By Nigel G. Mitchell
Quinn and Arturo sat in rays of sunlight cast from a barred window in the interrogation room. Quinn traced circles on the table his hands rested on, about the only thing he could do with his wrists cuffed together.
"You had to do it, didn't you?" Quinn asked. "You had to have a cigarette."
Arturo glared at him. "Oh, I see. So I was expected to know that we had landed in a world where tobacco is a controlled substance? Or perhaps I should have been clairvoyant enough to foresee that the one newsstand where I buy my first cigarette in ten years is the target of a DEA sting operation."
"I told you smoking was bad for you," Quinn said. "Man, I hope the others are okay."
The door of the interrogation room swung open. The man they knew on their own world as Bernie, a simple newsstand vendor, walked in. Here, he was Bernard Watterson, the DEA agent who had busted them. He was joined by two other men in suits.
Watterson gave Quinn and Arturo a broad grin. "Well, I've just delivered the news of our good fortune to the district attorney's office. After they get done partying, they'll start drawing up the papers for your indictment. Thought you might like a little preview."
Watterson slid a thick manila folder filled with papers across the desk to Quinn, who glared at him, then opened the file. He began turning pages with his cuffed hands. Quinn felt a chill come over his body as he read.
"No," Quinn whispered. "This...this can't be true."
Arturo read over his shoulder, his brow wrinkling. "Good lord. Possession of controlled substances, trafficking in controlled substances, extortion, kidnapping, murder...all multiple charges going back five years."
"There's gotta be some mistake," Quinn said.
"Don't give me that, Mallory," Watterson said. "I've been tracking your every move for the last three years. We've got eyewitnesses, fingerprints, shipping reports, money-laundering companies tracked to your bank accounts, ballistics reports...and then, of course, there's me. The man who watched you pump fifteen bullets into my partner's chest just to cover your escape. All we needed was you. And here you are."
Watterson pulled out a chair and sat down. "There's one question I'd like answered, Mallory. You've always covered your tracks, always stayed one step ahead of us. Why'd you let yourself walk into this one? What's the angle?"
Quinn closed the file. "Look, you gotta believe me. I'm not the guy you're looking for."
"Oh, really? Okay. If you're not Quinn Mallory, then exactly who are you?"
"Well...I am Quinn Mallory. But not the Mallory you're looking for."
Professor Arturo murmured out of the corner of his mouth. "Do not try it, my boy. They will not believe you."
"I don't have a choice," Quinn whispered, then said to Watterson, "I'm from another dimension."
Watterson stared at him.
"I'm a duplicate of your Mallory," Quinn continued, "from another Earth where tobacco is legal. And I'm just a college student. I didn't do any of this."
Watterson scratched the side of his nose, then said, "You know, Mallory, I've seen you do some lousy things in your career, but this takes the cake. Do you honestly think any jury in the world would buy a stupid insanity plea like that?"
"But I'm not insane! I'm telling the truth!" Quinn opened the file on the desk, skimming it until he found a report that he tapped with a finger. "Look, right here, it says your Quinn has a tattoo of a skull with a cigarette in its mouth on his right forearm. I don't. See?"
"Tattoos can be removed," Watterson said.
Arturo spoke. "Uh, actually not without scarring. At least, not on our world."
"Okay, I've had it with Mallory. Now it's your turn. What's your angle on this? How do you know him?"
"I'm Mister Mallory's physics professor, Maximillian Arturo. I teach physics classes at California University."
Watterson grinned. "Of course. The biggest drug runner in the United States attends your physics classes. Why didn't we think of looking there? And you just happened to wander into a newsstand to buy a cigarette for the road, is that it?"
"Uh, actually, no. I bought it because I was a little stressed from our recent slide into this dimension."
Watterson closed his eyes, then snapped his fingers. One of the other DEA agents in the room stepped forward, resting a plastic bag filled with objects on the table. Watterson rummaged through it with a gloved hand, finally producing Quinn's timer from its depths. He slammed the device down on the table.
"We found this in your pocket," Watterson said. "It looks like a timer. Is it for a bomb? If so, where's the bomb?"
"It's a timing device," Quinn said. "We use it to open the gateways to...other dimensions."
Watterson rested his palms flat on the table. "Okay, that's it. I don't know what you think you're trying to pull with this little game, but it ends now. I don't buy it, the judge won't buy it, it won't work. Here's the deal. You and your friend, the professor, are gonna tell me the addresses of every single one of your factories. You're also gonna give me the dates and times of all the tobacco shipments you're running in and out of California, as well as the methods you're using to distribute your cigarettes and cigars, the names of every single subordinate in your operation, the law officers you've got on the take, and any of your other little business associates. In return, I will talk to the D.A. and try to swing you a deal."
"But we can't tell you anything," Quinn said, "we..."
"If you don't talk," Watterson interrupted, "then I will become state's witness in your case. I will watch you both tried and sentenced. You, Professor, will be found guilty of attempting to purchase a controlled substance. You'll be lucky if you get away with a whopping fine and six years in jail. And you, Mister Mallory, will be found guilty of eighty-three misdemeanors and nineteen felonies, including the murder of my partner. You'll get the chair. And I will be the one to pull the switch."
"But..."
"Take 'em away," Watterson said. "And let me know when they feel like talking."
Quinn and Arturo were hauled out of their seats and guided out of the interrogation room.
"You're making a big mistake!" Quinn yelled. "You've got the wrong guys!"
* * *
Watterson ignored his cries as Mallory left the room. Just like Mallory had ignored the cries of his partner, the begging and pleading in an attempt to appeal to the heart of a man Watterson knew had none.
Agent Watterson looked down at the device Quinn had called a timer. He flipped open its face, exposing a digital display. It was counting down numbers from three hours and twenty-one minutes. It didn't make sense. The bomb squad had said it was far too complex to be just a timer for a bomb. Other than that, they couldn't figure out what it was.
Watterson shrugged and pushed the device back into the evidence bag. Probably just a fancy clock or something. It didn't matter. Bernie Watterson finally had Quinn Mallory right where he wanted him.
* * *
Arturo and Quinn allowed themselves to be led across the DEA offices to the holding area. Quinn spotted a pay-phone beside the bars, then turned to the man roughly pushing him.
"Hey," Quinn asked, "don't I get one phone call?"
"Yeah," the man growled. "Get on the phone and call your high-priced lawyer. See if he can get you outta this mess."
Quinn went over to the phone. The man pushed a quarter into the slot for him, unhooked the receiver, and stood poised to dial the number Quinn gave him. Quinn began to recite a number from memory, one he hoped was the same on this world as it was on others. It was the number for a room at a Motel 12.
* * *
Wade paced the floor of the motel room, wringing her hands over her lap. When the front door opened, Wade jumped with a little scream.
Rembrandt walked in carrying a newspaper, his jaw working. "Wade? You okay?"
Wade pressed a hand over her forehead. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just don't sneak up on me like that."
"Have they called yet?"
"No," Wade said. "But they have to call eventually. This is our fallback position for whenever we get separated. When Quinn or the professor get their one phone call, they'll be sure to call here."
Rembrandt sat down on one of the beds. "Who says they give prisoners phone calls in this world?"
Wade began pacing again. "Nobody. But it's all I can think of. You get the newspaper?"
"Yup. Also got some gum. When I get nervous, I gotta do somethin' with my mouth. Want some?"
Wade grabbed the newspaper from him, flipping through the pages. "No thanks. The way I feel now, I'd probably swallow it and choke myself. Anything on how this world works?"
"Yeah," Rembrandt said, "there's an article in there on the anniversary of some big day they had a few years ago. Seems that back in 1987, when the Soviet Union fell, the U.S. sat down and reworked the government budget. They decided to cut military spending to fight what they call 'the urban war.' Drugs. President Bush started this big campaign to end the drug problem in America in two years."
"Wow," Wade whispered as she read the article. "This is amazing. They gave the DEA six billion dollars to fight drugs in America. Hired over three million agents, bought army surplus equipment from the military, funded drug-rehabilitation programs..."
"And check out the next page," Rembrandt said. "All the other countries in the world got into the act. America, Britain, Japan, Europe...all of them announced they'd declare war on any nation that allowed drugs within its borders. South America, the Middle East, Thailand, everybody shut down their coca, marijuana, and opiate crops. With no supply, demand dried up. By 1989, the drug-abuse rate had dropped to zero."
"No drug problem. That explains the low crime rates listed here."
"Only one problem. In 1990, the World Health Organization declared tobacco a controlled substance and banned it. All the smoking addicts started buyin' it on the black market, which brought all the slimeballs out of the woodwork, and it all started up again."
"So tobacco is illegal here," Wade said. "But that still doesn't explain why they arrested Quinn and the professor."
The phone rang. Wade dove over the bed to reach it before the second ring. "Hello?"
A familiar voice emerged from the handset. "Wade?"
Wade gave Rembrandt a thumbs-up. He grinned.
"Yeah, it's me," Wade said. "Where are you? What happened?"
"We're in jail. The professor tried to buy some cigarettes."
"What?" Wade screamed. "Is he crazy? Put him on the phone!"
"I'd better not, for the sake of his eardrums. I guess you know about this world, huh?"
"Yeah, smoking is illegal. What was he thinking? Okay, no problem. What's the charge? Can we pay a fine or what?"
"Actually, that's a bit of a problem," Quinn said. "It seems my double in this world is on the FBI's ten most-wanted list as a bigtime drug smuggler. And I look just like him, so..."
"They think you're him. Well, that's just great. What'll we do now?"
"I have an idea. The Mallory of this world has a tattoo of a skull with a cigarette in its mouth on his right forearm. If you can find him, that'll prove that I'm innocent, and maybe they'll let me go."
Rembrandt was sitting closer to Wade, trying to hear. "What's goin' on?"
Wade waved him off as she said, "Okay, okay, we'll try. Hang in there, Quinn."
"Right." Quinn hung up.
Wade hung up on her end as Rembrandt said, "Come on, man, don't leave me out. What'd Q-Ball say?"
Wade told him.
"You gotta be kiddin'," Rembrandt said. "We gotta find Quinn in this world?"
"Exactly," Wade said. "It's the only way."
"The DEA's been lookin' for that clown for who-knows-how-long. What makes you think we can pull it off by ourselves?"
"I dunno," Wade said. "But we gotta. Besides the fact that he's our friend, Quinn has the timer, and the window to the next dimension opens up in three hours. If we don't get him and the timer out of jail by then, there won't be another window open for another thirty years. We'll be trapped here just as much as Quinn and the professor are."
Rembrandt closed his eyes. "It's always somethin'. Okay, what's our first move?"
* * *
Quinn hung up the phone and let himself be led into the holding cell. Arturo was already there, sitting on a bench against a wall, trying not to get too close to a large, greasy man at the other end.
"Well?" Arturo asked. "Did you contact the others? Are they all right?"
Quinn sat down next to the professor. "Yeah. They're both at the motel."
"Well, thank heavens for that. Did you tell them our situation?"
"Yeah. They're gonna try to find my double in this world. With him, maybe the cops'll let us go."
"So in other words, our fates lie in the hands of Miss Wells and Mister Brown."
"Yeah."
Arturo nodded again, then began surveying the holding cell. "Then, my dear boy, we are truly doomed."
* * *
Rembrandt sat in the glow of the library's reference computer, clicking with the pointer of his mouse. As he began to read another article from Time Magazine, Wade appeared over his shoulder.
"How's it goin'?" Wade asked.
Rembrandt rubbed his eyes. "I think I'm goin' blind from reading this thing. I must have read every newspaper and magazine article in the country that had anything to do with this world's Quinn Mallory."
Wade sat down next to him. "What've you got?"
"Nothin' good. Seems like in this world, Q-Ball put that egghead o' his to the other side o' the law. He's been growin' tobacco in the U.S. and shipping it all over the world. Nobody can catch him. And I'm gettin' eyestrain from readin' about all his enemies that've been found dead. He even killed a cop once. Tied the poor guy up and shot him fifteen times in the chest to cover his getaway."
"Wow. It's hard to believe our Quinn could be such a...monster."
"Yeah, but it still don't get us any closer to findin' out where he is."
"Keep reading, Remmy. There's gotta be a clue in here somewhere. Something the cops missed."
Rembrandt glared at the article on his screen. "You know, I'm startin' to wonder if we can pull this off. I mean, we've got two hours to do what the cops couldn't, and this Mallory's too fast even for them. Take this girl he was runnin' around with. They couldn't...wait a minute. That's you!"
"What?" Wade moved closer to the screen.
She read the headline of an article that read MYSTERY WOMAN SEEN WITH DRUGLORD. The article was about an unidentified woman seen with Quinn at a nightclub a few months ago. It was easy to see why the police hadn't found her; in the accompanying photo, the woman was seen wearing sunglasses, a thick coat, and a scarf draped around her head and hair. But the nose and chin were exposed, and it was enough for Wade to recognize it.
"You're right," Wade said. "That's me. I mean, it must be the Wade of this world. That's the connection. Come on."
She ran down the aisle of the library. Rembrandt fumbled around with the computer for a moment, trying to shut down his research, then hurried after her.
Rembrandt ran down the front steps of the library outside when he finally caught up to her. She was at a phone booth on the curb, flipping through the White Pages.
"Bingo," she said, tapping a page. "The Wade Wells of this world has a different address from mine, but at least she's listed. Now all we have to do is get to her."
Rembrandt raised an arm, whistling at a passing taxi cab. "Yo, taxi!"
The cab pulled up, Wade and Rembrandt got in, and headed off across San Francisco.
* * *
Wade's eyes widened as the cab reached the address listed in the White Pages. It was a large condominium, built on one of the slanted narrow streets of the city. Rembrandt paid the driver as Wade climbed out to marvel at the fabulous architecture of the building.
"Wow," Wade said. "I can't believe I live here. Wonder what I do for a living."
Rembrandt got out behind her. They strode up the sidewalk to the front door of the condo. Wade rang the doorbell.
After a moment passed, a woman's voice emerged from the other side of the door. "Who is it?"
Wade glanced at Rembrandt as she said, "Uh, you don't know us. We're looking for a Miss Wade Wells?"
The door clicked, then opened. A voice from a TV flooded out. A woman stood in the doorway, one wearing a stylish, form-fitting blue dress. Wade could see diamond earrings under the woman's long brown hair, but was more interested in the woman's face.
She looked exactly like Wade.
"I'm Wade Wells," the woman said. "Wait a minute...who are you?"
Wade found her voice. "Oh, yeah, this is Rembrandt Brown, and I'm...you."
The other Wade's eyes narrowed. "What're you talking about?"
"I'm you. From another dimension."
The other Wade folded her arms. "Is this some kind of joke?"
"No, I'm telling the truth. We need your help..."
The other Wade held up a hand. "Look, I don't have time for this. I don't know who you are, but my boyfriend will be along any minute, and..."
"Your boyfriend?" Rembrandt asked. "You mean Quinn Mallory?"
The other Wade stared at him. Her bored expression hardened. "Unless you people are cops and I see an arrest warrant, I don't have to answer any questions..."
Wade heard the voice of the TV playing inside as a newscaster said, "And in local news, police announced the successful capture of America's most notorious druglord Quinn Mallory today..."
She shoved the door open, rushing past her double into the apartment.
A TV was seated in the midst of a home entertainment center in the living room Wade entered. She ran to the TV, hunching over to watch the news report being given. The announcer was talking beside a mug shot of Quinn that bore a scornful smirk on his unshaven face.
"It happened just a few hours ago," the announcer said. "DEA officials reported capturing Mallory...also known as the Tobacco King...during a sting operation at a newsstand near Golden Gate Park. Although further details have yet to be released, a press conference has been scheduled with Chief of Police Daryl Gates later this evening. And in sports..."
Wade stood up. Rembrandt came into the room, his hands raised. Wade's double was right behind him with a gun jammed into his back.
"Okay," the other Wade said. "You two have got five seconds to tell me who you are, and how you know about me and Quinn."
"We saw your photo in a newspaper," Rembrandt said.
"That was months ago," Wade's double snarled. "The cops couldn't have fingered me, not like that."
"But I recognized you," Wade said. "Because I'm you."
"Would you stop saying that?" the other Wade screamed. "I've had it with all this New Age psychobabble! I've had a really lousy day! My clothes got lost at the cleaners, you two come barging into my apartment, and now Quinn's been captured..."
"But that's just it," Wade said. "He wasn't."
"What are you talking about?"
The phone rang. An answering machine sitting on the coffee table clicked with Wade's voice, telling the caller to leave a message after the beep. A new voice came after the tone, one that Wade recognized, and yet was somehow unfamiliar.
"Hi, babe," the deep voice said. "It's me."
"Quinn?" Wade whispered.
Quinn's voice continued. "Just wanted to know if you caught that newscast a minute ago. They caught somebody they think is me. Can you believe it? The poor sap looks just like me. I couldn't have planned it better myself. By the time they figure out that schmoe isn't me, I'll be on a plane back to Mexico. Hey, maybe they'll never figure it out, and that guy'll get the chair. Better him than me, huh? Gotta go. I'll call ya. Bye."
The phone hung up with a click.
Wade's double stared at the phone, her jaw hanging open. "What's going on around here?"
Wade held up her hands. "Look, I won't bother trying to convince you of where we came from. All you have to know is that the man the cops think is your Mallory is our friend, and if you don't help us catch the real Quinn, our Quinn will fry in his place."
The other Wade stared at her, then slumped into a chair, keeping her gun on Rembrandt. "No. No, that's...that's not right. I can't take the suffering anymore. So many innocent people hurt or killed...no one else should suffer for Quinn's mistakes."
"Then you'll help us?"
Wade's double shook her head. "I dunno. I guess so. But how?"
"It's simple. Your Quinn has a tattoo. Ours doesn't. If we turn yours in to the police, they'll see they've made a mistake and ours will go free."
The other Wade flashed her a brief smile. "And I'll be free, too. I never should've gotten mixed up with Quinn in the first place. He bought me so many wonderful things, and I thought I loved him...maybe I did love him once, but..."
Wade's double looked up at Wade. "Okay. I'll take you to him."
"You will?"
Wade's double stood. "Yes. He's here in San Francisco, inspecting one of his new factories. He's probably there. We'll go check, then call the police, and have them pick him up."
"Great," Rembrandt said. "Uh, could you put away the gun now?"
The other Wade pulled the trigger of her gun. A stream of water came out of the barrel, wetting Rembrandt's shirt.
"I don't like guns," Wade's double said. "But Quinn insists I carry one for protection. Let's go. We can take my car."
Rembrandt let out a relieved breath, then followed Wade's double out of the room, out the front door.
She led the others to the curb, where a sporty luxury car waited. Rembrandt whistled.
"Wow," he said, "you weren't kiddin' about those wonderful things, were you?"
Wade's double climbed behind the wheel. "Nope. Quinn always said that any girl who rides with him goes first-class. He just didn't mention I'd be riding in the smoking section."
"You had to do it, didn't you?" Quinn asked. "You had to have a cigarette."
Arturo glared at him. "Oh, I see. So I was expected to know that we had landed in a world where tobacco is a controlled substance? Or perhaps I should have been clairvoyant enough to foresee that the one newsstand where I buy my first cigarette in ten years is the target of a DEA sting operation."
"I told you smoking was bad for you," Quinn said. "Man, I hope the others are okay."
The door of the interrogation room swung open. The man they knew on their own world as Bernie, a simple newsstand vendor, walked in. Here, he was Bernard Watterson, the DEA agent who had busted them. He was joined by two other men in suits.
Watterson gave Quinn and Arturo a broad grin. "Well, I've just delivered the news of our good fortune to the district attorney's office. After they get done partying, they'll start drawing up the papers for your indictment. Thought you might like a little preview."
Watterson slid a thick manila folder filled with papers across the desk to Quinn, who glared at him, then opened the file. He began turning pages with his cuffed hands. Quinn felt a chill come over his body as he read.
"No," Quinn whispered. "This...this can't be true."
Arturo read over his shoulder, his brow wrinkling. "Good lord. Possession of controlled substances, trafficking in controlled substances, extortion, kidnapping, murder...all multiple charges going back five years."
"There's gotta be some mistake," Quinn said.
"Don't give me that, Mallory," Watterson said. "I've been tracking your every move for the last three years. We've got eyewitnesses, fingerprints, shipping reports, money-laundering companies tracked to your bank accounts, ballistics reports...and then, of course, there's me. The man who watched you pump fifteen bullets into my partner's chest just to cover your escape. All we needed was you. And here you are."
Watterson pulled out a chair and sat down. "There's one question I'd like answered, Mallory. You've always covered your tracks, always stayed one step ahead of us. Why'd you let yourself walk into this one? What's the angle?"
Quinn closed the file. "Look, you gotta believe me. I'm not the guy you're looking for."
"Oh, really? Okay. If you're not Quinn Mallory, then exactly who are you?"
"Well...I am Quinn Mallory. But not the Mallory you're looking for."
Professor Arturo murmured out of the corner of his mouth. "Do not try it, my boy. They will not believe you."
"I don't have a choice," Quinn whispered, then said to Watterson, "I'm from another dimension."
Watterson stared at him.
"I'm a duplicate of your Mallory," Quinn continued, "from another Earth where tobacco is legal. And I'm just a college student. I didn't do any of this."
Watterson scratched the side of his nose, then said, "You know, Mallory, I've seen you do some lousy things in your career, but this takes the cake. Do you honestly think any jury in the world would buy a stupid insanity plea like that?"
"But I'm not insane! I'm telling the truth!" Quinn opened the file on the desk, skimming it until he found a report that he tapped with a finger. "Look, right here, it says your Quinn has a tattoo of a skull with a cigarette in its mouth on his right forearm. I don't. See?"
"Tattoos can be removed," Watterson said.
Arturo spoke. "Uh, actually not without scarring. At least, not on our world."
"Okay, I've had it with Mallory. Now it's your turn. What's your angle on this? How do you know him?"
"I'm Mister Mallory's physics professor, Maximillian Arturo. I teach physics classes at California University."
Watterson grinned. "Of course. The biggest drug runner in the United States attends your physics classes. Why didn't we think of looking there? And you just happened to wander into a newsstand to buy a cigarette for the road, is that it?"
"Uh, actually, no. I bought it because I was a little stressed from our recent slide into this dimension."
Watterson closed his eyes, then snapped his fingers. One of the other DEA agents in the room stepped forward, resting a plastic bag filled with objects on the table. Watterson rummaged through it with a gloved hand, finally producing Quinn's timer from its depths. He slammed the device down on the table.
"We found this in your pocket," Watterson said. "It looks like a timer. Is it for a bomb? If so, where's the bomb?"
"It's a timing device," Quinn said. "We use it to open the gateways to...other dimensions."
Watterson rested his palms flat on the table. "Okay, that's it. I don't know what you think you're trying to pull with this little game, but it ends now. I don't buy it, the judge won't buy it, it won't work. Here's the deal. You and your friend, the professor, are gonna tell me the addresses of every single one of your factories. You're also gonna give me the dates and times of all the tobacco shipments you're running in and out of California, as well as the methods you're using to distribute your cigarettes and cigars, the names of every single subordinate in your operation, the law officers you've got on the take, and any of your other little business associates. In return, I will talk to the D.A. and try to swing you a deal."
"But we can't tell you anything," Quinn said, "we..."
"If you don't talk," Watterson interrupted, "then I will become state's witness in your case. I will watch you both tried and sentenced. You, Professor, will be found guilty of attempting to purchase a controlled substance. You'll be lucky if you get away with a whopping fine and six years in jail. And you, Mister Mallory, will be found guilty of eighty-three misdemeanors and nineteen felonies, including the murder of my partner. You'll get the chair. And I will be the one to pull the switch."
"But..."
"Take 'em away," Watterson said. "And let me know when they feel like talking."
Quinn and Arturo were hauled out of their seats and guided out of the interrogation room.
"You're making a big mistake!" Quinn yelled. "You've got the wrong guys!"
* * *
Watterson ignored his cries as Mallory left the room. Just like Mallory had ignored the cries of his partner, the begging and pleading in an attempt to appeal to the heart of a man Watterson knew had none.
Agent Watterson looked down at the device Quinn had called a timer. He flipped open its face, exposing a digital display. It was counting down numbers from three hours and twenty-one minutes. It didn't make sense. The bomb squad had said it was far too complex to be just a timer for a bomb. Other than that, they couldn't figure out what it was.
Watterson shrugged and pushed the device back into the evidence bag. Probably just a fancy clock or something. It didn't matter. Bernie Watterson finally had Quinn Mallory right where he wanted him.
* * *
Arturo and Quinn allowed themselves to be led across the DEA offices to the holding area. Quinn spotted a pay-phone beside the bars, then turned to the man roughly pushing him.
"Hey," Quinn asked, "don't I get one phone call?"
"Yeah," the man growled. "Get on the phone and call your high-priced lawyer. See if he can get you outta this mess."
Quinn went over to the phone. The man pushed a quarter into the slot for him, unhooked the receiver, and stood poised to dial the number Quinn gave him. Quinn began to recite a number from memory, one he hoped was the same on this world as it was on others. It was the number for a room at a Motel 12.
* * *
Wade paced the floor of the motel room, wringing her hands over her lap. When the front door opened, Wade jumped with a little scream.
Rembrandt walked in carrying a newspaper, his jaw working. "Wade? You okay?"
Wade pressed a hand over her forehead. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just don't sneak up on me like that."
"Have they called yet?"
"No," Wade said. "But they have to call eventually. This is our fallback position for whenever we get separated. When Quinn or the professor get their one phone call, they'll be sure to call here."
Rembrandt sat down on one of the beds. "Who says they give prisoners phone calls in this world?"
Wade began pacing again. "Nobody. But it's all I can think of. You get the newspaper?"
"Yup. Also got some gum. When I get nervous, I gotta do somethin' with my mouth. Want some?"
Wade grabbed the newspaper from him, flipping through the pages. "No thanks. The way I feel now, I'd probably swallow it and choke myself. Anything on how this world works?"
"Yeah," Rembrandt said, "there's an article in there on the anniversary of some big day they had a few years ago. Seems that back in 1987, when the Soviet Union fell, the U.S. sat down and reworked the government budget. They decided to cut military spending to fight what they call 'the urban war.' Drugs. President Bush started this big campaign to end the drug problem in America in two years."
"Wow," Wade whispered as she read the article. "This is amazing. They gave the DEA six billion dollars to fight drugs in America. Hired over three million agents, bought army surplus equipment from the military, funded drug-rehabilitation programs..."
"And check out the next page," Rembrandt said. "All the other countries in the world got into the act. America, Britain, Japan, Europe...all of them announced they'd declare war on any nation that allowed drugs within its borders. South America, the Middle East, Thailand, everybody shut down their coca, marijuana, and opiate crops. With no supply, demand dried up. By 1989, the drug-abuse rate had dropped to zero."
"No drug problem. That explains the low crime rates listed here."
"Only one problem. In 1990, the World Health Organization declared tobacco a controlled substance and banned it. All the smoking addicts started buyin' it on the black market, which brought all the slimeballs out of the woodwork, and it all started up again."
"So tobacco is illegal here," Wade said. "But that still doesn't explain why they arrested Quinn and the professor."
The phone rang. Wade dove over the bed to reach it before the second ring. "Hello?"
A familiar voice emerged from the handset. "Wade?"
Wade gave Rembrandt a thumbs-up. He grinned.
"Yeah, it's me," Wade said. "Where are you? What happened?"
"We're in jail. The professor tried to buy some cigarettes."
"What?" Wade screamed. "Is he crazy? Put him on the phone!"
"I'd better not, for the sake of his eardrums. I guess you know about this world, huh?"
"Yeah, smoking is illegal. What was he thinking? Okay, no problem. What's the charge? Can we pay a fine or what?"
"Actually, that's a bit of a problem," Quinn said. "It seems my double in this world is on the FBI's ten most-wanted list as a bigtime drug smuggler. And I look just like him, so..."
"They think you're him. Well, that's just great. What'll we do now?"
"I have an idea. The Mallory of this world has a tattoo of a skull with a cigarette in its mouth on his right forearm. If you can find him, that'll prove that I'm innocent, and maybe they'll let me go."
Rembrandt was sitting closer to Wade, trying to hear. "What's goin' on?"
Wade waved him off as she said, "Okay, okay, we'll try. Hang in there, Quinn."
"Right." Quinn hung up.
Wade hung up on her end as Rembrandt said, "Come on, man, don't leave me out. What'd Q-Ball say?"
Wade told him.
"You gotta be kiddin'," Rembrandt said. "We gotta find Quinn in this world?"
"Exactly," Wade said. "It's the only way."
"The DEA's been lookin' for that clown for who-knows-how-long. What makes you think we can pull it off by ourselves?"
"I dunno," Wade said. "But we gotta. Besides the fact that he's our friend, Quinn has the timer, and the window to the next dimension opens up in three hours. If we don't get him and the timer out of jail by then, there won't be another window open for another thirty years. We'll be trapped here just as much as Quinn and the professor are."
Rembrandt closed his eyes. "It's always somethin'. Okay, what's our first move?"
* * *
Quinn hung up the phone and let himself be led into the holding cell. Arturo was already there, sitting on a bench against a wall, trying not to get too close to a large, greasy man at the other end.
"Well?" Arturo asked. "Did you contact the others? Are they all right?"
Quinn sat down next to the professor. "Yeah. They're both at the motel."
"Well, thank heavens for that. Did you tell them our situation?"
"Yeah. They're gonna try to find my double in this world. With him, maybe the cops'll let us go."
"So in other words, our fates lie in the hands of Miss Wells and Mister Brown."
"Yeah."
Arturo nodded again, then began surveying the holding cell. "Then, my dear boy, we are truly doomed."
* * *
Rembrandt sat in the glow of the library's reference computer, clicking with the pointer of his mouse. As he began to read another article from Time Magazine, Wade appeared over his shoulder.
"How's it goin'?" Wade asked.
Rembrandt rubbed his eyes. "I think I'm goin' blind from reading this thing. I must have read every newspaper and magazine article in the country that had anything to do with this world's Quinn Mallory."
Wade sat down next to him. "What've you got?"
"Nothin' good. Seems like in this world, Q-Ball put that egghead o' his to the other side o' the law. He's been growin' tobacco in the U.S. and shipping it all over the world. Nobody can catch him. And I'm gettin' eyestrain from readin' about all his enemies that've been found dead. He even killed a cop once. Tied the poor guy up and shot him fifteen times in the chest to cover his getaway."
"Wow. It's hard to believe our Quinn could be such a...monster."
"Yeah, but it still don't get us any closer to findin' out where he is."
"Keep reading, Remmy. There's gotta be a clue in here somewhere. Something the cops missed."
Rembrandt glared at the article on his screen. "You know, I'm startin' to wonder if we can pull this off. I mean, we've got two hours to do what the cops couldn't, and this Mallory's too fast even for them. Take this girl he was runnin' around with. They couldn't...wait a minute. That's you!"
"What?" Wade moved closer to the screen.
She read the headline of an article that read MYSTERY WOMAN SEEN WITH DRUGLORD. The article was about an unidentified woman seen with Quinn at a nightclub a few months ago. It was easy to see why the police hadn't found her; in the accompanying photo, the woman was seen wearing sunglasses, a thick coat, and a scarf draped around her head and hair. But the nose and chin were exposed, and it was enough for Wade to recognize it.
"You're right," Wade said. "That's me. I mean, it must be the Wade of this world. That's the connection. Come on."
She ran down the aisle of the library. Rembrandt fumbled around with the computer for a moment, trying to shut down his research, then hurried after her.
Rembrandt ran down the front steps of the library outside when he finally caught up to her. She was at a phone booth on the curb, flipping through the White Pages.
"Bingo," she said, tapping a page. "The Wade Wells of this world has a different address from mine, but at least she's listed. Now all we have to do is get to her."
Rembrandt raised an arm, whistling at a passing taxi cab. "Yo, taxi!"
The cab pulled up, Wade and Rembrandt got in, and headed off across San Francisco.
* * *
Wade's eyes widened as the cab reached the address listed in the White Pages. It was a large condominium, built on one of the slanted narrow streets of the city. Rembrandt paid the driver as Wade climbed out to marvel at the fabulous architecture of the building.
"Wow," Wade said. "I can't believe I live here. Wonder what I do for a living."
Rembrandt got out behind her. They strode up the sidewalk to the front door of the condo. Wade rang the doorbell.
After a moment passed, a woman's voice emerged from the other side of the door. "Who is it?"
Wade glanced at Rembrandt as she said, "Uh, you don't know us. We're looking for a Miss Wade Wells?"
The door clicked, then opened. A voice from a TV flooded out. A woman stood in the doorway, one wearing a stylish, form-fitting blue dress. Wade could see diamond earrings under the woman's long brown hair, but was more interested in the woman's face.
She looked exactly like Wade.
"I'm Wade Wells," the woman said. "Wait a minute...who are you?"
Wade found her voice. "Oh, yeah, this is Rembrandt Brown, and I'm...you."
The other Wade's eyes narrowed. "What're you talking about?"
"I'm you. From another dimension."
The other Wade folded her arms. "Is this some kind of joke?"
"No, I'm telling the truth. We need your help..."
The other Wade held up a hand. "Look, I don't have time for this. I don't know who you are, but my boyfriend will be along any minute, and..."
"Your boyfriend?" Rembrandt asked. "You mean Quinn Mallory?"
The other Wade stared at him. Her bored expression hardened. "Unless you people are cops and I see an arrest warrant, I don't have to answer any questions..."
Wade heard the voice of the TV playing inside as a newscaster said, "And in local news, police announced the successful capture of America's most notorious druglord Quinn Mallory today..."
She shoved the door open, rushing past her double into the apartment.
A TV was seated in the midst of a home entertainment center in the living room Wade entered. She ran to the TV, hunching over to watch the news report being given. The announcer was talking beside a mug shot of Quinn that bore a scornful smirk on his unshaven face.
"It happened just a few hours ago," the announcer said. "DEA officials reported capturing Mallory...also known as the Tobacco King...during a sting operation at a newsstand near Golden Gate Park. Although further details have yet to be released, a press conference has been scheduled with Chief of Police Daryl Gates later this evening. And in sports..."
Wade stood up. Rembrandt came into the room, his hands raised. Wade's double was right behind him with a gun jammed into his back.
"Okay," the other Wade said. "You two have got five seconds to tell me who you are, and how you know about me and Quinn."
"We saw your photo in a newspaper," Rembrandt said.
"That was months ago," Wade's double snarled. "The cops couldn't have fingered me, not like that."
"But I recognized you," Wade said. "Because I'm you."
"Would you stop saying that?" the other Wade screamed. "I've had it with all this New Age psychobabble! I've had a really lousy day! My clothes got lost at the cleaners, you two come barging into my apartment, and now Quinn's been captured..."
"But that's just it," Wade said. "He wasn't."
"What are you talking about?"
The phone rang. An answering machine sitting on the coffee table clicked with Wade's voice, telling the caller to leave a message after the beep. A new voice came after the tone, one that Wade recognized, and yet was somehow unfamiliar.
"Hi, babe," the deep voice said. "It's me."
"Quinn?" Wade whispered.
Quinn's voice continued. "Just wanted to know if you caught that newscast a minute ago. They caught somebody they think is me. Can you believe it? The poor sap looks just like me. I couldn't have planned it better myself. By the time they figure out that schmoe isn't me, I'll be on a plane back to Mexico. Hey, maybe they'll never figure it out, and that guy'll get the chair. Better him than me, huh? Gotta go. I'll call ya. Bye."
The phone hung up with a click.
Wade's double stared at the phone, her jaw hanging open. "What's going on around here?"
Wade held up her hands. "Look, I won't bother trying to convince you of where we came from. All you have to know is that the man the cops think is your Mallory is our friend, and if you don't help us catch the real Quinn, our Quinn will fry in his place."
The other Wade stared at her, then slumped into a chair, keeping her gun on Rembrandt. "No. No, that's...that's not right. I can't take the suffering anymore. So many innocent people hurt or killed...no one else should suffer for Quinn's mistakes."
"Then you'll help us?"
Wade's double shook her head. "I dunno. I guess so. But how?"
"It's simple. Your Quinn has a tattoo. Ours doesn't. If we turn yours in to the police, they'll see they've made a mistake and ours will go free."
The other Wade flashed her a brief smile. "And I'll be free, too. I never should've gotten mixed up with Quinn in the first place. He bought me so many wonderful things, and I thought I loved him...maybe I did love him once, but..."
Wade's double looked up at Wade. "Okay. I'll take you to him."
"You will?"
Wade's double stood. "Yes. He's here in San Francisco, inspecting one of his new factories. He's probably there. We'll go check, then call the police, and have them pick him up."
"Great," Rembrandt said. "Uh, could you put away the gun now?"
The other Wade pulled the trigger of her gun. A stream of water came out of the barrel, wetting Rembrandt's shirt.
"I don't like guns," Wade's double said. "But Quinn insists I carry one for protection. Let's go. We can take my car."
Rembrandt let out a relieved breath, then followed Wade's double out of the room, out the front door.
She led the others to the curb, where a sporty luxury car waited. Rembrandt whistled.
"Wow," he said, "you weren't kiddin' about those wonderful things, were you?"
Wade's double climbed behind the wheel. "Nope. Quinn always said that any girl who rides with him goes first-class. He just didn't mention I'd be riding in the smoking section."
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