The Mortal Coil: Chapter 10

“I can still feel it.” Bob looked down at the stump that used to hold his hand, then back at Mr. Kane. “It’s gone, but I can still feel it.”

“A phantom limb,” Mr. Kane replied. “There’s therapy for that. You’ll get used to it.” He filled two glasses with a dark liquor as he spoke, the soft sound of the pouring liquid blending with his words in a stream of smoothness.

“I’m sorry, Robert. I had no choice. It was the only way.” He looked up at Bob, meeting his eyes and holding them for a brief second as he pushed one of the glasses across the teakwood table, then looked down and sighed.

“Old Fashioned. You like that, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question; more a statement.

Bob reached across with his good hand and lifted the glass, gently swirling its contents, watching as the red splash of the cherry liqueur began to fade into the drink. I don’t know. How could I? I haven’t been able to taste anything in years. Wondering, he took a sip, long and slow. He could feel the ice against his lips, could feel the cold of the beverage in his mouth, could feel its smoothness washing over his tongue and gliding down his throat. And then it was gone. Just like that. No taste. No aroma. No enjoyment.

Like life, he thought to himself, and set the drink down abruptly.

*   *   *

He had been sitting in this room for close to an hour now. Where it was, he did not know. He could see dark paneled walls, the thick carpet, some bookshelves, and the two dim lamps that cast a yellowish light. The twin high-backed wing chairs where he and Kane sat were apparently the focal point, set in a triangle with the low wooden table. Bob’s eyes wandered over the shadows, and came to rest once again on Mr. Kane.

The man was an enigma. Out of nowhere he had invaded Bob’s home, a home secured by layer after layer of security, and seemingly impenetrable. Not only that, but he had known what he would find. He had taken Bob, somehow removed his wrist device—and, Bob thought ruefully, his wrist as well—and had left as easily as he’d entered. It was almost too much to believe.

And that wasn’t all. He had told Bob who he was. You can call me Dad. I’m your father, Robert. The words echoed in Bob’s mind, over and over again, and Bob had instinctively latched on to them. In the last few hours, his world had been shaken. His family had been endangered. The organization he was working for was corrupted. Yet the words of the man in the other chair offered a security and a hope that Bob held on to like a lifeline. You can call me Dad.

Acceptance. That’s what Mr. Kane was giving him. To the team he worked with, he was something of a freak, a living contradiction that was better ignored than examined, a man who showed up, time after time, to investigate his own murder. To his wife, Brooke, whom he loved with an unreasoning tenacity, he was an imposter, a clone of the man she had married and loved. To his son Benjamin, he was almost as much of a mystery as his own father had been to him. From all of them, he had wanted to be accepted, to be respected as a man in his own right, as someone every bit as human as they were. And now, the man who had been forever absent in his life—who had, in a very real way, started his life—was sitting here with him, drinking Old Fashioned, and accepting him as a son.

“Robert.”

The voice shook him out of his reverie. Bob looked over at Mr. Kane. Even in the dim light, he thought the older man’s face looked concerned.

“Robert. They care nothing for you. You’re a commodity to them. This very moment, the people you have been working for are equipping a blank to take your place.” Kane leaned forward, his eyes on Bob’s. “Robert. Your wife and son. This isn’t fair to them.”

“Darn right it isn’t,” Bob thought aloud, then caught himself. How could I have let Brooke go through this? How could I have expected her to endure this, to have her husband murdered every morning, and still show up for dinner every night? It’s insane!

“I wish I had never accepted the offer,” he told Kane. “I wish I could have just lived a normal life, and died a normal death, and left it at that. Why didn’t I?”

Kane leaned back into his chair and took a sip. Looking into his glass, he allowed himself a slight smile.

“Robert, we have to shut it down. We have to stop them from doing this to people.” He set the glass down again, and leaned forward once more. “Rob, we must destroy the project!”

Something in the back of Bob’s brain nudged him. “Yes,” he answered. “Yes, they must be stopped.” He thought of a world full of Brookes, married to eternal men who resurrected in endless succession, a world without finality, where even death did not provide closure. “Yes, this has got to end.” He looked at Kane, his face flushing as the excitement of the idea hit home. Still, something deep down in his mind rebelled, a loyalty toward the organization that had taken away death from him. “Yes...” he repeated. The organization that had given him life. He stared at Kane. The organization that had created him over again.

“No!” Bob stood up violently, his face twisted and grimacing, alcohol and stress and pent-up emotions pulling on his features like a marionette’s strings. “No! I will not do it!”

Then the pain in his arm joined with the rush of blood to his head, Mr. Kane’s face faded into the dimness of the room, and the lamps winked and went out.