“But you’re a babe!” Abe insisted. Then he shot a look at Leo. “No more hitting! It was a compliment! You both make a spectacularly beautiful couple! Don’t make me shit myself!”

  “As I was saying, I knew everything about Catherine.” Fake Catherine smiled. “Including her sexual conquests. I have pictures of your husband with her. Perhaps I’ll show them to you while you burn.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Joan forced her voice to not quaver.

  “Isn’t it obvious? I grew up ugly and poverty-stricken. Bullied. Abused. Unfortunate. What’s my motivation? Simple; I’m absolutely wracked with envy. For most of my life, I hated those more fortunate than me. It became even worse when I found out who I was. That I should have been destined for greatness, rather than misery. Though that vindictiveness may be part of my genes.”

  Joan figured it out. And it wasn’t good. “You’re Number 20. The clone of Mary Tudor.”

  “Finally!” Mary clapped her hands together. “I was waiting for you to put it together. The third act twist. The big reveal. Joan, you of all people should appreciate narrative structure. I’m surprised you weren’t expecting betrayal. Any wannabe spec screenwriter could have seen it coming.”

  “Why kill me, Mary?” The words tasted bitter, and Joan’s heart beat so fast she could feel it. “Hollywood is sexist. We should be on the same side.”

  “Because I’m petty. You’ve beaten me out for so many projects over the years. Pictures that should have been mine. Stealing my stars. Taking my spotlight. For the last decade, you thought your rivalry was with Catherine. But I’m not Catherine the Great. Instead, for the last decade you’ve been competing for Hollywood’s Top Female Producer with Bloody Mary.”

  “I never competed with you.” Joan hoped her lie sounded convincing. “I was envious of you. You won all the Oscars.”

  “Catherine won those Oscars,” Mary corrected. “Since I’ve taken her place, you’ve gotten more accolades. More magazine profiles. More big deals. So I talked to Charles—”

  “Which Charles?” Abe asked. “Charles in Charge?”

  “The clone of Charles Darwin, Abe. Leo, be a dear and hit him again.”

  “No! The humanity!” Abe began to screech, loud and shrill like the final girl in a slasher flick.

  Leo sniffed and made a face. “I think he shit himself.”

  “I did! I have no shame! Stay back! I’ve got more to unload!”

  Mary sighed. “Just shoot him, Leo.”

  “Don’t shoot me! It would be too ironic!”

  “Abe.” Joan somehow managed a soothing tone. “Just be quiet.”

  “I’ll never talk again!” Abe turned over and buried his face in the dirt.

  “Charles is behind this?” Joan needed to keep Mary talking until she could figure out what the hell to do.

  Mary smiled. “Are you trying to postpone your execution, Joan? That’s adorable. But I don’t mind gloating. I’m in no rush. I’ve been waiting years for this.”

  She doesn’t miss a beat. “So tell us about Charles.”

  “Charles is a brilliant researcher. That’s his gift. He’s also an insane religious zealot.” Mary shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect. But during his research, while filing his hundredth Freedom of Information Act request to find out why he had a tattoo of a number 19 on his foot, he uncovered many things. Like the government cloning experiments. He couldn’t get any info about the first ten clones, but he did find the adoptive parents for the second set of ten. Nine were still alive, and I was the first one he tracked down. He needed money, so we conspired to replace Catherine.”

  “Why not just approach Catherine and ask?”

  “Charles tried. She was unsupportive of his mission.”

  “And what is his mission?” Just keep her talking. Maybe Fabler has a plan.

  “Charles found out about all sorts of secret government projects. Including Project Samhain. That was an underground research facility where they were studying Satan. He eventually wormed his way into Project Esbat, where Satan is being kept.”

  “Area 57,” Joan reasoned.

  “See?” Mary squeed. “You’re so clever! Charles needs billions of dollars for his plans to work. So he tracked down the clones of Tesla, Torquemada, and Freud, and we went on a minor murder spree to take over Area 57 for ourselves. Not terribly difficult when only five people in the whole US government even knew about it. Apparently Project Samhain and Project Monstrum didn’t end so well, and most of those in the need-to-know category were already dead.”

  “Did you kill Catherine for her money?”

  “The money was nice, while it lasted. But it was the fame I craved. Being in the spotlight. Mingling with the beautiful and the powerful. I got to play Hollywood hot shot, and Charles got to plot to become the new Pope and take over the world or whatever the hell he’s doing. All was fine until your friend Albert began snooping around, which led to this specific, delightful chain of events. Imagine my surprise when my biggest rival shows up at my mansion and tells me she’s a clone! Small world! Almost seems contrived, doesn’t it?”

  “You used Bub’s blood.” Fabler finally spoke. “To change your DNA to Catherine’s.”

  “I did. Not a pleasant process, FYI. All of my bones shifted at once. Indescribably painful. Probably not as painful as being burned alive, though. We’ll have to compare notes, Joan. So where was I in this reveal? Having worked for her for years, I could easily jump into the role of Catherine. And once I looked like her, all I needed was to change the tattoo on my foot, in case anyone from Catherine’s past ever noticed it. Unfortunately, Catherine’s money ran out. I’m in debt up to my facelift scars. I expect that will change once you’re out of the picture. Did I cover everything? Leo?”

  “You covered everything. You always do.”

  “Good. Let’s tie her to the stake and get this BBQ started. Did you remember marshmallows?”

  “Of course.”

  “Are you ready, Joan? This is the conclusion to your story arc. Get it? Arc?”

  Leo grabbed Joan by the upper arm, tugging her toward the stake. He was so strong it made Joan feel like a child.

  I need to take a shot. Play to her ego.

  “I know why you want to end our rivalry this way,” Joan told Mary. “Because I’m better than you at everything. Not just awards and media attention. Catherine was the one who could speak six languages. She was the spelunker and the jockey. She was the one with black belts in three martial arts.”

  “Wrong, Joan. That’s all me. I had to learn to fight and use my brain when I was young. I never got handed anything like the pretty girls did. Like you did.”

  “So why not kick my ass?” Joan stuck out her jaw. “If you’re the hero of this movie, shouldn’t it end in a fight? Or are you going to let a big, strong man complete your story arc?”

  “Don’t fight her, Joan,” Fabler warned. “She’s a lot bigger.”

  Nice, Fabler.

  “The story, Joan, has to end with you burning. That’s wonderful karmic retribution. The climax. The finale. It’s how you need to die.”

  “You can still burn her after you beat the shit out of her,” Abe suggested. “The metaphoric shit, I mean. Did anyone bring wet wipes?”

  “You’re afraid of me!” Joan pulled against Leo as he began to wrap a rope around her. “You won’t fight me because you’re afraid of me! You always have been! You want to know why you were picked on as a little girl, Mary? Not because you were poor. Not because you were ugly. People hated you because you’re an asshole.”

  Mary tapped her lips. “Leo… wait a moment.”

  Leo paused.

  “Maybe this story does need a big fight scene for a finish,” Mary said. “I’ve wanted to bash your face in at the last five Golden Globes dinners.”

  “How about that time at Sundance when Vogue cropped you out of the red carpet pic and focused on me,” Joan stated. “Or Cannes, when my movie beat out your poorly done, overly sappy biopic of Helen Keller. Which no one saw.”

  “Including Helen!” Abe interjected. “Because she was blind!” He added, “And dead!”

  Mary slowly raised her right foot—

  —stretching until her knee touched her chest and her toe pointed straight up. After holding the impossibly difficult pose for a few seconds, she dropped the leg and did a spin kick in the air, landing on both feet.

  “Leo, let Joan go. I’m going to knock this little bitch’s teeth down her throat.”

  “I’m aroused right now,” Abe said. “Does that make me a bad person?”

  “Yes,” Fabler said. “That and shitting yourself.”

  Joan tried to tamp down the fear that had been mounting for the last ten minutes. “I thought we were buddies, Abe.”

  “We’re besties, Joan. But Little Abe has a mind of his own. He also gets aroused at cooking shows. And stop signs. Driver’s Ed in high school was endless humiliation. And ecstasy.”

  Leo flashed a knife in front of Joan’s face, then used it to cut the plastic ties on her wrists and ankles.

  Joan got up, shaking some circulation back into her hands, and watched carefully as Mary approached.

  She’s got about four inches in height on me, several inches in reach, and maybe twenty pounds.

  She also has two more black belts than I do.

  But I have one advantage.

  I’m fighting for my life.

  For my life, and my child’s life.

  And then Mary lashed out, punching Joan square in the jaw, and Joan bit the dirt and realized with utmost certainty that she was going to be killed that night.

  BERT

  Area 57 – New Mexico

  As he looked over Nick’s notes, something didn’t make sense.

  I haven’t read up on Maxwell’s equations or electrostatics in years, but these formulas don’t seem to be related to the wireless energy demonstration we’d just witnessed.

  This doesn’t seem like a way to power electronic items without cords. This seems to be a way to create a charged particle beam with ionic focusing.

  Bert scratched his mustache.

  Is this a weapon?

  Abagail chirped. She and Stosh were cuddling next to a pile of old lamps Stosh had gathered up. Two guards stood in the center of the room, literally standing guard.

  As Bert tried to make sense of the chicken-scratched symbols, Nick shoved another note under Bert’s nose.

  Ziggy wants us to build a death ray.

  “Seriously?” Bert asked.

  Nick shushed him, then wrote, He could be listening.

  Great. Just flipping great.

  “I am listening,” Ziggy’s voice thundered over the intercom. “I’m also watching. Nicky, I’m disappointed. We’ll have a heart-to-heart later. Bert, your directions haven’t changed. Figure out what Nicky is doing wrong.”

  “Electric equations aren’t really my thing.” Bert had no idea where to look while speaking. “I raise ostriches and collect antique fishing lures. My math is pretty sus.”

  “You have Einstein’s brain. You’ll be able to figure it out.”

  “Why do you need a weapon?” Bert asked. “Wireless electricity is potentially worth billions of dollars to the world. Even trillions.”

  Nick spoke from the side of his mouth. “He wants to kill his mother.”

  Nice. Yet another psychotic clone. I need to examine why I keep searching for these people.

  “You really want to kill your mother?” Bert asked the hidden camera. “Seriously?

  “My intentions, and my family relationships, are none of your business, Albert.”

  “I’m not here to judge, Ziggy. But isn’t your forte talking things out during therapy sessions? Why make it about shooting high-energy particles at relatives?”

  “That’s what I told him,” Nick said. “Or just burn Mom’s house down while she sleeps. There’s no need to destroy a whole town.”

  “I am merely going to test the teleforce on my mother’s hometown. Then I’m going to wield it to control the world.”

  “Why?” Bert genuinely wanted to know. “I never understood that. Controlling the world will take a whole lot of time and work. I have a hard time managing my own life. You want to manage the lives of eight billion people? Why not just get stupid rich? Buy an island. Get a tan. Drink mimosas on the beach.”

  “If you still want to control people,” Nick suggested, “you can pay social media influencers to fight each other to the death in gladiator games. They’d do it. They’re attention whores.”

  “Or just run a gigantic company and treat your workers unfairly. You can feel powerful, scratch that sadism itch, and you won’t have to deal with trying to govern a population that speaks over 6,500 languages. Can you even imagine the logistics of that?”

  “Enough. Nicky, Albert, I want a working teleforce by the end of the day.”

  Bert folded his arms over his chest. “No.”

  “Albert, you aren’t thinking things through for a man with Einstein’s brain.”

  If I had a dollar for every time I had that same notion.

  “You can work through your mommy issues without me, Ziggy. I won’t help you build a superweapon.”

  “Do you think you can simply hold out until your friends come to rescue you? I’m already taking care of Thomas and that Mary Tudor impersonator, Presley.”

  Uh-oh. He knows about that.

  “I also have ways to deal with the others. Let me make sure I have all of their names right. The clones of Abraham Lincoln, Joan of Arc, and Ludwig Van Beethoven. The scientist, Frank, and his wife, Sara. The ex-military, Grim and Fabler. The ex-cops, Roy and Jack and Harry. The ex-con, Phineas. None of them pose any sort of threat to me.”

  Bert’s hopes began to sink.

  At least he didn’t mention everyone.

  “And of course, I didn’t forget Leonidas and Catherine. They’re already on Team Ziggy. And that isn’t really Catherine the Great. She’s actually the real clone of Mary Tudor.”

  Shit. Shit shit shit.

  “I’m in complete control, Albert. Your little radio earpiece? Your associate, Presley, won’t get those to work down here. I’ve taken the appropriate steps. In addition, Project Esbat is hiding something that only my teleforce will be able to control.”

  “He’s got the devil in Room 33,” Nick muttered.

  “The devil?”

  Nick nodded. “Satan. About ten feet tall. Wings. Horns. Calls him Bub.”

  Seriously? How do I keep getting into these outrageous situations?

  Ziggy prattled on. “Bub is practically unkillable. He can regenerate his own cells. But with Tesla’s legendary death ray, I’ll be able to control him.”

  “Doesn’t Charles have other plans?” Nick asked.

  “Charles wants to convert the world to Christianity, Nicky.”

  “Nick. I keep telling you my name is Nick.”

  Ziggy spoke over him. “Charles feels the best way to lead the masses to heaven is to show them the embodiment of hell. But he’s not going to send Bub on an arena revival tour unless he’s on a leash. The death ray is that leash. Now that’s enough time wasted. Get back to work, both of you.”

  Bert considered defying Ziggy, then considered all the leverage Ziggy had.

  He can easily hurt me. Stosh. My friends.

  Weejy. My soulmate.

  On the other hand, I’m not going to build a death ray. That’s insane.

  So what’s the middle ground? Play along and hope everything all works out?

  Bert’s shoulders slumped.

  I got everyone into this. With my silly, selfish quest to find all the clones.

  I should have acted like Joan and Tom and left it alone, gotten on with my life.

  But I had to keep at it. Now I’ve finally found them all, and once again I’m stuck in a ludicrous life-or-death situation, up against impossible odds, with the fate of the world at stake.

  I have to do something. I have to act.

  “Albert, you don’t seem properly motivated.”

  “I’m motivated! I’m thinking about the problem!”

  “I believe I can improve your motivation. You’ve been whining to see Weejy and SoJo. Guards, take Albert to the interrogation room.”

  The two guards in the room pulled their sidearms and moved on Bert, and Stosh lowered his head in defense mode, sticking out his tiny wings and crying out, “DOOOOOOOOO!”

  “Stosh!” Bert told his friend. “Hide-and-seek!”

  Stosh offered Bert a knowing head tilt, then took off toward the exit, yanking open the door with his beak and rushing through, Abagail right behind him.

  “What was the point of that little stunt, Albert? Do you think your little dodo bird is going to get away? Nicky, you continue to work. We’re going to give Albert some motivation therapy.”

  “That’s not a good idea, Ziggy. I need Bert here, assisting me. With a clear mind.”

  “When I bring Albert back to you, his mind will be completely focused. I assure you.”

  Bert was roughly escorted out of the laboratory, led through the maze of doors and hallways, eventually coming to a particularly large steel door.

  And inside the door—

  “Weejy!”

  The initial joy at seeing her face was shoved aside by rage when Bert grasped her situation. Weejy had been strapped to a large table, fresh blood trickling from her nose and mouth.

  “Bert!”

  Bert tried to get to her, but the guards pushed on his shoulders and kicked the back of his legs, forcing him onto his knees. He noticed SoJo, cuffed to the table leg, also bloodied.

  SoJo forced a brave grin. “Hey, Bert. We didn’t find Submarine Desert Jesus. Just a whole bunch of shit heads.”