The List (18 page)

“I should shoot you,” Vlad called after her, “but Attila and I have something else planned. A little menage-a-trois.”

Attila joined Vlad in the hall, slipping his sword into a sheath beneath his trench coat. They were a few yards away, and the elevator was still on the first floor.

It wasn’t going to arrive in time.

Joan considered screaming for help, but any poor sap who opened their door would undoubtedly die for their bravery. Besides, it was her fight.

Joan dropped her purse. Then she unbuttoned her blazer and let it fall to the floor, ignoring the hooting and catcalls that followed. She was grateful for her decision to wear flats.

In an open space, she might have been able to put up a decent fight, even against two. But the hallway was narrow and left little room for maneuvering. Her only chance, and it was slight, was to make it to the staircase. That was behind them, on the other end of the hall.

She drew herself inward, sucking in a deep, calming breath, and focused on her strike points. Vlad was going to get another pop in the nose, and the man called Attila was favoring his right leg, making the left her target.

Joan widened her stance and stood still while they approached.

Her posture didn’t seem to be what either of them was expecting, and Vlad lost his grin. They stopped within a few feet of her.

“If you make even the smallest move...”

Joan brought up her right foot, aiming for the bandage. Vlad flinched, but his howl told her she’d found her mark. The other, Attila, had whirled to the right and grabbed her hair. He yanked her so hard she almost lost her footing.

Joan fought to regain her balance and lashed out with the back of her left hand, going for his thigh. It was like striking a board, but his reaction was instantaneous. He grunted and released her head, both hands reaching for his leg.

Joan dodged past Vlad and sprinted down the hall with the duo two steps behind her. She wouldn’t make it to the stairs. But Marty’s door was still open. She flew into his apartment and got her weight behind the door. Someone’s hand, Attila’s, reached in as she was slamming it. Joan pinned his wrist, but she didn’t have the strength or the leverage. They pushed their way in.

She turned and ran for the kitchen. Rod’s body had fallen behind the breakfast bar, the gun still gripped in his hand. Joan dove for it and pried his fingers off.

A flash to her left. Attila, drawing his samurai sword. Joan brought the gun around.

The first shot went high, burying itself into the ceiling. The gun almost bucked out of her hands. Joan lowered her aim, tightened her grip.

Attila and Vlad were out the door.

She held her breath, trying to keep the gun steady. Had they gone, or were they still out in the hallway?

Wetness, seeping into her skirt. Rod’s blood. She didn’t dare to look. With her eyes and gun trained on the doorway, Joan got up from the floor and slowly walked into the kitchen, heading for the phone to call for help. Her foot touched something, and she briefly glanced down. Marty, his tortured eyes wide open and still teary, a large wooden stick shoved into his...

Joan looked away, a sob escaping her. The phone was no longer an option. She was going to end this, now. Both hands on the gun, walking carefully to avoid slipping in the blood, she moved towards the door.

Gunshots in the hallway. Joan ducked automatically, sliding on her knees behind the sofa. She heard yelling, and another shot. Joan peeked her head over the armrest, aiming at the doorway, seeing a man look into the apartment.

“Ms. DeVilliers?”

She fired, the bullet smacking into the doorjamb, throwing up a spray of splinters. The man shielded his face with his arm.

“It’s me! Tom!”

The cop. Joan stood up from behind the sofa.

“Are you okay?” She walked over to him on shaky legs.

“Yeah. You?”

“Yes.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Not my blood.” Joan’s lip quivered. She fought to keep it together.

“Stay here. Call the police. I’m going after them.”

Tom turned but Joan grabbed his arm. “I’m coming.”

He stared at her, the same intense look he’d given in her office.

“Okay. Come on—they took the stairs.”

Tom went off in a trot, his gun held at a downward angle away from his body. Joan held her gun likewise and followed.

“Have you fired a gun before?” He was talking over his shoulder, keeping the pace.

“No.”

“Don’t jerk the trigger. Squeeze it, like you’re curling a barbell with your finger. Line up the back site with the front site and aim for the chest. Keep both eyes open, and lean into it slightly. It’ll kick back.”

“I noticed.”

“Was it just the two?”

“That’s all I saw.”

Tom reached the door for the stairs and put his back against the wall alongside it.

“You open, I go in. On three. One... two... three.”

Joan yanked open the door and Tom went in, low. He aimed left, right, and up in quick succession. Then he eased his arm over the railing and pointed his gun down the stairwell.

“They’re about two floors below us,” Tom whispered. “Stay quiet, move along the wall.”

Tom kicked off his shoes and began to descend, moving fast. Joan did the same. The stairs were cool under her feet. Echoing up from the lower floors were footsteps. Attila and Vlad. They didn’t seem to be hurrying.

“They’re not expecting us to follow.” Tom’s voice was low, breathy. “Do they both have guns?”

“Just Vlad, I think.”

The footsteps stopped, and Joan could hear a door open one flight down. Tom and Joan sprinted down the remaining stairs, stopping on the ground floor.

“Same as before, but quiet. One... two... three.” Joan eased the door open and Tom went through fast.

Attila and Vlad had their backs to them, heading for the front door. But they weren’t the only ones in the lobby. There were also a young woman with a baby stroller, and two kids waiting for the elevator. Tom spun back around, jamming his gun in his jacket.

“Shoot them,” Joan said. “They’re getting away.”

“Too many civilians.”

Joan tried to push past, bringing up her gun. Tom held her back.

“You start shooting, innocent people will die.”

Joan clenched her jaw, but the tears came anyway. “They killed Marty.”

“We’ll have another chance.”

“Can’t we follow them outside?”

“You’re covered in blood and we don’t have shoes. How far do you think we’d get?”

She stared up at Tom, hate filling her entire being. “So we just let them go?”

“Sorry. Sometimes you have to.”

Her body shook, and then the sobbing started. Joan felt deflated, as if someone had poked her with a pin and all of her strength had seeped out. She cried, and cried, and couldn’t get herself to stop. She barely noticed when Tom took the gun out of her hand.

But she did notice when he put a hand on her shoulder, and then both arms around her. They swayed slowly back and forth, Tom patting her back, and she let all of the pain from the last two days come out in muffled sobs against his chest.

It didn’t take long for Joan to regain control. She pushed out of Tom’s arms, angry, embarrassed, refusing to look at him.

“The police are probably on their way. I have to go.”

“I thought you were a cop.”

“This gun is unlicensed. I get caught with it, I get fired or worse. If you wouldn’t mind leaving me out of your deposition...”

She met his eyes, challenging. “The police—they can’t help me, can they?”

“I caught Attila two days ago in New Mexico. They just let him go. The guy behind all of this has friends in high places.”

“So what am I supposed to do? Just wait around until they come after me again?”

“I don’t know. Leave the country, maybe? Take a long vacation, don’t tell anyone where you’re going. Pay cash, don’t use credit cards.

Keep a low profile...”

“I don’t run away from confrontation.”

“Look, Ms. DeVilliers, I don’t have all the answers. I’m kind of floundering here myself.”

“But you’re going to get these guys.”

“That’s my intention. Yes.”

Joan made her decision. It was more than a question of getting her life back. It was for Marty.

“I want to help.”

Tom didn’t hesitate. “The only way to flush them out is to set ourselves up as bait.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m in.”

“Okay. Then we need to get out of here without being seen.” Tom put a gun in each of his pants pockets, then took off his jacket and draped it over Joan’s shoulders. “That covers most of the blood. Let’s just walk out, acting natural.”

“Your holster.”

Tom glanced at his shoulder rig, no longer hidden. He unstrapped it and tucked it under his arm.

“We’ll take my car. I parked around back. I’m walking behind you to shield the blood on your skirt. Ready?”

Joan wiped away some stray tears and nodded. Tom opened the door and they walked out into the lobby, no one giving them a second look. They exited the building just as two squad cars pulled up, lights flashing.

“Don’t act guilty,” Tom said under his breath. “Act curious.”

Joan was way ahead of him. “What’s going on, Officer?”

“Please keep moving, ma’am.”

They stood and watched for a moment as the police rushed into the apartment building, then Tom steered her around the corner and over to a green sedan parked in front of a fire hydrant.

“What happened to your two friends?”

“They went to Nebraska to warn one of the other clones. Lincoln.”

Again with the clone thing. Joan got into the passenger seat and thought about it.

“So you really believe you’re Thomas Jefferson?”

“Unfortunately, that’s what it looks like.”

“And those guys that just attacked me?”

“Vlad the Impaler and Attila the Hun.”

Vlad had called the short man Attila.

“And that guy who looked like Einstein was really Einstein?”

Tom started the car. “As unbelievable as it all seems.”

He let two more squad cars rocket past, and then pulled into traffic.

“So, have you found all the clones yet?”

“We’re still looking for the last one.”

“Is he number 4? Named William Masterton?”

Tom looked at her. “How did you know?”

“Marty knew him. He works in Santa Monica.”

“Have you actually talked to him? Lately?”

“I called his company today, to see if he still works there. He does.”

“How far away is Santa Monica?”

“Maybe twenty miles.”

“Okay. You need to get changed first. And shoes would probably be a good idea.”

“Do you remember how to get to my place?”

Tom made a U-turn, forcing a car on the other side of the street to slam on its breaks.

“So,” Joan still wasn’t buying this cloning angle, but she found herself willing to play along. “Who is this Masterton guy supposed to be, anyway?”

“William Shakespeare.”

“This should be interesting.”

“More like frustrating. We have to convince a total stranger that he’s a clone of a famous historical figure, and you don’t even believe it yourself.”

“I’m trying to get used to the idea.”

“Join the club.”

She closed her eyes, picturing Jefferson’s profile on a nickel. After getting a good mental image, she looked at Tom. There was a pretty good resemblance.

She also noted that he’d shaved since their earlier meeting in her office, and though he wore the same suit it wasn’t nearly as wrinkled.

Had the effort been for her? Joan wondered how she must look. She resisted the urge to check the vanity mirror. Nothing could be done about it anyway—she’d left her purse in the hallway. Marty’s hallway.

Marty.

Before the grief could build, Joan pushed past it. While much of her wanted to wallow deep into the self-pity pool, it wouldn’t help the task at hand. She could deal with all of that emotion at a later, more private time.

“Maybe if you filled me in on the whole story, I’d be more likely to believe it.”

“It’ll take a while.”

“I’m a captive audience.”

“I also have to warn you. If you do start to believe that it’s true, that you’re really Joan of Arc, it can really play hell with your psyche.”

“My psyche could use a little shaking up.”

“I’m serious, Ms. DeVilliers.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m probably the most stable personality in LA. And call me Joan.”

“Okay, Joan.” Tom glanced at her and flashed a brief smile.

“Here’s how this whole mess started...”

Washington DC

“Your conference call is ready on your private line, Mr. Speaker.”

“Thank you, Trixie. Hold my other calls.”

Phillip Stang Jr. pushed aside the speech he’d been reading and reached across his expansive desk to tap the
speaker
button. His father had warned him that even with a secure line, using the speaker phone was a bad idea. But Dad was always overly cautious. A symptom of living through the Cold War.

“Dad? How are you feeling?”

“Tired, Junior. This doesn’t get any easier as time goes on. At your age, I could transplant both kidneys at once and then go and play eighteen holes. These days, one is my endurance limit.”

Phil could detect the drugs behind his father’s voice, but the old man wasn’t allowing them to muddle his thoughts. Good to know, for future reference.

“Is everyone else on the line?”

Attila said, “Yes.”

Vlad said, “Yes.”

Jack said, “
Is everyone else on the line?
Yes.”

Stang sighed at Jack’s response. Of all the infamous killers to ever walk the planet, they had to clone one with an annoying speech impediment.

“Updates, gentlemen. What have you got for me in the way of clearing obstacles?”

“Both Joan and Tom are in LA.”

“Together?”

“Yes.”

“There’s one for the history books. Am I to assume that your third attempt failed as well?”

“We hadn’t expected them to be together. He was armed.”

“A cop with a gun. Go figure. Why is it, Vlad, that your genetic predecessor was able to kill upwards of one hundred thousand people, and you can’t stick a knife in some bitch without fucking it up?”