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 space 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 God.”
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. Damnation,” 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 glass 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 button 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 buttons. 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 passed 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 glass. “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 assuming 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.