by John Locke
“Tell me.”
“Us.”
She sits down, reaches across the small table, and takes my hand. “I’ll miss us too.”
She sees the look in my eyes and says, “Don’t ask.”
“Too late.”
“If you don’t ask, I won’t cry,” she says.
“I already asked. With my heart.”
The intrusive brunette rolls her eyes, props her cell phone on the table and snaps a picture of me with one hand while pretending to signal a waiter with the other. Then she adjusts the angle and takes a picture of Miranda.
She’s annoying the shit out of me, as are the businessmen sitting behind Miranda. When one of them says to his friends, “Kiss him again, honey,” and the others giggle, I think about the popping sound their eyes will make if I burst them with my fingers. I always thought that sound was caused by a little pocket of gas behind the cornea, but according to Lou’s research, the eyes contain no such gas, and the popping sound has more to do with the clear jelly of the vitreous body needing a place to escape in a hurry.
Speaking of eyes, Miranda’s are gorgeous, and she has impossibly long, natural eyelashes models would kill to possess. She uses them to blink a couple of tears from her eyes.
“I’ll say it again, Donovan. We can’t keep seeing each other after I graduate.”
“Maybe not like last night,” I say. “But when you get your license, I’ll be your first client.”
“You can’t. It wouldn’t be ethical.”
“You’ve been counseling me for a year.”
“Not professionally. I can’t counsel a client with whom I’ve been intimate.”
I frown. “That’s a stupid rule. Who could possibly understand me better, a total stranger, or a woman who knows me intimately?”
She smiles. “You’re not going to draw me into a debate on this issue.”
“Why not?”
“First, you’re too persuasive. And second, you’re right. But this license is very important to me. I’ve worked very hard to earn it. In order to keep it I have to follow certain rules of conduct.”
“These rules are important to you?”
She gives me her analyst look, the one she uses when trying to give the impression she’s speaking to me as an equal. Since I already know she’s smarter than me, her look doesn’t have the intended effect. It only makes her more adorable in my eyes.
She says, “You’re trying to suck me in again.”
“You think?”
“If I say I believe in following rules of ethical conduct, you’ll remind me I’m already breaking them by sleeping with you for cash. Which I’ll attempt to justify by saying it was a means to obtain the finest education. But then you’ll say I could’ve gotten a school loan, and I’ll say if I got a school loan I never would have met you.”
“All of which is true,” I say.
“Yes, but then you’ll point out we did meet, and—”
“Miranda?”
“Yes, honey?”
“Exactly how long do I have?”
She bites her lip.
“Miranda?”
She blinks more tears from her eyes.
The lady at the table next to us is hanging on our every word. I noticed her jaw drop a moment ago when Miranda said she’d been sleeping with me for cash. Now she’s glaring at us in a rude fashion.
Miranda notices too, because she turns to the brunette and says, “Excuse me, have you ever considered whoring?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Would you consider a three-way? You, me, and my boyfriend?”
“Excuse me?” The young brunette’s face is beet red. She looks at me with total disgust.
I blow her a kiss. She does a double-take, and intensifies her glare.
Miranda says, “We’ve got a room upstairs. We can bang one out in ten minutes if you’re in a hurry to get to work.”
“What? You can’t possibly think I’d—Are you insane?”
Miranda says, “I hope you don’t expect us to believe you got that round mouth by eating oatmeal.”
“Omigod!” she says, and jumps to her feet to run tell the manager.
“I guess that’s a no,” Miranda says. “Sorry, Donovan.”
“Story of my life,” I say.
My cell phone vibrates. I answer it.
“Yes?”
“We’re good to go,” Dr. P. says.
DR. P. MEETS us in the lobby and escorts us to Dr. Boreland’s office. Boreland is Chief Operating Officer of Jeff Memorial.
Dr. Boreland shakes my hand while looking at Miranda.
“And you are?”
“Miranda Rodriguez,” she says, extending a hand.
He says, “You’re quite young. How do you fit in?”
“I’m sixteen weeks away from obtaining my Master’s in Counseling Psychology. After graduating, I’ll work with Dr. Petrovsky at his clinic, counseling patients.”
He nods.
Dr. P. is stunned into silence, which reminds me I neglected to tell him Miranda’s cover story.
Dr. Boreland shows us close up photos of the victims and says, “Dr. Petrovsky claims he can do something with these hands and faces. Do you share his optimism?”
I look at Dr. P.
He nods.
I say, “Dr. Petrovsky is the most highly-skilled surgeon on the planet Earth.”
Dr. Boreland frowns. “You’ll pardon me for doubting the veracity of that claim.”
“Whoa,” I say. “You couldn’t have said that simpler?”
He frowns.
I say, “I can assure you Dr. P. is without peer.”
“Funny I’ve never heard of him.”
“Have you heard of Albert Schweitzer?”
“Yes.”
“Sigmund Freud?”
“Yes.”
“Phineas Flatulence?”
“Do I strike you as the sort of person who enjoys having his time wasted with childish humor?”
“Why do you ask?”
Dr. Boreland decides to move on, saying, “Dr. Petrovsky’s name fails to appear in any internet listing of doctors and surgeons.”
“And yet you’re showing us the photos,” I say.
He shows me a flat, annoyed smile. “I’ve been ordered to cooperate fully.”
“By?”
“Dr. Dame, president and Chief Executive Officer.”
“That should convince you.”
“It convinces me Dr. Petrovsky has a great deal of clout. But I strongly disapprove of him giving false hope to these patients.”
I look at Dr. P. “Show him the photo.”
Dr. P. opens his leather folio and removes two photographs of an incredibly handsome man who happens to have a prominent scar on his face.
Dr. Boreland studies the photos a full minute, then looks at me.
“So?”
“That’s me, less than four years ago.”
“That’s preposterous.”
I notice Miranda’s eyes are glued to the photos. She might be more stunned than Dr. Boreland. I exaggerated about being incredibly handsome just now. I was, at best, good looking. Now, thanks to Dr. P. and his team of government surgeons, I’m incredibly handsome.
For real.
Dr. Boreland opens his desk drawer and removes a pair of surgical magnifying loupes. He puts them on and walks around his desk.
“Do you mind?” he says.
“Not at all.”
He motions me to look up so the light catches my face. Then he leans over until our faces are less than a foot apart. He pinches my face in various places, holds the skin between his fingers, and inspects it.
“This is a joke,” he says.
“Thank you,” Dr. P. says.
Moments later the three of us exit Dr. Boreland’s office and take the elevator to the fourth floor.
All twenty-two Derby City Fair victims were brought to Jeff Memorial. The thirteen adults, six children and three infants were doubled
up and grouped in adjoining rooms on the fourth floor so they could be treated and monitored consistently.
I approach the first woman, Mary Valentine.
“Hi Mary, I’m Donovan Creed. This is Miranda Rodriguez and Dr. Eamon Petrovsky.”
Mary is drugged to the max. Her hands are heavily bandaged, and she’s receiving fluids.
She tries to speak, but her words are slurred.
Miranda says, “We’ll check on her and let you know.”
I have no idea what that means. Miranda says, “She asked about her daughter.”
Dr. P. and I exchange a look that indicates he didn’t catch Mary’s question any better than I did.
I continue, “Dr. Petrovsky is the world’s greatest plastic surgeon. He believes he can significantly restore your hands, over time. Dr. P. and I own a surgery center and spa in Las Vegas, Nevada. When you’re able to travel, we’d like to donate our services to you and your daughter, free of charge.”
Mary’s eyes well up. She mumbles something completely incoherent. Dr. P. and I look at Miranda, who says, “Mary is very grateful, but wants to know how long it will take.”
Dr. P. says, “Best case, five years, twenty surgeries.”
Mary mumbles something else. Miranda translates, “What about her baby?”
Dr. P. says, “Don’t expect a miracle.”
More mumbling. Miranda says, “She wants to know if it will hurt.”
“It will be excruciating,” Dr. P. says. “I’m sorry, I wish I had better news.”
Mary would never imagine the total cost of her surgical procedures, medicine, physical and occupational therapy will cost more than three million dollars. Nor would she care, I suspect. Right now she’s in a state of shock. Her attack was so sudden, her situation so horrific. One moment she’s pushing her baby in a stroller at the fair, the next moment her hands are burned practically to the bone. Not to mention her baby’s beautiful face has been ruined forever.
All this happened because she decided to use the free hand sanitizer dispenser at the fair.
As we go from one patient to the next, Dr. P. offers hope, Miranda offers encouragement, and I offer revenge.
Whoever did this is going to pay.
Maybe Taylor.
“WHAT DO YOU mean she broke your nose?”
“She smashed my face with her head.”
“How did she manage to get that close to you?”
“I was trying to hold her down on the bed. She became hysterical and started thrashing about. Wait. That didn’t translate properly.”
“No shit it didn’t! So what’s the bottom line, no divorce?”
“The divorce is a certainty. She was upset about something else.”
Maybe knows Sam sucks when it comes to explaining situations where he’s completely innocent. She decides to move the conversation along.
“Are you coming to Vegas or not?”
“My plane lands at two-forty.”
“I’ll call you at three to see where you’re staying.”
“I’ve booked a suite at the Vega Rouge. Just come when you can, call me from the lobby.”
“You feel up to making the trip?”
“No. But I feel up to seeing you.”
Donovan Creed.
AFTER LEAVING THE hospital Miranda and I cross the street and enter the hotel quietly. I feel her staring at me.
“Are you okay?” she says.
“I’m good.”
She nods.
We walk down the hall in silence, enter the room, sit on the bed.
She says, “Can we talk about this?”
“Are you sure it’s ethical?” I say, and immediately wish I hadn’t.
She ignores my comment and says, “I know you, Donovan.”
She thinks she knows me. In truth, she knows very little about me.
“This has affected you deeply.”
She’s right about that.
“Look at me,” she says.
I know what she’s going to say. She’s going to tell me I need to clear my head of evil thoughts. She’ll say that giving total strangers more than fifty million dollars worth of free treatment is stunningly generous, and I should reflect on how their lives will be improved because of me. She’ll tell me not to dwell on the bad. She’ll say I need to forgive the person who did these terrible things, and move on with my life.
But when she speaks she says none of those things.
What she says is, “You’re going to catch the bastard that did this. And when you do, you’re going to torture him in the cruelest possible way.”
“Yes.”
Then she says, “You won’t turn him over to the authorities. You’ll make sure he’s dead.”
“Yes.”
“But I need to be there, Donovan. I need to talk to him.”
I look at her. “Why?”
“I need to understand his thought process. I need to know what makes him tick.”
“It’ll make you a better psychologist?”
“I believe it will.”
“Do you want to participate in the torture?”
“No. But I want to watch.”
We stare at each other a moment.
Then we attack.
To put it more accurately, Miranda attacks me. She slaps my face with both hands as hard as she can, over and over, stopping only to fall on her back and rip her blouse open. I take this as a cue to remove the rest of her clothing, which is no easy task while getting the shit slapped out of me.
Now, entering her, I expect the slapping to stop. But it intensifies! Again and again she slaps my face. She eventually makes her hands into fists and flails away at my face. Miranda’s not a skilled fighter, so I lean into her punches to intensify the effect.
When she bloodies my nose and lips she gets excited and starts bucking me. I ride it out as long as I can, which roughly translates to eighty seconds.
As you might imagine, this type of fucking is exhausting, hard work.
When we finish we’re panting like overweight dogs after a two-mile sprint.
Miranda says, “Are you okay?”
“I am.”
“Good. Now it’s my turn.”
I look at her. “What do you mean?”
“I’ll get on top while you hit me.”
I DIDN’T HIT Miranda.
But she did manage to talk me into pulling her hair from behind.
A little.
After a hot shower I inspect my puffy face and split lip in the bathroom mirror while thinking about Miranda’s perfect ACT score and her lifetime four-point-oh grade point average, and wonder briefly about the direction modern psychology is taking.
We pack everything except her torn blouse, and meet Dr. P. in the lobby, where I notice him staring at the scratches on my face.
“It took three years to create that face,” he says. “Show some respect, will you?”
“Sorry, Doc,” I say, while winking at Miranda.
Two hours later our pilot, Bob Koltech, expertly guides his jet onto the private runway outside Roanoke, Virginia, and taxies as close to the private aviation building as he can get. I sign the form, grab the rental car keys, and drive Miranda and Dr. P. to a hotel on I-81 just north of 581. Miranda and I check into our room, brush our teeth, and meet in the restaurant for sandwiches.
Dr. P. says, “I’m not sure why I’m here.”
“I’ve got an errand to run.”
Miranda says, “Can I come?”
“Yes.”
I look at Dr. P. “How about you?”
“I hate that place,” he says. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stay here and read.”
“What place?” Miranda says.
“Sensory Resources,” Dr. P. says. “Headquarters.”
Miranda says, “Does this have anything to do with the acid guy?”
“We’re calling him Felix,” I say. “And no, it doesn’t.”
“Why Felix?”
I shrug.
“I might need you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s a feeling I have.”
“A feeling.”
“That’s right.”
He frowns again. “Fine.”
“You can sit in the sun by the pool.”
He puts his index finger in the air and spins it around.
“Whoopee!” he says.
“I thought old people loved sitting in the sun, by the pool.”
“Fuck you,” he says.
“AM I ALLOWED to be pissed off?” Lou Kelly says.
Miranda and I are in the rental car, headed south on 81, bound for Sensory Resources, in Bedford, Virginia.
Wait. I know what you’re thinking. Bedford’s east of Roanoke, not south.
You’re right. I mean, that’s what I’ve always told you.
But it’s not true.
I’m trusting you with this because…well, because I trust you. You’ve known me awhile, now, and you deserve the truth. Sensory isn’t near Bedford. It’s eighty miles south-west.
Why did I lie?
We’ve always lied about the actual location. It’s what I programmed my staff and all the workers to say.
Here’s why:
Bedford’s a small town, where everyone knows everything about everyone else. There are people in Bedford who contact us when strangers show up asking questions about Sensory Resources, Donovan Creed, Lou Kelly, Callie Carpenter, Jarvis Kent, Jeff Tuck, Joe Penny, and the various assassins and bomb-builders who work for us, as well as the doctors and security personnel who work at the Sensory facility.
Those who come to Bedford seeking information…stay in Bedford, if you get my drift.
Lou doesn’t know we’re forty minutes away from paying him a surprise visit, but he’s on the phone and pissed because he just learned…well, I’ll let him say it:
“I busted my ass to get you the victim photos, then I hear you spent the morning viewing not only the photos but the victims themselves!”
“Relax, Lou.”
“This is why you had me fly Miranda Rodriguez to Louisville last night? You could’ve saved me hours of work by telling me your plans. It’s not like I’m sitting around, twiddling my thumbs all day.”
