Part 7 (1/2)

”Someone who's going to wire money?”

”To Home Savings.”

”She must be a very good friend.”

”My best in the world.” Once inside, Elizabeth scanned the mall restaurants. ”From before I had my accident,” she added, almost without thinking. ”Your accident?”

”Not worth going into.” She swept her hair back from her face. ”Listen, do you want anything to eat while we're waiting? I could eat a horse. Or at least a burrito.” She gestured toward a nearby restaurant. ”Of course,” he said, taking the rest of the quarters. ”And a c.o.ke, if you would. I need to freshen up. I'll meet you there.” She pointed to an empty table. He bought two burritos, a lemonade and a c.o.ke, swinging his body around as mall security walked past. The uniformed woman, bouncing along to the rap music booming from the mall's PA system, didn't appear to be on any sort of alert. Eventually she vanished into a video store. He bit into his burrito, enjoying the frank uncomplicated goodness of it, finis.h.i.+ng it quickly. He also downed the lemonade. He was staffing to worry about the pain behind his sternumwondering whether it was acid reflux or his vagus nerve splices fraying-when he realized that almost twenty minutes had gone by and Elizabeth still hadn't returned. He took her c.o.ke and burrito and went in search of the rest rooms. The woman's room was open and empty.

For another twenty minutes he refused to face it. Like someone looking for a lost wallet, he kept returning to the same places over and over again, until finally the woman from mall security started to get suspicious. You knew this had to happen, he told himself, as he turned and walked toward a waiting taxi. But why now? Something was making him stupid, he thought, and then he revised that to conclude that he couldn't blame anything but himself. He was stupid. The loss of Elizabeth, the plaque in his cerebral arteries, the acc.u.mulation of guilt and suppressed panic was.h.i.+ng over him was like the panic of someone coming off hard drugs and suddenly facing years of pain. What had Beatrice taught him to call this? The rebound effect. Yes, that was it. A sense of black doom descended like a summer storm. He felt like he was six years old again. He took a cab back to the Rosaria Hotel, and while he was packing, he saw a patrol car pull into the parking lot. Quickly finding the fire stairs, he left by the back entrance. He hailed another cab and asked the driver to take him to the nearest phone booth, which turned out to be out near the Dixie Highway. After instructing the driver to wait, he took what was left of the quarters and dropped one into the pay phone. Again he dialed the number from memory. A recorded voice came on and announced that it was a long-distance call-$3.35 for the first three minutes and $1.05 for each additional minute. He went back to the driver to break a twenty and ended up taking all the small change the man had for an extra five dollars. Back in the booth, he dialed the cellular number. There were some electronic hems and haws, and then a voice picked up. ”h.e.l.lo?”

”h.e.l.lo, Beatrice,” he said.

There was a brain-numbing silence on the other end. Sweat sprang out on his forehead. Then her voice came back. ”Peter?”

”Yes, it's me. Are you alone?”

”Yes.”

He wondered if it were true. Probably not. ”Where are you?” she asked.

”Where are you?”

”Miami. Peter, if you're here in the city, you're in terrible danger.” ”Believe me, I know that. Are you all right? I tried to call you at the lab ” ”Yes. I'm all right.”

”Thank G.o.d. Listen,” he started to say and then found he couldn't go on. Tears filled his eyes. ”I know why you're calling.”

”Then tell me.

”She left you.

”That's not why. I need to see you,” he said. ”Does she know now?”

”I had to tell her.”

”You had to tell her what?”

Why was she being so obtuse? ”Everything,” he said. ”Everything? Are you sure?” Her voice carried an odd teasing quality. ”And just how did she take it?” ”Not well. How did you expect her to take it?” he said, heartened by the fact that they were at least sparring once more. I've missed you, Beatrice.” ”No, you only think you have.”

”Have it your way. I'm sorry. However you want to make me pay- ”You've had me, Peter. The whole time.” He stopped, took a deep breath. ”Beatrice, you're not making any sense- ”Just not to you. You were always a beat behind. Like Einstein baffled by his tax returns. Tell me, darling, do you know how to travel through time?” Darling, was all he could think. Otherwise he was utterly lost. ”Do you think,” he heard her say, ”you can get back to the summer of '67?” ”Beatrice, my head hurts.”

”I know. Just get on the time machine. Someone will meet you, I promise.” Her voice went away and came back, this time very loud. ”I'm sorry, I don't respond to telephone solicitations,” she said into the phone. ”How did you get this number, anyway?” ”Beatrice, did someone come in? Freddy? Henderson?” ”And, no,” she said, softly again, ”I don't forgive you for a minute. Goodbye, darling, and happy landings. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.” 16 The summer of 67 had been their first at Vieques. Whenever they wanted to get away from the base or from Freddy or from the bur(lens of uneasy conscience, Peter and Beatrice would fly to Miami, rent a car and drive the causeway to Key West. It was Key West where they had discovered deep-sea fis.h.i.+ng, tantric s.e.x and French cooking. To Peter and Beatrice, Key West was Paradise Regained. Key West. It hit him like a thunderbolt that that was where she wanted him to go. Key West was where she was waiting for him. Unless, of course, it was a trap. If it were a trap, then Beatrice had deeper reserves of hatred than he had ever dared guess, more guile than Machiavelli and a real shot at an acting career. What he had heard in her voice was tender condescension and wifely disapproval, not anger. Nor the sound of a woman scorned. She had more the sound of a woman in control. It occurred to him that kind of control could be deadly No. She's not going to betray me, he thought. No matter what I de-serve. Still, as the cab rolled down Route 1, he kept turning to look out the back window while he listened for the sound of choppers. And he replayed their phone conversation in his head, over and over. I told Elizabeth everything. She might well have pa.s.sed that along to Wolfe and Henderson. What, after all, did she owe Elizabeth? There Beatrice might prove vindictive, and who could blame her? He had hurt her terribly. He had thrown her over for someone else, someone young like his new self Fifty years of marriage, and nothing they had built together had withstood the imperatives of newfound youth. That's how she would see it. But would she want Elizabeth dead?

She had been in collusion when it came to the death of Hans, he reminded himself. She had agonized over it, yes, no question, hut in the end, she had approved it. The greatest good for the greatest number. Genius conquers all. Moral piracy, that's what it amounted to, but she had gone for it, Or had she seen that by now? In what he knew any hack psychiatrist would diagnose as obsessive ruminations, he pa.s.sed through Key Largo, Islamorada, Layton, Key Colony Beach. Somewhere around Marathon or Big Pine he fell into a troubled sleep, dreaming of his wife as a Ja.n.u.s-faced monster, one face young and dismissive, the other smiling and old. Then it was the young face that was tender and the older that of Medusa. The next thing he knew the driver was shaking him and they were at Truman and Duval, in the heart of Key West. ”Where you wanna go, buddy?” the cabby asked. Peter sat up and rubbed his eyes. ”You know the Cafe des Artistes?”

”Over on Simonton?”

”That's the one.”

He had the driver drop him a block away and approached the place cautiously on foot. Just short of it he stopped. Should he chance it or phone the restaurant from outside? Nay men were going in and out, but they were in uniform and mostly with wives or girlfriends; the people looking for him would be dressed in civilian clothing. Or would they be? He reminded himself that there were several bases here, so the presence of military was no particular cause for concern, in or out of uniform. Besides, the look of the place reeked of intrigue. It was part of an old hotel and was supposedly built in 1934 by Al Capone himself. No wonder Peter was paranoid. He wondered why he and Beatrice had found it so inviting before. More innocent days, perhaps. He went inside, inquiring at the desk if a Beatrice Jance had arrived. The desk clerk informed him that she had checked in that morning. His heart was in full gallop by the time he located the house phones and rang her room. There was no answer. On an impulse, he walked back through the ornate lobby to the restaurant. The floor tilted under his feet.

He ignored that. Looked around.

And there she was, eating quietly at their favorite table. In that room, sitting amid flowers and paintings by Key West artists and set off by the room's dark woods and linen-covered walls, she was stunning, set like a jewel in his memory. It was as though he had simply returned from one of his solitary walks along the shrimp-boat docks- thirty years ago-to meet her for lunch. Even the Rameau harpsichord suite playing on the stereo, he remembered that too. ”Beatrice?”

She looked up in alarm. ”Good Lord, you've lost your mind completely.” Her gray hair was tied in a chignon and she was wearing a loose-fitting beach dress with an orchid print. She looked casually wan and worn and entirely wonderful. ”May I sit down?” She studied his face as though she had forgotten it. ”What if I'm being watched? Hasn't that occurred to you?” ”Are you?”

”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 G.o.d. 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 d.a.m.n 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s. ”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 gla.s.s. 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 n.o.bel 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 gla.s.s 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 p.r.i.c.k. A superficial, self-justifying, pompous a.s.shole-” 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 d.a.m.n 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?”

”That's the one. One plane hadn't logged a flight plan, so the other didn't know to look out for it.” ”One was bringing in a clone?” he asked, as it all began to dawn on him. ”Whose was it, do you know?” ”Moores.”

”The chemist working on the so-called Death Aerosol?” ”That's him. He died of heart failure shortly thereafter. Or maybe a broken heart. Everyone who lost his clone had a hard time with it. Their immortality was almost in their hands and then it ran out through their fingers. And then there was you and yours. Hans Brinkman. And success. He looked down, ashamed to be part of such a cynical thing. ”And the next one?” ”He lives in New York.”

”State?”

”City. Where, I don't know.”

”New York's a big place, Beatrice. Eight or ten million people. Who told you all this-Wolfe?” ”Correct.”

Peter had known. ”He's in love with you, isn't he?” ”Grotesquely.”

Peter reached across the table again and this time she allowed him to take her hands in his. Her hands were icy. Despite the stares from nearby tables, he continued to hold his wife's hands. ”And you were faithful to me,” he said. ”And you were faithful to me,” said Beatrice rnatter-of-factly. ”In your fas.h.i.+on.” Taking her hands from his, she tapped him lightly on the wrist. ”Nine clones, Peter.” She stared at him until it finally struck him. He took a deep breath, feeling like a kid tipping over the brim of the highest roller coaster ever built, half-exhilarated, half-terrified. ”Holy Christ,” he said under his breath. ”Welcome to the new millennium.”