George Duncan

         I thought it would be a routine case until the car doors locked and Agnes, my auto-computer, turned left when I had told her to go right.

         I punched the buttons on the dashboard. "Agnes, what's going on?"

         "I've been reprogrammed, Clint," she said.

         "Reprogrammed? I thought only the driver could do that."

         "In theory that's true," she told me calmly. "Reality is a bit different."

         I stomped on the brake, but it refused to move. The muscles in my arm tensed as I tried to turn the steering wheel. It didn't budge. Agnes sped into the older, more dilapidated business areas of the city. She pulled into what appeared to be an empty warehouse. It was evening. Her lights were on. I could see the outlines of three men waiting. When the car stopped, the doors unlocked and two pairs of steel-strong hands gripped me and pulled me from the driver's seat. Skullcrushers. They seemed well made, excellently modified for efficient service.

         Two held my arms while the third landed a hard punch to my abdomen. I gasped for air and doubled up in pain.

         "Don't you ask questions first?" I asked.

         The second punch landed and spun me around. Crime syndicates have discovered that robots, in addition to taking over a lot of productive jobs, make wonderful enforcers. They automatically calculate your weight and height and know where and how hard to punch. Superb machines. But right now I wasn't giving a cheer for science.

         The two tossed me across the warehouse floor. I banged my head against some empty, wooden crates. A warm flow of blood leaked into my mouth. The two Skulls yanked me into a sitting position. Their cool, efficient hands unbuttoned my shirt, attached the cold orb to my heart and attached the headset.

         Agnes had left her lights on. A fourth figure moved out of the shadows and blocked one headlight. Darkness covered most of his face but I caught a glimpse of red as the light played off his hair. I nodded. Usually Skullcrushers work with humans. They are not the brainiest of the robot family. The human walked a few steps and stood before me. His face remained in the shadows.

         "Charlotte Lansdale," he said.

         "Clint Devlin. Good to meet you."

         He didn't smile. He merely gestured to a Skullcrusher who backhanded me, increasing the flow of blood in my mouth.

         "Let's try again, Mr. Devlin. My name is not Charlotte Lansdale."

         "Could've fooled me. You look kind of like a Charlotte."

         He looked as stony as his artificial friends. His voice seemed bored, almost weary. Even with the boredom he gave off an aura of a full-flavored professional. Competent. Knowledgeable. Dangerous.

         "Are you aware of what you're hooked up to?"

         "A TC computer."

         He smiled like a greedy nephew who just heard a rich uncle had died. "Yes, truth or consequences. Let's play."

         I sighed and smiled.

         "You're looking for Charlotte Lansdale?"

         "Yes."

         "Who hired you?"

         "That's really supposed to be confidential."

         He gestured to one of his mechanical friends who raised a fist.

         "Tekla Chiason," I said.

         It was not the answer he expected. He looked toward a Skullcrusher. "Bruno?"

         "The truth," came the gruff answer. Manufacturers don't bother to make Skullcrushers sound melodic.

         The redheaded interrogator looked back toward me. "Who is she and why does she care about Charlotte Lansdale?"

         "Tekla works with Charlotte. They're aides in Senator Kendrick Donaldson's office. When Charlotte dropped out of sight, Tekla became worried."

         He was silent for a moment, then nodded.

         "Find Charlotte?"

         "No."

         "Know where she is?"

         "No."

         The inquisitor paused. He brought his hand up and a thumb scratched at his jaw. He spoke slowly as if considering every word. "Your name sounds familiar." He shot a glance and a question at a robot. The answer came quickly. "Clint Devlin tracked down three anti-genetic Luddites who placed an incendiary device in a genetic screening clinic. Three were killed, five wounded. Among those killed—"

         "Was my wife," I said.

         His thumb stopped scratching. A hiss came from his intake of air. "Yes, I recall the case. You became a Liquidator."

         "No, two are alive. In prison."

         "And the other one?"

         "Wanted to shoot it out. So he's where he belongs. In hell."

         He paused for a moment. "At a genetic clinic? Are you genrich?"

         "Yes."

         He frowned, as if he didn't like the news, then grunted and walked toward me. He crossed his arms. "I'll be brief, Mr. Devlin. Listen well. You may be genrich—rigged for intelligence, speed, skill and slow to age—but you're inexperienced. You went after the bombers because of your wife. You're looking for Charlotte Lansdale because a friend asked you to. Personal involvement is the mark of the amateur and we..." He drew a semicircle in the air. "...are professionals. You're not in our league. Drop the case and go home. Understand."

         "Sounds reasonable to me."

         They folded up their equipment and slipped into a waiting car. The human barked an order to the artificial driver. Machines driving machines. It's getting to be a strange world.

         He should have asked a follow-up question. I said his request was reasonable. I didn't say I was going to do it.

         The next morning Agnes drove me to the Coastal Towers, a condo where Tekla has an apartment. I placed my hand on her door's identiplate and felt the warm sensation flow over my fingers. The computer would discover my prints were in the free access file. Then she—Tekla had named her computer Henrietta—would scan the corridor to make sure I was alone. If not, the door would have stayed shut. Instead, it clicked and opened. I yelled a greeting and Tekla answered.

         She wore silver slacks and a dark blouse. She's fairly tall, about five-nine, and combines a quick mind with athletic grace. She can exercise for sixty minutes, rotating hips, legs, arms and shoulders with the proper precision and momentum, then wind up the session with a series of kicks that could make an NFL punter envious.

         "Clint, I've been wondering...what happened to you?"

         "Do I look that bad?"

         She paused for a moment and curled her fingers around her chin. Her green eyes studied me. "As a matter of fact, yes."

         I gave her a brief rendition of the previous night's events, then eased into a chair. "This is more serious than I thought. Those Skulls were not cheap, second-rate robots, and the human is a pro."

         She pointed her finger at me. "When I first told you about Charlotte, you basically blew me off. You said she was probably on a weekend binge with a boyfriend."

         "It seemed like a reasonable assumption at the time."

         Tekla sat down on a sofa, pulling one leg under her. Worry dampened the sparkle of her green eyes.

         I sighed. "Tekla, before I was interrupted, I went over to Charlotte's condo and talked to a few neighbors. A few weeks ago, a lady heard yelling and peeped out. A man was banging on Charlotte's door. She told him to go away and called him Mark. Know who he is?"

         She didn't answer immediately. "No, but there was an incident at the Oceancrest Club with a Mark about a week before Charlotte left with the senator on the Florida trip. Some pest had slipped in and started annoying her. The security robots escorted him out. He was yelling how much he loved Charlotte when they tossed him." She pointed her finger at me. Her voice held a trace of awe. "You know Guardians can toss a man a good seven feet."

         "They also hit hard. Did Charlotte know the guy?"

         "She said his name was Mark Santell. She had bumped into him at a party and he kept bothering her." She shrugged. "We meet a few jerks here. I had forgotten about it by the time Charlotte flewx down to Florida with the senator, a very unlucky trip."

         "Why do you say that?"

         "The senator had a mild heart attack while down there and now Charlotte has disappeared."

         "If Charlotte was in trouble, would she go to her family?"

         Tekla shook her head. "She came from a single parent family, and her mother is dead. I'm her best friend."

         "Reading materials? Did she subscribe to any magazines?"

         "Er...yes. American Model. Charlotte had modeled briefly before joining the office. Cosmetic was another. She also liked photography and usually had a copy of Modern Photography around. Will this help you find her?"

         "It might."

         She nodded. "You're good at finding people. I'm so glad you found the people who killed Lori."

         "So am I."

         "Lori was so sweet, and had such a gentle soul. It was so easy to believe she was a Christian. But you, Clint, no offense, but you shouldn't be a member of a religion that says to love everyone. Still a believer?"

         I nodded. "To a degree."

         She smiled. "Yes, letting go would be like letting go of her, wouldn't it?"

         I never gave Tekla credit for having profound insights into human nature but, once in a while, I can be surprised. I stood up and blew her a kiss. "I'm going to go find Mark Santell. You keep the government running."

         My all-purpose computer, Agnes, ran the name Mark Santell through her database and came up with several names. The closest one—and one whose age and rough description corresponded to the man outside Charlotte's apartment—lived about 40 miles down the coast. I told Agnes to drive over there.

         "Before I do, perhaps you would like to know that records show this Mark Santell has a gun permit."

         "So I'll be diplomatic."

         "That'll be the day."

         About an hour later, Agnes entered Avalon Estates, where large fences surrounded seven figure homes. Streetlights gave off soft, white light by the time Agnes pulled up to a two-story tan and yellow house, with three steps leading up to the front door. The night was calm. A cool breeze blew in gently from the sea. Several crickets decided to sing harmony but one was badly off-key. When I knocked I expected to be scanned by security devices, but the door slid open. No one was in the room.

         "Mr. Santell? Mark Santell?"

         There was no answer. I moved past a black walnut sofa and matching chair, then paused before the door leading to the den. A huge desk was in the room stacked with a high-tech computer system, but that's not what caught my attention.

         Crumpled on the floor in front of the desk, with one hand outstretched and one hand on his chest, was a tall, brown-headed man, mouth open, eyes wide. The hand on his chest was cupped as if it was gently holding an invisible object. The semicircle of fingers was around two bullet holes and an increasing smear of red. Two small streams of blood ran down his chest onto the green carpet.

         I glanced around and saw the envelope on the desk. I thought I knew what it was. And I didn't like it. I shook the envelope and a single letter fell out. Using a handkerchief I grabbed the edge of the page and stared at it. The typing was clear. The wording precise. The meaning unmistakable.

         I muttered an expletive, then felt immediately guilty. I never used harsh language around Lori. She hated it. But even she might understand this lapse. Liquidators are not only superb killers, they have an excellent command of the English language. This Liquidator accused Santell of a number of illegal actions, including extortion, selling drugs, and murder. A professional, competent Liquidator can be counted on to be correct in every detail so I didn't doubt the accusations were true. Which meant Miss Lansdale had some extremely nasty people in her past—and now in my present.

         I was puzzled by one thing. The security systems were off. Sabotage? Or perhaps Santell knew his assailant but didn't think he was in any danger. Rather foolish of him.

         I walked back toward Agnes. Santell had turned his security system off but kept his house lights on. At first, I didn't see the shadow move. I dove to my right, rolled and came up with my gun, even knowing I was a few seconds late. I expected a bullet to rip through me when I heard the shot, but the shadow yelled instead. He dropped the gun and grabbed his shoulder.

         I looked around quickly but saw nothing and heard nothing except the off-key cricket. The shadow still groaned. I kicked his gun away, then edged toward Agnes. I told her to notify the police. One dead and one wounded, so bring the EMTs too.

         "I thought you were going to be diplomatic," she said.

         "I was. Somebody else wasn't," I told her.

         There may be a mortal flaw in my character. I have a degree of sympathy for Liquidators. They have a code—they don't kill the innocent, they eliminate the guilty. And they don't cause an innocent any trouble from their actions. Which meant I had one more reason to like them. I guessed the shadow was the none-too-efficient bodyguard/gofer of Santell. The Liquidator had saved my life.

         After giving a brief interview to the police, I returned to my apartment and phoned Lark Montgomery, the tall, red-haired computer genius who programmed Agnes. When Lark's image popped up on the screen, she wore a ratty, green bathrobe. Which is her business suit. She works out of her home.

         "Clint. Good to see you again."

         "Lark, I adore you, but this is more of a business call."

         "Ah. So what's your business?"

         "I'm looking for a girl. Strictly professional."

         "And I can help you find her?"

         "If you can break into the subscription lists of a couple of magazines."

         She laughed. "That's no problem. Breaking into the Pentagon might take a couple of days but magazines...piece of cake. But how will that help you?"

         I explained there was a good possibility that Charlotte Lansdale was on the run. I figured she might pick a house or apartment and stay inside. Which meant she had plenty of time to read but could not, of course, get any magazine forwarded. She'd have to resubscribe.

    I asked Lark if she would identify the new subscribers to Cosmetic, American Model and Modern Photography, then cross-check the names and see if anyone had recently ordered all three.

         "Clint, you always did have a shrewd mind. The subscriptions will have her new address."

         "If I'm right, yes. If not, I wasted your time."

         "That's okay. It won't take much time. I'll call you back this afternoon."

         My next call was to Edna Malley, one of my former colleagues. She had covered Washington for close to twenty years and was among the best reporters in the country. She wasn't in a bathrobe but in a white blouse and gray skirt. The wide smile brightened the screen. The tangled, wavy hair fell down below her chin. She greeted me warmly. "Coming out of hibernation, Clint?"

         "I think so. But I haven't been paying attention to national news recently, Edna. Need to ask you a few questions, particularly about Senator Donaldson."

         She held a pencil, and the eraser end tapped her temple. "You picked the right senator. He has been acting a bit...odd lately."

         "Taking more payoffs than usual?"

         She shook her head. "Just the opposite. He recently stood up on the Senate floor and quoted Paul."

         "The apostle or his campaign chairman?"

         She laughed. "The apostle."

         "Is it an election year?"

         "No, he has two years before his term is up. Even more difficult to believe, the senator has acted a bit like the apostle. He has broken with one of his major backers, Moe Clarrett and his 800-pound political gorilla of an organization, the Coalition of Retired Americans."

         I had covered politics for years and thought I'd heard and seen everything, but this surprised me. "Edna, for years Donaldson and Clarrett have been thick as thieves, and the term is not used metaphorically."

         That prompted a big smile from Edna. "That's true but not anymore. Clarrett and the CRA are desperately fighting Social Security and Medicare reform bills. Donaldson used to be on their side. When he switched he sent ripples the size of tidal waves through the Senate. The bills may pass and Clarrett has sworn revenge."

         "There have been some nasty rumors about CRA. Their lobbyists carry guns. So isn't Donaldson risking more than just his political career?"

         Edna nodded. "Could be. And you're right. There are extremely nasty and lethal rumors about Clarrett. I asked the senator about that, and about why he broke with his longtime political friend."

         "And?"

         "He said it was the right thing to do."

         I shook my head. "Forgive me for being cynical, but this doesn't make sense, unless Senator Donaldson, like the apostle, had a road-to-Damascus experience."

         "No, he had a road-to-Citrell experience. When he was down in Florida recently, he had a mild heart attack. Thankfully, he was at Citrell. It has first-rate medical facilities. Sometimes a brush with mortality can change a man. Donaldson always had something of an acerbic personality and, until the heart attack, was acting even more erratically than usual. Now he could be your sweet elderly uncle."

         Actually, I have a sweet elderly uncle. He did time for mail fraud.

         While Agnes drove I pulled out a long, thin cigar. I have an odd habit. I don't smoke cigars—even though they are not hazardous anymore—I chew them. Something about having a cigar in your mouth puts you into a meditative mood. I figured I needed a breakthrough idea. Things were not adding up, even with computers doing the math. Agnes interrupted my train of thought by informing me I had a call. A baritone voice came over the speaker and asked for a meeting. I told him to drop by the office.

         "No, I will feed directions to your auto-computer. That way I can be sure you will not be followed."

         "And why should I agree to that?"

         "Because of a bullet in the shoulder of a man who most assuredly would have killed you."

         I thought for a moment. "That's a persuasive argument. Follow him, Agnes."

         Agnes drove for twenty miles on an interstate before easing onto an exit. Another fifteen minutes put us on a rural road heading west into Maryland. Liquidators are cautious. If anyone was following, he could be easily spotted on this two-lane road. I figured we'd be meeting in the middle of the woods but when Agnes turned a corner, a clearing came into view. A church, with a large cross on top, was in front of a small lake. The sign said "Meadow Lake Church" in small, fine black letters.

         I walked a dozen steps down a small, carpeted corridor and saw the main sanctuary to my left. I moved silently across the carpet. The church was well lit, with a stained glass mural of Jesus beyond the pulpit. Love and understanding shone from his eyes. He smiled. In this society, he was possibly the only one smiling. There was a serenity here. When a voice came, it startled me.

         "The altar is always unpretentious in a Protestant church. They always believed in a one-to-one communication with God."

         A tall man with a black-gray goatee walked in from an adjoining room. He sat down across the aisle from me. He was six-two, coffee black, with no additives, and dressed well in a green turtleneck, darker green slacks and a coat. Flecks of gray appeared in his hair but his movements betrayed no age. An ex-military man, I thought. He looked toward the stained glass.

         "I was raised an atheist, a safe mode of existence. There are times when you don't want God looking over your shoulder," he said.

         "Times when you kill someone?"

         He gave a curt smile. "Society is better off without Santell. He did no one any good but did a great many people harm. He was beyond redemption." He turned toward me. "My name is Alexander Crown. My business, regrettably, you know about."

         "Why did you want to see me?"

         "To warn you. We don't cause trouble for the innocent. The man I shot has certainly told his colleagues about you. You may be in danger from Mr. Santell's associates."

         "But I didn't kill him."

         "I don't think that will matter to them. His associates are not ordinary people. Do you know who he was connected to?"

         I nodded. "I think so. I remember a name from my days as a crime reporter. Vincent Giacanno, latter-day mob boss."

         He brought out a cigar in a cellophane wrapper. He ripped it open, then paused. "Strange. I am an atheist but I don't want to smoke in a church. Somehow it is not appropriate."

         "Possibly a sign of grace in you, Crown."

         He smiled and placed the cigar back into his coat pocket. "Santell was not only connected to Giacanno by business, but by blood. He's Giacanno's nephew, and was the rotten apple of the old man's eye. A psychiatrist would have a field day with Giacanno. He's certifiable leaning over into psychotic. The liquidation of his nephew will make him even worse. You should find a place to hide until...my business is complete."

         "Thanks, but I'm looking for a person. It's no time to head for a cave. Besides, I try not to worry about trivial things."

         I sparked some interest in the gray eyes. "You're not bothered by death."

         "My wife kept telling me the next life is considerably better than this one."

         "I doubt Santell is enjoying it."

         I laughed. "Yes, there's a catch to everything, isn't there?"

         "You say your wife believed? In God?"

         "And in Jesus."

         "In heaven?"

         "And in hell."

         A wry smile escaped from his lips. "Christians hold great fascination for me, although they have little influence in society. My daughter was a believer."

         "Was?"

         He looked away and glanced at the door where he had first entered. "She was killed," he said.

         "I'm sorry. My wife was killed about a year ago. Christians are not immune from the world."

         A weary, death-like sigh came from Crown. "No one is immune from this world, and soon I hope to send Giacanno to the next one." He stood up. "Perhaps we will meet again. We have the same enemy."

         When Lark called back Lori was singing to me. She was in a green evening dress, silver earrings, and a sparkling necklace. Computer hologram. She made about fifty selections, for the few times in our marriage when we were apart. She reached her arms out for me and sang for someone to watch over her. I mouthed the lyrics as she sang.

         "Put on some speed..."

         She moved slightly, swaying from side to side with the music, her eyes alive with love. I can never switch it off mid-song. I waited until she finished before answering.

         "Clint, I have your name," Lark told me.

         "Boy, you do good work," I said, as I grabbed a pencil and notebook.

         "Peggy Casara, 856 Neptune Drive, Jacksonville Beach, Florida. She's the only one who has subscribed to all three magazines within the last two months."

         "Thanks."

         Before I booked jet passage down to Florida, I made one more phone call. This one was to Leo Bastene, an FBI agent I met when I was doing crime reporting. Fortunately, he was in the organized crime unit of the agency. When he popped up on the screen I asked the bearded agent if the good guys were winning.

         "Right now we're holding our own. What can I do for you? I assume this is not a personal call."

         "It's insights like that which make you a valuable member of the FBI. I sleep soundly knowing you are on the job."

         "You sleep soundly because you have Triple A security."

         "Well, that too. What is Vincent Giacanno up to lately, besides the usual crimes, that is?"

         "Ah, the Greasy Rat."

         "An appropriate nickname for him."

         "We thought so. Right now he is looking for Alexander Crown, and Crown is looking for him. For the past five years or so, the Greasy Rat has been deeply interested in medicine and science. He's elderly and missed out on all the genetic technology and the youth drugs. He's growing older by the day and doesn't want to."

         "If I was going where he's going when he dies, I'd want to stay alive too."

         Leo's hand came up and scratched his beard. "I'll tell you something odd. We have continuing investigations of Giacanno but we were running into problems with a senator. He kept throwing roadblocks in our way. So you know what happened?"

         "You tell the IRS and ask the agents to check the senator's taxes?"

         "Funny, Clint. Real funny. No, last week the senator calls up and says he was wrong, and says we should pursue the investigation to its conclusion."

         I didn't have a beard so I scratched my jaw. "Senator Donaldson?"

         "None other."

         I shook my head. Donaldson must have had an alliance with Giacanno, but he was betraying the mob by giving his approval to the FBI. Which was as dangerous as breaking with Moe Clarrett. CRA was only slightly less lethal than the mafia. But why? I shook my head again.

         "Leo, why is Crown after Giacanno?"

         "Crown has a personal beef with the Greasy Rat. Giacanno's thugs killed his daughter."

         "What? Why?"

         "Crown's daughter was a Christian and a passionate one. She turned a number of lives around while living in a tough section of the city. She persuaded a number of women working for Giacanno to leave the streets, so to speak. Giacanno's enforcers found her one night. A week after they killed her, Crown quit his job. Three weeks after that the two enforcers were shot and killed. He's been working up the corporate crime ladder ever since."

         When I met Crown I had liked him, and now I realized there was a tragic bond between us. Lori was at the screening clinic because we wanted our son to be genrich. Crown had lost a daughter, and I had lost a wife and a son. So we had both changed into hunters. Crown had morphed into a killer and I came a half-second from the same fate. I had one of the bombers in my sights. He cringed and begged for mercy, but I was not feeling merciful. To be honest, at that moment I didn't care about human or divine law. What stopped me was the absolute knowledge that I would see Lori again, someday, and she would not want me to kill the pitiful man before me.

         Neptune Drive was in an older, residential section of Jacksonville Beach, only three blocks from the ocean. Eight fifty-six was a one-story blue house with white trim, with a five-foot fence in the back. While I watched the house, Charlotte came out into the front yard, a six-foot Guardian, red eyes ablaze, at her side. She wore an annoyed, irritated frown. Wind battered the long brown hair. Time in the sun gave her skin a reddish hue. When she returned to the house, I stepped out of the car, walked to the front door and knocked. Charlotte came from the living room, sandals slapping her heels. When she saw me, fear dimmed her bright eyes. She jumped back a step.

         "Clint. What are you doing here?"

         "Looking for you. Tekla was worried."

         "Oh, my God, how did you find me? You didn't tell anyone, did you?"

         I shook my head. "Mark Santell is dead," I told her.

         She spread her lips into a smile and took back her lost step. "Good, then he got what he deserved."

         "No doubt. But Uncle Vinnie is still around. I need to ask you some questions."

         She looked to her side where the Guardian stood. "Max. This man is...   If not a friend, he's not an enemy." The black figure nodded.

         I walked in. Charlotte pointed to a green chair and I eased down into it. She sat on a sofa and extended her legs to a coffee table.

         "Charlotte, I want to know everything you know about Uncle Vinnie, Senator Donaldson, Mark Santell and anything else that might have a bearing on this case."

         She gave me a wary look. "Why should I tell you anything, Clint?"

         "You're in hiding, Charlotte. Uncle Vinnie wants you dead. I can keep your secret. That's a powerful bargaining chip."

         Fear dimmed her eyes again. She sighed, then nodded. "I was at a small political meeting eight, nine months ago with the senator. He met privately with Mark, then introduced him to me. We began seeing one another. Mark and Uncle Vinnie didn't trust computers, phones or e-mail. Said they could be tapped. So once in a while I took a message to Senator Donaldson from Giacanno."

         "And what happened down at Citrell?"

         "We didn't go to Citrell. That's the story we told." She opened a box and took out a cigarette, then lit it. "Under Uncle Vinnie, the mafia built a medical research center. It's in north Florida and called the Thurban Institute. It's surrounded by lasers and high walls, but inside it has the finest medical equipment. Scientists there specialize in genetics and bioengineering and cloning. It was established ten years ago by Giacanno. He wants to live forever. He'd travel down to the Institute once a week.

         "They're trying to build a fountain of youth?"

         She nodded. "Mark and his uncle often talked about the Ponce de Leon Project. And they have allies."

         "Who?"

         "Moe Clarrett. He and his board of directors and maybe a few others. They're helping fund the clinic."

         "So a lot of old people want to become young again?"

         She puffed on the cigarette. "Yes. Giacanno is not in good health. Heart, high blood pressure, plus a few other ills of the aging. He's seventy-five and going fast. But one plus of Uncle Vinnie is he always thought ahead. He thought of the Thurban Institute a long time ago."

         "And the senator is part of the project?"

         "Yes."

         "Did he really have a heart attack on the trip?"

         She eased her legs onto the floor, then leaned over, elbow on knees and stared at me. "It wasn't a mild heart attack. It was major. Senator Donaldson died at Thurban."

         Lori and I would occasionally have a glass of wine. Now I felt the need for something stronger. "So what is in his place? Robot? Synthetic? Clone?"

         She shook her head. "That I don't know. I've been wanting to get out for a long time. Mark was getting obsessive and paranoid. Uncle Vinnie never liked me. Everything was getting too creepy. I had to split." A look of alarm flashed on her face. "You weren't lying to me? Mark is really dead?"

         "Yes. A Liquidator killed him and is now hunting for Uncle Vinnie."

         She smiled. "Hope he gets him."

         I supposed I could have gone home. I had found Charlotte Lansdale, but I wanted to see what was in the Thurban Institute.

         I sat in a small hotel room just outside of Chipley, Florida, with Alexander Crown. The third man in the room was Thomas "Rab" Rabaleis—Cajun, ex-Army sergeant, and latter-day soldier of fortune when most of the fortunes had been found. He had been an acquaintance for a number of years. They listened carefully as I explained my plan.

         "Can your friend, the computer expert, do what you need?" Crown asked.

         "Lark could disable the Pentagon," I told him. "This facility shouldn't give her any problem."

         "And Mr. Dunnmore in Tallahassee?"

         "Is very interested that something illegal might be going on in a facility officially certified by the state of Florida, by his very department. He will cover for me. Plus he provided a few documents."

         Crown nodded. "It should work. When do you go in?"

         "Tomorrow afternoon."

         The Thurban entrance had an iron gate equipped with security lasers and two surly-looking guards. I honked.

         "This facility doesn't allow visitors and all our employees are accounted for."

         Neither of the guards had spoken. The voice came from a microphone in the center of the gate.

         "My name is Harry Baumont. I'm with the state Health and Medical Services Agency," I said.

         For a while there was silence. I wondered if he had heard me. I was about to shout my name again when the gate clicked open. "Have your identification ready," the voice said.

         A guard came on both sides of the car. Both looked awfully efficient. Both carried sidearms and had small equipment belts. The one on my side had a communicator in his ear. His chest was so massive I wondered if he felled trees for a living when he wasn't standing guard.

         "Show me some ID," he said.

         I handed him my HMS card. He wasn't impressed.

         "We are not scheduled for an inspection."

         I tried to sound bored and tired, with a little bureaucratic irritation thrown in. "Listen, buddy, they didn't tell me anything about it until today. Most people have districts. I'm statewide, wherever they need me. I was down in Dade County last week, over in Pasco a couple of days ago. Now they bounced me up here. Once a month our computer spits out a name for a surprise inspection. If it were up to me I'd skip it entirely."

         He waited a second, listening. "Why don't you do that?"

         "Hey, buddy, as I said, this is not my idea. But Harold in the Tallahassee office said come out here and fill out a report, so I came out here. If I don't fill out a report, he's going to ask why and when I tell him I didn't get in, he'll get on the line to his superior and he'll get on the line to the FDLE who'll send a cop with the next inspector, and all the while everything will be held up until their little piece of paper gets scribbled on. If that's what you want, I'll leave now. But don't try to tell my boss I didn't try, because this..." I pointed to an object in the car. "...is on and will verify what I tried to tell you people. It will be a part of my report, so you guys can work it out with Harold and Tallahassee. Hey, is there a place I can back up?"

         "Wait a minute," he said.

         Ten minutes later, a shiny, white car with a gold Thurban Institute insignia pulled up. Five minutes later, I was sitting in the office of Dr. Arsec Hjelt, who held the official title of vice-president of the institute. I explained again, very politely, that the computer pulled a random name every month and an inspection is ordered.

         "What exactly would you like to see, Mr. Baumont?" he asked.

         "Just a quick run-through, just enough to file my report. I go on vacation next week and I don't want any complications. After the paper is filed, your center is deleted from the computer for a decade. We don't want to keep inspecting the same facilities."

         His smile increased by a millimeter. "I think we can accommodate you. I can personally show you around the main clinic."

         We walked out together. "Because of my statewide duties I rarely have a chance to do extensive background checks. Can you tell me the particular medical mission of your clinic?"

         "Eliminate the aging process and turn back time. The last great medical hurdle for scientists. We hope to leap it."

         "A noble endeavor."

         He nodded vigorously. "We believe we can turn the clock back and return youth to our patients."

         "Can we expect a youth pill soon?"

         "Not a pill. The most promising methods involve stem cell extracts and fetal tissue, when we can get it. Abortions are rare nowadays due to the almost 100 percent contraception rate. To be honest, this is not mainstream science, and some researchers would downplay our research, but we are confident we're on the right track."

         "Weren't some scientists overconfident about stem cell benefits back at the turn of the century?"

         "There was some hype and when the promised benefits did not materialize, some turned away, but we are convinced of success."

         "I imagine such therapy would be enormously profitable."

         "Oh, yes. What would you pay to be eternally young?"

         I looked around. Inside, the security wasn't as tight as I expected, but they may have figured no one could penetrate the outside barriers. One single laser camera focused on each corridor. As we strolled through the hall, I saw two Guardians and several human security people.

         I checked my watch. As the minute hand bounced between the one and the two, the lights went out. The computers groaned and screens went blank.

         Lark, bless her heart, was right on time.

         As Hjelt howled with shock, I slipped away from him.

         I turned right and headed down a hall. Immediately the backup system kicked in. Lights flashed on, weakened, then flashed off again. When a security guard ran down the corridor, I clotheslined him, hooked my arm around his neck and slammed him to the floor. A punch knocked him cold. I grabbed his gun and his security pass.

         In about two minutes, I found the room I wanted. It was highlighted by red warning lights. Keep out. A black Guardian approached silently. I fired. There was a nasty staccato sound as a red sensor exploded. The Guardian spun around, blindly firing a red laser from somewhere in the black alloy. I fired two more shots at him and he went down. I flashed my pass and two security doors opened. I looked into the room and was stunned.

         There were three long rows, assembly lines perhaps, with large containers. Each one had its own medical computer. Heart rate, pulse, brainwaves were checked and analyzed. I walked down the middle row and stopped at one cubicle. The green digital dials told me the heart rate was normal and the temperature was 98.8. The tiny arms and legs wriggled.

         Human infants.

         Being grown and cultivated.

         There's not much fetal tissue around, Hjelt had said.

         But there is a great deal of demand. So you have to grow your own.

         Horrified, I walked down a row. The babies were almost fully formed. If they had been in a womb, I guessed they would be about eight months old. But for these infants, nine months didn't mean their birth—it meant their death.

         Suddenly, the overhead light flickered and strengthened.

         "What do you think of our project, Mr. Devlin?"

         I quickly swirled around, but two men with guns stood about six feet from me. I had been so shocked by the rows of infants I hadn't heard them. The white-haired elderly man in the middle smiled. I could see why Vincent Giacanno sought a fountain of youth. He hadn't aged well. Deep crevasses of lines crisscrossed his face. The extra flesh in his cheeks and jowls sagged. He wheezed when he talked.

         "We were told you were still pursuing the case. For a genrich man, which I assume you are, you are not very smart," he said.

         "Neither are you, Vinnie," I said.

         A red light snapped on. It blinked crimson shadows. A harsh screech of a warning siren followed. As a modulated computer voice proclaimed intruders in the building, we heard an explosion.

         Giacanno stared at me. "Another one of your tricks, Devlin?"

         "No tricks. You're overdue at the cemetery, Vinnie, and your ride is on its way. That's Alexander Crown. He's coming for you." They might have expected Crown but there was no reason to tell them about Rab.

         "Crown! He's here?"

         I just smiled.

         The siren screamed louder. Giacanno turned to his guards. "Get out there and get him! I want him dead! Bring me back the body." His hand went beneath his coat and brought out a gun. "I will cover Devlin."

         I walked down the row, toward Giacanno. One cubicle looked different. It was set off from the others. A transparent plastic wrap covered the crib. Inside, tubes were hooked up to the tiny form. The monitor showed breathing was erratic. The green, wavy line designating heartbeat moved sporadically up and down but not with any regular rhythm. I heard the labored breathing. The child was obviously in pain. Then I saw the final secret of Thurban and groaned in anguish. I fell to my knees and placed my fingers gently on the plastic wrap. "My God, what have you done?"

         Yellow tubes attached an infant—not a fetus, but an infant—to a computer. His face was human. Instead of hands, small stubby claws appeared on the ends of tiny arms. Instead of toes on his feet, reddish precursors of claws or hooves appeared.

         "Giacanno! You can't crossbreed in genetics. You can't—"

         "I do anything I please, Devlin." His voice was a savage, triumphant cry. "In my world, I'm god, and I shall soon be immortal."

         The infant's tortured brown eyes looked at me. There was humanity in the glance. His face contorted in pain but he looked longingly at me. I wondered if my own son would have looked similar. His eyes blinked and he seemed to ask that eternal question, "Why?"

         "Because some men are evil, son," I said. "But you will soon be with your Father in heaven, who is good."

         He coughed, the small body contracted violently then, mercifully, the monitor's lines went level.

         I stood up and turned to face Giacanno. "All this for eternal life?"

         "Yes," he said, his voice booming. "Eternal life. To live forever!"

         "I don't know why you bothered. All men will live forever."

         He looked puzzled.

         "You can't have eternal youth, though. When you enter hell old, you stay old."

         "Fool!" He spat out the word.

         A muted boom sounded in the corridor. Two more shots followed.

         "That's Crown," I told him. "Plus a friend of mine who is just as capable and deadly as Crown. Your hearse is on its way, Vinnie."

         Giacanno's eyes now held a yellow tinge of fear. His tongue nipped at his lips. Another shot echoed in the now noisy building. For a second, Giacanno looked toward the sound. And a second was all I needed.

         My kick landed solidly against his wrist, kicking his hand into his belly. He bounced off the wall and dropped his gun. I kicked it away.

         "I'm not going to kill you, Vinnie. I'm going to leave you for Crown."

         I walked away. When I came to the door I looked back. Giacanno was crawling toward the gun.

         "Who's the fool now, Vinnie?" I yelled.

         It was almost over. There was just one more stop.

         I was waiting for Senator Donaldson when he entered his office. I had phoned ahead and dropped names such as Thurban and Giacanno so he agreed to flick off the cameras and all the security lasers. He strode toward his desk and sat behind it. The silver hair and the chiseled features gave him a distinguished look. Regular or Xerox, the senator carried some charisma with him. As he smiled at me, I reached into my coat and brought out my gun.

         "Let's forget the civilities, senator. Tell me just who or what you are."

         If he was bothered by the gun, he didn't show it. His lips parted in a serene grin. "I think your question pertains to what I was. I was a clone built hastily but adequately by the Thurban scientists. They're quite brilliant in their field, but they did have to rush a bit due to the senator's untimely death."

         "So what happened? You betrayed Giacanno and Clarrett."

         "What influenced the senator didn't influence me. I wanted no part of either of them."

         "So what did influence you?"

         He grinned again. "The scientists at Thurban knew I was a politician so they realized I might have to make political speeches. They fed into me some of the finest documents, books, and speeches in history. The Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, the Federalist Papers, many of Jefferson's and Madison's writings, the Bible, a bit of King, Churchill and Twain."

         "None of Clarrett's speeches?"

         He laughed. "No. He didn't make the cut. But since the senator was officially an Episcopalian, they gave me bits and pieces of The Book of Common Prayer.  'How wonderful and beyond our knowing, O God, is your mercy and loving-kindness to us, that to redeem a slave, you gave a son. How holy is this night, when wickedness is put to flight, and sin is washed away. It restores innocence to the fallen and joy to those who mourn. It casts out pride and hatred and brings peace and concord.'"

         "Bet they wish they'd left that part out."

         "There is a terrible sense of isolation coming into the world fully grown, but without a sense of belonging. You are, as the Psalms say, a stranger on the Earth."

         "So hide not your commandments from me," I said.

         "Exactly. I knew where my official church was, and I knelt down at the communion rail, not knowing if I qualified for the Lord's mercy. I was created by evil men for evil reasons. I thought I might be beyond redemption. I thought the Lord might turn His back on me. But after kneeling, I did not stand up a stranger." He smiled again. "You can, of course, go to the FBI. I am, after all, an imposter."

         Imposter? Perhaps, but better than the original.

         I thought for a moment, then holstered my gun. "Your term is up in two years senator. Let's see how good you do."

         I walked out. It had been a long day.

         I was going home.

         Where Lori would sing to me.

 

 

Copyright 2006, George Duncan

After 30 years in journalism, George Duncan is an editorial writer with the Daily News-Record in Harrisonburg, Va. His novel, A Cold and Distant Memory was published in 2004. 

 

 

Cover: "The Lady Returns"

Copyright 2006, Melinda S Reynolds 

Self-taught artist and writer; drawing came first, writing second.  My favorite genres are fantasy and sci-fi because of the depth of imagination.