“Bullshit.” SoJo crossed her arms. “That violates Sojourner’s First Rule of Humanity. Nothing is free. If something can be owned and controlled, someone will own it and control it. Makes no difference if it’s a resource, a patch of land, or a human being. Someone will always take advantage. World don’t run on kindness and generosity and love. It runs on money and power and fear.”

  “But we can change that, SoJo. We can give free energy to the world.”

  “Don’t give me that tree-hugging hippie-dippy bullshit. You said you got paid a million bucks. Where is that money coming from if the energy is free?”

  “Ziggy is selling the technology. Countries will pay for it. Governments will give it to their people.”

  “Governments don’t give shit to their people. Their people pay for everything. They pay taxes. Pay with their labor. Pay with their lives. You think the United States is going to pay billions to Ziggy to give Americans free energy and not get nothing back? You think the energy lobbies, who put those politicians in office, are going to let their companies become obsolete? We can’t even get universal health care. Universal energy? Ha! Kiss my ass.”

  Charles slumped his shoulders.

  Then the car died.

  Weejy shifted into neutral and coasted, trying to figure out what to do. She went with, “It all fits, SoJo. Why Ziggy has so much security. Why they wanted to know who we are, why we were snooping around. If this free energy thing is true, it will change the world. And there will be people who want to stop it. Oil. Coal. Natural gas. Fracking. Even wind farms and solar farms. They’d do anything to suppress the technology.”

  “You’re buying this load of crap?”

  “I’m saying it wouldn’t hurt to hear them out. After we met, what did you think of me?”

  “That you’re my sister by another mister.”

  “Doesn’t that make Charles our brother by another mother?”

  SoJo narrowed her eyes. Weejy met her glare.

  Just go with it, my friend. We don’t have any other options here. It’s either play nice or fight. And this is a fight we can’t win.

  SoJo turned to glare at Charles. “Explain again how we get paid.”

  “Ziggy needs help with this project. It’s huge. But he can’t trust anyone.”

  “How about those guys following us?” SoJo asked.

  “Mercenaries. They have no idea what they’re protecting. But the three of us, we already share a monumental secret. We’re clones. Created by a secret government experiment. If we tried to explain this to anyone else, we’d be ridiculed. Ostracized. The only people who can believe us, who can trust us, are people like us.”

  That makes zero sense. But hopefully SoJo will roll with it.

  “That makes total sense,” SoJo said. “I’m in.”

  Weejy gently pressed the brakes, and the Civic rolled to a stop. The SUVs following them pulled up on all four sides of the car.

  Weejy forced back the panic. “Charles, do you want to get out first, talk to your people, make sure we’re all on the same page?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  Charles extricated himself from the back seat of the car and went to greet the beige men. SoJo touched Weejy’s arm. “We’re bullshitting them, right?”

  “Yeah. We’ll play along until we can warn Bert and the others.”

  “You think there is any chance Ziggy is one of the good guys, and we’ll get a fat pay day?”

  “Zero chance. Ziggy and Tork had torture boners, drooling to hurt me. Free energy isn’t on their agenda. We aren’t the first people to snoop around their little compound. What would happen if we didn’t have number tattoos? I believe these guys are serious enough, and deranged enough, to kidnap, detain, abuse, and kill anyone who gets too close. And I bet they’ve done it before.”

  “Think Charles knows this?”

  “I think Charles is watching out for Charles.” Weejy narrowed her eyes. “Why? You still have a thing for him?”

  “He’s easy to order around, and seems like a pushover, but he’s got a bad side. That’s my jam. I like the ambiguous scuzzholes that you can’t figure out. Keeps me guessing.”

  Weejy put it out there. “Anyone ever tell you your taste in men is dysfunctional?”

  “You know how some people love those crazy ass hot peppers? The Ghost Carolina Scorpion Reaper Molten Rocket kind of shit? I like my guys to sting a little. The drama is spicy.”

  “Don’t let the spicy drama get in the way of making the right move when we need to. They wanted to strap me to a metal table and light me up with a cattle prod.”

  “And you don’t think that’s even the tiniest bit kinky?”

  “I think this is going to end badly.” Weejy’s face pinched. “And I need to know I can trust you.”

  The passenger door opened, and Charles grinned. “It’s all good. You ladies can ride with me.”

  He held out his hand, and SoJo took it.

  Eagerly.

  Too eagerly.

  Please, SoJo. Stay frosty.

  TOM

  Phoenix, Arizona

  Abe spent the flight flirting with Catherine, Roy spent the flight sleeping, Joan spent the flight either sleeping or pretending to sleep, and Tom spent the flight second-guessing every decision he’d made since grammar school.

  I want some edibles.

  Which is exactly why I shouldn’t have any edibles.

  Once upon a time, Tom was a Homicide Detective in Chicago. The Job took a toll, having to deal with victims of horrible tragedies and the monsters who committed those crimes. But aside from occasional nightmares, and a sharp increase in cynicism, Tom remained Tom for most of his CPD years.

  Then he learned about his number tattoo, and endured some horrors that the discovery unleashed, which really messed with his head. He met Joan at the same time, and she made up for a lot of the horrors. She kept Tom balanced. Uplifted him during the down times. Gave him hope. Loved him.

  Wanting to be with Joan, and fearing burnout, Tom quit the force and moved to Los Angeles with her. He bought a boat with Roy and they became charter fishermen, leaving behind death and tragedy and monsters, eager to embrace a new life.

  But the horrors just kept on coming. Tom kept running into the worst that humanity had to offer, again and again like a perverted broken record, and each time the monsters left deeper and deeper scars. On his body. On his mind. On his psyche.

  Like a good cowboy, Tom always got back on the horse that threw him. Damning the pain. Fighting the fear and doubt. Soldiering on.

  Except for the most recent episode, involving his broken finger.

  I can’t seem to get past this one.

  I can’t claw my way out of the darkness like I once could.

  Joan is being tolerant. Too tolerant.

  Maybe I don’t need patience and understanding. Maybe I need a kick in the ass.

  Or maybe I need to stop relying on my wife to save me.

  And now we have a baby on the way.

  And I can’t get my shit together.

  I’ve forgotten how to cope.

  Tom tried to remember his last fishing charter. It had been before Erinyes. He’d gone to the boat a few times, but Roy had been taking charters without him.

  I’ve been convincing myself I need time to heal.

  But I haven’t been healing. I’ve been hiding.

  So what’s the solution?

  How do I fix this problem with my wife?

  Tom closed his eyes, for just a second.

  Then he was back at Butler House.

  I’m having a nightmare.

  Unfortunately for Tom, this recurring nightmare actually happened in real life.

  It played out as it always did:

  Tom wiggled his fingers to keep the circulation going, but his hands and arms were becoming very numb due to being hung by them.

  Augustus Torble held the glowing branding iron in front of Tom’s nose. He tore the buttons off Tom’s shirt, exposing his bare chest. Just as he stepped back, Tom lashed out with his foot, trying to kick away the poker.

  He missed. By a lot.

  “Seriously?” Torble said, looking amused. “That was your big move? How long have you been planning that one?”

  “A while,” Tom admitted.

  “That was pathetic, man. I mean, I’m actually embarrassed for you.”

  “It went better in my head.”

  “How so?”

  “I kicked the poker, it went flying up into the air, and burned my rope off, freeing me.”

  Torble nodded. “That would have been pretty cinematic. But instead we’ll have to settle for this.”

  When the branding iron touched Tom’s chest, the sensation defied description. He’d been hurt before. Badly. Plus there were all the common, human pains everyone had to deal with. Toothaches. Back strains. Ear infections. Kidney stones. Kicked in the balls.

  This was worse than all of that, happening all at once, confined to one small section of Tom’s body, multiplied by ten.

  It hurt like hell.

  The next thing Tom knew, he was being slapped in the face. When he woke up, the pain was still there.

  “You passed out,” Torble said. “And you’re crying. It’s really disappointing, Tom. Aren’t you supposed to be the hero? The one who rushes in to save the day?”

  The branding iron was back in the stove. Tom was shivering all over, and the tears wouldn’t stop.

  “You smell that?” Torble took a big, exaggerated sniff. “That’s you. Isn’t it the most succulent scent? I confess, sometimes when I had a whore down here, the smell was so overpowering that I took a little nibble. I’ll try to refrain from doing that with you, Detective. I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. But if I do have a moment of weakness, I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  Tom kept looking at the stove.

  “Don’t worry, Tom. It’ll be ready shortly. Iron holds its heat pretty well. If you’re anxious, I can have two irons going at once, so one is always heating up. I’ve also got some pincers we can try. They snip out a bit of flesh while they’re burning you.”

  Torble came over, gave Tom a gentle poke in his new burn.

  “I believe that’s going to leave a scar, Detective. That is, it would, if you lived long enough for it to heal. I have to say, you look really frightened right now.”

  Torble moved closer.

  “Don’t you have anything at all to say, Tom? No begging me to stop? No threats? Don’t worry, you’ll open up. You’ll tell me all about your life. Try to get my sympathy. Try to distract me. By the end of the day, I’ll know everything about you. Your hopes and dreams. Your fears. All the little secrets you’re too embarrassed to even tell your lover. It’s a bonding experience, Tom.”

  Then Torble stuck out his tongue and gave Tom’s burn a slow lick.

  “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself. But it is delicious. You’ll also be able to taste it for yourself, when I use the branding iron on your lips.”

  Tom’s eyes flipped open, and he jerked in his seat. He looked around, panicked and sweaty and breathing like he’d just sprinted a hundred meters.

  It’s not Butler House.

  I’m on the plane.

  I’m safe.

  It was just a bad dream.

  Another bad dream.

  He subconsciously touched the scar on his chest, feeling the raised, gnarled tissue through his damp shirt.

  “Please be seated and fasten your seatbelts. We’re beginning our descent. I estimate we’ll arrive in PHX at 6:15am.”

  Tom looked at Joan, hoping she would meet his eyes, but she had her forehead on the window, staring out into the dawn. He got his breathing under control.

  I know I need to do something.

  But what?

  Just lay it all out there?

  That seemed like the best plan. But Tom had tried to do that at Erato. To tell her that jumping off the SkyTower made him realize how much he had to lose. But instead he’d acted like a jealous dick.

  I need to tell her that I’m sorry. That I’m hurting. That I’m scared.

  I need to tell her I love her, and that I’ll make things right.

  “Joan? Would you like to come up to the cockpit to watch the landing?”

  Oh, hell no. She’s not going to play copilot with that douchebag, Leo.

  “Joan! You need to join him!” Catherine got up and went to her. “Leo’s landings are so exciting. He’ll even let you hold his stick.”

  Now there’s no way she’ll do it. She hates Catherine, and that was way too crass.

  “Sounds fun.” Joan got up out of her sleeper chair.

  She walked up the aisle, passing Tom without even glancing at him.

  Am I losing my wife?

  A moment later, Catherine plopped into the seat across from Tom.

  “So, Beethoven… I was thinking me, you, and Abe pick him up. He’s expecting your friend Albert, right?”

  “Bert texted him, told him I’d be coming. Bert mentioned he isn’t the most likeable guy.”

  “We all can’t ooze charisma like Abe.” Catherine smiled. “Or you.”

  “I’m married, Catherine. Cut it out.”

  “Don’t you ever think of me, Tom?”

  “No.”

  “You never think of this?”

  Catherine held up her cell phone and showed a picture. Of her and Tom. Taken in the jet’s bedroom, on the jet’s king size bed.

  “Look how much fun we’re having,” she mused. “Remember?”

  Tom’s ears flushed. “You had a camera?”

  “Three, actually. In the walls. Here’s a better angle.” Catherine swiped to the next graphic image. “That’s a good shot of you.”

  Tom pushed the camera away. “Delete them.”

  “Why? They’re for personal use. It’s not like I’m going to blackmail you. Besides, you have nothing to be ashamed of. You cut quite a dashing figure.”

  “I didn’t consent to that. It’s illegal.”

  “Didn’t I ask if it was okay to take a few snapshots?”

  “You did not.”

  “I thought you’d be amused.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  Catherine shrugged. “Fine. I’ll delete them. Sure you don’t want to see all of them first? We’re good enough to be porn stars.”

  “Delete them. Now.”

  She pouted. “So demanding. You worried Joan will see them? That she’ll see how much we enjoyed each other?”

  Tom bounced from emotion to emotion, feeling in equal turns humiliated, betrayed, violated, embarrassed, and ashamed. He finally settled on anger.

  “You’re not the woman I used to know,” he said, teeth clenched.

  “Really?” Catherine arched a brow. “How so?”

  “It’s like you’ve gone sour. Rotten. Something all the plastic surgery in the world can’t hide.”

  “There’s no need to be cruel, Tom. I’ll delete them. But the pictures don’t matter. I know I’ll always be right here.” She tapped Tom on his temple. “And one day, sooner than you know, when you haven’t gotten laid in three months because your newborn brat is too much work and Joan is always exhausted and it doesn’t even matter because she hasn’t gotten her pre-baby body back and likely never will, you’ll think about the time we had. And you’ll call me up, begging to take more pictures like these.”

  “That won’t ever happen.”

  But Tom’s words didn’t come out as certain as he’d hoped.

  Catherine winked. “It’s just sex, Tom. You don’t have to like me to want to screw me.” She stood up just as the plane began to descend, making Tom’s stomach do a flip. “I’ll go delete the files. That may take some time, so you and Abe can go get Beethoven without me.”

  Abe picked that moment to walk out of the bathroom. “I shit so big the turd won’t flush. Did I miss anything?”

  “Some vintage pornography,” Catherine winked as she passed him. “Nothing particularly interesting.”

  “I love vintage porn.” Abe cracked a crooked grin. “Reminds me of me.”

  “We have begun our descent into Phoenix. Please make sure your seatbelts are buckled.”

  “Oh my god. This is so cool.”

  Tom didn’t like hearing Joan’s voice on the intercom.

  He also didn’t like how happy she sounded.

  Abe took a seat.

  “Seatbelt?”

  Abe waved it off. “Don’t believe in them. I’d rather be thrown clear of the wreck than tied to a chair while screaming in absolute unbearable agony as the fire from the crash slowly burns me alive.”

  They landed without anyone being burned alive.

  Leo opened the side door and coordinated via radio with a ground crew that drove one of those ladder cars, and Tom couldn’t help but notice that Joan positively beamed.

  She looks so much happier than she did earlier.

  They had to wait a few minutes to disembark, and Tom thought about asking Joan to come along, couldn’t bring himself to, and eventually Leo led them down the stairs and to a waiting Mercedes, which was mercifully air-conditioned.

  “Shotgun,” Abe called. “Six-four.”

  Tom was six-two, but he had no desire to sit next to Leo. He climbed in back.

  An uncomfortable silence ensued.

  Or maybe that’s just me.

  “So Joan seemed happy,” Abe eventually said. “She must have had quite the time in your cockpit.”

  “She’s quite impressive.”

  “And somehow she wound up with that wiener,” Abe jerked his thumb at the back seat, and both Abe and Leo chuckled.

  Tom did not join in.

  Beethoven had a house in Greenmartin Village, a suburb just south of the Salt River. Standard housing development, lots on quarter acre squares of land, assorted earth tones, green lawns that probably cost a fortune to maintain in the heat. Leo found the address, an unassuming brown ranch with a house-shaped mailbox that shared the same orange clay tile roof, and parked in the driveway.

  “You coming in with us, Thor?”

  “I’ll wait in the car.”

  Abe and Tom got out, the temperature hitting like opening an oven.

  “How can anyone golf in this inferno?” Abe pointed his beard at a sign for a course.