Scott couldn't stop thinking about what Edward had said. A few days had passed, and Edward's condition had started to rapidly deteriorate, and Scott thought about the Webley in the desk. You have to shoot me in the head, lad, something with Edward's voice said. I keep the Webley in my desk, here in the room. Eddy had barely spoken since then, and he slept most of the time, so peacefully now that Scott had mistakenly thought he'd passed on, on several occasions.
Scott knew it wouldn't be long now, that Eddy would die soon, and thinking about it, it made him feel nauseous and sad. He wondered if Spencer had really done this to Eddy, if he'd planned to kill him all along. Pehaps Spencer had just been biding his time, until an opportunity had presented itself. Scott had asked the eggheads about the progenitor, but they'd stayed awfully tight-lipped about it, and he'd observed a certain guiltiness, an I-know-I-did-wrongness, on their faces.
His eyes drifted to the desk, where Edward kept the Webley. And internally, Scott cursed himself for even entertaining the thought.
"Scott," came Eddy's voice, soft and so unlike himself, as if crackling over an analog wave. The swelling on his arms and legs had worsened, blisters periodically erupting and sloughing off the pieces of necrotic skin. "Get the pistol." His eyes were foggy with cataracts now, and Scott wondered if it was better that way, that if he shot Eddy, Eddy would never have to see it coming. "Please," he rasped, his cold, dead hands finding Scott's warm, living ones. "Get the bloody pistol, and put me out of my misery. Before I turn."
"Eddy—"
"You know I'm not going to make it, Scott," said Eddy, and he was right. "Please."
Scott slid off the bed and walked over to the desk. His palms were sweating, his hands shaking. He couldn't believe he was doing this, that he was reaching for the Webley in the top drawer. He stared at the cheap little service pistol in his hand, and found it was loaded. Eddy had been anticipating this, since that day.
"I tried—" Eddy gasped, his chest heaving, and then he settled back on the mattress, practically inert. "I tried to compile what I could to sink Oswell," he continued, in a threadbare voice. "It's in—it's in the pages of the Epicurus book, in my office."
"Epicurus? You always did have a sense of humor, Eddy," said Scott, wanting to cry, hot tears edging his vision.
"'Death does not concern us, because as long as we exist'," quoted Eddy, in that dying voice, "'death is not here. And when it does come, we no longer exist.'"
"You're taking this all in stride, as expected," said Scott, turning to the bed, his fingers around the grip of the Webley, his hand still shaking.
"What difference is there between the time of non-existence before our births," said Eddy, his head lolling on the sweat-soaked pillow, "and the time of non-existence after our deaths? Why concern ourselves with it."
Scott came to the bed and pointed the gun at Eddy's head, right between the eyes, remembering Vietnam, and how he'd shot other men in similar fashion. But he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger. The gun shook in his hand.
"Scott," said Eddy, his milky eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. "Before you kill me, I've one of two requests."
"Anything, Eddy."
"My first request: could you put the record on, over there on the record-player?" Eddy smiled. "I love that song."
Scott nodded, although Eddy couldn't see him anymore, and he went to the record-player. He put the needle on the record and turned the player on. Bill Kenny's voice came crackling out, crooning I'm Lucky I Have You. "Do you really need to make this hard?" asked Scott, listening to the song. "Couldn't just... die in silence, could you?" Scott managed a smile, somehow, and he laughed, though it came out as an awkward chuckle.
"I'm always overdramatic. You know that, Scott," rasped Eddy. "My second request is quite simple. Get the journal from my office, in the Epicurus book, and retrieve my memoir from the Spencer estate—before Oswell has a chance to destroy it."
"I'll do what I can," said Scott, because he couldn't promise something like that. And there was something markedly rotten, he decided, about lying to a dying man. "That's all I can promise, Eddy."
Eddy didn't answer this time.
Scott approached the bed, and Eddy was lying there, perfectly inert, like some kind of wax doll. He checked for a pulse and found Eddy didn't have one; his skin was cold and dead to the touch. Although Scott knew, with bitter certainty, that Eddy's ghost had flown, he felt a certain obligation to be absolutely sure of that, and he held a small hand-mirror to Eddy's mouth, seeing no fog. Dead. Part of him was happy he hadn't needed to shoot Eddy; the other part was upset, upset because Eddy was dead now, and he'd suffered in those last moments.
Scott wiped the tears from his eyes and pulled the comforter over Eddy's head, because it just seemed like the proper, respectful thing to do, gave him some kind of dignity. He'd need to tell Alexander that his father had passed on, and then he'd need to make the funeral arrangements, which would be a headache and a half, Scott was sure, because the other Ashfords—Stanley, and the rest of them—would be circling like vultures now, waiting to swoop in and assume the position of family head. Though their efforts would be in vain, because Eddy had already named Alexander as the successor; still, it wouldn't stop them from trying, and possibly litigating the matter.
Scott turned toward the door, but heard something move behind him, a rustling noise. Scott looked over his shoulder, saw Eddy sitting upright in the bed, still covered by the blanket. "Eddy?" he said, boggling.
An inhuman moaning came from under the blanket, and the comforter slid down, revealed Eddy's dead gray face, his eyes like milky pearls. Pieces of his skin sloughed away from his face and left irregular wet ulcers there, the skin around them tinged black from necrosis. "Eddy?" said Scott again, shuffling backward, his hand tightening around the grip of the Webley. He could barely hear himself now, over the blood throbbing in his ears.
Eddy staggered out of the bed, dragging his right foot behind him. Scott heard a loud snap, and the foot he'd been dragging was bent awkwardly now, like a club foot. Eddy didn't even notice, kept shuffling toward him, his arms outstretched, his fingers groping stupidly at the air. Eddy moaned again, his mouth hanging open, saliva dripping in thin ropes from his lips.
Scott pointed the gun at Eddy and told him not to come closer, or he'd shoot. Eddy didn't listen. Reflexively, Scott shot him in the shin, hoping to slow him down. Eddy crumpled, dragging himself on the ground now, trailing blood on the floorboards. He grabbed Scott's ankle and tried to bite him, and it was then that Scott understood it wasn't Eddy anymore—it was something else.
Without thinking, Scott shot Eddy in the head, part of his skull dissolving into a spray of blood. Eddy let out an unsettling death gurgle, and then he stopped moving altogether, twitching on the floorboards in a series of violent post-mortem spasms.
"God, forgive me," he said, looking skyward. "Eddy, please. Forgive me." Some of Eddy's blood had stained the lapels of his blazer, and part of his jaw, and Scott felt nauseous and tired now, wanting nothing more than to vomit, and then to sleep.
The door creaked open. Alexander stood there, observing the grisly scene with perfect neutrality. "You killed my father," he said conversationally, regarding Eddy's corpse with a clinical detachment that made Scott's skin crawl. "After all he did for you, Scott." He tuttedd and shook his head. Alexander looked at him, hands in the pockets of his pants. He wore a dark suit, and a blood-red paisley silk tie with a pin worked in the shape of the Ashford emblem. The designs on the tie reminded Scott of blood cells under a microscope. "You do realize I'll have to report this," he said, smiling emptily.
"I didn't murder him," said Scott, tossing the Webley aside. It clattered away, into the dark of the room. "He attacked me. He was going to bite me. He was already dead, Alexander."
"Of course," said Alexander, ignoring him, "we could strike a deal."
"A deal?"
"My silence for your utter submission," said Alexander, his smile carrying a certain sharpness that made Scott think of a knife. "Your son, or your daughter, when they are born, will also submit to my family. I want to keep you firmly under my control, so you can never talk about what you've seen here." His tone took on a cold, smooth edge then, and Alexander said, "You'll take a massive pay-cut as well—that money could be put toward more useful things, you see, such as my research—and you will do everything I tell you to do, including—" Alexander put his hand on Scott's shoulder and squeezed—"telling me what interesting things father undoubtedly told you."
"He didn't tell me anything," lied Scott. "You're asking me to become your slave, Alexander."
"The Ashfords are among the world's first and finest," said Alexander, still smiling. "You should consider yourself lucky, to be able to devote your life to us, Scott."
"You are a fucking monster, Alexander," said Scott.
Alexander ignored him again, and said, "You will also, among other things, turn a blind eye to everything you see within this company. Should you tell anyone, well, it would be unfortunate if something happened to Alice and your child, wouldn't it?"
"You son of a bitch," said Scott, through his teeth. "You can do whatever you want to me. But Alice and the baby? They have nothing to do with this, Alexander. Keep them out of this."
"They might not have anything to do with this," said Alexander, "but they certainly make good leverage. Now. What things did father tell you?"
"Nothing. He told me nothing."
Alexander suddenly punched him, hard, in the nose, and Scott stumbled back, right onto Edward's corpse. His nose bled profusely, trickling over his upper-lip and dripping onto the floorboards. "I'll give you the night to think about it," said Alexander smoothly. "But tomorrow? We're going to have a nice, long chat."
Fifteen years later, standing now at Alice's grave in New Jersey, thirteen-year-old Alexia at his side, Scott never did tell anyone what Edward had told him back then. Shortly after Edward's passing, Alice had passed too, and to some degree, Scott suspected Alexander had killed her, not birth complications. So when he'd overheard Alexia and her twin brother Alfred discussing how they'd killed Alexander, Scott hadn't cared, and some part of him had actually been relieved that Alexander had been murdered. He knew that wasn't the Christian thing to think, of course, and often, he begged God to forgive him for those terrible thoughts; but Alexander had been evil, had deserved what had happened to him.
He placed the flowers on Alice's grave—white lilies and forget-me-nots, her favorites—and said a silent prayer. Alexia hadn't spoken the whole time. She'd been staring at the engraving on the marble headstone:
IN LOVING MEMORY OF ALICE HARMAN 1935-1969
LOVING WIFE AND MOTHER
"I didn't think, to be honest, I would feel much of anything when you'd said we were visiting your wife's grave," said Alexia suddenly, still staring at the headstone, rain pattering gently around them.
He'd never told Alexia much about Alice, but now, Scott wanted to. He shifted the umbrella a little, so Alexia wouldn't get wet. "It's understandable. You didn't know her, kiddo," he said, kneeling on the space of grass in front of the stone, still holding the umbrella high over Alexia's head, because he didn't want his little girl to get sick. "Wish I could have bought her a better stone. It's better than the cheap one she'd had before, at least."
"Alfred and I could only funnel so much, else father became wise to it." Alexia wore a conservative black cardigan, and a dress with faded blue floral print. Her family jewel, a ruby, was fixed to her collar. "He was already starting to get suspicious," she added.
"I don't mean to sound ungrateful, kiddo," said Scott, and he meant it. He stood, then leaned down and kissed the top of Alexia's head. In 1968, Scott had sworn he could never love children like Alexia and Alfred, whose births had seemed somehow less legitimate to him then because they'd been clones. But since their births, since the day Scott had held Alexia and Alfred as tiny crying infants in the Antarctica infirmary, he'd loved them like his own.
Alexia extended her hand, and Scott held it, smiling. He always found it funny, how small Alexia was compared to him, like she was a doll. She was tall for her age, around 5'6 or so when he'd last checked, but she still seemed so tiny and frail, like if he jostled her too hard, she'd shatter like brittle porcelain. "How come Grayson didn't come?" asked Alexia, looking up at him.
"He gets weird around his mom's grave," he said, feeling wet wind lick his cheek. "I don't know. I think, on some level, Grayson blames himself. The official story is Alice died from an infection, birth complications."
Alexia nodded. "I understand, even if I think it's silly he blames himself." She paused. "How come you didn't bring Alfred?" She looked up at him, her eyes the same pale blue color that Alice's had been, although they were not Alice's eyes.
"Some things I wanted to tell you. Only you," said Scott.
Alexia watched him expectantly.
"Alice, you know she'd almost been your mother?"
Alexia stared at him. "Grayson and I, you mean to say," she said, making a face, "could have been half-siblings?"
"It never happened. Relax," he assured her, ruffling her pale hair. Her hair, and Alfred's hair, was something else, Scott decided, a blond that hadn't existed since Jean Harlow; and it killed him, because it was their natural color. It seemed synthetic, like a color that should have only existed as a dye. "If you were his half-sister," he said, "I would have never let you two get as close as you have, Alexia. I would've nipped that in the bud, day one."
"Thank God," she said. Then, "Did you ever meet my mother?" Alexia looked searchingly at him. "I can scarcely remember if I'd asked you this before, Scott," she added, apologetically.
Scott shook his head. "No. When they delivered you and Alfred, the mother had been taken to a recovery room, and you both were left in the nursery," he explained, remembering Alfred and Alexia in their glass cradles, tiny pink things wriggling restlessly under their blankets. "She was never meant to be part of your life, I suppose. Just a means of bringing you into the world." Scott smiled apologetically, and said, "Sorry if that's not the answer you'd wanted to hear, kiddo."
"It's the answer I expected, I suppose," said Alexia, shrugging. "I suppose father wasn't there either. In the nursery, I mean."
Scott shook his head, frowning. "No, I'm sorry."
"It's fine," said Alexia, without looking at him. "You were there."
"I was the first person to hold you both," he said proudly. "You both were the cutest babies. Peach-fuzz for hair, and these big blue eyes." Scott grinned, playfully elbowing her. "You liked to spit up on me, as a baby. It's like you'd wait until I'd, specifically, pick you up—and then you'd just let it all out, all over my shirt."
Alexia giggled. "What about Alfred? Or Grayson?"
"Grayson had a horrible habit of peeing on me all the time," said Scott, laughing. His first introduction to Grayson, in fact, a few weeks before Alice's death, had been in an Atlantic City hospital, when Grayson had peed on one of his best shirts. "Alfred? He was actually a pretty clean, well-behaved baby. He cried a lot, but that's about it."
"Why am I not surprised by either of those things," said Alexia, smiling.
Scott was suddenly reminded of something, then, that he'd read in Edward's journal, the one he'd hidden in the Epicurus book. "You did have a grandfather that loved you, however," said Scott, smiling warmly at her. "Edward wanted me to tell you that. That you'd had a grandfather that loved you."
