Something slower would have shattered it. He looked in front of him and saw a divot in the upper portion of the passenger door. Based on the angle, whoever was shooting at him was higher up. The hotel was shaped like a big U, so he was probably in one of the rooms on the opposite side.

  Tom considered starting the car and driving out of there, but he’d have to turn around, which would give the shooter a full front windshield to shoot through. And Tom was a big target.

  “Stay down, we’re going out the right door.”

  “Was that a bullet?”

  Another hole materialized in the glass. The driver’s headrest jerked back violently.

  “Move!”

  Tom tugged at the handle and pulled himself through the passenger side. He helped yank out Bert with his left hand and then closed the door, staying low. There was a loud bang. Tom hadn’t heard any previous shots, assuming a silencer was being used. When the front end of the Mustang began to sink forward he realized a tire had been shot out. Tom called Roy’s cell phone.

  “Yo.”

  “We’re pinned down. Sniper fire. He’s in one of the rooms on the second or third floor, east side of the building.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Another bang. The rear tire. Tom opened the door and climbed back into the car, keeping under the line of fire. He took a deep breath, focused his concentration, and then he snatched the rearview mirror, yanking it off its base. He slunk back out of the car, mirror in hand.

  “Stay behind the rim,” he told Bert.

  Tom crawled over to the front of the car, staying below engine level. He angled the mirror over the hood, looking for the sniper. He checked the windows on the second floor, one by one, hoping to spot movement or the glint of a telescopic sight. Nothing. He went room by room across the third floor and didn’t find anything either. Strange.

  “I haven’t made peace with my family,” Bert said, his head covered in his arms. “I can’t die without making peace! There are things that need to be said!”

  Tom ignored Bert’s apparent breakdown, and tried to concentrate on the windows. Why couldn’t he find the shooter? Tom started again on the second floor, trying to think like a sniper. A professional wouldn’t be leaning out the window. A pro would be several feet away from the window, in a dark room. Tom located him near the end of the building. A window open just a few inches. No one else would have a window open in this weather. He dialed Roy.

  “Second floor, third room from the last.”

  “Almost there. I’ll leave you on. Stay quiet.”

  Tom put his finger in front of his lips, warning Bert to keep silent.

  He turned up the volume on the cell phone, keeping both eyes on the window.

  “Police! Open the door!”

  In the room Tom saw a muzzle flash.

  “You want some of this?” Roy’s voice, angry.

  The gunshots could be heard without the cell phone, six in quick succession. Tom watched as the window flew open and a black clad figure crawled out with a rifle.

  “He’s out the window!” Tom yelled into the phone. And then he was up and sprinting across the parking lot. The sniper dropped, landing in some bushes. He noticed Tom advancing and raised the rifle. Tom veered to the left and dove into the bed of a pickup truck. A bullet pierced the sidewall and missed his leg by inches.

  More gunshots. Roy from the window, firing down. Tom chanced a look and saw the figure running alongside the building and cutting around the corner.

  “Tommy! You okay?”

  “Yeah.” Tom hopped out of the truck and held the phone to his ear. “He went around. I think it was our friend Jack.”

  “Be right there.”

  Roy went out the window feet first and dropped to the ground, landing on his ass.

  Tom ran over to his partner, helping him up.

  “You okay?”

  “No. Sweet merciful Jesus! Something’s stuck!”

  Roy turned around, a large branch sticking into his right butt cheek. “Oh shit. Pull it out.”

  Tom winced. “We should wait for the doctor.”

  “Goddamit, Tom! Pull this goddamn stick out of my ass!”

  Tom gripped the stick and tugged hard. It had been buried two inches in Roy’s backside. The blood came freely, soon soaking Roy’s pants.

  “Should have left it in. I’m calling an ambulance.”

  “I’ll do it. Go after him.”

  Tom nodded and ran to the corner of the building. He peered around cautiously. No sign of him, but there were plenty of cars for cover. Tom suddenly felt naked and out gunned.

  “Do it,” he told himself.

  He ran around the corner, going in low. Low saved his life. The bullet grazed his scalp, taking off several layers of skin. Tom hit the ground and rolled behind a Nissan, bringing a hand up to the wound. It came away bloody, but there was no pain or disorientation. He crawled past the car and jogged in a crouch around the perimeter, trying to get behind the shooter. Tom ran by five cars before he saw him, crouched next to a red Buick. It was Jack, all right. And the son of a bitch was actually smiling.

  Tom fired a quick group of four shots. It was a fair distance, and there was a light wind, but at least one of the bullets found its mark.

  Jack howled and rolled backwards out of sight, leaving his gun behind.

  Tom sprinted to the spot and scanned all directions. Too many cars, too many places to hide. Tom wiped some blood out of his right eye with his sleeve and picked up Jack’s rifle by the barrel. Then he began walking through the parking lot, searching behind and under cars.

  His cell phone vibrated. Tom answered.

  “You okay?”

  “I hit him, but he’s gone. Got his gun.”

  “Bert’s missing.”

  “Hell. Be right there.”

  Tom jogged back around to the front of the building. Roy was by the Mustang, holding his ass.

  “Tommy, you’re hit.”

  “A graze. Did you see Bert?”

  “Got here, he was gone. Paramedics on the way.”

  Two black and whites, sirens wailing, pulled into the parking lot.

  Tom let Roy deal with them. He holstered his gun and ran into the lobby. A crowd of gawkers had gathered, parting as the frantic, bleeding man rushed in. He weaved through them, looking for any sign of Bert. Had Kilpatrick been there as well? Had he grabbed Bert while Tom and Roy were being distracted by Jack? Tom felt sick. Bert was annoying, true, but he’d been his responsibility. If anything happened to him...

  Tom found Bert next to the front desk, kneeling by a suitcase and going through the contents.

  “I got my lures,” Bert said.

  Tom wiped more blood out his eye and imagined the satisfaction he’d get if he pulled out his Glock and emptied a clip into Bert’s lures.

  He restrained himself.

  “Come on.”

  Bert grabbed his cases and they made their way through the crowd, back into the parking lot. The number of squad cars had tripled, and Roy had organized a quick search party for Jack, uniforms fanning out through the rows of cars.

  Tom felt the top of his head, which was now starting to throb. An inch lower and they would have been scooping up his last thoughts with evidence spoons.

  He approached his Mustang, frown deepening. It would need two new tires, a new window, and a new headrest. Perhaps they could stick the rearview back on.

  “What happened to your head?”

  “I got shot, Einstein.”

  “I don’t like it when you and your partner call me Einstein. It comes out sarcastic. Where’s the guy with the gun?”

  “He got away. Who knew you were staying here, at this hotel?”

  “No one. Just Jessup.”

  “How did they know you’d come back for your lures?”

  “I dunno. Lucky guess?”

  “Did you tell anyone?”

  “How could I tell anyone? I’ve been with you the entire time. We went from the hotel to the hospital, and from the hospital back here.”

  Tom thought it over. It wouldn’t take long to set up a sniper in a vacant room, but how could Jack have known they were coming back for the lures? Was he just waiting around, hoping for the off chance?

  Unless Bert told someone, or...

  Tom patted his pocket. The Foxhound bug detector hadn’t been lost in the chase. He flipped it on and pointed the antenna at his car. It blinked and buzzed like a slot machine. Tom popped the hood and waved the antenna around, trying to get a fix. He found the bug taped to the side of the battery. The microphone snaked through the heat duct and led to the dashboard, and a line ran through his own car antenna.

  No wonder his radio didn’t work.

  He slammed the hood closed. They’d violated his car. His personal space. And by using his own car battery and antenna, the thing probably had a range of miles.

  Tom went over to Roy, who was being led into an ambulance by some paramedics. One of them, a large white guy with a beard, began to undo Roy’s belt.

  “What the hell are you doin’?”

  “I have to take off your pants.”

  “Damn. Aren’t there any cute girl paramedics on duty?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t need to be so anxious. You’re too anxious.”

  The medic looked at Tom. “Sir, you’d better come as well. We should take a look at that head.”

  Tom sat down next to his partner as a second medic attended to his head wound. He kept his voice low, no longer sure if everything he said or did was being monitored, and said to Roy, “The Mustang was bugged.”

  “When did they have time to do that? Case started only two days ago.”

  “That’s the thing. It was hooked up to my car antenna. That’s why my radio doesn’t work.”

  “So?”

  “So, my radio hasn’t worked for about three months.”

  Roy blinked. “Dammit, Tommy. What the hell have you gotten into?”

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  Chicago

  “Help a brother blow up his donut?”

  Roy held out the inflatable seat cushion, shaped like a small inner tube. The hospital said he’d need to sit on that to avoid ripping his stitches.

  “No problem. Thanks for letting us stay here. I didn’t want to go back to my place.”

  Tom figured his apartment was bugged, and probably being watched as well. Roy’s place was clean; they’d swept it with the Foxhound earlier.

  “Mi casa is your casa. Just don’t let him touch anything.” Roy stared at Bert and pointed. “Don’t touch a damn thing. One thing out of place, and I break your face.”

  Bert folded his arms. “Why are you mad at me? I wasn’t the one who told you to jump out the window, ass first.”

  “Both you and your damn fishing plugs are going out my window in about ten seconds.”

  “Maybe I should stay in a hotel.”

  “Bert, please. It would be safer if we stuck together.”

  “I know when I’m not wanted.”

  “You’re wanted. Roy, tell him.”

  “Don’t want him using my john, neither.”

  Tom walked his partner into the bedroom. Roy flopped onto the bed, face first. Tom debated helping him take off his pants, but decided to let them be. Leave the guy some dignity.

  “Roy, I’m putting your pills here next to the bed.”

  “Thanks, Tom.”

  “You need anything, I’ll be in the other room.”

  “Towels.”

  “You need towels?”

  “I don’t want him using my towels, neither.”

  Tom turned off the light and quietly closed the door. Bert was in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge.

  “At least he has good taste in beer. Russian Imperial Stout. Need one?”

  “Yeah.”

  Bert grabbed two and sat next to Tom at the breakfast bar. There was a carved wooden bottle opener in the shape of a naked African goddess on the table. Bert opened both beers and handed one to Tom.

  The cop sipped it—sweet and malty, with a higher alcohol content than its English counterpart.

  Bert took a swig from the bottle and looked around the apartment.

  There was a definite tribal theme here: voodoo masks on the walls, a tiger print rug, a black leather couch with a leopard throw on the back.

  The large rack of LPs, though practically antiques themselves, seemed too contemporary.

  “Look, cut Roy a little slack. He’s a good guy. He doesn’t make friends too easily.”

  “That’s surprising. He’s such a warm and cuddly fellow. What’s his story?”

  “Roy grew up in Cabrini Green. One of the worst housing projects in Chicago, back then. Single mother, two younger brothers. Roy was the man of the family almost as soon as he could walk. But it was tough. He lost one brother to gangs, the other one to drugs. Took it real hard.”

  “I get it. He keeps people at a distance.” Bert drank from his bottle. “I had an older brother, passed away when I was five. He wasn’t adopted. I think my father wishes it was me instead of him that died.

  How about you? Brothers or sisters?”

  “Just me.”

  “Lonely growing up?”

  “Not really.”

  “That’s because you never knew what you were missing. Never having something is different than having something and losing it.”

  Tom took another sip of stout and considered Bert’s words. They made sense. He’d dated Donna for three years, and had even considered asking her to marry him. When she left, Tom felt like she took a part of him with her, a part that still was vacant and hollow. He wondered if he’d ever be able to fill that emptiness again.

  Bert belched, interrupting his reverie. Tom lightly touched his scalp where the bullet had grazed him. Six stitches. The doctor had wanted to shave off the hair around the wound so it could be bandaged, but Tom wouldn’t allow it. It was bad enough looking like Quasimodo—shaving half his head was out of the question.

  He glanced at the clock on the microwave. Almost ten o’clock.

  After their trip to the hospital, it took three hours to debrief the Rosemont Police Department. RPD kept things cordial, considering they’d had their jurisdiction trampled on and hadn’t been informed.

  Tom’s own boss, Lieutenant Daniels, hadn’t been as charitable.

  She chewed them out, promising a full investigation of the incident, and demanding that next time they follow correct protocol for operating out of their territory.

  Tom took another sip of beer, and found the bottle empty. He grabbed two more from the fridge. Bert took his, nodding a thanks.

  “You know, when we were back there getting shot at, I had one of those moments where my whole life flashed before my eyes.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “I’ve had a boring life. Not a bad one—just very mediocre. But since Jessup told me that I’m Einstein, it’s given me a new reason to live. I mean, I’m actually somebody now. You know what I mean?”

  “Not really.”

  “Don’t you feel any different, knowing you’re Thomas Jefferson?”

  Tom picked at the label on his beer with a thumbnail.

  “I don’t know how to feel. Suppose I am Jefferson. What does that mean, exactly? I may have the same genes, but I’m not the same man. I didn’t do all of those great things that he did. I’m still Tom Mankowski, no matter what my face looks like. Aren’t I?”

  “I’ve been struggling with this one, too. Here I’ve got Einstein’s brain.” Bert tapped his temple. “The brain of the most brilliant man to ever walk the earth. And what am I doing? I buy and sell fishing lures.”

  Tom opened their beers and took a long pull. “You’re just a salesman, I’m just a cop. Not quite living up to our genetic potential, are we?”

  “Is there such a thing? Does anyone truly live up to their potential? Here’s a good question for you—is greatness in a person born or made?”

  Tom didn’t have an answer.

  “I think it’s a combination.” Bert scratched at the bandage on his chin. “Some people are born with a fire inside them. The will to succeed. It isn’t a learned behavior. It’s just some unknown biological factor that makes them try harder.”

  Tom stared into Bert’s eyes. Einstein’s eyes.

  “Do you think you have that fire in you?”

  Bert took a moment before answering. “Sometimes... sometimes I really think I do.”

  They finished their second beers. Bert went for the thirds, throwing out the empty six-pack container.

  “Your friend’s going to be upset we drank all his beer.”

  “He’ll be fine. He was drugged up and in pain, that’s all.”

  “He hates me.”

  “He doesn’t hate you.”

  “He won’t let me use the toilet.”

  “You can use the toilet, Bert. It’ll be fine.”

  Bert opened the beers and set one before Tom.

  “So what’s the story with the lures?” Tom gestured at the suitcases. “Let me guess—your dad is a fisherman.”

  “Wrong. Physics professor. The lures are an investment. Look at it this way—things like stock, or gold, or real estate—they fluctuate with the market, but they more or less go up steadily. But with collectibles like dolls or toys or fishing lures, the potential for profit...”

  “Hold on a sec,” Tom interrupted.

  This couldn’t be a coincidence. Bert’s dad was a physics teacher.

  Tom’s dad was a politician. Jessup’s dad was an inventor.

  “That Tennessee cop, the clone of Robert E. Lee. You think his father was in the military?

  “So?” Bert didn’t see the connection. “My dad was in the army.

  Jessup mentioned his was too. Was yours?”

  Tom’s father had done a tour in Vietnam. He wondered if Bert had stumbled onto something. Was that how all of the clones’ parents were chosen? Dad had the same profession as the clone, and had a link to the military?

  Tom stood up, thoughts racing. He needed to get online. Roy was the last of the technophobes—he didn’t even own a calculator, let alone a computer. Tom went to the kitchen and checked drawers until he found a phone book.