In The Blood
by Ilsa J. Bick

It's bad when Homicide calls. It's worse when they think it's one of your girls. 
It's February. The sky spits snow. I'm standing on the east bank of the Potomac, downstream from Georgetown University. Business was brisk last night, and I'm whacked. My coffee's got a sludge layer so thick you could pan for gold. My head aches, I haven't slept in twenty-two hours, there's stubble icing my jowls, and I smell bad. 
And this takes the cake. Not only the Homicide boys, but the chief and the mayor huddle by the morgue van. Terrific. 
At least Paul Gallagher's here. We go back—hell, feels like centuries. He's Aussie, but don't let that Kris Kringle look fool you. He's one tough M.E. Figures. You can't spend a lifetime tearing up dead people and be a sentimentalist. Catching my eye, he gives that shit-hitting-fan look and lifts his chin in the direction of the river. 
I look. Divers float a black body bag. Perfect. 
Deputy Chief of Homicide Jack Strong sidles up. We worked Homicide together before I jumped ship for Vice. Strong's black, handsome: resplendent in a knee-length camel hair coat, silk scarf, black cashmere turtleneck. The bulge of a top-of-the-line pulse laser on his right hip. Homicide's been good to Strong. 
"Thorne." Strong smiles a grin that's all ivory. "You look like hell." 
"Thanks." Strong's right, though. Today I look like a hairball your cat hawked up on your best rug. I know; I checked in the rearview of my skimmer on the way out. My eyes are yellow around the edges, like underdone eggs. My shoulder-length black hair, going gray at the temples, is oily enough to blind you. You could catch daylight through my jeans, and my leather bomber jacket is white at the elbows. 
My only quality items: an antique Glock in a cross-draw shoulder holster and a black .40 S&W snugging my right ankle. I don't go anywhere without that S&W. There's no safety, and you don't need to pull back on the slide to get a bullet in the chamber. Just jack in a clip and that baby's ready to go. Dangerous as hell, but I can't stand pulse lasers. Must be the smell of burnt meat. 
"Think it's her?" Strong says. 
"Maybe." 
Strong frowns. I know what he's thinking. He's Homicide. He's supposed to know who gets done and where. Vice overlaps sometimes, especially when there's snuff, or things get out of hand. On my watch, that doesn't happen. Snuff … well, call me old-fashioned, but a customer wants that, I send him to Vice in Baltimore or across the river to Fairfax. Let my brother cops deal with the mess. 
"Well, Bunko," Strong says, "if it's her, it'll be your ass. You saw her when?" 
I sigh, exasperated. "We've been over this. A week ago, Thursday, Stevens picks her up. They head out to Cole's. Next thing, I know Stevens is dead and the skimmer's toast. I told you, I told Cole." This, at least, is true. 
Strong looks over my head. "Well, seems like you get to tell him again." 
"Oh, shit." I turn. Sure enough, there's Cole's limo. Some flunkie palms open the door—like it's some big-deal job—and then Thurmont Cole comes barreling out of that skimmer like he's got rockets up his ass. 
"Thorne!" Cole bawls. "Thorne!" Thawun. "You there!" 
Cole's Mississippi born-and-bred. After twenty-plus years in D.C., he's still got the drawl. And the attitude. He probably beat slaves in some past life. With his mane of white hair, he can look very Wrath-of-God … someone Cole believes he is anyway. You can't blame him. Presidents come and go; wars get won or lost; but Thurmont Cole, Director of Homeland Security, survives. 
"They're bringing out the body now, sir." I point at the divers lugging the bag through snow. My stomach's doing flips. But I say, "Why don't we take a look first?" 
Cole fumes inarticulately as we trudge over. Never a stupid man, Strong lags behind. We cluster around the bag: Cole to my left, Gallagher immediately to my right, followed by Strong. The chief and the mayor line up on the far side of Strong, putting distance between themselves and Cole. Now they're stupid. They're also cowards. 
Gallagher squats over the bag—no mean feat for a guy his size. He paws the zipper. Metal rasps against ice crystals. He tugs the bag apart, and the plastic crackles like used cellophane. 
We stare for a good five, ten seconds. Suddenly I'm not breathing too good. 
Gallagher looks up. "Thorne?" 
Before I can speak, Cole says, "It's her." 
He gets right in my face. Two spots of color dot his withered cheeks. His nose is red, and it's running. 
"You piece a trash." A bead of snot trembles on the tip of his nose. "You sorry, worthless piece a trash." Wuhthless. Turash. 
No one jumps to my rescue. I take it, staring at that snot and waiting for it to fall off. It doesn't, though. 
Cole jabs a finger at my face like a stiletto. "You better get on your knees, Thorne, and pray they find a scrap of DNA in that mess, or you are done. You hear me, boy?" 
Whipping around, he stalks to his limo. Palming the back door closed, the flunkie flings me a reproachful look. A second later, and the skimmer jets toward Cole's estate near Mather Gorge. 
The divers pack up. The mayor and the chief leave. Gallagher's assistants load the bag. 
Gallagher says, "I'll call you." 
"You do that," I say. 
Strong asks, "Think you can salvage anything?" 
Gallagher shrugs. "Her cells are probably the moral equivalent of vermicelli. Give me time." 
Gallagher lumbers to his van, and the van puffs east, toward his office in District Headquarters. 
I look at the Potomac. The river's gray as gunmetal. Snow frosts my shoulders. 
Strong says, "Lot of fuss over a goddamned clone." 
"Yeah," I say, aware of the blood thrumming in my veins. "It sure as hell is." 

· · · · · 

Strong and I had been partners: did a regular beat in Southeast when it was still D.C. instead of part of Maryland, like it is now. Those weren't the good old days. I mean, ride around all day, cleaning up what scum does to scum, and your opinion of the human race gets pretty damn bleak. When detective slots opened up in Homicide, we jumped ship. Beat cops don't make money. Everyone knows detectives run the show in D.C. You want a hooker? Go to Vice. Drugs? No sweat. A contract killing, some little annoyance you want out of the way? Homicide's happy to oblige, and that's not counting clones the eggheads churn out for those red-blooded Second Amendment Americans who want to hunt something a little more interesting than Bambi. 
Eventually I drifted to Vice. No stomach for Homicide, I guess. Strong and I worked up our respective ranks until we got where we are today—deputy chiefs. I direct the girls; Strong manages contracts. 
About three months ago, Peggy turned over and said, "New girl coming this afternoon." 
"Yeah?" I yawned. Sex in the afternoon always makes me sleepy. 
"Yeah." Peggy stretched, like a cat. She's not a bad looker—ash blonde hair, blue eyes, good breasts—though she's been around the block a couple two-three times. Peggy's official title is Personal Assistant to the Deputy Chief of Vice. Translation: She's admin. Does four divisions—Straight, S&M, Bestiality, Lesbian and Gay. Like I said, we don't do Snuff, and forget Child. Of course, there's overlap. Vice is never cut and dried. But, by and large, Peggy makes sure the squad detectives get everyone where they're supposed to be and back in one piece. 
She propped herself up on an elbow. "She's Special Order." 
"Yeah?" I tweaked her right nipple. "More special than you?" 
"Get serious." 
My fingers moved to her belly, then lower. "Never more." 
"Thorne," she said, though she didn't tell me to stop. Peggy hasn't had it easy. My first day on the job, she told me how the last deputy chief treated her. He's gone now. Pissed off someone and is sleeping with the fishes in the Potomac. 
I treat my girls well. Peggy thinks I'm a romantic, but that's a bunch of bull. 
"Earmarked for Cole," Peggy continued, right on track despite where my fingers were. Like I said, a remarkable woman. 
"Cole?" I was surprised enough to stop. I'd only been on the job about two weeks by then. So, being new, I didn't know all my customers very well. Oh, the President, the Joint Chiefs, them I knew. In my job, you got to prioritize. But I should've thought of Cole. Homeland Security's big: lot of money, lot of power. Big names and big appetites. 
"Yeah. Cole gets a new one every quarter from that cloning outfit in Gaithersburg … GenPlex. Very class operation. And these girls aren't cheap. But then he ups and ruins them. Sick old goat." 
"Don't tell me," I said. The less I knew, the better. It's a fact. These girls and boys are disposable pleasure models, pure and simple. Clones. 
I find it helps to think of it this way. A doctor has a kid who grows up to be a doctor, and so on. It's in the blood. Like me: I'm a cop from a line of cops. It's in my blood. 
So these clones are hookers. It's in their blood. Dumb as shit, though. I mean, think about it. One minute they're in a vat, the next they're out walking around. No past, no experiences. Me, I can't see having sex with a blank. But I'm old-fashioned, I guess. 
Peggy said, "This Abby model isn't just re-tooled. GenPlex's into memory enhancement. With each new Abby, they build on the Abbys before—what she was, what Cole does with her." 
Peggy shook her head. "Sick." 
"How do you know all this?" 
"I spent time with the last Abby before Cole … before he …" She swallowed, paused. "That's the worst of it. You stick around long enough, these girls come and go, and they've got this idea about what's coming. Only it's cloudy, like a bad dream. But the last Abby knew she only had three months, period. Thorne, it's inhuman, even for a clone. It's not right, going through life knowing it's a countdown." 
She had a point. Ever play that game when you're a kid—the one where you wonder how long you'll live and how you'll die? And remember how you decide you really don't want to know? 
I wasn't sure what to say. So I didn't say anything. Instead, I told Peggy to knock off worrying about things she couldn't change for a couple two-three minutes and let me take her mind off things. 
She let me. I take good care of my girls. 

· · · · · 

Strong drops me around ten a.m. My office is in a condo on the corner of New Jersey and K, four blocks north of Police Headquarters on Indiana and within spitting distance of Union Station and the Capitol. There are two ways into my office: the front and the back, natch. The front is the office-office. The back, where I live, is in an alcove off the main hall. You'd miss it if you didn't know it was there. 
Peggy's waiting. She looks like she's been up all night, which she has. "Well?" she asks as I stamp snow off my feet. 
I bend to work my laces. Old-fashioned. "They found her," I say, fumbling with the knots. My fingers are stiff and don't work right. 
"Gallagher?" 
"Give him time." I tug at the knot on my right shoe. "Damn it." 
Peggy stoops. "Let me." 
"You don't have to do that." 
"Shut up," she says. So I shut up and let her play around with my shoes. 
When she's done, she says, "Get out of your clothes. You need a bath and a shave and a good breakfast." She's already disappearing in the direction of the bathroom before I can open my mouth. In another second, I hear water running. 
The tub's steamy. Given everything that's happened, I figure I'll soak five, ten minutes max. An hour later, Peggy's shaking me awake, and the water's cold. By the time I've shrugged into my standard uniform—blue jeans, black turtleneck, S&W on the ankle—and pulled my hair back in a tail, Peggy has breakfast waiting. Two eggs over easy, five strips of bacon, two slices of buttered toast with cherry jam, and grits with Tabasco and butter. I'm crazy for grits. Peggy thinks they're disgusting, so I make sure to eat them a lot, just to get her going. Only this morning, she doesn't say much. Just pours herself some coffee and keeps my cup full. 
We're both waiting for the call, and Gallagher doesn't disappoint. The vid screams at eleven. I tell it to shut the hell up and put him through. Gallagher's face wavers into focus. "Yeah?" I say. 
Gallagher's face is flat. "I've got the chief, the mayor, and Strong on hold. Cole, too. Everyone wants in." 
Peggy moans, but I don't turn around. This is for keeps. I got to be careful, or we're all dead. 
"Well," I say, "put them on." 
Everyone appears. Only Strong says hey. 
Cole looks like he's sucking lemons. "All right, all right," he raps, "what's the verdict? Did you salvage anything?" 
But Gallagher won't be pushed. "First, let's establish whether this is murder or suicide, Director." 
Cole harrumphs. "Can't see it matters one whit." 
"It does. And I'm sure Deputy Chief Strong cares." Gallagher doesn't mention me. 
Cole glares, but Gallagher doesn't even twitch. Then Cole says, "All right. Have it your way." 
"Thank you," says Gallagher. "First of all, that girl suffocated." 
"And how do you know that?" 
"No water in her lungs." 
Cole makes exasperated noises. "So she was dead before she hit the water. Doesn't prove a thing." 
"On the contrary, Director," says Gallagher, as if he's talking to a two year old. "Most people who die in the water don't drown. They suffocate, because as soon as water hits the larynx, it spasms and nothing gets through." 
"So she suicided," Strong says, hopeful now. He'd be off the hook then, and I'd wriggle on. "Jumped and did that spasm thing." 
"Only there's a wrecked skimmer and a dead cop." Gallagher pauses. "Except Director Cole is right: She was dead when she hit the water. She's banged up, but there's little blood loss. She's got broken bones but practically no bruising." 
"Meaning?" Cole asks. 
"Meaning she was thrown from a height. She probably hit face first. Her facial bones are smashed." Gallagher says it casually, but still I wince. "But with no bruising, it means her heart stopped before that happened." 
"Could she have taken something?" Strong asks. "Poison or something?" 
"And then jumped?" Gallagher says it in such a way that you know, immediately, he thinks that's a dumb question. "Sure. She takes something, staggers to the edge of wherever—all the while not breathing and with no blood flow—and then throws herself into the water for good measure, conveniently dying on the way down. Not to mention the fact that women tend to drown themselves in the ocean or the bath. They're not as melodramatic as men." 
He paused to let that sink in. Then: "I'm sorry, Strong, but this is pure, unadulterated murder." 
The sentence hangs in the air. No one says anything, but I see Cole's fists bunching and unbunching. 
"Poison?" I ask, my heart pattering in triple time. 
Gallagher nods. "But I'll be damned if I know what type. I've been through brain, heart, liver, kidney, muscle, and bone marrow. There's nothing." 
Cole leans forward. "So let me understand this, Doctor." He says it like an epithet. "You're saying murder, but you don't know how?" 
"No, I said she died and I don't know how. But I do know what murdered her." 
"Say again?" 
"How she suffocated, I can't say. But there's killing, and then there's erasure. Murder." 
Cole's mouth works. "Stop talking riddles. What about murder?" 
"Whoever did this made sure this girl isn't coming back." 
Cole misses the emphasis, but I get it. 
So does Strong. "This girl?" 
"Her DNA is ruined," says Gallagher. Short, sweet, to the point. You got to admire the guy. "You can't make her again." 
Even through a vid, I can see the color mottling Cole's neck, like something crawling up a centimeter at a time. "And why not?" Cole asks. 
"Because her mitochondrial DNA is toast. For my money, we're talking gene-terrorists here." 
"Say again?" 
"Gene-terrorists. You want the long or the short version?" 
That red flush has sprouted along Cole's jaw. "Short." 
Gallagher ticks it off on his fingers. "Genetics 101: You've got DNA in the nucleus and in the mitochondria, the organelles that give your cells energy. Two, you've got hundreds of mitochondria per cell. Mitochondria are passed along the maternal line, and certain ethnic groups carry very specific markers." 
"Like the Yanomami plague of 2010," I say. 
Gallagher nods. "Exactly. Gene-targeted warfare directed against a specific South American Indian tribe: It wiped them out, and then, not coincidentally, allowed the Brazilian government to move in and annex some very valuable land. Same thing here. This girl's mitochondrial DNA has been snipped in two, as if with a tiny scissors. The only way to do that is to target a very specific marker. Snip enough mitochondria and the cell dies, very quickly." 
"Which explains why her DNA was so degraded." 
"You got it, Thorne." Gallagher folds his pudgy hands over his middle. "And that's why every cell line, exclusive of her red blood cells, looks like oatmeal. When the mitochondria died, the cells burst wide open." 
I would've let it slide, but Strong says, "And how come her blood's okay?" 
"Not her blood." Gallagher pauses. "I said her red blood cells." 
His eyes flick my way, then back to Strong. "Red blood cells don't contain DNA and are pre-programmed to turn over every one hundred twenty days. 
"Anyway, Director Cole, we're talking designer gene-poison, tailor-made for this one girl. And here's the kicker. It went for that portion of her mitochondrial DNA that says she's a clone. Every clone has one, unique to him or her, like a fingerprint or an I.D. I think you wrote the original legislation some thirty years ago." 
Cole's face is the color of a ripe plum. "The Originator Bill." 
"Exactly. As I recall, the aim was to keep the human line pure and the numbers of clones strictly controlled. With clones running around, you'd never know who was a dyed-in-the-wool human being and who was, shall we say, born again," Gallagher deadpans without a trace of irony. 
"So you're saying … you're saying that … that …" 
"That whoever murdered her wanted her dead and the clone gone. Truly, irrevocably dead." 
"But there's the cell line," Cole splutters, "the cell line where she came from …" 
"GenPlex," says Gallagher. "But, Director, that's the problem." 
Strong flinches, and I see he's figured it out a second before Cole asks the question. 
"What," Cole gargles like someone's got him by the throat, "who could make this kind of weapon?" 
Gallagher favors him with a mild, disingenuous look. "Why, Mr. Director, where she was made." 
"GenPlex," says Strong. "Director, the same people that made her …" 
"Murdered her," Gallagher says. "Bingo." 

· · · · · 

Abby. 
Because she was special delivery, I took care of escorting her to Cole myself. 
Cole's estate lies in Great Falls, just east of Mather Gorge and about thirty klicks from the Capitol. The gorge is what makes Great Falls great. The Potomac River is big, about eight hundred meters across, but it narrows down at the falls to just over twenty-five meters. So all that water funnels over rocks and rapids, dropping at the falls for twenty-three meters—about seventy-five feet—right at the Mather Gorge. It's the steepest, most spectacular fall line rapids of any river east of the Mississippi. The cliffs along the gorge are jagged and very high. 
It's a gorgeous drive, and under more normal circumstances I might have taken in the scenery. Circumstances weren't normal, though. 
Abby. 
She wasn't like I imagined. For starters, Abby was only a kid. Literally. She was gawky the way kids are when they're just starting to grow. Her hair was red, a true Irish mane that spilled around her shoulders. Her eyes were green, with a slight feline tilt to them, and the bridge of her nose and cheeks were speckled with tiny freckles, just enough to scream "kid." Honestly, she looked like she ought to be chewing bubble gum or dressing up in shiny patent leather shoes with frilly white socks. A kid. 
On the way out, Abby didn't say much—just slid into the back seat and stared at the scenery in that abstracted adult way that told me she wasn't taking in a damn thing. My eyes kept flicking to the rearview mirror, but I waited until we'd passed through Georgetown before I said anything. 
"Penny for your thoughts," I said. I know: Very original. 
Abby blinked, caught my eyes in the rearview. "Excuse me?" she asked. 
"You look a million miles away." 
"Oh. I'm sorry. Did you want to ask me something?" 
"Not really. It's just … well, you don't look very happy." 
Abby's lips twitched. "I'm not." 
"Any particular reason?" 
Abby's right eyebrow arched. "Are you truly interested or just morbidly curious?" 
"Pardon?" 
She cocked her head to one side, a very adult gesture. "How many Abbys have you known?" 
"Uhm, you're my first." 
"Oh." Pause. "Well, I understand your curiosity about why Cole wants a nice little girl like me." 
I have to admit, she shook me. It was like talking to someone my own age. Older. "How old are you?" I asked. 
That eyebrow again. "In real or biological time?" 
It was a fair question. "Both." 
"I came out of the vat exactly five weeks ago," she said calmly. "Biologically, I'm fourteen. Psychologically, I," she glanced out the window at the high cliffs scrolling by, "I guess you could say I'm older than those hills out there." 
She lapsed into silence, the fingers of her right hand fiddling with a silky lock of her red hair. I watched her twirl her hair into a tiny corkscrew, let go, start over again. You know, the way kids do. 
Honestly, I wasn't shocked Cole might like little girls. Hell, I know twenty guys just like him. Forty. But the girls I dealt with when I was just a working stiff on the squad—well, they were kids, in body and every other way. Abby, though—she was old. Not that type of hardened kind of old kids get when they've been in the racket: I'm talking mature. Sad. 
As if she'd read my thoughts, Abby said, "GenPlex is especially proud of me." 
"Why is that?" 
"Because I remember more than the other eight Abbys. That's the problem with being a clone," she said, in a perfectly unselfconscious way. "We're tabulae rasa—clean slates. We may be adults or kids, but until GenPlex started with memory enhancement, we might as well have been newborns. I guess some people see that as desirable, but that's why the government controls how many of us are made. Ever wonder why?" 
Of course, I knew why. But I balked. I mean, it was eerie, talking to Abby about Abby, as if she were a thing instead of a little girl. Finally, I said, "Because you guys kept turning up dead." 
She nodded. "That's right. Have any idea why you people ended up killing us off? 
"No." 
"Well, let me lay it out for you, Thorne. Let's talk about husbands, but it could just as easily be about wives or kids. Dogs. The basics: Way back when, before government controls, a husband wants his wife back. He commissions a clone. But the clone doesn't know him from Adam. She doesn't remember that trip they took to Paris, or the first time they made love, or the time she caught him cheating with the secretary. She doesn't even know she's supposed to love him. To her, he's a stranger. At first, he lives with it, figuring things will get better. But time passes. She doesn't laugh at his jokes or understand an allusion. She becomes her self rather than what he wants her to be. Maybe she decides to leave him; maybe she has an affair. Or maybe she does nothing more than pour him a martini, with a twist instead of olives. The point is, she's not his anymore, and she's a continual reminder of what he's lost." 
Those green eyes sought mine in the rearview. "Do you see now? Why we die? And why they make us only for sport or the jobs too dangerous for real humans?" 
I could. "Do you know why Cole wants you?" 
A shadow flickered across her young face. "No. I'm supposed to have the accumulated memories of the Abbys before me. I do, but they're very hazy, like dreams you remember clearly when you awaken but which dissipate within a few seconds. But I don't know." 
She's silent after that, and I let her alone. 
We got buzzed into Cole's estate. Then as now, the place has as many armed guards as Fort Knox, as well as continual air surveillance, surveillance around the grounds. Nothing too good for the Director of Homeland Security, don't you know. The house is an old English style castle house: red brick and shingled, with a turret at the western corner and a private chapel done in natural stone and stained glass attached to the east end. 
When the house came into view, Abby sank back, as if she'd have liked the upholstery to swallow her up. 
"You okay?" I asked. 
Her face was so white, her freckles looked like blood. "No." 
A surveillance cam hovered above the skimmer, keeping tabs. A blank-faced military type met us at the front door. Palming the passenger door open for Abby, he said to me, "You can go. We'll call when she's ready." 
"No." Abby touched my arm. "Please stay." 
The military type shrugged. "I got my orders." 
Abby shot a pleading look. 
I got out. "I'll wait." 
"I have to check with the director," the military type said stiffly. 
"You do that," I said. Together Abby and I watched as he turned aside and muttered into a wristcom. Abby sidled closer to my side. We didn't speak, but I was acutely aware of how very young she really was. 
The military type said something short, then turned back. "You can stay," he said, like I was some dog whining at the back door. "In the skimmer." 
"Great," I said. And to Abby: "I'll be right here." 
"Thank you," she whispered and brushed the back of my hand with her fingers, just the lightest touch. She followed the military type to the front door. It opened; she slid inside. 
I got back in the skimmer. It was six. I watched a movie, listened to music. Checked in with Peggy, who gave me the stats for the night, told me which hookers were where, what cops were watching which corner. Business as usual. I dozed off, woke up again, dozed some more. 
At eleven, Abby showed. The military type palmed the door, then waved me off. We left. 
Abby was pale, her lips compressed in a straight line. Every now and again, she used the back of her hand for her eyes. 
I waited until we got off the grounds. Then I looked into the rearview. "What happened?" 
Staring out the window, she swallowed the way people do when they're trying hard not to cry. "We had milk. And chocolate chip cookies. I sat on his lap, in pink pajamas and fluffy slippers, and he read. Dickens. The Old Curiosity Shop. 
"And then we went to bed," she said, her voice sounding old, defeated, and very tired. 
She didn't add anything more. She didn't have to. I let it go. 
This went on for three weeks, then five. I took her over every evening; I stayed until Cole let her go. Abby gave few details, but I started noticing things. Little things: a tear in her blouse. A bruise on her throat. 
I tried to stay focused. This was my job. This was her job. 
Then, one evening in the sixth week, I was in the skimmer when the front door to Cole's place burst open. Abby dashed out, her clothes askew, her hair wild. She tripped down the stairs. 
"Thorne!" Her arms flailed the air. "Thorne!" 
I was out in a flash. The military type moved, but I was faster. Sobbing, Abby sagged against me. "Abby," I said, "Abby, what is it?" 
Cole appeared in the doorway, pulling on a robe. I could see that he was naked. 
"Abby!" He gave the robe a furious yank, cinching it around his waist—like a noose, I couldn't help thinking. His feet were bare; the steps were stone; and he duckwalked them as fast as he could. 
"Abby," he shouted. "You come back here!" 
The military type grabbed Abby's elbow. 
Abby flinched away. "No! No, please!" 
"Abby!" Cole thundered from the bottom step. "Goddamn it, girl!" 
"Miss," said the military type, tugging at Abby. "Miss." 
Abby clung to my arm. "Please, Thorne," she said, and now I saw the ugly bruises—fingers, I realized belatedly, the imprint of fingers—encircling her neck like a ghastly necklace. 
I ignored the military type. "Sir," I said speaking directly to Cole, "I think she's done in for the night, sir." 
"Done in," Cole spluttered, his arms windmilling. "Done in!" 
"Sir," I said—and to this day, I think I had gone temporarily nuts—"I think she's had enough." 
Cole tremored; he was that angry. "You don't tell me, you don't tell me nothing, nothing …" 
"I'm saying it!" Abby whirled about, her tiny fists clenched. "I am. I am! Me!" 
Cole blinked. I just stared. "Abby?" said Cole, slowly. "What are you saying, girl?" 
"I'm saying that I will decide when I'm done for the evening. And I'm done now!" 
Then she faltered. "I … I'll be back. I promise. I … know what my job is, my … purpose. But, please, please, no more. Just for tonight. Please." 
I thought we were all dead. But Cole squinted. Then, incredibly, he broke into a smile. "Well," he said, "aren't you the little spitfire?" 
He laughed, a dry sort of cackle. "All right," he said, bobbing his head like one of those wooden birds you see in novelty shops. "We do it your way. But only this once, Abby. Understand?" 
"Yes." Abby's voice was so low I had to strain. "Just give me this one night. For myself. Please." 
He let us go. 
Peggy didn't say anything when she palmed the back door. She stood there, her hand on her throat, looking at Abby, who lay sleeping in my arms. 
She stepped out of the way. "Bring her in." 
I left Peggy with Abby, in a spare bedroom. In my outer office, I told the computer to show me the evening's stats, but my heart wasn't in it. I kept seeing Abby tearing out of that house, those bruises on her throat. Finally, I made a call and then got the hell out of there. 
When I palmed the door to Gallagher's place, over on M Street near George Washington University Hospital, the apartment smelled of coffee and cinnamon buns. Gallagher was in the kitchen. 
"Well?" he asked, plunking a mug down and splashing coffee into it. "What's so goddamned important you can't wait until decent people get a good night's sleep?" 
I blew on the coffee, sucked down a mouthful. "How much you know about Cole and this Abby thing?" 
"Ahh." Gallagher helped himself to a cinnamon bun. "I thought that was it. This makes," he took a bite, chewed, "Abby number eight, doesn't it?" 
"Nine." 
"That many?" Gallagher said around cinnamon bun. "I must've lost track." 
"So what do you know?" 
Gallagher looked at me. "What do you want to know?" 
"Everything." 
"Stuff's classified, Thorne." 
"Right. So can I see it?" 
Gallagher licked glaze from his fingers. "Sure." He swept up the platter of sticky buns and his cup of coffee. "Bring the pot." 
I brought the pot. I watched over his shoulder as he called up the data. Before he got to the autopsy set, he paused. "You sure you want to see this?" 
I nodded. Gallagher shrugged, told the computer to go ahead. 
The report was bad enough. But the pictures were truly horrible, and I've seen a lot. Numbly, I flipped through autopsy findings on Abby numbers one, two, three … Finally, I had to stop. 
Gallagher was watching me. "Not pretty." 
I exhaled a shaky breath. "Jesus. Do you have any idea …?" 
"Why he does it?" Gallagher offered me the last sticky bun, then plucked it from the plate when I refused. "Some." 
"And?" 
Chewing philosophically, Gallagher told the computer to open a file. "Read that." 
I squinted at the date. "It's an old news story from 1994." 
"Twenty-six years ago." 
I read. "It says here that an intruder broke into the house of one Thurmont R. Cole … our Cole." 
"Keep reading." 
I did. Someone had broken into Cole's home. Cole wasn't in at the time, because he was away campaigning for his first run at the senate. But his family—his wife, Amanda Cole, and a fourteen-year-old daughter—was. Amanda was brutally murdered. The girl—named Emily—vanished. Nothing was taken and no motive ever discovered. 
"Take a look at the wife," said Gallagher when I'd finished. 
I studied the picture. Amanda Cole had been handsome, with a shock of red hair, clear blue eyes, and just that slight tilt of the head that told you she enjoyed being looked at by men. The story said she was thirty when she died … and six months' pregnant. They hadn't been able to save the fetus—a girl. 
"What about his daughter Emily?" I asked. 
Gallagher wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. "Vanished," he said, crumpling the napkin in one fist. "Now, here's what the story doesn't say, and don't ask me how I know, because I can't tell you. Mrs. Cole was pregnant all right, only it wasn't Cole's baby. 
"That's right," he said, in response to my vacant expression, "the good Mrs. Cole had a lover. Not only that, but she'd filed for divorce the week before. Something about being battered." 
It came to me all at once. "Cole had her killed." 
Gallagher held up a hand. "You didn't hear that from me. You are free, of course, to draw your own conclusions. By the way, being a God-fearing Christian, Cole had the baby girl baptized before burial." 
"Abby," I said numbly. "He named her Abby." 
Gallagher dropped his wadded-up napkin on the empty plate. "You know, you're a very fast study, Thorne. You'll go far." 
"But why bring Abby back? Emily was his daughter. Emily was fourteen. Come to think of it, if Cole arranged for his wife's murder—I know, you didn't say that—why was the girl taken?" 
"Insurance? A way of making sure Cole paid, kept his mouth shut, who knows? Anyway, the murder turned Cole into a martyr. Great way to win votes." 
I massaged my face with both hands. "But why keep bringing back a baby that was never born? Why keep doing," I waved the back of my hand at the autopsy scans of the Abbys, "that?" 
"You've seen the lovely Mrs. Cole before." Gallagher accessed another file. "Now look at her after." 
I did. My stomach bottomed out. When I could get my mouth to cooperate, I said, "You must have the wrong file." 
"No, I don't; and yes, it's identical to what happens to the Abbys after Cole gets done with one." 
"He's copying what was done to his wife." I couldn't tear my eyes away from the blood. The fact that there was no face left. At all. "But why?" 
Gallagher gathered dishes. "You're the detective, Thorne. So detect." 
I left and walked, needing to clear my head. I went east on K, and at the corner of 9th, the Capitol Dome came into view. I stared at it. 
A crime that happened over two decades ago, being replayed over and over again, only with replicas of Amanda's illegitimate child: Why? 
And then, looking at that gleaming white dome, I had my answer. Rage, jealousy, passion, yes. But power—I thought about the powerbrokers roaming those halls—power most of all. And revenge. 
"Only it doesn't work," I said out loud. My breath puffed. "He does it over and over again, but he can't let go even though he knows what's coming. And he wants Abby to live with the same horror, time after time." 
It was as good an explanation as I was likely to find in this cockamamie world where police did the best crimes and clones were throwaways. 
It was seven by the time I made it home. In the condo, I smelled something I hadn't in years: oatmeal, with apples and cinnamon. 
I watched them from the door. Abby was at the table, in one of Peggy's bathrobes, a glass of orange juice in her hand. Peggy was bent over a pot on the stove. They were laughing about something—I don't know what, because they stopped as soon as Peggy saw me. 
"Come in," she said, a little too brightly, and I could see that she wanted me to shut up for once. "I've just made breakfast." 
Abby smiled as I scraped back a chair. Peggy poured coffee, and although I'd had enough to get the caffeine shakes, I didn't have the heart to refuse. "Sleep okay?" I asked. All cheery. 
Abby nodded. "I didn't know where I was at first. Thanks. I'm sorry about last night." 
"No need to apologize," Peggy broke in. She plunked a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of Abby, along with sugar and butter. "Now eat." 
Abby tucked right in. She never looked more like a kid than at that very moment: sitting at a table, having breakfast, in a bathrobe so large the sleeves slid over her knuckles. Peggy looked the question, and I nodded. She put oatmeal in front of me and took her own place. We ate for a few minutes, with the only sounds being spoons clinking against porcelain, but it was comfortable. Like we'd been doing it awhile. 
Then I saw Abby pause. "What?" I asked. 
Abby put her spoon down. Her lips wobbled. "I … I've never had oatmeal before." 
Her eyes shimmered. "I'm a kid. But I'm not. I don't even know what it's like to be a kid. I don't know what it's like to fall and scrape my knee, what it's like on the first day of school …" 
"Abby," said Peggy. 
Tears tracked down Abby's cheeks. "Peggy, I don't even know what it's like to have breakfast at a table with a real family. All I know is Cole and that house and his bed and … and …" And then she was crying very hard and hiccupping the way kids do. 
I couldn't stand it. I pushed back from the table and went into the shower. 
Peggy came in while I was showering. "You've got to do something," she said through the glass. "Thorne, you can't let Cole …" 
"I can't hear you." I turned up the water. Steam billowed. Water drummed in the stall. "I'm not hearing you." 
Peggy said a couple of other things, then left me in peace. Well, she left. Not in peace, though. 
I ducked into the outer office when I was done. I heard doors palming open, shut, and then Peggy came to stand behind my chair. 
She put her hand on the back of my neck. "I'm sorry. That was unfair." 
I grabbed her fingers, kissed them. "Yeah. You're going to get me involved, aren't you?" 
"You're already involved, Thorne. You run the biz. The question is, what do you want to do about it?" 
"I don't know." Not true, but I needed to think it through. 
Peggy kissed me fiercely. "Well, think fast, Thorne. That kid hasn't got much time." 
She took me to bed after that. We lay together, holding hands. I talked about what I was thinking. Peggy listened. When I was done, Peggy was silent. 
Then she undressed me, slowly. And we made love, even more slowly, to seal the bargain. 

· · · · · 

Peggy turns to me as soon as I've told the vid to disconnect. "Now what?" 
I rise. "You're getting out … now." 
"But Thorne …" 
"No buts, Peg. We agreed. I'll meet you two weeks from now … No, don't even start. You change the plan, that's when things get screwed up. So far things are going okay." 
"But Gallagher …" 
"Will be over soon as he can," I say. "Now go." 
She wants to argue. But she clamps her mouth shut. In a few minutes, I hear the hiss of the back door. 
Waiting for Gallagher, I scramble to put things on autopilot: checking the duty roster, lining up detectives with girls or guys. Unless something really big happens, no one should catch on that I'm gone until curfew, at two a.m. By that time, I'd better be somewhere over the Atlantic, heading east fast. 
After an hour, Gallagher's still not here, and I start to worry. To keep busy, I pack. Reluctantly, I lay my Glock and S&W on the bedspread. No way I'll get them on a suborbital, but I feel naked without them. 
I've got the Glock in my hand, trying to decide, and I'm so preoccupied I don't hear the outer door being palmed until a second after it's happened. I walk down the hall toward the office, holding the Glock. 
"Well," I say, as I walk in, "you sure took your sweet …" 
Strong levels his pulse laser and smiles that big, toothy smile of his. "Hey, Bunko." 
"Hey," I say, my voice reedy. I clear my throat. "You're not with the others?" 
"Naw. Sent the flunkies. Want to know why?" 
"I'm sure you'll tell me." 
"Right." That smile again. Then a wag of the laser. "First put the Glock down, nice and slow." 
When I've squared the Glock on the table, he says, "Your Smith and Wesson?" 
I jerk my head toward the bedroom. "On the bed." 
"Uh-huh. Show me." 
I pull up the leg of my jeans, show him the empty holster. "So," I say, "how'd you figure it?" 
"Oh, you almost had me, Bunko. But I'll tell you. After Gallagher did that little dog and pony show about GenPlex, I had to wonder. Why would GenPlex kill off a cash cow? Yeah, maybe they hate Cole's guts. Don't we all? And maybe there's a terrorist, like Gallagher said. But you know who else has access to the same material?" 
A self-satisfied nod. "Gallagher: our beloved medical examiner and your particular buddy. He's examined every single Abby. He's run all the DNA. Except I don't think Gallagher cooked this up himself. You did that, Bunko." 
I don't bother denying it. Strong cocks his head. "That's something I always liked about you, Bunko. Took your licks standing up. Only thing I can't figure, though, is why?" 
"Not how?" 
"That's easy. I checked. You pulled yourself off chauffeur duty two weeks before, so you could ambush the skimmer at Mather Gorge …" 

· · · · · 

Gallagher had given me the jets that afternoon: one red, one black. "Give the red one first. That's the mitochondrial poison. All you need is five minutes to allow for distribution throughout the bloodstream. After that, the stuff will propagate through the body whether the heart's beating or not. Understand: Once the poison's in, there's no going back. You don't kill her, she'll die anyway. 
"And this," he held up the black jet, "is succinylcholine. It's one of the most efficient and untraceable poisons around. Nothing fancy, but it's ultra-short-acting." 
I'd taken the jets. The metal was cool. "How does it work?" 
"Neuromuscular blocking agent. Makes it impossible for muscles to work properly: heart, diaphragm, skeletal muscle. Once injected, it'll take about six minutes before fatal respiratory arrest." 
"She'll suffocate." 
"She'll be unconscious before then." Gallagher threw me a narrow look. "Look, you want to do this, this is the way. Succinylcholine hydrolyzes fast, with no unique metabolites." 
When I didn't say anything, he added, "No one said murder's pretty, Thorne." 
Four hours later, I was crouched behind a pile of boulders overlooking a bluff two klicks downstream from Cole's estate. The weather had turned crisp and cold, and the air smelled like snow. The night was moonless, the stars like shimmering sequins on black velvet. My breath steamed. I'd chosen basic black: black Lycra suit, black pullover, black ski mask. Black gloves. The bare rock was cold as an ice cube, that type of aching cold that hurts like a bad tooth. Under other circumstances, I might have activated a thermal grid, but I was worried about leaving too much infrared signature. The less chance of leaving a piece of myself behind—a piece of hair, a trace of skin—the greater the chance of my getting clean away before anyone figured it out. 
My ears pricked. I heard it: a whisper of compressed gas, that distinctive low brrrr only a skimmer makes. As it hove into view, I touched off the remote. 
A bloom of red-orange flame spurted from the skimmer's rear grill, courtesy of the explosive I'd put there that afternoon. The engine spluttered, and as the skimmer canted to starboard, I was up and running. By the time the driver stumbled out—not a detective I knew well, thank Christ—I was right there. I did him fast. I don't think he felt a thing. 
In another instant, I'd palmed open the door to the back seat. The impact had thrown Abby into the far corner, but she was conscious. 
She looked up as I shoved my head and shoulders through the open door. "What …?" she began. 
She flinched as I grabbed her wrist with my left hand. "Let's go, Abby," I said. 
"Thorne?" 
I tugged, palming the red jet in my left hand. "Come on." 
As she clambered out, I pressed the business end of the jet to her upper arm and thumbed the release. There was a tiny hiss, but that was all. Jets don't hurt. Stepping back, I shoved the empty jet into my back pocket. No going back now. 
Abby stood, shivering. "Are you taking me away?" 
"Yes, Abby." I led her toward the edge of the bluff. "This way." 
She picked her way across the rocky earth. I had hold of her wrist and didn't let go. At the bluff's edge, the air was moist from river spray. Two hundred meters below, the river roared as water boiled through the gorge. 
We stood together on the bluff. As she peered over the edge, I saw only the barest suggestion of her features etched silver by the stars. She straightened, and I felt her staring. 
"You came to kill me," Abby said. "Didn't you, Thorne?" 
I couldn't speak for a second past the lump in my throat. Then I said, "Yes, Abby." 
"I see." Pause. "Will it hurt?" 
The black jet was suddenly very heavy in my hand. "I don't think so. I don't know, Abby. I hope not." 
Her fingers touched my chest, just over my thudding heart. "I'm glad it's you," she said. "Promise me, though—I won't come back this time. You won't let that happen. Don't let him use me for that." 
"No, Abby," I said, "I won't." And then, before I could lose my nerve, my palm was against her upper arm, my right thumb depressing the jet's trigger. It was over in less than the span of a heartbeat. 
She knew. "Take off the mask, Thorne. I want to see your face." When I did, her fingers caressed my cheek. "Don't cry, Thorne." 
"Abby," I said, my chest so tight I could barely breathe. "Abby." 
"It's all right," she said. "Just … don't leave until it's over." 
I folded her into my arms. "I won't, Abby. I'll be right here." 
I don't know if she suffered. I don't think so. Dear God, forgive me, I hope not. 
And Gallagher was right: It didn't take long. 
Afterward, I carried Abby to the edge of the bluff. Then I leaned forward and let go. Her body fell into darkness. 
Up the road, a klick away, I found the skimmer I'd hidden. On the way home, I tried not to think. 
It started to snow. 

· · · · · 

Strong's lips thin. "Jesus, Bunko, you take the cake." 
"There was a reason." 
"There's always a reason." Strong sighs. "Sorry, Bunko. I'd like to let you go. But I do that, Cole has my ass. I could cover for you, probably … No, I know I could. I'm Deputy Chief of Homicide." 
That toothy grin, like polished ivory. "I could do whatever the hell I want. But, you know, I got other plans for myself. Homicide's all right, but think of how grateful Cole will be when I find his little girl's killer." 
Despite everything, I grin. "Always looking out for Number One, right, Strong?" 
"Numero Uno, Bunko." He tenses a little, and we both hear it: the sound of the office door. 
Strong shoots me a look: Not a word, or I burn you right now. So I say nothing, protecting my own sorry ass. 
There are footsteps, none of them light, and then a moment later Gallagher turns the corner. He's carrying a small pressure packet in his right hand. I see his eyes click to Strong, then to me, and back to Strong's laser. 
If Gallagher's scared, he doesn't show it. He just nods, like we're all pals. "Strong, Thorne. So, what do we do now?" 
Strong inclines his head toward the packet. "What's that?" 
"Oh." Gallagher looks down, like he's surprised at what's in his hand. "Just a little something for Thorne." 
"Uh-huh." Strong is thinking. "Okay, on the table, next to the Glock. And don't get cute. Thorne may be fast with a gun, but I'm faster." 
"I wouldn't dream of it," says Gallagher, dropping the packet on the table. Then he looks up, past Strong, and says, "Now would be a good time, Peggy." 
Strong snorts. "How dumb do you think …?" 
There's a sharp crack, like the sound of a branch breaking under a layer of ice. My ears ring. Strong jerks; his back arches. A bloom of crimson fans the left side of his chest, where the bullet's gone through. Strong pitches forward. Twitches. Lets loose a slurry of feces and pee. Dies. 
Peggy's in the door, my S&W in her hand. She doesn't say anything. Her skin is so chalky her eyes looked painted on. 
"Easy," I say, crossing to take the weapon from her nerveless fingers. I put my arm around her shoulders. "Easy, Peg." 
Gallagher's standing over Strong. "Through and through. Old-fashioned, but effective." He looks around. "It's been a while. The bullet?" 
I nod toward the far wall. A hole's visible midway up the wall. 
Pulling a penknife from his pocket, Gallagher probes with the tip, then works at digging the bullet out. "Hang onto that little lady there, Thorne. You're extremely fortunate she saw Strong and got to me before I walked into the building." 
"Don't worry." I've still got Peggy by the shoulders. She hasn't said a word. "I'm not about to let her go." 
I stare at Strong's body. I wish I felt something like grief, but all that's there is sadness. He would have turned me in, I know. I just wish I'd gotten away before he showed up. 
Gallagher slips the spent slug into his pocket. "Time for you two to get gone." 
"What about Strong?" 
"I'll take care of it. By the time Cole and his cadre get back from GenPlex, Strong will have met with a very unfortunate and untimely death at the hands of an unknown but obviously disgruntled assailant. God knows he probably has enough enemies." 
"Sure you can swing it?" 
"No." Gallagher shrugs. "But it'll be fun to try. And before I forget …" Popping open the pressure packet, he extracts a jet. "Let's have your arm." 
The jet hisses. "How long?" I ask. 
"Like I said, red blood cells turn over every one hundred twenty days. You've got four months to get where you're going, Thorne, before they're all chewed up." 
I nod. It'll be long enough. I've got the name and the place. Now all I have to do is cross an ocean or two and a couple of continents. 
I give Peggy a squeeze. "Time for you to go." 
Peggy blinks, then shakes her head. "No. This time we go together." 
"But the plan …" 
"The plan's changed," says Peggy, sounding more like her old self. "If things had gone according to plan, you'd be dead. We don't split up again … ever." 
I admit she has a point. Besides, I like the sound of it. "All right." 
I hold out my hand to Gallagher. "You'll be okay?" 
"Absolutely." Gallagher's handshake is firm. "Things are going to get interesting for a while." 
He grins. "I can't wait to see how it all turns out." 

· · · · · 

There was a big fuss. The deputy chiefs of Homicide and Vice both dead, their bodies burned almost beyond recognition: It took the D.C. fire department four hours to put out the blaze that began in the offices of the Deputy Chief of Vice. Arson was suspected. Strong was identified by his dental records. The body of the deputy chief of Vice was so scorched, Gallagher relied on DNA retrieved from a bit of follicle attached to a clump of hair that, miraculously, survived the fire. 
I have to admit, I was curious about who the poor sap was that Gallagher got to be me. Then, on second thought, I decided I didn't really want to know. Didn't see how it mattered much one way or the other so long as I was dead, and some things you're better off not knowing. 
GenPlex denied everything. But Cole didn't buy it. He ordered GenPlex shut down, pending a full investigation. 
I don't know if Cole got Abby's DNA from the GenPlex bank before he put them out of business. Chances are, he did. But without GenPlex to work their magic with memory retrieval, the next Abby will be just a clone. A blank. How much fun is it to kill a cipher? 
All right, maybe a lot of fun. I can't change everything. 
It's been four months. Tasmania, I've discovered, is an island God misplaced. The whole place is a park, the Aussies having figured that some things are better left alone. 
I stand on a strip of beach, looking out at the Tasman Sea. The water is very cold and a deep blue, like ancient Antarctic ice. Two kilometers due north, on a small hill, is my house. If I look that way, I see the glint of glass from the floor-to-ceiling windows. Peggy's there, and she'll expect me home for lunch. The weather's nice enough for us to eat on the porch. No—I correct myself—it's verandah here. 
Our house looks over Coles Bay. No irony there: It's just the way things worked out. 
I've come here, to this place near the bottom of the world, to say good-bye to Abby. Four months, Gallagher said, and now my red blood cells, the ones with Abby's DNA, are just about history. 
My blood: the perfect—the only—place to hide her. Everyone knows that blood cells don't have DNA. So no one would ever look. 
In Adelaide, we looked up the doctor Gallagher told us about. He extracted Abby's DNA from my blood. Then he put Abby's DNA into one of Peggy's oocytes and implanted it into Peggy's uterus. Oh yes, and he removed that portion of Abby's DNA that said she was a clone. 
We saw the heartbeat yesterday. The O.B., an old Taz geezer, said the fetus is doing fine. He's surprised Peggy's gotten pregnant this late in the game. Still, he says Peggy's a tough old girl. He's right. 
The sun is high, and the sand between my toes is warm. I smell salt and just the slightest hint of burning wood. They're setting fire to eucalyptus stumps in the valley near Campbell Town, to the east. High above, a bird calls. 
In a week, Gallagher arrives—for the duration, he said. He's done with D.C. 
I go home to Peggy. We eat lunch. Afterward, we hold hands and talk about the baby. 
It's good. 
The End