by John Locke
“H-How do you people know these things?” Quentin says.
“It’s our job to know them, Mr. Palmer,” Callie says, adding, “And know this: if you say one word about this to anyone, your life will come to an end. The warning you give tonight or tomorrow might destroy the man standing beside you, but you don’t even know who I am. And I’ll come for you. And when I do, I’m going to cut Ginger and Shelby into cubes of chum, right before your eyes.”
“Jesus,” Quentin says.
“And you know what’s worse?” Callie says.
“Wh-what?”
“I am so fucking depraved at this point, I will actually enjoy it.”
“Jesus,” I say.
29.
“Would you like to see my shillelagh, Mr. Creed?” Maggie Sullivan says.
“Well, I’ve never heard it called that before, but…should I lock the door?”
She laughs heartily. “You’re a bad boy!”
“So you’re not actually going to…”
“Of course not, you nut. A shillelagh is an Irish walking stick.”
It’s Monday afternoon. A week has passed since Rachel’s kidnapping. I’m in Maggie Sullivan’s office in Denver. After not killing Quentin Palmer, I had him contact Maggie to set up an appointment to discuss a possible breakthrough for a flu vaccine, though he was careful not to mention the Spanish Flu. Maggie and I have been having fun talking about her Irish heritage. She’s fifteen years older than me, and mildly flirtatious. She stands and crosses the room and removes a stick from a display on the far wall. She hefts it a couple of times before handing it to me.
“Mighty fine looking shillelagh,” I say.
She laughs again. “You have no idea what you’re looking at, do you?”
“It sort of resembles an Irish walking stick,” I say, handing it back. “What type of wood is that?”
“Like most traditional shillelaghs, this one is made from blackthorn. You smear the wood with butter and put it up the chimney to cure.”
“Are we speaking in code here?”
She laughs again.
I say, “It’s heavy on top.”
“Yes. This is what we call a loaded shillelagh. The top end has been hollowed and filled with molten lead, which turns it into a striking stick.”
“Have you ever hit anyone with it?”
“No, but my grandmother claims to have used it to beat off the men in her neighborhood.”
“My grandmother used her hand,” I say.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. It’s a nice walking stick.”
“Yes, well it should be. It’s an antique, after all. A classic, as it were.”
“If I’m not mistaken, a jeweled shillelagh is given each year to the winner of the college football game between Notre Dame and USC.”
She gives me a slow nod, then smiles. “You’ve been having sport with me all this time.”
I return her smile. “Maybe. A little.”
She says, “How can I help you, Mr. Creed?”
“By giving me a name.”
“And which name would that be?”
“The head scientist. The one who has the final word.”
She frowns. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re asking. Mr. Palmer said your visit had something to do with next year’s flu vaccine.”
“Please forgive my lack of scientific credential as I try to formulate my question,” I say, humbly.
“Of course.”
“Suppose I had access to a human gene that was one in a billion.”
Maggie shrugs.
I continue. “And let’s say that the gene I’ve found is the missing link between the swine and avian flu strains that caused the Spanish Flu pandemic of 1918.”
“That would be quite a find,” Maggie says.
“But assume it were true.”
“Done, sir.”
“If I had access to such a gene, who is the scientist that would validate my claim?”
“Roger Asprin.”
“Asprin?”
“Yes, of course.”
“That’s quite a name,” I say.
“Roger is the do-all and be-all of virologists, what we call a true ‘flu man,’ meaning a scientist who has devoted his entire life to influenza research.”
“If a determination needs to be made, he’s the guy?”
“He’s the one.”
“He knows his stuff?”
“In addition to being the world’s most highly-respected virologist, Roger Asprin is a molecular pathologist with extensive experience in recovering genetic information from preserved human tissue.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about, but I call Sam and Lou and have her repeat Roger’s credentials to them.
“Roger sounds like the man,” Sam says.
“Where would I find Mr. Asprin?” I say.
Maggie laughs. “Roger’s a man of the world. He could be anywhere. It would be easier to gain audience with the President.”
I frown.
“However,” she adds, “this week I happen to know he’s in Chicago, heading a symposium on viral pathogens.”
“Where’s his home?”
“Los Angeles,” I think.
I turn off the speaker phone and wait until Lou says, “Got it. Newport Beach.”
When I terminate the call, Maggie says, “Tell me what you’ve found, Mr. Creed.”
I then proceed to give Maggie the complete and utter bullshit story that Sam concocted for me, and as we expected, she quickly came to the conclusion that what I actually had was nothing. To her credit, she listened to the entire spiel before saying, “And you discussed all this with Quentin Palmer?”
“No. I only told him what he told you on the phone.”
“And he didn’t ask for details?”
“Yes, of course he did. But I didn’t know if I could trust him, since he said he didn’t know the name of the scientist.”
Maggie nods. “Well, he’s certainly heard of Roger Asprin. On the other hand, he’d have no reason to know Dr. Asprin is our primary accreditor.”
“Can you help me get an audience with him?” I say, knowing the answer in advance.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Maggie says. “Though I must warn you, he’s a very busy man.”
“I’d appreciate any help you can give. After all, it would be horrible if the Spanish Flu came back.”
“It would indeed.” She stood, and extended her hand. “I’ll have someone from his office contact you.”
“My number’s on the business card I gave you,” I say, helpfully.
She picks the card up and looks at it. “So it is.”
I shake her hand and give her a wink. “Thanks for showing me your shillelagh.”
“Anytime, Mr. Creed.”
I leave her office knowing my card will be in her trash can before I hit the elevator button. Not that it matters, since the phone number I had printed on the card goes to a Chinese take-out restaurant in Richmond, Virginia.
I climb in my waiting limo and call Callie, who lives in Las Vegas with her girlfriend, Eva, a trapeze artist who performs nightly in the Cirque du Soleil production “O” at the Bellagio.
“I’ve just passed the city limits en route to Newport Beach,” Callie says.
“Great! Thanks, Callie. I’ll meet you there,” I say. Then I call Lou and tell him to release Sam.
“Are you sure?”
“He gave us what we need. Plus, if all goes well tonight, we’ll need his room at Sensory.”
“Want me to fly him back to Louisville?”
“He’s been through a lot. Take him wherever he wants to go. And Lou?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank him for me. I know he hates me, but I owe him big time. Without his help, I’d have no chance of finding Rachel.”
“He didn’t help you willingly,” Lou reminds me.
“True. But the end result is the same.”
Lou pauses a moment.
Then says, “I’ll take care of it.”
30.
“Roger’s in Chicago till Friday,” Jane Asprin says. “Some type of international conference.”
“Then who’s this?” I say, pointing my gun at the naked guy sitting on the bed beside her.
“I have no idea,” Jane says. “A rapist, obviously. As you can see, he tied my wrists to the headboard and took off all my clothes. If you hadn’t come in when you did, he would certainly have raped me.”
“It didn’t sound like rape,” I say.
“You just walked in. Perhaps you didn’t hear me calling for help.”
“It didn’t appear you needed any help. This guy came to your door, you let him in, called him Hector, and gave him five hundred dollars to tie you up.”
“If you heard all that, why did you wait so long to barge in?”
“I didn’t want to miss the show.”
“You’re disgusting.” To Hector, she said, “Are you just going to sit there with your hands up your ass? Do something, you imbecile!”
“He’s got a gun,” Hector says.
Jane sighs. “At the very least you could untie me. You think it’s fun lying here butt naked while some asshole points a gun at me? I can tell you this, Hector: a real man wouldn’t stand for it.”
Hector looks at me.
“No, you can’t untie her,” I say.
Hector looks at Jane. “He says—”
“I heard him.” To me, she says, “Did Roger send you?”
“No.”
“Are you going to tell him?”
“About what?”
“Hector.”
“Do you want me to tell him?”
“What kind of crazy question is that? Of course not.”
From behind me, Callie says, “I’ve got his laptop.”
When she enters the room, Hector’s eyes bug out like marbles. “Firewood!” he shouts, crossing himself.
I have no idea what that means.
Jane says, “Who are you people, movie stars gone bad?”
“What do you think?” I say.
As good looking as I am synthetically, and Rachel is naturally, Callie has us both beat. She is, quite frankly, the most astonishingly beautiful woman in the world. In Jane’s bedroom now, all three of us are staring at her.
“What?” Callie says.
“Your beauty.”
“Oh, please. I look like a hairball some cat coughed up and shit on. Why is Jane still tied up? You can’t possibly find her attractive.”
I look at Jane’s body a moment. “It’s sort of like a movie you’re not really into. But it’s the only thing on TV, so you watch it.”
“I’m right here, you know,” Jane says.
“What’s her version?” Callie says.
“She was telling me how Hector was about to rape her just now.”
“Rehearsing her story for hubby?”
“I suppose.”
Callie sets Roger’s laptop on the floor and pulls her cell phone from the hip pocket of her jeans. She moves in close and takes Jane’s picture from the waist up.
“What the hell?” Jane says.
Callie backs up a few steps and takes another photo, getting Jane’s entire body in the shot. Then she shows me the digital images.
“What do you think?” she says.
“I think you did the best you could with what you had.”
“Fuck you!” Jane says.
“Can’t get enough, can she?” Callie says.
I tell Hector to get dressed.
“I don’t have no underwear,” he says, with great sorrow, as if apologizing.
Callie and I exchange a glance. We aren’t sure, but we think Hector might be mentally challenged.
When Hector finally realizes he can get dressed the same way he got undressed, without underwear, I walk him downstairs, and out the door and tell him to go home. It’s dark enough that I can probably get Jane’s body into my trunk without anyone noticing. Hector tries to hug me goodbye, but I keep him at arm’s length. I feel for the guy, but what can I say? I’ve got trust issues.
I close the door, lock it, and walk up the stairs. When I enter the bedroom, Jane says, “How long are you going to make me lie here naked?”
“I’m not sure. So far, I’m comfortable with it.”
Callie is standing at the window, watching Hector walk away.
Jane says, “If you promise to let me go, I’ll let you fuck me.” She looks at Callie and says, “Her, too.”
Callie suddenly turns and runs out the door. “Start without me,” she calls as she moves quickly down the steps.
When I hear the front door close behind her, my head explodes with pain.
31.
“Where’s Jane?” Callie asks, ten minutes later.
“In the trunk of my car.”
“You drugged her?”
“Drugged and duct taped. How’s Hector?”
“Not so good. He was getting ready to call the cops.”
“Not as impaired as we thought?”
“He seemed more lucid on the phone.”
“Did he get through?”
“To the cops? No. But he spoke to his drug dealer.”
“You’re guessing he was going to call the cops?”
“Those were his last words before hanging up. He said, ‘gotta go, there’s some strange shit goin’ down. I might have to call the cops.’”
“He told his dealer he might call the cops?”
“He had the brains of a goldfish,” Callie said. “But I don’t think he was clinically mental.”
I don’t say anything to Callie about the white-hot pain that washed through my head for a split-second, minutes ago. Once again, I feel fine almost instantly. But I’m a little concerned about driving through L.A. If this thing flares up again, I could have a wreck.
“You going to follow me to the airport?” I ask.
Callie nods. Then asks, “What happened with Bernard?”
Bernard is a dean’s list student at UCLA Medical. He’s also Jane and Roger’s son.
“Jeff’s got him in his trunk. He’s currently making wide circles around the airport, waiting for us. He can take care of your car later tonight.” Jeff is one of my former assassins who offered to pitch in for this project. Unlike Callie, Jarvis and me, Jeff actually lives in L.A.
“What if Roger doesn’t care we kidnapped his family?”
“I expect he’s proud of Bernard. The kid’s a top student, plans to follow in Dad’s footsteps. As a backup, Jarvis is still watching Ellen’s house in Atlanta.” Ellen is the Asprin’s married daughter, and a new mom. Judging from the baby pictures on Roger’s desk, he’s quite fond of his granddaughter.
“You think that’s enough?” Callie says.
“To get Rachel released? No.”
“He’d let them all die?”
“I think so. He’s a scientist. This thing with Rachel is a big deal.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“What I do best.”
“Remind me what that is,” she says, smiling.
“I’m going to torture him.”
“Can I watch?”
“But of course.”
32.
We’re airborne. Jane and Bernard are comfortably sedated, and lying on the twin couches at mid-cabin. Callie and I are sitting aft, keeping an eye on them. If all goes according to plan, they won’t wake up till they find themselves strapped to hospital beds in the Sensory Resources Medical Center.
Callie and I have the type of relationship where we’re comfortable being silent for long periods of time when traveling together. She knows I’m upset about Rachel, but doesn’t attempt to comfort or reassure me. I appreciate that about her. She doesn’t like Rachel, and is far too honest to feign sympathy. She’s only participating in this adventure as a favor to me, same as Jeff and Jarvis. Same as I’d drop everything to help them.
So I’m sitting here in silence, running the wh
ole Rachel kidnapping through my mind, filtering it through Sam’s theory about the Flu Pandemic of 1918, and can’t help but think I’m missing something. There’s a solution here, or at least a Plan B. I can feel it. I just can’t see it.
I run it again, and still come up with nothing.
I quit trying to figure out what I’m missing, and decide instead to access some of my favorite memories of Rachel. In the attic of my mind there are many boxes labeled Rachel. Some say Rachel and Kevin, for that’s the name I gave her when we met, and it’s the name she’s called me ever since. But each box holds a specific memory. I let my thoughts drift around the attic until I come to the box that says First Time. In my mind, I open that box, and find us riding horses across the lush Kentucky meadows on a crisp, spring day. She’d skipped work to be with me, and I’d found a gorgeous riding stable that agreed to rent me a couple of spirited horses for an afternoon picnic.
For weeks the sexual tension had been building between us, and after an hour of working the horses we found ourselves lying on the red-and-white checked picnic blanket I’d brought for the occasion. We were in a secluded area, surrounded by a stand of pine trees, next to a bubbling brook. If it was ever going to happen, I figured, it would happen here. It was, quite simply, a perfect setting.
We had some lunch, shared some bourbon, and Rachel looked me dead in the eye, unbuttoned the top button of her shirt and said, “All day long you’ve been looking at my ass like it’s your job.”
“It is my job,” I said.
She smiled. “Do you have any idea what I’m going to let you do to me right now?”
I smiled back. “Tell me.”
“Nothing,” she said.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Why?”
“I want our first time to be special.”
I looked around, bewildered, unable to imagine a more romantic setting for our first time.
“What did you have in mind?” I said, utterly confused.
“When it’s right, we’ll both know it,” she said.
I gave her a look.
“Don’t pout,” she said.
