Well, when Clarke put it like that, he might have a point. And as for what Franklin Butler wanted, what did he ever want but attention? And what better place to get it than in Virginia outside a police station holding a clone. Throw in the national media, and the opportunity was tailor-made for his brand of self-aggrandizement and grandstanding. But knowing CoA, it could get dangerous in a hurry—the news would draw every hard-core anti-cloner for a hundred miles.
“How many?” she asked.
“There are only about twenty of those CoA lunatics out there right now, but it’ll be a mob scene in under an hour. He’s got a portable loudspeaker setup and is already giving speeches.”
They got on an elevator. Clarke punched “G,” but a hand blocked the doors from closing. A plainclothes Latino detective wedged himself inside. He had the look of a man who knew what happened to messengers bearing bad news.
“What is it, Moreno?” Clarke growled.
“Richmond cut Greer loose.”
Clarke cursed acrobatically. “Why? We needed him held.”
“He lawyered up. Money talks, man, you know that.”
“Greer’s going to beat us to the house. How’s the warrant application coming?”
“Waiting on your witness,” Moreno said to Clarke.
“No time for that now. Go with what we’ve got. Hope it’s enough.”
“You got it.”
“And post a car at his place. If he runs or tries to take anything out of that house, I want to know about it.”
Moreno nodded and stepped back off the elevator. Clarke stared lasers into the closing doors. He and Con rode in silence down to the garage, where three uniformed officers were waiting for them.
“What’re we doing?” Con asked.
“It’s shift change. We’re going to use it to sneak you out. We had your car towed here from the farm. The media won’t know it yet, so Bennett here,” Clarke said, pointing to a squat, blue-eyed woman whose jaw seemed fused closed, “is going to drive it out.”
“Where will I be?” Con asked.
“In the trunk. The other two officers will leave first, so that hopefully the media gets bored and stops reacting to every vehicle coming in or out.” Clarke turned to Bennett. “How does it look out there?”
“Local news plus CNN and Fox. The others won’t be far behind,” she said.
“Vultures.”
“Where are they taking me?” Con asked.
“To a motel. It’s all arranged. We’re going to finish our conversation about these men who were at the farm. Until then, you need to lay low.”
Put another way, Clarke would protect her as long as she served a purpose. After that, he’d cut her loose and she’d be on her own again, which meant she needed to assume she was on her own now.
“Thank you,” she said, hoping it sounded convincing.
“To protect and serve,” Clarke said without a hint of irony and rode the elevator back upstairs.
From the dark confines of the trunk, Con listened tensely as they passed through the growing throng of reporters set up outside the station. No one mobbed the car as it left the parking garage, so it seemed that Clarke’s ruse had worked. Over a loudspeaker, Franklin Butler was pontificating about the arrogance of the elites and the existential threat of cloning. It brought a roar of agreement that Con couldn’t believe was only twenty voices. The fact that CoA had managed to gather so quickly this early in the morning was terrifying. They were like cockroaches waiting for the lights to go out.
Once the car was safely away, she hoped Bennett would pull over and let her sit up front—riding in a trunk was even less glamorous than it sounded—but apparently, Bennett wasn’t taking any chances. By the time the car finally rolled to a halt at the motel, Con had been knocked around like a pi?ata.
Bennett opened the trunk, and Con climbed out, blinking in the morning sunshine, and looked up at the double-decker motel with a green metallic roof that had been retrofitted with boxy, outdated solar paneling. Across the six lanes of traffic, a murderers’ row of fast-food joints jostled for attention. An old gas station stood defiantly against the passage of time. Signs directed traffic onto I-95 North or South, but it could have been any one of a thousand small towns off a thousand interstates.
“Room 211,” Bennett said, leading her up a concrete staircase to the exposed second floor.
“Do you have my LFD?” Con asked.
“Take it up with Clarke.”
Con gestured back toward the fast-food places. “Can I at least get some money for food?”