Maybe

by John Locke

  “Why’s that a big deal?”

  “It’s only a four hour drive from Louisville.”

  “So are a lot of places,” I say. “Give me the address.”

  “Four-Sixteen Atlantic Avenue.”

  Miranda writes it down.

  I ask, “Is this where he lives? Or his wife?”

  “Eloise let him keep the house. She and the kids are staying with her sister.”

  “You have that address?”

  “Twelve-forty-two Vincent. Same town.”

  “Car?”

  “Two-year-old Honda Accord. White. License plate 4XT167C.

  “And he worked where?”

  “Esson Pharmaceuticals, St. Louis.”

  “What else do you have?”

  Lou gives us the other details he’s uncovered, Miranda writes it all down. I tell him to let us know the minute he hears anything that could be related to a mass attack on women or children.

  “Of course,” Lou says. Then asks, “Shall I call Sherm Phillips? Tell him we think Gundy’s our urban terrorist?”

  I look at Miranda. She shakes her head no.

  I ask, “Has the government sounded an alert about the plastic dispensers?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “And you’d know, right?”

  “I would.”

  “Then let’s don’t call Sherm.”

  He pauses. “You’re sure about this?”

  “Yes. I personally warned the President. You heard me.”

  “But still…”

  “They’ll send a hundred people to his house. You know they’ll fuck it up.”

  “Of course they will. But we’ll get credit for identifying him.”

  “You’ll get even more credit if I catch him with the evidence.”

  “True.”

  Lou goes quiet. I know what he’s thinking.

  “Lou, I don’t want to be the next Darwin. I’ll track Gundy down and kill him. Then you can tell Sherm you isolated this guy as a possible, and dispatched me to check his house for evidence. I’ll make it look like Gundy tried to shoot me.”

  “Be careful going to his house. It might be booby trapped.”

  “Speaking of booby traps,” Miranda says, “How’s Sherry?”

  Lou sighs audibly. Then says, “You guys make a perfect couple.”

  When we get to our hotel, I give Miranda the room key and watch her walk to the elevator. Before getting on, she spins around and blows me a kiss. I touch my cheek and pretend it knocks me back. Then I walk down the hall to Dr. P.’s room and knock on the door. When he opens it I say, “Hello, Darwin.”

  “THE PROBLEM WITH this business,” Dr. P. says, “You can’t get out.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say.

  We’ve been talking ten minutes, long enough to go through the whole “How did you know?” phase.

  I just knew.

  Something had been nagging at me the whole trip out here. Dr. P. was visibly nervous about taking a trip with me until I explained why we were going to Louisville. Once there, he was terrific with the hospital personnel and the Derby State Fair patients. But he was even more nervous about coming to Sensory Resources. He even wanted to book a flight back to Vegas.

  Dr. P. was on the team that planted the chip. He was a staple at Sensory before I arrived. So why didn’t I suspect him before now?

  He didn’t seem the type.

  Which is exactly how he survived all these years, undetected.

  First of all, you’d never expect a world-class surgeon to be a cold-blooded killer or head up a team that gathers intelligence, conducts assassinations, cleans crime scenes, harvests body-doubles, and makes shady back room deals with high-ranking government officials.

  I mean, who has the time?

  And second, if it could possibly be a world-class surgeon, you’d expect it to be Doc Howard, not Doc Petrovsky. Doc Howard was the crusty, take-charge head of Sensory’s hospital and surgical center. He ran the place. Dr. P. was his trusted employee. It hit me while viewing Doc Howard’s body. The logical successor to Doc Howard was Dr. P.

  But Dr. P. didn’t want the job. Didn’t even want to step foot in the place.

  Why?

  Because he’s Darwin.

  And tired of it.

  He wants to do what I’ve thought about doing a hundred times.

  Retire.

  In his case, to Vegas, where he can end his years working in a private practice he owns. He possibly hopes to meet someone, have a social life.

  He’s sitting on the side of the bed. I’m in the straight-back chair by the desk. The curtains are closed. I make a note to avoid hitting the hanging lamp when I stand.

  To his credit, Dr. P. didn’t bother denying his identity.

  “What happens now?” he says.

  “I’ve always wondered if retirement was possible.”

  “It’s not. They always find you.”

  “They haven’t found you yet.”

  “Well…” he turns his wrists, showing me his empty hands. Implying I found him.

  “You framed Doc Howard?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does Lou know you’re Darwin?”

  “No.”

  “Who does?”

  “No one.”

  “That’s not possible. Washington knows, yes? And someone at Homeland Security.”

  “The original people knew. I’m speaking of Watkins and Lorber, but they’ve been dead for years. Sherm Phillips and the others have been on board since 9/11, and they were told from the start that Doc Howard was Darwin.”

  “Why?”

  “Bill Lorber set it up that way to protect the program. He and I felt Doc was expendable. If we screwed up, killed the wrong people, or leaked the wrong information, Doc would take the fall, and we could continue our work.”

  “Doc was on board with that?”

  “Yes, because there was extra money for that contingency. A slush fund was set up in his name, one he could access on the date of his termination.”

  “To help cope with the possible public disgrace?” I say.

  “Something like that.”

  I smile. Doc was the most money-hungry man I ever met.

  “Must’ve been a hell of a slush fund.”

  “It was, and still is.”

  I say, “So the head of Homeland told Sherm Phillips and the others that Doc was to be known only as Darwin?”

  “That’s right. We set it up that way because Sensory Resources is too valuable to be a political pawn of whichever party controls Congress at any given moment.”

  “The show must go on,” I say.

  “Exactly. But when you bought the spa and plastic surgery center and offered me a job, I saw it as a way to put this life behind me.”

  “You seriously want to run a private surgical center?”

  “Very much so.”

  “You don’t need the money.”

  He smiles. “You’ve been quite generous.”

  “I’m sure you were wealthy long before I started paying you.”

  “I was indeed. But every little bit helps.”

  “What about my daughter?”

  “Kimberly? What about her?”

  I watch him carefully while saying, “She’s got a benefactor.”

  “A benefactor,” he says.

  “That’s right. Someone taught her how to kill people, then paid her to kill them. You know anything about that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it you?”

  “No.”

  We look at each other a moment, then he says, “You’re referring to Sam Case.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I only learned this very recently,” he says.

  “What does Sam know about killing?”

  “Believe it or not, he’s been running a team of assassins for a year.”

  “Kimberly being one of them.”

  “Yes.”

  “Kimberly told me the man who hired her us
es a voice-altering device.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve used such a device for the past twenty years.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Does Kimberly know the voice belongs to Sam Case?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he posing as a pre-Rapture pet salesman?”

  “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “Is Kimberly…dating…Sam Case?”

  Without taking his eyes off mine he says, “No. Sam is in Area B at Mount Weather, and hasn’t left the facility since day one. I’ve been monitoring his activities from the moment I learned he hired Kimberly to kill Jonah Toth. You’ll remember Toth used to guard Kimberly. When you discharged him from that duty, I put him back on the payroll, posing as a college professor. And before you ask, I don’t know how or why Sam selected Toth or any of the other victims.”

  He lets that sentence hang in the air a minute, but I can tell he knows more than he’s saying. He’s hesitating because he’s concerned how it’s going to come across.

  I say, “This is a good time to come clean about everything you know, because I’ll eventually find the truth. And when I do, I’ll hold you accountable for what you’ve left out.”

  “I know something about Kimberly, but it’s highly sensitive.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind as you tell me.”

  He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Then says, “I know you’re concerned Kimberly might be having sex with Sam. I can tell you emphatically she’s not. I know for a fact she’s not having sex with anyone.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She has serious issues regarding sex.”

  I frown. “How serious?”

  “She met with a psychiatrist regularly for months, until he was murdered in his office. Are you aware of her condition?”

  “No. And I don’t want to hear about it from you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Do you know who she’s dating?”

  “I think she’s making it up about dating a young man.”

  “That’s her cover story for doing hits for Sam Case?”

  “I can’t say. But if she’s dating at all, it’s quite recent. And I know nothing about it.”

  “Rachel heard I slept with a young woman in Vegas.”

  “Gwen Peters.”

  “Is there anything about my life you don’t know?”

  “I don’t know if you’re going to kill me today.”

  I allow that comment to hang in the air a long time before saying, “I assume Gwen told Kimberly we had sex, then Kimberly told Sam, and Sam told Rachel.”

  “That’s probably accurate.”

  “And you believe Sam paid Kimberly to kill people? Without ever meeting her in person?”

  “From what I gather, everything took place by phone.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “Is it? You’ve worked for me that way for twenty years.”

  “True. But I was an assassin before you took over Sensory. Kimberly allowed Sam to manipulate her into becoming a killer. How’s that possible?”

  “Think about it.”

  I screw up my face and give him my best Curly impression from the Three Stooges: “I’m tryin’ to think, but nothin’ happens!”

  He gives me an odd look. Then says, “Kimberly craves your love and acceptance.”

  “You’re saying she killed people to gain my approval?”

  “Of course.”

  “And somehow Sam knew she would?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Does Kimberly know Sam and I have a history?”

  “No.”

  “Sam’s turned Kimberly into a killer to punish me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you know all these things because?”

  “I tapped their phones.”

  “Kimberly and Sam’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “And mine?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about Callie’s?”

  “No one can tap Callie’s phone.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. If I knew, I’d love to listen in. Wouldn’t you?”

  “Hell yes.”

  We’re quiet a minute. Eventually he says, “So, are you going to let me live?”

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  He nods slowly. Then says, “You’re familiar with the saying Live and let live?”

  I’m not happy about the phone tapping. I also don’t like the fact he knew about Kimberly and Sam and didn’t tell me. Of course, telling me would expose him as Darwin, so I understand it. I also don’t like Doc and Ethel Howard being killed just so Dr. P. can retire peacefully. On the other hand, killing Dr. P. won’t bring them back.

  “Are you out of the phone tapping business?” I say.

  “Yes, effective immediately. I’m sick of all the subterfuge. The killing. If you allow the world to believe Doc Howard was Darwin, I can make a clean break. I want nothing more than to run your plastic surgery center. I want to help people.”

  He looks at me. “I know you understand this, Donovan. I can tell you’re getting close to retiring. I only hope you do it before you get to be my age.”

  “I’d have more money available for my retirement if I don’t have to pay your protection fee,” I say.

  “Yes, of course. If you allow me to live, I would expect the monthly payments to stop.”

  I think about the women and children at Jeff Memorial in Louisville, whose faces and hands we promised to restore. Dr. P.’s the only surgeon in the world I’d trust to fulfill that promise. Not only that, but running a plastic surgery center in Las Vegas? The breast implant capital of the world? I can’t imagine a better way to meet young, beautiful women.

  “I’m okay with Live and let live,” I say.

  He smiles. “Excellent.”

  “But that doesn’t apply to Sam Case.”

  “I would think not,” Dr. P. says.

  “I want you to keep monitoring his activities, and report them to me.”

  “Even the calls between Sam and Kimberly?”

  I think about that a minute, and decide Kimberly’s entitled to her privacy. I hope to hell she’s not sleeping with Sam Case, because if she is, it’s a pure manipulation play to punish me. And if she somehow cares for him, it’ll be that much harder on her when she learns the truth. I want to know what Sam’s up to, but I don’t want to intrude on my daughter’s private conversations.

  Dr. P.’s waiting for my answer. I give it to him.

  “Forget about Sam and his activities. I’ll deal with him in my own way. You want to make a clean break? Make it. No more wiretaps, listening devices or monitoring of any kind. No more clandestine activities. I’ll let you retire in peace. You’ll run the surgical center. We’ll help those moms and kids from the Derby City Fair attack, and anyone else who comes to us in need.”

  “Including Las Vegas showgirls?” he says, with a wink.

  “Especially them.”

  I LEAVE DR. P.—slash—Darwin with his thoughts and take the elevator to our room. Miranda lets me in and I dig through my duffel until I find a disposable cell phone. After putting it in my pocket, I get some hotel stationery and a pen from the desk drawer.

  I put my finger to my lips and write, I need a favor. Then hand Miranda the pen.

  She writes, Name it.

  Use my phone to call your mother. Chat till I come back.

  She frowns. How long will you be? You know my mom makes me crazy.

  Ten minues.

  Okay.

  You’re probably thinking this business with the phone suggests I don’t trust Darwin. In general, I do trust him. Not only that, I’m pulling for him to make it. I mean, how wonderful would it be if Darwin becomes the test case, proving it’s possible to eventually retire from this business and live a normal life? On the other hand, he’s been keeping tabs on a lot of people for a lot of years, and old habits are hard to break
. I have a sensitive call to make, and don’t want to take a chance Darwin might monitor it.

  I wait till Miranda has her mom on the line, and smile at what she’s written on the stationery.

  You owe me!

  I blow her a kiss and head out the door, down the elevator, and find a quiet spot near an outdoor fountain.

  Then I call Callie and ask, “Is Maybe with you?”

  “Nope. You called it. She bolted.”

  “Were you able to follow her?”

  Callie laughs. “You really need to teach her the basics. She asked to borrow my Jag.”

  “And didn’t stop to consider it might be rigged?”

  “Nope. GPS intact, all cameras functional.”

  I shake my head. “Where is she now?”

  “Room 228, second floor, Vega Rouge Hotel.”

  “Who’s she with?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re sure about the room number?”

  “I watched her elevator go to the second floor and stop. Then I had to run the length of the hall to get to the stairs. I made it to the second floor landing and peeked around the corner just in time to see her enter room 228. From that angle I couldn’t see who let her in.”

  “Good job.”

  “More lucky than good. If she’d gone to the third floor, I might’ve missed her.”

  “Put me on hold and call the front desk. Ask them to connect you to Sam Case.”

  “You’re shitting me!”

  “I wish.”

  “How would he—oh, God, Donovan. You should’ve let me kill him when I had the chance.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Callie sighs. “I’ll call. Hold on.”

  A minute later she says, “There’s no record of Sam Case at the Vega Rouge.”

  “I didn’t expect him to use his real name,” I say, “but we had to try.”

  “I thought he was in the bunker at Mount Weather.”

  “I thought so too.”

  “Working on a synthetic cure for the Spanish Flu,” she adds.

  “He might be there. But as it turns out, he’s Maybe’s employer.”

  “Sam Case? He’s a computer nerd!”

  “A computer nerd who’s goal in life is to pay me back for destroying his marriage and business.”

  “So you think they’re meeting about a hit?”

  “I’d like to think so, compared to what else I’m thinking. But according to Darwin, all the contracts for murder were arranged by phone.”