“That’s not good, is it, Max?” said Dooley. “A heart isn’t supposed to stop, right?”
“No, usually it’s not a good sign,” I agreed.
“I think you can die when your heart stops,” said Dooley, turning to Harriet.
“Oh, Dooley,” said Harriet, shaking her head.
“Maybe we can have her cloned,” said Prunella, who was waiting with us in the hospital corridor. “But they’ll have to hurry. They need to extract some genetic material from her before she dies and immediately start the cloning process.”
“Cloning humans is not allowed,” I said, trying to break the news to her gently.
“But why? If they can clone pets, why not humans?”
“I’m not sure,” I said, “but I just know that no human has ever been cloned. At least not to my knowledge.”
“I’m sure plenty of humans have been cloned,” said Brutus. “The Nazis, for one, were already experimenting with cloning techniques in the forties, and so were the Soviets. So I’m pretty sure cloned humans walk among us, only we don’t know it.”
“I think cloning humans should be allowed,” said Dooley suddenly. “Think about the great minds that could be preserved for posterity. Einstein, Marie Curie, Bell…”
“It’s not the Einsteins of this world that will be cloned, though,” I said. “Most probably they’ll clone football stars and celebrities instead.”
“But the world needs geniuses,” said Dooley. “We’ve already got plenty of football stars.”
“There’s one human who’s a clone for sure,” said Prunella. “And that’s Tom Hanks. No celebrity can be that nice.”
“Oh, I think Tom Hanks really is that nice,” I said.
Just then, a doctor came hurrying over, and all the humans got up from their plastic chairs.
“Family of Opal Harvey?” he asked.
“I’m her partner,” said Harlan gravely.
“Your wife is in stable condition, Mr. Harvey. She will live.”
“Oh, thank the Lord,” said Harlan, raising his eyes heavenward.
“Was it the Botox, doctor?” asked Marilyn.
“Yes, it was. A severe allergic reaction. Her heart stopped for a moment, but we managed to bring her back.”
“When can we see her?” asked Harlan.
“Not just yet. She’s not fully awake. But I’ll let you know as soon as she’s in her room.”
The doctor excused himself, and Harlan suddenly started crying.
“Why is he crying?” asked Dooley. “Isn’t it good news that Opal will live?”
“Sometimes humans cry when they hear good news, too,” I said.
“Weird,” was Dooley’s determination.
“They’re happy tears,” Harriet confirmed. “Look at his face. He’s smiling.”
“No, he’s not,” said Brutus. “The corners of his mouth are pointing down.”
“He’s happy, I’m telling you. Those are happy tears.”
“Then why does he look sad?”
“Oh, Brutus.”
And as my fellow cats argued back and forth about the tough task of interpreting human emotion, I tripped over to where Odelia had taken a seat again.
“Tough day, huh, Max?” she said.
“Yeah, tell me about it,” I said. “I just found out I wasn’t cloned, and I was so looking forward to meeting my original self, too.”
She glanced over, and I gave her an exaggerated smile. “Irony. Very funny, Max.”
“So what happened, exactly?”
“Well, apparently there was a mix-up at the salon and Opal, in spite of her strict instructions not to get Botox, got her second dose in a week, which almost proved lethal.”
“But how could such a mix-up happen?”
Odelia looked over to Harlan, who was now being comforted by Marilyn, and lowered her voice. “Someone phoned the salon, and said Opal wanted to have the full Botox treatment today. They were pretty adamant, too.”
“They phoned the salon? But who?”
“All I know is that it was a woman’s voice.”
“A woman’s voice. That must be our culprit.”
“Opal really should get the police involved this time. They can track phones and find out where that call was coming from.”
“If her assailant is clever they’ll have used a burner phone,” I pointed out.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Still, the police have the kind of resources we don’t.”
“You’ll figure it out,” I said, having complete faith in my human. Well, except when I practically accused her of having me cloned and neglecting to tell me about it, of course.
“I’m not so sure, Max,” she said, sounding and looking a little downhearted. “Opal almost got killed on my watch twice now. I think the moment she regains consciousness and hears about what happened, she’s going to put us on the first flight home.”
“No, she won’t. She knows you’re her best shot at catching whoever is behind this, and she’s not going to lose faith in you just because—”
“I almost let her die twice?”
“We’ll catch the person responsible,” I said. “I just know we will.”
She nodded, but I could tell she’d lost faith in herself. And I shouldn’t wonder. She was right. Opal had almost died on her watch. People lost faith in themselves over less than that, especially when they’d been tasked not only with keeping their client alive but with catching the person trying to send them to an early grave—or the cloner’s freezer.
I returned to my friends, thinking about this strange case. It now appeared that a woman was behind this. How many women did we know who were involved with Opal and who had access to her home and the studio? Suzy, one of the members of her team, came to mind, and Helga, of course, though she seemed like a long shot. There were others, at least two dozen, who all worked side by side with Opal at the studio. Any one of them could be behind this. It was clear to me that Odelia had her work cut out for her.
“And?” said Prunella. “What’s the latest?”
“Your human will live. The doctors anticipate a full recovery.”
“Yay,” said Prunella. “Though wouldn’t it have been nice for her to be cloned, though? That way we could have been two clones together. Like clones in a pod.”
I didn’t know whether it was the cloning or if the original Prunella had a very peculiar sense of humor, too, but it did make me wonder about this whole cloning business. What if I went in a normal, regular Max and came out a fruitcake?
Food for thought.
Chapter 27
Opal made a remarkable and downright miraculous recovery, and in spite of the doctor’s insistence she stay in hospital overnight, she decided to discharge herself. A nurse had put her in a wheelchair and pushed her all the way to the exit before an indignant Opal got up before the collected paparazzi caught sight of her and then charged out of the hospital under her own steam, ignoring flashing lightbulbs and cameras until she’d reached her limo and had gotten in, slamming the door as she did.
The rest of the small company didn’t garner the same attention Opal did, except for Marilyn. But she, too, ignored the barrage of questions hurled in her direction, and they all got into the second limo, which had pulled up right as Opal’s limo had pulled out.
Soon they were on their way to a destination unknown, and the atmosphere in the limo was fraught with a mixture of elation and anxiousness. Elation that Opal had recovered so well, but also anxiousness that this could happen again, and that whoever was responsible was out there somewhere, plotting their next move.
“Opal needs to cancel her show,” said Marilyn. “She needs to stay home until this person is caught.”
“Yeah, and who is going to make her?” asked Harlan. “You? Me? Opal doesn’t listen to anyone. You know that, Marilyn.”
“We’ll have to make her see reason, Harlan. She needs to be protected.”
“She’s not going to cancel her show, not now, not ever. She wouldn’t cancel her show if someone dropped a bomb on her office. She’s stubborn that way.”