“I can pick up more pot candy if you want me to.” His wife sounded kind of annoyed.

  “That would be awesome.”

  “You want Chow’s?”

  Chow’s was a nearby Chinese restaurant. “Oh my god I need Chow’s more than I need air.”

  “What do you want?”

  The question confused Tom. As he wondered why it confused him, he forgot what he was thinking about.

  “I’ll get an assortment,” Joan said.

  Tom wasn’t sure of what, but he nodded and went back to the TV show.

  This doesn’t make any sense at all.

  I don’t speak Spanish.

  What happened to the fish? Was there fish?

  Why am I thinking of fish?

  He searched around for the remote control, saw Stallone on the floor, and dropped down to his knees, giving the Doberman a hug, ruffling his fur.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked the dog.

  Stallone woofed.

  “Someone ate all the chips. Was it you?”

  Stallone didn’t respond. Probably covering his own ass.

  Tom laid down on his back, and the dobie rested his head on Tom’s stomach. Tom stared at the ceiling, thinking about how pot was so much better than opiates, and that there was no addiction, no withdrawal, no prescription needed, and weed just flat-out tasted great.

  Even weed candy, which tasted like weed, tasted great, even though weed-flavored candy didn’t seem tasty when thinking about it, except now.

  Do I have any weed candy?

  He looked around, found an empty jar on the table.

  Damn. Someone ate it all.

  I bet it was the same jerk who ate all the chips.

  Tom realized he was sitting on something bumpy, and found the TV remote control. He switched channels until 700 Pound Hoarders In A Tiny House came on.

  “I can’t get to the bathroom,” said the morbidly obese man or woman on the screen. “And my house is filled with my collection of National Geographic magazines and balls of used aluminum foil, so I can’t even turn around to get my bedpan.”

  “How do you use the toilet?” a concerned-looking thin woman asked. She was standing in the doorway, holding her nose.

  “I use extra-large garbage bags as diapers.”

  “Just say the word and I can get an extreme cleaning team in here, and—”

  “No! No one touches my tinfoil!”

  The phone rang on the TV show, but no one seemed to hear it.

  Why don’t they pick it up? That’s irritating.

  Stallone whimpered, nudging Tom’s thigh with his nose.

  “What is it, boy? Did you find the chips?”

  Tom looked around, and saw his phone on the table.

  Oh. I’m the one ringing.

  He fumbled for his phone and squinted at it. The screen read Anonymous.

  Do I know anyone named Anonymous?

  Tom allowed the call. “Yeah?”

  “Tom? Bert. This is really important.”

  “Hey, Bert. It’s Tom. Good to hear your voice, but I forgot why I called you.”

  “I called you, Tom. It’s an emergency.”

  “I got broken fingers. Real bad. I’m taking THC for the pain. I’m really blazed right now. Do you have any snacks?”

  “Is Joan there?”

  “No. She left, like, hours ago, to get something. I hope it’s snacks.”

  “Sober up. I’ll call Roy. You guys need to get to New Mexico right away.”

  New Mexico? What happened to old Mexico?

  There was something to do with fish happening in Mexico.

  Tom opened his mouth to say something, forgot what it was, and then closed his eyes for just a second.

  Then the bad men came to hurt him.

  Attila, wielding a long sword, slicing Tom into a hundred pieces, each slice with a tiny replica of Tom’s mouth that screamed in pain.

  Torble, with his wild white hair, using a red-hot branding iron to sear every inch of Tom’s skin.

  Erinyes, shooting Tom’s legs, again and again, shattering the bones.

  Another Erinyes, yelling at Tom like he was a dog, breaking his fingers, tearing them off of his hands.

  Tom tried to cry out for Joan, but Torble had sewn his mouth shut.

  “Now we can start with the real pain,” Torble promised him. “I’m never going to be done hurting you.”

  “We need to go, brother.”

  Tom opened his eyes and noticed two things.

  First, he was no longer being tortured by maniacs from his past.

  Second, his buddy Roy was standing above him.

  “Hey, Roy.”

  “You okay? You’re sweating and look freaked out.”

  “Nightmares.” Tom wiped a hand across his face, and extended the motion to his hair. It was soaked, like he’d just showered.

  “Which one? Erinyes again?”

  “Some of it. Mostly Torble.”

  “Crap. Even worse.”

  Roy personally knew how bad Butler House had been.

  “Where’s Joan?”

  “She’s going to see someone. We’re going to New Mexico.”

  “Why?”

  “Bert needs our help. We’re meeting some people there.”

  “Who?”

  “Some folks he just met. I’m also going to make a few calls to old friends. And try to get Harry McGlade involved, maybe those mercs he hired to save your ass.”

  Tom blinked away the pot haze, and found he could kind-of focus. “What’s going on, Roy?”

  “Bert has been searching for the others on the list. He found Numbers 12 through 15. Number 15 has posed a problem.”

  “He found 12 through 15? Remind me who their donors are.”

  “Number 12 is a clone of Sojourner Truth. I forgot Number 13. Yet another famous white male whose dick every history teacher wants to suck. Number 14 is Sacagawea. Number 15 is Tesla.”

  “Nikola Tesla’s a bad guy?” Tom frowned. “That ain’t good.”

  It was especially not good because there were five other clones on the list of nine, and at least two of them had donors who were among the most evil figures in history.

  “We need to get you and Joanie packed up.”

  “Where’d my wife go?”

  “She went to talk to Number 16. Bert just told her who it is.”

  “Number 16 is…?”

  “A clone of Catherine the Great. She lives here in LA, and apparently Joan knows her. She’s a producer, too.”

  Tom had been dragged to enough Hollywood parties to know that there weren’t many female producers. And the clones, when given to their adoptive families to be raised, were given first names that matched, or closely matched, the names of their DNA donors.

  Tom knew a producer named Catherine.

  “Roy, I need you to tell me that Catherine the Great isn’t Catherine Kolholm.”

  “That sounds familiar. Why?”

  “Because Joan only hates three things in the world. Spiders. The Razzie Awards. And Catherine Kolholm. I really, really, really hope it isn’t her.”

  And Joan doesn’t even know the worst part…

  JOAN

  Beverly Hills, California

  “Joan DeVilliers!” Catherine Kolholm squeed through the video monitor mounted next to the gate of her estate. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Are the two most successful women in Hollywood finally going to work on a picture together? You have J-Law, I have K-Stew, let’s do a girl power movie the right way. We snag Emma Watson and we can reboot the reboot of the sequel of the remake of Charlie’s Angels.”

  “This is about something else, Catherine. Something personal.”

  “Lucky you caught me between meetings. Come in.”

  The gate automatically opened, and Joan pulled her Tesla onto Catherine’s long and winding driveway, lined with shrubs trimmed like Oscar statues.

  Subtle as a grand mal seizure.

  Swallowing equal parts envy and disgust, Joan pulled up to a home that had to be three times the size of her own, and parked behind a newer model Tesla with a purple paint job and matching purple leather interior.

  That’s the custom color I wanted, but I didn’t have enough clout to get on the waiting list.

  It looks amazing.

  Joan took a quick glance at herself in the rearview, and adopted her negotiation look; eyes set, mouth a thin line, jaw slightly jutting out.

  Then she got out of the car to face her nemesis.

  Catherine Kolholm took a full sixty seconds to answer after Joan rang the bell.

  She’s making me wait on purpose. A well-known La-La Land power play.

  When the door opened, Joan did her best not to react at the display before her.

  Catherine wore an Altuzarra power suit—purple of course—tailored to accentuate her flawless, perfect body.

  She’s prettier than most of the starlets she steals from my productions.

  Certainly prettier than me.

  Taller by several inches.

  More successful by any measure.

  She’s had three times as many Oscar nominations as I have, and she’s won four to my zero.

  She’s dated billionaires, rock stars, models, the most popular actors, two princes, and a king.

  Last year, she was on People’s Top 100 Beauties List and number four on Forbes’ Most Influential Woman.

  And she always has a kind thing to say about everyone, making her universally adored.

  But I know something she doesn’t.

  And, hopefully, it will make her head spin.

  “Joan, you look incredible. You’re positively radiant. Fabulous. Glowing. Your hair; love it.”

  Joan wore a short, blonde bob that was easy to maintain and wouldn’t get in her way if some psycho broke into her house and attacked.

  Which happened. Long story. Two long stories, in fact.

  Catherine’s hair was lengthy and dark and naturally curly, the kind of thick mane that could be braided with flowers, like an ancient Roman marble sculpture.

  “Good to see you, Catherine. You look amazing. As always.”

  “I know. I have the prettiest face money can buy. I can give you the name of my surgeon if you’d like. He could do something about those lines around your eyes.”

  “I may take you up on that.”

  There’s no way in hell I’ll ever take you up on that. I’ll never go near a plastic surgeon.

  Another long story.

  They shared a brief, formal hug and an air kiss.

  “Please come in, Joan. Tea? A drink? Kombucha? My assistant ferments a signature scoby for me.”

  “Thanks, no.”

  “We can sit on the veranda. It’s a gorgeous night.”

  Joan followed her, trying to match Catherine’s long strides with her stubby legs, walking with a set jaw through a fabulous home that was featured on MTV’s Cribs show, twice.

  Is that an original Warhol? Of course that’s an original Warhol.

  Is that an elevator?

  And who is that gorgeous guy sitting shirtless on the couch? His abs look like an ice tray.

  “That’s Leo.” Catherine noted Joan gawking. “He helps around the house.”

  Whereas Catherine looked like a Roman statue, this younger man looked like a Greek god.

  “Helps with what?” Joan asked.

  “Everything. He’s positively essential. I’ve had him here forever. How long has it been since you visited me? A decade or so? Leo! This is my close friend Joan. Be a dear and bring some of your fabulous kombucha to the veranda.”

  He waved, and when he lifted his arm there were so many muscle fibers flexing Joan felt a little fluttery.

  Catherine led them to a sunroom, and not soon enough they were sitting opposite one another next to a massive wall of ivy.

  “Do you mind? I’m so jealous.”

  Joan had no idea what Catherine referred to, and then the dark beauty took Joan’s hand and stared at her wedding and engagement rings.

  “Lovely,” Catherine said. “So small and plain and simple, yet so elegant.”

  “Tom knows my taste,” Joan said, taking her hand back.

  Catherine sighed. “Quite a man, your husband. Like everyone else, I read about his recent… ordeal. He’s so brave.”

  Brave, and lucky. It could have been so much worse than broken fingers.

  “Joan, I came to talk about—”

  “I met him once, you know. Your husband, Tom.”

  Tom hadn’t ever mentioned that.

  Joan sat up a little straighter. “You did?”

  “I was doing a picture in Chicago, years back. A gaffer on the set, tying into the main, had a horrible accident and died. The poor man. So young. It had to be investigated, of course, and we were assigned two homicide detectives. Tom, and his partner, I believe Roy was his name. I confess, I sort of threw myself at him.”

  “At Roy?” Joan hoped.

  “No, at Tom. I was terribly upset about the accident, and he was so calm, so assured, so strong. He has a presence about him, you know? Well, of course you know. After our interview, I asked him out for drinks. Naturally, he said he couldn’t. Police protocol and all that.”

  “Naturally.” Joan almost sighed in relief.

  That’s my Tom, always a stickler for the rules.

  “So imagine how surprised I was when he called me up the next day.”

  Joan shifted in her chair and tried to sound conversational. “You went out with him?”

  “Just once. I doubt he even remembers me. I had to fly home shortly afterward, so of course it couldn’t have developed into anything serious. We were both so into our work. It’s a wonder you were able to lure him out to the Coast. But that’s the thing I love about you, Joan. You never give up. You’re like a determined little rat terrier, never stopping until you snap the rodent’s head off in your little teeth.”

  Catherine made a growling sound, then took an imaginary bite out of the air, her jaw clicking shut.

  Still-shirtless Leo came in with a tray, holding two fermented iced teas, or whatever the hell kombucha was. He looked like a bodybuilder who had decided that other professional bodybuilders weren’t working out hard enough. And the swimsuit he wore didn’t leave anything to the imagination.

  Jesus. This guy is massive everywhere.

  He invokes a sort of awe. It’s like looking at a tiger or a polar bear at the zoo.

  I can’t stop staring at him.

  But even though he was physically the most imposing man Joan had ever met—and she knew almost everyone in town—there was something off about his eyes. Something pitiless.

  Joan shivered, hoping no one saw.

  “Leo, you’re a treasure. Thank you so much.”

  He didn’t react. He simply turned and left.

  “Where did you find him?” Joan asked.

  Catherine winked. “Men like that aren’t found, Joan. They’re made. And Leo was made for me.”

  Joan tried to brush away thoughts of perfect Leo and his perfect body and get to her point. “I need to show you something, Catherine. Something that might upset you.”

  I actually hope it upsets you. I’d love to see you lose your composure, if only for a moment.

  Holding Catherine’s eyes, Joan reached down, took off her Jimmy Choo, and held up her bare foot.

  Catherine gaped.

  “You have a tattoo as well, don’t you, Catherine?” Joan asked. “A number 16.”

  Here it comes. Confusion. Insecurity. A barrage of questions.

  Catherine leaned closer. “Do you know what it means? My whole life, I’ve wondered what it meant.”

  “You were adopted.”

  “Yes. I never knew my birth parents. When I asked my mother about the number, she told me I was given to her by the government. That I was very special. But that’s all she said. I don’t think she knew anything else.”

  Here comes the suspension of disbelief.

  “They created twenty of us. A secret government experiment. They used chemical copies of DNA from some of the most famous people in history, and made… clones.”

  Catherine giggled. “You’re serious?”

  Joan nodded, confused why Catherine was taking this so well.

  “We’re clones?”

  “We are.”

  Catherine looked around. “Is this a hidden camera show? Some sort of prank?”

  “It’s true. You and I are clones. Tom, too.”

  “Your husband? Who is he, Thomas Jefferson? I always thought he looked like Jefferson.”

  Catherine giggled again. When Joan didn’t join in, Catherine’s eyes became wide. “Oh my god, he is! I bet if he wore a powdered wig he’d look like he stepped off a nickel. This is fantastic! And you? Who are you a clone of?”

  Interesting that she’d ask about me before inquiring about herself. “Joan of Arc.”

  Catherine clapped her hands together. “That’s splendid! Jeanne d‘Arc, La Pucelle d‘Orléans. I majored in world history.”

  “I thought you majored in poli sci.” Joan recalled some banal conversation at some awards ceremony ages ago when Catherine had droned on about her college days.

  “Double major.” Catherine winked slyly. “You know, you being Saint Joan makes a strange sort of sense. It’s why you always own the room when you walk in. Why everyone hangs on your every word.”

  Do I really own the room, and people hang on my every word?

  And why hasn’t she asked about herself yet?

  “Tom and I, we’ve met many of the others. Albert Einstein. Abraham Lincoln. We tracked down the first eleven. Some were murdered. Some… some were monsters.”

  “This story is fantastic. Just fantastic. If a writer came to me with this, I’d laugh it off as a silly concept.” Catherine reached down, removed her boot and sock, and wiggled her heel. “You knew I was Number 16.” She stared at Joan, losing some of the playfulness. “Do you also know who I am?”

  “Your donor was born Sophie of Anhalt-Zerbst.”

  “Sophie of… wait…” She pursed her lips and her eyes darted around in thought. “Catherine the Great? I’m actually Catherine the Great? The Empress of Russia?”

  She’s taking this surprisingly well.

  Then Catherine reached out and gave Joan a hug. “Joan, this is fabulous! I always knew there was something strange about me. I never quite fit in. Always the square peg. And now here you are, telling me that I…”