Catherine pulled away, adopting a poker face. “Why are you telling me this now? How long have you known?”

  Too long.

  Tom and I have been avoiding this for much too long.

  “I’ve known about the first eleven for years. We knew there were nine more, but we never traced who they were. We decided to leave them alone, to live their lives without the burden of… well… telling them. But then one of our friends, Bert, began to track down the others. He was searching for Number 15—”

  “Who is Number 15?” Catherine interrupted.

  “Tesla.”

  “I have a custom color Tesla! Elon made it for me personally.”

  “That’s terrific,” Joan deadpanned. “Bert thinks he located Number 15 in New Mexico. But he was attacked.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “He’s okay. But two of our kind—”

  “Which two?”

  “Sojourner Truth—”

  “The former slave and abolitionist, one of the greatest Americans—and women—to have ever lived. Who’s the other?”

  “Sacagawea.”

  “Of the Lemhi Shoshone tribe. She guided Lewis and Clark through Louisiana Territory. Joan, this is amazing! Joan of Arc and Sojourner Truth and Sacagawea and Catherine the Great! Four of the most fabulous women in history! Do you know the things we could do, the things we could accomplish, if we all came together?”

  “Weejy and SoJo, that’s what Bert calls them—”

  “That’s delightful.”

  “—they were taken.”

  Catherine’s luster vanished. “Taken? Where?”

  “We’re not sure. The first eleven clones; some of them had bad donors. Really terrible people. The same is true of the last nine. If nature really trumps nurture…” Joan swallowed. “It could be bad.”

  “And you came here so I could help save them.”

  What? “What? No, I—”

  “How formidable is the opposition?”

  “Catherine, I just came here as a courtesy. To warn you, in case more of us are abducted.”

  “To warn me?” Catherine reached out and grabbed Joan’s hands. “But you have to take me with. To save SoJo and Weejy. To find the others.”

  Joan tried to take her hands back, but the larger woman was surprisingly strong. Joan went with a judo twist, breaking her wrists free. “Catherine, it’s really no place for…”

  Joan almost said a Hollywood producer but stopped herself in time.

  Catherine didn’t seem to notice the near faux pas. “I’m an accomplished climber, spelunker, Formula One driver, marksperson, and jockey, I have black belts in three martial arts, I speak six languages, I have an encyclopedic knowledge of history, and of course, I’m extraordinarily wealthy. I can help. You have to let me help.”

  Joan took a sip of kombucha. It tasted like sour, salty ass.

  Deflect to authority. The Golden Rule of Hollywood was to always blame someone else.

  “It’s not up to me, Catherine. Tom is the former cop. He’s running the show. I can have him call you—”

  “Bullshit. Do you think I’m naïve, Joan? Tom will do whatever you tell him to do.”

  “That’s not true, we have an equal relationship where—”

  “If it’s equal, then he’s not running the show.”

  Damn, she’s good. “Catherine, I—”

  “Trust me, I know as much as anyone how too many cooks can spoil the broth. Too many writers, too many producers, too many whiney babies, crying for attention and demanding recognition. It never works.”

  Joan sighed. “I’m glad you realize that, Catherine.”

  “It never works for men,” Catherine continued to explain. “They’re macho glory hounds who can’t ever work together. Men start wars rather than try to work things out. The proverbial bucket of crabs, climbing on top of one another, trying to get to the top. But we’re different. We’re women. Powerful women, who know how to play by the rules, and how to break the rules when needed. We don’t have some testosterone-driven pecking order. We can make calm, smart, rational decisions without fighting to see who’s alpha.”

  “Catherine, you really should think about this.”

  “My gut has made the decision for me. And my gut has garnered my pictures eighteen Oscar nods, four wins, too many Golden Globes to count. We can do this, Joan. Unless you’re afraid you’ll get… burned.” Catherine winked. “You get it?”

  Joan tried to hide her wince. “Funny. Because Joan of Arc was burned at the stake.”

  “That would be a nasty way to go, wouldn’t it? We passed on a script on the witch-burning craze in medieval Europe. Too depressing for the 18-to-25-year-old demographic, but not depressing enough to impress the Academy. Did you know that most of those poor women died from smoke inhalation before the fire even got to them? Light a fire directly beneath the witch, and she passes out before she really starts to feel the flames. The right way to do it was to light fires around her, in a circle. Then she dies by cooking alive.”

  “That’s fascinating, but—”

  “I can send you the script if you’re interested, but the majors all passed. Maybe you can take it to one of those little companies you work with. But you let me veer off track again. You must let us help save those people. Leo and I can be ready to go tonight.”

  “Leo?”

  “Besides his many prodigious talents, he’s my bodyguard. Leo can kill a person fifty-six ways using just one hand. Have you booked a flight to New Mexico yet?”

  “Yes. And it’s probably too late to get flights.”

  “I have a Cessna. Cancel your tickets.”

  Shit.

  “I’ve always dreamed of someday working with you, Joan. It’s such a cutthroat town. The men are always trying to pit us against one another. The gossip rags crow about how powerful women are always shrews, bitterly envious of one another. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

  Joan swallowed her bitter envy. “Of course. Ridiculous.”

  “You just won an MTV Movie award. I wasn’t even nominated. But I’m thrilled for you.”

  “And you’ve won Oscars. I never have. I’ve always been happy for you, too,” Joan lied.

  “It’s been a decade since I won an Oscar. But, suddenly, that isn’t important at all. You and I, we can actually do something significant. Something more important than any film. We can change the world, Joan. Aren’t you excited?”

  “Ecstatic.” Joan took another sip of salty-ass kombucha and didn’t bother trying to hide her wince.

  FABLER

  Wichita, Kansas

  Grim, Fabler’s brother-in-law, walked alongside Brooklyn, his adopted daughter, who rode on the back of Sinatra, a giant ground sloth whose species went extinct ten thousand years ago.

  Fabler pulled on his beer, musing at the weird curveballs that life threw at you, and then his cell phone rang and threw another one.

  “Yeah?”

  “Is this Fabler?”

  “That’s the number you called, McGlade.”

  “Sure. But as far as I know some psycho from your past tracked you down and skinned you and is wearing your face like a Halloween mask while answering your calls.”

  “That’s quite the specific delusion.”

  “My circle of friends attracts psychos like dog turds attract those green flies that suck all the moisture out and turn them white.”

  “That’s also disturbingly vivid.”

  “Tell me something only Fabler knows.”

  Fabler took another sip of beer and ran the cool bottle across his forehead, wetting his crew cut with condensation. “You have too many swimming pools.”

  “Wrong. Three is not too many. Try again.”

  “You fantasize about me in the shower.”

  “Wrong again. I only do that when I’m taking a bubble bath. What are you wearing?”

  “Is this a social call, Harry? Because it’s my turn to ride the sloth.”

  “Is that some metaphor for some explicit sex act?”

  “It’s literal.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “You’re starting to bore me.”

  “Okay, assuming you aren’t a skin mask psycho, I got a job offer. Joan and Tom need us. Their dime this time. New Mexico. Going rate plus travel and ammo. You, your semi-competent sidekick, his very-competent wife. Three days’ work, come loaded for bear.”

  “What’s the situation?”

  “We need to rescue some clones who got kidnapped by some other clones.”

  “Clowns?” Weird. “Did someone hijack a clown car and kidnap forty of them?”

  “Funny. But let me do the jokes from now on. I said clones. As in people cloned from other people to make an exact duplicate.”

  “That makes much more sense. I was worried for a second.”

  “Two women,” Harry continued. “Some rogue covert hush-hush top-secret underground off-the-books undisclosed government agency has them. Life and death, time is of the essence, fate of the world, hyperbole hyperbole hyperbole. We really need you guys on this.”

  “How about those spy ladies you know?” Fabler recalled they were named after thriller authors. “Chandler and Hammett?”

  “They haven’t been returning my calls. Be brutally honest; do I smell?”

  “Yes. You reek like a dead warthog who shit himself.”

  “Don’t sugarcoat it. Tell me the truth.”

  “When does this go down?” Fabler asked.

  “We’re meeting tomorrow. The Tumbleweed Motel in Kirkstown. I booked the whole place.”

  “Swanky.”

  “Cheap. It’s a shithole. You should probably bring some bedbug spray.”

  “You’re really selling the job.”

  “You in?”

  “I’ll run it up the flagpole, see who salutes. Call you back.”

  “Hold on. You didn’t mention what you’re wearing. Is it snug, showing off your taut, rippled abs?”

  Fabler hung up, finished his beer, and sauntered up to Grim. “Harry McGlade called. He wants us for a rescue mission.”

  “Now? It’s my turn to ride the sloth.”

  “I called next.”

  “But it’s my sloth.”

  Fabler reached up and patted the horse-sized megatherium on the neck. “Sinatra, do you want me to ride you next?”

  Sinatra grunted, “YEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAH.”

  “Not fair. That’s all he says.”

  “Talk to Presley. Decide if you want to do this.”

  “Who are we rescuing?” Grim patted some dust off his flannel. They lived in Kansas, so flannel shirts and blue jeans were required by law.

  “McGlade said clones.”

  “Like circus clowns? With big shoes and red noses?”

  “Clones. Like exact copies of other people.”

  “Good. Clowns would have been pretty far-fetched. What do we know about these clones?”

  “Nothing yet. They’re two women.”

  “So they might be two clones of Marilyn Monroe?”

  “Might be. Does it matter?”

  Grim stared down at his wedding band. “Nope. I’m liking this monogamy thing. Makes me feel safe. Secure. Normal.”

  “Do you want to sit this one out?”

  “Naw. I’m up for it. But I need to talk to the boss. Watch Brooklyn.”

  Grim strolled back to the house, and then some sort of bug bit or stung Fabler on the neck.

  He swatted at it and checked his hand for bug remains, but his hands were clean.

  Probably a horsefly.

  He scratched the bite and walked alongside Sinatra, keeping his other hand near his niece’s leg in case she started to slip.

  Sinatra stunk like a musk ox, and Fabler wrinkled up his nose. “You need a hose-down, buddy.”

  “YEEEEAAAAAAAAH.”

  “Or are you the one that stinks?” He gave Brooklyn a tickle on her ribs, and she giggled.

  “Uncle Fabler, are you and Daddy and Mommy going somewhere?”

  “Probably.”

  “A mission?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we need to make money,” he lied.

  “Why?”

  “Because we have to pay for the food you eat, and you eat more than Sinatra.”

  Brooklyn grinned. “No, I don’t!”

  “How many sandwiches did you have for lunch? Two hundred?”

  “I had one. You’re being silly.”

  “Sure I am. I know you couldn’t eat more than a hundred sandwiches.”

  Brooklyn laughed, then she yelled, “My sandal!”

  Fabler checked her foot, and watched as the sandal slid off the edge of her toes.

  His hand automatically shot out to grab it—

  —and he missed.

  He didn’t miss by a little, either. He missed by a few inches.

  Bad reaction time.

  And equally bad hand-eye coordination.

  Strange. I’m normally good at those.

  He reached down, snagged the sandal from the dirt, and stuck it back on his niece’s foot.

  Brooklyn’s face became serious. “Uncle Fabler?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you ever wake up screaming?”

  Not as much as I used to. “Sometimes. When I’m having nightmares.”

  “Nightmares from the Army?”

  “Some of them. Why are you asking?”

  “Mommy and Daddy do that sometimes. They were in the Army, too. Is the Army bad?”

  “No, Brooklyn. The military is how we defend our country. There are a lot of good things in the Army. You meet a lot of new friends. You learn a lot. You travel to a lot of places.”

  “But there are bad things, too.”

  “Combat is bad. War is bad. Do you know how you feel bad when someone hurts you? It also feels bad to hurt others.”

  “So why do you still do it?”

  “I’m not in the Army anymore.”

  “But you still go on missions.”

  An excellent point, especially coming from a child. Because it isn’t for the money. I have plenty of money.

  “Someone has to,” Fabler answered.

  “And you’re the best at it?”

  “Your mom is the best at it. But me and Grim are pretty good.”

  “Do you want to ride Sinatra?”

  “I do.”

  “Help me down. I’ll walk next to you so you don’t fall off.”

  Fabler helped the child off the sloth, then glanced back at the house. Grim stood on the porch, giving Fabler a thumbs-up.

  A soldier without a war is like a cowboy without a horse.

  But rodeo cowboys don’t ride forever.

  If they stay in the game too long they get hurt. Or worse.

  Fabler squinted up at the Kansas sun and wondered how many rodeos he had left.

  WEEJY

  Area 57 – New Mexico

  “Is it too late to vote to not open the manhole?” SoJo said.

  The women sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the cold floor, hands tied behind them and looped around iron bars, black hoods over their heads. The hoods had been added after they’d been dragged into the SUV, but Weejy used her other senses to suss out where they were. Once the vehicle started, she began timing it in her head.

  A hundred and eighteen seconds of driving in fourth gear, perhaps forty miles an hour top speed.

  Decelerating for four seconds.

  A mechanical sound, like a big garage door opening. Entering a building or enclosure; her skin became cooler. The tinted windows of the SUV had shielded a lot of the sun, but suddenly there was no heat on her bare skin at all.

  Then, a feeling in her stomach and inner ear, and a humming sound.

  A car elevator, descending.

  It lasted four seconds, and then the sound changed. Echoey. Tinny.

  They’d driven into an underground tunnel. Parked. Killed the engines.

  Listening to footfalls, Weejy counted them as she was dragged on her back by her legs for twenty steps on a slight downhill grade across warm concrete, through a door, nine steps, a right turn, sixteen steps, another door, and fifteen more steps. Then they waited, SoJo breathing on the floor right next to her, no doubt as scared as Weejy was.

  She heard a familiar mechanical whirring, and a sliding sound.

  Another elevator.

  When pulled inside, the space felt small, warm. The sharp odor of ozone curled Weejy’s nostrils. The sound of a button being pressed, doors closing, the sinking feeling as they descended again.

  Five seconds passed.

  How deep underground is this place?

  After five more seconds, the elevator door opened. Someone entered. Someone big, smelling like salami and body odor. Weejy was jerked up to her feet by large, powerful hands, and her captor held her at arm’s length and…

  He’s sniffing me. Ugh.

  For some reason, being sniffed was more frightening than being bound, blindfolded, and dragged through the dark. It made things personal, in a bad way.

  A big hand hooked Weejy under her armpit and pulled her forward. The grip was painful, hard enough to bruise, but walking made it easier to count steps. Eleven, then a left turn, ten more, a door opening, five more, a right turn, another door, the tile floor curving slightly to the left, another door, eight final steps, then into the cell.

  That had been hours ago.

  Her amazing sense of location unharmed by the accident, Weejy still hurt all over. The airbags had deployed, but she had a killer headache, whiplash, sore ribs, a sore shoulder, a possibly-broken nose, and bloody knuckles. SoJo had similar injuries. But they’d both fared better than Bert, who’d slipped through the airbags and been tossed out of the vehicle.

  Is he dead?

  Weejy felt her eyes well up at the thought.

  I’ve known him less than a week, but a minute after we’d met, I knew I wanted to be with him.

  His charm. His awkwardness. His intelligence. His quirky looks…

  It might have played a small part that Weejy had a crush on Albert Einstein all through college, having festooned her dorm room with posters. Her favorite: the famous photo of the scientist sticking out his tongue, and the quotation, “The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it.”