Doubles

“Happy birthday, Julian!” 

Julian Cabenaugh sat in the head seat at the Cabenaugh family’s dining room table, with posture straight enough and a smile proud enough to warrant such a special day. His 40th birthday: No better way to celebrate than with his wife, Angel, and his two kids, four and eight, who crowded around their father’s seat to get a glimpse of the small, white-iced, strawberry-topped cake with four candles gathered in the center. 

Angel, with sweeping brown hair and a gentle smile, cut the cake into large pieces, handing them out quickly as her children waited expectantly. The youngsters bore the same, jet-black hair and green eyes as Julian, who was a tall, lanky fellow that could almost always be found in dress shirt, pants, and shoes, occasionally donning a colored or patterned tie. He worked in your typical office building, though no one really knew what he did there. For the most part, he was exceptionally standard; his wife and children the same way. For the next half hour, he enjoyed cake and a bit of coffee with his loving family inside his cozy home in the heart of the suburbs. 

Once the celebration had stalled, Angel put the kids to bed and Julian Cabenaugh made a phone call. He opened up his black iPhone with the black case and clicked on a contact with no name. Then he slipped out of the living room and into his office. 

“Tonight’s the night!” Julian’s voice was brimming with anticipation and confidence. It didn’t match his volume, however, which was likely dimmed with the knowledge of sleeping children nearby. 

“I know.” The voice on the other end was deep and clear, not at all unlike Julian’s. 

“You know where to go? When to go?” 

“Midnight,” growled the voice. 

“I’ll be looking out for the paper,” Julian said. Then he hung up.  While Julian Cabenaugh enjoyed a deep slumber in his king size bed inside his cozy home in the heart of the suburbs, somewhere far away the Museum of Modern Art in New York, New York, received a visitor. What a strange visitor he was. He didn’t have an admission wristband, he didn’t have a camera, he didn't have pockets full of money ready to be spent in the gift store. In fact, no one, not

even security, realized he was there. He slipped in, and out, only he left with a small Piet Mondrian that wasn’t noticed missing until the next morning at 9:14 a.m. The visitor’s name was Icarus. Icarus bore jet-black hair and green eyes and was a tall, lanky fellow who could almost always be found in dress shirt, pants, and shoes, occasionally donning a colored or patterned tie. He worked in your typical office building, though no one really knew what he did there. For the most part, he was exceptionally standard. Except for the fact, of course, that he was a frequent of many of the most prestigious art museums in the world, and he didn’t like to pay for his souvenirs. 

Icarus, a plastic bag containing a priceless work of art under his right arm, continued to sidle down the backstreets of New York City, stopped at a small diner for a strawberry milkshake and then went on his way. He took a train that not many people knew about back to Bedford, New Hampshire, where his small suburban apartment awaited him. 

Then, he got the call. 

“Did you get it?” 

“‘Course I did.” Icarus had been through this routine checkup a thousand times over. 

“Listen, buddy, I’ve got bad news.” 

Icarus sighed. “Hit me.” 

“Money’s been tight here. I need you to get another one tomorrow night.” “Tomorrow?” Icarus tried to sound unbothered, but he never had double shifts. “How much do I get out of it?” 

The man on the other end sounded exasperated, tired, and most of all, impatient. “I don’t know, Icarus. We’ll have to see how much you can sell it for first.” He sighed. “We’ll meet tomorrow at the usual spot so I can give you the details.” Then he hung up. 

Icarus was used to this kind of treatment. He did the dirty work, stuck his neck out just for his boss to get more out of it. But the man on the phone had stuck with him through thick and thin, and so Icarus decided he was willing to work a few extra hours for a good friend, even though it was risky. 

His boss, Julian, was expecting this, of course. He had been using Icarus since he was nine years old, and his servant had gotten good at what he did. Sure enough, the paper showed up on the Cabenaugh’s street at 7:00 a.m. that morning, with a glaring headline detailing the MoMa’s missing Mondrian from the day prior. Julian appeared to look surprised, even concerned. But truly, it was just another night’s work for Julian Cabenaugh and his handy body double. 

Truth be told, Julian wasn’t sure how he had a body double. He had learned at a young age that it was not, in any way, the standard. Icarus had just shown up on his doorstep one day, and Julian, still lacking his adult teeth, never gave word of it to a soul, as he quickly learned the advantages of such a doppelganger. Icarus did not have another life before Julian. He showed up with no identity whatsoever, not even any memory. He just knew his name and that he and Julian looked exactly, and I mean exactly, alike. He wasn’t some guy off the street, not really. He was Julian’s little secret, and the two kept it that way. At first, Icarus was used for petty tasks, like practical pranks on the teacher (it couldn’t have been Julian - he was absent today!) and taking the last piece of Halloween candy from his younger sister’s ‘secret stash’ (how could Julian have done it - he was at his friend’s house!). 

As they got older, it became more and more conspicuous to keep a body double in the house. Julian bought Icarus a small apartment when he was in his 20’s. Since then, the two (really Julian) have been plotting bigger, better thefts to execute, until they finally worked their way up to art museums. The places were gold mines: Bountiful stashes of money, all prettied up in detailed bronze frames. Plus, Icarus was extremely claustrophobic, so it was nice to have a work place in which he was most comfortable. 

That night, under Julian’s careful instruction, Icarus caught a red eye flight to Paris and turned up in the city at 9:09 a.m. There was a microphone nestled in Icarus’s ear, as Julian had access to a number of backwater networks and was a decent hacker. 

The microphone crackled. 

“Less than an hour, Icarus,” said Julian. Icarus needed to make it to the Louvre and steal one piece in broad daylight. He cursed himself again for taking on the job. 

On his way, he acquired a disguise from a small retail shop that was rather a hole-in-the-wall kind of place. A construction worker's hat and vest: It was nearly perfect. When he got to the museum, he encountered a gang of other thieves ready to go in. A few of them cut through the windows with power tools. Icarus decided to follow, thinking it may not be too difficult of a job after all. 

Once inside, the thieves began to fan out. In a moment of panic, Icarus forgot what he was looking for. Was it the Mona Lisa? Another Italian Renaissance? He desperately willed Julian to whisper to him even the most cryptic, encoded instructions, but it seemed the earpiece connection was faulty. 

Then, he saw it. A tiara, encrusted with jewels the size of Icarus’s eyes. There was a thief there, opening the case with yet another brazen, dangerous-looking tool. He cut open the glass, stuck out his hand, and was reaching for it when… 

“Ay!” A muscular security guard had shown up at the end of the hallway and was pointing at the thief. He seemed thoroughly upset.

The thief ran, and the chase began. 

In those few moments of chaos and confusion, Icarus watched himself sprint over to the glass case with a large hole in the center. He witnessed his hand snake in and clutch a jewel-coated crown worth double, maybe triple, anything Icarus had ever laid a hand on. Then he saw himself lift it out of the case. He felt he was moving at the speed of light but he was watching everything unfold so slowly, like his mind was two speed units behind the rest of the world. Julian’s connection came back on. He was in his ear, telling him to get out. Security had the building in a lock and the other thieves were scattering. Icarus made a mad dash for the window that he had gotten in from but the rope was gone, it was piled limp and useless at the bottom of the building. Icarus was on the second floor. He turned around and saw a guard there, he saw the guard closing in, he felt in his chest a rising panic. He had never been caught before, he had never been anything close to caught before, but there he was, one step between him and the window, two steps between him and the guard, a million dollar tiara clutched in his clammy hands, sweat running down his forehead, Julian in his ear, then static. Then nothing. 

Icarus woke up in a cold, sterile room with concrete walls, concrete floors, and a single chair that he was tethered to. The thing that he noticed above all, however, was how small the room was. He felt himself slip into a faint dizziness once again. The room shifted, then refocused. When it did, yet another security guard was above him. 

“What...” Icarus couldn’t form the words. 

“You fainted,” the guard said. He quietly chuckled to himself. 

Back in Bedford, Julian listened to the entire conversation through his earpiece. He had been holed away in his home office all day, not bothering to come out to eat or to let his family know why he was in there in the first place. He had no time to make up excuses about the situation, not today. His body double had been caught and captured somewhere on the other side of the world with a priceless piece of jewelry straight out of the world’s most famous art museum. Matters couldn't have been more grim. 

“What’s your name?” Julian heard the questioner say. The connection was a touch faulty, but Julian knew. The interrogation had begun. 

“Icarus.” 

“Last name?” 

“Don’t have one, sir.” 

Inwardly, Julian sighed. Icarus would reveal too much, he had no mind of his own. Julian couldn’t risk talking to him, as the guard might hear. He could only hope Icarus could hold it together while he figured something out. There was a chance he had inherited a few lying capabilities from Julian.

“Don’t have one?” The interrogator seemed annoyed. 

“No.” 

“No, you don’t?” 

“Yes.” 

“You do or you don’t.” 

“Don’t.” 

“Okay.” He wrote something down, thinking about psychotic people. “Where are you from?” 

“Bedford, New Hampshire. United States.” 

“That’s a long ways from here.” 

“Yes.” 

“You’re telling me you and your comrades came all the way to Paris to break into the Louvre with power tools, in daytime, wearing a construction worker’s costume?” 

“They’re not my comrades.” 

“Huh?” 

“I don’t know those people, sir.” 

The guard grunted. Julian couldn’t tell if it was out of exasperation or belief. “I’m gonna ask you one more time,” he heard the guard say. “Who. Are. You.” Maybe it was the guard’s harsh demeanor, the looming threat of consequence, 

the tight binding of the chair. Or most of all, maybe it was the size of the room. Remember, Icarus was extremely claustrophobic. Maybe it was the way the walls felt like they were closing in, how there was only a dim light and there was someone standing right in his face with questions he didn’t know how to answer, but Icarus finally broke. 

“My name is Jean Howard III. If you know Howard’s Solar Panels.” “‘Course.” The guard was now skeptically intrigued. 

“My grandfather’s business. I inherited it from him. Thing is, we don’t really make solar panels.” He chuckled to himself. Julian listened expectantly, wondering where this was going. Had Icarus thought of a way to get himself out of this? 

The guard stiffened in suspicion. “My father had a hand in Howard’s business, in the 80’s. What do you mean, you don’t make solar panels?” “We work in genetics. Genetic mutation, to be more specific. We’ve been growing our enterprise for years, through the black market, or course.” “You’re lying.” 

“But we had no way to test it. I volunteered to be the first-ever lab rat. I was only nine then. 

“We took some of my genetics, made a clone. A body double for me. My only birthday present that year.” Icarus - no, Jean - laughed yet again. Julian started to

sweat. This was too strange a story. This wasn’t the right story. Was he still lying? Julian couldn’t tell. 

“My body double, I named him Julian. Made him believe he had a life before me. A family. Let him grow up in the real world, and of course, I was right by his side. We’ve achieved some great things together, we have. Stealing, making money. I put up with it all in the name of science.” 

Silence. “Alrighty.” The guard said incredulously. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out then. A body double.” He laughed, long and maniacally. When he finally stopped, he wasn’t at all serious as he said, “What are you planning to do with this double, then? Seeing as your genetic experiment was a success.” 

More silence. Then Jean spoke again. This time, it was softer, straight into the earpiece. “I know you’re listening, Julian.” 

Julian jumped from his seat, head spinning. He didn’t know who this man was, but he was crazy. How had he become intertwined with his life? Now that he thought about it, Icarus, or Jean, had just turned up on his doorstep one day. What was he thinking? But there was still a life before Icarus. Julian’s life. Right? 

“I know you’ve heard everything.” 

Julian was frozen, rooted to the spot. 

“To answer your question, sir, I’m going to kill him. My experiment is done.” Then Jean must have taken out the earpiece, because all Julian heard was static. 

In a blind panic, Julian whirled around like there was someone watching him. He remembered he was alone. But was he? If Jean was telling the truth, he was a programmed entity. A fake. A test subject. Who else knew? How many of them were watching the life of Julian Cabenaugh, successful body double of… Jean Howard III? 

Julian thought of any possible escape. He could go to the police with Jean’s story. But the Howard family was a legacy. A dynasty. Their ‘solar panels’ had made their way around the world and back. No, nobody would believe him. They would laugh him off as a joke. 

He took a deep breath, steadied himself. He had known Jean - Icarus, he corrected himself - all his life. He trusted him. This story didn’t sound like his friend, but then again, he was probably saying anything he could to get out of a jam. Julian was being irrational. And irrational was the one thing he absolutely was not. 

Julian stepped outside the office. He called to Angel, his wife. It was a beautiful spring Saturday, and he thought a walk would be a nice way to clear his head. His whole family was home. But Angel didn’t respond.

“Angel!” he called again. Nothing. He called for his children. He looked for them. They weren’t there. He texted, called, but his phone had disconnected from his wife’s: Her number was no longer available. 

He searched for an hour. No one. 

He dialed 911. 

“Hello, I’d like to report three missing persons,” he said urgently. “Angel Cabenaugh, 39, and two children-” 

The number had hung up on him. 

He desperately called again, but it didn’t work. Not long after, his phone shut off and wouldn’t turn back on. He started going around the street banging on doors for help, but no one was home. He tried to go to the police station, somewhere, anywhere, but his car was missing. So was Angel’s. 

Now in a true state of panic, he turned on the news in frantic search of a clue. Was the world ending? There was nothing about his family or his strange collection of misfortunes, only a report of a mentally ill thief that had managed to break out of the Paris Correctional Facility. 

What? 

In a faint trance, he remembered Jean. His stomach lurched. In that moment, believed everything, and it hit him like a truck. Jean was going to find him. He was going to find him just like he’d found the rest of his family, and yes, somehow Julian knew this man was behind it all, his life unraveling, it all came down to 

There was a knock on the front door. A person. 

Julian dove behind the door to the coat closet and slammed it. He tried to think logically. It just could be him. Or it could be help. But it could be him. In a daze, Julian remembered. Jean knew the password. The password to the door. 

Beep. 

Click. 

The door opened. 

A few footsteps. 

Then a voice he knew too well, humming a special tune. 

It was then Julian vaguely remembered he turned 40 just a few days ago. Jean had come to give him one final present. 

“Happy birthday, Julian!”

Lucie McCaffrey is a freshman in the SCAPA Literary Arts program. She has been in the SCAPA program since fourth grade, and enjoys creating graphic novels, short stories, and poetry. In her free time, Lucie likes to swim, draw, and be with friends.