Marilyn Kaye: Like Father, Like Son (Replica #20)





   1



   In the Candler living room, Amy sat on the floor, pointed the remote control at the TV, and began clicking. Her friend Chris Skinner observed the flickering screen from his position on the sofa and made various comments in response to the passing images.

   "Yuck. Gross. No way. Keep moving."

   There were more than a hundred channels on the Candlers' new cable system, but there never seemed to be anything worth watching. Finally, Amy settled on old reliable MTV.

   "It's Total Request Live," she announced. "Okay?"

   Chris made a noise that signified approval. Amy looked over her shoulder at the third person in the room. "Tasha? You want to watch TRL?"

   "Sure, whatever. Can I use your phone to call home and tell my mother I'm here?"

   "Of course," Amy said, though it would have been just as easy for Tasha to stick her head out the door and yell. The Morgan family lived right next door. "Chris, you want to call home?"

   "Call where?"

   Amy flushed. She wasn't sure how to refer to the place where Chris was currently living. Foster care had such a negative sound. She didn't even know what to call the adults who lived there. Foster parents — that wasn't exactly an upbeat phrase either.

   She rephrased her offer. "I'm just saying, you can use the phone if you want to call the Martins."

   "Nah, I don't have to do that." Chris wouldn't take his eyes off the video currently running on the screen.

   Amy frowned. Britney Spears wasn't all that cute, and personally Amy thought the singer dressed in a pretty trashy way. "Seriously," she persisted, "you don't want them to start worrying about you. You've only been there — how long?"

   "Ten days," Chris said, his eyes still glued to the singer's gyrating body. "Really, it's okay. I don't need to call them if I don't go straight back there from school. They're not the worrying kind."

   He didn't even shift his eyes from the screen to glance at Amy while he spoke to her. She decided to make it her mission to see if she could distract him from Britney.

   "What do you mean, 'not the worrying kind'? They're not neglectful, are they? Chris, tell me the truth! Do they abuse you?"

   He finally looked at her, but it was a hollow victory. On the television, the teen queen had been replaced by a commercial for mint-flavored dental floss.

   "No, they don't abuse me and they don't neglect me," Chris assured Amy. "I get the regular meals, clean sheets and towels, everything I need."

   "But does it feel like a home?" It was a foolish question. Chris couldn't even remember ever having had a real home, so he wouldn't know.

   He shrugged in reply. "It's better than a shelter."

   "Do you feel like they care about you?" Amy asked hopefully.

   Again Chris gave a noncommittal shrug. "Yeah, I guess. They ask if I slept well, if I had a good day at school, stuff like that. They don't bug me or ask me where I'm going every time I leave the house. Which is fine with me."

   Amy could understand that. Chris was the independent type. His father had abandoned the family when Chris was just a baby, and twelve years later his mother had disappeared. Chris had been on his own for three years.

   Tasha returned from the kitchen just as TRL came back on the screen. Carson Daly was announcing a brand-new video by Big Boy Band.

   "Tasha, did you hear that?" Amy asked. "Big Boy Band has a new video."

   Tasha sniffed. "Who cares?" She opened the latest issue of Teen People and began to read.

   Chris was puzzled by Tasha's reaction. "Isn't that your favorite group?"

   "Was," Tasha said. "Past tense."

   Amy explained to Chris. "Pace Coverdell left the band."

   "Who?"

   Tasha frowned. "You won't be saying that in a month," she predicted. "Pace's first solo album is coming out, and he's going to be big."

   "Tasha is Pace Coverdell's biggest fan," Amy told Chris. "She's making a scrapbook about him."

   "And for him," Tasha added. As evidence, she pulled a large red spiral-bound album from her backpack. "When he performs here in L.A., I'm going to get backstage and present it to him."

   The front door opened and a voice rang out. "I'm home!"

   "Hi, Mom, we're in here," Amy called back.

   Nancy Candler entered the living room and sank down in an easy chair. "Hi, guys."

   "Hello, Mrs. Candler," Chris and Tasha chorused.

   "How was your day, Mom?" Amy asked.

   "Exhausting. I taught three classes in a row and I had two faculty meetings." Nancy looked at her watch. "It's time for the news. Amy, could you put on Channel Two?"

   Amy obeyed, but with reluctance. She didn't much like watching the local news. It was always so depressing. Sometimes it seemed there was nothing nice to report on in Los Angeles.

   Tonight's news was the usual stuff. A big fire — people had died, others had been left homeless. A gang war. A drunk-driving accident involving two students from the university where Nancy Candler taught. One had been killed, the other severely injured.

   "Did you know them, Mom?" Amy asked.

   But her mother couldn't answer that. The names of the students were being withheld until their families had been notified.

   More bad news — a bomb threat at the airport and a major bank robbery. Finally, after a commercial, the newscaster began reporting more upbeat stories. "In Hollywood last night, the film community honored six of its own for contributions to the movie industry. Stars emerged from retirement to accept the accolades of their peers in a ceremony designed to honor those whose careers were brief but significant."

   One was an actor who had won big awards three years in a row and then had stopped making movies to devote himself to working for the environment. A director had quit the business to spend more time with his children after his wife died. Amy had never heard of any of these people, but her mother recognized some of them.

   "Oh, my, there's Rita Ritchie," she commented. "I loved her in The Magnificent Madeline, In fact, it was on TV last night and I taped it."

   Amy caught a glimpse of a gowned woman wearing the usual movie-star sunglasses. "Why did she stop making movies?"

   "Oh, it was very tragic — she went blind. It must have been, let's see, almost fifteen years ago. She wasn't even thirty years old."

   So even the so-called happy news had a depressing side. Amy tried to tune out the rest of the news, but an item toward the end of the broadcast caught her attention.

   "Former real estate tycoon, now prison inmate Ace Tolliver is requesting early parole on the grounds of ill health. The once-wealthy magnate was convicted of involvement in drug trafficking less than a year ago and was sentenced to twenty years in jail. However, doctors confirm that due to a deteriorating heart condition, Tolliver has less than six months to live."

   "That's six months more than he deserves," Tasha muttered.

   Chris was startled by the bitterness in her voice. "Wow, you really don't like that guy."

   "You weren't here when it happened," Tasha told him. "Tolliver opened a teen nightclub where the drinks were spiked with drugs to get kids addicted. Then, once the police were on to him, he tried to burn the place down, with people inside! It was awful. Amy figured it all out, but she'd just had her ears pierced, and she lost her powers, so — "

   "Tasha!" Nancy exclaimed.

   Tasha realized what she had said and clapped a hand over her mouth. Chris looked confused.

   "What are you talking about? What powers?"

   Amy tried to cover Tasha's slip of the tongue. "I, um, I had this allergic reaction to some earrings, and . . . and I was dizzy all the time, so . . . so I wasn't thinking clearly."

   Chris still seemed puzzled, and Nancy changed the subject. "What have you got in that scrapbook, Tasha?"

   "Pictures and articles about Pace Coverdell," Tasha told her. Her face was still pink after her blunder. "Want to see?"

   Nancy acted interested, and Amy gave her friend a sympathetic smile to show that she wasn't angry. It was extremely rare for Tasha to mess up like that. She'd managed to keep Amy's secret for more than a year, and Amy couldn't remember another time when Tasha had mentioned Amy's unique powers in front of someone who didn't know.

   Fortunately, the news had turned to sports, and Chris was engrossed in team scores. Amy pretended to be interested, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Someday, if their relationship continued, she would probably have to tell Chris about herself. How would he react to learning that she, Amy Candler, was no ordinary thirteen-year-old-girl? What would he say when he found out that she was a genetically engineered clone, one of twelve, who could see, hear, run, and think far more powerfully than anyone he'd ever known? Would he want a girlfriend who was stronger and smarter than he could ever hope to be? Did any fourteen-year-old boy want a girlfriend who had superhuman powers?

   With effort, Amy pushed these disturbing thoughts from her mind and turned to see what her mother and Tasha were doing. Nancy was displaying real interest in Tasha's scrapbook.

   "I remember his father, Tony Coverdell," she was saying. "When I was a teenager, he was the biggest rock star on the face of the earth. I had a huge poster of him on my bedroom wall."

   Even Amy knew who Tony Coverdell was. He was still performing, and she'd seen him in music videos.

   "How old is Tony Coverdell, anyway?" she asked her mother.

   "Oh, in his fifties, I suppose," Nancy said. "It's remarkable that he's still alive and kicking, considering the life he's led. Drugs, alcohol, wild parties . . . he was famous for destroying hotel rooms when he was on tour. I hope his son doesn't follow the same self-destructive pattern."

   "Pace isn't like that at all," Tasha declared loyally. "He's very antidrug. Don't you think he's cute, Ms. Candler?"

   Nancy nodded vigorously. "He looks almost exactly like his father did at the same age."

   On TV, the weatherman finished his report, and the news was over. Amy switched back to MTV and immediately regretted her action. Christina Aguilera was all over the screen now, and Chris's eyes were all over her.

   Tasha closed the scrapbook. "I have to go home and set the table," she announced. "See ya."

   She went to the door and opened it but didn't go out immediately. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Excuse me."

   Amy turned. Apparently there was someone on the doorstep. Nancy rose and went toward the door.

   "Hello, can I help you?" she asked.

   Amy heard a man's voice, polite and tentative. "Is this the Candler residence?"

   "Yes, it is," Nancy said. "And whatever you're selling, we're not interested."

   "I'm not a salesman. I'm looking for someone, and I think you might be able to help me find him."

   Amy got up and joined her mother. The man who stood at the door looked uncomfortable. He was dressed neatly in a coat and tie, and he offered Ms. Candler an apologetic smile.

   "My name is Paul Skinner," he said. "I'm looking for my son. Chris."





   2



   Chris must have heard the voices. By the time Nancy had ushered the man into the living room, Chris had abandoned his reclining position on the sofa and was standing. His eyes were wide, and Amy thought he looked like someone who had just been socked in the stomach.

   Paul Skinner recognized his son immediately. "Hello, Chris."

   Chris's lips moved, and Amy thought she heard him say "Hello," but she couldn't be sure. In any case, he didn't rush to embrace his long-lost father. And Paul Skinner didn't seem to be expecting any show of warmth. He just stood there, awkward and uncertain.

   "Please, sit down," Nancy said to him. He took a seat in a chair, and Chris sat down too, at the end of the sofa farthest from his father. "Would you like something to drink?" Nancy asked. "Coffee, tea?"

   "Coffee would be very nice," Paul Skinner said. "If it isn't too much trouble."

   "No trouble at all," Nancy assured him. "I was just about to fix myself a cup." As her mother left the room, Amy sat down next to Chris and tried not to stare at his father.

   So this was the infamous Paul Skinner. He didn't look like much of a villain. He was thin, and his complexion was pale, almost pasty. But she could definitely see a resemblance between the father and the son. Paul Skinner was an older version of Chris, with the same startling clear blue eyes and glossy black hair, though not as long and with a little gray in it. There was no sign of the wild-living athlete who had abandoned his family. This man was shabby, and he didn't look very healthy, either.

   Amy would almost have felt sorry for him, except for the fact that she knew his background. She couldn't blame Chris for not running to greet him with open arms.

   She wished her mother would come back with the coffee. The silence was deadly. Finally Chris uttered his first audible words.

   "How did you find me?" he asked his father.

   "I hired a private investigator. He was able to locate you at your school. I followed you from there to here."

   "So you've been lurking outside all this time?" Chris asked.

   Paul Skinner hung his head. "I was trying to get up the nerve to knock on the door."

   It couldn't have been easy for the man, Amy thought. But she refused to feel any sympathy for him. He'd left Chris to a mother who'd become an alcoholic drifter. Chris had been wandering for years, sleeping in abandoned buildings and homeless shelters. No kid deserved a life like that.

   Nancy returned with a tray holding coffee and a plate of cookies. "Do you live here in Los Angeles, Mr. Skinner?" she asked, serving him coffee.

   "Please, call me Paul," he said, accepting the cup. "Yes, I've just moved here from Denver." He was answering Nancy, but his eyes hadn't left Chris. Chris, meanwhile, focused on the floor, apparently riveted by a pattern in the carpet.

   Nancy sat down on a chair facing the man. "You haven't seen your son in a while, have you?" she asked carefully. She knew a little about Chris's background.

   "No, I haven't. Not since he was a baby." Paul Skinner closed his eyes for a moment, as if he was trying to gather strength. Then he began to tell his story.

   Amy knew the first part. Paul Skinner had been a football player, recruited by a major team when he was only twenty years old. He'd become a sports hero, practically a legend, when his team won two Super Bowls. As the quarterback, he was given a lot of credit for the victories. And with the credit had come money — lots of it. Not just his salary as a player, but also huge payments for endorsing various products and appearing in commercials.

   "It's not an original story," he said. "I was very young, and I was making more money than I could handle. I spent it on houses and cars, clothes and jewelry, you name it. Then, when I ran out of things to buy, I began spending it on drugs."

   He and his wife had continued to lead a jet-set life until Chris came along. The responsibilities of fatherhood weren't for Paul Skinner. He looked for ways to escape and began sinking even deeper into the drugs. His playing suffered, and eventually he was dropped from the football team.

   "My career was gone, and pretty soon so was all the money," he said. "I couldn't support my wife and my child, and I took the worst action you could imagine. I abandoned them." He shook his head ruefully. "There's no way I can explain why I did that. I can't blame the drugs or the fact that I was too young. It was wrong."

   At least he isn't trying to justify his behavior, Amy thought. She saw a flash of compassion in her mother's eyes.

   "What have you been doing all these years?" Nancy asked gently.

   "I drifted. I'd get a job here and there, make a little money, blow it all on drugs and get fired. When no one would hire me, I resorted to petty theft, shoplifting, that sort of thing. Then it escalated to more serious crime." He looked up. "I told you I came here from Denver. I was in jail there, and then in a halfway house. I've been through a rehab program."

   "And how are you now?" Nancy asked.

   He managed a small smile. "I'm clean and sober for a year now. I studied computers in jail, and I've got a real job, in an electronics store. I'm getting my life together."

   "That's good," Nancy said. She looked at Chris as if expecting him to echo her words. But Chris was still studying the carpet.

   Paul Skinner looked at his son. "I know you've had a rough time, Chris. I'm so very, very sorry."

   Chris didn't speak.

   "I want to make it up to you," Paul continued.

   That got a response. Chris actually looked at his father, and his eyes flashed with anger. "Make it up to me? You walk in here after fourteen years, say 'I'm sorry,' and expect me to do — what? Forgive you? You gotta be kidding."

   "I don't expect anything from you," Paul said heavily. "I'd like to ask you for a second chance at being a father. But I know I don't deserve it. You're entitled to hate me."

   Amy wondered if he could see what she was seeing in Chris's face. She wouldn't have called it hatred. It was more like anguish and disbelief.

   Nancy spoke. "I think this has come as something of a shock to Chris."

   Paul Skinner nodded. He rose. "I'm going to leave now." From his coat pocket he took a card. "This is my phone number." He extended the card toward Chris, but Chris didn't take it. Paul Skinner placed it on the coffee table.

   "Maybe we could get together sometime and talk," he said wistfully. "When you're ready. Okay? Okay, Chris?"

   Chris just shrugged, and his father sighed.

   "Thank you for your hospitality," he said to Nancy. He shook her hand and turned to smile at Amy. Then he looked at his son again.

   "Chris . . . just think about it. Please?"

   But there was still no response from his son. And with a sad smile, Paul Skinner walked to the door.





   3



   In the silence that followed Paul Skinner's departure, Amy tried once again to read the expression on Chris's face. This time, it was a lot easier. The boy was in pure pain.

   And this made Amy furious at the source of the pain. "Of all the nerve," she fumed. "What a terrible man! He cared more about his fast cars and his drugs than he cared about his own family!"

   "Now, Amy," her mother cautioned. "We don't know his whole story. Obviously, Paul Skinner isn't happy about the mistakes he made. Chris? Are you okay?"

   Chris just shrugged. Amy had a feeling he was afraid to speak in case he broke down completely and burst into tears. Seeing him like that made her even angrier.

   "He shouldn't have just barged in here like that. He could have written a letter or called on the phone. Or maybe he should have just stayed in jail. That's where he belongs."

   "Amy!" Nancy's tone was sharper this time. "You really can't pass judgment like that. The man could really be trying to turn his life around. People can change."

   Amy looked at Chris. "Do you think he's changed?"

   "How should I know?" Chris asked. "I don't even remember him!" He was dangerously close to tears.

   "Chris, would you like to stay for dinner?" Nancy asked.

   He shook his head. "No thanks," he muttered. "I gotta go." He grabbed his leather jacket and left the room.

   Amy started after him, but her mother put a restraining hand on her shoulder. "Let him go, Amy. He needs some time alone. He's got a lot to think about."

   Amy glared at her mother. "Why were you defending that terrible man?"

   "I wasn't defending him," Nancy said. "I'm simply saying he should be given a chance."

   "A chance to do what?"

   "A chance to be forgiven. Maybe a chance to be a father. Chris might want that. He's always seemed lonely."

   "Chris doesn't need that man to be his father," Amy declared.

   "You can't make that decision for him," Nancy replied. "Chris might want a family. Now, come set the table."

   Amy followed her mother into the kitchen. "We can be his family," she argued. Maybe her mother didn't realize how close she and Chris had become. It was time to let her know. "Mom, I've been thinking. . . ."

   "Uh-oh, that's a dangerous sign," Nancy remarked as she took plates out of the cabinet. She was trying to lighten the atmosphere, but Amy persisted.

   "Seriously. I think it's time to tell Chris the truth."

   Nancy handed her the plates. "The truth about what?"

   "About me."

   Her mother hesitated. "Amy . . . I don't know if that's such a good idea. You haven't known Chris very long."

   "What difference does that make?" Amy set the plates on the table and moved to take the silverware her mother held out to her. "Do you think he's a spy for the Project Crescent organization?"

   "Of course not," Nancy said.

   "Tasha knows, Eric knows. And Eric's not even my boyfriend anymore."

   "It's just that the fewer people who know, the better off you are."

   "But Chris is a very special friend," Amy argued. "I don't want to keep a secret like this from him. And he's bound to find out sooner or later anyway."

   "Later, then," her mother answered. "Amy, you have no idea how Chris might react to news like this. Most people don't understand the concepts of cloning and genetic engineering. Those words frighten them."

   "Chris would never think I was frightening," Amy said. It was then that she noticed the number of plates and utensils that her mother had been giving her. "How come I'm setting the table for three?"

   "Dave Hopkins is coming to dinner. He's just returned from a conference back east."

   This was good news. Dr. Dave, as Amy called him, was an old friend and colleague of her mother's. He'd worked with Nancy on Project Crescent, in which the genetically altered Amy clones had been created, so he knew all about Amy. For someone from her mother's generation, he was pretty cool. Amy thought he might help her convince Nancy that telling Chris about Amy was a good idea.

   But this was not to be. When Amy brought up the subject, just as her mother set a delicious-looking chocolate cake on the table, Dr. Dave shook his head.

   "He might have a real problem dealing with the news, Amy," he said. "You might even scare him."

   Amy rolled her eyes. Now Dr. Dave sounded like her mother. "I'm not scary!"

   "Of course you're not scary," Nancy said soothingly. "It's the idea that frightens people."

   Dr. Dave agreed. "Genetics is a scary topic. It has all kinds of negative implications."

   "Like what?" Amy demanded.

   Dr. Dave gave her an example. "People could start insisting that their children have certain qualities. They might want their unborn child to be genetically manipulated so that he or she could be tall or have a certain color hair. Or so that the child could have a particular talent, in music, for instance, or sports. You may not think that sounds like such a bad thing — but can the world support a zillion master violinists or world-class athletes? And what if no one wants their child to be a dentist?"

   "What if more people wanted male babies instead of female babies?" her mother added. "Having choices like this could throw nature off balance."

   "Think about what the organization wants to do," Dr. Dave said. "Why did they establish Project Crescent in the first place? They wanted to create a master race of perfect people who could take over the world. Doesn't that sound frightening to you?"

   He had a point, Amy had to admit that. Still, she didn't see how just telling Chris that she was a clone could throw the universe into total chaos.

   "Speaking of Project Crescent," Dr. Dave said to Nancy, "you're not going to believe who I ran into today at the airport. Grace Morrison."

   The fork loaded with chocolate cake that Nancy was about to put into her mouth froze in midair. "What's she doing in town?"

   "She said she had come for meeting here. Do you know about any genetics conferences going on?"

   Nancy shook her head, and her expression was grim. "No. And if you hear about any, let me know so I can stay away. I don't ever want to see that woman again."

   Amy understood her mother's strong feelings about Dr. Grace Morrison. Fourteen years ago, they had been close friends. In fact, Grace had been a kind of mentor to Nancy when they worked together on Project Crescent.

   When the scientists had discovered the real motives of the organization, they'd abandoned the project. The Amy clones had been distributed throughout the world. Nancy Candler had taken Amy, Number Seven, home to raise as her own daughter.

   What Nancy and the others didn't know was the fact that Grace was working with the organization. She had no problem with the idea of creating a master race. To keep the project alive, she had continued to collaborate with the organization, even after the laboratory had been blown up. She had been the one who alerted them to the survival of some of the clones. Because of this, Amy's life had always been in danger — and Nancy could never forgive Grace for this betrayal of friendship and ethics.

   Dr. Dave knew about this too, of course, and he nodded understandingly. But his eyes were thoughtful. "I only spoke with her for a minute. She seems different now."

   "How do you mean?" Nancy asked.

   "Well, I remember her being a strong and forthright woman. Very sure of herself. Assertive, even a little aggressive."

   "That's exactly how she was the last time I saw her a few months ago," Nancy said. She had been one of the chaperones on Amy's class trip to Washington, D.C. "Grace was assertive, confident, aggressive. And evil. What's different about her now?"

   "She's more subdued," he said. "There was something tentative about her behavior. She was nervous, too. I got the feeling something's happened to her. Something's very different."

   Amy grinned. "Maybe she's not the same person you knew. Maybe she's a clone of Dr. Grace Morrison."

   "Don't be ridiculous," her mother said testily. "Grace must be at least sixty now. The first successful human cloning occurred much later, with Phase One of Project Crescent. The boys."

   "I know, I know," Amy said. "I was just kidding."

   Dr. Dave smiled. "This was definitely the Grace Morrison. But — different."

   Nancy sniffed. "Less assertive and aggressive, maybe. But still evil."

   "Hey, Mom, how can you be so sure about that?" Amy demanded. "Weren't you the one who was telling me that people can change?"

   Her mother made a face. "Not in her case."





   4



   Her mother was engrossed in the newspaper when Amy appeared in the kitchen for breakfast. Nancy murmured her usual "Good morning" but barely glanced up. She was shaking her head as if she couldn't believe what she was reading.

   "What's so interesting?" Amy asked as she poured herself a bowl of cereal.

   "It's about Ace Tolliver. A judge granted his request for early release from prison."

   Amy made a face. "A man like that should stay in jail forever. But I guess if he's only got a few months to live . . ."

   "He may have a lot more than that," her mother told her. "He's getting a heart transplant."

   "Really?" Amy was surprised. She'd thought there were long waiting lists of people who needed transplants. Surely there had to be someone on the list who was more deserving than a drug dealer.

   Nancy sighed. "It's ironic, in a terrible way. His son was the college student killed in that drunk driving accident last week." She looked at the paper again. "Scott Tolliver."

   Amy shuddered. "That monster had children?"

   "Even bad people can reproduce," her mother said. "According to this article, Tolliver barely knew his son. The boy lived with his mother in Nebraska. He just moved to Los Angeles to attend a university here."

   Amy recalled the news story about an accident involving two college students. "Was anyone else killed?"

   Nancy studied the story. "His girlfriend was severely injured. She's still in a coma." She frowned. "I get so upset when I hear stories like this. You would think that a person intelligent enough to be a university student would know that he can't drink alcohol and drive."

   The whole story made Amy feel depressed. "And now that criminal is going to get his son's heart and live a long and normal life. Maybe once he's healthy they can put him back in jail."

   "I don't think so, honey. And he may not live a long and normal life. Transplanted hearts are often rejected by the recipient's body. The match has to be just about perfect. Because Scott was his son, there's potential for a good match, but the young man also had his mother's genes. The heart may not be compatible."

   Amy pushed her cereal aside. She'd lost her appetite. "I wonder if Scott would have wanted his father to have his heart," she mused. "Can they do that? Just take his heart and give it to Ace Tolliver?"

   "According to this story, Scott Tolliver had an organ donor card in his wallet. That gives the hospital the authority to use any of his organs after his death."

   Amy shuddered. "That sounds creepy."

   Her mother smiled slightly. "Lots of people carry organ donor cards, Amy. People can die with certain organs in perfectly good condition. And those organs could save someone's life. Of course, not everyone approves of the procedure. Certain religious groups are opposed to transplants. Others worry that they could lead to the buying and selling of organs, which is totally illegal. And of course, there are no guarantees that a transplant will work."



   Later, walking to school, Amy was still thinking about transplants. "Would you let doctors take parts of your body out after you're dead and give them to other people?" she asked Tasha.

   "As long as they make sure I'm really truly dead first," Tasha said. "And I'd want to know who the parts are going to."

   "I don't think you can do that," Amy said.

   Tasha made a face. "But that means someone I don't like could end up with a part of me inside them. On the other hand, Pace Coverdell can have any organ of mine he wants. Listen, if I can get two backstage passes for his concert, will you go with me?"

   "Sure," Amy said. She wasn't that wild about Pace Coverdell, but she was glad to change the subject from heart transplants. She let Tasha prattle on about the up-and-coming rock star.

   "I can't believe your mother thinks he looks like his father. Have you ever seen a picture of Tony Coverdell? He's got this wrinkly skin, and his teeth are yellow."

   "Yeah, but he probably didn't have wrinkly skin and yellow teeth when he was Pace's age," Amy pointed out.

   Tasha nodded sadly. "It was the drugs and cigarettes and all that wild living. I hope Pace doesn't take after his father." They were approaching the school entrance now, and the usual clique of superpopular kids was gathered on the steps. Amy wasn't surprised to see Linda Riviera among the group. Linda wasn't part of that crowd, but she was always hanging around on the edge, trying to get in.

   Right now Linda was regaling them with one of her stupid made-up stories. Amy could hear her chattering excitedly as she and Tasha climbed the stairs.

   ". . . I always knew I was adopted, because my parents told me when I was little. And I thought maybe someday I might look for my birth parents. I never expected my birth mother to come looking for me first! And when I found out she was a movie star, I was blown away!"

   Amy and Tasha shared a knowing look. Just last year, Linda's friend Jeanine had gone around telling everyone she was the real daughter of some actress on a soap opera. Linda couldn't even come up with an original lie.

   "What movie star?" one of the girls on the steps asked her.

   "Rita Ritchie," Linda told her.

   This information didn't impress anyone. "Never heard of her," the girl declared.

   "She was a big star," Linda announced. "Then she went blind and stopped making movies. She wasn't married when she got pregnant with me, and when I was born she put me up for adoption. A magazine reporter called me at home on Saturday and told me. He said Rita Ritchie has been looking for me and she wants us to meet!"

   "You think Linda could be telling the truth?" Tasha asked as they went into the building.

   "I guess it's possible," Amy admitted. "I mean, if she was lying, she'd say her mother was someone like Julia Roberts or Cameron Diaz, wouldn't she?"

   Tasha agreed. "Or Madonna. Or Cindy Crawford, or someone royal, like a princess."

   Tasha continued to rattle off the names of celebrities, but Amy's interest in Linda Riviera's parentage had vanished. She saw Chris waiting for her by her locker.

   When she had last spoken with him, on the phone the night before, he had still been undecided about whether or not he'd see his father again. Paul Skinner had called him twice over the weekend, and Amy knew that Chris was still feeling torn. Now he looked as if he had made up his mind.

   Tasha saw Chris waiting there too, so she wasn't surprised or insulted when Amy abruptly said, "See you in class," and took off.

   When Amy reached Chris, he got right to the point.

   "My father called again right after I talked to you last night. He wants us to have dinner together tomorrow night."

   "Are you going to do it?" Amy asked.

   "I said maybe. If you could come to dinner with us too."

   "Me?" Amy was taken aback. "Why do you want me to be there?"

   "Because . . . because . . ." Chris was having a hard time getting the words out. "Because this is all so weird, and . . . and I don't want to deal with it by myself. I'd just feel better if you were there with me."

   Amy felt a rush of warmth toward him. She knew it hadn't been easy for him to admit his uncertainty and ask for her help. And even though she didn't trust Paul Skinner's motives, she couldn't help being flattered by Chris's desire for her to be there. This was the kind of thing you did for a real friend, whether you wanted to or not.

   "Will you come?" he asked anxiously.

   "I have to ask my mother," Amy told him. "But I'm sure she'll say it's okay."

   She was immediately rewarded with the first smile she'd seen on his face in a while.





   5



   It was a family-type Italian restaurant — not a fancy one, but the kind Amy would go to with her mother.

   "Oh, I know this place, it's very nice," Nancy said. She seemed relieved. "Look for a parking space."

   "Mom, just let me off," Amy said. "You don't have to come in with me."

   Of course her mother wouldn't even consider that. Amy had to be satisfied with the fact that her mother was allowing her to come here at all. It certainly wasn't typical for Nancy Candler to let Amy have dinner in a restaurant with an adult she barely knew — let alone a former drug addict and prison inmate. But the fact that Paul Skinner himself had called Nancy to extend the invitation had reassured her. And Amy knew that Nancy wanted her to see that people could change for the better.

   "I think he's being sensitive to his son's feelings," she'd told Amy. "He knows that having a friend there will make it easier for Chris."

   Amy didn't tell her that the invitation had been a condition of Chris's acceptance. Let her go on thinking that Paul Skinner had completely reformed and had become a loving and clean-living wannabe dad. Amy would wait and see.

   Paul Skinner was alone at the table when they arrived. He rose as Amy and Nancy approached. "Are you joining us?" he asked Nancy. "I'll ask the waiter if we can move to a larger table."

   "Thank you, but no, I can't stay," Nancy told him. Was Amy imagining things or did he seem relieved? The two adults exchanged a few polite words; then Nancy turned to Amy. "I'll pick you up in front at eight-thirty," she said.

   "I can bring her home," Paul Skinner offered, but Nancy insisted on coming back. Amy wondered if maybe her mother wasn't as confident about Paul Skinner's rehabilitation as she seemed.

   Nancy left the restaurant, and Paul Skinner gestured for Amy to sit down. "I'm so pleased that you could join us, Annie."

   Strike one, Amy thought. He couldn't even remember her name. "Amy," she corrected him. "Thank you for inviting me."

   "It's a pleasure!" Paul Skinner replied. "I'm very happy to know that my son has such a lovely little girlfriend."

   Strike two. Okay, maybe she wasn't being completely fair. Lots of adults patronized teens and spoke to them like that. It didn't mean that Chris's father was a total creep. She should give the guy a break.

   But the way he greeted Chris made her squirm. He jumped up from the table when Chris walked in and opened his arms, as if he expected Chris to rush forward and hug him.

   "Son!" he cried out loudly in a voice that quivered with emotion. A couple of other diners glanced up curiously. Amy wanted to crawl under the table. Chris looked pretty embarrassed too.

   Chris extended his right hand as he approached his father, making it clear that he was prepared only for a handshake, not a hug. Paul Skinner grasped Chris's hand with his own right hand, but he swung his left arm over the boy's shoulder and embraced him. Chris was stiff, but he didn't push the man away. As soon as he'd been released, he sat down at the table.

   "Hi," Amy said, hoping her expression would convey lots of sympathy. Chris mumbled a greeting and managed something that remotely resembled a smile.

   A waiter appeared with menus. "Good evening, folks," he said. "Would you like something to drink?" To Paul Skinner, he said, "A cocktail, perhaps?"

   "No cocktails for me!" the man replied quickly. "I'm not a drinker, not now, not ever again! I've been on the wagon for six months and I'm never falling off."

   The waiter looked uncomfortable, and Amy couldn't blame him. Paul Skinner was going overboard.

   "Well, perhaps a soft drink, or juice?" the waiter asked. He was looking at Amy now, so she replied.

   "I'd like some orange juice."

   "Me too," Chris said.

   "Orange juice all around," Paul Skinner said expansively. "There's lots of vitamin C in orange juice."

   "Vitamin C is very good for colds," Amy remarked.

   "And for other ailments too," Paul Skinner said. He sighed and looked sad for a moment. Then he put on a big smile again. "So, Chris, tell me about yourself! What are you interested in? Do you play any sports?"

   "No," Chris replied. "I mean, I'm not on teams."

   "When I was your age, I played everything," Paul Skinner said. "Baseball, basketball . . . of course, my real passion was football. My high school had one of the top teams in the nation. That's where I got recruited to play professionally."

   "I've never stayed at any school long enough to get involved in sports or any other activities," Chris said.

   "Too bad," Skinner said, ignoring the fact that he was responsible for Chris's not having a normal school life. "Sports are important for boys."

   Amy had been keeping quiet, but she couldn't let this comment pass without a response. "They're important for girls, too."

   Paul Skinner barely glanced at her. "Yes, yes, of course. You have any hobbies, Chris?"

   "No," Chris said.

   "Do you collect anything? Stamps, coins . . ."

   "No."

   "What about pets? I had a dog when I was your age."

   "No, I don't have any pets."

   "No pets? Not ever? Not even a gerbil?"

   Chris's eyes flashed and he stared at his father in anger. "I didn't have a home! How could I have a pet?"

   A look of irritation crossed Paul Skinner's face. "Okay, okay! I get it, I haven't been a great father. You don't have to rub it in." He pushed his thinning hair back. "You think my life's been easy? I've had hard times too, you know."

   Strike three, you're out, Amy thought grimly. How could he say that? He'd created his own misfortune, with his drugs and his crimes. Poor Chris hadn't done anything to deserve his life. She wanted to grab Chris's arm and leave the restaurant.

   But then Paul Skinner's tone changed. He spoke plaintively. "Listen, Chris, can't we just put the past behind us? Start fresh, the two of us? Have a real relationship and talk about what's happening now instead of dredging up old problems? How about it, son?" he wheedled.

   Amy was surprised to see that the fury had disappeared from Chris's eyes. And she was even more surprised when he murmured, "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

   Paul Skinner beamed. "Great! So, let's see, what else can you tell me about yourself? How's your health?"

   "Fine," Chris said. He made his first effort to keep the conversation going. "When I went into foster care, I got a complete checkup. The doctor said I'm in good shape."

   "Excellent, excellent! That's wonderful news. You're fortunate, son. Remember that, and don't ever take good health for granted." He sighed deeply and shook his head.

   The waiter reappeared with their juices. "Can I take your order, folks?"

   Amy and Chris both decided to have spaghetti and meatballs. Paul Skinner studied the menu.

   "I'll have the vegetable lasagna," he told the waiter. "I'm trying to eat a lot of vegetables these days. For the nutrition. Though it's probably too late for me. . . ."

   The waiter left, and there was a silence. Reluctantly, Amy spoke, just to be polite. "Do you still play football, Mr. Skinner? Like, for fun?"

   The man shook his head. "No. I can't run at all anymore." He gazed at Chris sadly. "Take care of your health, boy. If you've got your health, you've got everything."

   He'd certainly dropped enough hints, Amy thought. Chris finally picked up on this one. "Are you sick?"

   "I don't like to talk about it," his father said promptly, and looked away.

   Chris watched him, and there was concern on his face as he said, "I hope it isn't anything serious."

   Paul Skinner sighed again. "I've lived a rough life, son, and it's catching up with me." He began telling them about some rare blood disorder he had. "The doctors aren't sure what caused it. I'm guessing it was the alcohol and drugs. It doesn't matter now. All I know is that one bunch of cells are eating up other cells, and I'm getting weaker and weaker."

   "Can't the doctors do anything about it?" Chris asked.

   "A bone marrow transplant could work," Paul Skinner replied.

   "That's good," Chris said. "Are you going to have one?"

   "It's not that easy. I've got a rare blood type, and they haven't found a match for me." He looked straight into his son's eyes. "You probably have the same blood type."

   Amy gasped. So that was why Paul Skinner had been so anxious to find his son! She should have known he had a rotten motive! She pushed her chair away from the table, prepared to get up and leave with Chris immediately.

   But Chris didn't move. He gazed at his father thoughtfully. "If I have the same blood type, does that mean my bone marrow could save your life?"

   "It's possible," Paul Skinner said. "Very possible! It's not a dangerous procedure, you know. They just take a little of the bone marrow — you'd still have plenty for yourself."

   The waiter came back with their food. Two orders of spaghetti and meatballs and a vegetable lasagna were placed on the table, and everything smelled great. But no one started eating.

   "What's your blood type?" Paul Skinner asked Chris.

   Chris looked down at his spaghetti and meatballs. "I don't know," he said. "But . . ."

   "But what?" his father asked eagerly.

   Chris looked up. "I guess I could find out."





   6



   Tasha was in awe. "Oh, Amy! Chris is going to save his father's life. That's so noble!"

   "Yeah, I guess so," Amy replied.

   Tasha looked at her curiously. "You don't sound very supportive."

   Amy didn't know how to respond. They were walking to school, and she'd been thinking about Chris and his father since their dinner the evening before.

   "It just doesn't feel right," she finally said. "The man abandoned his family. He didn't care what happened to them. Then he shows up out of the blue, just because he needs bone marrow. It makes me wonder if he deserves it."

   Tasha considered this. "It does sound pretty slimy," she admitted. "But you can't expect Chris to feel that way. Slimeball or not, the man's his father."

   "I know." Amy sighed. "Well, Chris is supposed to find out about his blood this morning. Maybe he won't even be a match for his father."

   "What is bone marrow, anyway?" Tasha asked.

   Amy had been wondering that herself and had looked it up in the encyclopedia. She gave Tasha the definition from memory. "Bone marrow is a soft, fatty substance in the cavities of bones, in which blood cells are produced."

   Tasha was alarmed. "You mean, if Chris gives his bone marrow to his father, he won't produce any more blood cells for himself?"

   "Oh no, it's not like that," Amy assured her. She recalled what the encyclopedia article had told her about bone marrow transplants. "The doctor extracts about a pint of bone marrow from the donor. The donor still has some left. The healthy bone marrow cells are injected into the patient's blood vessel, and then the stuff produces new, normal blood cells. It's supposed to be a pretty common procedure."

   "So it's not dangerous for Chris?"

   "Well, it's not like real surgery," Amy replied. "He doesn't get cut up. But it still gives me the creeps. I mean, what if they take too much bone marrow by mistake?"

   "I don't think doctors make mistakes like that," Tasha said comfortingly.

   Amy hoped not. She wanted to stop thinking about it. Fortunately, a distraction lay straight ahead. "What's going on at school?"

   In front of the main entrance, a truck bearing the logo of a TV channel was parked. On the steps, along with the usual clique, it looked as if half the school population was gathering. Amy tried to hear what was being said, but there was so much chatter and confusion that she couldn't figure out exactly what was taking place.

   The girls quickened their steps, and by the time they reached the school, Amy was able to hear enough of the commotion to know what was about to happen. She was completely surprised.

   "Rita Ritchie!" she exclaimed.

   "What? Who?"

   "Rita Ritchie, remember? The blind movie star? The one who's supposed to be Linda Riviera's birth mother?"

   "She's here?" Tasha asked. "Where?"

   "She's on her way here. She's going to have a reunion with her long-lost daughter. I can't believe it! Linda was telling the truth!" Amy and Tasha managed to squeeze into the crowd on the steps, and Amy could hear the news reporter speaking into a microphone in front of a camera.

   "Any moment now, Rita Ritchie will be meeting the child she gave up at birth. The former star says she has been searching for her daughter for years, and with the help of National Star magazine, the girl has been located here at Parkside Middle School. And this is the young lady herself, Ms. Linda Riviera. Linda, how do you feel about meeting your birth mother?"

   Linda, who was so adept at regaling classmates with stories, froze in front of the camera. "Uh, yeah. Yes. I'm excited."

   "And nervous?" prompted the newswoman.

   "Yeah, I mean, yes. I'm nervous."

   Amy almost felt sorry for her obnoxious classmate. How awful to have a moment like this take place in front of a crowd — not to mention the TV viewing audience. But an examination of Linda's expression told her that sympathy wasn't necessary — Linda was clearly enjoying all the attention.

   Someone shrieked that a limousine was approaching, and Amy strained for a look. But the windows of the car were tinted dark, and even Amy's supervision couldn't penetrate the shaded glass. Now people were cheering the approach of the movie star. It was funny, in a way. Most of them had probably never even heard of Rita Ritchie before that day. But the fact that she had brought a TV camera and a reporter to Parkside made her important enough to be worthy of their squeals.

   A couple of teachers standing nearby weren't so impressed. "It's a publicity stunt," one of them sniffed. "I'll bet she's about to make a comeback."

   That could be true, Amy thought. Even if the woman had lost her sight, she could still be in movies. There were deaf actors, and actors in wheelchairs — why not a blind actor?

   By now, Amy had wedged herself between the crowded bodies so that she could watch the limousine stop in front of the school. Someone must have signaled the people on the steps to be quiet, because a hush fell over the crowd.

   A uniformed man emerged from the driver's seat and opened the back door. He held out his arm, and a woman's hand emerged to rest on it. Amy could see that the wrist was circled by something very glittery — diamonds, probably. There were sparkling rings on the fingers, and the nails were long and polished.

   "Are you sure she's blind?" Tasha whispered. "She's not carrying a cane, and she doesn't have a guide dog."

   "Maybe the chauffeur is her guide man," Amy suggested. The woman was wearing sunglasses, but most Hollywood celebrity types did. The eyewear kept them all from getting a good look at her face, but she still had the aura of a movie star. She was tall and thin, and she wore a striking red dress with matching high heels. Her dark hair was perfectly coiffed.

   Amy could see the woman's knuckles whiten as she gripped the man's arm. Either she was nervous, or she was just holding on tightly for balance and guidance. Maybe both. All around her, lights were flashing as photographers took pictures. The newswoman, with an arm around Linda, came forward to greet the movie star.

   "Ms. Ritchie, Lucy Levin of KTLR here," she said importantly. "May I present Linda? Your daughter."

   It was all very dramatic. The former movie star stretched out her free hand, and the chauffeur guided the hand to Linda's face. Then Rita Ritchie removed her sunglasses, and Amy could see the glint of a tear working its way down her cheek. Linda looked as if she was in a state of shock. As the crowd held its breath, the movie star's voice, choked with emotion, could be heard.

   "My daughter," she said. Two simple words, that was all they were, but now even Amy could feel her eyes welling up. She couldn't even imagine what this must feel like for the woman who had given up her daughter thirteen years earlier.

   The mother-and-child reunion was the chief topic of conversation all day at Parkside, and Linda was the center of attention. But Amy forgot about it in math, when Chris appeared in class with a late notice. Amy watched him carefully, checking his expression for any clue about his blood test. But his face was a blank, and she had to wait until class was over to ask him what had happened.

   He was waiting for Amy in the hall after the bell rang. She didn't have to ask a thing.

   "It's a match," he said. "My blood type. They tested for a bunch of stuff, and it looks like I can be a donor."

   Amy wasn't sure what to say. "Congratulations?" Somehow that just didn't seem appropriate. "When?" she asked.

   "Tomorrow. After school."

   "I want to go with you," Amy said.

   "Okay." The speed with which he agreed told her that he was as nervous as she was. Probably more nervous. She'd expected him to pull a macho act, behaving as if the bone marrow donation was no big deal and nothing to worry about. The fact that he so obviously wanted her there with him filled her with a sense of wonder.

   Even though personal displays of affection were frowned upon at Parkside, she took his hand, and he didn't resist. They walked down the hall in silence, and Amy was aware of powerful feelings coursing through her. Love? Maybe. There was definitely something very strong in their relationship.

   Which meant that she absolutely had to tell him about herself. Not now, though. He had enough to deal with at the moment.





   7



   Just as Amy had read, the bone marrow transplant procedure wasn't treated like a major operation. Chris wouldn't have to spend the night in the hospital. Even so, Amy was surprised that neither of his foster parents was going to be there.

   "Do they know you're doing this?" she asked Chris as they waited in a reception room at the hospital.

   He nodded. "I had to have their permission. They said 'Okay.' "

   Amy tried not to let her disapproval show. In her opinion, this proved that Chris's foster parents had no particular affection for him. But she tried to turn their lack of concern into a positive thing for his sake. "That's because it's not a dangerous procedure," she said brightly. "It's like giving blood."

   "I guess so," Chris said, but the lack of color in his face made it clear that he didn't entirely believe that.

   They were both reassured by a visit from Dr. Dave. He was in charge of the emergency room at this hospital, and Amy's mother had told him about Chris. He spoke cheerfully to them.

   "You know, the doctor who invented this procedure won the Nobel prize," he told them. "It was an amazing discovery, that something so simple could save lives. Of course, this isn't a sure thing for your father," he cautioned Chris. "Sometimes the transplant can be rejected."

   "But since I'm his natural son, his body wouldn't reject my bone marrow, would it?" Chris asked anxiously.

   "Well, it's certainly a plus that you're a family member," Dr. Dave said. "A successful match depends on the donor's being as genetically similar as possible to the patient. Of course, the ideal donor is an identical twin."

   That's interesting, Amy thought. She herself had eleven identical twins. That didn't make her feel particularly safe, though. She had to wonder how many of the clones would be willing to provide an organ for another one.

   A nurse appeared. "Christopher Skinner? Would you come with me, please?"

   Chris looked as if he'd rather jump out of a plane without a parachute, but he rose. So did Amy.

   "I'm sorry, dear," the nurse said. "You'll have to wait here."

   Amy was disappointed, but she understood. Chris gave her a brave smile and followed the nurse out of the room. Dr. Dave spoke reassuringly. "He'll be fine," he told Amy. "He'll feel a little tired afterward, but that won't last long."

   "What about his father?" Amy asked.

   "He'll be kept in the hospital for a couple of days, for observation, to make sure he doesn't reject the cells."

   Dr. Dave had to get back to the emergency room, and Amy began thumbing through a magazine. She knew that the procedure itself would only take a few minutes, but Chris would have to rest in the recovery room for an hour afterward. Then her mother would arrive to take them to their homes.

   Amy wondered what kind of care Chris would get from foster parents who didn't even show up for the procedure. Maybe she could talk her mother into letting Chris stay with them.

   She looked at her watch and noted with dismay that only a couple of minutes had passed. The magazine wasn't going to hold her attention, that was for sure. Maybe a walk up and down the hospital corridor would make the time pass more quickly.

   The corridor was almost as quiet as the waiting room. At the nurses' station, people conversed quietly. A woman in a white coat with a stethoscope around her neck came out of one room and went into another. There was nothing to distract Amy — until she saw a patient walk slowly out of a room, assisted by a young man in a white uniform.

   "Very good," the man in white said encouragingly. "Now, don't push yourself. It's your first day on your feet, Mr. Tolliver, and we want to take it slow."

   Even if the young man hadn't used the patient's name, Amy would have known who he was. His face was imprinted on her memory, along with the faces of all the other evildoers and villains she'd met over the years. She could never forget any of them — it was as if she carried a Most Wanted poster permanently tattooed on her brain.

   Of course, Ace Tolliver didn't look exactly the same as he'd looked the last time she saw him. After all, he'd just had a major operation. He was paler, and thinner, and definitely slower than she remembered. But he had the same beady, greedy little eyes, the same arrogant expression. Even in a hospital gown, he looked like a tycoon.

   A tycoon who seemed very pleased with himself. "I feel thirty years younger," he boasted to the man who walked with him. "I could run a marathon!"

   "But not today," the man admonished him. "Let's just get down the hall and back to your room, okay?"

   Ace Tolliver grinned happily. "Okay, pal. But I'm telling you, there's nothing like getting the heart of a twenty-year-old to make you feel like you could do anything."

   A twenty-year-old who happened to be your own son, Amy thought. Of course, anyone would be glad to have gone through a successful heart transplant, but Ace Tolliver didn't exactly seem overcome with grief at the death that had brought him the heart.

   "Tomorrow we'll walk a little farther," the young man said to Tolliver. "Perhaps you'd like to visit Cassandra Price, on the third floor."

   "Who?"

   "Cassandra Price," the man repeated. "Your son's girlfriend, who was in the accident with him. She's come out of her coma."

   "Oh, that's good news," Tolliver said heartily. Then his face took on a sober look. "Actually, though, I would rather not see her. Too many sad memories."

   "Do you know her well?" the man asked.

   "Never met her," the patient replied. "But she may have encouraged my son's drinking. She could actually be responsible for the accident. I don't want to meet the woman who killed my son."

   "Well, whoever was responsible, it was a tragic accident," the man said.

   "Yes, yes, tragic," Ace Tolliver said. "Truly terrible. I'm devastated by the loss."

   But Ace Tolliver wasn't much of an actor. Amy couldn't detect any evidence of devastation on the tycoon's face.





   8



   Just moments after Amy had returned to the waiting room, the nurse who had taken Chris away returned.

   "Chris is doing just fine," she told Amy. "He's resting now and drinking some juice. He'll be able to leave soon."

   Amy let out an immense sigh of relief and then remembered that there was someone else to ask about. "What about his father?"

   "Paul Skinner is being prepared now for the transfusion," the nurse told her. "He'll be staying a night or two here so we can observe him for any reactions. I doubt there will be any problems. The doctor said the bone marrow match is exceptionally good. It's unusual to have such a close match, even between father and son."

   Chris will be happy about that, Amy thought. And when Chris was brought out in a wheelchair, he did look pleased.

   "How do you feel?" Amy asked anxiously.

   "Fine," he replied automatically, but the smile he gave her was tired. He was pale, too. And annoyed about being pushed around in a wheelchair.

   "I can walk," he protested to the man who was pushing the chair.

   "Hospital rules," the man said cheerfully. "We keep you in the chair till we reach the exit. Then you're on your own."

   Amy recognized the man. He was the same person who had been helping Ace Tolliver walk. She couldn't resist asking for confirmation of her thoughts about the tycoon.

   "Is Ace Tolliver happy with his new heart?" she asked.

   The man was startled by the question, but then he gave her a professional smile. "He certainly seems to be. I'm not a doctor, but from what I hear, it was an excellent match and it's working beautifully."

   "But he must be sad that his son died," she continued.

   The man's smile faded, but he said, "I'm sure he is."

   Amy persisted. "Have you ever seen him cry?"

   The man busied himself with adjusting the position of Chris's wheelchair. But Amy didn't miss his murmured "No."

   "He's a very evil man," Amy informed him. "Who knows? Maybe he had his son killed to get his heart."

   The man shook his head sharply. "No, that's impossible. Mr. Tolliver may be evil, but he's definitely not stupid. The chances of a perfect heart match are very slim, even between parent and child. I sincerely doubt that anyone would kill his own son based on that slight chance."

   Amy had to agree that the idea was pretty farfetched, even for someone as selfish as Ace Tolliver.

   Nancy Candler arrived to pick Chris and Amy up. She signed the papers so that Chris could leave, and she didn't say a word about the fact that neither of his foster parents were there. Still, as she wheeled Chris to the car in the hospital parking lot, there was real concern in her voice. "Someone will be at home to take care of you, right?"

   Chris shrugged. "It's no big deal, I feel fine."

   But Nancy shook her head. "If nobody's there, you're coming home with us," she said firmly. Amy kind of hoped this would be the case. She liked the idea of playing nurse to Chris.

   They helped Chris into the backseat of the car, and then Amy rolled the wheelchair back to the hospital door. When she returned, she saw that her mother's car was blocked by a long black limousine that had just pulled up. Nancy hit her horn sharply, and a window was rolled down.

   Linda Riviera waved in delight at Amy. Not because she was happy to see Amy, of course — she was thrilled that Amy was seeing her in a limousine.

   Linda hopped out. "What are you doing at the hospital, Amy?"

   "Bringing Chris home. He donated his bone marrow."

   Amy doubted that Linda knew what she was talking about, but Linda didn't ask. "I'm here with my mother," she said importantly. "She has her eyes examined regularly to see if there's anything that can make her see again. And she wants me to have my eyes examined too. Just to make sure mine are okay. Isn't that nice?"

   "Yes, very nice," Amy said politely. "Can you ask the driver to move the car? It's blocking my mother." She hopped into Nancy's car.

   At that moment, the chauffeur was opening the passenger door on the other side and helping Rita Ritchie out. Linda rushed to her new real mother's side.

   "Can I help you, Mother?" she asked sweetly.

   Rita Ritchie placed a hand on Linda's arm, and Linda led her toward the hospital door. The chauffeur moved the limousine, and Nancy was able to pull the car out. Through the window, Amy watched Linda and the ex-movie star walk into the hospital.

   "Now I know why Rita Ritchie wanted to find her daughter," Amy said. "She needs a second guide in case the chauffeur is busy."

   "Amy, don't be so cynical," her mother chided her. "You're getting way too suspicious of everyone."

   Chris chimed in at that point. "Yeah, you can be kind of hard on people. Like my father."

   "Well, ex-cuse me," Amy said. "I'm just trying to protect the people I care about."

   "I know, dear," her mother said. "But most people don't want to hurt others. Give them a chance."

   Amy sighed and sank back in her seat. Personally, she thought her mother — not to mention Chris — was too easy on people. But when they arrived at the home of Chris's foster parents, she did see some justification for her mother's positive attitude. Mrs. Martin was home and waiting for Chris.

   "It was so kind of you to bring Chris home," she said to Nancy. She helped Chris to his room and then returned. "I would have been at the hospital myself," she confided, "but Chris wouldn't hear of it. And the foster care agency told me I shouldn't be too pushy with him."

   "I can understand that," Nancy said. "Chris wants to think of himself as completely independent."

   "I'm glad you understand," Mrs. Martin said. "And it's very nice to meet you and Amy." She invited them to stay and have something to eat and drink. Nancy thanked her but said they had to get home.

   "You see, Amy?" she said when they were back in the car. "She's not a bad person."

   "Yeah, yeah, whatever." Amy turned on the radio in hopes of avoiding another lecture. Unfortunately, there was no music on this station, just news — and when Amy made a move to change the station, her mother told her to leave it where it was.

   It was the international news, which could be even worse than the local news. Instead of an accident killing one person, there would be an earthquake that killed hundreds. Instead of two teen gangs having a street fight, entire nations were at war. And since Amy was trapped in the car, there was no way she could avoid hearing all the crummy stories. Like the one about the doctor with a name she couldn't understand from some country she never even heard of.

   "Dr. Blah-blah has accused his government of removing organs from executed prisoners and selling them to wealthy people who need transplants."

   "Mom?"

   "Hmmm?"

   "What do you really think of this organ donation stuff? It's weird — I knew there was such a thing, but I never thought about it before. And suddenly I'm hearing about it all the time."

   "It's an important issue," her mother said. "Of course, there are unscrupulous people who want to make a profit from it."

   "The kind of people I get suspicious about?" Amy asked innocently.

   "I never said there aren't any bad people around. I just said that you don't give people a chance to prove their motives are good. Most people involved in organ donation work have the best intentions. You know, I carry an organ donation card."

   "You do?"

   Nancy nodded. "I like knowing that my death might offer a chance for life to someone else."

   The idea stayed with Amy, and she wondered whether she should sign an organ donation card herself. Whoever got her organs would be awfully lucky to get such high-functioning ones. When she heard her mother on the phone later with Dr. Dave, she thought she might ask him whether he carried an organ donation card too.

   "I want to talk to him when you're through," she told her mother, but her mother didn't hear her. She was frowning as she spoke.

   "Oh, Dave, I can't believe you did that. Honestly, sometimes I just don't understand you. How can you invite that terrible woman?"

   "Who?" Amy asked, but her mother motioned for her to be quiet. Amy couldn't resist using her listening skills to hear what Dr. Dave was saying on the other end.

   "I think Grace Morrison needs a friend," he said. "She seems troubled, as if she's worried about something serious."

   "Grace Morrison doesn't worry about anything except herself," Nancy argued.

   "I don't know, Nancy. I think she's changed. That's why I invited her to the dinner party Wednesday. And I want you and Amy to be there too."

   "Well, I'll have to think about it," Nancy said stiffly. "I'm not sure we can make it. I'll call you later."

   "Hey, Mom, I want to go to the dinner party," Amy protested as she hung up. She loved the cookouts Dr. Dave had at his oceanside home. He always made the most delicious barbecued spareribs.

   Her mother looked at her sternly. "Amy, were you eavesdropping? How many times have I told you not to use your powers like that?"

   But this time it was Amy's turn to lecture. "And you're the one who keeps saying people can change and they should be given a chance to prove it. Doesn't that apply to Grace Morrison too?"

   Nancy sighed. "I don't know. That woman . . ." She sat down at the kitchen table and put her head in her hands. After a moment of reflection, she looked up. "Yes, I suppose you're right. I'm not giving her the benefit of the doubt."

   Amy brightened. "So we're going to the party?"

   "I suppose so," Nancy said, relenting. But as Amy skipped happily out of the kitchen, her mother called after her, "Come back here, young lady. I still want to talk to you about listening to private conversations."

   Amy groaned. She'd have to endure a lecture after all. She only hoped Dr. Dave's spareribs would make it worthwhile.





   9



   The spareribs were fantastic, absolutely scrumptious. Not for the first time, Amy wondered if her super-advanced cellular structure had also given her a high-powered appetite. She counted her discarded rib bones and realized she'd eaten twice as much as her mother. And she knew she'd consume a few more.

   The ribs definitely compensated for the lecture on eavesdropping that she'd endured. They even compensated for the fact that this wasn't Dr. Dave's most fascinating group of dinner party guests.

   Dr. Dave had lots of interests, from movies to bird-watching, so there were usually interesting people at his parties. The kids of his adult friends would be invited too, so there was frequently someone around Amy's age for her to hang with. But tonight's cookout had been limited to doctor friends, and it appeared that none of them were parents.

   Amy's mother didn't mind. Nancy was pleased to see a couple of people she knew and admired. The fact that Grace Morrison hadn't shown up after all put her in even better spirits. She immediately became involved in a conversation about something scientific. For Amy, it was like listening to a foreign language — and not worth trying to translate.

   But when she had eaten all she could possibly eat without making herself sick, she was bored. The adults were happily debating developments in medical research, so she decided that a walk on the beach would be appropriate.

   She informed her mother, agreed to the various restrictions — Don't go in the water, be back in half an hour, don't go farther than a mile, blah, blah, blah — and took off.

   It was pleasant, strolling in the sand. The sun was just beginning to go down, and the beach was practically deserted. It was nice having some time alone to think.

   Mainly, she was thinking about Chris. He'd recovered rapidly from his bone marrow donation, and he was back at school. Paul Skinner was doing well too, and he'd be leaving the hospital the next day. She didn't have to worry about that business anymore. What she did have to worry about — or at least think about — was how she was going to tell Chris about herself.

   How would she bring it up? "Oh, Chris, by the way, I'm not a normal human being." Or maybe, "Hey, Chris, you ever heard of DNA? Genetic codes? Accelerated cellular activity?" She couldn't start talking about it like that, just out of the blue. She had to wait for the right moment — but when could there possibly be a right moment to tell someone she was a clone? And how would Chris react?

   From a nearby house she could hear the sound of a radio. She tried to relax and lose herself in the soft rock, but just as she was beginning to feel better, the music stopped and there was only the obnoxious voice of the deejay.

   "On the hour, and every hour, what's happening in greater Los Angeles. A riot broke out at Beverly Hills High. . . ." Amy turned and started walking back toward Dr. Dave's, but the annoying voice and the bad news followed her. She couldn't block it out.

   ". . . a six-car pile up on the Santa Monica Freeway . . . the fire spread out of control . . . twenty people injured . . . the release of Ace Tolliver from the hospital . . ." She stopped and listened harder.

   "An editorial in the L.A. Daily News has called for a reversal of Tolliver's early parole decision, on the basis that the successful heart transplant cancels the reason for the decision. It is doubtful, however, that the courts will take this into consideration. In a related story, Cassandra Price, who was with the son of Ace Tolliver in the accident that took his life, had this to say upon her release from the hospital today when she was asked how she thought Scott would feel about his father receiving his heart."

   A shaky female voice spoke. "It's not right. Scott didn't know his father, he never even met him! And by the way, Scott wasn't drunk. He didn't have anything to drink the night of the accident. I don't know what caused him to lose control of the car."

   "And now back to the music," the deejay announced. But Amy had to speed up to get back to Dr. Dave's — she was already past her half-hour limit and would incur the wrath of her mother.

   But her mother hadn't noticed she'd been gone so long. She was preoccupied with the arrival of a late guest — Grace Morrison.

   Amy had met the infamous doctor in Washington, D.C., and hadn't much liked her. Dr. Morrison had been pushy and nosy, too curious about Amy's development, wanting to put her through a battery of tests. Still, Amy tried to be polite.

   "Hello, Dr. Morrison, it's nice to see you again."

   The woman looked at her. "Yes . . . I know you. Number Seven."

   "Grace!" Dr. Dave exclaimed. "Not so loud! There are other people here. This isn't a Project Crescent reunion."

   "Hello, Grace," Nancy said.

   Dr. Morrison didn't seem to pick up on the coldness of Nancy's voice. "Oh, Nancy! I'm so glad you're here! I've been wanting to talk to you while I was in Los Angeles."

   Nancy stiffened. "Why?"

   "I was wondering if you'd heard anything about — "

   But other guests were gathering around to meet the new arrival, and Dr. Morrison was distracted. Dessert was served, and soon everyone was enjoying the homemade raspberry sherbet and talking — about medical stuff again. Luckily for Amy, the walk on the beach had renewed her appetite and she could concentrate on the sherbet. But her ears picked up on a phrase that was becoming very familiar to her.

   "Grace, this is Albert King," Dr. Dave was saying. "He's involved in organ transplant work at the hospital."

   "How interesting," Dr. Morrison said. "How is that coming along?"

   "Very well," Dr. King told her. "We're doing some experiments with a new antirejection drug, and the results are promising. We do quite a few bone marrow transplants, and we haven't had any rejections since we started using the drug. Recently, we've also performed two successful kidney transplants and a liver transplant."

   For the first time that evening, Amy made a contribution to the conversation. "And a heart transplant, right? Ace Tolliver."

   "Yes, of course," Dr. King said. "But we didn't need to use any antirejection drugs with him. It was amazing! I've never seen such a perfect match in my life. It's as if that heart was made for him — a healthy replication of his own. His son could have been his twin."

   "Grace!" Nancy said sharply. "Are you all right?"

   Amy turned and understood the reason for her mother's alarm. Dr. Morrison was staring at Dr. King, and it looked as if she was in a state of shock. All the color had drained from her face. There was a crash as the glass she'd been holding fell from her hand and broke on the stone floor. She began to sway.

   Dr. Dave got up and hurried to her. "Grace, what is it?"

   Dr. Morrison was shaking. "No, no," she moaned. "I can't believe this. It's happening, it's really happening."

   "What's happening?" Dr. Dave asked her. "Grace, are you ill?" Another doctor came over and took her pulse.

   "It's racing," he reported. "She needs to lie down." Between the two of them, they helped Dr. Morrison into the house. By now she was moaning incoherently. All Amy could pick up were the words "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

   Amy didn't think the woman was simply referring to the broken glass.





   10



   "I've given her something to calm her," Dr. Dave reported when he returned to the other guests. "She's resting."

   Grace Morrison's breakdown pretty much put an end to the evening. The guests all began to leave. But Nancy lingered.

   "Dave, what was that all about?" she asked. "Did Grace know Ace Tolliver?"

   "I suppose it's possible," Dave said. "I remember that she once told me she'd had a love affair with a real estate tycoon. In fact, their breakup was what made her leave L.A. and move to Washington. It was a long time ago, though. At least twenty years, maybe more."

   "And you think the tycoon was Ace Tolliver?" Nancy frowned. "That's kind of a wild coincidence, isn't it?"

   Dave shrugged. "But I suppose it's possible."

   Amy took that possibility a step farther. "Then she'd be glad Ace Tolliver was recovering, wouldn't she? Unless she hates him and wishes he was dead. No, wait, I've got it! She was the mother of Ace Tolliver's son! That's why she was so upset just now! It all makes sense. Grace Morrison and Ace Tolliver are both creepy types — they probably fell madly in love, then Grace had a baby, Scott Tolliver. She put him up for adoption, but she's always wondered what happened to him, and just now she found out. That's why she went crazy!"

   Both Nancy and Dr. Dave were staring at Amy as if they'd just realized she was still on the terrace with them.

   "Amy," Nancy said sweetly, "why don't you go inside and see if there's something on TV?"

   Amy rolled her eyes. Obviously, they wanted to have a conversation they didn't think was appropriate for a thirteen-year-old to hear. And they weren't interested in her theories.

   "All right," she said, and started into the house.

   "And Amy?" her mother called after her. "No eavesdropping."

   Amy looked at her and rolled her eyes again. "Oh, Mother." And with as much dignity as she could muster, she went inside.

   Okay, maybe her notion was a little far-fetched. More like something that would happen on a soap opera, where people met for the first time and discovered that they were brother and sister or something similar. Still, it had been the mention of Ace Tolliver and his transplant that had seemed to set Grace Morrison off. There had to be some kind of connection.

   Amy went into Dr. Dave's living room and opened the doors of the cabinet that concealed his huge wide-screen TV. As she surfed with the remote, she was still aware of the soft murmur of adult voices on the terrace, and it was tempting to concentrate on them. Whatever they were talking about had to be more interesting than anything on the screen.

   Stop it right now, Amy scolded herself. You're not supposed to eavesdrop. Resolutely she shut, out the voices. Then she became aware of another sound.

   It was a voice, but it was hard to make out, even with her super-concentration. It sounded fuzzy, like someone talking with a pillow over their face. It had to be Grace Morrison.

   Amy started toward the guest bedroom, where she assumed the woman was lying down. She reasoned to herself that she wasn't being nosy, that she was simply checking to make sure the woman wasn't suffocating. Cracking open the bedroom door, Amy peered inside.

   Dr. Morrison didn't appear to be in any real distress. She lay on her back with her eyes closed. But her lips were moving, just slightly. Apparently she was talking in her sleep. The mumbled phrases were garbled, and Amy could only pick out a word here and there. "No . . . don't . . . his son . . . not his son . . ."

   Amy was about to close the door when another word became intelligible. Through the mumbles and the murmurs, it came through clearly. "Clone," Grace Morrison said. Or maybe it was "Cloned." In either case, this was very interesting.

   Amy moved closer to the bed. Dr. Dave had said he'd given Dr. Morrison some medication, so she could be really out of it and talking nonsense. On the other hand, maybe she'd let slip a truth that she wouldn't have revealed if she'd been completely awake. Like something about her relationship with Ace Tolliver.

   Still, Amy hesitated. Unlike Grace Morrison, her conscience was speaking up loud and clear. If she learned something this way, when the woman was helpless, was that wrong? Probably.

   But Amy's very own mother had said she didn't trust Dr. Grace Morrison. The woman was bad — she had conspired and collaborated with the organization back when Project Crescent was happening. It was her fault that Amy and her cloned sisters were in perpetual danger. Anything that Amy could learn from this woman could ultimately save lives. At least, that was how she was going to rationalize what she was about to do.

   She moved even closer, right up to Dr. Morrison's ear. "Ace Tolliver," she said, speaking softly but distinctly. "Talk about Ace Tolliver."

   There was no response. Amy tried again.

   "Ace Tolliver. Ace Tolliver and Grace Morrison. Ace and Grace. Grace loves Ace."

   That got a response, but not in words. The woman's face puckered, as if she was smelling something bad or thinking of something nasty.

   "Grace hates Ace," Amy tried.

   The woman's features relaxed a little, but this didn't really tell Amy anything. Amy said another name. "Scott Tolliver."

   There was no reaction.

   "Scott Tolliver. His son. He's dead."

   Grace's head moved back and forth. "No . . .no . . ."

   "Yes," Amy said. She was feeling crummy now. Maybe Grace really had been the boy's mother.

   "No, no." The woman was shaking her head violently now. "No. Not his son."

   "Not his son?" Amy was confused. Of course, she had to remember that this woman was heavily medicated. She could be talking gibberish. Still, Amy couldn't resist continuing in this direction. "Not his son? What? His — his nephew? Brother? Cousin?"

   Then she heard the word again, the word that had lured her to the woman. "Clone," Grace Morrison said. "Clone."

   A chill crept up Amy's spine. "Scott Tolliver was a clone of Ace Tolliver? But that's impossible. Scott was twenty years old. There was no cloning going on twenty years ago." She was talking to herself now, trying to make some sense of all this. Now she leaned closer to the woman again and spoke urgently.

   "Who made clones twenty years ago? Grace? Who cloned Ace Tolliver?"

   The doctor's lips moved. No sound came out, but Amy could read lips.

   "You did? But why, Grace? Why?"

   The lips moved again, and Amy read them. But this time she couldn't believe her own interpretation. "Why, Grace? Why did Ace Tolliver have a clone?"

   This time, words came out, softly but distinctly. And to Amy's astonishment — and horror — she realized she'd understood them clearly the first time.

   "Spare parts."





   11



   Amy couldn't be absolutely sure she'd put it together correctly. She kept reminding herself that she had been talking to a sleeping, upset, drugged woman, that she had been feeding questions and ideas to the woman, and that her own imagination might have run wild.

   But the puzzle pieces seemed to fit, even if the picture they created was too awful to believe. Over and over, Amy went through the strange conversation. Again and again, the same story emerged.

   Ace Tolliver had wanted a long and healthy life. Grace Morrison had wanted to experiment with the new concept of cloning. Ace Tolliver was very rich. Grace Morrison needed money for her research.

   Somehow — the details were hazy — they had met. Somehow they had learned of each other's goals in life and had realized how they could help each other achieve them. Ace would pay Grace Morrison a great deal of money, and Grace would attempt to clone him. Ace Tolliver would have a replica — only younger.

   As Ace aged, there was the possibility that his organs might fail. But Ace would have a twin — sort of. A younger, healthier version of himself, a perfect match in every possible way. Scott Tolliver had been created to provide Ace Tolliver with spare parts. And Scott Tolliver had died because Ace needed one of those parts.

   But even if Scott had a clone, he had also been something else. A human being. Which made Ace Tolliver a murderer.

   Amy put the story together in the car on the way home from Dr. Dave's. Pretending to fall asleep, she'd avoided any conversation with her mother. How could she possibly share her suspicions with Nancy? If her mother thought her idea of Scott Tolliver being the Jove child of Ace and Dr. Morrison was preposterous, what would she think of this notion? No, for the time being, Amy would keep her theory a secret. Because that was all it was — a theory. Amy had no proof. She seriously doubted that a fully conscious Grace Morrison would admit to it.

   But the knowledge weighed heavily in the back of Amy's mind, and the next day at school she found it difficult to think about anything else. Tasha didn't notice how distracted she was. She was too excited about the Pace Coverdell concert that evening.

   "Four backstage passes!" she crowed as they sat together at lunch in the cafeteria. "Can you believe it? I'm inviting Nate Nakamura from my creative writing class. You can bring Chris. Okay? Amy, are you listening to me?"

   "Huh? Oh, sure, I'm listening. Yeah, I'll ask Chris."

   "And I'll be able to give the scrapbook to Pace." Tasha took it out of her backpack, and for the zillionth time tried to get Amy to look at it. "Don't you think this is nice? It's a whole page devoted to his childhood. I got the pictures from an old biography about his father. Look, here's Pace on his first birthday."

   Amy glanced at the picture. It was a fuzzy black-and-white copy of a copy, showing baby Pace in his father's arms. Tony Coverdell had wild curly hair flowing to his shoulders. She recalled her mother's saying how much the young rocker resembled his father.

   "I don't think he looks much like Pace," Amy commented.

   "Actually, he does," Tasha told her. "I saw an old army picture of Tony Coverdell in the biography. Without all that hair, he looked a lot like Pace looks now. They could practically be twins."

   That word set off an alarm in Amy's brain. "Twins," she echoed faintly.

   "Of course, they don't look at all like each other anymore," Tasha continued. "With all the drugs Tony took, his body is a mess. He's got really bad kidneys — they hardly work at all. In an interview, Pace said that his father has to go to a hospital and have treatments practically every day."

   "Tasha . . . does Tony Coverdell need a kidney transplant?"

   "I don't know," Tasha said. "I guess so. Why?"

   Amy rubbed her forehead. This was ridiculous. Now she was getting paranoid and really letting her imagination go wild. "Oh, nothing. Come on, let's go to class."

   She and Tasha were in the same math class, and it was a huge one — around sixty kids. The unfortunate teacher had to spend the first ten minutes just trying to get everyone to be quiet and stay in their seats. Today Linda Riviera was regaling a group with tales of Rita Ritchie's luxurious life. She was spending a week at the home of her birth mother.

   "She has a swimming pool in the shape of a heart," Linda was saying. "And she has a chauffeur, a cook, a secretary, three maids, and a butler!"

   Plenty of guide people, Amy thought. Maybe the ex-movie star really did want Linda to be her daughter.

   Clearly, Linda was adapting easily to the lifestyle of the rich and famous. "Of course, some of the servants are truly hopeless," she said with an arrogant wave of her hand. One of them keeps leaving things lying around. I've tripped twice. Of course, she denies it, but it has to be her. Yesterday I found a Rollerblade at the top of the stairs! If I hadn't seen it in time, I could have had a really nasty fall."

   Chris was listening to the tales too, and he was extremely skeptical. "What would a blind woman be doing with Rollerblades?" he asked.

   "I haven't the slightest idea," Amy replied. "Are you going to see your father after school?"

   Chris nodded happily. "He's leaving the hospital today, so I'm going to see him at his apartment. Want to come?"

   She got that special warm feeling again. Chris truly wanted her to be a part of his life. And once again, she wondered when she would tell him the secret about her life. "Sure," she said. "Oh, and can you go to the Pace Coverdell conceit tonight? Tasha got free tickets, and her mother will drive us."

   Even though he wasn't a fan, Chris agreed. When the last bell rang that afternoon, they met at Amy's locker. "I'd better call my mother and let her know I'm not coming straight home," she told him. They stopped at a pay phone so that she could call.

   "Mom, it's me."

   "Hi, sweetie." Nancy's voice sounded strange.

   "Mom? Are you okay?"

   "I'm coming down with something — a cold, I guess. I just hope it's not the flu." Nancy sneezed twice.

   "I was going with Chris to visit his father," Amy said. "But I'll come home if you need me."

   "No, sweetie, you go on. I'm fine. I'm curled up on the sofa with my carton of juice and a good video to watch on TV."

   As they waited for the bus to take them to the neighborhood where Paul Skinner was living, Amy considered telling Chris what she'd learned about Ace Tolliver. It could lead into a conversation about cloning, and that might provide the opportunity to tell him about herself. But she decided against it. It was such a bizarre story, and it would put cloning in a negative light. No, she'd have to wait for a more uplifting lead-in to her own tale.

   Paul Skinner's apartment was in a small complex where there were no trees or flowers. Some of the windows had sheets tacked up instead of curtains. The apartments looked like the kind people didn't plan to stay in too long.

   Paul Skinner must have seen them coming from one of those windows, because he threw open the door before they'd even knocked and engulfed his son in a bear hug.

   "And here's my savior now!" he crowed. "How are you, boy? Taking care of your health, I hope!"

   That's a strange sort of greeting, Amy thought. She edged away from the man to avoid finding herself wrapped in his arms too. Chris didn't seem to be enjoying the embrace. He squirmed away and eyed his father cautiously.

   "How are you feeling?" he asked.

   "Never better," Paul Skinner declared jovially. "It's amazing what a pint of bone marrow can do for a fellow!"

   He sounds like Ace Tolliver, Amy thought. But at least Paul Skinner was grateful for Chris's contribution.

   "You're very important to me, son," he was saying now. "From here on, I'm going to take care of you. We're going to be together. Really stick together."

   Is he planning to have Chris move into this apartment? Amy wondered. She looked around. The place looked kind of messy, and there was a funny smell. She realized that the entire apartment was just this one room. Where would Chris sleep?

   "What do you say, son? Want to live with your old man?" Paul Skinner started laughing, as if he'd just said something very funny, but Amy didn't get the joke.

   Neither did Chris. He too was looking around the room with an uncertain expression. "Well, maybe."

   "This calls for a celebration," Paul Skinner proclaimed. He marched over to a rickety card table and picked up a bottle. That was when Amy realized what the funny smell was. The odor came from the bottle, and from Paul Skinner's breath. She didn't know if it was wine or beer or whiskey, but it was definitely something alcoholic.

   "Chris," she whispered urgently. "Chris, he's been drinking."

   "I know," Chris said quietly. He was clearly disturbed too. "Um, Dad . . . you really shouldn't drink that stuff. It's not good for you. You've been sick, remember?"

   "Aw, just one little drink. It's a special occasion." Paul Skinner put the bottle to his mouth and took a gulp.

   It was evident to Amy that he'd had a lot more than one already, and Chris had to see that too. "Chris, he's drunk," she said. "Let's get out of here."

   "You go," Chris said quietly. "I want to make sure he doesn't hurt himself."

   "You're going to stay here alone?" Amy asked worriedly.

   "It's okay, I can handle it."

   Paul Skinner was staggering around now, singing to himself. Then he sank down on a threadbare sofa, grinned stupidly, and closed his eyes. He looked pretty harmless. The only person he could hurt was himself.

   "What about the concert tonight?" Amy asked Chris.

   "I'm sure he'll be sound asleep by then," Chris said. "Could you guys pick me up here?"

   Amy agreed and told him they'd come by around seven-thirty. Outside, she took a deep breath of fresh air. This being Los Angeles, it wasn't exactly clean air, but at least it wasn't fermented.

   Poor Chris, she thought as she rode the bus back home. And poor Paul Skinner. She'd heard that alcoholism was like an illness, so she supposed she should be feeling sorry for him. Although you would think that after having been so ill, Paul Skinner would be a lot more careful about his health.

   Then that awful chilly sensation crept up her back again, and the alarm bells in her head started going off.

   Why should Paul Skinner worry about his health when he had Chris available to provide him with spare parts?





   12



   Was Amy crazy? Had her imagination gone totally berserk? Or was it all making a sort of horrible sense? When she arrived home, she rushed inside to find her mother curled up on the sofa, covered with a quilt and clutching a wad of tissues.

   Nancy's glazed eyes were semifocused on the TV screen. "Hi, sweetie," she croaked.

   There was a bottle of cold medicine on the coffee table. Amy knew her mother would soon fall asleep. She didn't even take the time to ask how her mother was feeling. "Where's Grace Morrison?"

   The question was unexpected, and it took Nancy a moment to respond. "What?"

   "Dr. Morrison! Where is she? Is she still at Dr. Dave's?"

   Nancy yawned. "No. Dave said she was gone this morning when he woke up."

   "Does he know where she went?"

   "No, I don't think so," her mother replied sleepily. Her eyes had closed. Amy wouldn't be getting any more information out of her. She'd have to call Dr. Dave.

   The sound from the TV was annoying, so she looked around for the remote to turn it off. For a second, she was distracted by the picture on the screen.

   It was a movie — an old movie, from the look of the clothes and the hairstyle of the teenager. The actress looked familiar, and Amy recognized Rita Ritchie. This must be the movie her mother had taped.

   Amy stared at the actress. Strange, how familiar she looked. The movie had to be at least thirty years old, and Amy had never seen Rita Ritchie without sunglasses concealing her features.

   Then, like a slap in the face, it hit Amy — why the woman seemed so familiar. Make her a little younger, give her a different hairstyle . . . she was Linda Riviera.

   Amy tried to steady her nerves with a deep breath, but it didn't do much good. She ran into the kitchen and grabbed the phone. Thank goodness Dr. Dave was on speed dial — she didn't have to take the time to look up his number.

   And thank goodness he was home. But that was where her luck ran out.

   "I don't know where Dr. Morrison is, Amy. Why?"

   Amy avoided the question. "Did she leave a note?"

   "Actually, she did, but it was cryptic. Something about wanting to go away, to be alone and think about what she'd done. She wrote something about feeling guilty. . . . I suppose she was talking about Project Crescent and collaborating with the organization."

   But Amy had a suspicion that Dr. Morrison was referring to something else altogether.

   "Why are you suddenly so interested in Grace Morrison?" Dr. Dave demanded.

   Amy didn't answer his question. "Thanks, Dr. Dave," she said in a rush, and hung up the phone.

   Now what? She tried to collect her thoughts and come up with a plan. It would help to talk it out, but her mother was sound asleep. So she ran outside and next door.

   Tasha let her in. Amy didn't bother with greetings. "I have to talk to you — it's urgent."

   Being best friends, they didn't waste time with unnecessary questions. "Let's go to my room," Tasha said. They passed her brother, Eric, on the stairs as they ran up, and Amy didn't bother to greet him, either. Eric had been her boyfriend once, but she had a new boyfriend to worry about now.

   In Tasha's room, with the door safely closed, Amy told the story as she had put it together. Tasha listened carefully, with wide eyes. Even as Amy spoke, she could hear how crazy it all sounded — and at the same time, it all made sense.

   "So I think Dr. Morrison took money from rich people and cloned them, so they could have identical, younger versions of themselves. Then, if they got some sort of disease, or if their own body parts started wearing out, they'd have someone healthy around who would match them perfectly. Blood, bone marrow — this stuff would be available. Of course, if they needed something like a heart — "

   Tasha finished the sentence. "The person would have to die. Ohmigod, Amy."

   Amy nodded. "Maybe that's why the rich people don't raise the clones themselves. They don't want to get too close to them, because they might have to kill them. Like Ace Tolliver and his son. Or Rita Ritchie and Linda Riviera. Or Paul Skinner and Chris."

   "Paul Skinner isn't rich," Tasha pointed out.

   "But he was," Amy said. "You know how much money those professional athletes make. And who knows how many other people she cloned? Politicians, royalty, movie stars . . ."

   "Rock stars," Tasha said. "Oh, Amy — do you think Pace Coverdell is a clone of Tony Coverdell?"

   "It's possible," Amy said. "Didn't you tell me that Tony Coverdell has unhealthy kidneys?"

   Tasha grabbed her bag and the Pace Coverdell scrapbook. "We have to get to the concert place now. Thank goodness I've got those backstage passes. We have to warn him."

   "And I have to warn Chris," Amy said. "We'll go get him at his — " She'd almost said "at his father's." It dawned on her that she had no idea what to call the source of a clone. "At Paul Skinner's," she finished.

   "Nate's meeting us at the concert," Tasha told her. "I'll tell my mother we have to get there early for some reason."

   A minute later, they were in Tasha's mother's car. "I wish you had told me you were going to interview this rock star before the concert," Mrs. Morgan complained as she drove them. "I would have put dinner on the table early."

   "It's okay, we're not hungry," Tasha said. "I'm, uh, too excited."

   "Me too," Amy chimed in. "Take this exit, Mrs. Morgan, and it's the first complex on the right."

   To her surprise and relief, Chris was outside, sitting on the doorstep of the apartment. "Why are you out here?" she asked him.

   "He passed out, and it stinks of alcohol in there," Chris said. "I had to get some fresh air. How come you're here so early?"

   Amy hesitated. "It's a long story, I'll tell you later." The important thing was to get Chris away from Paul — far away, where Paul couldn't get his hands on Chris. Then she'd explain why.

   There was a traffic jam around the concert hall, and Tasha pleaded with her mother to let them out a block away. Mrs. Morgan finally relented, after giving them safety instructions and details about where to wait to be picked up after the concert. Free at last, they ran to the auditorium.

   Chris was bewildered. "What's going on? Why are we in such a hurry? We've already got the tickets, right?"

   "Tasha's got something to tell Pace Coverdell," Amy told him in a rush. "And . . . and — "

   "And what?"

   Amy couldn't meet his eyes. "I have something to tell you."





   13



   The concert wasn't scheduled to start for almost two hours, but there was already a crowd around the auditorium. It was mostly squealing girls, who were waiting for the star's arrival. Guards were holding them back, trying to keep them away from the stage door.

   Tasha pushed her way importantly through the crowd, and Amy and Chris followed her. "I've got backstage passes," Tasha told the guard who was barring the door.

   "Yeah, yeah, who doesn't?" the guard said.

   "No, really, I do!" Tasha pulled the papers out of her bag. "I'm Tasha Morgan, editor of the Parkside Middle School News."

   The guard was not impressed. "Just stay back, girlie. Everyone else wants this guy's autograph too."

   "But I don't want an autograph!" Tasha cried out. "Well, I wouldn't mind having an autograph. But I've got something to tell him, something important!"

   "Yeah, right," the guard said. "And I'm sure he loves you too. Just keep away from the door."

   Stricken, Tasha turned to Amy. "He thinks I'm a groupie! What am I going to do? I've got to get Pace the message!"

   "The message about what?" Chris asked.

   "Write a note," Amy suggested. "Ask the guard to give it to him."

   Like any good editor, Tasha was never without a notebook and a pen. She whipped them out of her bag.

   Chris looked over Tasha's shoulder as she wrote, and read aloud. " 'Dear Pace, I know this sounds crazy but you have to believe me. I want to save your life. You are not the son of Tony Coverdell. You are Tony Coverdell's clone. He wants your kidneys.' " He stopped reading. "Tasha, are you nuts?"

   Tasha was still writing and didn't respond. Amy clutched Chris's hand. "Chris, it's true."

   Chris shook his head. "Oh, come on, Amy. There aren't any human clones."

   "Yes. Yes, Chris, there are."

   He grinned. "Sure there are. They live with the elves and the fairies in the woods."

   "Chris, I'm serious! Listen to me." The crowd around them was getting larger and noisier. Amy knew she had to talk fast if she didn't want to yell. "There were experiments. A long time ago. This doctor, Dr. Grace Morrison — people paid her to have themselves cloned. It was a precaution in case anything went wrong with their health. It was a way of having spare parts available."

   Chris stared at her. "Is this for real?"

   "Absolutely, positively," Amy said, even though she couldn't really be sure about what Dr. Morrison had done. But there was one thing she could say with total certainty. "There are human clones, Chris. They do exist."

   He was still wide-eyed and staring. But he believed her — she could see that in his eyes.

   Screams went up from the crowd. A limousine had arrived. Guards began pushing the people back from the walkway. Tasha was practically hysterical, begging a guard to give her note to Pace. Finally the guard took it from her.

   "Tasha wants to warn him," Amy yelled into Chris's ear. "Because his father might want part of his body!"

   The rock star was emerging from the limousine. The screams escalated. Chris craned his neck for a look at Pace Coverdell, and Amy could barely hear what he was saying.

   "That guy's a clone?" he said, or something like that. The words weren't distinct. But even if she couldn't hear, she saw something that came through clearly. An expression on his face. Horror and disgust.

   Panic swept over her. "Chris, it's not such a terrible thing to be a clone. Chris! Listen to me!" She tugged on his shirtsleeve. He looked away from Pace and directly at her.

   "Chris — I'm a clone."

   And as the words left her mouth, she realized she couldn't bear to see that horror and disgust aimed in her direction. So before the shock could wear off Chris's face, she turned away and fled.





   14



   Where to go, what to do? Did it matter? Any relationship she'd had with Chris was over, she was sure of that. He wouldn't look at her in the same way again. He'd never think of her as normal again. In his eyes, she would be a freak. Always.

   And how would he see himself, if he knew he was a clone? He'd hate himself, he'd see himself as a freak too. She knew what it would feel like — she'd been there herself. When she'd first learned about her origin, she'd felt artificial. But she'd gotten over it, and she had her extraordinary gifts to compensate.

   Chris didn't have those gifts. He was an ordinary clone, not genetically altered like her. So he'd see himself only as a freak, nothing special. He'd hide, he'd run away, he'd want to disappear. He'd end up like his father, wasted away on drugs or alcohol or anything that might make the real world unreal. Or worse. He might want to leave the real world altogether. No, Chris should never learn that he wasn't an ordinary person.

   But there was still one thing Amy could do for him. She could save him from his so-called father, maybe even save his life. At least, she could try.

   She'd been running now for how long? She couldn't say. She didn't even know where she was. With her physical gifts, she could run faster and longer than a normal girl and still not get tired or out of breath. But she forced herself to stop and look around.

   At a corner, she read the street signs. Fortunately, with her mental gifts, she was able to visualize a map of Los Angeles in her head. She closed her eyes, concentrated, and figured out the directions. When she opened her eyes, she realized that a cruising police car was idling nearby and an officer was looking at her curiously.

   She couldn't get the authorities involved in this. And she couldn't do anything to make them even more curious. So she began to walk at a normal pace, as if she had someplace to be and knew where she was going. Which was true, but she didn't want the police following her there. And on this evening in Los Angeles, there seemed to be cops everywhere. So she had to continue walking normally.

   But that was okay — there was no need to rush. She felt reasonably sure that Paul Skinner was still passed out in his apartment. In his condition, he wouldn't be going anywhere. She could take her time.

   Los Angeles wasn't a good city for walking. There were more freeways than regular streets, and the streets didn't run in a neatly organized way. To keep going in the right direction, she had to concentrate on the directional map she'd mentally created. Which was good, in a way — it gave her less time to think about herself, Chris, her situation. Her sadness.

   She slowed down even more when she reached Paul Skinner's street. There were other people outside, and no one was paying any attention to her, but she still felt as if there were eyes on her, as if someone might know what she wanted to do. Maybe Grace Morrison was around; maybe she was planning to meet with Paul Skinner that very evening! From what Dr. Dave had said, from what Grace had told her, she wasn't particularly proud of what she'd done. She felt bad, guilty, remorseful. She might want to make up for it in some way. Maybe she was going to visit all the people she'd cloned and try to talk them out of using their replicas.

   Once Amy had reached Paul Skinner's apartment complex, she made her way to his door. She leaned against it and listened. She thought she heard two voices but then realized they were coming from a television. She edged quietly to a window. Paul Skinner hadn't even bothered to put up a sheet to block the scene inside.

   He was alone and awake. Maybe even sober. He might not have had time to do much drinking since waking up.

   She rapped on the door. Paul Skinner opened it immediately, but he registered surprise when he saw who was on his doorstep. "Oh, it's you! I was expecting a delivery."

   From the liquor store, probably, Amy thought. She forced a smile, which had to look pretty phony. She wasn't much of an actor. "Yes, it's me! I just wanted to see how you're feeling."

   "Oh. Well, isn't that nice." His own smile seemed pretty fake too. He looked beyond her. "Chris isn't with you?"

   "No. Can I come in?"

   "Of course!" he said, his voice ringing with false heartiness. "Come right in! Have a seat!"

   Amy eyed the nasty-looking sofa with distaste. "No thanks, I'll stand." She noticed with some relief that he hadn't swung the door completely closed. There was a very real possibility that he wouldn't like hearing what she had to say and she might have to make a hasty retreat. Amy knew she was a lot stronger than any ordinary thirteen-year-old girl. But Paul Skinner was a man, bigger than she was, and that infusion of bone marrow might have given him a lot of strength.

   Now Skinner was looking at her expectantly. "Um, could I have something to drink?" she asked. "Water," she added hastily.

   "Of course, of course," he said. "I'm a terrible host. I haven't offered you anything. Now, let's see, water . . ." He eyed his collection of bottles uncertainly.

   "From the tap is just fine," Amy assured him. She watched him go into the kitchenette and run water into a glass.

   "Thank you." She took the glass from him gingerly. It didn't look too clean, and she hoped he wouldn't ask why she wasn't drinking from it.

   He poured himself a drink too — the last drops from a whiskey bottle. "Just a little something to take the edge off," he explained to her. "Getting a bone marrow transplant isn't a piece of cake, you know."

   "I'm sure it isn't," Amy said politely. "Donating it couldn't be easy either."

   "My son's young and strong, he'll be fine," Paul Skinner said.

   "Yes," Amy said. "He will. At least, I hope so. And I hope you'll be fine too."

   Skinner tossed back the rest of his drink. "Oh, yeah, I'll be fine." He frowned. "You hear something just then? Outside?"

   "No," Amy said, but she hadn't been listening. Obviously, Skinner was on pins and needles, waiting for his booze. He went to the window and looked out. "Ten minutes, ha," he muttered. "More like ten hours. You can't count on delivery people anymore." Then he brightened.

   "Whoa, the old memory is kicking in!" He went to the closet and opened the door. Pushing a few items of clothing aside, he reached for a jacket and searched the pockets. "Aha!" Triumphantly he emerged from the closet with a bunch of miniature bottles.

   "Swiped these from the cart on the flight here," he confided. "Sneaked up to first class and got the better stuff!"

   "That's nice," Amy lied. "Mr. Skinner, there's something I want to ask you."

   "Go right ahead," he said promptly. He emptied one of the little bottles directly into his mouth. He swallowed, then smacked his lips with pleasure. "Anything my boy's little sweetheart wants to know, I'm happy to tell her." Then he began to unscrew the top of another miniature bottle.

   Amy hesitated. Was it too soon to hit him with what she knew? "Um, it must be nice having your son with you again."

   "Sure is," he said. "And we're going to be together from now on. Side by side. Like whaddya call 'em, Siamese twins."

   Amy corrected him with the proper term. "Conjoined twins." She shuddered.

   "Yeah, right." He was looking at the TV. "Hey, it's an oldie but goodie!"

   An old video clip of a band was playing. On the screen, a young Tony Coverdell was prancing around a stage. Paul Skinner turned up the sound and began humming along off-key.

   "Do you like Tony Coverdell?" Amy asked softly. She wondered if the two men might possibly have met when Dr. Morrison was cloning them. No, Pace Coverdell had to be a couple of years older than Chris.

   Paul Skinner wasn't listening to her anyway. He was snapping his fingers, downing his third bottle, or was it his fourth?

   "Mr. Skinner." She spoke more loudly. "Mr. Skinner!"

   What was he doing now, trying to dance? "Huh? What?" He was swaying back and forth unsteadily to the music. "Yeah?"

   "Maybe you shouldn't drink so much," Amy said. "I mean, it can't be good for your health, so soon after your transplant."

   "You sound like my doctor," he muttered.

   "What does your doctor say about drinking?"

   "Not good for the liver. It's in lousy shape."

   Amy's heart started thumping faster. "You can't live without a liver, you know."

   "Yeah, I know that. Whaddya think, I'm stupid? I'm not stupid. And I'm not worried, either."

   "Why aren't you worried, Mr. Skinner?"

   He didn't respond.

   "Why aren't you worried, Mr. Skinner?" she asked again. "Because there's a spare liver lying around, just waiting to be transplanted into you?"

   He stopped dancing or swaying or whatever he was doing and staggered slightly as he tried to focus on her. "What did you say?"

   "It's Chris, isn't it? He isn't your son. He's your clone. You had him created so you could do whatever you wanted to wreck your own body. Then you'd just take the bits and pieces from him. First his bone marrow. Next you'll want a slice of his liver. I think a person can live with just part of their liver. But what's going to happen when you need a heart? How are you going to arrange that? Chris would have to die for that to happen."

   A creepy, crooked grin broke out on Skinner's face. "Hey, you're not just a cutie, you're smart, too! My son picked himself a nice girl."

   "He didn't pick me," Amy said coldly. "And he's not your son, remember? He's a duplicate of you. But only physically, thank goodness. He's a good person, a real human being. And you're not going to ask him to donate anything ever again."

   "Oh yeah?" Skinner staggered toward her. "How are you going to stop me?"

   From behind her, outside, she heard movements. The delivery guy from the liquor store surely wouldn't just stand there as Paul Skinner attacked her. If nothing else, he would distract Skinner, and she'd make a getaway.

   But the door swung open and she whirled around. It wasn't the liquor store delivery guy. It was Chris.

   "She doesn't have to stop you," Chris said. "You can ask all you want. You're not getting any more parts of my body."

   "Your body? Your body? That's my body you've got, boy! I paid for it! It belongs to me!"

   Chris didn't flinch at the words. Amy saw pure loathing in his eyes as he glared right back at Paul Skinner. "You can't have it," he said.

   "You mean, you won't give it to me," Paul Skinner shot back. "But that doesn't mean I can't take it." He lunged toward Chris.

   Chris tried to grab the man's wrist, but Paul Skinner was fast for a drunk. And strong. He managed to get both hands around Chris's neck. Chris struggled to break his hold, but already his face was turning purple.

   Amy leaped onto Paul Skinner's back. The surprise worked in her favor. Paul Skinner was so stunned, he loosened his grip for a second, and Chris was able to break free. He made a fist and hit the man in the chin. Skinner staggered backward for a second, then came charging toward Chris like a bull. His adrenaline was obviously kicking in, and he was looking way too strong. Amy didn't want him getting any closer to Chris. She rushed between them, and with both hands she mustered all her strength to push him back.

   All her strength was a lot of strength. Paul Skinner was knocked down, and his head hit the ground with a satisfying crack. Amy hoped this blow would knock him out, but just in case it didn't, she jumped on top of him and held him down by the shoulders.

   When Skinner didn't resist, she realized he was definitely unconscious. She got off him and stood up. "Are you okay?" she asked Chris.

   But Chris didn't answer. He stared at the man on the ground, then at Amy. It was impossible to say who had shocked him more.





   15



   "Just listen to this," Tasha said in disgust. "These people are so mean."

   Amy and Chris were sitting at the Morgans' dining table, eating Mrs. Morgan's chunky chocolate chip cookies and poring over recent teen magazines while Tasha cut articles and pictures out of them. She was still working on the Pace Coverdell scrapbook.

   It had been two weeks since the Pace Coverdell concert, which Amy and Chris had completely missed. Tasha had seen the concert, but she hadn't been able to get close enough to Pace to present him with the scrapbook. But it appeared that Pace might have received the note Tasha passed to the guard.

   She read aloud from the magazine. " 'The word is spreading that aging rock star Tony Coverdell is in dire need of a kidney transplant. All of music-land is wondering why son Pace Coverdell has not offered to donate a kidney of his own.' " She threw the magazine down. "Obviously, they don't understand the situation."

   Amy nodded. "I guess they don't believe the rumors about clone experiments."

   The rumor had first popped up in a newspaper two weeks before. Amy remembered seeing it the morning after she and Chris had confronted Paul Skinner.



   Medical and scientific experts are questioning the authenticity and reliability of a report that human clones were created as early as twenty years ago. According to one source, Dr. Grace Morrison, formerly of the National Institutes of Health, claims to have participated in the experimental cloning of several celebrities and other wealthy people who wanted duplicates of themselves to be used in case of a need for transplants. Dr. Morrison would not reveal the names but has been quoted as saying, "They know who they are, and if any of them attempt to harvest body parts, I will make their identities known."



   Amy's mother had read the article too, and she had shaken her head sadly. "The poor woman, she really has lost her mind. I didn't like her, but I'm sorry for anyone who's having delusions like this."

   Amy had said nothing. She knew from experience that one comment could lead to a zillion questions, and if her mother knew what she had done instead of going to a rock concert, she'd be grounded for life. But inwardly, she had cheered Dr. Morrison. The woman had done terrible things in the name of science. At least now she was trying to put an end to the harm she'd helped bring about.

   Tasha spoke dreamily. "I wonder if Pace will ever know I saved his life. Or at least his kidney. I know that people have two kidneys and they can live on just one, but who knows what his so-called father would have asked for next? Once Pace read my note, he had to realize that Tony was just using him."

   "Or maybe he didn't get the note and he's just too selfish to give up a kidney," Chris said with a grin.

   Tasha eyed him haughtily. "You don't know anything at all about Pace Coverdell."

   Chris shrugged. "I don't know if that's true. We're sort of related, aren't we? I mean, both of us being clones?"

   Amy laughed. "It doesn't work that way. Maybe you spent some time in the same test tube, but that's about it."

   "Lucky for you two that clones aren't related," Tasha commented. "Otherwise, you guys couldn't be, you know, together."

   "Tasha!" Amy hissed. But Chris wasn't bothered by the comment, and that made her feel good.

   Tasha hadn't finished embarrassing her. "I'm really glad you know about Amy now," Tasha told Chris. "It's hard to keep a secret from someone who's hanging around her a lot. The only other person who knows is my brother, Eric. Because he used to be her boyfriend."

   Amy closed her eyes and considered sliding under the table.

   "But Eric isn't all that intelligent," Tasha continued, sounding very much like a kid sister now. "So he's probably forgotten all about it."

   Chris spoke seriously. "I doubt that. It isn't the kind of secret a person can forget." He looked at Amy. "It's funny, in a way. People are always saying that couples should have stuff in common. Interests, hobbies, or the same religion, something like that. I guess both of us being clones is a pretty big thing to have in common."

   "Yeah, I guess so," Amy said. She thought he was dealing pretty well with his new knowledge about her — and about himself. But she knew he could run into emotional problems later, and she was glad they were together. Maybe she could help him.

   "Linda Riviera is totally bummed," Tasha remarked. "Rita Ritchie took off on an extended trip to Europe and didn't even invite her to come along."

   "Dr. Morrison's quote probably scared her off," Amy said. "Can you imagine what Linda would say if she knew we helped save her life?"

   "She'd probably rather give up a body part," Tasha answered. She made a face. "Do you really think Rita Ritchie would have killed Linda to get her eyes?"

   Amy shuddered. "I don't even want to think about it." She turned to Chris. "One thing I still don't understand. How did you know I'd go to your father's — I mean, Paul Skinner's apartment that night?"

   "I didn't," Chris said. "When you ran off, I tried to follow you, but you can run fast. I couldn't keep up with you."

   Amy studied the crumbs of her cookies. "Really."

   "Anyway, I was feeling pretty low," he went on. "I wanted to apologize to you for acting like a jerk when you told me about the whole cloning thing. But I didn't know if you'd ever let me speak to you again. So I thought I'd go over to the home of the person I thought was my father. Find a sympathetic ear." He laughed, but there wasn't any joy in his laughter.

   Amy reached over and took his hand. Tasha took note of the gesture and stood up. "I think I'll go collect more magazines upstairs," she announced. "It should take me, oh, at least fifteen minutes." Amy gave her a thank-you smile, and Tasha left the room.

   Chris got the hint. He edged his chair over to Amy's so that they'd be close enough to kiss. And they did.

   Afterward, they just smiled at each for a while. Then Chris spoke. "There's something I still don't understand either."

   "What's that?"

   "Paul Skinner was strong. But you were even stronger. Stronger than me too. And you weigh less than me, and you're half his size. I don't get it. Do you know some special secret martial arts skill?"

   "No." Amy still had some explaining to do. She tugged at the neckline of her T-shirt and pulled it down so that her right shoulder was exposed. Then she turned so that Chris would see the crescent-shaped mark on her back. "You see that?"

   "Your birthmark?"

   "It's not a birthmark," Amy said. She took a deep breath and began her story.

   "Once upon a time, there was an experiment called Project Crescent. . . ."