Do they know who we are?

  Ziggy reviewed the surveillance footage too many times to count. The man who’d been with them had escaped, with that irritating fellow who’d been spying on them for weeks.

  Were they all working together?

  Or were these new arrivals a coincidence? Curious tourists who discovered something they weren’t expecting?

  They paid a bribe to find this place. What’s their end game?

  An attempted trace on the wrecked Land Rover yielded nothing. The VIN number had been scratched off, and the license plates were expired and registered to someone deceased. Neither of the women had any ID on them. Their cell phones were disposable models that used pre-bought minutes and could be acquired at any convenience store. Both were password protected.

  They’re trying to hide something.

  But what? And why?

  “Which one do we interrogate first?” Tork practically drooled.

  He’s itching to hurt someone. It has been a while.

  “It’s an interesting choice. I’m tempted to take the African American, who already admitted she would crack quickly. Let the other one hear her scream for a while, put her in a suitable frame of mind. But the Native American seems to be less confident. Weaker. And Charles has developed a rapport with the louder one. We need to let them talk.”

  “I’ll make both of them talk.” Tork puffed out his big chest with bravado. “I can do them at the same time.”

  “One at a time is sufficient.”

  “How far can I go?”

  Tork had subconsciously begun to rub the front of his leather apron, in the genital region.

  Classic DSM-5 302.84 F65.52. Sexual sadism disorder.

  Genetically inherited. Obviously.

  He’d been cloned from one of the greatest sadists in history.

  Ziggy laughed at his inadvertent rhyme, greatest sadist.

  The subconscious is such a wonderful, mysterious thing.

  Ziggy switched his attention to another monitor. Nick, in his lab, scribbling complex equations onto a pad of paper. He wore the wrinkled, grimy clothes of a put-upon savant who never slept, armpit stains and rolled-up sleeves and pants dotted with oil stains and minor burn marks. Ziggy hit the intercom button.

  “How are you feeling, Nicky?”

  Nick stared directly into the camera, his irritation obvious. “The math checks out. I’m having some difficulty implementing the designs into the prototype.”

  “I asked how you were feeling.”

  “I’m feeling like the math checks out, but the prototype is pissing me off. Among other things.”

  “I sense frustration, Nicky.”

  “Good observation, Ziggy. Maybe I’m just stuck in my anal phase?”

  “I don’t make fun of your donor. Why do you insist on belittling mine?”

  “Because mine was the most brilliant scientist and inventor to ever live. And yours was a pompous, blowhard asshole who harmed more people than he helped with his sloppy, dime-store psychology.”

  Ziggy smiled at that.

  I’m going to harm many more people than Freud’s psychoanalysis ever did, Nicky.

  I’m going to give the word genocide a whole new meaning.

  Ziggy kept it professional. “Has it worked on the subject?”

  “The subject? You mean Abagail?”

  “Abagail? Who is Abagail?”

  “The turkey hen you got me, instead of the hog I asked for.”

  “You named the turkey Abagail?”

  “It was the name on her cage, when you bought her… instead of the goddamn hog.”

  “We’re in the middle of the desert, Nicky.”

  “I told you to call me Nick.”

  “I bought what was available, Nicky.”

  “You’ve got plenty of sheep.”

  “I’m not in charge of that. Plus, I offered you any number of sheep.”

  “Sheep have wool. Abagail has feathers. The closest to the conductivity of human skin is a pig. That is what I need for testing.”

  “Would you like me to go to the animal shelter in town and select a cute little kitty cat or puppy dog? We could shave one to get that conductivity you’re pining for. Would you like to hurt a little kitty cat or puppy dog, Nicky?”

  “I would.” Tork actually raised his hand. “I used to do that when I was a kid.”

  Of course he did. And still does.

  “It’s a matter of mass and skin conductivity, Ziggy. A turkey isn’t a comparable stand-in for a human being.”

  “Can I see a demonstration?”

  “I’m in the middle of something.”

  “You wouldn’t be in the middle of anything if it weren’t for me. You’ve been turned away by everyone. Even the local power company in Spoonward, Wisconsin, with a population of seven hundred. I’m funding you. I’ve given you everything you’ve asked for. I’d like a demonstration.”

  Nick stood up and walked out of the camera’s view. Ziggy turned his attention to another monitor, watching as Nick walked to the other side of the circular testing lab. Nick’s generator, which looked more like a homemade computer server than a revolutionary power source, stood on one side of the room. On the other side, a pile of incandescent thrift store lamps and fluorescent lighting fixtures and neon beer signs, none of them connected to an outlet.

  Between the generator and the pile of lights, a turkey in a cage—Abagail—unaware of the impending danger.

  Nick entered the control booth, sheathed in Plexiglas insulation and a Faraday cage. He put on some wraparound sunglasses and without fanfare flipped a switch.

  There was a crackle of electricity, and a light so blinding that the monitor flashed pure white. When the image returned, the lamps all glowed.

  Wireless electricity.

  “But they ain’t plugged in,” Tork stated the obvious.

  The lights became brighter and brighter, then the bulbs began to burst like popcorn. The fluorescent lights shattered next, and the neon sign held out the longest, getting too bright to stare at before splintering in an explosion of glass.

  But that damn turkey was still alive. It didn’t even seem bothered.

  Ziggy pressed the intercom button. “You’re using full power?”

  “I used enough power to complete the circuit.”

  “The bird is fine.”

  “That’s the point, Ziggy. If we’re going to give the world free, wireless energy from clouds in the atmosphere, it can’t fry every living thing on the planet.”

  “I’m not paying you for your altruistic hippy-dippy bullshit, Nicky. This is costing me a fortune. Tesla’s notebooks cost me a fortune.”

  “So sell this to one of the big electric companies. They’ll probably pay you billions just to suppress the technology.”

  “You know what I want.”

  Nick crossed his arms. “I already built something for you. So you and Tork can get your jollies interrogating people.”

  “You built me a small wand that causes pain. I want a giant machine that causes death. A death ray, Nicky. Nikola Tesla’s fabled death ray, that he designed before he died.”

  “You want the teleforce.”

  “I want what I paid for.”

  “You just witnessed a scientific miracle that can save the planet, and you want a particle gun.” Nick powered down the device and stepped out of the cage. “Is it some deep-seated issues with your mother, Sigmund? Took you off the breast too early?”

  “Might I remind you that Sigmund Freud died a legend in his field, having founded the school of psychoanalysis still practiced to this day. Nikola Tesla died a pauper, and the world viewed him as a washed-up crackpot.”

  “Psychoanalyze this.” Nick gave him the finger.

  “You’re acting childish, Nicky.”

  “You’re acting like a James Bond bad guy, Ziggy. Who are you so eager to zap?”

  That’s my concern, not yours.

  “I want to see a new test by tomorrow morning. Skip the thrift shop light show. I want to see that turkey reduced to mush.”

  Nick stared up at the monitor, then left the lab without replying.

  Ziggy checked his phone after it buzzed, and found a new text.

  It’s mary. Seeking a finder’s fee.

  I haven’t heard from Mary in a while. And of course, when she texts, she asks for money.

  Ziggy considered ignoring it.

  It’s not like we have unlimited funds.

  Well, actually, we do. The government just doesn’t have a clue what it’s fitting the bill for.

  How much? he texted.

  400.

  That’s a big finder’s fee. Did the bounty go up?

  Bounty is same.

  Interesting. Who?

  Half up front.

  Ziggy considered it.

  But it really doesn’t bear much consideration. Two hundred grand is a pittance.

  He replied, I’ll put in an official request.

  She texted a kissy emoji back.

  “If Nick doesn’t kill the turkey, can I do it?”

  Ziggy closed his eyes, preternaturally patient. “No, Tork. You can’t kill the turkey.”

  “We could eat it when I’m done.”

  “Leave the turkey alone.”

  “Can I interrogate the women?”

  Ziggy checked the monitor with the cell camera.

  “The pain wand don’t hurt them. I mean, it hurts them real bad. But no permanent damage. You’d think there are lots of ways to torture without causing damage, but there aren’t. When I was at Abu and we were waterboarding, we’d pull rags out of these guys’ throats just soaked with blood. Clots and tissue and shit. It was funny, because we tried to make them talk, and they couldn’t talk at all after eight or ten sessions. One guy, he was coughing so hard, he spit out a—”

  “Fine.” Ziggy waved him off, not anxious to hear another Tork torture story. “You can interrogate the women.”

  “Really?” Tork’s eyes got big.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  I need something to take my mind off of Nick and the lackluster teleforce demonstration.

  Tork’s excitement visibly dimmed. “You take the fun out of it when you’re there.”

  “I didn’t hire you to have fun, Tork.”

  “I didn’t take this job for the money, Ziggy. I don’t give a shit about money. You know why I’m here. It’s in my genes. It’s why we do it. Same as Nick and—”

  “I’m aware of why you’re here, Tork.”

  Too bad we couldn’t find everyone. The information we received had been… limited. Apparently the mastermind behind the cloning experiment, Dr. Harold Harper, had destroyed his records, and others who knew had died, so there was only so much the powers-that-be could tell me about who my allies—and enemies—are.

  I followed the breadcrumbs, and learned some things, but my knowledge is incomplete.

  How many clones were made? How many still live?

  Are any as brilliant as me? Or Nick?

  And if so, are they allies? Or enemies?

  Tork snorted wetly, then swallowed the mucus. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy to be here, Ziggy. But I’m the one who does all the dirty shit you don’t want to do. How many people did I make disappear? I should be able to have some private fun.”

  I need to tread carefully here. “You’re invaluable, Tork. If sometimes it seems like I don’t appreciate you, that isn’t the case. You and I are like brothers. Of course I know why you signed on for this, and I’ve given you many opportunities to indulge in your particular hobbies. I’ll make you a promise, right now. We need to know who these women are. What they know. When I’m done with them, provided that they won’t be missed, you can do whatever you want with them.”

  His dark eyes glinted. “Whatever I want?”

  “As long as you don’t tell me about it, and don’t get DNA everywhere. You can have them… once we know what they know.”

  “Deal.”

  Tork stuck out his meaty hand. Much as Ziggy loathed touching him, he shook.

  “So what do you mean by DNA?”

  “Bodily fluids.” Ziggy pulled out of Tork’s grasp.

  “So what are we talking? Condoms? A plastic tarp?”

  “Just make sure there is no trace of them left when you’re done.”

  Tork grinned, flashing big, crooked, stinky teeth that needed a team of orthodontists to fix. “Don’t worry. When I’m done with them, there won’t be nothing left.”

  FABLER

  Wichita, Kansas

  Okay. Let’s try this.

  Fabler had an apple in his left hand, and two limes in his right hand. He threw one of the limes in a soft, easy arc, and began to juggle.

  After three passes, he dropped the apple.

  Bad toss.

  He picked it up off the bedroom floor and tried again.

  Four passes, and he lost a lime.

  What the hell?

  He tried again.

  And again.

  And again.

  In prison, Fabler could juggle for over thirty minutes without dropping anything.

  Now I can’t even do five seconds.

  I’m having trouble with a single cascade.

  He went to his computer to ask Dr. Google, looking up medical reasons for losing hand-eye coordination.

  None of them were good.

  Parkinson’s.

  Alzheimer’s.

  Bálint’s syndrome.

  All old-people diseases, and Fabler wasn’t old.

  But there could be other, more acute reasons for optic apraxia and ataxia.

  Tumors.

  Lesions.

  Brain damage.

  I’ve done some seriously wrong things to my body in the not-too-distant past.

  Could this be a side-effect?

  He frowned, scratching the bug bite on his neck.

  “You okay?”

  Fabler glanced at his wife, Lori, in the doorway, wearing shorts and one of his T-shirts; her sleep attire. Lori’s long, red hair was backlit, which made her look angelic.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You seem sort of freaked out. What’s up?”

  “If I asked you to do me a strange favor, can you do it?”

  Her eyes crinkled. “Are we talking butt stuff?”

  “Nothing sexual. I want you to try to slap me.”

  “That’s kinky.”

  “I’m serious. Don’t let me know which hand you’re using. Just stand in front of me and try to slap me.”

  “What’s going on, babe?”

  Lori tried to peek at his computer, and Fabler shielded her view of the screen with his body.

  “Just try to slap me. Okay?”

  “We might wake the baby. I just put him down.”

  “It won’t wake the baby.” Because you won’t be able to hit me. “And technically, he’s a toddler, not a baby.”

  “He’ll always be my baby. And you know he has nightmares.”

  Runs in the family.

  But Fabler chose not to discuss the insomnia they all shared. “Can you help me out, please?”

  “Fine. Where do you want me to stand?”

  “Right in front of me. Put your hands at your sides. Then try to slap me with either hand.”

  “Okay.” Lori stood two feet away, rolled her shoulders, and then lashed out with her right hand.

  Fabler blocked it easily, catching her wrist.

  “You’re holding back.”

  “You’re my husband. I don’t want to smack you.”

  “I need you to.”

  “Is this some kind of reflexes thing?” She eyed the fruit on the bed. “Or do you want to be punished for doing something unnatural with those limes?”

  “It’s a reflexes thing. Try again.”

  She tried her right hand again.

  Fabler caught it.

  Left hand, and he caught it.

  Right, then left, and two catches.

  Okay. I’m just being paranoid.

  Maybe I’m tired. I’ll try juggling again in the morning.

  He pulled her close, gave her a quick kiss on the lips. “Thanks.”

  Lori smiled up at him. “Anytime. When are you leaving?”

  “They’ll be here at oh-six-hundred. You’re going to be okay watching two kids and a giant ground sloth?”

  “It’s my idea of domestic bliss. You going to be okay?”

  “I’ll be back before you even miss me.”

  “Fabler…”

  I know where this is going. “This is what I do, Lori.”

  “You’re happy here with us, right?”

  He smoothed some stray hair behind his wife’s ear. “Of course. I didn’t know a man could be so happy.”

  “And we don’t need the money.”

  “This isn’t about the money. Or me wanting to get away from changing diapers.”

  “When do you change diapers?”

  He gave her mock outrage. “What? I change diapers all the time.”

  “I got back from the store the other day and your son gained six pounds in pee and poo.”

  “You should have seen him before I changed him. He was twelve pounds heavier at least.”

  “Fabler…” Lori chewed her lower lip. “I don’t like you doing this. Putting yourself in danger.”

  “Two women were abducted.”

  “Sounds like a job for the police.”

  “Did the police help us when we had a similar problem?”

  Lori frowned. “Three days?”

  “That’s what McGlade said.”

  She held him close. “I really wish you’d give this merc stuff up. It isn’t good for Grim or Presley, either.”

  “They make up their own minds.”

  “You enable them.”

  “Maybe.” Probably. “How about this… when I get back, I’ll take a year off.”

  Lori pulled out of his arms, her face lighting up. “Seriously?”

  “I don’t know if I can quit cold turkey. When you were… gone… all I did was train. It’s hard to snap out of a routine. I don’t think I will ever be able to give it up completely. But I can promise a long vacation. At least until our boy is out of diapers.”

  “That’s a deal. Seal it with a slap?”

  Lori’s right hand shot out, and Fabler’s left immediately went to grab it—

  —and he missed.