. “Oh, that’s some good proof right there. That explains why he broke into song and dance.”

“Maybe I’ll dance a number on your face. Do an E equals MC ass whupping.”

“You know, you’ve got some major issues, Roy.”

“
I’ve
got issues?”

“You’ve got a whole subscription.”

Tom made the decision right there to never have children.

“Here’s the Hyatt, thank God. We’ll pull up to the lobby. Bert and I will wait in the car. Roy, you run in and get his stuff.”

“I should have two suitcases full of lures. Make sure they cleared out my booth. I want receipts. Don’t touch or break anything.”

Roy gave him a look that would wilt flowers. Tom parked in front of the main entrance and turned off the engine.

“Call if there’s trouble.”

“The hotel should have an inventory list.” Bert said. “Don’t forget it.”

Roy frowned. “Hundred fifty years of freedom, and the black man is running to get the white man’s bags.”

He got out of the car and took a good look around before heading into the lobby. Tom put his arm over the back of the seat and faced Bert.

“Can you please stop antagonizing my partner?”

“It’s not me. It’s him. I think he hates me because I’m Jewish.”

“That’s completely untrue. Race is not an issue with Roy. He hates everybody equally.”

Tom turned back around just as his side window splintered. A sharp cracking sound filled his ears, the wind ruffling the hair on the back of his head.

“Get down!”

Tom lunged onto the passenger side, digging out his Glock. He chanced a look at the driver’s side window and saw a spider web pattern with a one inch hole in the center.

Sniper rifle. High caliber—it punched through the glass, clean.

Something slower would have shattered it. He looked in front of him and saw a divot in the upper portion of the passenger door. Based on the angle, whoever was shooting at him was higher up. The hotel was shaped like a big U, so he was probably in one of the rooms on the opposite side.

Tom considered starting the car and driving out of there, but he’d have to turn around, which would give the shooter a full front windshield to shoot through. And Tom was a big target.

“Stay down, we’re going out the right door.”

“Was that a bullet?”

Another hole materialized in the glass. The driver’s headrest jerked back violently.

“Move!”

Tom tugged at the handle and pulled himself through the passenger side. He helped yank out Bert with his left hand and then closed the door, staying low. There was a loud
bang.
Tom hadn’t heard any previous shots, assuming a silencer was being used. When the front end of the Mustang began to sink forward he realized a tire had been shot out. Tom called Roy’s cell phone.

“Yo.”

“We’re pinned down. Sniper fire. He’s in one of the rooms on the second or third floor, east side of the building.”

“I’m on it.”

Another
bang.
The rear tire. Tom opened the door and climbed back into the car, keeping under the line of fire. He took a deep breath, focused his concentration, and then he snatched the rearview mirror, yanking it off its base. He slunk back out of the car, mirror in hand.

“Stay behind the rim,” he told Bert.

Tom crawled over to the front of the car, staying below engine level. He angled the mirror over the hood, looking for the sniper. He checked the windows on the second floor, one by one, hoping to spot movement or the glint of a telescopic sight. Nothing. He went room by room across the third floor and didn’t find anything either. Strange.

“I haven’t made peace with my family,” Bert said, his head covered in his arms. “I can’t die without making peace! There are things that need to be said!”

Tom ignored Bert’s apparent breakdown, and tried to concentrate on the windows. Why couldn’t he find the shooter? Tom started again on the second floor, trying to think like a sniper. A professional wouldn’t be leaning out the window. A pro would be several feet away from the window, in a dark room. Tom located him near the end of the building. A window open just a few inches. No one else would have a window open in this weather. He dialed Roy.

“Second floor, third room from the last.”

“Almost there. I’ll leave you on. Stay quiet.”

Tom put his finger in front of his lips, warning Bert to keep silent.

He turned up the volume on the cell phone, keeping both eyes on the window.

“Police! Open the door!”

In the room Tom saw a muzzle flash.

“You want some of this?” Roy’s voice, angry.

The gunshots could be heard without the cell phone, six in quick succession. Tom watched as the window flew open and a black clad figure crawled out with a rifle.

“He’s out the window!” Tom yelled into the phone. And then he was up and sprinting across the parking lot. The sniper dropped, landing in some bushes. He noticed Tom advancing and raised the rifle. Tom veered to the left and dove into the bed of a pickup truck. A bullet pierced the sidewall and missed his leg by inches.

More gunshots. Roy from the window, firing down. Tom chanced a look and saw the figure running alongside the building and cutting around the corner.

“Tommy! You okay?”

“Yeah.” Tom hopped out of the truck and held the phone to his ear. “He went around. I think it was our friend Jack.”

“Be right there.”

Roy went out the window feet first and dropped to the ground, landing on his ass.

Tom ran over to his partner, helping him up.

“You okay?”

“No. Sweet merciful Jesus! Something’s stuck!”

Roy turned around, a large branch sticking into his right butt cheek. “Oh shit. Pull it out.”

Tom winced. “We should wait for the doctor.”

“Goddamit, Tom! Pull this goddamn stick out of my ass!”

Tom gripped the stick and tugged hard. It had been buried two inches in Roy’s backside. The blood came freely, soon soaking Roy’s pants.

“Should have left it in. I’m calling an ambulance.”

“I’ll do it. Go after him.”

Tom nodded and ran to the corner of the building. He peered around cautiously. No sign of him, but there were plenty of cars for cover. Tom suddenly felt naked and out gunned.

“Do it,” he told himself.

He ran around the corner, going in low. Low saved his life. The bullet grazed his scalp, taking off several layers of skin. Tom hit the ground and rolled behind a Nissan, bringing a hand up to the wound. It came away bloody, but there was no pain or disorientation. He crawled past the car and jogged in a crouch around the perimeter, trying to get behind the shooter. Tom ran by five cars before he saw him, crouched next to a red Buick. It was Jack, all right. And the son of a bitch was actually smiling.

Tom fired a quick group of four shots. It was a fair distance, and there was a light wind, but at least one of the bullets found its mark.

Jack howled and rolled backwards out of sight, leaving his gun behind.

Tom sprinted to the spot and scanned all directions. Too many cars, too many places to hide. Tom wiped some blood out of his right eye with his sleeve and picked up Jack’s rifle by the barrel. Then he began walking through the parking lot, searching behind and under cars.

His cell phone vibrated. Tom answered.

“You okay?”

“I hit him, but he’s gone. Got his gun.”

“Bert’s missing.”

“Hell. Be right there.”

Tom jogged back around to the front of the building. Roy was by the Mustang, holding his ass.

“Tommy, you’re hit.”

“A graze. Did you see Bert?”

“Got here, he was gone. Paramedics on the way.”

Two black and whites, sirens wailing, pulled into the parking lot.

Tom let Roy deal with them. He holstered his gun and ran into the lobby. A crowd of gawkers had gathered, parting as the frantic, bleeding man rushed in. He weaved through them, looking for any sign of Bert. Had Kilpatrick been there as well? Had he grabbed Bert while Tom and Roy were being distracted by Jack? Tom felt sick. Bert was annoying, true, but he’d been his responsibility. If anything happened to him...

Tom found Bert next to the front desk, kneeling by a suitcase and going through the contents.

“I got my lures,” Bert said.

Tom wiped more blood out his eye and imagined the satisfaction he’d get if he pulled out his Glock and emptied a clip into Bert’s lures.

He restrained himself.

“Come on.”

Bert grabbed his cases and they made their way through the crowd, back into the parking lot. The number of squad cars had tripled, and Roy had organized a quick search party for Jack, uniforms fanning out through the rows of cars.

Tom felt the top of his head, which was now starting to throb. An inch lower and they would have been scooping up his last thoughts with evidence spoons.

He approached his Mustang, frown deepening. It would need two new tires, a new window, and a new headrest. Perhaps they could stick the rearview back on.

“What happened to your head?”

“I got shot, Einstein.”

“I don’t like it when you and your partner call me
Einstein
. It comes out sarcastic. Where’s the guy with the gun?”

“He got away. Who knew you were staying here, at this hotel?”

“No one. Just Jessup.”

“How did they know you’d come back for your lures?”

“I dunno. Lucky guess?”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“How could I tell anyone? I’ve been with you the entire time. We went from the hotel to the hospital, and from the hospital back here.”

Tom thought it over. It wouldn’t take long to set up a sniper in a vacant room, but how could Jack have known they were coming back for the lures? Was he just waiting around, hoping for the off chance?

Unless Bert told someone, or...

Tom patted his pocket. The Foxhound bug detector hadn’t been lost in the chase. He flipped it on and pointed the antenna at his car. It blinked and buzzed like a slot machine. Tom popped the hood and waved the antenna around, trying to get a fix. He found the bug taped to the side of the battery. The microphone snaked through the heat duct and led to the dashboard, and a line ran through his own car antenna.

No wonder his radio didn’t work.

He slammed the hood closed. They’d violated his car. His personal space. And by using his own car battery and antenna, the thing probably had a range of miles.

Tom went over to Roy, who was being led into an ambulance by some paramedics. One of them, a large white guy with a beard, began to undo Roy’s belt.

“What the hell are you doin’?”

“I have to take off your pants.”

“Damn. Aren’t there any cute girl paramedics on duty?”

“No.”

“Don’t need to be so anxious. You’re too anxious.”

The medic looked at Tom. “Sir, you’d better come as well. We should take a look at that head.”

Tom sat down next to his partner as a second medic attended to his head wound. He kept his voice low, no longer sure if everything he said or did was being monitored, and said to Roy, “The Mustang was bugged.”

“When did they have time to do that? Case started only two days ago.”

“That’s the thing. It was hooked up to my car antenna. That’s why my radio doesn’t work.”

“So?”

“So, my radio hasn’t worked for about three months.”

Roy blinked. “Dammit, Tommy. What the hell have you gotten into?”

Chicago

“Help a brother blow up his donut?”

Roy held out the inflatable seat cushion, shaped like a small inner tube. The hospital said he’d need to sit on that to avoid ripping his stitches.

“No problem. Thanks for letting us stay here. I didn’t want to go back to my place.”