“If they were triangulating my cellular.” “Do they have reason to distrust you?”
“No,” she said, and relaxed ever so slightly. “They think I want you six feet under. Jack?” A waiter scurried over.
“Yes, Mrs. Jance,” he said with a Georgia drawl. “We need to move up to the deck,” she said. “It’s more private there.” The man glanced at Peter. “I understand.” “Jack, really. This is my son, Peter Junior.” She said it so easily that Peter was caught completely off-guard. He realized she had given more thought to this meeting than he had imagined. Jack, examining Peter through half-closed lids, gave a gasp of delight. “He looks just like his father!”
“Spitting image, isn’t he?” said Beatrice. “He’s dead.” “Oh my God. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Jance.”
“Don’t be. It was a mercy, really”
“I see.”
“Senile dementia,” she said, shooting a glance at Peter, then gathering her things. “But thank you so much for your concern, Jack,” she said warmly and led the way upstairs and outside. The deck portion of the restaurant was open to the sky. There was a balmy breeze, the sound of cicadas and few customers this hour. Beatrice chose a table where they could watch the street. Or be watched, thought Peter, despite the emotions that were churning in his heart. Puppy love, it almost felt like, like they were starting all over again. And then he remembered feeling the identical thing for Elizabeth. His head began to swim. “Well, son,” said Beatrice wryly, “you’ve been a busy boy, haven’t you?” At least, he thought, she isn’t smoking. The ashtray on the table downstairs had been empty. No more of Wolfe’s damn Gauloises. “It’s been interesting,” was all he could say. He felt like reaching across the table for her hand, but he knew she would draw it away. “Don’t look at me so moon-eyed,” she said, confirming his guess. “The last thing I want is to look like some dowager who’s bought a surfer for the weekend.” After his wine arrived, she raised her glass to him slightly and took a thoughtful sip. “So,” she said at last. “Now she’s left you.” “She disappeared. I suppose you could say she left me,” said Peter. “That’s what 1 would call it if my lover disappeared.” She took out a pack of Gauloises and removed one. His heart sank. “On the other hand, at least it made you call me. You wouldn’t have otherwise, I’m sure. “Beatrice, that isn’t true. All the time I was with her-” -you were thinking of me? I’m sure you were.” She shrugged. “Sorry. It’s just that on one level, that’s utter nonsense.” She looked off, checking the street, then said, “But on another, it’s utterly plausible.” She looked at the cigarette, then took the pack of Gauloises and dropped it and the cigarette into the ashtray, moving both to another table. Peter looked at her, but she revealed nothing more. Jack brought a second menu and a bottle of wine that Beatrice had ordered. It was a cabernet Peter loved. The label had changed slightly over the years, but the memories were still vivid of the times they had gone through a bottle of that wine talking about everything under the stars. When the waiter was gone, Peter leaned across the table. “Beatrice,” he said. “I beg your forgiveness.” “Don’t grovel,” she said. “Let me think.” He sat back again, this time at a more respectful distance. When they had ordered, Beatrice fixed her eyes on him. In the glare of her disapproval, he drank his glass of wine down straight and poured himself another. “You know, sonny boy, that they’re planning to kill you on sight?” “I guessed as much. And ixnay on the onnysay, all right?” The wine was quickly going to his head. “Alex ran the models and the Hammer looks good to go. They’ve already started construction back at White Sands.” “Alex is back?” said Peter in disbelief. “That was the last thing he did before he left. Where he is now, who knows-they’re still looking for him, too.” She studied him for a moment, then asked: “Tell me, do you love her, Peter?” “Could we do this down at police headquarters?” he asked defensively. She didn’t smile. He shrugged. “Yes, all right, I was infatuated.” “Fickle, aren’t you? Frankly, Peter, I’m disappointed. Just infatuated? With her body or her mind?” “Both,” he said angrily. “And it wasn’t just infatuation. I loved her. I still do, I think. It’s crazy, but it’s something much more than infatuation. She knew this body and this body knew her. Do you have any idea of what I’m saying?” “I’m afraid I do. And thank you for your honesty,” she said, and she drank deeply. He refilled her glass. “You mustn’t blame her,” he said. “She was in love with Hans Brinkman. “Spoken like a true man. And what’s your excuse?” Since he didn’t have one, he said nothing and reached for his glass. Except… “Do you remember your research on cellular memory?” he asked. “Oh, spare me.
“I’m not making excuses. But I think you were on to something.” “You’re leaning on a thin reed here.”
“I flew a plane. You know I don’t know the first thing about flying.” He saw she was listening despite herself. “But Hans did. He was a pilot, he was skilled at martial arts, he apparently even liked to mix it up. You heard about the fight at the hotel, I’m sure.” She nodded, not wanting to give this any credence. But she had heard, and every time she had looked at that killer who followed Henderson around, she wondered how Peter could ever have taken him on. “Answer me this-did you ever in your life see me punch anybody out?” “At the Nobel dinner. When that little Croatian chemist started needling you. “I was drunk.”
“You’re drunk now. Are you saying the devil made you do it?” “No, I’m not. Unless we’ve met the devil and he is us. All I’m really saying is that she was blameless. As soon as I told her who I was, she left.” “That’s not the only reason why she took off,” Beatrice said cryptically. He put his glass down and glared at her. “Beatrice, if you’ve got some information I should know, tell me, don’t torture me!” “You deserve to be tortured. You’re a prick. A superficial, self-justifying, pompous asshole-” He threw up his hands. Guilty as charged. Peter stared back at the people now staring at them. “Sorry. Lovers’ quarrel.”
Everyone looked from Peter to Beatrice, shook their heads and went back to their dinners. Beatrice’s face colored. “Very funny,” she said without smiling. She waited while another waiter scurried up and delivered their food, then leaned forward a gain. “Where do you think she went?” “I’m not sure, but I’d guess she’s making a run for Zurich. Direct flight, I would think, so she won’t risk another stop on American soil.” “Which means she’ll have to fly out of Miami. We should stop her.” “If she wants to go, it’s her decision.” “She doesn’t know half the danger she’s in,” Beatrice said solemnly or she wouldn’t have taken on her own.” “I tried to explain,” Peter said. “But she’s damn near as stubborn as you are. “Just as, I’d guess,” said Beatrice strangely. “They’re not going to kill her, you know. Not exactly” He was starting to feel a deeper terror than usual. “You’re worried about her?”
“We need her help, actually, as much as she needs ours,” she said enigmatically, wearing a look that told him nothing except that he knew even less than he thought. “Why do we need her help?”
“Because we need to find the ninth clone.” Peter let out an audible gasp. “Ninth?”
“They’re about to harvest him. And I really don’t think we want that to happen, do we?” “So I was what? The eighth?” He could only stare at her, stupefied. “You were the seventh, Peter,” she said, and gave him a haunted look: “Seven was the lucky number.” His head spun. “And the first six?”
She looked away. “They didn’t make it. My glue took a long while to get right.” He shuddered. All those years-how naive he had been. Neither his wife of half a century nor his friends nor the true nature of his work had been really known by him. “The first four died on the table,” she went on. “The next one survived the transplant, but suffered brain death. They pulled the plug on that one, which was Barrola’s, incidentally.” Peter’s eyes grew wider still. He couldn’t talk. “Barrola went into clinical depression. You never noticed, of course. You always wore blinders when it came to other people’s moods.” He tried to catch his breath. Some terrible fear was working its way up his gut. “That’s five. Number six?” “He died during transport.” Beatrice gathered her sweater around her shoulders, Peter noticed that he felt chilled as well. “Remember,” she asked, “that midair collision over Vieques two years ago?” He remembered. “The two business jets?”