The List by J.A. Konrath Read Free Book Online Page A

nightstand and opened the drawer. He took out some courtesy Hyatt stationary and a ball-point pen and set them before Tom.

    “Write a few sentences in cursive.”
    “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “Do it. This is what Jessup did with me. Write some song lyrics, or what you did today, or whatever. Just do it in script.”
    Crackpot, Tom thought. But he’d play along if it got the guy to open up. He wrote the first few verses of the Doors’ hit LA Woman.
    “Fine. Now what?”
    “Just a second. I have to find it.”
    Bert located a briefcase at the foot of the bed and reached inside.
    Tom had his gun out and pointed before Bert could remove his hand.
    “Hold it!”
    “Jeez! Don’t shoot me!”
    “Take your hand out slowly, no quick moves.”
    “It’s papers. Just papers. Jeez, I think I browned my shorts.”
    Bert, hand shaking, pulled a black leather binder out of his briefcase.
    “It’s Jessup’s research binder. He wanted me to hold onto it for him.”
    “Bring it here.”
    “Stop yelling at me. I’m gonna have a heart attack, and you’ll have to use CPR, and you won’t do it because I had egg salad with onions for lunch.”
    Bert opened the binder and took out a piece of paper. He placed it in front of Tom. It was a print out of a handwritten rough draft, filled with crossed out words, brackets, and arrows. Very old looking. Tom began to read it, some lawyerspeak about quartering large bodies of armed troops, when something struck him.
    The handwriting was his.
    He looked at his song lyrics, and then back to the photocopy. All the letters matched. The Ts were crossed the same way, the Ys had the exact same curly bottom. Tom copied the phrase, he has erected a multitude of new offices , on his own paper, and found it impossible to tell the difference between the two.
    “What the hell?”
    “Does it match?”
    “Exactly.”
    “Eerie, isn’t it?”
    “Who wrote this?”
    “You don’t recognize the words? Here’s the first page.”
    Bert handed Tom another photocopy, this one with a large scrawl on the top. He read, “ A Declaration by the Representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress assembled. What is this?”
    Bert smiled a goofy little smile. “It’s a copy of the first draft of the Declaration of Independence.”
    Tom stared at him, incredulous. “So this means—what? I’m a reincarnation of Thomas Jefferson?”
    “Close.” Bert sat on the bed next to Tom. “You’re his clone.”
    The words hung there like a crooked picture. Tom opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
    “Jessup knew about you,” Bert said. “He was planning on contacting you soon. He just needed a final piece of verification. You were adopted, right?”
    Tom nodded.
    “Jessup didn’t know how or why, but he did have some idea of who. He found me, and you, and two of the others.”
    “So... I’m Thomas Jefferson.”
    “Not convinced? Here.”
    Bert went back into the briefcase and took out a library book—
    Jessup’s book on the Declaration of Independence. Tom stared at the face on the cover of the book. A painting of the Third President of the United States. Older, white hair, wrinkles. But it bore a striking resemblance to Tom’s face. The broad chin. The deep-set hazel eyes.
    The tight mouth.
    “This is insane.”
    “Insane?” Bert laughed. “Are you saying you don’t hold this truth to be self-evident?”
    “Funny. And who are you supposed to be, then? Groucho Marx?”
    “I’m Albert Einstein.”
    “I bet.”
    “I’m serious. Look at this.”
    Bert took an Einstein biography out of the briefcase and handed it to Tom, the page opened to a black and white picture of the scientist as a young man. It was Bert, down to the big nose and droopy jowls. Tom pushed the book away.
    “Impossible. Humans can’t be cloned. Not thirty years ago. They didn’t have the technology.”
    Bert spread his hands. “And yet here we are. Einstein and Jefferson,