by John Locke
“Seconds.”
“Bullshit.”
“I wouldn’t pay you a hundred grand to kill someone, and provide an inferior weapon,” Sam says. “But you can use a gun or knife on Sherry if you’d prefer.”
“I’ll try the spray, but I want a gun with a silencer as a backup,” Maybe says.
“I can arrange that.”
Maybe frowns. “Here’s what I don’t understand. You know all about these poisons. You can arrange for me to get weapons with silencers. Why don’t you meet Sherry Cherry yourself and give her face a quick spray?”
“That would deny you the opportunity to earn an easy hundred grand.”
“You think I like the killing, don’t you?”
“I know you do.”
“What prevents me from spraying you in your sleep tonight?”
“Nothing. But you don’t have to wait for me to fall asleep. You can spray me right now, if it pleases you.”
She looks at the spray bottle. “If this really works, I could kill Callie.”
“Test it on Sherry for a hundred grand. Use it on Gwen or Callie, either one, and I’ll give you another hundred grand.”
Maybe drops the cylinder in her handbag. “What happens now?”
“We make love, and I give you the down payment.”
“How about you give me the down payment first?”
“As you wish.”
He crosses the floor to the closet, opens his carry-on case, removes ten bank envelopes, and hands them to her. She opens them one at a time, noting they’re filled with hundred dollar bills.
“Fifty thousand dollars,” Sam says.
Maybe smiles. “When do I go?”
“I’d like you to go with me first thing tomorrow morning.”
“I can do that.”
“What will you tell your father?”
“I don’t need to tell him anything. He’s in Louisville.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“No. But that’s where he went last night.”
“You haven’t heard from him today?”
“Nope. He thinks I’m staying with Callie.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I said I was going out for the evening and told her not to wait up for me.”
“Good.”
“So, you’re going with me?” she says.
“Yes. I’ll be right by your side when Sherry shows up. But we can discuss the plan after.”
“After we have sex?”
“Yes.”
“What about room service?”
“We can order whatever you want. After sex.”
“What if I don’t want to have sex with you?”
“It’d break my heart, but I’d accept it.”
“I’m glad to hear that, because I don’t want to have sex with you.”
“Why not?”
“It would disgust me.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She laughs. “It’s easy enough to prove!”
“But I came all this way! I flew six hours with a broken nose and bled all over myself! I haven’t taken any pain killers all day just so I could enjoy your body! Not to mention I just paid you fifty thousand dollars!”
“You said if I didn’t want to have sex with you, you’d accept it.”
“Well, I can’t.”
“Then why’d you say it?”
“I was bluffing. I need you.”
“Sex with me is that important to you?”
“Yes, of course!”
“What’s it worth, specifically?”
“What do you mean? You want me to pay you for sex?”
“My father pays women for sex.”
Sam considers her comment before saying, “I just gave you fifty grand!”
“That’s for killing Sherry Cherry. Not buying sex.”
“You’d actually charge me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Why?”
“To prove you’re not using me.”
“But you’d be using me!”
“I’m okay with that.”
Sam gives her a sullen look. “If that’s the way you feel about it, charge me now.”
“No. I have something else in mind.”
“What’s that?”
“I want to humiliate you.”
He looks bewildered. “I’m sitting here in severe pain with a broken nose. I cried in public today in front of a dozen passengers and crew members and stuffed tampons up my nose, just for the chance to be with you. I’ve pledged my love and received nothing from you in return. You’ve reduced me to begging for sex, and I have begged you, and even offered to pay you for it.”
“Your point?”
“You think I’m not humiliated enough already?”
“Not even close.”
Sam sighs. Pretending to be lovesick over a psychotic killer just to punish her father is beginning to test his limits.
“What do I have to do?” he says.
Maybe smiles.
Donovan Creed.
I’M IN LOU’S office, viewing sensitive information he’s uncovered about Darwin’s activities. Every file and document in Lou’s office is classified, so I had to ask Miranda to wait in the lobby.
Here’s the thing about Lou’s information: it’s convincing.
Here’s the problem: it’s too convincing.
For twenty years none of us have been able to find a scrap of information about Darwin. Now, suddenly, Lou has uncovered reams of proof that my old friend, Doc Howard, was monitoring my flights, bugging my office, capturing keystrokes on my office computer, and tracking my movements through my cell phone.
You want to hear the most damning evidence? You’ll love this. Doc Howard had five tiny lights installed in every room on the main floor and basement of his house. Lou and I have had one phone number for Darwin all these years, but they were different numbers. When Lou calls, his name shows up on Doc Howard’s cell phone, and a blue light goes on in Doc Howard’s office and home. When I call, a red light flashes. Lou says if I’ll go with him to Doc Howard’s office and home, he can prove it to me.
I tell him I don’t need to see it.
“Why not?”
“Because I trust you, Lou.”
“Right.”
The real reason is I already knew about Doc Howard’s lights. I’ve been to his house several times. The first time I visited, he showed me how the lights blink when different people call. But they blinked when I called Doc’s number, not Darwin’s. If Doc’s lights are now blinking when I call Darwin, Lou or someone else has had them reprogrammed.
So I don’t buy it.
Doc was a crusty curmudgeon who complained about everything in his life. He ran the infirmary and surgical center at Sensory, and was involved in my facial reconstruction. “Under orders from Darwin,” as Doc put it, he implanted a chip in my brain while I was in a coma. But years later, Doc tipped me off about the chip and taught me how to disable it. For this information he charged me a hundred million dollars.
Lou doesn’t know it was Doc who told me about the chip. Nor is he aware of the financial arrangement I made last year with Darwin and Sal Bonadello, the two people most likely to kill me.
I secretly pay them for protection.
Every month my Swiss bank transfers a multi-million dollar payment to two numbered accounts. One is owned by Sal Bonadello, the other, Darwin. The amount is equal to the monthly interest on two five hundred million dollar certificates of deposit.
If I die, the payments stop.
If Sal dies his payment stops.
If Darwin dies, his payment stops.
So both men have a vested interest in keeping me alive.
I’ll know in a week if the payment to Darwin has been made. If it has, Darwin’s alive. Or at least his eyes are alive. You see, he has to log in with a retinal scan to accept the money.
I don’t believe Darwin would have told me about the chip for any amount of mon
ey, because that was his insurance against me. Darwin ordered the chip placed in my brain so he could press a button from anywhere in the world and kill me if I ever became a problem.
Thanks to Doc Howard’s information, I disabled the chip. So I’m having a hard time believing he was Darwin.
Which means Lou killed the wrong man.
“Callie thinks you’re Darwin,” I say.
Lou does a double take. “That’s crazy! Why would she think that?”
“You and Doc are the two people who claimed Darwin was trying to kill me. And you’re the one who uncovered the evidence against Doc. And you’re the one who killed him.”
“It’s logical I found the evidence,” Lou says. “It’s my research team. Plus, I worked right here in the same building with Doc Howard for more than ten years. If I’m wrong, why was Doc Howard tracking your movements and monitoring your flights? Why would a government surgeon do that?”
“The obvious answer is he wouldn’t. But Callie might remind me that you’re a computer genius. You gave us fake ID’s and wiped our paper trails clean. You’ve doctored our birth certificates and created diplomas and certifications that prove we’re lawyers, doctors, nuclear inspectors, and anything else we need to prove out in the field. For a guy like you, framing Doc Howard would be child’s play.”
“You know damn good and well I’m not Darwin!” he says.
“You’re right.”
Lou looks relieved. “You do know?”
“Yes.”
“For certain?”
“Of course.”
“Then please tell me why. I haven’t slept for days, worrying you might come after me.”
“Remember when we did the sting together and stole all that money from Sam Case’s clients?”
He nods.
“You tried to kill me.”
He hangs his head. Then looks up and says, “I don’t understand.”
“You tried to kill me by pumping the air out of the Lucite container.”
“So?”
“I didn’t know it at the time, but Darwin ordered a chip planted in my brain years earlier.”
“When you were in a coma,” Lou says.
“That’s right. If you were Darwin, you would’ve known about the chip. You could’ve killed me instantly by simply pressing a button.”
“Thank God I tried to kill you!” he says.
We look at each other and laugh.
He adds, “Well, you know what I mean!”
I do know. But while I know Lou isn’t Darwin, I also know he can’t be trusted. He may or may not believe Doc was Darwin. He may or may not be helping the real Darwin frame Doc.
Lou says, “You’re having a hard time accepting Doc Howard as Darwin.”
“I’m keeping an open mind.”
“Want to see his death?”
“You have photos?”
“Video.”
As he punches some numbers into his computer I ask, “What, no popcorn?”
“It’s a short clip.”
He’s right. The Doc Howard death video shows Lou killed Doc the old fashioned way. Grabbed him from behind, stuck a syringe in his neck, pushed the plunger.
“Doc and I were very close,” Lou says. “I made sure he didn’t suffer.”
“Why hasn’t his death been announced?”
“I’m rewriting his life.”
“Not just erasing it?”
“No. I want Doc to have the legacy he deserves. It’s easy for us to erase a person’s history. But it takes time to create the proper references, letters, public appearances, contributions, and accomplishments a distinguished man like Doc Howard would have made to the world.”
“Isn’t Ethel asking about her husband’s whereabouts?”
“No.”
“Because?”
“I’m afraid Ethel suffered an overdose.”
I frown. “You couldn’t find it in your heart to spare her?”
“Doc was a good husband. Almost never worked late. We’re still days away from fixing his background. She would’ve raised a stink.”
“What about Homeland?”
“I informed them of his heart attack this morning. They agree I should keep him on ice till we’ve cleaned his history.”
“Do they know about Ethel?”
“They think she’s here at Sensory, under a doctor’s care.”
“You’re holding both bodies?”
“I am.”
“Show me.”
Lou takes me to the cooler and shows me the bodies. I don’t know Ethel well enough to positively identify her, but this other one is definitely Doc Howard. We use a lot of body doubles in our business, but this is my old friend. I’d stake my life on it.
The question remains. Was he Darwin?
“Someone at Homeland knows Darwin’s identity,” I say.
“You’d think so.”
“If they think Doc was Darwin, they’ll want to replace him.”
“That’s my hope.”
It dawns on me Lou wants the job. If he’s framing Doc Howard, here’s another motive.
Lou says, “Don’t look so surprised. Stranger things have happened.”
“You’re a computer expert and researcher.”
“So?”
“I doubt they’ll offer you the job.”
“Maybe they’ll offer it to you,” he says.
I think about that as I head to the lobby to fetch Miranda.
Miles Gundy.
WHAT DO LITTLE girls and moms like to do?
Little girls take ballet. Moms take barre classes set to music. What do they have in common? Both use ballet barres, the long banister-type railing dancers use for stretching.
Miles pulls into a parking space that offers an unobstructed view of the entrance to Dancing Barre in Memphis. He tunes his radio to the local sixties station, cranks it up, and sits tight for twenty minutes waiting for the instructor to show up for the three-fifteen class. She’s early, of course, but not that early. Miles jumps out of his car, grabs the large canvass bag from the back seat, and enters the studio.
The instructor says, “May I help you?”
“I’m from corporate,” Miles says. “And you are?”
“Missy Tadasana.”
“I know you’ve got a class at three-fifteen,” he says. “If nothing’s out of order, I can be out of here in two minutes.”
“I don’t understand. Who are you, again?”
“Dancing Barre is a franchise,” Miles says. “Twice a year we test the facility for cleanliness.”
“Ms. Pranayama didn’t say anything about this,” Missy says.
“We don’t schedule our visits, Missy. That would defeat the purpose.”
“Well, this studio is spotless. You can tell by looking.”
“I’m sure you’re right. But I need to run a special cloth over the ballet barre and the floor to check for microbes. You’ll want to watch.”
“Why?”
“If the cloth turns blue, we’ve got a problem.”
“I should probably call Ms. Pranayama.”
“If the cloth turns blue I’ll call her myself. Otherwise, I’ll be out of here before you get her on the phone. You want to see how it’s done?”
“I guess.”
She follows him into the room. He places the bag on the hardwood floor, slides the zipper open, and removes two pairs of latex gloves, a spray bottle, and a thick cloth. After donning the gloves, he sprays the cloth with a chemical until it’s wet. Then he wipes the entire length of the ballet barre from right to left, sprays the cloth again, and wipes the barre from left to right.
He holds the cloth up for Missy to see.
“No blue,” she says, proudly.
He smiles. “This might be the cleanest facility I’ve ever tested,” Miles says.
“Seriously? Wow! Ms. Pranayama will be so happy to hear that. Do we get a certificate or something?”
“I don’t think so. But they’ll definit
ely want to mention it in next month’s corporate newsletter.”
She smiles. “We can post it on the bulletin board.”
“That’s a great idea!” he says, as he packs his gear.
“Wait. Aren’t you supposed to test the floor?” she says.
“If the barre’s this clean, the floor will be too.” He winks. “I’m scoring you an A-plus.”
“That’s rare?”
“Extremely. You should be very proud. Be sure to tell your clients.”
She says, “Wait. The barre’s still wet. Do we need to wait for it to dry?”
“No. I wore the gloves because my hands are sensitive to the fibers in the cloth.”
“In case someone asks, how long before the barre dries?”
“Five to ten minutes.”
She looks at the clock above the front desk.
“That’ll work,” she says.
“Nice to meet you, Missy.”
“You too.”
Miles leaves, thinking, She never even asked my name!
Donovan Creed.
MIRANDA AND I are ten miles from Roanoke when my phone vibrates.
“Hi Lou.”
“Am I on speaker?”
“You are.”
He says, “In that case, Miranda can guess, also.”
“Guess what?” she asks.
“How many unemployed chemists are recently divorced and have kids?”
“You already know?” Miranda says.
“What can I tell you?” he brags. “My guys are the best.”
I say, “In the United States? In this economy? I’d say twelve.”
“How about you, Miranda?” Lou says.
“Six.”
“You win. Sorry Donovan.”
Miranda smiles.
“She’s a natural,” I say. Then ask, “So you’re saying there are exactly six?”
“No. I’m saying she’s closer to the actual number than you.”
“So how many, altogether?” Miranda asks.
“One. Miles Gundy. And he lost his custody battle last week.”
I take Miranda’s hand in mine and bring it to my lips.
“Come work for me!” I whisper.
“No!” she whispers.
To Lou I say, “Miles Gundy?”
“That’s right. And you’re going to love where he lives.”
“Tell me.”
“Highland, Illinois.”
