Redemption Road

The first couple months after I killed Kevin Whatcomb I saw him everywhere. It was the first time I pulled my weapon in the line of duty, and the first time I ever killed someone. I made sure it was the last. I quit the force right after. Still, for a couple months I saw him everywhere. At the grocery store, in line at the theater, riding the bus, driving the car next to mine.... He wasn’t really there, of course, my mind just kept inserting the object of my guilt on everyone I saw.

Since then I’ve worked road construction. The hot, hard work combined with a couple years of therapy pushed Kevin out of my waking consciousness, and reduced his appearances to the odd nightmare. Until that day. He was standing with a bemused smile in the middle of the road I had just closed.

We were getting ready to rip out a section of the main road into the Redemption Acres development to put in new sewage and water lines. As the lead laborer I was one of the first on the site, setting up the detour signs, placing the cones, and making sure the equipment had room to maneuver.

I had just placed the last sign when I saw him. My first thought was that it wasn’t real. I looked away, counted backwards from 100 by sevens, then looked back. He was still there. He hadn’t changed into someone else or disappeared completely. My heart began to skip and thud, and I felt the waves of a panic attack trying to build.

I closed my eyes, crouched down, and forced myself to breathe slow and deep. Maybe I’d gone off the anxiety meds too soon. Didn’t seem likely, as I’d been doing fine for over a year without them.

“I’m terribly sorry,” he said, “but I’m looking for Alan Tate.”

The voice was not Kevin. He had a British accent and a far calmer disposition.

I could hear Kevin yelling in his drug-fueled delirium, “I’ll gut this little bitch!” I clapped my hands over my ears hearing it all again, seeing him standing with a knife to seven-year-old Maisy’s throat. “I’ll gut this little bitch afore you c’n pull that damn tri…” BANG! The dull clatter of the knife on the wood floor, then Maisy’s scream. She was cut, where he had held the knife tight against her neck.

“Are you unwell?” the man asked. “Should I ring for an ambulance?”

“I’ll be okay,” I answered. I wiped my tears with shaking hands then slowly stood. As my vision cleared I saw him, right there. It was him, but it wasn’t. “Sorry. You just… reminded me of someone. I’m Alan.”

“I presume then, that I remind you Mr. Whatcomb.” His smile fell and he looked at me with a mix of sympathy and shame. “I’m Charles Dumont, although I’ve found out recently that I’m also a fair number of other people as well.”

“What does that mean?”

“I ran my DNA for grins, and found that I am wanted in South Africa, a person of interest in Slovakia, an officer in the Russian Army, a dead criminal in the states, and at least four other people on ancestry sites.” Charles sighed. “Identical DNA match to all of them.”

“I know you’re not Kevin,” I said. “I tried to help him, lots of times, but….” There really wasn’t much to say. “I, uh, killed Kevin,” I said. “And then I was the only one to show up at his funeral. I wish it could have gone differently. I wish I’d talked him down.”

“The way I heard it,” Charles said, “you saved a young girl’s life. But why would you attend his funeral?”

“I knew him from patrols,” I said. “When he wasn’t using he was a sweet guy, if not the brightest bulb on the porch. I was trying to talk him into going to rehab, and I thought he might be ready. That last meth bender, though, he lost it. He was neck-deep in conspiracy theories about mind control and all sorts of weirdness.” When I finally looked at Charles again I saw he was writing in a pocket notebook.

“Did Mr. Whatcomb say anything about orders? That he was getting orders from somewhere?”

“Like what?” I asked. “The devil made me do it?”

“No, more like,” Charles pursed his lips for a moment, “strange orders coming from shadowy figures or in dreams?”

“Never heard anything like that,” I said. “Although, if he had I would’ve chalked it up to the meth. It can really mess with your head.”

“I thank you for your time, and I apologize. It appears I’ve caused you distress and learned nothing at all about Mr. Whatcomb.” Charles turned to go.

“Wait,” I said. “If you want to know more about Kevin, I might know someone who can help.”

“Splendid! When and where should I call on you?”

“Do you have a business card?” I didn’t want to give out someone else’s contact info without their okay. “I’ll check with them, and if they feel like they can help I’ll pass their info on to you.”

He produced a plain, off-white business card with his name and business contact information number and scribbled a US number on the back. “That’s my cell number while I’m traveling in the states.”

“I’ll let you know, either way.” I stuffed the card in my back pocket and went to my truck to steady my nerves and start the day.

#

As the last dump truck load of broken asphalt left the job site I headed back to my truck. I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check my messages and saw the card stuck to it. Okay, this is weird, but I said I’d ask. I flipped through my contacts, found the one I wanted and sent a text. “Pp @ 7?”

The affirmative reply was almost instantaneous. I hopped in my truck and headed home. After a quick shower I drove to the Pizza Palace and walked in. There were few customers on a weekday evening so I had my choice of tables. I picked our usual and sat down. When I saw her walk in I waved her over.

“Hi, Alan!”

“Hey, Maisy!”

“Good to see you! Are you coming to my graduation next week?”

“Of course I am. What do you think?”

“I think we haven’t been here in three months. Maybe you’ve got a new girlfriend keeping you busy or something?”

“No, nothing like that. I’ve been working mostly down state.”

“I know, you told me last week. So what’s up?”

Before I could answer Maisy turned and waved at one of the wait staff. “Annie! We’ll have our usual, please!”

I could just make out the faint trace of a scar on her neck. I hadn’t noticed it for a few years now, but today it caught my eye.

“Regular bread sticks, or spicy, hun?” Annie yelled her question across the near-empty eatery.

“Spicy! I like my food to have a kick!” Maisy laughed and turned her attention back to me.

“I met someone today,” I showed her the card, “a Charles Dumont, from a London law firm. He’s trying to find out more about…”

“About dad?”

“Yeah.”

“What is it this time? Was he in trouble there too?”

“No, uh…,” I wasn’t sure how to say it. “He… uh, looks, exactly like your dad.”

“Can’t be that close.”

“No, he claims that he’s a 100 percent DNA match for your dad.”

“Like an identical twin?”

“Maybe? He says he also matched up with seven or eight other people as well.”

“Maybe it makes sense.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“I know dad was adopted. And he had this story he used to tell mom before I was born; that he was a clone soldier, waiting for orders to beam into his brain. Of course he was always drunk when he told her.”

“Really? I never heard that.”

“I just found out about it last year. I think mom just wanted me to understand how unstable he was to start with.”

Our breadsticks and drinks arrived and we talked about normal things for a while. School, college applications, how to swing student loans. Things that a dad would talk to their kid about. I had taken her dad away from her, and in return she’d made me a surrogate.

I asked her more about the clone soldiers and she told me everything she could remember about it. In return I told her what Charles had told me. We both laughed when Maisy suggested that maybe they were identical twins, separated at birth, with the exact same kind of crazy.

After I had the left-overs boxed for Maisy to take home I told her. “I had another breakdown when I saw him… Charles I mean.”

“Are you still off your meds?”

“Yeah.”

“Wishing you weren’t?”

“Sort of. But I managed to pull it together eventually.”

“All right, Mr. Alan. I’ll make you a deal. Give me the doppelgänger’s number and I’ll call him, if…”

“If what?”

“If you promise you’ll call your doctor tomorrow and tell her what happened. I worry about you.”

“You shouldn’t have to, you’re seventeen, it’s not your job.”

“Alan…”

“Okay, okay, I promise.”

She took the card and moved around to sit next to me in the booth. “Stop it,” she said.

“Stop what?”

“We talked about my dad, and you’re feeling guilty all over again.”

“How can I not? I took your father away from you.” I couldn’t have stopped the tears if I had wanted to.

“Look, I loved my dad, and he loved me, I know he did. The drugs didn’t.” She lifted my arm and put it around her shoulder and snuggled in close. “You saved my life from the drugs, and I know you tried to save my dad too. The drugs took him away from me, not you. And besides, you’ve always been there for me.”

“So now it’s your turn to be there for me?”

“Maybe.” She squeezed me once. “I’ll meet up with this Charles. If his DNA claim is legit, though, we may need to do some investigating.”

“Wait,” I said, “why would you…? You haven’t even met the guy and you want to check out a crazy clone army story?”

“Like I said, if his DNA is identical to dad’s. Then there’s at least something to check. Find their birth parents or something.”

#

The next six weeks flew by. Maisy graduated, and I bought her a cake, and then another a week later for her 18th birthday. I was back on low dose anti-anxiety meds on my doctor's urging. And the four-week job we had started was finally done, two weeks late.

I finished putting up the new street signs on the completed road. I was about to leave but my phone rang. I answered, expecting a call for another job, but it was Maisy.

“Alan! It’s Maisy! Sorry I haven’t called you before now, but I was waiting on DNA results and had to go to a couple college visits and…”

“Hey, hey, hey. Slow down.” I kept my voice purposely calm and smooth, knowing how she gets when she’s excited.

“Oh my god! It’s true!”

“What’s true? Clone armies?”

“Well, maybe not that, but Charles has identical DNA to dad! He’s my uncle! I’ve never had one of those before.”

“Okay. So are we thinking identical twins?”

“Not likely. We sent samples to South Africa and Slovakia and Russia and… a bunch of other places. South Africa sent an extradition request.”

“Wait, how are you doing all this?”

“Uncle Charles has loads of contacts. He got samples from dad’s case and sent them out to… eight? different countries. We’ve gotten six matches.”

“That’s… really strange.”

“It is. Uncle Charles wants to know if you’d like to work for him. As an investigator. See if we can figure this all out.”

“He what?”

“When are you done with work?”

“Just finished.”

“Meet us at Pizza Parlor in 30?”

“Make it 60. I need to wash up first.”

“Okay, we’ll see you there.”

“Wait,” I said. “If Charles is your uncle, what does that make me?”

“I just tell everyone you’re my other dad,” she said. “That’s how I see it, anyway.”

“I’ll take it. It may be more than I deserve, but I’ll take it anyway.”

I looked up at the sign I had just placed, “Redemption Rd,” and hoped it was a portent of things to come.