“Don’t you live in Nevada?”

  “Vegas is hot. This is super stupid hot. I’m out here for thirty seconds, already feels like I sat in soup.”

  “Underwear helps wick away moisture,” Tom suggested.

  “Underwear is like a sponge for microbes. I don’t want to give the little buggers a warm, moist surface to breed. You ever go commando?”

  “I chafe.”

  “Too much information. Jesus, Tom, keep some things to yourself.”

  “Didn’t you just mention a bowel movement?”

  “As a warning for others. It was so big, it rose above the seat edge. That would be like sitting in the world’s worst brownie.”

  “Do you ever think you say things like that for attention?”

  “Are you kidding? Look at me. Everything I do is for the attention. Can you imagine what it’s like growing up looking like Lincoln? I either fully embrace it, or hide away from a world that wants to constantly objectify me.”

  He had a point.

  Abe led the way, ringing the doorbell and then assuming a Lincoln-like pose with his chest puffed out and jaw tilted up. Tom stood there decidedly less presidential, hands in his pockets, his mind on his wife.

  Then he smelled it. A smell all cops know.

  “Something stinks.”

  “Swamp ass. I’ll shower on the plane.”

  “It’s not you.” Tom sniffed. “It’s something dead.”

  “Not surprising. I bet all the animals in the town jump in front of cars to escape this wretched heat.”

  The door opened halfway, and Tom peered down at a diminutive man with shaggy, unkept hair and a countenance lined with sneer wrinkles. He wore a onesie and sandals; either a bold fashion statement or proof that he gave exactly zero fucks.

  “Let me guess.” The man’s voice squeaked like a rusty gate. “Lincoln and Jefferson.”

  “I’m Lincoln.” Abe smiled big.

  “No kidding.”

  “Call me Abe.”

  “I go by Van.”

  “I usually go by limo,” Abe winked.

  “People call you a limo?”

  “No. But they call me a taxi when I’ve had too much to drink.”

  Abe guffawed, and Tom offered his hand. It was like shaking a moist, dead fish. “Good to meet you, Van.”

  “I’d invite you in but Mother is sleeping.”

  “We have to be going anyway.” Tom noted the death odor increased tenfold, coming from inside the house. His cop instincts shifted into overdrive.

  That stench is so strong it’s grounds for probable cause.

  He peered over Van’s head, noting the living room was disorganized and messy, almost to the point of hoarding. “Have you packed?”

  Van pulled a suitcase out from behind the door, then began to step outside. Tom blocked his way. Van’s eyes narrowed. “Is there a problem?”

  I need to find out what that smell is.

  “Mind if I use the bathroom?”

  “I told you. My mother is asleep.”

  “I’ll be quiet.”

  Van appeared irritated enough to piss hot lava, but he opened the door all the way, then followed Tom inside, sticking to his heels.

  Tom began to follow his nose through the unkempt house, keenly aware he hadn’t brought a firearm.

  Maybe I’m overreacting. But I’ve met a few clones that turned out to be real wackos. It’s better to be cautious than be surprise-attacked.

  As Tom approached a closed door, Van grabbed his arm.

  “It’s this way,” Van told him. “That’s Mother’s room.”

  The odor of rot stuck in Tom’s throat, almost making him gag.

  “Just you and your mother? No roommates? Siblings?”

  “Two brothers. They live out of state. I thought you had to use the bathroom.”

  Tom feigned a loud cough, covering his mouth with his fist, hacking several times.

  “Van?” a woman’s voice, behind the door.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake her.”

  I absolutely meant to wake her. Call it a wellness check.

  Van rolled his eyes. “I’m about to leave, Mother.”

  “Didn’t you want to say goodbye?”

  Van hesitated, then said, “Bathroom is down the hall,” and went into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

  Satisfied that Van’s mom wasn’t a corpse, Tom found his way to the washroom, took one look at the filthy toilet that had more curly hair on it than Abe’s chin, and decided he didn’t need to go. The bathtub was equally grody, the shower curtain a kaleidoscope of mildew shades. Tom checked the medicine cabinet, saw the usual OTC meds along with prescriptions for hypertension and insomnia. Under the sink, in the vanity cabinet, were a few textbooks. Soapmaking. Anatomy. Egyptology. The chemistry of brewing beer. A how-to on composting.

  Odd choices for bathroom reading, but nothing noteworthy.

  The odor must be garbage. Or a dead pet somewhere.

  Still, Tom’s gut told him something was off.

  I should look for his bedroom.

  Tom opened the door—

  —yelping as a man grabbed him.

  “Jesus, Abe!”

  “I got lonely. This place is gross. Where’s Van?”

  “Saying bye to his mom.”

  “Is it me, or is he a creepy little turd?”

  “Do you have to use the bathroom too?”

  “Holy asscrack!” Abe spun around, jerking away from Van, who’d snuck up behind him. “You scared the snot out of me. You move like a stealthy dwarf ninja. What is that awful smell?”

  “Squirrel,” Van answered immediately. “Died in the crawlspace.”

  Tom couldn’t detect any of the vocal or visual indicators of a lie.

  He’s telling the truth.

  Maybe my argument with Joan and insecurity about my life is making me paranoid.

  “Can we go now?” The exaggerated annoyance in Van’s voice reminded Tom of a surly teenager ordered to clean their room.

  Without waiting for an answer, Van led them back through the cluttered house, and Tom tucked away his reasonable suspicion, feeling a twinge of guilt at his mistrust of strangers.

  I just can’t let go of being a cop.

  Is this what a nervous breakdown is? Pushing away the woman I love, wracked with doubt and fear, thinking every nasty smell is a murder victim?

  Tom trudged through the living room, following Van and Abe out of the house, back into Leo’s Mercedes. He hadn’t wanted to sit next to Leo, but sitting next to Van proved almost as awkward.

  “So you really think you’re Thomas Jefferson?”

  He doesn’t believe it. Which is fair. Neither did I, at first.

  “Everything points to me being a clone of him.”

  “And you don’t think that’s bullshit?”

  “I’ve been able to find proof beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  “You a lawyer?” Van blinks. “A cop?”

  “Former cop. Have you done any research on Ludwig Van Beethoven?”

  “Of course. I resemble the portraits. We’re the same height. I have prodigious musical ability.”

  “And you have a tattoo on your foot,” Abe prompted. “You’ve had it since you were adopted.”

  “A number 13.”

  “You’re part of a secret government science experiment. They cloned twenty historical figures.”

  “Why?”

  Tom didn’t want to get into all the reasons, most of them nefarious. “Everyone asks themselves why they were born. That’s not as important as what we do with the life we’ve got.”

  “I drink too much, scam people out of money, and have a lot of sex,” Abe offered. “So far it’s been a perfect life.”

  Van appeared irritated. That seemed to be his go-to expression. “You’re not embarrassed by that? Doesn’t it make you sad?”

  “Asks the guy who still lives with his mommy? Does she still make you eat your brussels sprouts? Is that why you’re so unpleasant?”

  Van didn’t seemed bothered by the criticism. “I’m an artist. We’re temperamental. I’m sorry if you’re offended.”

  Abe beamed. “Apology accepted.”

  That wasn’t an actual apology, but Tom let it slide.

  “So we’re going to New Mexico to help some of the others?”

  “Sacagawea and Sojourner Truth,” Tom answered.

  “Going by private jet?”

  “Belonging to Catherine the Great.”

  “So just us four, plus her?”

  “My friend, Roy, is coming. And my wife, Joan.”

  “Joan of Arc.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So seven of us. And we’re meeting how many more?”

  “Seven others.” Then Tom remembered Harry was coming. “Eight.”

  “I didn’t expect that many. That’s a lot of people.”

  “No shit,” Abe muttered. “I can’t remember all these characters. I vote for name tags.”

  Probably not a bad idea.

  “And you. Driver. Are you a clone?” Van asked.

  “Yes.”

  Wait… what?

  Tom knew of twenty clones, and knew the whereabouts of sixteen. Leo didn’t fit the profile of the remaining four.

  Not only is he too young, but also too massive to be any kind of historical figure Tom could think of.

  Also, clones are typically named after their donors. Who’s a famous Leo?

  Leonardo DaVinci? Leo Tolstoy?

  “What number are you?” Tom asked.

  “Number Twenty-one. I’m not from your batch. I came much later. And my biology is… different.”

  Silence ensued.

  “Well don’t keep us in suspense, man!” Abe bellowed. “Tell us who you are!”

  “Catherine was planning on telling everyone when we get to New Mexico. I wouldn’t want to spoil her reveal.”

  More silence. The air-conditioner thrummed.

  “Just tell us,” Abe prodded.

  “No.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “No.”

  “You can whisper it. I won’t tell those losers in the back seat.”

  “You apparently don’t understand the word no.”

  “I need to know right now!” Abe wailed, shaking his clenched hands. “Patience is for less-important people!”

  Leo stayed quiet. Abe threw a small tantrum, beating his own thighs with his fists.

  “So, Van,” Tom wanted to change the subject before Leo decided to beat Abe to death, “you make soap?”

  “Soap?”

  “I saw a book in the bathroom.”

  He muttered something that sounded like hippo seer. “Uh, that’s Mother. She’s into soap.”

  “And beer?”

  “Yes. Mother is interested in many things. Do you like alcohol, Tom?”

  “On occasion.”

  “I love it!” Abe blurted out. “My liver is half my body weight!”

  “We should have a toast later,” Van suggested. “To celebrate our collaboration. I brought a bottle of something.”

  “Now is good,” Abe said.

  “My suitcase is in the trunk.”

  “Leo, can we pull over?”

  “No.”

  “You’re harshing my man-crush on you, Leo.”

  Abe attempted to cajole Leo all the way back to the airport, but Tom only half paid attention. Fatigue set in, and as he zoned out, Tom had the same thought stick on repeat in his head.

  Hippo seer? Why does that sound familiar?

  HARRY

  The Tumbleweed Motel – New Mexico

  My name is Harry McGlade. I narrate in the first person.

  That may be kind of jarring, especially 2/3 into this story; a story where I’ve barely been mentioned. But if you put up with naming dozens of members of the Tony Mafia, you’ll probably put up with this point-of-view switch, if only to see how everything turns out.

  I used to be a cop. I worked Violent Crimes in Chicago. A woman named Jack Daniels was my partner, and she was almost definitely in love with me, but she hid it with a carefully constructed facade of insults and apathy.

  Then I went into the private sector, and made a lot of money. Not by being a PI, because I wasn’t very good at that. But by selling out to Hollywood and becoming a brand.

  If you ever have a chance to become a brand, do it. You can get away with anything.

  Now, many decades later, I’ve worked with Jack and her dysfunctional yet charming supporting cast more times than I can count. Jack and company have had dozens of exciting, funny, horrific adventures, sometimes independently, sometimes as ensembles.

  Some people despise me. It may be because I’m rude and unrealistic. It may be because I strain credulity and destroy the suspension of disbelief needed to maintain a narrative.

  But there isn’t anyone else like me. And in a cookie-cutter world of interchangeable and instantly forgettable stories, maybe something memorable is a good thing, even if it is a little irritating.

  Or maybe not.

  I’ll be honest. I don’t do much in this particular story.

  But so many people are dead by the end of it, someone needed to be able to do the final recap. And it’s less jarring to introduce my point of view now than at the denouement, when the desert is soaked red with the blood of characters you’ve gotten to know.

  That’s some on-the-nose foreshadowing right there.

  I arrived in New Mexico after sunrise, having flown into ABQ on a red eye, and then I rented a Humvee because; rich. I got to the Dusty Crack Motel, or whatever the hell it was called, by eight am, fueled by gas station nachos, Ritalin, Talon’s hip-hop album Bird of Prey, and actual fuel. When I knocked on Jack’s door, she greeted me with the tenderness only reserved for the bestest of lifelong friends.

  “Christ, McGlade, I was holding out hope you wouldn’t show up.”

  “Hiya, Jackie. How long has it been?”

  “Not long enough.”

  “Good to see you too, Little Miss Crabbypants. Embrace me.”

  Jack acted like she hated the hug, but I knew it made her heart all gooey.

  “Is everyone here yet?” I queried.

  “Still waiting on Tom and company. ETA around noon.”

  “Does this piece of shit motel have a meeting room?”

  “No. But there’s a pool with some plastic chairs. Should be enough for everyone.”

  “Groovypants. How’s the spinal trauma? You finally back to a hundred percento?”

  “Almost.”

  “Good. There was a while where all you did was whine like a whiny little whine baby. Really irritating. And whiny. How’s Phin and Sam?”

  “Fine. Sam’s with Mom. Phin will be by later.”

  “Just like old times. The three of us, having made-for-TV quality adventures. Does your husband still want to have sex with me?”

  “No one wants to have sex with you, McGlade.”

  “I miss our witty back-and-forths. It’s always so clever and sophisticated. Still got those anal warts?”

  “The only pain in my ass right now is you.”

  “See! Classic Jackie and Harry banter! How’s the new house?”

  “It’s fine. New neighbor is a little strange. I may ask you to do a background check on him.”

  “I was hoping you’d ask me for more favors. Makes me feel needed. You worried you moved next to a psycho?”

  Jack sighed, like breathing caused her intense pain. “I seem to be a magnet for nutjobs.”

  “That’s because you’re attractive. And bipolar.”

  Jack didn’t react.

  “Both of those are magnet jokes,” I explained.

  She sighed again. “How’s Harry Junior?”

  “He’s good. Waddlebutt the penguin is good. My Big Dick is good.”

  I named my pet capybara Big Dick, because; hysterical.

  “How about your pets, Jack?”

  “Duffy the dog and Mr. Friskers are good.”

  “That cat is still alive? How old is it? Thirty-five?”

  “I think he’s too mean to die.”

  “Talk to Herb lately?” I hadn’t called our mutual friend in a while, because he’d become semi-insufferable since he lost weight and got into shape.

  “Last week. He’s good. Still on his health kick.”

  “We got anything else to catch up on?” I asked. “Anything else to recap?”

  “Meet you at the pool when Tom shows up.”

  “I take it swimsuits are optional?”

  Jack slammed the door.

  I made my way to room 15 and gave the door a pounding. Fabler answered, appearing beleaguered.

  “Hey, Fabler. Still having erotic dreams about me?”

  “Only when I sleep. Got the Psytox?”

  “I got it.” I handed him a baggie of pills. “These are illegal, so I had to hide them in a very special place on the flight. A moist place. I’ll give you three guesses.”

  Fabler didn’t reply. Stoic, silent type.

  “It was my butt,” I told him.

  He eagerly snatched the baggie. “How many of these do I take?”

  “Take them all. But it’s a harsh trip. Have a puke sack handy, and make sure you don’t have access to any loaded weapons.”

  “How long do they take to hit?”

  “About an hour. Take them now, you should be good to go by lunchtime. But you should skip lunch. Because; projectile vomiting.”

  Presley popped her head over Fabler’s shoulder.

  “Hey, Presley. Still having erotic dreams about me?”

  “Has anyone sued you for sexual harassment yet, Harry?”

  “Why? You want to join the class action suit?”

  She smiled.

  “Finally! A smile. Everyone around here is so grim. Especially that guy.”

  “Hey, Harry,” Grim said, standing behind Presley. “And yes, I’m still having erotic dreams about you.”

  “Bullshit. You’re using me for my money. Which I’m fine with. We’re supposed to meet everyone in the pool. Swimsuits are optional.”

  “Delightful,” Presley said it in a way that conveyed zero delight.

  “I’ll be going au naturale,” I boasted. “I just had a professional bikini wax. Took three guys to finish the job. I’m as smooth as a bowling alley.”

  “Now that’s in my head.” Grim rubbed his eyes.

  “Now imagine my 7-10 split.”