Troy turns. "Is that right, Mr. Cross?"

  He starts to nod, then notices one of the girls approaching them. The hesitation in her walk and the other girls' giggles implies this is a dare. Instead of speaking, Houston holds his breath, and all the boys grow silent, too. She's a tall, willowy creature with full breasts and a model's face. And in a voice that comes wrapped in a nervous, electric energy, she says, "Hi, you guys."

  Then she turns, and sprints back to her friends.

  "What the fuck was that?" Mike growls. "What the fuck?"

  But Houston laughs out loud, saying, "That." Saying, "Is a woman enamored." Saying, "I know the look. And you just better get used to it, boys."

  * * *

  "At least I can see him now," she says. "Can you?"

  "Barely," says the short man.

  "I've never gotten a writer's autograph. Have you?"

  "I'm not much of a reader."

  "Neither am I," she confesses. Then she turns to Houston, asking him, "Have you ever read anything better than this?"

  He glances at the woman. Then he looks up the long line, saying, "Yes."

  She doesn't seem to notice. Holding her copy of The Cuckoo's Boys in both hands, she tells everyone in earshot, "It had to be said. What Dr. Kaan says here."

  Houston manages to keep silent.

  This is a Saturday afternoon. He drove two hundred miles to stand here. The author sits in the center of a long table, flanked by thousands of copies of his phenomenal bestseller. "The New Edition," reads the overhead banner. "New Chapters! Fresh, Innovative Proposals!!"

  The short man asks, "Do you know what's in the new chapters?"

  "I'm dying to find out," she confesses.

  Houston waits. Then after a while, he says, "Tailored viruses."

  "Excuse me?" says the woman.

  "Kaan thinks we should create a virus that would target Phillip Stevens' genetics. It would destroy the clones' somatic cells. In other words, their sperm."

  She says, "Good."

  The line slips forward.

  Houston finds himself breathing harder, fighting the urge to speak. A pretty young woman says, "Please, open your book. One copy, only. To the page you want signed. And please, don't ask for any personalized inscriptions."

  The author wears a three-piece suit. He looks fit and hardy, and smug.

  Houston avoids looking at the man's eyes.

  The line moves.

  With both hands, the woman in front of Houston opens her book.

  The short man bends and mutters something to the author, getting nothing but a signature for his trouble.

  The woman takes his place, gushing, "I'm so glad to meet you. Sir!"

  Kaan smiles and signs his name, then looks past her.

  Houston's legs are like concrete. Suddenly, he is aware of his pounding heart and a mouth suddenly gone dry. But he steps forward, and quietly says, "You know, I have a PS son," as he hands his opened book forward. "And I took your good advice."

  The author's face rises, eyes huge and round.

  "I cut off his nuts. Want to see 'em?" Houston asks, reaching into a pocket.

  "Help!" the author squeals.

  A pair of burly men appear, grabbing Houston and dragging him outside with the rough efficiency of professionals. Then after a quick body search, they place him in his car, and one man suggests. "You should go home, sir. Now."

  "All right," Houston agrees.

  They leave him, but then linger at the bookstore's front door.

  Houston twists the rearview mirror, looking at his own face. Tanned and narrow, and in the brown eyes, tired. He thinks hard about everything until nothing else can be accomplished. Which takes about 30 seconds. And that's when he starts the engine and pulls out into traffic, feeling very light and free, and in the strangest ways, happy.

  * * *

  11. You get an end-of-the-school-year field trip out of me.

  I always always take away students down to our little community's renowned natural history museum. Most have already been there. According to one boy, maybe five hundred times already. But never with me. Never benefitting from my particular slant on mammoths and trilobites and the rest of those failures that they've got on display down there.

  Don't bring lunch money. We'll be eating at Wendy's or the Subway Barn, and I'm the one buying.

  Don't bring your workpads or notebooks. You won't need them.

  But if you would, please ... remember to wear good shoes. Shoes you can walk in. And if it's at all cold outside, please, for god's sake, wear a damned coat! ...

  * * *

  "It's been refused," says Ms. Lindstrum.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Your proposed field trip. I know the boys were looking forward to it. But what with the latest tragedy, people want to be cautious."

  Which tragedy? Houston wonders. In Memphis, five PS's were found dead in a basement, each body savagely mutilated. In Nairobi, a mob killed three more. Or was it the UN's failure to condemn Singapore's new concentration camp that's masquerading as a special school.

  "I'm sorry," she offers.

  Over the school year, her office has shrunk. Paper files and stacks of forms have gathered, choking the available space into a stale few breaths and two uncomfortable people.

  Again, she says, "I am sorry."

  "It's all right." His eyes find hers. What worries him most is the way that she blinks now. Blinks and looks past him. "Is it because of that fight? Because John and Mike did fine during the eclipse, and since," he says. Then he tells her, "There won't be any incidents. I can absolutely guarantee it."

  She sighs, then says, "No PS-only field trips are being authorized."

  "So let me take along one or two of my old students. To beat that rule."

  "No," she replies. Too urgently and with a wince cutting into the half-pretty face. Or maybe he's just being paranoid.

  Houston offers a shrug of the shoulders. "Are you sure there's nothing we can do?"

  "I'm certain," Ms. Lindstrum tells him. "But the four of you could throw a little party for those three periods. Safe in your classroom. In fact, I'll arrange for food and pop to be brought from the cafeteria."

  "I guess that would work," Houston tells her. Then he puts on his best smile, saying, "Why don't we? A little celebratory party. Fine."

  * * *

  Maybe it is simple paranoia.

  But a back-of-the-neck feeling has Houston peering over his shoulder. Every public place seems crowded with suspicious strangers, and his little apartment seems full of dark, secretive corners. He finds himself peeking through curtains, watching the empty parking lot below. Three times he runs diagnostic programs on his phone, searching for taps that refuse to be found. And when he finally manages to convince himself that nothing is wrong, except in his imagination, his old widescreen abruptly stops finding news about the PS's. Instead, it delivers highlights from a teaching conference in Nova Scotia. Which is a signal.

  Prearranged, yet surprising.

  Long ago, Houston taught the AI that if its security was breached, dump all of the old files and start chasing down a different flavor of news.

  He doesn't fix the protocols now.

  Instead, he pretends to watch the conferences that are being piped to him, and he runs new diagnostics on the apartment and every appliance.

  That night before the school party, someone knocks.

  His lover wears nice clothes and a smile, and she says, "Hello," too quickly. She says, "I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time."

  She has always, always called before visiting. But not tonight.

  Houston says, "No, it's a fine time. Come on in."

  She says, "For a little bit. I'm expected back home."

  He hasn't seen her for a month. But he doesn't mention it. He sits opposite her and says absolutely nothing, trying to read the pretty face and nervous body, and when she can't tolerate any more silence, she blurts, "Are you all right, Houston?"

  "Perfect," he says.

  She swallows, as if in pain.

  "How about you?" he inquires.

  "They know about us." She says it, then gathers herself before admitting, "They came to me. And asked about you."

  "Who asked?"

  She crosses her arms, then says, "They threatened to tell my husband."

  Houston calls the woman's name, then asks, "Was it that bald security man? From district headquarters?"

  "One of them was."

  "Who else was there?"

  She shakes her head. "He didn't give me a name."

  "It's nothing," says Houston. And to an astonishing degree, he believes it. "I've had some trouble with one of the parents. I'm certain that she's filed a formal complaint. That's the culprit here."

  His lover nods hopefully, staring at the floor.

  He tells her, "Everyone's scared that something bad is going to happen here."

  "I am," she allows.

  "What did they ask?"

  "About you," she mutters.

  "What did you say?"

  "That I know almost nothing about Houston Cross." Eyes lift, fixing squarely on him. "Which is true. All of a sudden, hearing myself say the words, I realized that you're practically a stranger to me."

  He says nothing.

  At this very late date, what can he say? ...

  * * *

  Mentors are required to check in at the front office. Houston arrives a few minutes earlier than normal signing his name at the bottom of a long page and glancing sideways into Ms. Lindstrum's office, catching a glimpse of her grim face as her door swings shut, closed by someone whom he cannot see.

  The school's uniformed guard sits nearby, pretending to ignore him.

  Which is absolutely ordinary, Houston reminds himself.

  The bell rings. Children pour into the hallway, a brink-of-summer fever infecting all of them. Houston beats the boys to the classroom, then waits in front of the door. For an instant, he fears that they're home sick, or Lindstrum has bottled them up. But no, John walks up grinning, Troy at his side. Then Mike is fighting through the bodies making for his locker ... and Houston tells the others, "Stay with me," and he intercepts Mike, putting a hand on the bony shoulder, saying to all of them, "Change of plans."

  This spring, the school installed a security camera at one end of the hallway.

  In the opposite direction, the hallway ends with lockers and a fire door. With the boys following after him, Houston hits the bar, causing the alarm to sound— a grating roar that causes a thousand giddy youngsters to run in circles and laugh wildly.

  "Hey!" says Mike. "You did that!"

  "No," says Houston. "It's a planned fire drill. Trust me."

  Then John asks, "Where are we going? On our field trip?"

  "Exactly."

  "I don't have any permission slip," Troy complains.

  Houston turns and says, "I took care of all that. Hurry. Please."

  They climb down a short set of metal stairs, then cut across the school yard. Behind them, mayhem rules. Screaming bodies burst from every door, harried teachers trying to regain some semblance of control. In the distance, sirens sound. As they reach the street, a pair of fire trucks rush past, charging toward the nonexistent blaze. Various cars are parked along the curb. Trying to smile, Houston says, "Guess which one's mine."

  John says, "That one," and points at a gaudy red sports car.

  Houston has to ask, "Why?"

  "It's a neat car," says the boy. "And you're a neat guy!"

  Now he laughs. Despite everything, he suddenly feels giddy as the kids, and nearly happy. With keys in hand, he says, "Sorry. It's the next one."

  A little thing. Drab, and brown. Utterly nondescript.

  But as the boys climb inside, Mike notices, "It smells new in here."

  "It's a rental," Houston admits. His old heap is parked out in front of the school, as usual. He stashed this one last night. "I thought we needed something special today."

  "Are we still going to the museum?" Troy asks.

  He and John share the backseat.

  Houston says, "No, actually. I came up with a different destination."

  Mike watches him. Suspicious now.

  The boys in back punch each other, and giggle, and John says, "Maybe we could eat first. Mr. Cross?"

  "Not yet," Houston tells them.

  He drives carefully. Not too fast, or slow. Up to the main arterial, then he heads straight out of town, knowing that Mike will be the first to notice.

  "Where?" asks the boy. Not angrily, but ready to be angry, if necessary.

  "There's a few acres of native prairie. Not big, but interesting." Houston looks into every mirror, watching the cars behind them.

  After a minute, Mike says, "I don't know about this."

  "That's right," says Houston. "Be suspicious. Of everything."

  The smallest boy shrugs his shoulders and looks straight ahead now.

  Houston glances over his shoulder, telling John, "There's a package under you. In brown paper. Can you get that out for me, please?"

  "This it?"

  "Yeah. Can you open it up, please?"

  The boy never hesitates. He tears away the paper, finding a pair of what look like hypodermic needles wrapped in sterile plastic. "What are these for, Mr. Cross?"

  "Tear one of them open. Would you?"

  "Just one?"

  "Please."

  It takes a few moments. The plastic is tough and designed not to be split by accident. While John works, Houston turns to Mike and says, "Be suspicious," again. "When I was your age, I was always suspicious. Suspicion is a real skill, and a blessing. If you use it right."

  The boy nods, wearing a perplexed expression.

  "Here it is, sir," says John, handing the hypodermic to him.

  "Thank you."

  "What is it?" asks Troy. "It looks medical."

  "It is," Houston admits, removing the plastic cap with his teeth. "People made these things by the millions years ago. If you were poor and gave birth to a mixed race boy, you could test his blood. Like this." He doesn't let himself flinch, punching his own shoulder with the exposed needle. Then he shakes the device for a moment, and shows everyone the dull red glow. "Now unwrap another one. Yeah. And hand it to me."

  John obeys.

  In the same smooth motion, Houston jabs Mike in the shoulder. "Sorry," he offers, shaking the second device. Then he puts them together, and with a voice that can't help but break, he says, "Both showing red. See? And what do you think that means?"

  * * *

  12. I used to be Phillip Stevens.

  He says the words, then sucks in a breath and holds it.

  Not one boy makes the tiniest sound.

  Finally, laughing uneasily, Houston asks, "What do you think about that? John? Troy? Mike?"

  "I don't believe you," Mike growls.

  "No?"

  "That's a stupid shit thing to say." The boy's anger is raw and easy, bolstered by the beginnings of panic. He takes a gasping breath. Then another. Then he strikes his own thighs with both fists, telling Houston, "He died. The asshole offed himself. Everyone knows that."

  Again, silence.

  Houston glances at the mirror. The boys in back wear identical expressions. Lost, and desperately sad. Troy sees him watching then looks back over his shoulder, probably hoping to find help coming to rescue them.

  But there isn't another car in sight.

  "You two," says Houston. "What do you think?"

  "It was Dr. Stevens' body," John offers. "That's what the police said."

  "The police," Houston points out, "found a body with Phillip's physical features as well as his DNA. But a body isn't the man. And if anyone could have arranged for a bunch of dead meat and organs infused with his own DNA, wasn't it Phillip Stevens?"

  "A full-grown clone?" says Mike.

  "With a massive head wound. And what the press didn't report— except as wild rumor— were those occasional disparities between the corpse on the table and the fugitive's medical records."

  "Like what?" Mike mutters.

  "Like scars and stuff?" John asks.

  "No, every scar matched. Exactly." Houston nods and pushed on the accelerator, telling them, "But those things would be easy enough to fake. The body was grown in a prototype womb-chamber. The brain was removed early, and intentionally. No pain, no thoughts. Phillip did that work himself. He broke the clone's big left toe, then let it heal. He gave the skin the right patterns of mole and old nicks and such. He even aged the flesh with doses of radiation. And he kept the soulless clone relatively fit through electrisometrics and other rehab tricks."

  The only sound is the hum of tires on pavement.

  Finally, Mike asks, "So what was wrong with that body?"

  "Not enough callus: Not on its fingertips or the bottoms of its feet." Houston nods knowingly, looking across the blurring countryside, then straight ahead. "And even though the brain tissue was scrambled, the FBI found problems. Even with dehydration there wasn't enough brain present. And what they had in jars didn't have the dendritic interconnections as you'd expect in mature genius mind."

  Again, Troy looks back the way they had come.

  Houston turns right on a graveled road, and over the sudden rattling of loose rock, he tells them, "It's not far now."

  Even Mike looks sad.

  "The original Houston Cross was a loner. No family, and few prospects." Houston says it, then adds, "For a few dollars and a new face, that Houston acquired a new life. And he doesn't even suspect who it is that bought his old one."

  John starts to sob loudly enough to be heard.

  Mike turns and glares at him. "God, stop it. You baby!"

  Over the crest of the hill is a small green sign announcing Natural Area. The tiny parking lot is empty. Which is typical for a weekday, Houston knows.

  He pulls in and stops, turning off the engine and pocketing the key.

  "All right," he says. "Out."

  The boys remain in their seats.

  Houston opens his door and stands in the sunshine. "Out," he tells them.

  From the back, Troy squeaks, "Are you going to kill us? Mr. Cross?"

  The words take him completely by surprise.

  He shivers for a moment, then makes himself stop. And he looks in at all of them. And he tells them, "You can't begin to know how much that hurts."

 

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