Fountain Society Part 8

"Early to bed, early to rise?"

"Yes, except when... Well, it's my natural pattern." Elizabeth relaxed a little. Beatrice had a decidedly benign look on her face, just like the physician she had once been. A bedside manner, as people said of doctors. "Oh. and when I get up, I know what time it is, without-" "-looking at the clock," Beatrice said quietly. "Plus or minus five minutes."

Beatrice smiled. "So did I. Fascinating. Tell me about your parents." Her request was said in a monotone, but Elizabeth felt a chill. This was the doctor-scientist talking. "My dad died when I was young." "Did you worship him?" Beatrice asked bluntly. "Yes," said Elizabeth, her heart doing somersaults. "You, too?" "I had a real blind spot. I used to think men were perfect, if you can believe that. Now we both know better, don't we?" Beatrice's smile grew more tender, not doctor like at all. Maternal was the word that sprang to Elizabeth's mind. "Tell me, do you jog?" she asked.

"Not so much since I wrecked my knee."

"It's not good for you anyway. Around fifty, you'll start to see arthritic changes." "Thanks for the warning," said Elizabeth. "Do you drink?" Beatrice asked.

"Only my share."

"Tequila, I've found, helps me through a mild depression. Do you like to work on the weekends?" "Not if I can help it."

"That's good. I admire that. Dolce far niente-I've never been able to achieve it. Much too driven. Too excitable. Do you find that?" "Only where men are concerned."

"That's us, in a nutsh.e.l.l," Beatrice said, and sighed. Elizabeth had to smile. Whether arrogantly or ignorantly, she realized, this woman had given her her life-flesh from her flesh-and now she had saved it. And the man at the window, shooting occasional glances back at them, was husband and lover to both. That's nothing, she thought; Beatrice is both my mother and my twin. "If I live through this-" "-you're going to write a book," said Beatrice, antic.i.p.ating her thoughts. "Yes."

Beatrice touched her hand. "I can't imagine what you're going through, really, but I do know you will live through this. I promise you. How can you promise me anything? thought Elizabeth. "We're going to see to it. Peter and I." "Not just keeping your options open?"

Beatrice shook her head vehemently "I swear, no. "I needed to ask."

"You don't have to take my answer on faith. Think about yourself: are you a devious person?"

Elizabeth smiled faintly. "I haven't had your education." Beatrice laughed. "You're right-the worst criminals are the educated ones!" Then she grew serious. Her gray eyes bore into Elizabeth's and Elizabeth felt something deep inside herself click. A key into a lock, a modem achieving uplink, a puzzle accepting a last, long-lost piece-that's how it felt to her. "I don't want your body for my brain, Elizabeth. I think the whole idea is obscene." "Now you do?"

"I won't insult you with excuses.

Elizabeth moved her hand away, ostensibly to brush her hair from her face, but mostly because she was uncomfortable with such closeness. What fate had these two contrived for them now? What was waiting in New York? She felt the fear creeping back, but oddly, this time it wasn't quite as threatening. Now at least she had someone to talk to. "How many people is this Wolfe guy planning to clone?" she asked. "As many as he pleases. If he gets his way," Peter said, this time joining in. "And who chooses the subjects? Him?"

"Until he's in full control, he'll have to accept advice. Check the guest list at the White House for the past few years. "That's a frightening thought."

Beatrice nodded. "Then there's the matter of spare parts, of course. "I read something about that. I thought it was science fiction- bodies warehoused just for you." "It was yesterday's science fiction. Which is today's realityproprietarily cloned harvest bodies, all higher brain functions removed, just waiting until you need a kidney or a lung or a heart or a bone marrow transplant." "Or specialty units of killer soldiers," said Peter, really into it now "Cloned from genetically manipulated eggs that favor extreme aggression. Or how about dulled-down, worker-bee laborers who will happily work for Third World wages? And then, when cryogenic technology catches up, they'll deep-freeze world heroes, hold them for fifty years until history has a chance to evaluate them-discard the ones who don't stand the test and clone the ones that do." "And once all this looked good to you?" Elizabeth asked. Beatrice shot her a look. "I was never that kind of visionary." "That was Wolfe," said Peter. "He never asked should we?' It was always just can we?"' "Well," Beatrice said, "the fact is that I was willing to bend a few moral rules when it came to Peter and me." Peter nodded. "That's the scary part. What we did, despite misgivings." He got up and went to the rest room. Elizabeth watched him with concern, then looked back to Beatrice, who was looking even more grim now that Peter was gone. "We have to put a halt to this, Elizabeth. And we need your help." "Why should I help you?"

"Good question," Beatrice said, without sarcasm. "First of all, if it weren't for our protection, you would now be in a semi coma on your way back to Vieques to have your brain scooped out. Second, because you didn't really want to leave Peter." Elizabeth began to protest, but Beatrice reached out and touched her hand. "I know you. I know your feelings. They're mine, too." "Listen," said Elizabeth, her eves flashing, "just because our DNA is identical, it doesn't ent.i.tle you to read my mind." "It doesn't take a mind-reader. You can't take your eves off him." Elizabeth opened her mouth to say something, then didn't. Or couldn't. Beatrice nodded, as if a pupil had finally understood a mathematical equation. "Now, did Alex Davies ever mention New York?" "No."

"He didn't hint about other people who might be in danger?" "We were only in his car for a few minutes before we crashed. We were being chased and shot at. Conversation was pretty much limited," "And the e-mail?"

"It was just a bogus invitation for a free hotel room in Vieques. Absolutely nothing personal." She glanced up as Peter rejoined them, "And when you didn't show up at the hotel, did he try to e-mail you again?" "No," said Elizabeth.

"Are you sure? Have you checked?"

"No, I haven't checked," Elizabeth admitted. Peter pointed down the aisle. "There's a guy up there with a laptop: 26B. And there's an empty seat next to him." He looked at them both. "Worth a try," Beatrice said.

Nothing like being double-teamed, thought Elizabeth. "This is all we're asking you to do," said Beatrice. "When we get to La Guardia, you're free to go your own way. Not that we're recommending it." Some people lead normal lives, thought Elizabeth. Thanks to molecular biology, I'm not one of them. She left her seat and went down the aisle to row 26, where a pink-faced man was playing Tetris on his laptop. She went past him, then pretended to double back. "Is that a Toshiba?" she asked.

"Sure is," he said, not taking his eyes off the screen. "Happy with it?"

"The best."

"What kind of modem do you have?"

"Fifty-six baud," the man said. He put the game on pause and looked up. Scoped how pretty she was. "Wanna check it out? Sit." He held out his hand. "Darlington-Frank Darlington." She shook his hand and sat down beside him. "Heidi Boone," she said. "Is it true those things can check e-mail over airplane telephones?" "Oh, yeah, sure is. Duck soup. Want to check your e-mail?" She shook her head demurely. "Oh, I couldn't. It would be a long-distance call." "No, it's just a local."

"To Switzerland?"

"Sure."

"No way."

"Waay," he said, taking out a patch cord. He plugged one end of the cord into the laptop and the other into the telephone on the seat back in front of him, then logged onto AOL and clicked on MAIL. Elizabeth gave him her address, SwissMs at the International Access branch of CompuServe.com, and he pa.s.sed the laptop over. Her hand shook as she checked her messages. "Don't be scared, Heidi. It won't bite," Darlington said. To afford her some privacy, he picked up a copy of Business Week. There were a dozen pieces of mail for Elizabeth, including three from the Helvetica Agency. But the last was from IslandMan.

Subj: C8 Date: 99-03-24 From: [email protected] To: [email protected] lAccessCornpuServe.com Re: Phillip C. Kenner // 10 West 65th Street Apt. 7E // New York, NY 10023 (212) 724-1386.

d.o.b. Aug. 2, 1966 YOU HAVE TO WARN THIS GUY, HE DOESN'T CHECK HIS MESSAGES. GOOD LUCK, AD.

PS: IF YOU'RE READING THIS I'M MIA, SO TOO BAD WE.

DIDN'T GET TO HANG. I THINK WE WOULD HAVE HIT IT.

OFF. YOU'RE THE ONLY ONE WITH b.a.l.l.s, THEY'RE JUST.

BRAINS ON A STALK. f.u.c.k GRAMPA WOLFE AND VIVE LA.

REVOLUTION !.

PPS: DELETE THIS MESSAGE AND DON'T GET DELETED.

YOURSELF. IF BEATRICE IS WITH YOU SHE'S OK, IF NOT.

SHE'S NOT. PETE JR. IS FLAKIER THAN BETTY CROCKER.

BUT ANY PIE IN A STORM. DON'T TRY AND FLY SOLO,.

YOU'LL END UP IN A s...o...b..X. THUS SPAKE ZARATHUSTRA.

She read the message twice over, memorizing it, then deleted it from the screen and from RECEIVED MAIL. "Thank you, this was so great of you," she said and returned to her seat. Darlington went back to his game, a little disappointed. Elizabeth turned back halfway up the aisle to make sure that he had. Rapt, Peter and Beatrice listened as she gave them Phillip Kenner's address, omitting Alex's postscripts. "So Alex is alive. Thank G.o.d."

"We're going to warn Kenner, right?" said Elizabeth. At the "we," Beatrice and Peter exchanged looks. "We have to do more than that," Peter said. "If Wolfe suspects that Kenner's been warned, he'll move on him immediately." "So what do we do?" said Elizabeth.

"Blow the whistle," said Peter, "on the whole d.a.m.n operation." "How? They'll just deny everything."

"Not if we have the clone," Beatrice said. Elizabeth's eyes grew wider. "Take him to Mike Wallace, if we have to," said Peter. "As soon as we see him, we'll know whose clone he is, and we'll challenge them to do a DNA comparison on both men. "But Wolfe will claim the clone is that person's identical twin," said Elizabeth, "from a frozen embryo." Then she interrupted herself, even more intrigued. "No, wait, he can't do that. They didn't have freezing technology that advanced when he was born, did they?" "Bright girl," said Peter, with a nod at Beatrice. "Don't patronize," said Elizabeth.

Beatrice raised an eyebrow. "Good luck. I've been trying to make him stop that for a lifetime." "Getting back to what's important here," Elizabeth said. "What if Kenner doesn't believe us?" "Then we had better stow away on the s.p.a.ce shuttle," Peter said. "There certainly won't be anywhere on this planet where we'll be safe. Whoa," he added, as the plane slammed through an air pocket. Elizabeth saw him reach for Beatrice's hand, and then Beatrice grabbed for hers. They all held on to each other while bells chimed and the flight attendants made their way down the aisle, holding on to seat backs for support while they checked seat belts. "I forgot to ask about phobias," said Beatrice. "Spiders, yes," said Elizabeth, "flying, no." "Fascinating," said Beatrice. "So there are differences." "Maybe nature hates to repeat itself" Elizabeth said gamely. Beatrice nodded, "It does," she said fervently, as she held Elizabeth's hand in a viselike grip. "Thank G.o.d."

NEW YORK CITY.

They got through La Guardia easily enough, but the ride into Manhattan was another story. It was rush hour and the President was making a fund-raising appearance at the St. Regis. And so with half the city shut down and the Long Island Expressway a parking lot, it took the cab two hours to get from the airport to the Upper West Side. Included in the trip was a stop in Queens to buy another Combat Folder and can of mace, which a reluctant clerk in a sporting goods store produced for a fifty dollar bill with a warning that it was illegal. They ended by driving up Eighth Avenue, coming around Columbus Circle to Central Park West and stopping on the Central Park side at 65th Street. They were about to cross to the residential side when Peter motioned them back behind a parked van. "Dammit," he said.

On 65th Street, just about where number ten would be, two men bolted from a building and into a shiny black Town Car. "Wolfe?" said Elizabeth.

They watched the vehicle speed toward Columbus Circle. "And Henderson," said Beatrice. "Henderson?" said Elizabeth.

"The money and the muscle. d.a.m.nation," said Peter. "Easy," said Beatrice, guessing his pulse rate. "Maybe Kenner wasn't at home," said Elizabeth. "Let's hope," said Beatrice. "Peter, you're not having another episode?" "No," said Peter. "I'm just a little worried, that's all." "Try to stay calm," said Beatrice. She led them out of hiding and they crossed Central Park West, Peter bringing up the rear, watching the two women. On the plane, he hadn't been able to stare at them without drawing glares. So now he stole a moment to savor them. They had formed a kind of bond, as if he was some sort of unpredictable child who needed looking after and they were increasingly willing to do that. But as they approached the building, his smile disappeared. Now, he thought, it's real time. The number was ten, all right. The building, a little island of shabbiness in a sea of prosperity, was without a doorman. The inner door was locked, the gla.s.s soiled, but Peter could see through enough to know there were no signs of life in the first-floor corridor. Just an umbrella by the stairs, a few muddy footprints and what looked like a single pigeon feather. He scanned the intercom panel. It was etched with graffiti and did not bear the name Kenner. Peter hit the b.u.t.ton for 7E. There was no answer.

"Should we ring the super?" Beatrice wondered aloud. "And say what?" said Peter. Now Beatrice was turning around and around in a worried little circle. "Here," s aid Elizabeth impatiently; starting to push other b.u.t.tons. She kept on pushing until a voice came over the speaker. "Exterminator," she said. "About time," the voice rasped. A moment later, the lock buzzed open, allowing the three to enter. They got into the elevator and Elizabeth pushed seven. "Uh-oh," she said.

"What?" said Peter, and then saw her upheld finger, red at the tip. "It may not be blood," he said.

"Sure looks like it," said Elizabeth.

Peter patted his pockets, feeling the hard edges of the Combat Folder in his right and the cylinder of mace in his left. When the elevator door opened he waved the women back, checking behind the fire door and in the stairwell. Nothing there but a three-day-old cooking odor and an echo far below in the thick gray air-someone hurrying down iron stairs, maybe. He couldn't say for sure. He walked down the corridor, looking as he moved for a blood trail on the threadbare carpeting. He couldn't see one. Turning a corner and finding himself two units from the end, he was in front of Apartment 7E. The door was ajar.

Beatrice and Elizabeth were coming up quickly behind him. He tried to wave them back, but they wouldn't obey, so he put out his arm, nodding silently toward the partially opened door. Reaching out with his foot, he nudged it open. It was an academic's apartment, bookshelves on every wall. Stone silent. Peter went in, with Beatrice and Elizabeth following right behind him. Instinctively, he scanned the shelves. Texts in the fields of math, physics and medicine predominated. He went into the bedroom, even checking under the bed and in the sole closet. No one. Same for the tiny bathroom. As for the kitchen, it was so small that he couldn't have hidden a squirrel in there. He came back out and joined the women in the living room. On the desk, a computer was turned on, with a cartoon of a DOGZ puppy romping and whining on its screen. Peter nudged the mouse and the screensaver disappeared, revealing a Microsoft Word screen and page 36 of a monograph, "Gauge Theory of Weak Interactions." Peter scrolled through several pages. There was enough there to tell it was good work, a guide to the mathematical tools necessary to understand unified field theory, complete with exercises for the student. "Peter?" said Beatrice.

"We've lost him, haven't we?" said Elizabeth. "No sign of struggle. They might have found him gone, like us, and gotten out because someone spooked them. Who knows?" "Looks like he's a teacher, from the books," Elizabeth said. "And a good one," Peter agreed.

"Peter.. ." It was Beatrice. She was coming out of the bedroom with a framed photograph in her hand. Sounding and looking shaken, she handed the picture to him. Peter saw a young man in a mortarboard cap and gown, flanked by proud parents. He had a broad shiny forehead, full lips that turned down at the corners and dark gleaming eyes. "Look like anyone we know?" "Oh, Jesus," said Peter.

The young man could easily have pa.s.sed as the son of Frederick Wolfe. "He waited," said Beatrice, "Waited? Waited for what?" And then he realized. "Until it was safe. Six died, and the choice was him or you." "Christ. I was just the next guinea pig?" "Exactly. When you survived, it was time for him to make his move. First him-" "-and then you," Peter realized, with a glance at Beatrice and then at Elizabeth. The blood had drained from both women's faces. "The clone looks young here, doesn't he?" said Peter. "Nineteen, maybe." "Younger than we ever knew Freddy."

"We'll need a more recent picture," Peter said, handing the photo back to Beatrice. He went into Phillip Kenner's bedroom. Here, too, books spilled out of shelves and cartons. Fluffy yellow curtains held back the sun, the only woman's touch in the apartment. Beatrice entered behind him, appearing nervous. "Peter, we should get out of here." "In a minute," he said, rummaging through drawers of threadbare boxer shorts and mismatched dark socks. Then he felt something crunch beneath his foot. Bending down, he found a broken picture frame and a photograph among the splintered wood and broken gla.s.s. "This is more like it," he said. There was Kenner at age thirty or so, standing with his arm draped over the shoulders of a plump young woman with black corkscrew curls. She was kissing Kenner on the cheek. "Peter, how did that picture get broken?" "Good question.

She backed out of the room.

Peter opened the top drawer of the bureau. There he found Kenner's personal effects-a wallet, about twenty dollars in cash, an ancient pocket calculator, a Rubik's Cube and a collection of Yeats's poems. "Peter?" Beatrice called from the living room. "We're going. It's foolish to hang around here now. Come on. "Coming." There was a dog-eared copy of Kafka's The Castle, and a CD of Haydn's Farewell Symphony. I'd like this guy, Peter thought. Then it occurred to him that he would have probably learned to like Hans, as well. And yet he had stolen his life and his body. And for what? So he could superheat bodily fluids at the cellular level and explode human beings from the inside out? Wonderful. Even if he was no longer that man, he had been, so he could hardly pull moral rank on Freddy. In a rush of rediscovered guilt, he leafed through Kenner's wallet-another girl, not the cheek-kisser; an ACLU card; an AAA card noting that he had been a member thirteen years; an ID card for NYU. A life. Kenner, like Hans, had been earning his own scars and rewards, rashly a.s.suming that his life was his own. Peter put it all back and slammed the drawer shut. Christ, if only he could put everything back. "Jesus, B.," he sighed, hearing her footsteps as she came into the bedroom. As he turned, he found himself staring at the silhouette of a man with a very large knife in his hands. "Hey, Dr. Jance," said the man.

The shadow stepped into the light, and Peter recognized the Navy Seal from the Casa del Frances. "Got your pocketknife, Doe?"

Peter froze. He flicked a glance at Russell's blade, terrified that it might already be bloodied. Thank G.o.d for the others at least: the knife gleamed clean as a mirror. "Well, Doe?"

"Don't have it," said Peter, backing toward the doorway. "You're gonna wish you did," said Russell, advancing. Peter's head spun in dyslexic terror. Instead of reaching for the Combat Folder in his right pocket, he reached for the canister of mace in his left. As Russell lunged toward him, Peter let him have it full in the eyes. Russell reeled away, howling an oath, then started slashing blindly after him, snorting and wheezing and swearing and knocking over everything in his way. Peter heard the women-they came running back from the hall yelling his name as Russell fell headlong over a chair and went down on his face. Peter jumped on the man's wrist with both heels, hearing the wrist splinter, then kicked the knife hard. It spun away and he went for it, fast enough to avoid Russell's agonized fury and quietly enough to leave the man not knowing where he was now. "Get out!" Peter shouted at Elizabeth and Beatrice. He ducked to a new position, threw the knife into the living room for Beatrice and Elizabeth to have some kind of weapon, then slammed the bedroom door shut. He turned just in time to take Russell's charge. Acting on full automatic now as Hans Brinkman, Peter twisted away, driving a fist into Russell's solar plexus, sidestepping a second charge and clubbing him with a right that sent Russell crashing to the floor. He stood staring at his fallen opponent as though waiting for some referee to count him out. Peter realized Hans had always fought by the rules. He was on his own here. His head whirled as he felt warm blood drip from his ear and down his neck. He staggered back, sneezing blood from his nose. Then his vision went red. He realized he was hemorrhaging somewhere inside his brain. Peter tried to keep his feet under him, even as he saw Russell stir, wheezing like a wounded beast. Fumbling into his cuff with his left hand, the Navy Seal came up with a semiautomatic pistol. Peter's instincts told him to kick him hard anywhere, but a tide of darkness washed over Peter's eyes and he couldn't move. There was a loud clanging and he thought it might be the devil's gong ushering him into h.e.l.l. But when he forced his eyelids open, he was still in the bedroom, Russell was motionless on the floor like a sledge-hammered bull, and Beatrice was standing over him with an iron skillet in her hand, breathing in and out in small astonished gasps. "The pistol," Peter groaned, sinking to the floor and slumping against the wall. Beatrice picked up the semiautomatic gingerly. "I'll take it. See to Peter!" shouted Elizabeth, s.n.a.t.c.hing up the gun. "I know how to use it!" She made sure that a round was in the chamber and clicked the gun off safety, leveling it at Russell's bleeding head. Beatrice threw down the skillet and knelt by Peter, peering into his eyes. "I'm okay. It's stopped. It's exertion that brings it on," he said, surprised at his own calmness. He glanced over at Russell, lying facedown in the doorway. "Is he dead?" "No. I can see his carotid moving."

"You think you can bring him around?"

"Why?"

"He probably came in with Wolfe, so he knows how Wolfe is getting back to Vieques. Wolfe's got Kenner, no doubt about that." "On the Learjet?" said Beatrice.

"Maybe, maybe not," said Peter. "Which New York airport do they fly out of?" "I haven't the faintest-Peter, take it easy." He waved her away, attempting to rise, hut falling instead. Beatrice touched his face and whispered to him. "You rest, Peter. Let us girls have a go. He watched, blood thumping in his temples, as Beatrice and Elizabeth dragged Russell across the s.h.a.g rug into the bathroom. "Ignore any racket," said Beatrice, closing the door behind her. Peter heard the bolt shoot home, then he heard water splashing: they were reviving Russell, Peter thought, as he tried again to get up but only managed to fall back at an even worse angle. He heard Russell's m.u.f.fled grunts as he came around; he heard angry female voices. There was a moment's silence and then a string of curses from Russell. Next came a scream of agony, followed by a flurry of whimpered pleas for them to stop. Then there was a silence again.

The bathroom door opened. Russell was on his feet, yanking up his pants with trembling hands. Elizabeth had the gun aimed at his head and Beatrice was refolding a straight razor and returning it to the edge of the sink. "Where's the plane?" asked Peter.

"La Guardia," said Beatrice. "Hangar 17 in the General Aviation sector." "Type?"

"It's a C-20. Twin turbojet," Elizabeth said. "Gray. NX-12 registration numbers on the vertical stabilizer. No other markings." "Thank you," Peter said to Russell. "That's a very complete description." "f.u.c.k you," said Russell, and he charged Peter like an enraged bull, sending him sprawling. Almost at the same instant, Peter heard a sharp crack, and then Russell fell headlong on top of him. Peter tried to twist away, but his energy was drained and he was pinned beneath the man. Fortunately, Russell wasn't moving.

Elizabeth came over and put the smoking gun in the man's ear and gave it a shove. Russell rolled off Peter and onto the floor, blood pooling under his head. There was a ragged exit wound in his forehead and brain matter was on Peter's sleeve. "Jesus," Peter said wearily, his capacity for astonishment gone with his returning strength. Elizabeth was staring at the gun as though it had just materialized in her hand. "You can give that to me," he said. She handed it over, looking around at the surrounding wreckage. "Somebody must have heard all this," she said matter-of-factly. "It's New York," said Beatrice. "People are used to it." "You've got a point," Peter said.

Even by the time they had left Kenner's apartment-Peter in a fresh shirt and Russell's pistol in his pocket-not a single soul had knocked on the door to ask what was going on. No one had even come into the hallway. Indeed, this was New York. They closed the door behind them, straightened their clothes and went downstairs to hail a cab. This time, n.o.body had to talk Elizabeth into anything. She was with them now for the duration.

Between Manhattan and La Guardia, an incident took place in the shiny black Town Car. Clone Nine, thirty-three-year-old physics professor Phillip C. Kenner, had made a desperate bid to get free from his captors. He a.s.sumed he was being driven out to be killed anyway, since he owed over $20,000 to his bookie and was unable to pay anything back, despite grim warnings about the Mafia not taking this sort of thing lightly. Between his ex-wife dunning him for every remaining cent he had and the money he had lost investing in Siberian oil stocks, he was flat broke. To complicate matters, he hadn't made tenure and one of his students, a precocious soph.o.m.ore named Stacy, was threatening to go to the dean if he didn't marry her and legitimize the child she was carrying. He had very little to lose.

Besides, only one of the men in the car looked like he could handle himself, and Kenner had kicked him hard in the gut before the guy knew what hit him. The other guy must have been the oldest living member of the Mafia and had signaled his reluctance to fight by covering his speckled, bone-white face with his elbows. Kenner spilled out of the car halfway across the 59th Street Bridge, realizing he could have chosen a better place, but also reckoning that he didn't have much choice. He took off running, and for a while he thought he was home free. Every year since 1982 he had run in the New York Marathon, usually placing in the first five hundred. Loping off at any easy pace, he didn't hear the driver of the Town Car until the guy launched himself over the hood of a Zabar's delivery truck and nailed him with a flying tackle. In the next instant, Henderson, still purple from the kick to his stomach, arrived in a fury, grabbing Kenner from the driver, dropping him with a kick to the groin and dragging him to the bridge's guardrail. "You want to fly the coop?" he screamed at the terrified professor. "Let's see just how good you can tread air!" He had the sobbing man halfway over the railing when Wolfe came running up, bright red in the face and sputtering. "Henderson, what the h.e.l.l do you think you're doing? That's me you're punching around!" Henderson looked from Wolfe to Wolfe's youthful counterpart. "He f.u.c.king suckerkicked me!" "Then punch that girder over there! Whatever you do to him, I'll have to live with it for the rest of my life!" Henderson threw Kenner to the sidewalk.

By now the bridge was at a standstill. Wolfe and Henderson looked back toward Manhattan and saw a sea of gawkers craning for a better look. "Get him in the car," ordered Wolfe.

Henderson shoved Kenner toward the driver. "Put him in the G.o.dd.a.m.n car," he echoed. The driver did as ordered and eased the Town Car through traffic. Kenner sat docile and perplexed between the old man and the thug. The brush with death, if that's what it had been, must have scrambled his brains for the moment, because-liver spots or no-the world's oldest living mafioso now looked, strangely and hideously, like himself as an old and breathless man.

A half-hour later, in Hangar 17 at La Guardia Airport, Henderson escorted the f.u.c.king clone, Dr. Frederick Wolfe and the Vieques ruedical personnel into the waiting C-20. The plan was either for Henderson to return with the others in the C-20 or to arrive later in the Learjet, depending on how quickly Russell made it back to the airport. Russell was running late, so Henderson watched the medics put Kenner into the same half-coma they had put Jance's clone into the last time they had done this. Once this was accomplished, he gave a curt wave to Wolfe and shut the plane's door from the outside. Actually, he was relieved not to be traveling with Wolfe. Even though Barrola would be doing the entire procedure, with Wolfe himself on the table, the arrogant old p.r.i.c.k was already shifting into his exalted pre-op mode, a state of mind Henderson was glad to be spared. As he stepped away from the C-20, the co-pilot of the Learjet came over and tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me, sir. I'm afraid our pilot, Captain Culpepper, has come down with a G.o.dawful case of the runs. "Where is he?" asked Henderson. Another screw-up? He had had a bellyful. "He's in the pilot's lounge claiming he wants to die. Something he ate down in Bogota, I guess. There's no way he's gonna fly tonight, sir." "You're kidding, right?"

"No, sir. But we're still a go. This plane practically flies itself. I'll get you there just fine by myself. I just wanted you to know." Henderson looked him up and down. This guy had cow college written all over him. "What's your name, son?" "Second Officer David Anspaugh, sir."

"Well, Second Officer David Anspaugh, you d.a.m.n well better get us back to Vieques without a hitch, because if you don't, I'm going to pull your r.e.c.t.u.m out through your brainpan, is that perfectly clear?" Anspaugh's face lost all color, except for two irregular red patches on his cheeks. "Perfectly, sir." "Excellent," said Henderson, staring the kid down until the co-pilot turned and scurried back to his airplane. Shaking a Camel out of his pack, he watched Wolfe's C-20 taxi away He would wait for Russell another ten minutes; it would be pretty clear by then something had gone to h.e.l.l in a hand basket and he would have to go back and check things out at the abduction site. Seals didn't leave their men behind, and neither would he. Besides, Russell already had two strikes against him, and after a series of f.u.c.k-ups, men were apt to get loose-lipped. If he had to, he'd wax Russell before he turned up in the National Enquirer spilling his guts for a couple grand and a shot at Gerardo. Henderson walked back toward the Learjet, now realizing that he had better inform this squirrelly pilot that he wouldn't be taking off right away, otherwise the kid might idle for an hour and overheat his engines. All he had to do was sterilize the apartment and come back-an hour and a half, tops, even in this traffic. But what was keeping Russell? He tried the walkie-talkie, but got only static. He also tried Russell's cellular and got no answer. It was starting to eat at him.

He climbed into the Lear and found Anspaugh sitting in the pilot's seat, looking as petrified as a civilian on his first solo. "You sure you can fly this thing?" Henderson asked. "Yes, sir!"

He stepped closer. The young man's face looked positively green. "You sure as h.e.l.l don't look like you can. You getting the runs, too?" No , sir.

"Then what the h.e.l.l's wrong with you?"

Anspaugh's head ratcheted one notch to the right. Henderson turned and found himself looking down the barrel of Russell's 9mm service Beretta. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it was Jance.

"You know I've got nothing to lose here, right?" said Peter. "Please sit down." "f.u.c.k you."

Peter's left hand came around and caught Henderson flush on the jaw. With a snort of surprise, the colonel sank to the floor. Peter took out his Combat Folder, cut a pair of seat belts free and bound Henderson's hands behind his back. He lifted him into a leather seat and locked him in with its seat belts. That accomplished, he gave a whistle. Beatrice and Elizabeth emerged from the lavatory. "Keep an eye on our friend," he said, pa.s.sing the Beretta to Elizabeth. Peter went to the co-pilot and stood behind him. "Let's go. No cute transmissions. If you indicate in any way that things aren't normal," he said in his best Clint Eastwood voice, "I'll cut your head off and put it in your lap." He glanced at Beatrice and Elizabeth, both of whom were wincing at his attempted machismo. "Please don't do that," said Anspaugh.

"Just follow the flight plan and get us to Vieques." "No problem."

"There better not be."

19.

LEARJET 94838.

The Learjet made its way down the East Coast straight as an arrow, past Atlantic City, Philadelphia, Cape May, Chesapeake Bay. Peter watched the copilot closely, attempting to antic.i.p.ate Anspaugh's moves in the c.o.c.kpit. Though the Learjet was more complicated for him to deal with intellectually, physically he could sense when the plane needed trim or an adjustment of throttle. He was thinking like Peter but flying by the seat of his pants, as a pilot would. As Hans would, he thought.

I've even started to talk like him, he reflected wryly. Well, all right. Whatever it takes. You borrowed his body for the wrong reasons. Now you're using it for the right reasons. He looked back at Beatrice and Elizabeth. Their presence gave him strength, even as it filled him with remorse. You wanted them here and you need them here, but what if you start to hemorrhage again? Could they see this through on their own? Would they want to? Beatrice shared his hatred for what they had let themselves become-but Elizabeth? What had she ever done to deserve this? Nothing. But she was here nonetheless, this gritty, determined, beautiful woman. G.o.d help me, he thought, I love them both. He straightened in his seat, forcing himself to watch the sky. They were coming up on Norfolk, so he kept a weather eye out for air traffic out of the naval base there. Thus far the sky had been clear of anything threatening, but he knew an F-14 could appear in a heartbeat or down them without even being seen. Beatrice approached, offering a mug of coffee. "Where'd you find that?"

"Big thermos in hack. All the pleasures of home." "How's Elizabeth holding up?"

"She's doing fine."