The Rise and Falling Out of Saint Leslie of Security (24 page)

Now, Washington ignored the crowd completely.

"So,” the President said. “Father Washington and the Antichrist finally meet, face to face. And such a face! Why, we could be brothers!"

"It's been a while, hasn't it Frankie? Last time I saw you, you were a little scrape of borrowed tissue."

"I think you have it backward, don't you?
I
was
me
. You were borrowed tissue. I'm surprised. I thought you'd look, you know,
exactly
like me, every detail. But there are minor differences, aren't there? You're more like the runt twin. I guess the whole mirror image thing is a myth, hmm? But, well, it's pretty damn close."

Father Washington gestured Everett—who ignored the offer—to a chair. “What are you doing here?” He asked.

"I'm guessing I'm doing the same thing as you. I was looking for Saint Leslie."

"I don't suppose, then, you'd like to tell me where she is?” Father Washington. said

Leslie was surprised by Everett's laughter.

"I wish I could, Frankie. It looks like I didn't give my daughter enough credit. I think she set us up."

Leslie opened the stall door a few inches more to search the crowd behind Everett for Roger. He was there, looking scared as Red Hell, the Styrofoam cooler hooked under one arm. Leslie couldn't help being touched by his faithfulness as he searched the crowds, his head whipping around nervously.

"'Set us up'?” Washington said. “How do you mean?"

"Standing here chatting with you in a public place, Frankie? I really don't mind being the Antichrist, the dark shadow following you. And God knows I want to see you destroyed. But I've never wanted to be exposed as your brother, as your clone. Such a revelation would entail my doom as well."

"I suppose it would.” Washington nodded. “You being an abomination unto nature and all."

Leslie pushed the door wider open yet. It moved a few inches and then stopped, as if something barred its way.

Fingers clawed the door's edge by her head and it pulled open even more. A square shoulder appeared, blond goatee, flap of an ear. She was shoved back into the stall with the point of a gun—and there was Meyer in front of her. His smile was like the opening of a salmon's gill. She caught herself, fingers splayed, against the vision control panel. Her head started throbbing all over again.

"At last. The great Saint Leslie of Security. It's good to finally see you."

She thrust out her chin in defiance. “Here I am.” On the screen to her left, a chocolate-eyed model poured foaming beer over her breasts and leered.

"You've caused enough trouble, you stupid little bitch. It's time to come on home to Washington."

"With you? So you can take all the credit? I don't think so. This is Tommy Russell's operation."

"Tom's days are numbered."

Cold, calculating rage burned inside Leslie. A rod of dry ice. It tensed every muscle in her lithe frame with a sharp, rational and deadly alertness. Leslie studied pressure points in Meyer's neck and said, “I'd say you have some bigger problems than me right now, wouldn't you? Or are you really as stupid and incompetent as Russell always claimed you are?"

"It looks to me like
you're
the one with problems. Did you honestly think Washington would come down into the crowd to meet you without some kind of a security plan? I mean,
really
."

She reached around him and palmed the door ajar. “Then you don't care I saw a couple sets of mechanical eyes out there."

Gun still trained on Leslie, Meyer craned to look outside. His smile hardened and then disappeared.

"Everett,” Washington was saying. “You don't mind if I call you ‘Everett'? I believe we can work something out here. What can you possibly accomplish by this empty rebellion against Washington? You surround yourself with crackpots, people far below your potential. And to what end? None of these terrorists will ever change a thing, and you know it. Why don't we end it here? I'm willing to let bygones be bygones. We could bury the hatchet right now, you and me. You end your foolish attacks. We'll leave you alone; no one has to say a word about clones. And we can set you up in whatever country you'd like..."

"But not the United States."

"Of
course
not. Be reasonable for once in your life. I'm offering you a chance here to survive."

"Father Washington is offering me immunity."

"Yes. All you have to do is let me know where we can find your daughter."

Everett produced an ugly laugh.

"You fucking idiot. She set us up to meet. I don't have any better idea than you do where she is, although I'm sure she's nearby. She's not my girl anymore. I'm standing here, probably about to be yanked down by your thugs any minute now because of her. She's
your
little girl now."

"I'm giving you a chance, Everett. Are you too pig-headed to see—"

"Listen, Father Washington. I have as much right to own the United States as you do. We're the same damn flesh!"

A look spread over Meyer's face as he watched the scene. Leslie nodded. “Security's been keeping a distance between those brothers out there for a long time and you're fucking it up. How do you think this reunion's going to look on vision? I seem to remember something about an election coming up in November? You'd better hope there aren't any mechanical eyes trained on the cafe."

Meyer groaned, “Ohh ...
shit
..."

He touched his lapel and talked hoarsely into it. “It's Meyer. Does anybody else see what's going on here? Jefferson? We need to neutralize all media and mechanical eyes around the vicinity of Father Washington and his ... brother. Yeah, his fucking brother. This is a Red Priority. This scenario is
not public
. Neutralize all mechanical eyes!” He glared at Leslie. “You stupid little bitch. How do you think this is going to help you?” He shoved her again; she grinned at him until she slammed against the back vision wall, where a derelict clown in triplicate, hustling on a street corner, strummed a ukulele and sang about the War on Poverty:
It's no laughing matter; let's clean up New York's streets....

"You think I'm beneath contempt, you always have,” Everett was saying. “Don't deny you would just as soon kill me yourself as let me go. Of course the only thing keeping you from that, maybe, is how it would wash in the polls—"

"Don't be ridiculous. I've barely given you a thought over all these years. I have people to do that for me."

A laser blast flared just outside the vision stall. There was screaming, then the sharp odor of burning skin. Meyer thrust the door wide, left arm angled against the plastic panel, the other still thrusting his gun at Leslie. From under his bent arm sunlight pricked at Leslie's eyes, accustomed now to the dim glow of the stall. The street was a hysterical mass of bodies as some trampled each other to escape the area and others crouched, planting their heads to the pavement. Twenty yards from the stall a mechanical eye twisted along the curb, one hand raking cement. One temple and the cheek below it were gone—an emerald eye flickered. It seemed bigger now, exposed in the red puddle of the face, a delicate wisp of gray smoke rising from a snarl of sparks. Meyer yelled into his lapel. “Straight ahead on the opposite curb. Do you see him? And up on the balcony. Do you see him?"

Leslie straightened, flexing her knuckles. She followed the line of Meyer's arm to his thick shoulders, the tight, greasy curls just touching his collar. And fear welled in her, a quivering bubble catching in her throat, her chest, making her arms ache. It was the pivot of hysteria; she knew panic caressed her face. But it was a familiar place to her, webbed with anger. She wanted to yawn, or scream. Or weep. Staring at Meyer's back, Leslie felt the suffocating weight of all her losses. Meyer was suddenly the loss of her old life, the mem, her fetus. He was Russell's control, he was her father and Washington; he was Security. And her eyes stung again, this time with the beginnings of tears.

You are alone.
The words came out in her breath, almost spoken.
No one's going to help you out of this. No Russell, no head mem, no Gun. You are completely alone.

She repeated it as if it were a charm or a prayer. The idea had always frightened her, and this fear had defined her. Now, she felt a cool calm settle, and the bubble softened until it was gone. Knowing she was alone somehow collected her, clarified her the way it had at the Atheist cell. She held still as Meyer continued to spit out hoarse orders. When his gun wavered down—just an inch—she reached around his wrist and locked him up in an arm bar.

His arm wrenched against his arching back. The gun skittered on the floor. Before he could react, her forearm slammed his nape and he went down across the doorway. Leslie arched forward, scooping up his gun. As she lurched through the door her elbow swung into the jamb and sent a shuddering spike of pain up her arm and through her neck. She whirled then, and launched a heel into the back of his head; Meyer's cheek grated concrete.

Another laser shot pierced the scene, then another. From a balcony on the third floor of the Tower Hotel a mechanical eye was a bloody rag, twisting slowly down into the chaos of the street below. In front of the cafe, Tom had sprawled across Father Washington, their chairs overturned. He was scanning the street, his gun gripped in his hand.

Everett cowered behind the table. Leslie watched his face shift as he realized he was unharmed, and then shift again as it dawned on him he was
not
Security's immediate target. Leslie balanced Meyer's gun over her shoulder and strode toward him as his body uncoiled. Tom and Everett breathed her name at the same time.

"—Leslie."

"Terry—"

Her father smiled. “I suppose you
do
remember me after all, don't you?"

"Pretty well,” she said.

Every muscle in her face went taut. She carefully trained the gun on her father, watched his face turn crimson. The noise around them disappeared as he alone filled her vision. Her panic was a metal plate edged through her chest.

"What are you going to do with that thing? You've got a lot of nerve pointing that toy at me. Do you think you've ever felt pain before, little girl? Make sure you kill me, because there'll be no end to the pain I'll make you feel. Terry, Leslie, whoever, whatever you think you are."

Leslie felt herself tensing, cringing, a motion in the shoulders like a child's collapse within herself when she knows she's going to be hit. “I'm sorry,” she said.

"You'd better be. Put that fucking gun down or you're going to be dealing with the wrath of God Almighty. You would never pray with me, do you remember that? Not really. And look what you've become—a wretched little whore who doesn't know what to do unless her father orders her around. Your weakness makes me sick. I pity you. You miss Daddy's big iron cock? Hmm? His authority? You knew what to do back then, you little bitch. The authority of Jesus Christ, and my fist. And that's
all
you need—"

Leslie pulled the trigger.

Everett flinched. Then he leered at her. And moved forward.

Meyer has his damn thumb lock activated on the thing
. She lowered the gun and looked at Tom.

"Still looking to someone else to solve your problems?” Everett sneered.

Muscle banded up her arms as Leslie clenched her empty fist. Anger marbled through the part of her that still cringed in front of him. She was still the little girl who stuck her arms down across her ass to protect herself. He had that look. She wanted to beg him to stop. She slid a finger to the base of Meyer's gun and the short stiletto snapped out.

Tom squinted in pain as he steadied his stump against Father Washington's squirming shoulder blade. “Please stay down, Mr. President,” he said. Then to Everett's back: “This gun still works."

Everett closed his eyes, tilted his head back, half-turned.

"Put your hands on your head and get on your knees.” Tom climbed to his feet, the weapon trained on Everett. “Mr. President,
please
stay down!"

Washington rose to one knee, hand on the chair's edge, and pushed Himself up. “No more, Russell. Flat on my face for everyone to see—it's a disgrace.” He shook Himself off arrogantly.

Leslie heard another laser blast behind her. Someone screeched. Her stare remained steady, strong on her father, who slowly bent down as if in genuflection, as if offering a prayer before the Saint of Security. She hoped there were still mechanical eyes to capture it.

Tom rushed forward. “Just give me one excuse to do what I should have done so many years ago” he said. Still grasping his gun, he stuck his hand against the back of Everett's head and thrust him the rest of the way to the sidewalk. He dug a knee into Everett's back.

"You take it easy, Russell,” Father Washington said. “He's my brother, you know, in a way.” The President glanced at Leslie, looked around the front of the café. “What the Red Hell is going on?"

"Leslie set us up, Mr. President,” Tom said. “In front of national vision. Don't worry, Security is cleaning up the mess."

"I don't know if this classifies as ‘clean',” Father Washington said softly, looking at the street.

Leslie moved to Tom. His gun still bored into Everett's neck. “Hello again, Tommy."

"Hello, Les.” He didn't look at her.

She leaned into him from the side and rested Meyer's gun on his shoulder so that its tiny blade touched the collar of his shirt. “You've got one hand left, and it seems pretty full. I could kill you right now, you know. I have nothing to lose."

He stared down at Everett.

"I'm thinking about letting you live,” she said, “but I haven't made up my mind."

Everett started to say something, but Tom ground his knee into his spine and forced his face back down to the cement. “I don't know how to express to you how sorry I am, Leslie,” Tom said. He still wouldn't look at her. Father Washington was calling to her, but she ignored Him.

"Me too,” she said sarcastically. She pushed the blade harder against his neck and took a moment to look around. Meyer was stirring in front of the vision stall. She spotted at least two more bodies near the first mechanical eye and the man who fell from the balcony. About a hundred feet from her, standing like a wax statue, was Roger. He stared at Leslie, cradling the cooler against his chest with both cable-thin arms. He looked like a cartoon of himself; the mouse, facing the cat. She turned again to Tom. “Your life for his."